Slow Fade

The sparkling magic faded to a dull sheen in the daylight. The light didn’t shine as bright in company of the sun. Some people thought the dark was a place to hide, but for her, all was clearer and truer at night. Her senses came alive when slightly deprived. In the full glare of day, her vision and hearing seemed to grow fuzzy. She couldn’t seem to grasp ideas as readily. But the night was hers.

She walked along a sidewalk lit by lanterns, as the town was celebrating its heritage and there were signs and ephemera from different centuries displayed. Music blared from shop speakers and from musicians in darkened clubs. Flashes from cameras flickered alongside flashes from fireworks from the square a few blocks away. The air was heavy, humid. The quarter moon had a sweaty haze circling it. She didn’t want to stop walking, not noticing her face growing slick with perspiration. She had met her responsibilities with hesitation but finished quickly to arrive at her real destination.

She drew close to an edge of town not as well-kept as the touristy section. Overgrown flora abounded as she remembered the pond was on the other side of the tree line. Making her way, carefully picking amongst weeds and shrubs and flowers at rest, she finally came to the pond’s edge. She found a spot of moss near a tree and sat and waited.

She wondered how people could be afraid of the dark. Sometimes what you could see was far less scary than what festered in the imagination. She sat and watched dark ripples on the pond. She heard frogs, crickets. Then a rustling. A light shuffling from beyond the reeds and emerged a few yards away, a vision in white. The swan reached its neck toward the stars, stretched out its wings. As she watched, she thought the bird would span the whole pond with its wings, but its reach was not quite so wide. But it did touch her somewhere deep inside as it had every time she had spent time in the presence of this bird.

When the bird folded and opened its wings again, she felt the wind brush off the wings and caress her, embrace her. The dark eyes seemed to look at the stars and she wondered not for the first time at the intelligence of this animal. A few months ago she would have thought anthropomorphism was silly. Now it seemed a surreal possibility. She just couldn’t explain the appearance of this swan in her thoughts when she had her accident, how it haunted her dreams at the hospital, and then how she felt led to this pond that seemed hidden away and neglected. She had questioned everything in her life after the accident, wondering at things that used to be so important and how they all fell away when it really counted. What was left was memories of dreams. She did not want to fondly think of her dreams if she made it to her dotage; she wanted to remember reaching and touching the stars. But she hadn’t known where to start.

Until that night she walked interminably and found this pond. And saw the swan.

She had sat with her toes in the water, singing a song from childhood when she had the idea for a painting. She could see the piece in its entirety. She hadn’t even drawn since her life had gotten busy. Why think of a silly hobby now? She was comfortable, ducks in a row and all. Though she did dream of rich colors and soulful songs. But they had no place in her life. Did they?

She had started taking a different way home, stopping to hear music at the bar, especially Thursday nights, when the horn player echoed the song from her dreams. She bought some oils and some canvas, started puttering in the mornings… and then after work… and then in the evenings… she felt restless and ended up at the pond frequently hoping for another glimpse of white. A few weeks after first spying the bird, she was sitting staring into the inky depths of the pond when a quick flash frightened her. As she looked up, the swan circled her and flew around the trees and seemed to be on its way to the heavens when it plummeted and headed straight for her. She stood, bracing for impact and not believing it when it came.

Shooting stars, meteor showers, fireworks. They all seemed to surround her. Her head throbbed. Her heart beat a quick staccato. She blinked and the swan was gone but for a rustle of leaves and a white feather floating to the ground. All was quiet, clear. She felt like she had put on glasses and could see everything better. She not only heard the crickets, but seemed to understand their language. She couldn’t be sure how long she stayed at the pond, but she saw the early colors of dawn streaking across the sky.

She often returned to the pond, hoping to see the swan, but to no avail. She was prolific with her paintings and felt a bottomless supply of inspiration had been awakened within her. Her days were short and her nights were long, just as she liked.

One night, when she was about to leave the pond, she stood still at the sound of a familiar rustling. She slowly sat at the edge and dipped her toes in the water. Before her, the swan emerged from the reeds, its wings opening. She reached her arms wide and they both stopped and looked at one another. Wings and arms folding back down, she and the majestic bird gazed at each other, neither blinking. It swam towards her, gliding so beautifully on the water, tears came to her eyes. She had represented graceful lines in her paintings, but nothing came close to the real thing. The swan came to rest at the edge of the pond, right in front of her. It reached its long neck forward and brushed the side of her face. Then it looked at her. She reached and touched its wings. There were no sparks or speech. But there was something ephemeral.

And she would take it with her and spend the rest of her days trying to paint it.

June 24, 2013 0

Dirty Jazz

In the slim lines of long shadows he walked, hearing his own heel-toe echo off the pavement. He put his hands in his trouser pockets, slowing his pace slightly. He breathed deeply after a bus had passed, belching hot gusts of diesel exhaust into the night air. The street-lamps flickered slightly. His shadow turned menacing for a moment then back to its sloping gait. There were no stars to be seen in the heavy night air. The gloom had the taste of bourbon and magnolia. He walked without much thought. Only wanting his rooms. His bed. Some quiet place where feeling alone was not so glaring.

The thought of the small dingy room did not elevate his mood so he turned at the next corner, pushing the door open to the dark club that always had dirty jazz emanating from within. He did not hesitate but sat at the farthest, darkest end of the bar. He stared at the amber liquid in his glass, wishing it did not look so much like the blood he had just washed from his hands earlier.

Swirling the drink around did not help erase the visual of writhing in blood on the floor. So he tossed back the vile drink quickly and enjoyed the burn as it went down. He wondered how long it would take for this body to be found. The last two had not yet been discovered. He was getting better at his job. He knew statistically, his time was limited. It was not a moral issue, but a game of numbers. Only so many untraceable weapons, so many contracts, so many dump sites. Then he would have to move on. Again. Another city. A different dark corner of a bar. Another dingy room to lay his head.

The saxophone wailed like the dying man. The light tap on the snare echoed his sluggish heartbeat. The piano player brushed his fingers playing a melody sounding of heartache and moonlight. Disgusted, he pushed away from the bar but stopped at the sight of a couple dancing. He lit a cigarette as he watched. They moved too slowly for the
music. His hands were low on her back;
hers twined around his neck. They did not speak. Their dusky skin blended together as one moving animal. There was no envy; he did not want for company. But it had been too long since he’d felt any softness or comfort. You couldn’t be a cold killer and need soft comfort. Too jarring for any sensibilities.

He walked out into the sultry night, feeling more than hearing his footsteps. He turned into an alley, looking for reprieve from the light. He wasn’t worried about running into a thug. He was dressed in a suit but he was the bad element. People would be afraid of him if they knew the dark that he harbored.

He felt himself relax in the grimy alley. The concrete walls were sweating. He stepped around overturned garbage cans. Feral cats fought nearby. As he neared his motel, the skies opened and it began to rain. When he got to his room, he left the light off and sat in the one chair he had. He enjoyed the sound of the rain. It would clean the alleys and streets, at least for one night.

June 22, 2013 0

Horror Story Published

Cruentus Libri Press has included one of my stories in a new anthology – ‘Another 100 Horrors’ – released today! 100 authors wrote 100 stories, each consisting of a mere 100 words. Looking forward to reading “100 tales of bleak and pitiless horror, penned by writers from all across the globe. Each story takes but a minute to read, but the memory of them will haunt your dreams forever.”

Sounds good to me!

Check it out here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1489514279

June 14, 2013 0

Story Published

Issue #11 Memories

“This issue is full of memories- some cherished, others reminiscent with a giggle and some remembered for its fearful relief. Whatever may have been the memory, we wanted to share, all 15 of them.”

Take a moment away from your incessant net surfing and read a few stories, including mine, here.

http://www.original-writer.com/currentissuefiction.html#.UbTP8PmTiSo

June 9, 2013 0

Exit Stage Right

She sat on the hard chair on the stage squinting to see beyond the stage lights. There was a man speaking to the assemblage. Was it an audience? A tribunal? She knew it would be her turn to speak soon, but as she had just arrived in this body, she had no idea what she would say. The girl who used to live here felt like an imposter, now Janet WAS an imposter.

The old man, thankfully, droned on and on, reveling in the sound of his own monotone basso voice. He was quoting poets and entrepreneurs as if joining the two in a sentence wasn’t supposed to be jarring. She tried listening but after he butchered a quote from Keats, she tuned him right the hell out. Hearing a muffled chuckle, she realized she wasn’t alone waiting on stage. A young man sat next to her, head down, hand up to his chin, partially covering his mouth. Yes. He was laughing. She looked at him with eyebrows up. He looked back and whispered to her, “If you can keep your wits about you while all others are losing theirs, the world will be yours.” She looked at him questioningly. “That’s what he was trying to say. He said ‘friends.’ Maybe he hasn’t any.” She barely knew what he was saying, but she liked the twinkle in his eye and smiled anyway.

She wondered how much longer before she had to take center stage. The floodlights shined like interrogation lamps back at her. As if reading her thoughts, the man next to her leaned a little and said softly, “I think we’re gonna be here a long while.” While he smiled, she felt herself relax just a fraction. She looked around, hoping for a clue or a sign as to where she was. There were a lot of young faces in the crowd. A school perhaps? The room was not shaped like a typical auditorium. Maybe a theater. There were thick red curtains. If only she could run behind them and have some time to figure out She looked at her clothes and then at the man next to her. They both wore some sort of black corsets with fishnet stockings. Wait. That’s what she wore. He wore a dark suit with a red plaid bow tie. What the hell was this?

“Janet? Are you OK?” the man next to her asked.
“I don’t know,” she honestly said. “I… I’m not feeling like myself.”
“You look pale. Let’s get you some fresh air.”
“But we can’t just leave, can we?”

He took her hand and led her behind the curtain stage right. Somewhere in her cluttered memory she knew of an adage about bad luck and exiting stage right and saying something Scottish, but it was all a jumble. She tried to just focus on breathing normally when she realized he was still holding her hand. She struggled with what to say.

“Thank you. I think I’m all right now. I just need…”
What did she need? Someone to tell her who she was? Where she was? Why she was wearing a corset and was about to speak to a theater full of young people?

“It’s OK,” he said very softly. He led her to a dressing room nearby and they sat on soft chairs somewhat covered by discarded clothing and fabric. It was quieter and darker and she could breathe. Especially with him still holding her hand. She wasn’t sure what would happen if he let go.

“You’re a Warper right?”
“What?”
He smiled. “You have a small red tattoo behind your right ear that looks like lips. I can tell you’ve done the Time Warp. I have too. I’m Brad.”
Flickering images suddenly behind her eyelids. Fishnets, lipstick, stars, music. She HAD done the Time Warp. And she wanted to do it again. But not alone. Not anymore.
“Can we Warp together” she asked.
“Oh, my yes,” he said pulling her into a warm embrace. “I’ve waited a long time for you and I’m not letting you go. Let’s dance.”
And they went back out on stage, hopping and grinning.