Pythian Games

By Kerry Vincent © 2008

            Josh really didn’t want to waste an afternoon driving out to the country, but Amy begged him to, and he really liked Amy. 

            “We don’t have to stay very long, Josh, just enough to set up Aunt Lou’s new computer.  You can set up a workstation in your sleep,” Amy reminded him.

            “OK.  As long as she doesn’t make us stay for dinner or something like that.  You know how lonely old ladies are – they just want to talk you to death,” Josh grumbled.

            “In and out, I promise,” Amy said.

            They turned down the gravel road that led to Aunt Lou’s log cabin.  Athena, a yellow lab, ran out to greet them, barking like crazy.  Isis, a calico cat sleeping on the porch, barely looked up at the visitors.  The young people got out and walked up to the porch, dodging homemade wind chimes and ducking under low-hanging baskets of pansies. 

Amy knocked on the front door, which was painted turquoise and coral.  “Aunt Lou loves the desert look,” Amy explained.

            “I can tell,” Josh said, looking at a bleached cow skull nailed above the mailbox.  “This is kind of creepy.”

            “Oh, Josh, she’s just a harmless little old lady.  She probably just got a computer so she can see pictures of the grandkids or shop QVC online.  Just get the machine set up, and we can get back in time to watch American Idol.”   

            Aunt Lou welcomed them.  “Hello, Amy, and this must be your young man, Josh…Come in, come in…Can I get you some tea?  Juice?  Coca-Cola?”

            “Just water is fine, Aunt Lou,” Amy said.

            “Alright.  The computer’s in there, on the dining room table.  Take a look,” said Aunt Lou, and trotted off to the kitchen.  She came back with three glasses of ice water and a plate of gingersnaps.

            Josh was impressed with the hardware, the deluxe laser printer, although he thought so much memory would be a waste for Aunt Lou – she didn’t even play video games.  She had a nice set up.  He clicked on the Control Panel, made some adjustments, tested the Internet connection, plugged in some wires, and in less than 15 minutes, he announced, “You’re good to go.  Want me to bookmark some Favorites for you or anything?”

            “Oh, no, dear, I think I can figure that out myself.  As long as I can get to my email and the Internet, I can take it from there.  I want to get in touch with some of my retired teacher friends.  They can walk me through if I get stuck.”

            “Sweet,” Josh said. 

            “I suppose you young people have better things to do than sit with an old gal like me,” Aunt Lou said.  “Run along now.  I’ll be fine.”

            “I worry about you getting bored out here,” said Amy. 

“I’m fine – and now I can write my friends emails – thanks to you!  Don’t worry about me.  My life may not seem exciting to you, but I’m happy,” Aunt Lou said.

“Well, then, if you’re OK, I guess we’ll take off.  Good-bye, now….”  Amy and Josh went to the car and drove off. 

            “Do you think Aunt Lou gets lonely, living out there in the sticks all by herself?” Josh asked.

            “I dunno – she never complains,” Amy said.  “She’s got her hobbies, her painting and crocheting, and now she can email her old school cronies if she gets too bored.  I guess when you get old, you slow down, and don’t need much excitement anymore.”

Back at the cabin, Aunt Lou had the Internet fired up, ready to surf.  She laughed out loud and said, “Look out, Lemuria, here I come!”

It was the last holiday I would take with my parents. The last time we would visit the caravan park in Rhyl. The penny arcades, the Rhyl Suncentre, the wave pool, the Dragon slide, the ice cream, the junior disco, the football matches England lads against Scots (no Welsh, they took their holidays elsewhere, I can’t imagine why).

I was 15 years old and had no cash so I decided a trip to the charity shop was in order. I dumped all my old rubbish into a box and jumped on a bus to Oxfam.

The quality of a particular Oxfam in 1987 was very much dependent on the affluence of the area. The Wigan store was mostly orange lamp shades and old men’s pants. A surly shopkeeper in his late twenties looked up as I entered. Very tall and then thin, big curly hair, clothes mostly brown he looked like a student from an old episode of Columbo. He glowered at me as I dropped the box onto the counter.

Picking up my Abba Voulez Vous album with two fingers like it was some unpleasant wet thing he’d found in the bushes he said, “Not much call for this stuff nowadays. Everyone wants CDs.”

“It’s in perfect condition”, I reasoned.

“I’ll give you 50p”, he said. His manner said more, it said “And that’s my final decision.”

Next up were the old toys. A complete set of Star Wars figures and a Mr T Van.

“Not got any Transformers stuff?” He asked hopefully.

“I’m 15. What do you think?”

He shrugged. “2 pounds for the lot.”

Things weren’t going well. He tossed my collection of “Look in” magazines from 1983 straight in the bin. The Top of the Pops Annual 1984 featuring Madness on the cover made me 30 pence. And an orange and white waterproof jacket which had always been useless in even the slightest drizzle brought me a pound.

The big items were at the bottom of the box though. Best of all was my hardback set of “Alfred Hitchcock’s Three Investigators” books. I’d loved these as a child and the covers still evoked strong memories of summers at the beach with my nose in a book. For most of my early teens I wore Hawaian shirts like Jupiter Jones. These books were important.

“2 quid,” said the hippy.

I stared at him in dum silence.

“And I’ll give you a fiver for the Commodore 64.”

I shuffled forlorn from the shop with a little over a tenner in my pocket leaving my childhood behind. 

The Cricket on the hearth

In The Kingdom of Imagination

Session One

by anita marie moscoso

It is a beautiful summer day and you decide that you cannot stay in this classroom any longer. You slip away quietly and find yourself beside a stony creek. The creek is quiet today and the water is crystal clear. As you sit watching the water scamper over the rocks you see a school of rainbow fish swimming by. They swim gracefully, in formation and you realise that their are words on their colourful bodies. They are telling you something. Stunned, you quickly write down their message…

And what I thought I heard that afternoon was singing:

 ” Anita Marie! Anita Marie!” says this little fish with a slight edge to his fishy voice, “ Did you hear a word we said?”

” Huh? “

“ Tell us Anita Marie, why did you chose to come here to the Kingdom of Imagination? What does a woman who writes about ghosts and demons and monsters want from a creek full of clear water on such a beautiful sunny day? “

” Words fail me.” I say.

” Well, you’re a writer, can’t you come up with a thought or two? “

” I don’t feel like it right now. ” I say up into the pale blue sky.

” Why not? ” they ask swimming closer to the shore.

I lean down cup my hands and plunge them into the cool clear water.

” Because it’s lunch time “

A little bit of faery dust does go a long way. Me master makes me gather it, at the dawn of every day.

I am slow. I lack the rhythm that the High Court finds so fine. Yet I can catch these faeries with a bit of honeyed wine.

I set me traps out early, when the night rays start to fall. I toss in crusts of sugared bread, to appease the beasts I fears the most, kelpie queers, that leap about the loch.

Me master. He beats me. Uses a thick cord of birch I cut from a tree branch for me pa to use as a crutch after his leg was broke in that fall.

I dasn’t hurt the faeries, not even the uglier ones, the ones all covered in brown. Them don’t shines so much, but they sure do have plenty more dust. I has to shake them out over a pan. Sometimes I shake them senseless. But I always stand there and wait til they can at least get up, crawl back and away, back into the grasses.

There’s somes that knows me now. They throw things at me. Try to make me hide away. I am more afraid of me master than I am of any tricks they could try.

Others knows me troubles in this world. Theys knows I am a bit slow. They tries to help me. When they can. Helping catch the others. Sometimes more than one has offered up hisself to me for the prize his dust brings.

Guess thems the ones that seed the beatings himself gives to me should I fail to bring in the required amount.

Master calls on me ma to mix the potions up. I seen him beat her once.

That’s when me pa fell off his horse then. The horse died. I saw a great hole in his chest. I didn’t understand that. When I asked me ma about it, she stared at me awful hard before she smacked me good across me face. She ran away to cry into her apron, sitting facing the corner of the kitchen behind the stove. I don’t ask on it no more.

Pa don’t look nobody in the face no more. Since he lost that leg under that horse, one eye don’t work so well no more. I still don’t understand why, but I ain’t askin no more neither.

I watch ma make the potions. Lately himself has wanted something special, something sweet.

It is a bitter blue goo, thick in the pan, stinking to high heaven. It takes days and days to brew up each batch all on its own.

I watch her grind down herbs and herbs and plants and grasses. Sometimes she lets me follow when she goes to gather her goods out in the woods. Once she let me hold her knife and carve off bits of bark for her specials.

She grinds and peels and shreds this stuffs, dumping it into her special black pot that I’s not allowed to touch. I have to fetch up the waters for it too. Special waters that takes, from the well in the cave miles away. I am not allowed to stray too far from the farm, but when I fetch out these waters I am gone all the day long. I take with me the mule Hexa, to carry back the baskets full of sweet clear waters.

I dasn’t lay hands upon the waters once theys in the baskets, covered ups and over with the lids. I ties the lids on tight with the good rope me pa showed me how to strand up last winter. I never lose a drop. Ma says it’ll be more than me arse if I foul that up. Very clear she is on how I must do these things.

Ma pours in the waters little bits by bits. Uses her little silver cup. She sits and talks at it the whole while she makes it. I never hears for certain what it is she’s saying. Pa says she’s saying magic words, making the stuffs more powerful. Says I am to stay well away and let things be. Let ma work lest I get me hide tanned. I does what he says. I’m a bit slow. But I ain’ts stupid.

Ma says takes five days to make this stuff proper. Then she scrapes the bit of blue yuck into a leather pouch. Cinches it up tight she does before she hands it off to me. I gots to be the one who takes it to the Master. Usually to his workshop.

I hates that workshop. It smells of sour pig meat. Foul beans. Offal stench.

That’s where he keeps her. He does. My friend. Ariahn. She was so beautiful before he snatched her away into that workshop of his. Like a shiny goddess in the picture book ma has hid away wrapped up in white cloth. Such shiny red-brown hair. Such burning deep green eyes. Her skin so soft so white, like petals of roses floating on fresh creme. And she was clean. She was always so clean. And sweet-smelling. She smelled of the pasture hays and the wild flowers. She always smiled. Always. And laughed. All the time she was laughing she was. Sounded like bells ringing too. It did. She looked after me. She never turned from me after I got so slow. She never made fun of me. She always had time to stop and talk to me. She was so good to me. She is me cousin she. Me best friend.

Me they just beats. Himself just beats me. Beats and beats and beats. I am used to that.

Her he married he did. She was his pride and joy. Loved to show her off he did. What with all her skills and her talents.

I don’t know how it came to pass. One day he was all smiles to her. Then the Dark Man came. On his fine black horse. Then the world blacked out for us here. The Dark Man cometh. He stold away all our Sun.

Miss Ariahn. She bore the brunt of him. Had Master drag her off by the hair, that Dark Man did. Through the mud and the muck. Twas her screaming woke me up that night. I dasn’t go help her. All I could do was shake and watch. Pray she lived to see the new day.
It was near she didn’t. Those blood curdling screams of hers. Gods. They shake me in me boots every time I hear them. No day passes she ain’t made to scream now.

He beat her. He beat her and beat her and beat her. Worser than ever he beat me. But he never touched her face. Her pretty pretty face. He makes her sing some days. Loved to hear her sing for him, he did. Ma says she still sees he loves Ariahn. Says it still glows in his eyes. She says he’s the walking damned he is. I believes her.

I seen him many a day of late him leaves the workshop. Tears streaming down his face they are. But still he cannot quit himself. Lest the Dark man take to beating him. Taking away all his Power.

I gets to see her, when I take things into himself. I don’t know what he done or how he done it. I goes in and she is pressed tight up into the wall. I can sees clear the nails in her hands, in her wrists. There’s chains upon her. Wrapped tights around her throat. He keeps her in that fine red velvet dress she loved so much. The one she wore after theys was married. She wore it her first day her at the Node. It’s all soiled and in tatters it is now. Black with blood and muck. It’s tored loose and hanging above her waist. I dasn’t look there either. Himself has been cutting on her. I seen that too.

I has to go in there every morning, before anyone else stirs, and clean up all the messes in there. At first I tried to clean her up too. I tried so hard to wipe her face clean. Twas all covered with mud, smeared over. Only clear spots were where fell her tears.

Master beat me hard when he came in and found me trying to make her up tidy. I dasn’t try much, but I tries what I can. When no one is lookin.

He cut off all her hair. I smelt it all burning up one day. I dint know twas her hair til later after Master had gone to bed and I snuck in to feed her some. Master says I may give her water whens I’s there to muck up the floor. Naught but water he says. I am careful though. I takes her breads with sugars sweet. She smiles at me. She has no teeth anymore. I have to dips her breads in milk, soak them up soft and nice, and press them in between her lips. I have to force her to swallow it down. I see she wants to die, but I cannot help her there. She begs me so with her eyes. Never she says a word. Not one word. Still she smiles at me whenever she sees me. I makes her smiles I do. Just by me being there.

I knows he beats her hard. I know terrible things go on in theres. That evil evil shed. He keeps it too hot in the summer. In winter he allows no fire.

It was that evil Dark Man told himself about the faery eyes. Me ma she knows the old old ways. Pa says twas only a matter of time afore they fell upon her and set her to workin up the old stuffs.

The blue stuff goes into her eyes. Poor Miss Ariahn. I hears the Master screaming at her. All the time he’s screaming. Don’t look at me he shouts at her. Don’t look at me.

I seen him once. He grabbed out the bag from my hand and tore into it. He snatched up great gobs of the stuff and shoved it hard into her eyes. She screamed when it touched her. Screamed. Worse than befores. All the befores. So much worse. I got so scared I wet meself. Fell to the ground I did. There was sparks where that stuff hit her skin. Green sparks there was. Master he was screaming at her, screaming, the whole time. I nevers heard a word of it. Devils stuff, says I. I ran away. Took quite a beating the next day seeing as I hid out for a day and a night afore I could bear to go back. Himself beat me nearly dead. That after me pa beat me too.

Pa says he beat me trying to keep the Master from beating me. Tain’t do no good. Ma says she weren’t too sure she could patch me up. I don’t run away no more. I dasn’t try it. Me leg ain’t that good no more neither. Makes it hard to go anywhere. Always dragging on behind me it is now.

Poor poor Miss Ariahn. She’s doomed. As surely as the rest of us is here on this plantation. But the Master claims she’ll outlive us all and be damned too for all eternity.

I believe him. That man is the devil. If the Master ain’t the devil then that Dark Man is. And that makes the Master the Devil’s right hand man. And us all slaves to them.

by Raven TK

http://breakonthroughtotheotherside.wordpress.com/

If only Jason had a time machine he would have done so many things differently. He would have studied harder at University and got a better degree. Then he might have got a decent job instead of bumming around for two years.

If only he had a time machine he wouldn’t have run up that huge credit card bill and ended up in the dinghy damp flat in the rough part of town, paying off his bills for years.

If only Jason had a time machine he would have studied something more vocational than the Medieval History of Latvia. Perhaps Law or Medicine. If Jason had a time machine he would have had to go back to high school and chosen some science subjects, otherwise he’d have no chance getting into medical school. ‘A’ levels in History, Classics and English Literature wouldn’t go down well with the interview panel.

If only he had a time machine Jason would have asked out that girl in Sixth Form he had always liked. He was sure she had liked him too but he had been too embarrassed and scared of rejection to try. Looking back now it seemed silly.

Jason’s time machine could take him back to junior school were he could practice his football skills and by now he’d be a star like David Beckham, then again maybe not, maybe like David James but less accident prone. Then again he could have taken up a musical instrument. But no, by now he’d be an aging rock star trudging out tired old hits and dressing like he was still in his twenties.

Today Jason and his wife Carol went for their 20 week scan. The baby looked so clear, they both cried, it was a little girl. They were going to have a little girl, her name would be Libby. Jason loved Carol, he loved Libby.

If Jason had a time machine he would change nothing.

The Cricket on the Hearth

Inspired by The Soul Food Cafe Story Prompt

Walk Inside A Painting

” Somebody will find out, won’t they? “

” Not a chance ” he told her.

” What we did was awful, wasn’t it?” she asked.

” I’ll say.”

” We can never go back. You know that don’t you? “

” I figured as much.”

” Are you sure, are you positive nobody will ever find them? No one will ever find out what we’ve done? “

The man told her, ” Nobody is as sick as we are, no one will ever figure out what we did to them.”

“ I can promise you that.” He said. ” I can promise you that.”

 ” That’s a weird picture ” Livia’ s niece said as she handed the small tinted photograph to her Aunt.

They were rummaging through a box of old pictures and postcards at the Curiosity Emporium where Tia sold the antique books she collected on her travels.

It was a nice shop- it was quiet and a little messy and even though the air was dry it there was always the smell of mold and freshly turned earth coming from the backroom.

Livia took the picture from Akela and as she did their fingertips touched and Akela tried to not yank her hand away.

Tia Livia killed a man in a poker game once- it was a story that floated around at picnics and barbeques the occasional baby shower and other family events.

Akela wasn’t sure if she was hearing the same story with different variations on the theme, but it seemed like there were lots and lots of stories involving Tia Livia creating lots and lots of dead bodies.

Once Tia Livia heard her brother telling the poker story to some of his friends as they were roasting hamburgers and Tia came up from behind them and practically screamed that was a lie.

” Tell the story right Leo or don’t tell it at all “

She had killed two men and a woman, Livia said between bites of cheeseburger ” Trust a man to underestimate the power of a woman “

” She B.S’s all the time. ” Leo told his friends ” don’t believe her. Sure Liv. Two men AND a woman. At the same time. God, you are such a fibber.”

Tia spat a chunk of her burger out onto the ground and Leo smirked and went back to his barbaque.

Akela doubted Livia would ever hurt any of her own family but sometimes when Akela looked at Livia’s scared and slightly mashed hands she always felt a little trickle of sweat run down her shoulder blades.

Livia looked down at the faded picture and said with a laugh ” Well don’t those two look like they know where the bodies were chopped up and buried? “

And as Livia let the picture fall from her fingers back into the box of photos the sound it made as it rustled into place almost sounded like someone whispering,

” You promised.”

Tom Hennessey was a spray painter and panel beater. Not just any spray painter and panel beater but the best spray-painter and panel beater around. He had been practicing his trade for years and his customers had nothing but praise for him. Tom liked that; happy customers talked to others and as far as he was concerned word of mouth was the best publicity he could get as it didn’t cost him any money. Money was important to Tom Hennessey; more important than friends and more important than family.
“Dad’s as tight as a bum on a goldfish,” his daughter Sal would explain.
Sal and Eve Hennessy, Tom’s long suffering wife, both worked for Hennessey’s Panel and Paint. For the years since they had become engaged and married Eve had worked as Tom’s secretary. As soon as Sal was old enough to help out she worked for her father too. The women worked six or seven days a week; the only time off being one or two days over Easter and Christmas. Even when Sal was born Eve was back at the workshop, nursing, three days after delivering.
Tom Hennessey didn’t pay his wife and he only begrudgingly put his daughter on junior wages when, at fifteen, she threatened to jump ship and work as a cashier at the local Woolworths. Family and friends quickly learnt that there were no mate’s rates at Hennessey’s Panel and Paint. Tom’s brother-in-law, Len, found out the hard way. He dropped his car off on a Saturday morning and Tom worked on it until Sunday afternoon. Eve’s brother expected to pay for paint and parts but was shocked and a little angry when Tom presented him with a receipt for not only paint and parts but the hours and overtime that Tom had worked. For his sister’s sake, Len swallowed his anger and paid the bill but he never again approached Tom for a favour.
Tom wasn’t bothered by what his friends and family thought. What mattered to him was making money and keeping the customers who paid walking back in his workshop doors and sending more customers to him via word of mouth.
“Nothing like free publicity,” Hennessey would say.
When Sal turned twenty-one she left her father’s workshop and his junior wages to study business and advertising. After a few months she managed to convince her mother that she could also leave and find a paying job. For the first time in 22 years Eve began to earn money and, with Sal’s help, began to enjoy spending it.
Tom was furious. He kicked his wife and daughter out of the house and refused to have any contact with them. He found he could still run his business. He bought an answering machine, a hot drink dispenser and hired a cleaner.
“Sponges,” he would snarl at anyone who asked after his family, “They were bleeding me dry, I’m better of without them.”
Funnily enough both Eve and Sal were the happiest they could remember being. The women bought a small house together and enjoyed their new found financial freedom. But that’s another story.
Tom Hennessey continued working well into his sixties when he started to think about retirement. In his mind’s eye he had a little place planned near Darwin. A fishing shack, a caravan; some peace and quiet.
He sold his business, bought a four-wheel-drive packed a trailer with all his tools and drove north to the Territory.
No-one believed Tom would last five minutes without work of some sort. He managed a week. After seven days of sitting on the beach he used his cash (hidden in a safe under the driver’s seat of his Toyota) to buy a workshop and yard on the Stuart Highway into Darwin. He bought a caravan to sleep in and installed it in the workshop.
All he needed was customers. He placed his usual three line advert in the local paper and waited.
After a fortnight he found himself ringing an advertising company in town.
The executive was extremely helpful and offered Tom a range of packages including T.V. radio, internet and colour print adverts.
“What’s it gonna cost me?” Tom asked suspiciously.
The executive started to give Tom a costing schedule based on the different packages.
Tom hung up before the man had finished saying the first three digit figure,
“Bloody vultures!” he exclaimed, “They’ll bloody bleed me dry. What do they bloody know? Never worked a day in their life!”
He spent the afternoon grumbling furiously to himself and drinking from a bottle of Queensland rum. By early evening he had come up with an advertising package of his own.
He scoured the workshop and yard and found several lengths of sheet-metal and corrugated iron. Over the next few days he scrounged more metal and iron from the yards adjoining his own and began to cut, paint and sign write.
If Tom had listened to the radio he would have heard the severe weather warnings being broadcast. The residents of Darwin had been warned over three or four days to prepare themselves for strong winds and rain. A tropical cyclone was blowing itself out off shore and was approaching the coastline. After the events of Cyclone Tracy in 1974 the town was well prepared and secure. No-one took chances anymore; everyone stayed close to the radio to listen to cyclone warning updates.
Everyone except Tom Hennessey, holed up in his workshop, working like a man possessed on his advertising. By the end of the week he had over six hundred beautifully detailed signs advertising his business. The only problem was he had no permission to hang the signs anywhere.
Tom waited until late Sunday night when he took his loaded trailer through the suburbs and the city hanging his signs anywhere he could find space. The town was quiet, no traffic; Tom couldn’t believe his luck. By two in the morning his arms and shoulders ached from trying to hang the signs in an ever increasing wind but all they were all up. He returned to his caravan in his workshop and slept soundly.
He didn’t hear the storm hit at three am. Wind gusts of up to one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour screamed across town picking up any unsecured debris and hurling it through the air like missiles.
Tom woke at seven thirty, made a cup of coffee and ambled out of his caravan to check his answering machine. The lights flashed brightly and he happily read 45 messages. He clicked his tongue in satisfaction.
“Who needs TV?” he chuckled to himself as he opened up the workshop and stepped into the yard. His eyes widened and he grinned greedily as he saw rows of cars parked outside his gates, shining in the morning rain. He had to stop himself from dancing with joy.
“Nothing like free publicity!” he joked to himself as he unlocked the gates.
An angry looking man stepped down from his vehicle holding a piece of crumpled sheet metal. Tom noticed branches and debris strewn across the wet highway,
“Some storm last night. Must have blown its ring off.” He said to the man, “Can I help you mate?”
The man shoved the metal into Tom’s hands. Tom looked down at the dented remains of one of his signs.
“Is this yours mate?” the man asked, “I found it this morning buried in my car roof. I believe you’re going to fix it for me.”
Tom looked at the huge tear in the roof of the expensive four wheel drive then looked at all the vehicles waiting in line with their angry owners holding crumpled metal signs and similar damage to their own cars. He began to feel a little unwell.
The news of Tom Hennessey’s foray into self-advertising made the news not just in Darwin and Katherine but across the country. Within hours it had crossed the world and was being picked up on TV, radio and the internet. Rumour has it that Tom Hennessey fled Darwin with what little money he had left after paying damages to the people and city of Darwin. Some say he’s down in Coober Pedy hiding under-ground trying to rebuild his fortune fossicking opals.
There’s nothing like free publicity.

My fingers find it hard to plait the daisies into a chain. Reacting to the weather, they are swollen as well as just being pudgy. I remember having no trouble doing this until recently. Someone is watching! Who would be out here? I slowly look up and glance around the circle of trees where I am sitting. No one there. A slight motion at the corner of my eye catches my attention and I peer closer to observe a small brown squirrel peeking out from a hole in the base of the oak tree. He watches intently even as I glimpse his tail moving in the dark. I don’t see any others—just the one. Is this the greedy squirrel who always eats all the birdseed?

He seems to take a deep breath as he says, “If you are going to come, you better put your best clothes on.” A talking squirrel? How can it be? He scampers a bit closer and turns sideways, his bushy tail seeming to beckon me on. “Are you coming? No time to wait.” He moves into the dark opening.

“I won’t be able to fit.” How is it I am talking to a squirrel, much less worrying about fitting into the rotted hole? And if I need to follow there is no time to change clothes. That doesn’t make any sense.

“Come, come. No time.” He disappears into the tree.

My curiosity aroused, I crawl over to the small opening and look inside. Nothing there. I cautiously extend my hand in to see how far back the hole goes. As I do, I notice my hand appears to change, just like putting your hand in water and watching the refraction caused by different densities of air and water. I pull it out and watch my tiny hand with thin fingers revert to a plumper hand with signs of aging. In again, a little further, to see hand and arm shrink to. Would the rest of me shrink, too? Would I be flexible, once again, able to play like a child, to climb trees and run through the woods? Like an adult able to climb onto the house roof to help build a chimney?

Without making any conscious decision, I surprised myself as I stood in the hole, not at all cramped. What had looked to be pebbles on the ground just outside the tree-hole now appeared to be huge boulders out there.

“Are you coming?” punctuated by a exasperated sigh. I squinted into the inner recesses of the hole and discerned the squirrel with upraised tail – now bigger than I was. For the first time I noticed how sharp and long the nails on his front feet were. Gulp! I’m so small – no match for an angry squirrel.

“Come!” he commanded, and started climbing up the inside of the tree. I followed as best I could, grabbing onto protrusions formed by natural and, perhaps unnatural, means. Sap and dirt clung to my hands and feet, dropping onto my clothes. I was glad I hadn’t dressed in my best clothes.

Concentrating, to be sure I didn’t fall, I nearly bumped into him. He stopped at another hole and then stepped out. I followed, with more caution, but also curiosity. My hands, for all the dirt and sap and activity, felt better than ever. I could climb without my back hurting. What happened to my glasses?

I flashed back remembering this: standing on a branch of the apple tree in the “little woods,” pausing to look around and see if I had time to climb higher to avoid detection in “hide and seek,” reveling in the smell of the apples and woods, observing green leaves against the blue sky, hearing the sounds of birds and squirrels scurrying about their business, feeling the tree bark as I held on. Much of my childhood was spent here, delighting in the freedom of climbing trees, running through the woods, and building forts. A welcome contrast to younger childhood years spent in an apartment being told not to make noise and disturb the sick man below.

I stepped out, balancing easily on the branch, following the squirrel who then said, “Watch how I do it.” Before I knew it he threw the top part of himself off the branch as he held on with his hind feet. His front paws grabbed the sunflower seeds in a green bird-feeder hanging from the tree. One paw held onto the feeder tray for stability while the other stuffed sunflower seeds into his mouth. A few quick mouth/nose wriggles and the hulls flew out, falling to the ground.

He ate mouthfuls, then hoisted himself back upright. “OK. You try it while I get seed from the other feeder. He trotted onto a smaller branch as it bent closer to a different feeder as he moved to the end. He took a flying leap onto the top of the feeder, overshooting and falling to the rocky ground. I gasped as he shook himself and then darted into the hole, reappearing at the top and heading out to do it again.

“Don’t watch me. Get your own!” He flew off again, judging the distance correctly this time. I decided squirrels were use to getting their food while hanging upside down as I watched him as he hung upside down and gobbled seed. The annoyed birds chirped their disdain for his gluttony and impatience to eat.

A black-capped chickadee flew at my feeder, startling me, grabbed a seed and flew off like a ribbon waving in the breeze. I always liked to watch them politely take one seed and fly away so other birds could also partake. So unlike squirrels who gobble everything until nothing is left.

I moved over to the feeder, and sat down, with the branch close to the crease of my knees, slid back and let myself down as I did years ago when I would play on the monkey bars at school or in the trees. Will I get nauseous? or fall down? But as I viewed the world upside-down, I felt great. Everything looked so different from this perspective. So much more to wonder about. I took a seed, broke the hull in my teeth, separated out the hull and ate the sunflower nut. Delicious! And now I knew why squirrels seemed to be so greedy. With all the work and energy it took of getting into position to do this, more than one seed needed to be eaten to make it worthwhile. So I ate slowly. My deliberate movements eased the fears of the birds so they started to come around even with me there. A tufted titmouse even landed on my outstretched arm as a perch, finding it easier to reach the seeds. I longed to stroke a bird but didn’t want to upset them.

I was so engrossed with the living, colorful bird collage I jumped when Mr. Squirrel appeared on the branch next to me. He appeared to be upside down when in reality it was me.

“Well, do you understand now? Why we gobble a lot? I’ve heard you asking why as you filled the feeders, thinking we were greedy. You used to chase us away from eating but have relented and allow us to ear from two of the feeders, at least. You even greased the feeder poles but that only kept us away for a short time until the cold solidified whatever grease you used. It takes a lot of work for us to get the seeds.”

I had swung back upright so I was sitting next to him. We watched the other two squirrels and the inordinate number of birds flitting about as they determined pecking order for eating. They ignored me as if I were of no consequence… and at my present size, I wasn’t. Tiny, covered with dirt and sap to which seed hulls were stuck, what could I do? Well, I didn’t want to do anything but enjoy being a part of the picture I always enjoyed watching from my window.

“It’s getting dark. Time to retire to my nest. And you should go back. Who knows what would find you a tasty morsel… an owl? a raccoon or a possum? even a snake?”

“Thank you for inviting me. It’s been so wonderful.” I pirouetted along the branch as I moved closer to the trunk. I allowed myself to tumble down even as Mr. Squirrel ran up and over a few trees to his nest.

“Could I come again? Maybe visit your nest?”

“We’ll see,” resounded faintly.

I danced around at the bottom in the hole, did a few back flips (because I could), then took a deep breath. I inched out of the hole, watching my body revert to the now familiar bigger, heavier, aching body. I found my glasses in the dirt. I picked up my daisy chain and hung it over the doorway, as an offering, a blessing, a hope.

by a.m. moscoso

Inspired By The Soul Food Cafe Prompt

Exploring Childhood Innocence

Orcella Moss sat at his kitchen table with a small box of bones in front of him. Every once and awhile he’d reach out and jiggle the box around and then he’d look down into the top of it and sometimes he’d start to reach into it and then he’d stop.
 
Then he moved the box back to the center of the table and he wondered.
  
He wondered where his 13-year-old daughter could have found a human jawbone and other broken little pieces of bone and how it all ended up in an old fashion hatbox mixed up with the bits and pieces of her day-to-day life.
 
Orcella could hear her up in her room; a little while ago he had heard her TV go on, then he heard a beep and whine and then a hum as her computer came to life and he wondered how that little monster could do anything as normal as hit on and off switches when she’d been living in the same room with a busted human jaw bone, a mummified finger and little bits of bone in a hatbox she had left on her desk top.

Earlier that morning Orcella had gone up to Kirsten’s room to liberate the batteries from the remote control for the TV in the living room that somehow always found their way upstairs to Kirsten’s room and into her remote control.

That’s when he saw the old box with the faded candy pink stripes sitting on her desk and almost as an after thought looked down into it.
 
The box was right next to her California Cutie doll and her makeup (cotton candy flavored lipstick and some blush-on) and her hairbrush and a little bottle of perfume she’d mixed herself at Scent By You at the Mall.
 
And in the middle of all of that junk was the hatbox with the jawbone that was on the table in front of him now. He looked into the box one more time and that’s when he noticed the nail on the finger was manicured and polished and had a tiny rainbow decal near it’s tip.
 
 “ Kirsten,” he called up to her “ come on down here for a second, would you?”
 
He heard the sound go down on the TV and she called back, “ What?”
 
“ I want to talk to you.”
 
“ Busy.” She called back in her best little girl in the world voice.

Then not only did the TV go back on it went up.
 
“ Kirsten get down here.”
 
“ This better be important Dad,” she snapped back from over the racket “ cause I’m…”
 
“ Missing something from off your desk. So get down here NOW.”
 
The TV clicked off and the computer hummed and shut down. He could hear Kirsten walking across her bedroom floor. He heard the door open and then close and then the sound of her footsteps at the top of the stairs.

 “ This is very serious Dad.” He heard her walking down the steps “ You need to respect me and my privacy.”
 
She was standing in the kitchen now. Her mouth was a hard straight line and her chin was tilted up and she looked down her nose at him, “ That box is mine and what’s in it is mine and I want it back.”
 
“ I want to know where you found this Kirsten, for heaven’s sake Kid, this is a human jaw bone and what are these? “ he held the box up and shook it at her.
 
“ Finger bones, “ she held her hand up ‘ fingertip bones, I don’t know exactly but they’re mine Daddy and I want them back.”
 
“ Just answer me, where did you find this stuff?’ she was looking at him with a dull flat expression and he knew very well by the look on her face she hadn’t ‘found’ anything. Not in this condition anyway.

He tried another tact.
 
“ Kirsten these are human remains and you had them mixed in with your makeup, some CD’s and a half eaten candy bar and a stale bagel. Do you know how abnormal that is?”
 
It was very clear by the way she was still looking down her nose that she did know and that she also didn’t care.
 
“ Give me back my things Daddy.” She said in her best schoolmarm voice. “ Or else.”
 
“ Or what Kirsten? Am I going to end up in a box on your desk with candy bar wrappers and a half eaten bagel?”
 
“ No, but you know that thing you have hidden in the basement? If you want it back Daddy you’ll hand that box over right now.”
 
“ You didn’t…”
 
“ I mean it Daddy, hand the box over right now.”
 
He practically threw it at her and as she bent over to pick up some of the little bones that had fallen out she said, “ you’re gross Daddy “ she said with disgust “ I can’t believe you brought that into our house and hid it in a trunk with the Christmas ornaments. That’s twisted.”

She was looking into the box and then she looked around on the floor and came back up with the finger with the nail still attached and she dropped it into the box. “ You’re sick Daddy, you need help.”

Orcella watched Kirsten stomp up the stairs, he heard the door slam shut and the music go on full blast. It was loud;  loud enough to shake the pictures on the wall, loud enough to attract attention,  loud enough to maybe force  the neighbors to call the police and complain.

Orcella didn’t go up the stairs, he went back into his kitchen and down the steps to the basement…and then he started to clear the Christmas ornaments out of the trunk.

She closed her eyes, pretending that it wasn’t just sitting there in front of her. It was such a small thing. A tiny, little silver thing, much like any other acorn, except for the colour, it could have fallen from any oak tree at all, fallen at her feet. Her father would be angry if she touched it. This she knew. It was a gift to her mother. This she knew. Her mother had thrown it over her shoulder with a laugh, saying should it grow then the tree would have no rival in the kingdom. Her father had laughed as well, muttering something about the power held within such a tiny thing. The power of the thing seemed to glow, to glower, in front of her, imprinting its image on the inside of her eyelids, burning her soul with its brilliance.

Trilla could not think of why something so mundane, so earthy could hold her attention in this manner. She opened her eyes, admiring the way the sunlight bounced off the smooth edges of the thing. Her lips curled upwards in a smile. The scent of her mother’s lilacs wafted over her, enticing her to other games. Yet, Trilla could not help herself. There was just something about that silver acorn. Something she just had to see, had to know, for herself. With a wicked little smile, Trilla snatched up the silver acorn and ran off towards the hillside with it clutched tightly in her hand.

The acorn itself gave off a tremendous amount of heat, scalding Trilla’s palm, though she refused to release it. Trilla, as she continued over the hill and down the other side, wondered if that intense heat was the reason her mother had so glibly tossed it over her shoulder in the first place. It felt nearly as if there were a hole being burned right through the core of Trilla’s palm. But Trilla was determined. She held on, and pressed forward.

It did not take very long for Trilla to come to the weeping willow tree by the old miller’s pond. The tree’s branches swept over the ground, providing a nice covered space for Trilla to hide in. A timid breeze ruffled the thin branches, causing them to whisper together at Trilla’s arrival. Trill hid beneath the great tree, happy for the respite as she dropped the acorn to the soft ground, taking a seat beside. Trilla held her palm up in front of her eyes, expecting to see cracked reddened flesh. She was surprised to see a small black mark dead center on her palm, but nothing more than that. There was no pain. There was no sensation at all. And after all that burning, this for Trilla was a blessed relief.

Trilla stared expectantly at the acorn, for surely it was an enchanted thing. Why else would her mother have thrown it so and said such things? Her father was well-known for his love of all things magical. Could he have bought this from some traveling gypsy or wandering minstrel? What was it for? What did it do? Trilla was delighted. The thoughts and ideas that raced through her mind dazzled her. Trilla decided to be like Jack of Jack and the beanstalk. She decided that she would plant the acorn, that a great silver oak tree, overflowing with bounty and goodness would grow up overnight. She decided that this was a magnificent thing, that her mother and father would be so proud of her.

Quickly popping out from under the willow tree’s protective screening, Trilla began to scout about for the right place to bury the acorn. There, by the kelpie’s rock, next to the end of the pond, was the perfect place. Trilla quickly ran over to the rock, standing well clear of the water’s edge on the off-chance a kelpie should appear, and began to pry up grass and earth in order to prepare a burial place for the acorn. Once she had a deep enough hole, Trilla retrieved the acorn from beneath the willow. Before dropping the acorn into its new bed, Trilla pressed her lips to its side, blessing it, and herself as well. Then down went the acorn, plop went the dirt over it. And all was done.

Time passed. No tree grew. Trilla came every day with her watering can. Nothing ever sprouted. In time, Trilla gave up her ministrations and moved on to other things, dismissing the acorn as quickly as any child would do, in pursuit of other more potent games and challenges. She never noticed as the black spot on her hand shifted and changed. It moved deeper along her palm, onto her arm, slowly working its way up into her heart, where it lodged, a deep dark stone, a pit, where there then did it begin to grow.

Like skeletal fingers, fibers spread forth from the spot, probing itself into every vital organ and trail of blood. The spot itself became a heart, pumping and throbbing in its delight as response to its new home, its new host. Carefully, the spot, now creature, took form, mimicking its host with perfect exacting care. Delving into the innermost recesses of Trilla’s mind, feasting upon her soul, until little was left of her flesh but a husk. It was not a long process. Merely an hour of play. Trilla’s mother stood at the doorway to the courtyard, calling to Trilla, as supper was ready and again Trilla was late. The beast heard the mother calling, knew time was growing short. It drew in the last bit of sustenance. And then closed its eyes and went to sleep. The husk of its husk lay like a trampled mass upon the ground, but with nary a mark on her skin.

This is how then the sheepherder’s son found her, not minutes later. Trilla’s body lay pristine, if not a bit damp, as if she had fallen. The boy thought perhaps she had hit her head. He ran off to fetch her parents. Mother and father came running. Father so tenderly carried Trilla back to her home, to her silk-enshrouded bed. The doctor was called, but once he was there he could find nothing at all wrong. Trilla’s chest rose and fell, as if with the breath of life. Her skin was warm to the touch, not overly hot, not overly cold. She was no longer damp, not clammy or sweaty. She seemed as if to be asleep. Only sleeping. Perhaps she had bumped her head during her play, although none could find the tell-tale lump or bump or bruise. Her parents thought it best to allow the girl to sleep. The doctor would return in the morning, to see that all was well. The family then retired, returning to their daily activities.

The creature within Trilla stirred as the moon grew fat in the sky. All around in the house, the creatures who lived there were sleeping. Only the mice in the walls, scuttling here and there, did the creature here. At a calm sedate pace, the creature began to unfurl itself. First it secreted a clear liquid that smelt vaguely of tea roses. This liquid dissolved the husk completely. From the gelatinous mass arose a viscous writhing mass of tendrils and cords and vitals that came together with a snap. In the blink of an eye, in the quickly evaporating goo, there stood a beautiful bird, clad in blackly purpled feathers, from his head to his ruffled tail. His black feet scraped at the coverlet as he felt his life reassert itself in his veins, as veins became knit together inside him again. Emerald green eyes burned out of his sockets. With great aplumb, the bird with head crest arisen, flapped his great wings to help them dry enough that he might fly. His great black beak snapped open and shut a great many times, realigning repeatedly until it fit together perfectly. With one great cry, the bird took wing, dropping something as he lifted from the bed. He sailed swiftly from the room, seeking the way out. He dove into and through a marble wall, disappearing into it as if it were nothing at all, leaving behind a pale green vaporous trail along with the odious smell of sulfur.

The next morning, when Trilla’s mother went to check on her, there was no Trilla to be found. Not even a trace of the great bird’s dissolving gel. All that was ever found again was a silver acorn, and nothing more.

written by Raven TK

 http://ravensinthewritingdesk.wordpress.com/

What’s In A Name?

She awoke with a burning sensation in her chest. A deep unabiding pain that would not leave her alone. She had to have water. It was not allowed at this point, she knew, but that didn’t change anything. Salia began to cough, choking on thick discharge in her throat. She spat and coughed and spat some more. The old man did not take pity on her.

This was her third trip to the Hinterlands. This was her final trip to the Hinterlands. Twice before she had failed, and failed badly. Neither time had she taken the results of her Journeys well. The harder she was on herself for her failures, the more she took it out on those who came to her for her help. The more she treated her People badly, the more they treated her badly, until many of the People were avoiding her all together. So she had had to come again, like it or not. Yet with this time, this would be her last attempt; this would be her last chance to make an attempt. If she failed, she would not be permitted to try again. She would be cast out as the Medicine Maker of her People. She would lose all rank. She would be a pariah. She closed her eyes against the tears of shame and fear that rose like crystal bullets, locking them inside herself tightly, baring the shards as they carved their way through her heart.

She had come to the Old Man, begging him for help. He had refused at first, telling her she was too weak, too frail, too unclear, for him to help. She had stayed at the foot of his door for three days, begging, weeping, sobbing, keening, until the Old Man had relented. He had warned her that she would not like his way. That due to her failures in the past, he would have to take measures to ensure that he himself was protected, even as he exposed her to greater and greater risk before the Gods. She had agreed, blindly, pleading with the Old Man to do what he must and what he thought best in order to ensure she could return to her People as Blessed by the Gods as a True Medicine Maker. The Old Man simply harrumphed at her and spat dismally at the ground.

He had allowed her to take one night, to feed both body and spirit. She slept upon a pile of pine branches, her head cradled against her arms, dreaming pleasant dreams of riding the back of the Raven King as He traveled from one Land to the next. She was unprepared for the shock of the icy water being thrown on her back to awaken her before the sun had even begun to rise in the new day’s sky. With a shriek she was on her feet, shuddering in the abrupt cold, peeling her clothing off, trying to move nearer the fire. It took less than a second for her to realize there was no longer a fire. It had been tamped out before her rude awakening. The Old Man glared. ‘Disrobe.’ He ordered her. He tossed an old skin, battered, filled with holes and clots of dust, at her feet. ‘Put this over you.’ He walked away without a glance towards her to see if she obeyed. With great care, she removed her clothes, spreading them out on the ground to dry. She wrapped herself in the skin, finding it smelled of age, of mildew. She stood waiting, afraid, looking in the direction the Old Man had gone.

He came up upon her from behind, frightening her enough to cause her to yip and jump out of his grasp, when he touched her shoulder to alert her to his presence. Again, with a look of disgust, the Old Man shook his head. He gave a long tired sigh. ‘Leave everything.’ He commanded. ‘Follow me.’ Salia gave no thought to her food, her blankets, or anything else she had carried with her. The Old Man had a small pack on his shoulder. Why would she worry? With trepidation still churning in her heart, beating in her stomach, Salia followed the Old man, trusting him to see her through.

They walked many hours that day. The Old Man did not stop to break his fast. He did not offer her food. He did not give her information. There was no talking. He merely walked on at a steady even pace, forcing his way through dense brush as it came up. Salia was expected to do the same. As they walked alongside a stream, Salia stopped for one breath to gather water in her hand for a quick drink, but she did not linger long. She rushed to catch up with the Old Man.

Afternoon had long since burned away into the evening. Dusk was nigh now. Salia paid no heed to the tears as they fled the corners of her eyes, staining her cheeks with white lines as the dust of the day dripped away. They came upon a clearing, at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the Great Canyon of the River Queen. Throughout the clearing were poles. Non-descript poles, standing there with no rhyme, no reason. Salia shook her head. Some were close to the cliff’s edge. Some were further away, closer to the edge of the forest. Some were closer to the wall of rocks on one side. Others were in the centre of the clearing. Off to one side was a small hut. It seemed empty, deserted.

The Old Man strode forward. ‘Choose.” He intoned. Salia cast him a quick look, before turning her attention to the poles. Plain undecorated poles. There were no carvings, no stories, no rings. Salia squared her shoulders and walked to the pole that spoke loudest to her. The Old Man grunted in approval. He had assumed she would simply pick the one closest to her, out of sheer lack of will power. But no, Salia had chosen the pole nearly at the cliff’s edge, one where the other poles were farther away in all directions. The one most bereft, most alone.

Salia stood behind her pole, looking out over the chasm before her, seeing the steep walls of pure white rock reflecting back the pink light of the setting sun, setting the wee river afire as they did so. The heights were dizzying. The view immense, and powerful. Salia shut her inner eyes, allowing the last vestiges of the setting sun to sear themselves upon her vision. The Old Man had come up upon her. He removed her old skin and cast it aside, as if with disdain. He began to chant heavily and lowly in the Ancient Tongue, as he sprinkled her with a pungent dust from his waist pouch. Salia was unsure whether he was blessing her or cursing her, and at this point in her life she wasn’t sure which would be of better use. She offered up her own prayers to her own Gods, beseeching blessings from Them. Then the Old Man set down his shoulder pack, chanting louder, deeper now, still using the Old Tongue, and drew forth a heavy rope, blackened in places from who knew what, coarse and thick. With this rope, the Old Man bound Salia to the pole, facing towards the river’s gorge. She did not struggle; she did not pull away. Although her body betrayed her with its trembles, with her weak knees unable to support her, the Old Man tied her firmly in an upright position. The Old Man tied her securely, without tying her over-tightly. The rope pulled her to the pole and held her firmly in place. After the last knot was secured, the Old Man spat at the base of the pole, thus ending his chanting. He then turned, though she could not see it, and walked away. She could hear his steps as he retreated, but nothing more. She passed within herself and sat there to wait.

So deep was her meditation that she did not hear the Old Man as he piled sticks and branches and pieces of wood dragged in from the forest to create a large pile in the center of the clearing. She did not notice how he piled a circle of stones around his wood piling. The first physical knowledge she received was that of the acrid smell of smoke as he lit the wood, setting fire to the pile, and letting it burn. The flames licked and lapped and devoured; the heat cast warmth against her pole, and against her body. Salia drifted back into herself again, letting go, always letting go. Just had she had the last two times.

It did not take her long to fall into a deep sleep, even in her current position. Dreams came to devour her, from the inside out. This time, again, they did not succeed.

Morning came. The Old Man did not. Salia watched the world unfold from her perch. The fire behind her smoldered still, more quietly and more sedately, but still it gave forth warmth.

Night fell. Salia did not sleep. Her fear was creeping in, on kittens soft paws, into her brain, scratching at her heart.

Another morning. No Old Man. The fire burned lower, but the warmth was still a comfort. Huge black birds began to flutter by with an increasing frequency. They did not stop. They did not pry. But they did not bring comfort.

Night fell again. The cold came then, as the fire grew dim and small, having eaten through the wood and the debris.

A new morning. More birds. This time they came closer. They were not ravens as Salia had hoped. No. They were vultures. Salia had no more tears to cry.

Moon rose. Moon fell. Sun rose. Sun fell.

The fire had turned to dust. Cold, lifeless, dust.

The night came again, freezing her bones.

Sun up. Sun burnt. Salia’s lips were black from burning. Her body cried. The coughing fit began.

There stood the Old Man. Relentless in his distance. Once she was done spitting and coughing, he came closer to her. He offered her a sip of bitter liquid. Not water. Not juice. Something …else. Had Salia been in her right mind she might have recognized the ingredients he fed her. But in her state, she had nothing left anymore. He looked into her eyes, gauging her health, her tenacity, her ability to continue. The Old Man may have found her lacking, but he deemed her fit enough to continue. He had brought with him fresh rope. He did not untie the first rope, now grown loose and unsupportive. He simply looped the second over the first and tightened it, cleaving her anew to the pole. He uttered not one word to her. He simply did his job, then he left, abandoning her to her task yet again.

Neither time before had she been roped to a pole. Neither time before had she gone so long without food, or water, or shelter, or human contact. She felt as if she were losing her mind. She felt lost, untouched, unholy. She felt, unworthy, unclean. She reaffirmed her vow to her Gods that she was here to prove her fitness for her position within the Tribe. Then she screamed, and screamed again, for sheer exhilaration and enjoyment of it.

Thunder crackled from within the cloud cover. A low booming shuddering sound that loosened Salia to her foundations. Lightening shot out, streaking from one cloud to the next. Fingertips like silver bullets prying the heavens open, releasing the torrent of rains. The sky turned black, the sun swallowed whole by the swollen clouds. Salia laughed in the face of the storm, laughed hysterically. Storms terrified her beyond her capacity for normal thought. If she could have run, she’d have been long gone. As it was she stood her ground, rain drops pelting her like stones. Lightning licking at her toes. Thunder slamming her back harder against her pole, her beloved sacred pole.

In the midst of the storm, the animals began to attack. Ones that Salia had thought she was only imagining. Those creatures who brought out the worst of Salia’s dread. Rats crawled up her legs, toes digging roughly into her flesh, to nestle in her hair, ripping out hank after hank to be used to swaddle their own dread naked babies. Snakes coiled around her arms, weaving in between her flesh and the rope, pulling tighter and tighter and tighter until there was no feeling left, until the sensation of the rope disappeared completely. Wild dogs came, ripping and nipping, tearing off small chunks of flesh before running. Wild cats yowled, frightening away the others, before zooming in to scratch and claw and shred. Vultures dove in, swooping to avoid claws, tearing out their fair share of flesh as well. A raven, her beloved raven, fell like a rock from the sky, snatched out her eye, and was gone before she knew what hit her.

The screaming had long ago stopped. The pain was so intense, so brittle, that Salia did more than give in; she moved past. She stood outside her own body, watching as animals large and small came to garner whatever bit and bite they could manage. Until there was nothing remaining but bits of broken bone and slush dripping down the pole, staining the rope. The rain trickled off, soon to be no more. There was nothing left of Salia. She stood there staring at her own ragged remains, and did nothing. Did nothing for the longest time.

Then, she took her step back, and turned to walk away, along the trail. The trail that went alongside the rock, through the rock. She hovered above the water-gored dirt, her feet remaining dry and clean. Her spirit sweetly sang as it moved along, right into the arms of the waiting bear. The Bear. Mother Bear. The Great Bear opened Her mouth wide and swallowed the wandering spirit of Salia whole in one big bite.

The world went dark. Salia became a memory. It was over.

The Old Man saw the young woman grow old before his eyes as he stood there. He knew the time to release her was coming, but he could not do it too soon, lest he break the magic that held her. Yet if he moved to release her too late, the magic would indeed devour her as surely as would any other wild animal. That long brown hair of hers rapidly changed to a silvery white in the span of the blink of his eye. Had he turned his head even for an instant he would have missed the way the colour evaporated from the tips and ran back towards her skull, as if fleeing. The woman did not move, did not twitch, did not moan nor make even the smallest sound. The Old Man saw the Bear Spirit engulf her. He saw Salia disappear inside. Now it was time. She must come to this world, Rebourn.

He walked towards her, his old hips and knees stiff with the cold of the wait. He cut her free from the ropes that bound her, throwing the bits out over the cliff’s edge as an offering to the River Queen so far below them.

He carried the woman, limp as rags, into the hut, where he had built her a soft bed of pine boughs covered over with the softest of deer skins that he possessed. He had set a clean set of robes on the ground before the bed earlier. He laid the woman on the bed, covering her in the skins, and then he left. He left a package of jerky atop her robes, along with a bladder of water leaning against them as well. That was the extent of his job. He walked away, returning to his own home, leaving the woman to recover on her own.

He was not close enough to hear the words that pulled Salia from her trance-like sleep: ‘My name,’ Salia rasped through torn shady lips, ‘is Asaytiadenia.’ Her eyes drifted open, revealing shimmering purple irises. ‘And I am Medico to my People.” The Old Man heard the howl of laughter, and then nothing more.

written by Raven TK

http://breakonthroughtotheotherside.wordpress.com/

by Anita Marie Moscoso

inspired by the Soul Food Cafe Alphabet Prompt

P for Procrustes

The “BED OF PROCRUSTES” or “PROCRUSTEAN BED” has become proverbial for arbitrarily - and perhaps ruthlessly - forcing someone or something to fit into an unnatural scheme or pattern.

Penny Ramsey grew up on a story about a body that was buried under the Oak Tree in her front yard. There was nothing remarkable about the tree; it was big and twisted and lost it’s leaves at about the same time every year.

One Spring when Penny was 12 had carved her name and her boyfriend’s name into one of the Gobbler Sawtooth’ s upper branches

Then when she was 16 she fell out of it trying to scrape their names off.

Given that was the most exciting thing that had happened anywhere near the Gobbler Sawtooth in years it