The Summer Porch

Stashed.  That was the word.  Hidden under a million objects, memories, pictures, emotions and scents.  Easily dismissed when met with the realities of the day.  Filed away in the safest, most treasured part of the mind.

Going there was an indulgence, certainly.  It wasn't productive, it didn't help her get any work done or catch up on the mountain of papers sitting on her desk.  But sometimes, just for a moment, when the sound of typing threatened to drive her mad or the endless ring of the phone up front started to drown out her own thoughts she would stop and allow herself to drift.

It began with the scent of saltwater.  Or seaweed.  Or sand.  Whatever that smell was.  She knew it better than anything else and it enveloped her completely, invading her nostrils as much as her memories even as she sat in that sterile office closed off from the world.  It was a scent written on her soul, inextricably linked to a feeling of peace that nothing else could deliver.  She followed it now, down the path of her own memory.

Next came the sounds of the street- lawnmowers, dogs barking, kids yelling at each other as they shot waterguns or chased the leader down the sidewalk.  She heard her father's old dodge idling away in the driveway as he worked on the engine, telling her brother to "turn it off" for another adjustment.  She heard her cat Missy mewing as he sprawled on the wooden railing of the porch.

She reached out a hand and felt the old wood- painted and re-painted so many times the wood underneath could never be recovered, and yet worn smooth by hands like hers grasping and sliding and sometimes holding on.  Her grandmother's firm grasp as she slowly mounted the steps one at a time, smiling as she did as if the pain in her hip wasn't excruciating.  Her brother's tapping fingers as he skipped up the way he always did.  Her mother's smooth, fluid ascent earning a groan from each step she walked.  The physical touches of her family etched onto the smooth surface.

And finally, blessedly, she opened her eyes and observed.  The window always caught her eye first, the pane reflecting the nearly blinding light of the late sun as it drooped languidly in the sky and the orange glow that illuminated and bounced and spread like ivy.  It always reminded her of a creamsicle, sometimes so much her mouth would water and she would strain for the sound of the ice cream truck.

She allowed her gaze to drift, her eyes touching upon each object and surface the same as her hand had caressed the banister.  The swing- her mother's favorite part of the house, where she would curl up with a book and Missy and an icy glass of lemonade or tea that would collect condensation and soak the pages of whatever novel she pretended to read as she looked out at the street.  Sometimes her father would join her with a beer in hand and she'd protest his dirty pants on her white wicker bench.  He would put an arm around her, which she'd initially scream at him for before relenting and sinking into the cuddle.

The sand-dollar wind chimes they'd made together one summer, after carefully and meticulously combing the beach day after day looking for the perfect ones.  For every one successfully connected by fishing wire there were at least a dozen broken, or stepped on, or found lacking upon the return home to consider the day's findings.  She'd always loved it, perhaps because of the size of the endeavor and the devotion they'd given it.

The floor, oh the floor.  Worn smooth in the main pathway by hundreds of feet scraping across the surface.  Sandy shoes and dragged beach bags.  Her father's heavy work boots.  Her wet flip-flops.  Her grandmother's cane.  The wood had originally been a deep, chestnut brown but in the center of the porch where everyone walked it was worn back, obsidian and perfectly reflective of that brilliant orange light.  As if the entryway itself were a path of lit fire.  She would stare at that spot on the porch as she sat on the railing, losing longer moments than she ever intended.

A million and one memories.  An endless list of stories and jokes and repeated dialogues.  The tapestry of her family before her grandmother died and her parents broke up and they had to sell the house in Avalon.  Before childhood stopped being magical.  She indulged in them, allowing herself to feel.

A pile of manilla folders landed with an audible thud on the already tall pile of paperwork on her desk and she startled, jolting violently and bouncing in her office chair.  Her boss didn't even look back at her as he continued his march to his office and she shot daggers at the now crumbling tower on her desk.  She sighed, resigned herself to get back to work and leave the summer porch again to regain her seat in the firm, unforgiving confines of reality, and reached for the top of the stack.

Web Magic

Even now she can feel them- their eight limbs picking their way across the landscape of her body.  That sudden movement at the base of her scalp. It must be just a stray hair?  The itchiness on of the surface of her skin; her nails chasing the cause but always finding nothing. The sticky strand across the face- strong but impossibly soft.  Her eyes dart looking for the unmistakable shape but though always present they remain ever outside the periphery of her vision.  Is this madness?

She'd followed the ritual exactly: the words spoken from nervous lips in the midnight hour, the candle evoking the goddess of creativity, the herbs and incense piled atop as she bathed in the smoke of it.  She knew this was nothing to trifle with and she hadn't been trifling.  But what had she been inviting?

Her mind went back to the old woman in the shop with her layers and layers of ribbons and jewelry.  She'd said that every symbol had a meaning and helped attune a specific vibration.  She'd listed the spells that could help her and warned against diving in too deep.

But she was cocky, and only half believing.  Surely this must be a joke?  Something that crazy people do to make themselves feel better about not being in control of their own lives.  This woman with her incense and totems was a new age fishmonger selling trinkets and kitch to people too stupid to know better.

But Darcy, her free-wheeling and boundless friend had sworn this was the answer to her problem and desperate times do call for desperate measures.  So she'd swallowed her pride and bought the spell kit, hating herself for being so weak that she'd seek out something so hokey.  But she'd felt empowered as she left the tiny, cluttered shop.  No longer close minded.  No longer limited by a construct that maybe didn't quite fit.

"This is what you get" was the thought that came to her when she felt the thick weave binding her.  She startled out of bed with a panic and thrashed in the sheets.  Only a dream.

But then the itching started.  The scuttle of impossibly fast bodies.  The strands of silk roping across her.  The breath catching in her through as she sensed them.  But her eyes showed her nothing and her hands always reached for invisible culprits.  She was losing her mind.

But no- she will not roll over to whatever dark magic she stupidly opened herself up to.  Buyer beware isn't enough to make her sink into the murky shadows where this energy would undoubtedly consume her.  No- she will defend herself.

Her feet beat a rhythm into the pavement as she walked- each step pounding with the beat of her rage.  The street reverberates with the strong, low hum of her feet like a giant drum.  It's so loud- surely others must hear it?  Or is this another sign of her emerging madness?

She throws the door open and marches to the back of the store where the woman is instructing some other hapless dupe.
 

"What did you do to me?"  She hadn't intended to scream it.  But she felt fiery and wild.  The feelings were equal parts foreign and exciting and she invited the anger. 

"Excuse me?" the old woman asked, as if she'd whispered rather than thrown the accusation.

"I did the spell like you told me and now there are spiders all over me- I can feel them..." and even as she said it, she did.  There was even a heaviness in her voice now, as if somehow the web weavers were inside her throat.

"Spiders are the spirit of creativity and feminine energy- they will help you beat your writer's block.  Help you weave a yarn, so to speak." She said it as if she were terribly proud of the joke,  "This is what you wanted, yes?"

"No!" she screamed.  But it wasn't a scream, it was the same whisper she'd used when she recited the words that began this nightmare. 

"You're fighting it," the woman said, completely unfazed by the hysterical woman.  "You have to surrender to it.  Invite the darkness in, and then you will be able to access your true voice.  We cannot fear ourselves if we hope to be free."

She whimpered, feeling so bound in by the webs that she couldn't move now.  They were everywhere now- her hair, her clothing, her skin.  Their silk covered her eyes and she could no longer see.  Soon there would be nothing but a bound figure in a cocoon waiting to be devoured by thousands of tiny, hungry arachnids.

"You're getting heavy now," the old woman whispered.  "You're letting it happen.  But tell me- what happens when you wake up?"

Her eyes shot open and suddenly her vision flooded with familiar sight of her room.  Nothing had changed, all was as it had been before she went to sleep save that the light had changed.  She sat up, still searching for the arthropds.  But the dream was over.

Suddenly, her mind flooded with thoughts and ideas that could not be contained.  She reached for the notebook and pen the old woman had told her to keep by her bed and began scribbling furiously.  She felt almost giddy with the sudden rush of creativity.  The damn had been broken and her hand could barely keep up with the deluge of words.

It's the Resurrection Blogfest!

Mina Lobo over at Some Dark Romantic is celebrating the second anniversary of her blog by hosting the Resurrection Blogfest.  The idea is to resurrect a post from the past year that you really liked but just didn't get enough lovin' the first time around (or that you just feel like re-sharing for whatever reason).  Make sure you stop by Mina's to wish her a happy blog-o-versary and say 'Hi!" and then hop through the list to visit your blog friends and leave comment lovin' on their posts.

My post is from not too long ago- May 21st, to be precise.  I'm re-sharing it because I just really, really liked how it came out and would love some more comments on it.  It came from an excercise in Brian Kitely's 3am Epiphany (which I seriously recommend to any writer wishing to improve their craft, BTW)- the challenge was to write 500 words in which you put the reader in the protagonist's shoes- make them think their thoughts, feel their feelings, see the world using their five senses.  This is was what came out of that when I gave it a try- I hope you like it.

The Days You Wish You'd Stayed

Look out into the blinding orange glow of the sunset through squinted eyes and think of creamsicles melting and that sticky sensation between your fingers.  Wonder why the hell memories that are so obscure come back to you so easily while you can’t remember what day it is.  Note that a lot of days, lately, seem to bleed into one another without you noticing.

Walk back to your ratty apartment doing your best impersonation of a zombie and repeat the mantra of the day: as if it matters.  Sense in a vague and detached way that you’re hungry and wonder when was the last time that you ate.  Think about this for far longer than it should take you to recall such a simple fact.

Smell the fumes of the truck driving past you and recollect, with startling clarity, the sound she made when she laughed.  Replay the lilting, titillating sound in your mind as you drag your body along the route that’s programmed into your steps.  Wonder why you keep thinking of her when you know with certainty that you’re glad you left.

Repeat the last fight you had and remember that detached look she had in her eyes- the look that made you feel like an ant who’d wandered onto her picnic blanket and ruined the whole damned spread.  Bask in the warmth of your anger, still fresh in your blood, and rest assured that you really are so much better off.

Lose that feeling immediately upon turning the key in your lock and opening the door to your achingly empty living room.  Sigh louder and more dramatically then you intend to and then kick yourself for being such a morose bastard.

Throw your keys down on the coffee table, littered with empty drive-through cups and cigarette butts and feel heavier.  Seriously consider the possibility that you’re headed for an early heart attack if you don’t get your shit together and stumble over to the refrigerator praying that there’s an apple or a cup of yogurt of at least a carrot in there.   

Wilt at the sight of the empty shelves and that box of baking soda stuck in the back and momentarily allow yourself to sink deeper into the gloom that’s taken hold of you.  Linger in the unnaturally white light while questioning how the hell you let it get so bad and then shake your head and swear that you’ll go grocery shopping tomorrow.

Grab a can of spaghettios from the cabinet and open it into a plastic bowl.  Toss it into the microwave and hit the buttons.  Think about the smell of her hair as it draped over you in bed, the way her skin felt when you brushed up against her under the covers, the weight of her as she slept on your chest.  Stir to the sound of the ding and hate yourself for drifting off again.

Stand there alone in your tiny kitchen in your shitty apartment and wish that you’d stayed.

Spooktoberfest!

Hosted by Dani at Entertaining Interests and Jax at Bouquet of Books!  Click either link to sign up, see the rules, and post your spooky story!

For my story, I picked the super spooky lonely road photo prompt:

Source

And here's the story I came up with to go along with it: clocking it at 495 words, I call it:

10:27pm

It was taking too long- she’d never make it.  The elaborate sequin and lace mask on the passenger’s seat next to her seemed to mock her efforts as she pushed down on the gas pedal.  She cursed the accident she’d passed and all the wretched traffic it had caused, then looked on at the empty road in front of her in confusion- where had everyone gone?

A glance in the rearview mirror did nothing to allay her fears as only darkness was reflected.  It seemed like the whole world had vanished since she’d passed the twisted metal and flashing red and blue lights.

“It’s just a spooky road, Jess- get a hold of yourself!” she chastised her reflection.

Drew had always made fun of her for letting her imagination get the better of her on the last day of October.  He’d teased her for having the same fear reaction as a five year old out for their first night of trick-or-treating.  She’d always pouted at him and pointed out that lots of people believed in supernatural events and the like.  Plus what fun was the holiday without some fear?

Now he was gone, just another skeleton in her closet full of ex-boyfriends and emotional baggage.   

"Good Riddance," she said to the empty air.   

She smoothed the front of her dress and let her mind drift to thoughts of sangria cocktails and handsome faces partially obscured by masks.  She’d spent a fortune on the costume and she was planning on making it worth every single penny.  She would flirt and laugh with the abandon that one can only feel from a secret identity- the mask was her ticket to a night away from herself.  But only if she could get to the damned place.

A glance at the clock in her dashboard made her breath catch in her throat- 10:27pm?  It couldn’t be.  It had said that the last time she’d glanced at it- before she’d passed by the wreck- and she’d been driving for at least… well how long had it been?

She fumbled in her bag for her cell phone hoping to flash the true time.  She couldn’t miss this party- not after so much preparation.  She looked over to try to get a view of the messy interior and then screamed as a set of headlights appeared in front of her.  They had come without warning, blinding her and blocking out the night.  Reflexively she jerked the wheel and the car jolted to the right. There was a flash of light as the head lights filled her sight and the deafening sound of metal scraping as the cars collided.  And then… nothing.

The dark road stretched out in front of her.  The clock shone the time of her death, forever etched in the stone of time.  10:27pm.    

But she didn't know why her clock was stuck on that image, and she didn't have time to wonder.

She had a party to get to.

And now, hop along to read all the other spooky stories!

---

1. Entertaining Interests	2. Bouquet of Books
3. My Baffling Brain	4. Jennifer Joyce Writes
5. GirlZombieAuthors	6. Another Clean Slate
7. melanie schulz	8. Author Sue Dents ISBN-less Publishing Blog
9. Writing Off the Edge	10. Pagan Culture - Magaly Guerrero
11. A. J. Locke	12. Tiffany Behind Closed Doors
13. Some Dark Romantic	14. LILICASPLACE
15. Carrie-Anne's Magick Theatre	16. Defending The Pen
17. OnBecomingAWriter	18. The Beveled Edge

Howl

As the moon crept high into the black night her skin began to buzz like an electrical current.  The hairs on her arm rose as if posting a defense against the sting of the cold air, then erupted forth, flowing over her like magma.  

She tried to breath, to cool herself with the frigid blackness of night.  But her throat burned as the muscles pulled and stretched.  A low growl issued forth, independent of her will, and she could only listen to the gravely sound.

She gave up fighting and doubled over as her back arched and snapped.  Her limbs twisted and turned underneath her like heavy machinery.  Her mouth snarled with the new teeth rupturing from within.  Her body vaulted and rose, then fell with the final exhale of humanity.

She stood and the light of the lunar sky caressed her fur.  Her lungs swelled in her chest.  Howl.

The Giant End of September EVERYTHING Post

 

Source

So anyone who follows this blog regularly will notice that I took last week off.  I hadn't planned to, originally, but apparently for me vacation means no blogging.  I apologize if you were disappointed in the lack of Friday Flash or Celebration of the Small Things but I think I just needed the rest.  At some point I do hope to blog about some of the activities we did and share some pictures but for now I have a lot of things coming up that I hope you will all enjoy.

First up:  Tomorrow I will be featuring Julie Flander's amazing new cover for the Ghosts of Aqinnah.  It's gonna be awesome!  (And if you're absolutely DYING to see it and can't wait until tomorrow then just head over to Julie's site now.)

Then comes IWSG:  The big news there is that I'm co-hosting this month!  To say I'm excited would be an understatement of mass proportions!

Also on Wednesday:  The cover reveal for Crystal Collier's new book, Moonless!  Super excited to see that!

On Thursday I will post a new Friday Flash story.  Not sure what, yet- but it'll be new.

And on Friday I will return to the regularly scheduled Celebration posts.  Expect some talk about the activities I will doing in preparation for Halloween (and maybe some pictures of the decorations that will be in place by then).

Also, Yolanda Renee and I have something in the works to help celebrate our favorite holiday, so keep your eyes peeled for an announcement about that soon...

All-in-all, big things are coming.  So stay tuned!

Ode to Friday the 13th

As the sunlight shrank back towards the horizon the last rays of light danced across the surface the lake; its idyllic blue water catching and scattering the light like broken glass atop the surface. Crickets serenaded the scene and in the distance an early owl hooted. The calm was disrupted by a nearby group of co-eds unloading their truck of heavy coolers filled with beer and sleeping bags. They cursed and laughed and threw bags at each other with flirtatious audacity as they set up their camp for the night. The broken down cabins surrounding them deepened in shadow as the sun crept further behind the trees. Deep beneath the crystalline surface of the water, where dark shapes lurked in the crevices of downed trees and muddy detritus something was stirring. And as the last spot of sun faded from the water’s edge… Jason awoke.

First Ride

“I don’t want to go,” he said.  He folded his arms over his chest in the most defiant manner he could muster and pouted at her.

“Ok, you don’t have to,” she smiled at him. The light in her eyes made the smile spread across her face.

“I’m going!” he said, stomping his foot and turning forward.  He stood there perfectly still for a moment and watched the tall girl in front of him play with her ponytail.

The sun beat down on them as they waited and the smell of cotton candy and fried food made his thoughts wander. She had packed them healthy turkey sandwiches and carrot sticks for lunch and he hated her for being so organized. If she had just forgotten the cooler bag along with her sunglasses he could be eating french fries and pizza by now.

The screams of people plummeting several stories startled him and his eyes shot towards the chaos. His breath caught in his throat as he watched the coaster dive down the track and then shoot back up into the sky towards an impossibly large loop.

“Mom!” He turned to face her again and arched his eyebrows at her.

“Sweetie, we really don’t have to go if you don’t want to.  We can just ride the carousel or go play in the fountain.”

“The carousel is for babies! Besides, I’m too tall for it!”

“Oh, Jacob- you’re never too tall for the carousel! You know that's me and your dad’s favorite ride.”

“You guys are old,” he laughed.

“Thanks, Bud.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Listen, just because you’re tall enough to ride doesn’t mean you have to.   It’s not going anywhere- we can go walk around the park and come back later if you want,”she said, giving his shoulders a squeeze. 

“No, we have to go now!” he pulled himself out of her grasp and nearly collided with the girl in front of him. He caught himself on one foot then threw his weight back and landed against her belly.

She steadied him with a firm grasp and kept her hands on his shoulders until he started squirming.  As the line moved forward the railing separating the flat yard from the ramp approached them.

“We better make a final decision here…”

“We’re going!” His voice broke through the chatter around them and a few heads turned to look at the source of the ruckus.

As they approached the platform he reacted like someone had turned him on turbo; hoping up onto the railing and climbing across, jumping down and hoping onto the next, looking and listening and straining like a racehorse in the pen. She couldn’t help but grin as she watched him.

Finally, they were standing on the platform waiting for their car to arrive.  She leaned over him and whispered “You ready?”

He nodded, breathless and wide-eyed, and stepped forward as the seats opened in front of them.

Vacation

This is my first post for Denise's new bloghop Write... Edit... Publish (previously Romantic Friday Writers) and this month's theme is Vacation.  I took in a non-traditional direction and came up with a rpofile of sort.  I'm not thrilled with it, but I do like it and I'd LOVE to hear what you think.  Detailed feedback is very welcome- it's how I learn.  But any feedback at all is welcome.  Hope you enjoy!

~ ~ ~

If she let herself think about it for too long, she’d quickly conclude that she’d gone mad.  It was the only logical explanation.  After all, this was not something that sane people do.

So she focused on the little details of her plan instead, in the hopes that they would keep her grounded.  The tickets, purchased in the early hours of the morning when people with particular obsessions trolled the internet for cheap prices and a variety of other less savory things.  The hotel, which she’d allowed herself to splurge on even though she knew she’d struggle the next couple of paychecks.  And the wig.  It all started with the wig.

She’d put it on as a joke while attending a themed party with a friend.  Darla had sworn it would provide an evening of debauchery that a “repressed” (her word) woman like herself so desperately needed.  It had been a disaster, of course.  But in the midst of a variety of middle-aged men using pick-up lines that were outdated back when she’d first started dating she found a table set up with various costume disguises.  The wig was tucked in the corner, behind a neon pink pixie and bright green beehive, and distinguished itself from the others as the only natural-looking color.  Not that anything about the blond shag was natural to her.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Darla had said, patting her on the back.  “No more depressed divorcee- you’re a wild woman!”

Staring back at the unfamiliar reflection in the mirror and listening to Darla’s encouragement had sparked something.  Darla was right- that woman would not allow a man, or the lack of one in her life, define her.  That woman would not slink quietly into the twilight of her life as she had been since Chris had left.  That woman would not fear adventure and creep silently through her years like a mouse in an attic.  And that woman certainly wouldn’t let even a single minute pass before she reveled in it.

She didn’t tell Darla about her idea that night.  And when she did announce that she’d planned a vacation to Hawaii she left out the details of her plan.  After all, one can’t have a secret identity if it’s not secret.

But her naturally timid personality threatened to undue her preparations whenever she lingered too long on the plan in its whole; so she broke it up into smaller parts and followed through in each step as if it were just another item on her to-do list.

It wasn’t until she was on the plane with a rapidly expanding distance between her and her real life that she began to invent her persona.  A happily divorced woman, one who would never take something like a first marriage too seriously.  Someone who was confident, brave and vibrant.  Someone who’d do all the things she was too timorous to do.

She spent the flight lost in thought, contemplating what a woman like that sounds like when she speaks, how she carries herself, what she looks like when observed by a man.  She thought about where this vibrant woman went to college (one of the more controversial liberal arts colleges), what she did for a living (geriatric nurse), how she spent her time when not at work (kickboxing and attending wine tastings).  She composed an entire symphony of details.  And all of them seemed to hinge on one deciding factor: the name.

At first she thought of the flighty and absurd SanDeE from her favorite movie, but then decided that she didn’t want to be such a flibbertigibbet.  But she liked the word, it felt smooth and satisfying when her mouth formed it.  She repeated it like a mantra until a small twitch of the tongue converted it into Stacy.  But not the normal spelling- she was too unique for that.  And no big E, either- she was too real for that.  But an I and an E, normal sized.  That was it.

By the time she landed in the world of palm trees, tropical flowers and the most sensual breeze that ever flowed over her skin she had a new personality to match her disposition, and she was anxious to try it out.  She checked into the hotel, ran up to her room, and changed. 

She’d gone shopping with Darla- or, rather, Darla had gone shopping and she’d vicariously tried on things by watching Darla cycle through at least a dozen outfits, and concluding what she could pull off and what she couldn’t just from how they hung on Darla with her giant personality.  Then she’d snuck back later and purchased the ones that fit.  So the plunging neck line and bright colors were foreign and odd on her.  But then she put on the wig, the choppy blond strands cascading over her bare shoulders, and everything cliqued.  Stacie was happy to be here, and she was happy to be a voyeur for the next few hours and watch what she would do.

Each step down the sandy path to the beach bar evoked a flood of emotions.  Excitement, fear, lust, thirst, thrill, confusion and impulse all toppled over each other like clothes in the dryer and by the time she reached the sounds of clinking glasses and intoxicated laughter she was buzzing. 

Her smile was alive and glowing, she could feel it light her entire face.  And with the veil of blond strands in her periphery she advanced to the bar, pulled up a stool next to the tall man with dark hair and gray temples, and sat down.

“Hey stranger,” she laughed.  “Buy me a drink.”  She’d never done anything so brazen in her entire life and her heart swelled with the freedom she’d so desperately been missing.

At first the man hesitated, his eyes skeptical and hesitant.  But then his expression softened and he smiled at her.  “Can I at least get a name first?”

“Stacie,” she said, and her smile widened.

(1,000 words, exactly)