Sisters

 

The morning sun shone through Irma’s window and danced on her closed eyelids. She yawned, taking a moment to focus as the dream dissolved around her. Irma opened the window and birdsong filled the air. She put on her robe and padded downstairs in stockinged feet, trying to recall the dream, but it had faded almost to oblivion.

“I was on a hill,” she murmured and turned on the coffeemaker.

The dream was almost a blur now and, as she opened the cabinet to take out two mugs, she glimpsed the wall calendar. The photograph of a medieval castle, in ruins, on a hilltop; Montsegur, Occitanie, France, according to the caption. The picture tickled Irma’s mind, and she stared at it for a moment, a distant memory of a dream. Hoofbeats, screams, fire.

Irma shook her head and glanced out the window. But the dream was pleasant and restful. The picture of the ruined castle behind bored its presence into her shoulders. Something was off about that castle.
Irma sipped her coffee and puckered her lips. It tasted like blood, but her mouth was not bloody.

Odd.

Thunder rumbled far in the distance, yet the trilling birds on the tree-branch beyond the open window seemed not to care.

“Because they didn’t hear it.”
Lourdes, her sister, shuffled into the kitchen.

“Who didn’t hear what?” Lourdes asked and poured herself a cuppa.

“The birds didn’t hear the thunder.”
Irma’s voice sounded strange and distant to Lourdes and gave her goosebumps.

“What do you mean?” A soft eerie knock at the back of Lourdes’s mind chilled her despite the warm sun filling the kitchen and she dreaded opening that door.

“I was dreaming of something, but can’t remember what, when I heard a far-off thunder. Maybe it was in my head though because the birds didn’t stop singing.”

“Hmm,” Lourdes was reluctant to say birds didn’t always fear thunder, “what were you dreaming?”

“I don’t know.”

Lourdes gazed at Irma, puzzled, and like a wave crashing on the shore, her own dream returned, so vivid she almost fainted.

Irma’s face was different but Lourdes knew it was her. A cold shiver pierced her heart as she remembered Irma ramming a sword through her chest. Lourdes looked away and her stomach turned when she caught sight of the wall calendar, steadying herself on the counter. 

“I think there was a storm, and horses, and a battle,” Irma continued, oblivious to Lourdes’s shock, “there was a fire and…”

The image of Lourdes, with other features, popped in her mind. Irma let the dream take over as it banged through her like a thunderstorm; still feeling the weight of the sword as it sliced through Lourdes’s chest.

“I killed you,” Irma whispered. Saying it loud meant it happened. 

“I know, I dreamed it too.”

Birds stopped chirping, and a shadow fell on the room. The sisters faced one another, neither seeing outward, only inward. The calendar hung innocent on the wall. A castle in ruins, fire and swords and blood.

 

The Midas Touch

 

I listen to the teacher tell the story of King Midas. Uncle Charlie comes to mind, because, like Midas, he has it all, but always wants more. And gets it. 

“He has the Midas touch. He can sell sawdust to a lumber mill,” Mom always says.

“He would also sell his own mother if it suited him,” Dad quips back.

The bell rings and I collect my books. I walk out into the sunlight, blinking and blinded by the bright. I turn toward the building and contemplate my few years there. Bah, I shrug off the school.

I walk and Uncle Charlie fills my thoughts.

“Come work for me,” he’d said, “school, schmool, there’s better than books.”

I smile when I remember how Mom blew her top when he said that. Dad cussed and chased him out of the house with his shotgun.

“Don’t you listen to your Uncle Charlie,” Dad’s stern gaze on me, the shotgun in his arms, “he don’t know nothin’ about nothin’! Books are the only way to go.”

I nodded meekly.

I don’t dare tell them, but I’ve considered Uncle Charlie’s offer. I’m on my way to meet him at his restaurant. He says he has an easy job for me.

“All you gotta do is deliver a package after school tomorrow,” he whispered last night, “don’t worry, kid, you’re doin’ right. Your Uncle Charlie will take care of ya. Stick with me and I’ll set you up for life.”

I kick a pebble on the sidewalk, imagining myself a grown man, in fancy shiny suits like Uncle Charlie, respected by everyone like Uncle Charlie. I smile. Nothin’ to it, easy-peasy.

I decide that, if all goes well, I won’t turn in the homework on King Midas tomorrow. If all goes well, I won’t go back to school.

I approach the restaurant. I see Uncle Charlie through the window sitting at his table all the way at the back. Two older men sit with him. I go around to the back door. I cross the kitchen as silent and stealthy as a mouse. Vito the Cook is a crabby old fart who doesn’t put up with shenanigans. He’s nice when I don’t make a noise.

I step out into the dining room and raise my hand to wave at Uncle Charlie across the room.

Two big guys burst in and rush to Charlie’s table. Before he knows what’s what the loud bang spatters red on the wall behind him. Two more bangs and more red soaks the white tablecloth. I stand, my hand still raised in a frozen wave. The thugs saunter out; they don’t notice me.

Vito the Cook pulls me into the kitchen. I stare wide-eyed into his steely eyes, his hands firm on my shoulders.

“You didn’t see nothin’, kid, ya hear? You were in here with me.”

I nod.

My Uncle Charlie had the Midas touch, and it killed him.

 

Ghost

 

“I’ll call you,” Ethan walked out the door without looking back. Lorna closed it behind him and leaned against it, smiling. He’d spent the night. Lorna floated to her bed and pressed her face against the pillows.

“Ethan,” she whispered, and the name sweetened her tongue, “Lorna and Ethan.”

They’d taken it slow, meeting almost every week for the past few months. Almost. The word nagged Lorna; it reminded her of the times they didn’t meet. He’d canceled because of work. Then she’d had plans. But all was in the past. Last night sealed the deal, and Lorna felt the petals of an exclusive and long-lasting relationship blossoming.

Ethan didn’t call the next day. Lorna dismissed it. He’d said he was swamped at work. He was often swamped at work.

Two more days of silence; Lorna wondered if he was all right. She clicked the refresh button and waited impatiently as the email loaded. Nothing new. Lorna glanced at her phone. No new text, no missed call.

“Maybe he messaged me through social media,” she mumbled and pulled up her profile.

Nothing, nada, zip.

Lorna glanced left and right and clicked on his picture.

“Just making sure he’s all right,” she said to the keyboard, whose letters C-R-E-E-P jumped out in screaming black. Ethan hadn’t updated his relationship status, and while Lorna shrugged the detail off into the universe, it circled around to the back of her mind. But he’d posted something new, a picture of himself raising a beer with a group of people. A blond woman sat next to him, almost grazing his arm with her boob as she lifted her glass. Lorna’s spine tingled as she glared at the static face. The caption read: “great time last night!”

Lorna swallowed back a sinking notion. She pushed it all the way down her throat and into the deep recess of her mind, but the thought creeped out just before she shut the big iron door that reined in such pesky feelings.

“Why didn’t he ask you to join him?” The little voice in her brain yelled through the tiny keyhole as she turned the lock.

‘Why’ slithered through, and try as she might, she couldn’t swat the puny word away.

“Why?”

“Because he’s considerate and respectful, and didn’t want me to think it was a booty call,” she told the dishwater and pulled the plug out.

“Why?”

“Because it’s too soon to meet one another’s friends,” she was firm to the TV.

“Why? Why? Why?” The more she tried to explain it, the less she could.

Lorna tossed and turned all night.

“Hello, you’ve reached Ethan’s voicemail, please leave a message.”

Maybe he was working through lunch?

“Hi, it’s Lorna, just wondering if you’d like to do something together this weekend.” 

The beep that ended the call brought tears to her eyes. 

The weekend came and went without Ethan. And the next week. He’d almost disappeared.

Almost.

That bothersome little word had nagged her since the beginning. Almost there, almost gone.

Her computer pinged. Lorna’s heart skipped when Ethan ‘liked’ her new post about her promotion. She glanced at her phone; silent as a tomb.

“Beautiful!” He commented on the picture her friends had taken at the beach over the weekend, but the phone still didn’t ring.

Lorna cried silent tears as she reviewed her profile and wondered what was wrong with her.

Why didn’t he call? If he wasn’t interested, then why was he following her every move online? He commented on her profile, so why not in person? Why? Why? Why?

“Because he’s an idiot!” The voice boomed in her mind. The misgivings burst forth in a deluge of tears and rage, like a volcano erupting in the ocean, until red wrath and blue sorrow gave way to white, foamy determination.

“No one toys with me!” She yelled at the computer, “How dare he ghost me!”
Lorna took a deep breath and exhaled through her teeth, the whistle reminiscent of a sword coming out of its sheath. With knitted eyebrows and tense jaw, she brought her finger down like a guillotine and clicked “unfriend”.

The cool waves of clarity washed away the angry lava. Lorna laid her head back and closed her eyes, traces of dry tears on her cheeks.

Lorna’s phone rang. She took her eyes off the television. Ethan’s picture blared on the tiny screen. Call declined.

 

Sunny Afternoon

 

The Kinks’ “Sunny Afternoon” played on the portable speaker and John, smiling, tilted his head back and shut his eyes. Today was his Sunny Afternoon; his day for rest and relaxation.

The sun sparkled on the calm lake and small waves rippled on the pebbles where John had set his chair and fishing equipment. He hummed along with the verse and bellowed out the chorus: “Save me from this squeeze!” His voice echoed over the water. John inhaled deep and let the sun warm his face.

“I’m free!” He yelled after a moment. Birds in the trees fluttered their wings as if applauding him. He reflected on the past years; not all so bad. And then the mother-in-law had moved in.

“I tell ya,” he said to the duck that waddled out of the water beside him, “there never was such a witch. Cleaned me out, both of ‘em, but I’m happy now. No amount of money is worth losing your freedom.”

The duck quacked and waddled on. John gazed at his watch and smiled.

“Three, two, one!” He counted down as the hands met at noon. As of now, Tiffany and her ‘Smother’ were no longer a problem; they were out of his life forever. This freedom had cost him a fortune, but it was well worth it.

“Both witches,” he murmured and cracked open a can of beer. It was cool on his tongue and slid down his throat like a salve over the acrid memories of the past few years. That life was over and done.

“Nevermore, nevermore!” He said to the ravens cawing on the branches above him.

The fishing line tugged and John reeled it in. Just like they reeled me in, he thought as a perch appeared on the surface. It wriggled and squirmed, hooked on the line. John unhooked it and threw it back, watching content as the water rippled with the fish’s escape. He was not a catch-and-release fisherman, but today was different. Tiffany and her mother had caught him, but today, a merciful soul released him back into the water. Someone was taking care of that problem. 

Geese waded past him, their honking added texture to the cacophony of cicadas and birds.

“Maybe I’ll fly away this winter, too,” he said to the geese and raised his beer in a toast to them.

John’s phone pinged, and he smiled at the text message.

“The deed is done,” it read, “freedom is yours.”

John laughed and clapped his hands, whooping like at a football game.

Another ping told him he’d received a video.

John beamed as Tiffany told the poor devil with a much fuller bank account that she’d “love and hold, in sickness and in health, till death do us part”. The priest smiled as the sucker slipped a ring on her talon. The mother-in-law sneered in the background.

Wishing

 

Lady Macbeth went mad from guilt, but I doubt I would. Beatrix set the book on the nightstand and blew out the candle, not smiling at the space beside her. He was late again, no doubt on one of his flings. At least he wouldn’t bother her tonight.

Beatrix closed her eyes and reminisced her childhood and how she’d dreamt of handsome knights and princes all vying for her love. She’d never imagined herself stuck in a loveless marriage.

Beatrix turned on her side and faced the space in the bed. Lady Macbeth lost her mind because she persuaded her husband to kill the king, but I wish…. She stopped before she finished the thought. It wasn’t the first time she’d stopped herself from wishing awful things on Horace, that disgusting husband her father had chosen for her.

“A daughter’s duty,” he’d said, “you have to fulfill it.”

“Why?”

The age-old reason: money. The haves and have-nots, and Beatrix was born into a family that used to have, until her father gambled it all away. To Horace. He’d gambled her away too; his daughter in a hand of poker.

Now Horace belonged to the haves and flaunted it. He gambled like her father and was a philanderer to boot.

Beatrix wiped away the angry tear that stained her pillow. She shut her eyes tight and waited for sleep…

Beatrix stood outside, the night dark around her and in complete silence. She peeked inside the lighted window.

Horace sat at a card table with a leggy redhead on his knee. Beatrix ran a hand through her raven hair, her breath formed a mist around her, but, to her surprise, it did not steam the pane.

A young man positioned himself at the window facing Beatrix, but seemed not to notice her. He looked straight at her, in her white nightgown, candlelight shining on her, yet he didn’t see. Beatrix locked eyes with him, but he stared ahead into the darkness…

Beatrix held a candle, the embers still warm and red in the chimney. The card table was empty, the room darkened, and the candles blown out save hers. Laughter and moans drifted from the rooms upstairs. The dying light of the fireplace cast her shadow on a wall. It was not her shadow. She stretched her hand out, soft and milky white, yet the shadow hand that mimicked her movement had twisted claws; the hand of a beast.

The shadow climbed the stairs, teeth and horns outlined on the wall. Beatrix followed; her mind and soul still and silent as the darkness. The shadow beast crept into the room where Horace “entertained” the leggy redhead. Beatrix stood at the door, ghostly in her long white nightgown. 

The redhead knelt on the bed, her naked back to the door. The shadow beast handed the woman a knife. She raised it; the blade gleamed in the moonlight streaming through the window.

Beatrix counted seven stabs, one for each year of her hellish marriage. Horace groaned and gurgled, caught between pleasure and surprise. His blood stained the crisp white sheets.

The beast gazed at Beatrix, its eyes a cold, gleaming green. She gasped…

Beatrix sat up in her bed, the space still empty beside her. She held her head in her hands, trembling. What a frightful dream!

Dawn cast shadows on her wall, and for a moment, she thought she saw the beast, but it was only a fleeting image, an illusion caused by the silhouette of the bare tree outside her window.

Beatrix laid down and slept again. She awoke to the thunder of insistent knocking. The sun shone bright through the window. Beatrix tied her robe and opened the door. 

“Mrs. Snyde,” a young man held his hat in his hands; Beatrix blanched, it was the young man from the window!

“I’m very sorry to say this, but Mr. Snyde passed away.” 

Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears; her dream was all too real!
“How?”
The young man blushed,
“In his sleep.”   

Hercules

 

Andy glanced in the mirror and smiled; his brand new winter hat on his head. His grandmother had gifted it and it would be his first day wearing it. The hat woven into the head of a lion, complete with a mane that covered his ears; the mittens knitted claws.

“Ready for the first snowball fight, Hercules?” Daddy leaned under the door smiling,  “He wore headgear like that.”

“Really?” Andy gazed wide-eyed at Daddy, who knew everything.

“Yep, you know why he was famous?”

Andy shook his head.

“His supernatural strength; he killed a mean lion and used his hide as a cloak because it was impenetrable. Nothing could pierce it.”

“Wow! Do you think I’ll have supernatural strength now?”

“Oh, yeah!”

Andy growled and swiped at Daddy, who picked him up and kissed his forehead. Andy rushed outside into the new fluffy snow and ran down the sidewalk to his friends.

They played in Ollie’s yard, throwing snowballs and racing one another. Soon, snow angels covered the yard and left room for none. Ollie suggested sledding, and the boys spent the next half hour asking permission and collecting the sleds.

“Be careful,” Daddy called after Andy as he pulled the sled behind him.

During winter, the kids slid down the slopes of the public golf course nearby. It was hard work pulling the sled up the hill, but Andy didn’t feel it today because with the lion hat on he was strong like Hercules.

Up and down they slid until the sun dipped low in the horizon and the cold bit their cheeks. One by one they went home, save for Andy and Ollie, who lived closest and didn’t need to hurry. They climbed the hill as snowflakes fell.

“One more time!” Ollie said and climbed on behind Andy.

They flew down the hill in cheerful giggles. Andy tried to steer away from a snow bank, but grazed it and, with a bump, Ollie fell off the sled. Andy lost control and slammed into a snow-covered bush; white ice showered the lion mane. He shook himself off and scanned the snowy hill. Flakes danced around him. Evening had fallen, and the world was turning black. Andy wiped the flakes from his face and spotted Ollie’s red jacket in the snow.

“Ollie!” He trudged to his friend.

“Are you okay?” Andy panted. Ollie was crying and his foot sat at a strange angle.

“I think my ankle’s broken!” He sniffed and wiped tears and snow from his eyes.

“Can you stand?”

Ollie shook his head.

Andy looked around, hoping someone had seen them, but there was no one, only snow and the encroaching blue light of evening. Andy feared they would lose their way in the darkness and the bitter cold chilled him.

“I’ll give you a piggyback ride home,” Andy positioned himself in front of Ollie, and with great effort, hoisted Ollie onto his back.

“There they are!” Daddy called when he spotted the slow-moving mass in the snow. He recognized Andy’s lion head bent under Ollie’s red jacket. He rushed to them and lifted Ollie off Andy’s back. Ollie’s parents caught up and amidst kisses and hugs carried Ollie home. They would take Ollie straight to the hospital, they said.

“It gave me superpowers,” Andy touched his hat, his claw mitten holding Daddy’s hand.

“Yes, you were very strong and brave. I’m very proud of you.”

* * *

“Just like twenty years ago, buddy,” Andy’s thick low voice rumbled, “hold on, we’ll make it.”

Andy struggled through the mud, bent under Ollie’s weight. He wished for his lion hat, loved and now worn to rags. Bombs exploded around him. He remembered the snow fell hard that day. Andy gazed down at his combat boots and toiled on, Ollie on his back.

Snow Day

 

Thundersnow pounded against the window; lightning struck and shone on Rusty’s forlorn face. He wanted to play outside, but even the sun felt it was too cold to shine. The clouds, the snow, the wind, the thunder and lightning came out to play instead.

“Rusty!” Mom called, “Come down, the window’s too cold, you’ll catch your death!”

Rusty sighed and stepped off the window seat. He dragged his feet downstairs. What a wasted Saturday; they wouldn’t even have a snow day off.

The howling wind spattered snowflakes on the window, laughing at Rusty’s ruined weekend.

“I’m bored,” Rusty complained and plopped into his usual chair at the kitchen table next to his little brother. Mickey the Booger always had snot running down his nose.

“Oh, c’mon, it’s not so bad,” Mom wiped Mickey’s nose, “we can still have fun.”

“Where’s Dad?” Rusty smushed his cheek against the palm of his hand, his elbow on the table, as if keeping his face from melting of boredom.

“He’s outside, trying to shovel as much snow as possible, though I think it’s a boondoggle.”

“A what?” Rusty smiled and Mickey giggled at Mommy’s funny word.

“A boondoggle.”

“What’s that, Mommy?” Mickey’s tiny voice rang out, the candle of mucus shiny on his philtrum.

“A boondoggle is an exercise in futility, something you do but won’t amount to anything. It’s a waste of energy.”

“Then why is Daddy doing it?”

“Because he thinks if he shovels now, there will be less snow to shovel tomorrow, and because it won’t harden so much.”

“And because I’m bored out of my mind!” Dad’s thunderous voice resembled the pounding tempest behind his silhouette under the back door. Lightning struck behind him and the house plunged into the semi-darkness of the stormy day. Mom helped him with his boots and coat. He sniffed and checked the fusebox.

“Power’s out,” Dad sat down, his cheeks still red from the cold, “can’t even watch TV now.”

“No!” Rusty and Mickey cried in unison.

“Calm down, it’s not the end of the world. It’s only been a hundred years since people had electricity in their homes, and before that, people didn’t get bored.” Dad placed his cheek on his hand, mimicking Rusty.

“How? By sitting and staring at each other?”

“And farting while at it,” Dad said, sending Rusty and Mickey into a fit of laughter.

“Fart!” Mickey’s gleeful voice sang out over the hubbub. Even Mom giggled as she nudged Dad.

“What? Most people lived with parasites and amoebas in their tummies, so I bet there was tons of farting going on!”

The thunder joined in the gales of laughter.

“Okay, okay,” Mom said when the hilarity died down, “what do you want to do? We could play a game?”

“What game? Monopoly? The Booger can’t add yet.”

“Oh, we’ll find something.” 

Mom brought out a big box that claimed to contain a hundred board games. Dad brought out the kerosene camping lantern, and the room filled with cozy candlelight.

Rusty stole a glance at the snowstorm; it didn’t rage anymore but howled with mirth. Snowflakes crowded the windows wanting to join the fun.

 

Bootstraps

 

“It’s strange knowing your ship has come home. After all the work and hardship, the sacrifice, everything, you relax, you can breathe. The world is at your feet. I hope that one day you’ll feel that way too.”

I sat across the old man listening to his spiel about how he’d been poor and desperate and how, through hard work and sacrifice he’d pulled himself up by the bootstraps. I tried hard not to roll my eyes nor to avert his gaze. He’d conveniently forgotten to mention something we all knew to be true, that someone had given him a chance and opened the doors of opportunity for him to strut through.

Anger rose and my cheeks flushed. I gritted my teeth and swallowed back the ire about to burst through my clenched fist. The arrogant bastard was laying me off (“the company’s downsizing, the economy” blah, blah, blah), after six years of working for him…

I took a deep breath to keep the almighty fury at bay and Dirk, always misinterpreting, thought his self-aggrandizement bored me.

“Well, I suppose you’ve heard this story before,” he said, oozing snark. He turned grave and shuffled papers on his desk.

“I have,” I said, my voice strong despite the oncoming tears of rage, “and I know it’s bullshit.”

Dirk opened his eyes wide, I held his gaze and continued,

“Everyone knows Mortimer took you under his wing and made you who you are. It was his generosity that helped you up, not your hard work.

“You’ve shown me you care nothing about hard work, but about what others can do for you. My Ivy League scholarship-funded education means nothing to you because my daddy isn’t a Fortune 500 CEO. He was a plumber, and a damn good one. My consistent quality performance is useless because I don’t have uncles in the government.

“But who do you think you are? I know you’re just like me! Your father was a house painter and now you dare look down on us, the common people like yourself, who’ve studied hard for an education and who come here every day and put up with your shit because we are pulling ourselves up by our own bootstraps with no help from you. You’ve shut the door on us because you know we’re better than you!”

The old man huffed and a devious smirk crawled across his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted him,

“I know why you’ve called me in here, don’t think I’m surprised, but next time, don’t waste your breath on that bullshit story.”

“Fired,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Thank you.”

I walked out of his office, out of the building and into the warm sunlight. He was right, though my ship hasn’t come in, I know what he meant about being able to breathe.