third time's the (not so) charm(ing)

Emptiness hinders hope.

Suffocates it.

Whiskey alone won’t release her.

So

with thick scars mutating her wrist,

she reaches for the bottle of pills,

slams them into her mouth.

Soon

 

she’d be free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Joyville { - Fiction - }

My life began with a funeral. I know it sounds kinda crazy but it’s true.

I grew up in Joyville, a small town where everybody knew everybody. Lemonade stands littered the sidewalks, kids scampered about till any remnants of the sun dissipated, buzzing from the swamp creatures miles away could be heard through the dead of night.

We were oh so joyful in Joyville. It even said so on the small dilapidated sign welcoming you to our town on Highway 1.

And when word spread that Miss Margery on Fourth Street was gonna have herself a third baby? Well, Joyville became even more joyous.

It had been years since a baby was born of Joyville parents and the fact that Miss Margery, mom to 8-year-old Timmy and 6-year-old Carol, was no spring chicken… well, it turned this baby into a celebrity of sorts!  

A huge shower was thrown in the Church’s basement where everyone in Joyville came to celebrate Miss Margery and her new baby. We even had us some pink lemonade, 7UP, and raspberry sherbert mixed up all together in a big punch bowl alongside lots of treats all the ladies brought, and played games to guess how many of them little squares of toilet paper it would take to get around Miss Margery’s big belly. (18 squares if you can believe it!)

But then just before Miss Margery was due to give birth, word spread in Joyville that something was wrong with the baby. It wasn’t moving so much and Miss Margery went to the big city’s hospital one day to get everything checked out.

Word was the baby was going to be retarded or something.

You could feel Joyville’s excitement deflate like a popped balloon. You could see it in everyone’s eyes when you walked to the corner store. Still, nothing would compare to what happened next when, just a week or so after her visit to the big city, Miss Margery and her husband drove back into the big city and came home empty-handed.

And empty-bellied.

The baby died inside Miss Margery.

She didn’t know it was dead till she delivered it.  A girl.  I guess the doctors told her it most likely died shortly after the last visit.

They took pictures of the dead baby they named Gracie, and displayed a picture in a silver frame at the funeral at the end of the week.

I didn’t think much of it at first—the funeral of a dead baby. I was sad, naturally, but I didn’t think the funeral would be a big deal.  

But then I saw the tiny coffin.

And I saw Miss Margery and her husband Jack holding onto each other as if they knew that if either of them let the other go, they’d crumble to the floor.

I saw Timmy and Carol sitting in the church pew, heads practically in their laps.

Everyone had tears in their eyes.

 

It was then that I knew I had to change things. I needed to start living my life because, as they say, life is short.

 

For some it’s shorter than others.

RIP sweet Gracie.

It's been a while since I've linked up with the Yeah Write Speakeasy folks. I've missed fiction. And while I had no intention of linking up with something so damn depressing... that's what happens sometimes, I guess.

bedtime by a 3 year old

I threw it on the ground and burst into tears. If she wants me to go to sleep without her laying with me then I would do all I could to make her mad so that I could start crying and tell her how sad she makes me feel and then she will hug me and try to shush away the crying. I just love when she hugs me. When she wraps me into her fluffy arms and boobs and tummy. I love when she’s nice and she’s nice most of the time but then she tells me to get into the bed and I just don’t want to. Not without her. And she won’t lay by me because the chart says I must stay in bed by myself. With my stuffed bear. So I thew the bear on the ground and burst into tears. I want her to lay with me. I want her to tell me stories. I want her to lay with me until I fall asleep. And if she won’t then I won’t let her go in peace.

“I want you to leave!” I shout, looking down at my bear and the sticker sheet lying beside it. I could stick those on my books and my dresser and my pajamas and mama’s pajamas and my hand and mama would look nice with one on her forehead and in her—

“Honey, it’s time for bed,” she coos.

“NO I DON’T WANNA. I WANT YOU TO LEAVE.”

“But what are you going to do if I leave?”

“NOTHING. I WILL DO NOTHING ON MY FLOOR!”

“Honey, it’s time for bed.”

“NO I DON’T WANNA GO TO BED. I WANNA DO NOTHING ON MY FLOOR!”

She shakes her head at me and turns off the closet light and turns off the light to the room and opens the door of my room and sits down on the floor in the doorway so that I can’t go in or out. Her back is to me. She won’t look at me. She won’t talk to me.  And now it’s my turn to cry.

“You make me sad,” I tell her.

“Honey,” she says, turning toward me and touching me. “It’s time for bed sweetie, and you tell me to leave you alone instead… Do you want me to hold you?”

“Yeah,” I sniffle. “And I need a tissue.”

“Ok, love. All you have to do is tell me you want me to hold you.”

She stands up. It’s still super dark.

“I want you to hold me.”

“Of course, love,” she giggles and scoops me into her arms.

She kisses me and kisses me and squeezes me into her and kisses me some more. She holds the back of my head with one hand as my butt sits in her other. She lays me down and tells me to get under the covers and then she lays next to me and tells me a story. And now me and my bear can finally go to sleep.

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

 

fiction (kinda sorta) for the yeahwrite speakeasy peeps.

 

 

thirsty { - FICTION - }

Who could that be at this hour?

Kyle’s head jerked and his eyes opened widely. His tingly legs were bent yet sprawled out on the floor. Cotton was jammed into his mouth. 

He heard it again and looked toward the knocking coming from the monstrous wooden door.  

Who could that be—

Kyle tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

Wait—

There wasn’t cotton in his mouth, he was just incredibly thirsty.

Where the fuck am I?

Kyle’s eyes darted around the dark room till they found a dim white streak of light crossing over the mouth of a bottle. With his hands pawing the moist wood floor, Kyle dragged himself toward the empty bottle which once held whiskey. He lifted the black labeled bottle and not a drop came from its mouth to satiate his own.

When the knocking occurred again, he dropped the bottle in his lap and looked at his surroundings more closely: cheap metal chairs in a semi-circle, a large desk heading the chairs with push pins crucifying paper onto a bulletin board hanging behind it, a deep wastebasket by the closed door which had someone standing on the other side trying to get in.

Kyle immediately knew where he was, but not why he was there—in the room in which he taught Ethical Theories. Yes, some might say he had a relationship with the bottle, but he wasn’t one to jeopardize his job like that. 

He slammed his eyes shut for a moment. 

When he opened them, a student stood before him. Jessica. Her sheer blouse draped open, the button and zipper on her jeans undone, her long dark hair clearly disrupted from its pristine norm. She wore the most devilish smirk he’d ever seen.

He slammed his eyes shut again. When he opened them, she was gone, but the knocking persevered. 

 “Open up Mr. Kemp,” Jessica whispered through the door.

****************************************************************

 

Today's piece is a result of a couple different prompts: two from the folks at the Yeah Write Speakeasy who've asked us to use the first sentence- "Who could that be at this hour?" -along with referencing an image of a bulletin board with push pins... and two from the folks at Trifecta who've asked us to use the third definition of the word Mouth and keep the piece between 33 and 333 words.

 

sure of it { - FICTION - }

The magic was all in the finishing touches. Ashley was sure of it, just as she was sure her 4-year-old daughter, Londyn, would go home with the Ultimate Grand Supreme Beauty Queen title. After all, they’d been working on enchanting judges at dinky county fair pageants for the past two years.

Not anymore though. Now they were on to far more bigger competitions which would lead to big time fortunes. Ashley was sure of it.

 “Uh, that’s not at all what I want,” Ashley spat at the pageants’ hair designer.

 “Ashley don’t you wowry, I can rock this,” Londyn said with a flip of her tiny manicured hand before sipping Mountain Dew through a straw.

“Oh Londyn, I have no doubt you can rock this, you can rock anything. But it’s not at all what I wanted!” Ashley snatched a piece of the blond hair extension the stylist weaved into Londyn’s hair. “This is too floppy. It’s gotta be fixed.”

“Yes ma’am, I’m doing what I can.”

“Well you need to do better than that. We gotta be perfect!” Ashley took the Mountain Dew from Londyn’s hand and finished what was left.

“MOM!”

“Oh hush, you’ve had enough.” Ashley fished around a large pink tote bag laying atop the bed in the hotel room they were in. “Now less get your flipper in.” 

With a small set of fake teeth in her right hand, Ashley pushed down on Londyn’s chin with her left.

“No Momma!”

“This is always such a bitch to get in,” Ashley mumbled, jamming the flipper into Londyn’s mouth. “Now lemme see that million dollar smile.”

Londyn grimaced, “It hurts.”

“Tough,” Ashley answered and turned her attention back to the top of her head and hair. “You need to get this higher and it better not move when she’s up there. We gotta be perfect!”

The magic was all in the finishing touches. Ashley was sure of it.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

This piece brought to you by too much Toddlers and Tiaras and the fine folks at the Yeah Write Speakeasy who've requested we use use of the following photo prompt and the first line, "The magic was all in the finishing touches." 

Also brought to you by the groovy peeps at Trifecta who've requested we use the third definition of a favorite word of mine:

BITCH (noun)

1: the female of the dog or some other carnivorous mammals
2 a : a lewd or immoral woman
b : a malicious, spiteful, or overbearing woman —sometimes used as a generalized term of abuse
3: something that is extremely difficult, objectionable, or unpleasant

 

Bubbles, Hot Wheels & Hard-ons { -FICTION- }

“Blowing bubbles in milk always feels good.”

 “Huh?”

 

“Blowing bubbles in milk always feels good,” Leroy repeated.

“How so? How does it feel good? That doesn’t even make sense. You’re not in the glass of milk to feel the bubbles being popped, so how does it feel good?”

Leroy lifted his head to look at me, eyebrows raised causing creases in his forehead. With the straw resting between his fingers of his left hand, he brushed away the couple strands of hair falling into his eyes with his right hand. “What the fuck crawled up your ass?”

Smiling, I answered, “Not you.”

“Fuck off,” he chortled, trying to stifle a smile.

Leroy dropped his gaze back toward his straw, his lips and mouth softly blowing air through the straw. Bubbles popped up inside the glass and danced over the rim.

We were sitting in my favorite breakfast restaurant on Clark Street, warm cinnamon rolls nestling onto tan plates parked before each of us. Using my hands I devoured one of my rolls while Leroy played with his chocolate milk like a four year old…

…blowing bubbles in drinks before being yelled at to stop… running around chasing one another before being sent into the basement to play… driving Hot Wheels on the carpet remnant in Gram’s basement.

Every Sunday was the same: Mom, Dad and I would pile into the rusty Ford and make our way over to Grams house where we’d meet up with my aunt, uncle, and two cousins, Victor and his little sister Darlene. We’d gather around the dining room table and eat and laugh before Victor, Darlene and I would crawl around under the table, trying not to get kicked as we tied uncle Vic’s shoe laces together. When Gram brought out dessert, we’d climb back into our seats and eat some more. That’s when we’d eventually get in trouble for blowing bubbles into our cups of milk or juice, and be sent to the basement to play till they told us to come back up.  

One time while playing with Hot Wheels on the huge carpet remnant with masking tape Victor used to mark off streets, I remember “driving” one of my cars toward Victor’s crotch with the knuckles of my driving hand purposely bumping into him to feel him get hard. Victor leaped from knees to feet pretty instantly…

“Ben!” Leroy tapped his fork onto my plate, while grabbing my feet with his. “You gonna finish that roll or what?”

“Oh you done pwaying wif your milk, big boy?”

 

 

 

 

the journal entries { - FICTION - }

You have exactly one hour.

That’s all I’m giving you. One fucking hour. Not one minute more, not one minute less.

One fucking hour away from him, away from her, away from everyone and everything.

If you don’t calm the fuck down in one fucking hour, you will drive yourself to the hospital and demand they do something… Like lock your ass up!

You’re a monster.

Out of fucking control monster.

They deserve so much more than you. They’ve never done anything to you but bring you joy and here you are freaking the fuck out on them time and time again. Because he dropped some fucking play-doh on the floor, because she didn’t want to eat the goddamn meatballs you took all of 60 seconds to nuke. You freak the fuck out on them. You know you’re doing it. You know you’re scaring them. Your voice gets so loud. Your face—dear god, I can only image the face I make when they fucking set me off!

You make them cry. You berate them. You torture their feelings, their thoughts, their innocence.

You fucking monster.

Deep breathing, stepping outside, food, listening to The Doors… nothing helps anymore. And you know you can’t drink because you have no control. So just go and get some help already. Send this to someone. Show Anthony this so he can see just how royally fucked up you are. But why hasn’t he done something by now? Other than warn me that I’d end up like this? That he could see little child under a table hiding from Mommy, telling him, “Mommy’s in the bathroom crying again!”? Why not get me some fucking help instead of mocking me. Fuck Anthony. Fuck the kids. Fuck you!!!

***

One week later:

My PMS is out of control. Clearly. I just got my period yesterday and just like that I can come here and be rational. I don’t need to spew such god-awful things. Look what I wrote up there. Look at it. Maybe I should just take this to someone. But who?

I could show Anthony but I can’t see him saying anything more than, “I told you so.”

Yes, he told me he worried for the safety of our children before we had them. Yes, he told me he worried about my anger.

But I was sure it would subside with kids. And it did at first but it’s just gotten so bad lately… this past year. So very bad. And scary.

I’m a completely different person when I’m PMSing. It’s not a fucking joke. I really need to get help- for them. They really do deserve a better Mommy than who I am most of every month.

Editor note: This piece is fiction but it comes from my reality with PMDD.

the night shift { - FICTION - }

You know, I don’t even remember his name- and I’m ok with that. I had desires that needed to be met and he met them. Wonderfully well. Actually, he exceeded them. How can I not remember his name then? Because it was a one-time thing and that’s what happens: You don’t talk much, you just fuck.

I enjoyed it so much I’m not sure what took me so long to go for it-- the one-night stand with a stranger.

I'd had a one-night stand before, of course, but I knew the guy. His name was Bruce and I lusted over him for quite some time before something happened. We were really good friends at work and he was going through a divorce. I wasn’t initially attracted to him, but time and alcohol in front of a bonfire happened, and that left me with a big smile on my face.

Until he told me two days later that it was a mistake and that he really just wanted to get back together with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. “But of course we could still be friends and hang at work.”

Oh boy was I crushed.

Until I started to dabble with online personal ads. After a couple months of flirting via email and instant messaging, I started meeting up with some guys. Soon, I discovered I was a hot commodity as they all seemed to want more than just sex. I wasn’t in a place for all the extra bullshit that comes along with more. I didn’t give a shit about their families or their past. I just wanted to get laid. And while that happened a couple of times, most wanted more and I began to pick up on it almost immediately.

The last guy I met up with from an online ad was pretty clear with his desires for a girlfriend as soon as we sat down at the bar, so after several strong drinks, I ditched him to go to the bathroom. When I came out, my eyes locked with this older guy standing at the end of the hallway of the bathrooms. As I turned to walk through the masses of people sweating and dancing to get back to my date at the bar, the older guy grabbed my arm.

Shocked, I turned to look at him and his mouth opened to say something, but the vibrating music ruled all. The force from his yank caught me off guard and I ended up nearly jumping on him as he said whatever he said before leaning in and breathing his warmth onto my neck.

I was absolute mush at that point and he knew it. He started kissing me and I kissed him back, tongues dancing with vigor. He put his hands around my waist and pulled me closer to him as he sat on a bar stool where I felt his hardness. I pushed away from him, grabbing his hand to follow me, and pressed our way through the crowds.

My fingers inside the waist of his paints pulling him toward me, I asked “Where’s your car?” as the cold, outside air smacked me in the face.

He smiled and I could see the wrinkles fold around his eyes. Then he led me to his car, and once sitting inside, we immediately started kissing again. I reached for his pants and he gripped my hand and said that we needed to get out of the parking lot we were in.

“Fine by me,” I said.

He drove to a desolate area near a strip mall and parked. We kissed some more before I unzipped his pants and went down on him. After a couple minutes he pulled me off him by my hair and asked if he could take me to a motel.

“Let’s go,” I answered. “I don’t normally do this kind of stuff but—“

He wasn’t listening.

“I don’t have condoms,” I lied.

“I do.”

He pulled into a motel and ran into the office. I sat there debating whether or not to get out of the car. I didn’t know the guy from Adam and he could’ve been some mass murderer or something. But I needed to get laid, so I took my chances. We got into the room and there was just a bed with a table. I don’t even think there was a TV but I suppose there must’ve been. All I know is he started peeling his clothes away, sat on the bed, told me to come toward him and lifted my shirt off. Then he took off my skirt and panties.

A couple hours later, still pitch black out, he said he had to go and asked where my car was. I told him it was at a McDonald's near the highway. We left the room and hopped in his car. He stopped outside the office and ran in to pay the bill while the clerk looked out at me. I knew what she was thinking because I was thinking it too, but I also didn’t give a fuck because for the first time in forever, I felt like a woman- cliché as that is.

He drove me to my car in silence and that was that.

I drove toward home and in the 45 minutes it took to get there, the sun was coming up. It was the perfect Saturday morning to stop off for fresh donuts for my husband and the kids.

Dispatching the overnight sure did have some perks.

 

Screwed { - Fiction - }

“I sealed my fate when I opened the door.” I lifted the glass to my mouth, allowing the crisp Reisling to wet my lips and linger in my mouth before continuing:  “How’s that for an oxymoron? Sealed… Opened? The story of my life!”

“You’re so fuckin dramatic,” Cassie said.

“Oh yeah, you’re right. I need to dial it back a notch. Getting engaged to a swinger isn’t something to be dramatic over.”

“You’re the one that said 'yes'.”

“Thanks for the support, Cass.”

“Look Taylor, you can still say 'no'.”

“I love him.”

“So who’s the moron now?” she said, tapping my foot with her toes to get me to look at her, whereupon she winked.

“Touche,” I smiled.

“Seriously, if you’re not comfortable with him being a fuckin swinger then stop seeing him. End the engagement.”

“I can’t.” I poured another glass of Reisling while Cassie waved her hand at me like we were at a blackjack table and she was staying put.

“You can do anything you want.”

“Cassie! It’s just not that cut and dry!”

We looked at each other and for the first time that evening, I noticed Cassie was wearing a red infinity scarf which immediately transported me back into the swingers club George took me to the week before where the theme seemed to be red, red, and more red.

“Anyway,” Cassie said, breaking the silence. “What happened? When you went inside?”

“I didn’t.”

“So what the hell are you talking about ‘you sealed your fate’?”

“I was talking about the dollhouse! When I opened the door to the dollhouse and saw the engagement ring!”

We both laughed and tossed back the remnants in our wine glasses.

“I have to admit,” Cassie said, picking up the wine bottle opener from the coffee table between us and fidgeting with it. “He scores points for creative proposals.”

“And he did say he wouldn’t go to anymore swingers’ clubs when we got married.”

Cassie shot a look at me and before she could speak, I quickly added, “I know it’s all a bunch of shit and this whole thing is just fucked up.”

“As long as you know,” she said.

“I need to end this.” Standing up and feeling a bit unsteady, I sashayed into the kitchen for another bottle of wine.

“Ya kinda do,” Cassie said, tossing the corkscrew opener onto the loveseat where I draped myself after opening the second bottle of Reilsing and pouring myself another glass of it. “If for nothing else, before your dad finds out he’s only five years younger than him.”

“Four,” I said.

“Huh?”

“He’s only four years younger.”

“Christ, Taylor,” she said, holding out her empty glass for a refill.

Bigger { - FICTION - }

I’m 12 years old.

I don’t know why that sticks out so much but it does.

I think it’s because I’m missing my granddaddy today a lot more than normal and he’d always tell me, each and every time I saw him, how easy it was to remember how old I was because I was born in the year 2000. And since it’s now 2012… well, you get the idea.

I think I miss him so much because I know he’d be able to help make me feel better. He always did. He always made me feel important. He always talked to me and asked questions and really listened to my answers. He was so strict, but he also had this amazingly big laugh that rumbled through the room. But it wasn’t a scary laugh. It was warm, inviting.

His hugs were amazing, too. And even though I’m a guy, I can admit that I loved hugging him. And I miss hugging him.

He just seemed to always know how I was feeling. And, he always seemed to care. Like, genuinely.

I miss him so much.

I bet he’d look across the table at my dad during a Sunday visit and give him a disapproving look to show him that what he’s doing isn’t right. Mom and dad aren’t even divorced yet and he let that lady move into the house. And with her stupid dog. She’s nice and all, but she’s not my mom. She seems to like me just fine, but it’s just not fair that she’s there and mom isn’t. It’s been like a month since I’ve last seen mom, too, and I just don’t understand why Marianne sees me every day but my own mom doesn’t.

I don’t even know when this all happened or why. I just know that I’m tired of it all. And angry.

I moved here when I was 3 years old so I don’t remember Florida. I only remember my life here. And I remember my granddaddy. He’s been gone now for half my life, but I still remember him. And I still miss him so very much.

I’m sure he would tell my dad that he’s an idiot for letting Marianne move in with us with Oscar. I bet he would’ve stopped it from happening.

He probably would’ve even stopped my mom from leaving us.

I don’t know…

If the first 12 years of my life have been like this, what’s going to happen the next 12?

Will there even be a next 12?

I miss my mom and my granddaddy. My mom’s at least still alive.

Granddaddy was right when he said “Bigger problems come with bigger people” when I would always tell him how I wanted to be bigger. Now that I'm finally bigger, I have bigger problems.

Life kind of sucks.

 

 

 

Above { - FICTION - }

“What the fuck do you want from me?!” Carly shrieked, her heart pounding harder and faster with every passing moment.

She could hear the ruffling of crunchy leaves being stomped upon behind her.

She knew she wasn’t alone, so Carly kept frantically running, looking behind her every so often, certain she would see someone… something. All she ever saw were a million trees, dying leaves, little gray sky, and no path—complete chaos disguised as nature. Carly ran faster, harder until she tripped over a big brown box. She stood up and took a step toward the box when her feet slipped from under her. Instantly her world went black save for a bit of white light coming from somewhere…

Above.

She looked up and realized she was underground, that the white light was from the sky above her. She fell into a hole in the ground and tried climbing out, slamming her feet into the black dirt around her and clawing in the blackness.

Every bit of her ached.

She just wanted to go back to the way things were when she and Troy were arguing over whether or not to move and start over. She wanted a change. She was desperate for a change, but this was not what she had in mind. She envisioned a small home on the outskirts of the city—close enough to the fabulous restaurants and shopping but far enough for some peace. She didn’t want to be near too many families anymore—that was her only requirement. Troy couldn’t wrap his head around this, insisting they would have a child one day.

“What if I never get pregnant again?”

“It’s only been a couple days,” Troy answered. “It will happen again. You’re gonna be a mom soon.”

“You don’t know that. Nobody does. I can’t go through that again!” Carly started sobbing and soon she hugged her knees into her chest.  “I can’t do it again.”

Troy moved closer to her on the couch and put his arm around her but nothing could comfort her. Nothing but sleep or her baby that was sucked out of her the week before.

 

Carly woke up with a wet face and damp pillow. She sat upright and looked around the room and realized she had another nightmare. The same one she’s had every so often since she was a teen. She put her hand to her belly and realized that only part of her nightmare was a dream, while the other part—the part about having to undergo surgery because of a missed miscarriage—was anything but a dream.

The next several weeks Carly spent all her energy into looking for a new place to live. The city apartment overlooking the city park where kids romped and gleefully played just wasn’t good for her anymore. She had to get away from it before it drove her crazy.

With a few places lined up to look at, Carly took a day off work to get out of the city. She knew Troy wasn’t interested in moving so she went without even telling him, knowing he’d be too busy with new clients to check in with her at work anyway.

When she got to the first place, she smiled when her eyes landed upon an A-frame nestled on a cul-de-sac. Kid friendly neighborhood, but no park too nearby to remind her of her loss on a daily basis. She walked in the home and felt at ease. The windows were large and inviting. The sweet scent of vanilla filled her nose. When she turned the corner of the foyer, panic started to rise from within as her eyes met a brown box sitting on small table against a beige wall connecting the living room and dining room.

The box looked like the one in her dreams.

Upon further investigation, she discovered it was an old record player, and her spirit lifted a little: Oh how she loved listening to those old 45s when she was a kid.

 

 

She tried looking around the record player at the rest of the small home, but her attention kept washing over the record player.

“Would you like to see the back?” the realtor asked.

Carly smiled, nodding.

He opened the back door leading to a small wooden deck and three steps down into a lush back yard fenced by an abundance of trees.

Mommy, a small voice whispered.

“Excuse me?” Carly said turning to the realtor who looked at her, raising his eyebrows.

“I didn’t say anything, but what do you think? Pretty nice, huh?” he said looking at the open yard and woods off in the distance.

“It is,” Carly replied, feeling as if she was being watched from the woods. “There’s nothing but trees back there?”

“Nope, not for like half a mile or so,” the realtor answered while looking at his phone. “I have to take this, please excuse me for a minute.”

The realtor stepped inside the house and Carly was sure she heard it again: Mommy.

She looked around and there was nobody. She looked into the house and saw and heard the realtor on the phone.

Carly took three steps down from the deck and looked more closely into the trees.

Mommy.

“Is someone there?” she called toward the trees before looking back at the realtor still talking on the phone in the kitchen.

Mommy, please.

Carly slowly walked toward the woods, leaves crunching with every step.  Just before reaching the woods, her feet slipped under and everything immediately went black save for a dim white light coming from somewhere…

Above.

 

 

 

 

 

 

the man in the coat { - FICTION - }

By the time I reached my mid-30s, I had a full head of white hair—getting my first silver strand on my 16^th birthday. Nobody else in my family had premature gray hair, but I’m pretty sure mine stems from the home I grew up in.

I was the only child to my parents who were amazing parents, but they were also older and a bit dismissive at times which I didn’t start to notice till I was around 10… around the time I first started seeing someone else in the house with us: a man in a long coat with a fedora. I noticed him when we’d be sitting in the kitchen at the oval table that sat in the center of the yellow room; I’d see someone walk across the dining room which was down the hallway from my seat at the table.

The first time I saw him, I couldn’t stop staring down the hallway and Mom and Pop asked what I was looking at. When I told them someone was in the other room, they looked at each other then back at me before insisting nobody else was home. When I saw him moments later, Pop got up to look in the other room and saw nothing.

“I think you’re watching too much Twilight Zone,” Mom chirped.

I kept seeing the man in the hat and coat walk across the dining room whenever I sat in the kitchen, and because he didn’t do anything more than that and because I didn’t want to stop watching The Twilight Zone, I stopped telling Mom and Pop about him. Maybe I was letting my imagination get the best of me.



Shortly after telling Mom and Pop about the man in the trench coat, someone was leaving the hot water run from the kitchen faucet. To my knowledge this only ever happened when I was alone in the house after school, but never when I was in the kitchen; I’d be in the bedroom or living room and go into the kitchen to see the water—always the hot water—running.
  
The first time this happened I thought maybe Mom or Pop left it on, or maybe even I left it on; but when it started happening more frequently and only when I was alone, I began to wonder if maybe it was the man in the trench coat trying to tell me something.

Or maybe I was just watching too much Twilight Zone.

The man and the water thing happened sporadically for a couple years and then when I was around 15, the phone calls started.

This was back in the 1970s so we had one of those old rotary dial phones that jutted out from the wall. It was olive green to go with the green accents in the yellow-tiled kitchen. The phone hung on the wall in the hallway that ran from the kitchen to the dining room. The same hallway that I would look down and see the man in the coat and hat walk across that nobody else ever noticed.

The phones back then were loud—both when dialing out and when ringing. I always knew when Pop was calling his Momma because of the swoosh from moving his finger through the number’s hole, followed by the clicks of the number being dialed. And when the phone rang, there was never a question what was ringing; our one and only phone was loud—especially at midnight.

Mom and Pop would go out dancing once a month on Saturday nights and the phone would ring, waking me out of a deep sleep. When it first started to happen, I answered quickly in case Mom or Pop was calling. But after being hung up on over and over again, I started leaving the phone off the hook after the first hang-up.

I tried not worrying about it too much, but after a couple months of the calls, it started to freak me out. I started leaving the phone off the hook the moment they left. I’d turn on lights in parts of the house nobody was in. I’d turn the TV loud and turn the radio on in one of the bedrooms. I’d yell down to my dad in the basement on occasion as I was sure someone was watching me and I was hoping that by pretending someone else was in the house, the watcher would leave.

The worst was the night I saw the man in the coat and fedora standing outside the front window.

He didn’t move. He just stood at the front window peering in.

I pretended Pop was in the basement and called out for him that the baseball game was almost over.

The man didn’t move.

I pretended I didn’t see him but I absolutely did.

I remember looking at the phone as I turned to yell for Pop and seeing it dangle from the box on the wall. I remember thinking that the man couldn’t call so now he was going to murder me after he stalked me through the window. I was going to die. I was certain of it.

And that’s when the phone rang.

The phone with its receiver dangling off its base.

It rang.

Loudly.

I screamed and covered my head and when nothing happened after a minute and I opened my wet eyes again, the man was gone… but the phone was still ringing while the damn receiver dangled from the base on the wall.


Mom and Pop stopped going out dancing Saturday nights after that unless I was spending the weekend with a cousin or something. I went away to college straight out of high school just to get the hell out of that house. Mom and Pop finally sold the house a couple years after I graduated college, got married and had my two babies whom I never question or dismiss if they claim to see or hear something strange.

the clubhouse { - FICTION - }

My sister Alice was supposed to be watching me after Daddy told us both to stay inside while he had to go to work that Saturday. But with no begging from me, Alice let me go out to play when her boyfriend came over. In fact, she pretty much ordered me out of the house. 

I walked down the street to my friend Cheryl’s house, but nobody was home. The other friend I had who lived close by, lived across a busy street I was absolutely not allowed to cross on my own, so I started walking back toward my house, wondering what I was going to do. That’s when I remembered the clubhouse in Mr. Brown’s backyard.

Mr. Brown lived between our house and Cheryl’s house. He lived alone and had few visitors, and even though he didn’t have any young kids or grandkids, he had a couple toys that attracted my eight-year-old eyes: a cool little clubhouse and a huge tire smack center of his backyard with sand.

Slowly I walked through the gangway toward the back of his house listening for sounds that might indicate he was home. Hearing nothing coming from in the house, I crept my way past the basement entrance to the house, past the stairs leading to the back porch, past the tire and clubhouse to the garage and peeked inside. When I didn’t see his big blue car, I figured the coast was clear to play in the plastic clubhouse. So I did.
 

I pretended the clubhouse was my own little restaurant and I was the cook, making meals for all the patrons. When I turned from one small side of the clubhouse to give my fancy pasta dish to one of the customers, I saw Mr. Brown leering in at me through the small window as he stood on the outside.

“Whatcha got there, Sophie?”

“Some spaghetti and meatballs,” I answered smiling at the fake bowl of food in my empty hands. “Nonna’s special recipe.” I held out my hands to Mr. Brown.

Mr. Brown chuckled and told me it was nice to see me playing in the clubhouse. He asked if I wanted any Coca-Cola to go along with the spaghetti, but I declined because even though I really loved soda, I knew I’d get in trouble for taking someone’s food or drink.

“Well, I’m gonna go inside so if you need anything, lemme know.” Mr. Brown stood up from crouching and made his way up the back steps into the back porch of his house, which looked identical to mine.

It wasn’t long after when I found myself standing at the bottom of the stairs leading to the enclosed back porch of Mr. Brown’s house. It really was identical to my house: ahead of me were the painted wooden steps leading to the screen door that opened up to another heavier door with a big window. Just like at our house. To the right of the wooden stairs going into the back porch, were a deep set of concrete steps leading down into the ground where a door to the basement went almost unnoticed. I wondered if his basement was like ours—full of boxes of Mommy’s stuff she had when she was alive; the washer and dryer and clothing line strung from one cement wall to another; Daddy’s tool area we weren’t allowed inside; and the play area of the basement where bikes, holiday boxes, and old furniture all resided.

“Did you change your mind about the cola?” Mr. Brown stood at the top of the wooden stairs holding the screen door open, peering down at me.

I looked past Mr. Brown toward my house and said, “I really need to use the bathroom.”

 

He held the door open for me and I walked past him into the porch before waiting for him to lead the way in. When we got inside the kitchen, I knew where the bathroom was because it was like I was in my own kitchen, but I let him show me anyway: right across from the door leading into the basement. And just like at our house, his basement door had a huge bolt as if to lock out monsters that lurked in the basement.

As I closed the bathroom door, I noticed the bolt on his basement door wasn’t latched like it always was at my house, and, at that exact moment, I was super glad to be in the bathroom so my pants didn’t get soiled.
 

It finally dawned on me what was happening… that I was in Mr. Brown’s house. Nobody knew I was even there. All Alice did was tell me to go play, she had no idea where I was. What if Daddy came home early? What if Mr. Brown was a killer? 

It was then that I decided that I would decline the soda I so desperately wanted because I figured he just wanted to kill me. I finished peeing, washed my hands, and cupped some water in my hands to drink. When I opened the bathroom door to get out, I noticed the basement door’s bolt was now locked.
 

“Thanks, but Alice and my dad are probably looking for me by now,” I lied, walking into the kitchen before leaving the house all together.
 

Mr. Brown wasn’t there.
 

“Mr. Brown?”
 

Silence.
 

I looked back toward the hallway leading to the rest of the house where the bathroom and entrance to the basement crossed. No Mr. Brown. I looked at the basement door and noticed the bolt was unlocked again.
 

I ran as fast as I could out of his house and home.

 

“Where the hell have you been?” asked Alice as she swung open the back door.
 

“I was playing in Mr. Brown’s clubhouse.”
 

“His what?!”

 

I turned my back to Alice and looked four houses down into Mr. Brown’s empty backyard.