“As her mount shifted uneasily under her, she grasped the brim of her old felt Stetson, gazed upwards and remembered Jean Pierre.”
The musty old cologne he layered on every morning just before giving her breakfast. The snide words and hateful banter as she chowed the almost pre-digested slurry he cooked up in the guise of charity.
Right after this daily ritual, the radios came on. All 6 of them. Tuned to all the police channels and one specially for the local crime station. No tv though, he always said it disturbed his chi. The rest of her days with him passed staring at the steel silhouette of the Iron Lady of Paris and the millions of night lights, knowing her home was one of them.
As they said our good nights, she would hear the rattle of the door chains and the frustrated clicks on all the windows. Jean never slept with the windows open. Every click, every night one more away from her family. So close yet so far.
The morning of 4th September, 2061 started with a single click. Teargas flooded the apartment and safety came in the guise of chaos.
6months in the grasp of her kidnapper, an obsessed and closet sociopath.
This was as he said in defense. It was his way of keeping her safe, the next day was supposed to be her day and she would have been saved from this dirty world.
One more day was all remained in his perfect plan to keep Marie safe forever in the afterlife.
Inspired by Mondays Finish the Story – Sept. 7th, 2015
The cemetery spread along the area known as Devils Abode.” 14 acres of past glory, it’s derelict low walls and ornate gate bearing patches of what could pass for paint.
My legs were roaming the little streets of the dead at 3am. White washed little doorways left and right. I took this out of madness, now I’m here this really is madness.
To earn what has been forgotten, go to the forgotten and ask. I knew the shaman meant the cemetery but would this really cure me.
Sit as a Buddha at an empty doorway, knock like the dead. My fainting heart, took a dive when I finally settled in an empty grave, maybe the shaman was the real deal. Huge beads of sweat slowly gathered where my heart should have been as I sat cross legged in the grave.
Offer what the dead can’t get and it will be yours. Breathing in the fresh earth, the moons cold rays reach in as though waiting for me to knock on the door of the dead. I was deep into this, more than 6feet deep judging by the musty smell of marshland the cemetery stood on. I’m supposed to hold the charm head high and chant some words. Raising my hands high, the charm glistened oddly, one hand searched for the scrap of enchantment.
When you knock, fear not for fear feeds the shadows. Closing my eyes, my chant seemed to echo emptiness. The wind raised its howl, my heart faltered, my hands shook and I clenched my eyelids shut. I could sense my hands, warm and shaking and I wasn’t shivering any were else.
Inspired by Mondays Finish The Story: 31st August 2015
“Where did they go?” Up and out was little Jack’s reply.
The cherry haired kid had no damn idea what Up and Out really meant. His face splitting grin so fraught with innocence. In our little Mojave community, the sudden downturn of business left families under. It was often you hear Up and Out, sometimes couples did it other times alone. The nearby verdant lush hills were the perfect backdrop.
His endless chatter hummed in my ears, bright kid the only child. One day his innocence will be broken. Will he hate us or understand that we cared enough to lie.Sudden he stopped and asked me eyes, up and wide searching for any sign.
‘When are they coming back?’
Every child of Up and Out asked and I gave the same answer.
‘When they make enough money Jack.’
Turning his little back to me, it slumps just a little, he knew they were never coming back.
A little whisper clues me into his horror.
‘How do you wake up from suicide, aunty?’
Inspired by Mondays Finish the Story – August 10th, 2015
“The team employed the use of Nightshade to get the information they wanted from their captive.” the message was half truth at best, uncovering even more grey shades of the growing nightmare that was The Silver killer.
The victims from all areas of the city, living different lives the only thread connecting them was their death and the Sliver of Hair borne on their pale necks. A very fancy message of the hangman’s noose.
The evening of June 18th stated with lady luck throwing me a tasty nibblet. Our famed killer might be on the prowl tonight. The whispered tale, far fetched and unlikely but it was something worth my troubles tonight. Looking at the lengthening shadows on the train from Scotland Yard, the prickles on my back as I walked the quiet street adding even more truth to my slippery info.
Sweaty, sticky perfumed air hung like old drapes over the bar. Not a large crowd but enough to have decent background chatter to a beautiful songstress. She was indeed pretty, probably looking to make it big in London.
As I nursed a new drink while she stepped backstage, I surveyed the little club.
My skin prickled. Needing fresh air I took my cracked glass outside. It was a full moon but the clouds weren’t going to allow the light have its way.
Soon a little shaft of moon light broke through and I saw a lithe figure running the roofs. The moon drenched silver hair waving in the wind burned an acid taste into my mouth.
The beautiful songstress was my new Jane Doe.
Inspired by Mondays Finish the Story – August 3rd, 2015
Photo – © 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
“Delphine always wanted to pilot her father’s plane and when he forgot his keys on her tenth birthday, she knew that taking off would be easy.” she had practiced this day all year round, memorizing how he did everything. Sneaking from home was easy, everyone gone to get things for the party that was to hold on the runway.
Continue reading “Birthday Flight”
Dry crackles of brown sand echo with his footsteps. Out here on the Aplerilia plains people don’t go wondering around at night excerpt it’s life and death.
It was definitely the other.
Continue reading “A Thousand Panes”
Zeus was not having a good day and he made sure everyone knew it. Gaea’s betrayal and conspiracy with Hera will not go unpunished. Firstly he would let her feel his hate from the heavens. Dawn approaches with storm clouds gathering, Gaea rises from a tortured dream awaiting the refreshing rain to cleanse her mind.
Clear still drops fell, slowly.
Screams rent the air as a torrent of clear sticky drops gushed from the heavens. Her desired rain turned to a flood of clear spittle.
The only words on her scarlet twisted lips. A game so foul, conspiring with Poseidon to taint the rain with hateful slimy drops. Deceptive thunder rolled in the distance, careful taunts Gaea understood. She retreats to the underground springs to be freed of Zeus hate rain.
Revenge the only focus as she descends to the dark realms. A cold whisper of words travel through the void straight into Hades waiting ears. A grim torn smile lights the darkness at her plan.
Written for Mondays Finish The Story: 8th June 2015. Click the link to see other great entries.
Photo courtesy Barbara W. Beacham © 2015
“What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”
That’s what on the weathered concrete plaque in front of Col. Steele’s statue. His memorable words, leading the military coup to victory in 1805. The start of an era of accountability in government, sown with seeds of lies. Standing for truth, while hiding the white tangles of deception.
The memorial’s young guide ushering the group unto the next artefact noticed me mumbling to the stature. At the next point he doubled back to stand right by me.
My shocked look gets a response. Pointing to my shirt tag “It says Abigail, its a nice name”. Shifting his darkening gaze upward to the mounted statue. “What he did made us better, in so many ways but why so many lies. Destroying to rebuild from ashes. He destroyed his family. My Family. Tearing apart with his words as easily as he blinded his nation with crimson salvation.”
My mouth agape for lack of words as he left my side to shepherd the tourists round what i now know to be his grandfather’s memorial.
‘Are you laughing at me Sybil?’ Megan’s high pitched voiced sounded strained and so did her sky blue eyes.
‘Now why would you think such?’ said Sybil.
‘Because I know you twitch your nose when you do?’ you were. I hate you? Her tears slapped me inside as she turned to run.
‘Megan stop you’ll slip, MEGAN STOP’ she didn’t stop, she was too angry.
A piercing cry rent the air drowning out the shattering of glass.
“The only residents remaining in the small town of Miners Hill are spirits.” To be frank the only thing that could live there are spirits.
Abigail’s words hours earlier echoed in my ears as I stared across the ridge from the bedroom window of the old town lodge. The hill was shrouded by an un-permeating fog, even though it was high noon.
The chill refused to go as I recalled the tragedy of Miners Hill. A mine blast gone wrong on a bright Saturday morning cracked open fissures underneath the town swallowing whole sections of earth. The dust had settled by dusk but the eery silence persisted, scaring even the toughest men. An unusually foggy night ensued in the area and by noon the next day the hill was still shrouded and remains so till today.
Inspired by Mondays Finish The Story: 25th May 2015
Image credit: © 2015, Barbara W. Beacham