Magpie Tales #20...Amy's Anniversary

  
      Amy would have been twenty today, she thought miserably. Twenty years that she would have spent laughing and living.
     She picked up the brush. The end was a little melted from the radiator, and the bristles were droopy with age. A hair was entwined around it, and for a moment she thought it was Amy's. Then she remembered. She had never seen Amy's hair.
     How could she pretend that Amy had never existed, when it was as clear as day she was being haunted by her ghost? She cradled the brush. It was supposed to be Amy's, she knew that.
     "Are you thinking about It?" Her husband said as he came up behind her.
     She flinched. She shook her head slightly and put down the brush.
     "Her name was Amy."
     He had gone into the other room. She looked sadly at the ceramic beneath the brush. The raised surface showed a lily surrounded by vines. A green stone in the middle had been chipped out roughly.
     Twenty years of marriage, and four children. And all she could think about was Amy.
     "Amy would have wanted to be here," she muttered.
     "What?" her husband asked from the other room. The TV almost drowned his voice out.
     "Her sister's wedding. She would have wanted to be here."
     "Just forget about It."
     "I can't just forget!"
     "I have. It's been twenty years, for God's sake."
     She wiped her eyes. "It was all your fault."
     "It was your parents' idea."
     "How could you let them - or me...why would you do something like that?" She was crying now.
     "She's gone. Think about your other children for once. How do you think it makes them feel to know that you care so much about someone they've never known, when you won't even return their phone calls?"
     "But I do! I care about them!" She sobbed hysterically.
     "I know," he sighed. "But they don't. You can never bring Amy back, no matter how much you try."
     "Amy is my best friend."
     She head the couch groan as he rose. He put his arms around her.
     "She can still be your friend. But she will never hold a conversation with you, or hug you, or tell you she loves you. She can't, but the others can. Let them be your children."
     "Okay," she said softly. She slipped out from his arms.
     She put the brush back into the wooden box. She stretched on her toes to slide it carefully onto the highest shelf. A collection of cobwebs and dust bunnies fell on her jumper. She sneezed involuntarily.
     He went back to the TV. He wasn't a bad husband, he had been as devastated as she was. He kept himself frozen to Amy by forgetting she had ever had a name.
     Amy's birthday always made the grief surface. She would sit for hours in the bedroom, then finally get the box down. Tenderly take the contents out, and sit looking out at the garden. Then she would get angry at him.
     He was angry with himself, for what he had done twenty years ago. Her parents were buried down the street, but she never visited their graves. He left flowers every Sunday, because he knew how they had felt. If it had been any of his daughters, he would have done the same.
     She came out of the bedroom and got her coat. He got up to drive her to Amy's grave.
     They sat on Amy's bench watching the sun set.
   
     She returned the phone calls and bought a new dress for the wedding.


Thinking of twentieth anniversaries, as this is the twentieth Magpie. Traditional flower; lily.The traditional gem; an emerald. The traditional gift is ceramic/china. It symbolizes the beautiful, elegant, and delicate existence of love for one another over the past years.

Magpie Tales #19...Knife's Story

He notices the blade is nicked as he runs his finger along it. Softly, slowly, so he doesn't get cut. It surprises him. This knife is his now, but before him it belonged to others, who were careful and would not have nicked it so carelessly.
He doesn't know its story, but the knife screams it to him. He cannot hear it.

Beechwood tells of green leaves blocking the sun. Dappled shadows across roots. Of axes and grunts, teetering, falling, thumping with a bounce. A fishtail, large calloused hands moved with care along it, smoothing it. Burning, leaving a rust coloured scar.
Steel tells of dark caves and chisels, booming explosions. Of melting pots and dripping like molasses. Being held against a stone while sparks flew. Fitting carefully to the beech.
Knife calls to beechmast, opened for bitter flavour, still food. It calls to oak and maple, and sycamore, carved and left on the mantle. It calls to the land of fir trees where it was born.
It longs for John the Baptist's fingers, slender and strong. It screams to stone and blood, where coffins rest forever. It shouts of death and pain, and graves. Where a woman died and a man sat with her. It screams of granite and scratches, and iron. Iron that dripped from it down the gravestone, and rusted when it was dry.
Knife reaches for missing piece. Evergreens have grown up around it where graves are unmarked and forgotten. It calls iron from arteries, bubbling up to the surface. Its pores soak up rust-coloured liquid.

He winces as the nick in the knife snags on his flesh. Blood dribbles down the blade, following the track of the past. He doesn't notice.

Magpie Tales #18...King George VI, 12 May 1937

George the VI would have curled his lips
disgusted at the petty toys made for the 12 of May
logos and dates, and maybe his name, but that's all
cheap things that crack and chip the next day

But for one, made on the last turn of the wheel
faulted slightly, too slightly to tell. It made it stronger
the man who bought it needed a jug, that's all
because he needed it, he kept it safe longer

Cracked by age, no soft hand, weathered by time
spiderweb cracks along  the crown almost invisible,
gossamer threads of age. George could not have asked
for a better reminder of his reign to be visible
seventy-three years after he took the stage.

Magpie Tales #17...Angel at Heart

she is what
a frozen desert cannot weather
no icy winds can touch her
no whipping sand can smooth her
even years buried cannot mark her
time slips between stone and metal
and even birds avoid her
her lifeless eyes open wide in surprise
mouth agape to catch the ashes of a cigarette
when men lent to light it and stayed
watching her, expecting something
but what, from a cold bust?
something more than shock,
recognition...and a blink
to moisten dead eyes that can see now
I see it now why she looks the way she does
ecstatic and afraid, on the verge of flight and staying put
to see far beyond her gaze, to see the End
she sees it, and she fears it, but she wants it
to be no longer an immovable immortal...statue
but to be
an angel
at last

Magpie Tales #16...Pinch-Toe Shoes

Yes I know, I missed it!
Today is Wednesday, and sadly the deadline for Magpie Tales is Tuesday. Despite my aforementioned excuse, I really should have posted. The thing is, I didn't find the prompt very...inspiring. No insult to willow or the shoes.
But now I am free of my academic chains for a whole three months, I shall get down to the very strict business of writing.
Ah yes, that forgotten word.
I have never missed a Magpie yet (I count it among one of my greater accomplishments considering my acutely tiny attention span). I don't count a day late as missing it, as long as it gets posted at all, so I will try something.

hairy as a yeti, stocky as a hobbit
big foot, left foot, they don't even stock it!
your feet are so big they don't fit in the car
your shoes are so enormous, leather shouldn't stretch that far!
but with a pair of teensy heels, you can be the fool
squeezing swollen ankles into pig trotter lumps
you think you look cool
Here's the sad truth, it's untrue you look nice
your red cheeks make your arms look like boiled rice
you look like a lobster three days dead in the sun
you can't even walk, let alone run
you totter and titter at your helpless state
no one can help you, they'd collapse with the weight
your support yourself on your umbrella with stains
it's so crushed outwards it can't stop the rain
you waddle and wallop people aside
never even changing your stride
it's a fact of life people get in your way
they would, when you eat the whole buffet
When your put on your pinch-toe shoes,
I can't help but giggle and watch you lose
what's left of your dignity, (not much to start)
your fat is in layers right down to your heart
some hearts are frozen, waiting to be thawed
but your heart is stuffed with acres of straw
if you were a scarecrow, you'd feed forty cows
not to mention three donkeys, four hens, and ten sows
you are funny to watch, but thrice super-sized
means you are a walking hamburger waiting to die
when you go, it won't be without a fight
on your way down you'll suffocate twenty knights
all the king's men and his horses too
can't even begin to consider moving you
they'd slip a disc or rupture their spine
or whatever happens when you try to roll a giant swine
you'd lie there and rot, the birds would pick you clean
there'd be a giant graveyard where you and the knights had been
and on the ground at the tip of your knee
they'd find a pair of little shoes under the cheery tree
they'd figure out that you had died of skeletal overdrive,
if not for the shoes, you'd still be alive.
it just goes to show
they don't make them in your size for a reason, you know!

Magpie Tales #15...Brass Fish

brass fish can't flap
can't fight for breath
amalgamated flesh and zinc
copper gills and fins

but still cruelty follows
where fish are slaughtered

even brass laid out in moulds
has blood stains and scales
and scales can not weigh life
or death, even brass fish
deserve to be free

Magpie Tales #14...What the Willow Wills

She finished spooning dirt over the last plate. They were all there now, beneath the willow. Where they belonged. Of course Mother wouldn't think so, would she?
Here she came now. Assume innocent look.
'What are you up to, Claire?'
'Nothing.' Great. Now she was sure to suspect something. But she seemed distracted.
'Have you seen your sister? She was going to play tea with her dollies, and I'm missing my Blue Willow plates. You don't think she'd have taken them, do you?'
'No Mum. We all know they're off bounds.' She managed to turn away subtly, feeling her cheeks flame up.
'Not exactly, Claire, just until you're older. They need to be kept safe. Have you seen her? I'm a little worried...Those plates - they're dangerous.'
Claire felt a knot of fear in her belly.
'Why are they dangerous Mum?' She asked quickly.
'Never you mind. Oh! I do think I see your sister.'
As her mother hurried off, Claire looked down at the ground. The dirt wasn't even disturbed. Funny. She distinctly remembered piles of earth, like moles had been digging a palace.
She shrugged and ran off after her mother.

***

As Claire woke, she heard her mother talking quietly.
'She says she didn't take them. She seems to be telling the truth. Why wouldn't she? No, no. Claire would never. It just has to be Sue. The plates are beautiful, she must have wanted to use them for her tea party, and forgot she took them. You could be right. I don't think she'd be that afraid to tell me though.'
Who was her mother talking to? Claire hadn't heard the other voice. It didn't seem like it could have been her father.
Claire hurriedly shut her eyes as her mother came into the room.
She gently shook her awake.
'Claire. Claire, I need to talk to you.'
Claire swallowed.
'Did you take the plates? Please Claire, it's very important.'
Claire wanted to say yes, she couldn't bear the desperation in her mother's eyes. She shook her head.
Her mother sighed.

***

Claire wiped her eyes as she stared at the willow. It was dead.

Her mother was emerging from the doorway when she saw the tree. She put her hand to her mouth and sank to the ground.

Claire wanted to run to her, but something made her stay where she was.

Her mother reached out a hand to Claire. 

Claire turned away, afraid of what she would see in her mother's face when she realised she wasn't going to help her.

When she turned back, her mother was slumped against the door-frame. Claire walked slowly toward her; her legs felt like dead wood, straining to move faster.

When she reached her mother, she let out a sigh of relief. Her mother was looking at her. When she held out a hand to help her up, her mother didn't take it. Her eyes were glassy. She was dead.

Claire shrieked. Her sister came running from the house. She took everything in in one glance and burst into tears.

Their father built the coffin from the willow tree, and they buried her where it had stood.

When he dug the spade into the earth, they heard a clink. The set of blue willow was there, much deeper than Claire had buried them.

One plate was missing. Claire found a shard of it by the grave the next day. It showed two birds in flight, above a tree.

****

A magnificent willow tree grew over her grandmother's grave. Alice sat beneath it every day. 

Today she felt odd, but she couldn't place why. She had never liked the set of Blue Willow plates, but she wanted to hold them. She could bury them! Wouldn't that be fun? Mum had said "off limits," but surely she wouldn't mind that much would she?

When she held them, she felt sudden urge to run to the shed, take a shovel, and bury them as fast as she could. She held one up before she buried it. It was marked on the back. It said Claire. She turned another over. Alice.

She jumped and dropped it. Her mother had said they were hundreds of years old - that's why she couldn't touch them - but it had her name on it.

Alice watched it as it fell, like the world was holding it's breath. It hit a root and cracked. Alice gasped, she had felt a pain near her heart, like when she had broken her wrist, but much worse.

It rolled down the hill. Alice couldn't move, she was rooted like a tree, watching it spin away. It hit and rock and flew into the air. Alice felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as it landed and shattered. The world spun, and she felt exhausted. She closed her eyes.

***

'Alice?'

She thought she could hear her mother faintly. She wrenched her eyes open. Her mother was standing over her. She was clutching a Blue Willow plate to her chest. It had been glued together, but the cracks still showed. And a shard was missing.

'Alice, I was afraid - ' she sobbed into her arm. 'I thought - " She reached out and hugged Alice to her.

Alice wrinkled her nose. It smelt here, and there was an annoying hum behind her.

'You're in hospital darling,' her mother said, recognising her confusion. 'Alice, I know you're tired, but I must ask you - Where is the other shard? Do you know?'

Alice blinked. Did she? She remembered looking at the plates, then seeing hers fall and roll. She shook her head. 

'Sorry,' she whispered.

'Oh darling, it's okay.' She sniffed violently.

'It rolled, by a rock. Then...' Then she couldn't remember.

'I'll find it, don't worry Alice.'

Alice nodded and closed her eyes. She was tired.

***

Claire dug into the earth with her hands. There wasn't a rock within yards of the tree. She had remembered her mother's death, and the shard she found afterwards. And the other plates, buried in the ground.

She couldn't find the missing piece. She cursed the willow. If she hadn't buried the plates that first time, her mother wouldn't be dead, but Alice might be.

She ran to the shed and grabbed an axe.

She roared at the willow as she swung it into the trunk. The tree creaked. She hacked at it again and again, until it fell. Then she chopped it. It was hard work, and her axe must be dulling. When she ran her finger across it, she bled. It was still sharp.

Claire didn't rest until the willow lay around her in sawdust and wood-chips. She hadn't noticed, but it had gotten dark.

The moon cast blue light over the scene. Claire laughed as she saw a shard of Blue Willow embedded in the trunk. It fit Alice's plate perfectly.

****

Alice searched the boxes for the set of Blue Willow. Her mother must have kept them somewhere. Funny though, she hadn't mentioned them in her will. Come to think of it, Alice hadn't seen them since she had returned from hospital all those years ago.

She shrugged. Who cared about some plates anyway, when she had a beautiful daughter and a lovely husband?

Alice laughed at herself a little bit as she walked toward the car, passing beneath the majestic oak tree that had grown up over her grandmother's grave.

She ran to the shed quickly. She suddenly felt the urge to bury that set of ceramic bowls.

One said Alice on the bottom.

Magpie Tales #13...His Glass Eyes

My father flicked his paintbrush across the round glass. This eye was a startling blue, staring back at him.
The eyes scared me, because they looked real. When I opened the drawer to show customers the selection, the eyes gazed up at me, sliding side to side and clinking.
My father was working on a commission for twenty-four eyes. The customer, who wanted to remain anonymous, sent servants and maids to give orders and collect eyes.
Sometimes when my father was out, I would take out an eye or two and play marbles with them. They rolled across the floor like slime, pupils fixated on the wall.
I had picked up my paintbrush and was painting an eye for the taxidermist, my father didn't trust me with human eyes yet.
A policeman burst through the door.
'On the floor,' he cried, though he had no gun. My father complied at once, but I carefully put down the eye I was painting then moved towards the policeman.
He stepped back.
'Son, I'm arresting your father. If you have any relatives in the city, you should call them.'
'What are you arresting him for?' My father was no criminal.
'Accomplice to murder.'
I stood rigid, astonished. My father had said nothing.
'Why?' I couldn't help mumbling meekly.
'The Cyclops Killer Murders.'
He took pity on me and went on.
'Ten people found dead, their eyes carved out with a sharpened spoon. And a glass eye dug into their forehead.' He smiled in satisfaction as I involuntarily shuddered. I didn't need him to tell me the Cyclops Killer was our client. But my father had nothing to do with it. I knew it.
'Father? You're not guilty! Tell him, tell him,' I shouted.
He looked at me. 'I'm sorry m'boy. It was all for you. You needed money, an education. You couldn't grow up making glass eyes.'
'But -'
'It was Ryan. He promised to pay me. I picked out the mark, that's all.'
The policeman took him away.
I smashed the drawer against the wall.
'Stupid eyes, this is all your fault,' I screamed.
They just gazed up at me, rolling haphazardly across the floor, as they had always done.

Magpie Tales #12...Flesh and Bone

screaming in silence,
skin flayed from bone
raw meat beneath,
but red-blooded
severed limbs die
with no blood supply
tips of digits turning
ivory and rubbery
vinegar-preserved hands
bleed inside glass
scratching at the orb
round and round
calling for lightning,
thunder,
to free them.
But they are captive
in a bubble of time
a single bubble
that caught them and a fish
in death as they rose,
hands open for freedom
wishing but captive,
hands and a fish.

Magpie Tales #11...Thrush-in-Tree

Gnarled roots like fingers grip
an ebony cane with a silver tip
Leaves drape shadows over wood
Carved like stone where angels stood

Darkness like a veil encloses
empty soil where once bloomed roses
Under tree trunk thick and strong
a desolate thrush cries out in song

'Come back, come back my love,
thou art as pretty as the stars above.'
Alas for he, love is unrequited
But he knows not, so is truly delighted

He finds below his perch in tree
a silvered cane from she to he
he realises little and not enough
This gift 'tis not but useless fluff

He is not a thieving bird,
nor can she sing single word
they can look and pass a glance
but for anything else there is not a chance

So thrush sings on, sings on,
and magpie wings on, wings on,
never to meet, never to speak
totally dissimilar except for their similar beaks

And somewhere someone will hear with glee
The ballad of the thrush-in-tree
They'll pause not once from their quiet stroll
knowing their cane lies safe in sheltered knoll

Magpie Tales

Magpie Tales #10...Around the World in 60 Seconds

Stop. Go.
The horses are off with a leap
He cheers with the rest
one eye on the timepiece
Around the world in sixty seconds
the horses pant
sweat rains off their backs
They round the pole
no time to slow
'Faster, faster!' he murmurs
They pick up speed
the home stretch now
In a thundering drum roll
they cascade to the finish
he breathes a sigh
59 seconds
He pats the horses gently
they foam at the mouth
Sunshine and Starlight led them
Tidal followed Moonshine
They dragged the carriage of the heavens
once around the world
circumnavigated Earth in 60 seconds
and he is proud of them.

Magpie Tales #9...A Little Piece of Hope

I picked up the lipstick. It was unused and the marbled exterior looked like a lighter. She'd smoked, but it wasn't that had got her in the end.
Brown wasn't her colour, she was a red kind of girl. Statements and standing out, that was her mantra. Feathers and red, and white white skin, like ivory but not as cold and morbid. Furs too, she was a furs person. Real fur, ermine and fox, bushy and expensive.
And convertibles. She loved them. She had a little car - a Volkswagen? It was blue anyways, sky blue. The seats were torn but she had flower covers for them.
She would cruise down the road, roof down and cigarette loose in her hand, red lips pursed and pale skin gleaming. She stopped at a petrol station just to look at herself in the mirror in the toilet, cause the car didn't have one. It wasn't really a vain thing, more making sure she still existed.
I opened the lipstick. It smelled funny, a bit like leather and cigarettes. It smelled musty too, and dry. Wow, it really was brown.
She never was a brown person, but now that I looked at it, I could sort of see why she kept it. It looked like leather, the interior of the car that fit the life she dreamed of. A little piece of hope in a small package, to look at whenever she felt down.
She killed herself.
No easy way to say it, I don't think she would have wanted a big fuss. She just drove her little blue car off the edge of a cliff. They said it was an accident, that her brakes might have failed. After all, the car was old. They didn't fail, she just didn't use them.
She told me she had been saving to leave her job and husband, both dead-end. She even told me where the money was. I couldn't follow her, I was working.
Then I went and collected the money, and, just as she wanted, didn't spend a cent of it on her funeral.
I bought a car, new and shiny and leather. And I got feathers and wrapped them around the mirror, so she could she herself real nice. And a real fur seat cover for the passenger seat, cause that's where she sits. And a white napkin, with a kiss on it, red lipstick, just like she used to wear.
I drove the car to the edge of the cliff where she died. I released the brake and let it roll forward.
And then I braked. I spun around and sped out of there. Up the coast to a new life, with her little piece of hope in my pocket, her brown lipstick.

Magpie Tales #8...Phoenix

The essence of a phoenix
if it could be captured
would be captured in an egg

A delicate shell on the outer
a beating heart within
A hooked beak to emerge
milky translucent skin

From the ashes of a life comes a life
From the kin of kin comes kin
An animal dies and decays
The phoenix comes from within

Here rise the phoenix! Rise til the end of days!
Death brings you, life takes you,
He works in mysterious ways

A house burns down,
stone scorches, people might die
from the ashes emerges a phoenix
who will navigate the sky

No use! No use man! To catch it is to err!
The phoenix lives! It dies!
It is an answered prayer

It carries the soul of the dead one
to the heavenly clouds above
A fleeting glance, a second's worth
And you have missed its flight of love

Like the Saviour on the cross,
the phoenix brings hope, (and, through strife,)
the forgiveness of sins
by rising from death to new life

This poem was inspired by the picture on the egg, and by the idea of the egg itself (and because it's Easter, the story of the Resurrection)

Magpie Tales #7...Fox

The daffodils hang their heads, bowing to the ground. The early morning air is crisp and damp.
I pad toward them, sniffing here and there. My bushy, amber tail is suspended just above the dewdrops.
Crack!
I jump as I hear a loud noise. I lope into a hedge to hide.
After a few moments, I emerge; first my nose, then one paw - two paws - cautiously coming out.
I sniff again at the grass. I place one paw in front of the other carefully onto the ground, not disturbing the spiders' webs in the grass.
Bang!
I feel a pain in my side. I turn. My side is dark and sticky, gushing red blood. I try to lick at it, soothe it, clean it. The daffodils bend back from where they were hunched by the rush of air.
I falter, my legs weakening. They don't support me. Traitors. I collapse on the ground.
I try to yelp as I feel a presence, a shadow over me. All I can mange is a sickly gurgle. A trickle of blood escapes my lips.
He looks down into my eyes.
I look up at his; small and squinty, blue like ice, that stare indifferently down at me. His thoughts are unreadable.
I blink. The twin darkness of identical barrels on a shotgun press down in the air above my face.
Bang!
I feel a flash, searing my eyes. I close them against it and the pain. But now it stops hurting. I lie still.

The hunter kicks my body with a large dirtied boot, then picks it up by the feet and flings it over his shoulder.
The daffodils, straightening in the sunlight, are cheery yellow. Their false happiness is only marred by the spatter on each of their smiling heads; a faint pattern of death.

Magpie Tales #6...Helen and Rose

The nails have spilled again. Helen feels her feet shrinking away from them as she navigates the floor. Their sharp points rise threateningly. She reaches down and picks one up. His hammer is lying on the bench, the picture frame on the ground, glass shattered. She picks it up tenderly. The picture is still in the frame. She arranges it against the wall.

There is a nail there already, bent in on itself where a stray blow has ruined the perfection. She tugs it out with the claw of the hammer. It falls into her palm and she deposits it in her pocket. She swings back the hammer and taps a new nail into the wall. One is enough.

Helen stretches on tiptoes, leaning over the bench to hang the picture. She steps back to admire it. There is a small stain on the faux gold frame. She rubs at it. It flakes a little, but the ornate surface is pitted with nooks.

She lopes into the house and returns with a moist cloth. She dabs at the stain. It is almost gone now. She looks at the white cloth, now discoloured with red. She starts to cry.

*****

'It was the drinking,' Rose says. 'His hand slipped. I never thought a picture frame would be heavy enough.'

'No.'

Helen's monosyllabic answer doesn't seem to deter her best friend. She hooks an arm around her shoulder. 'It was a small cut, not much blood. He was drunk anyway. It wasn't anything you did, you know,' Rose glances at her for affirmation.

'I know.'

As Rose steers her back to the car, Helen can't help a last look at the grave. It is covered in white flowers. As she watches, a red stain seeps among them, just like the blood that pooled around his head.

She pictures his face as he missed the nail, turning toward her slightly angry, not denying anything. Her hands tremble as she remembers the frame clutched in them. Holding it high, slamming it down. It falling and the glass shattering. The vodka bottle she recycled, the smell of bleach after she cleaned the floor.

Rose glances toward the grave when she notices Helen crying again. She looks at the sea of white flowers. She smiles slightly as she remembers the man who said he loved her. Now no one will know about their affair.

*****

The next day Helen and Rose have coffee in the little cafe by the square. Helen sombrely slides an envelope across the table.
Rose opens it and her eyes widen. She touches her wedding ring briefly and opens her purse.

**************************************
Next week I will try to defer from the recent horror/murder theme.

Magpie Tales #4...The House

Life goes on around it, for it lies on a busy road, where cars rush past from early morning to late evening. But in the house, life has not been present for decades. Even mice and rodents no longer frequent its quiet hallway and still rooms.
Outside, it is a house of grey stone again. It had been painted a creamy white by the commission of a housewife. The window frames are covered in chipping paint, a cheery yellow. You get the sense that the window frames were painted by some other hand, perhaps that of a daughter.
Once there were window boxes on each window, now only one is left in solitary confinement, sagging to the left, supported by a single long nail. In it a cluster of brown weeds wilts.
The glass in the windows is but jagged shards that were broken for sport by schoolboys. In the lower window, lace curtains hang to the floor. Today a gust of wind has lifted them out the pane-less window. There they hang, thrust out as a bride thrusts off her veil, awaiting a new life of homemaking and promises of love and happiness. But perhaps the curtains were thrown out the window not in hope, but to cleanse them of their dirt and grime, the life they led, the things they saw.
A sagging staircase leads upstairs. There are three rooms; two bedrooms and a bathroom. One bedroom is windowless, its door faces the bathroom. Wallpaper drapes the floor in peeling strips. Yellow ducks swim in a faded sea of blue. In the middle of the room, a collapsed heap of boards lies evidence to some place of rest. The boards look like railings.
In the next bedroom, there is no bed, only a pile of musty blankets in the corner, heaped as though torn from a mattress. Beneath them are scorch marks, a hole in the floor. Above them the ceiling is black, the walls are gray; a trail made by a finger shows it to be soot.
In the opposite corner, a sewing machine rests on a collapsed table. A spool of thread leads across the floor in looping patterns. Red thread, dusty like everything else.
Next to the sewing table, there is a wooden dress dummy. Its shapely curves show that it was a woman's. It is headless, and it arms hang slackly by its sides. One wooden hand is on the floor. Its screws are not rusted, but the wood is dusty. One finger of the hand points listlessly toward the blankets, the others are limp and lifeless.
The dress dummy wears the remains of something lacy. The work is sloppy, the threads unravelling.
You look at the blankets again. Then something else is visible. Piled in the corner are empty bottles of alcohol. Beer, vodka, whiskey. Now you can smell it on the air, wafting close like the stale breath of a drunkard.
In the bathroom, a bottle of pills has spilled onto the floor. They have rolled out in a convex from the bottle. Next to them there is a creased photo of three people. A man holds a smiling woman close. She cradles a laughing baby. They are all blond.
Rewind to the entrance. The yard is knee-deep in weeds. They are brown, dying. Behind the house, just out of sight, there is a garden shed. In the shed, a bloody hatchet rests on the table. An empty can sits next to it, the scent of petrol lying heavily in the air. A box of matches is teetering on the edge of the table. It too is empty. On the wall there is a shovel. It has clumps of dried dirt stuck to the blade. In one of the clumps a single human hair is embedded. It is blond.
Behind the shed there is an unnatural mound of earth.
It is the only place in the yard that has flowers.

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

I was experimenting with telling a story just by setting a scene...I think it turned out pretty good (I did digress a bit, using the second person).
Also, both of us posted a Magpie Tales this week, so don't forget to check them both out! (if MM posts hers on time that is...still doubtful)

Magpie Tales #4

The essence of the jungle
preserved in one small being.
The trees are gone, the desert come,
the people there are fleeing.
But to the man who holds it
it is but a small prize
a little jungle carving,
that trumpets to the sky.
He cannot see the blood and pain and fear
the cutting of the jungle,
the arid desert of tears.
The little elephant that trumpets
reaching for the sky,
used to be a lumbering beast
but then it went and died.
That's how he'll think about the lie.
He doesn't care that the little elephant
only wants the sky.

Magpie Tales #3...Five

A golden ray of sunlight drips from the clouds and flows over the calm sea. Macy stops walking and looks at it.
It dribbles over the petite waves and spreads across the bay. Macy smiles. She won't wait for it to disappear. She starts walking again.
Every so often, she glances over her shoulder. Sometimes it is a nervous glance, as though she is afraid of a follower. Sometimes it is a curious glance, as though she senses footfalls at the edge of her hearing but cannot see their source. Mostly she looks at the ray of sun.
The sun is still above the oppressive clouds, but this single ray, which spreads at its base to a pool of light, slices through their grey cotton wool.
Macy stops again. The ray is persistent. Every time she turns, expecting to see it gone, she sees it shining strongly onto the water. Even as she whips around, as she has begun to do instead of just turning, she knows it will be there. Its warmth on her back is unmistakeable.
She continues. It's just ahead, the place where she is going. She can see it.
Macy reaches into her pocket. She fingers a cold metal object then takes it out gingerly. She dials a number.
The phone doesn't ring, the automated voice doesn't say 'your call cannot be placed as your phone does not have reception here.' In fact, nothing at all happens. Macy doesn't notice at first, she's used to him not picking up.
Finally, she looks at her phone in disgust, realising that it is not ringing. She dials in the number again, making sure she gets it right. Even though he is deleted from her contacts, she still knows the number by heart. She presses in the eight, the nine, the threes, and the two, but the five isn't working. She presses the five button with all her strength. She sighs in frustration as her nail snaps.
Macy slides the phone closed. She sits down on a rock. She can't go ahead with it, not if he doesn't know. He will pay for what he did, and he will feel guilty for the rest of his life.
She tries again. The five still doesn't work.
In a burst of anger she flings the phone. It sails over the rock and bounces on the grass. It disappears over the edge of a precipice.
She rises and goes over to look. She stays away from the edge. She can just see crashing surf and rocks far below.
After another five minutes, when her back starts to hurt from the rock and the significance of losing her phone has sunk in, she stands again. The ray of sun is still shining.
She sighs and reaches into her pocket. She takes out five weights. She puts them on the rock.
Macy turns away. She starts walking. There is a new spring in her step and her back is no longer hunched in some resignation. She swings around once, and smiles in satisfaction at the weights glittering dangerously in the sun.
She twirls in a circle. She laughs out loud as she realises that she can't remember his number.
Behind her retreating back, the weights slowly darken as the ray of sunlight disappears behind the clouds. Macy doesn't even notice.

Magpie Tales #2...The Perfect Match

She holds the match vertical, and waits for the flame to die out. When the last glint of light has disappeared, she throws the charred stick into the cold fireplace.
With a sharp flick of her wrist, she lights another match and draws it close to her face.
The soft yellow light makes her dark eyes gleam. She smiles, not in a friendly way, and tilts the match to its side.
The flame flickers out.
The small room is plunged into darkness again.
The soft scuttle of vermin starts, momentarily paused by the hypnotizing flame.
She wrinkles her nose. The smell of damp penetrates everything.
She leans against the crumbling wall. This isn't her house, she just crawled in for the night. Truth be told though, it isn't any better here than outside. Outside are the stars and the moon, the smell of open space, and the warmth left by the scorching sun after its departure.
But by night all manner of things descend on the quiet countryside. Creatures that fill the clear, rainless dark with whispers that seem to come from all directions and howls that stretch to the moon and back.
She lights another match.
The empty fireplace seems like an abyss that she could fall into without warning.
She hunches against the farthest wall.
The spark of another match casts her shadow, ebony black and towering, toward the small doorway.
She lets it burn down to her fingers, then tosses it to the ground.
There might have been a candle in the first room, but it is too late to go out there now. The night has cloaked the house with a gossamer veil, and she is safe only in this room.

Outside, a wolf creeps close to the house. It presses its snout against a dirt-encrusted window. A small glow is visible for second, then it disappears. The wolf waits. Soon a bright flash abrades its eyes and then the comforting glow returns.
The wolf crosses to the front door. It is battered wood, and has a simple latch on the inside. The wolf rises onto its hind legs and scratches at the door.
From the surrounding forest, a chorus of howls heralds his action. The door collapses inward and the wolf traipses confidently inside.

She fumbles for another match. With a sinking heart she realises that this is the last one. She positions her hands close to the match box, ready to strike the final match.

The wolf sniffs the rotting floorboards. His paws pick his next move before his mind registers it.

She stiffens, listening to the soft breathing of the wolf, and the click of its nails against the floor as it approaches.

The wolf continues, its head held high, no longer needing to sniff the ground to determine its path.

She freezes as the wolf peers around the door frame. She brings the match close to the box and closes her eyes.

The wolf shrinks back as a bright flash lights up the room.

She opens her eyes. The wolf is sitting just inside the room, its gaze intent on the match. She looks down at it. The flame is still large, but the matchstick isn't burning. She opens her mouth in amazement.

The wolf lies down, its head resting on its paws, eyes still captivated by the flame.

She holds her finger over the flame, and jumps back as it is burned. Carefully she places the match into the fireplace.
Instantly a fire fills it, the abyss now a welcoming blaze.

The fire lights up the room. It is not as dirty and in such ill repair as she thought it was. The wolf is no dangerous hellhound but a shaggy sheep dog.

She picks up the match box to throw it in the fire, but pauses.

The match box is full again.

She sets it back onto the mantel, in the same position as she found it earlier that afternoon. She will move on in the morning, and sometime in the future, someone else in need will find the house and the matches.

She smiles at the thought.

Magpie Tales #1...The Pewter Creamer

Martha liked to pretend it had once poured honey, like in those ads for some perfume or other, where the Greek goddess was dripping with it.
Honey keeps almost forever, she knew. Once it was found in an Egyptian tomb...still edible. It must be because of the bees.
Her bees, now, they were something of another world. Martha was a careful bee-keeper, but she did not believe in wearing a veil or bee-keeping suit when she visited them.
When she first saw them, when she was only five, she had come home covered in stings.
Her father had shouted at her, but she could not tell if it was out of worry for her or concern for the bees. Maybe he thought she had let them loose?
That was the final straw, when her mother finally decided that it was enough.
Strange, she thought, her mother would hate it if she knew Martha had picked up bee-keeping just where her father had left off.
He had died three years ago, twenty-two years after her mother had been put in that place. He had been stung three thousand times. She knew, she had counted every sting. No one knew he had died, just her.
She buried him near the bees.
Every day she visited the bees, taking careful count of the dead ones. It seemed that they died so often. She knew that there were now exactly two thousand nine hundred seventy-five bees in the hives.
She supposed when she was ready to die that they would send her on her way just as they had her father.
It was a fair exchange. The bees had kept her father alive far too long. She was already seventy-seven, and he had been over one hundred when he died.
Every day at three o'clock she took three tablespoons of the bees' honey, carefully stored in a glass jar over the fireplace. She put it into the pewter creamer and then warmed it slowly over the fire, just as her father had taught her. Then a splash of milk, carefully calculated, but unmeasured. Lastly, a pinch of cinnamon.
She drank it in exactly two and a half minutes, no longer, no sooner.
Then she took a nap for two hours.
She couldn't say she felt a day over thirty, maybe even younger.
The ritual puzzled her though. Was it the simple preparation or the honey itself that gave her this energy?
She decided to test it.
After all, one day without the miracle mixture could hardly kill her, could it?
She prepared the mixture as usual, but instead used honey purchased from the store. She drank it, and went to take her nap.
Three minutes after she had fallen asleep she was woken by a buzzing.
This was not an unusual sound to her, for she visited the bees every day. Yet she knew something was wrong. She never woke from her nap until exactly two hours after it had begun.
Martha sat up in bed. It was dark.
Her window was open, a cool breeze teased the curtains.
She stood up.
She sank back down again. Her knees felt weak and her head was spinning. She rose more slowly this time, holding on to the headboard.
She inched closer to the window. She couldn't see, but she blamed the darkness. She reached out toward the wall.
Her hand connected with a living being.
Martha screamed.
The wall was coated in bees. She rubbed her hand against her night gown but yanked it back again. It too was covered in the buzzing, writhing mass of bees.
She reached for her face. She tried to pry her eyes open. It was then she realised that her whole body was covered in bees.
She ran into the sitting room, her knees almost giving way. She stepped toward the fireplace, only to have her bare foot connect with a carpet of bees.
Martha screamed again. This time she knew it was hopeless.
She tried to find the fire poker, she had left the fire to die down, it was probably still hot. Her foot felt as though it had been thrown into a furnace.
The floor was covered in hot coals.
Martha stopped moving.
She stood shaking in the middle of the room.
She could hear the bees buzzing.
Was this how her father had died?
She reached out for anything to fight them with.
Her hand touched the cool pewter of the creamer.
She swung it in the air, hearing the swoosh as it flew. Then a small ding. She had hit a bee!
She swung it again with renewed vigour, rejoicing in the soft *pings*.
Martha opened her eyes. All around her the ground was littered with dead bees.
She collected them all. There were only two thousand nine hundred seventy-five, not the huge overwhelming army she had pictured.
She lit a fire and threw them into it.
Martha inhaled the sickly smell of the burning bees.
When they were all gone, she carefully filled the pewter creamer with the bees' ashes.

***

The next day, Martha's niece found her body near the bee hives. There were exactly two thousand nine hundred seventy-five stings covering her body. Martha's niece buried her there, next to the hives.
Then she went inside and took a drink.
It was three o'clock.
She poured three tablespoons of the bees' honey into the pewter creamer and then warmed it slowly over the fire, just as Martha had taught her. Then she added splash of milk and a pinch of cinnamon.
She drank it in exactly two and a half minutes, no longer, no sooner.
Then she took a nap for two hours.
When she woke up, she thought to herself that her grandmother would have been very angry if she knew that she was following in Martha's footsteps.
Then she went out and visited the bees.

***

Note: I have absolutely no idea where this story came from! First of all, I was going to write about the origin of the pewter creamer, not a story where it just features. Secondly, I never write horror stories (I must admit, I frightened myself a bit on this one). Thirdly, where did the bee-keeping idea come from????

I changed the picture a bit from the one willow provided for Magpie Tales. (BTW, I am #45).

After one read through, I have realised that unintentionally I have made the pewter creamer the most important aspect of the story! It is the thing that kept Martha's father alive! And it is why the bees returned (resurrected) and were able to kill Martha! I cannot believe my subconscious mind did that.

The variety in posts abut the creamer is endless! Some are funny, some are poetic, some are funny and poetic. Some are sort of tragic and some haven't been posted yet. I look forward to reading the rest of them.