Tag: short fiction

Misanthrope

Herman’s Hermits sang “There’s a Kind of Hush (All Over the World)” on the old turntable. Dust particles danced in the sunlight that glimmered though the open windows; birds chirped in the trees. Miss Ann Thrope bopped her head to the tune, careful not to ruin the beautiful landscape she was stitching; the kind she always wished she could have visited.

It was too late now, those pipe dreams were all flushed down the drain decades ago. Now, her dreams only came true in the form of needlework, quilting, painting and the solitary crafts of a solitary life. Over the years, she’d filled her house with castles embroidered on pillows, pictures of rivers that babbled only in her imagination, and collages of places she’d never been. She’d retreated from human contact and faded into oblivion as those she’d loved died one by one. 

The song ended, and it took her a few moments to realize it was all too quiet. Miss Ann Thrope glanced around the room, the strange hush oppressive, yet pacifying. It filled the room with an odd tranquility, palpable and engulfing. Her eyes fell on the grandfather clock, her grandfather’s grandfather clock. 

She clicked her tongue; the clock had stopped. Never in its century of existence had that clock stopped. Her grandmother often said it would only stop when doomsday was nigh.

Miss Ann set her stitching aside, reached for her crutch, and, with painful effort, hobbled to the clock. There seemed nothing wrong with it. She glanced out the window. A mist had fallen over the outside world and she wondered whether it caused the strange silence. 

She limped to the backdoor, but a sharp pain coursed through her ulcered and crooked legs. The crutch slipped on the floor and Miss Ann tumbled to the ground. She fell in slow motion, as if invisible hands guided and cushioned her fall. Not a thud or thump sounded, and Miss Ann hadn’t uttered at peep as she fell. The strange calmness hovered in the air, and far from afraid, Miss Ann thought now would be a good time for a nap. 

She closed her eyes. Florian’s alluring smile flashed, his hair waved in the wind as they flew in his shiny Roadster. He laughed; the grandfather clock chimed. Hadn’t it stopped? 

Miss Ann’s eyes flew open. Beside her lay an angel. She doubted not he was an angel, she’d never seen such beauty. Not even Florian, so reckless and dazzling, had been so beautiful. The Angel’s eyes were sapphires and his hair like sparkling diamonds. 

“Am I dying?” She asked. 

The Angel shrugged and smiled. 

“Depends on you,” he said, his voice tinkled like Heaven’s bells, “if you could correct one mistake, would you?”

Miss Ann Thrope nodded, tears welled in her eyes and a sob caught in her throat. 

“I would never get in drunk Florian’s car.”

The Angel beamed and rays of light shone out of his eyes. He ran his fingers down her face. Miss Ann closed her eyes and let the radiant warmth flow down her head, her back, her arms and through her mangled legs rendered useless since that day with gorgeous Florian, who hadn’t lived to see what he’d done. Miss Ann Thrope sighed and the painful memory dissipated with her breath. 

The turntable sputtered and crackled; Peter Noone sang “I’m Into Something Good”. Miss Ann Thrope opened her eyes and braced herself for the effort to stand. To her surprise, her body was light and her movements ginger. She gazed down at her twisted legs, those bandaged stumps, but saw only the beautiful healthy legs of a young woman. 

Miss Ann rose onto those strong, agile legs and ran to the mirror. She laughed—tears streaming down her eyes—at the young face reflected at her. 

Miss Ann Thrope reached for her dusty purse, opened the rusty door, and for the first time in years, walked out into a new life. 

Diamond in the Rough

Lisa entered the attic of her new old house. She bought it together with Jonas and planned to fix it. Jonas, a contractor, would turn this run-down building into their forever home. 

Then, Jonas announced a change. He changed his mind about fixing the house, and his life partner too. He was out the door in a flash and stuck a bewildered and hurt Lisa with the decrepit house and its mortgage. 

Lisa sighed and rummaged in the old attic, cobwebs in her hair and her mind racing a mile a minute. The small mortgage wouldn’t break the bank though she’d have to tighten her belt. The remodeling into livable space would chip away at her savings and devour the money she’d put away for the wedding and the honeymoon. Now that she’d scrapped those plans, she’d hoped to use that money on herself, maybe vacation to a spa, but she’d have to spend it on the house instead. 

Dust, debris and bric-à-brac covered the house and the attic which smelled musty, though not dank, like the basement. Jonas had thought the house didn’t have serious mold issues, but now she doubted everything Jonas had said. 

Something caught Lisa’s eye: a wooden box, ordinary, yet unusual. With painted swallows on its side, it stood apart and untouched among the old knick-knacks. 

Lisa tiptoed to it, careful not to topple the mountain of rusty stuff nearby. The floor creaked beneath her feet and she hoped she wouldn’t fall through the ceiling. She discovered the top of the box was a series of little drawers. When she unclasped the hinges on its sides, the set of little drawers lifted out and revealed a deep bottom box. 

Lisa smiled and tried all the drawers; the first two held nothing but the delicious aroma of cedar that wafted out upon its release. The third drawer revealed a hand-held mirror with twining silver roses around the glass. She glanced into it and saw her reflection, content, relieved. So not how I feel. 

The bottom box contained old photographs—tin-types perhaps—of the house as it had been during the fat cow years, pristine and majestic. Lisa glanced around the rickety attic. 

The last photo was a cyanotype of a man with a stiff high collar, mutton-chops and piercing eyes that reminded her of the realtor who’d sold her the house. The man held the mirror in his hand, its glass pointed at the camera. In his other hand, he held a small jewel or crystal that hung from a fine chain. It reminded Lisa of what hypnotists used in movies. The cyanotype was in shades of blue, yet the way the man held the jewel, in front of the mirror, Lisa discerned a bright flash emitting from it. 

“Like a prism!” She exclaimed, remembering her grandfather playing with it by the window. Every time it caught the sunlight, the rays split into many colored beams. 

“Now you can see the wavelengths of light,” her grandfather had explained. 

Smiling, Lisa reached into the box again, her fingers closed around a small trinket. It was a crystal cut into a pyramid and it hung from a delicate chain. She held it up to the attic light; it sparkled as it dangled, but the colors did not shoot out as they had in her childhood. 

She glanced at the cyanotype again and startled, exclaimed, “He winked at me!”

Yet the man gazed impassive at the camera. 

Lisa held the mirror in one hand, and, imitating the picture, dangled the jewel in front of the glass. Colored beams of light shot out of the jewel onto the rotted wooden wall. 

Lisa’s jaw dropped as the wall repaired itself where the beams struck it. She pointed the mirror and the jewel at the floorboards and, again, watched amazed as the floor polished itself. 

Lisa ran through the house, mirror and the jewel in hand, laughing and giggling as the house rumbling, squeaking and groaning, and returned to its former glory. For the finale, she stepped outside and stood before the darkened house gleaming in the starlight. The mirror caught silver moonbeams, bounced them into the jewel which projected them onto the house, and engulfed the house in rainbows. 

Lisa squealed with delight as her old, broken down home shone like new. 

“It’s a diamond in the rough,” the realtor had assured her, “you’ll love it.”

Eagle Eye

Cleopatra Bysbys sat facing the windows of the topmost room of her house with a cup of lukewarm coffee at her side and her air rifle across her lap. She wore ancient and washed out pajama bottoms frayed at the crotch and unraveling at the hems. They stuck to her bony knees. Her breasts hung low on her chest under a ratty pit-stained T-shirt and her saggy arms looked like raw chicken wings. Her hacking cough shook the walls of her musty home. The room was a small belvedere, shaped like a cupola with windows all around it; a lookout. She called it her aerie. It held nothing but a swivel chair with moth-eaten upholstery that had seen better days and a tatty side table held together by spit and prayers.  

Christmastime had, of late, become her favorite time of the year, not because she was full of cheer and good wishes, but because the practice of stealing packages was most rampant. From her “eagle’s nest” Cleopatra Bysbys kept a watchful eye over the entire neighborhood. 

Cleopatra took a gulp of coffee, grimaced and pronounced it “pure and absolute swill.” She closed her eyes, and, using her extraordinary gift, surveyed the neighborhood with her mind’s eye. The windows of the aerie afforded her a remarkable, yet limited view of the goings-on around her, but her gift let her pry beyond the walls of her neighbors’ houses and into their daily trials and tribulations. Cleopatra Bysbys was privy to everything, the comings and goings, the conversations, and sometimes, even the innermost thoughts and emotions of people. Nothing was a secret to her; not the past nor the present, not even the future. 

“Ha!” She cackled, “smart girl, Betty Jackson, tracking it on your phone!”

When she used her gift, Cleopatra Bysbys was a sight to behold. Her wide mouth gaped open and rotted teethed peeped out. With eyelids ajar, the whites of her eyes showed. Wispy and gnarled silver hair framed her withered face, and her skeletal fingers, resting on the arms of the chair twittered and twitched as if handling buttons and dials. 

“Here we go!” She sneered, opened the front window and propped the air rifle against the sill. She crouched, and looking every bit the sniper, waited with the patience of a saint, unfazed by the cold air wafting in from the window; only the ancient furnace in the basement protested. 

A blue car pulled up to the Smith house across the street. The mailman had delivered the package after the couple had left for work. A young woman shimmied out of the car and hurried toward the front door. She slipped on the icy walkway but kept her footing. In her mind’s eye, Cleopatra saw the driver growl in dismay; had she fallen, they would have sued. 

Cleopatra Bysbys took aim as the girl approached the package, glanced side to side and bent down to pick it up. A crack boomed through the wintry air. The porch pirate jumped several inches and grabbed her butt-cheek. With a crazed look in her eyes she gazed around the perimeter, sighted nothing, yet heard a phlegmy witch-like cackle. Her eyes, welling up with tears of pain, fixed on Cleopatra’s hiding place, but there was only an empty window. Sneaky Cleo lay flat on the floor, hugging her gun and giggling through a devilish grin. 

The frustrated thief limped back to the car, and with a “fuck it” they sped away; the package still on the stoop. 

Cleopatra Bysbys pulled herself up, and, scratching her bottom, shuffled downstairs to watch her soap operas. There would be three more attempts later in the day.

Ah yes, Christmas was now her favorite time of the year, and porch pirates her favorite target year-round.