Shadows crept across the wall. They blinked in an out of existence as the cops moved around,  the harsh light emanating from the flashing beacons on their cars. Disgust, anger, and weariness mingled in the air; another kid, in a string of kids, one for each day of the week, now. Detective Issen squatted down next to the remains of the body. Her flashlight scoured the area, noting details as she went along. She was in professional mode. Although sickened by what lay before her, she had a job to do.

The mental notes ticked off in her head as her partner wrote his down: girl, obvious from the lack of clothing; young, maybe ten, maybe eleven;  filthy blonde hair, matted; deep slashes across her legs and arms, going in opposite symmetrical directions; chest decorated with five deep looking punctures, too round to be a knife, pretty much equidistant from each other; right pinky missing; face, enough damage to swell the nose, mouth and eyes, making it hard to determine what the girl looked like, before.

She closed her eyes, standing, focusing on the patterns from all the bodies.

She heard the shot that sent her reeling.

everything faded…

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Writers’ Platform-Building Campaign

Rachael Harrie of Rach Writes has been running the Writers’ Platform-Building Campaign for a bit now; this is my first attempt at one of her prompts. I’m not sure, yet, if I’m too late to join in on this, but…I took a shot at the one posted for today.

There will be a number of other writers joining in; links to their entries can be found on Rachel’s blog page. Please visit the other writers blogs and leave them a comment.

The Rules:

Write a short story/flash fiction story in 200 words or less, excluding the title. It can be in any format, including a poem. Begin the story with the words, “Shadows crept across the wall”. These five words will be included in the word count.

If you want to give yourself an added challenge (optional), do one or more of these:

• end the story with the words: “everything faded.” (also included in the word count)

• include the word “orange” in the story

• write in the same genre you normally write

• make your story 200 words exactly!

Complete rule and regulations can be found on Rach Writes

In case anyone was wondering, I used three of the “added” challenges: the ending prompt, normal genre for me (thriller), and it’s exactly 200 words (not counting the title). There was a photo prompt we could have used: I decided not to use it this time around.

Something comes at night
Holding breath; no creaks, no sound
Covers drawn up tight
The moon peers in my window:
It, illuminated so

Saying: “You Are Mine!
From this night forward, believe
We are meant to be.
To the underbelly, fly
Nothing wicked to deny.”

Covers off, so tossed
A soft sprinkling of dust
Anticipation…
My mattress far below me
A smile lights up my being.

Out the window, soar
Swoop and laugh forever more
Reach the stars above
Quick! The morning sun comes fast
What is left behind?

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Author’s Note:

From Wikipedia:

Tanka consists of five units (often treated as separate lines when Romanized or translated) usually with the following pattern of onji:

5-7-5-7-7.

The 5-7-5 is called the kami-no-ku (“upper phrase”), and the 7-7 is called the shimo-no-ku (“lower phrase”). Tanka is a much older form of Japanese poetry than haiku.

About 1300 years old (I’ve seen 1200 too, so..why quibble), A Tanka has been hitting the poetry rounds lately.

This is my first Tanka, and I based it on a well loved story (see the tags if you don’t see what I was playing with).

ADDENDUM:

This is what cosmic synchronicity is about: I got, on Friday morning (the day after I wrote this), an email from The Purple Treehouse that their poetry prompt to express a different poetic form,  this week  to write a “WAKA” for you to think within 5-7-5-7-7 syllables and let your love know, how much you love…  or, one of its’ forms:

Chōka consists of 5-7 Japanese sound units phrases repeated at least twice, and concludes with a 5-7-7 ending.

The Tanka, as described above, which allowed a bit more expression

“There are still other forms of waka. In ancient times its moraic form was not fixed – it could vary from the standard 5 and 7 to also 3, 4, 6, longer than 7 morae part in a waka. Besides that, there were many other forms like Bussokusekika, Sedōka, Katauta etc.” (copied from The Purple Treehouse)

So, now I’m linking this piece up to their site and poetry blog hop. Please click on The Purple Treehouse link and take a look at the other poets expressing this poetic form. I Hope you like it.

Over at BornStoryteller (my non-fiction blog) today, I am taking part in the Origins Blogfest. My tale of “when did your writing dream begin?” can be found if you click HERE: Origins of Creativity in Writing.  There are close to 200 writers participating, so I hope you have a chance to check some of them out (click on the logo or link above to find the Linky List).

As to why I chose to join this Blogfest…(1) someone very special to me suggested it and (2) I do like Origin stories, real or fantasy. I’m going to take this a step further and play with some origin stories this week. Not sure how many I’ll generate, but…

Origins: Entitled

The silver spoon that Richard P. Robinson was born with was entrenched deeply in his maw. The verdict, mostly paid for, was in his favor. Acquitted of any maleficence, he walked out of the courtroom, free of any consequence of the murder of the prostitute, Helen Jewett. A broad smile marked his 19 year old face as he sauntered out of the court house, his roommate, Tew, by his side.

Mrs. Rosina Townsend, the madam who found Helen’s smoldering body, room ablaze, roared out of the building behind Richard. He turned to face her, grin locked in place, as her heard her protestations of his guilt. Her slap in his face was empowered by her anger, sending Robinson reeling into Tew, causing both men to fall. Held back by others as they rushed out of the building, or up the court steps, her cursing could be heard along the concourse. Joined by the other prostitutes, whose testimonies were disregarded, Rosina Townsend was finally calmed down enough to be led back to her brothel.

No one helped Robinson to rise, although he noticed a few helped Tew. He brushed off dust from his suit, fixed his tie, and re-affixed the smile that had been slapped off.  Without looking back, Richard walked down the steps. Tew followed, keeping a discreet spacing between them. Tew followed him into a pub, some fifteen long New York City blocks away.

Sitting in the rear of the bar, his back against the wall of the small, dark booth, Richard Robinson downed his beer and shot of whiskey. He was ordering his third round while Tew was still working on his first draft. The noxious smell of the place-of stale beer, cigarettes, cigars, vomit and piss-made Tew feel queasy at the best of times. Listening to Richard rave on, mixed in with the din of the other patrons,  added to the nausea Tew was feeling.

The story swirled around the confines of the booth, looping around, coming to a halt, beginning anew, as Richard got drunker. The gist, as far as Tew could make out, for Robinson had never talked about his private life before this: Richard deserved better than what life had dealt him. His father, wealthy enough, had died early, leaving his widowed mother and him some money to live in style. It did not last. By the time Tew took up sharing a flat with him, Richard was alone, mother dead as well, and finding himself with a fund he could not touch until he turned 21.

Richard talked of the many nights he enjoyed at the brothel, spending the money he made at the hardware store he worked and the small stipend he got from his still wealthy relatives. He talked of bedding Helen Jewett often, and the others, and while such talk made Tew squeamish, he listened with attention. Richard harangued Tew, spewing out morally reprehensible acts he had committed too and with “those harlots!”

With another round in place of him, Richard went on. He was superior, he said, and to be made to live like this, when he should be with the elite, drove him mad. He talked about his lashing out at school mates, of beatings he gave of those who displeased him, of forcing himself on a family friend’s daughter (“she wanted it,” he said) and getting her with child. With his mother dead, and alone in the city, downcast, It was easy to release his passions on these dirt tramps in whatever manner he suited. Deviant acts of violence against “those women” were offered in such detail that Tew had to finally excuse himself. He went out back of the pub, retching to relieve some of the horrible discomfort he felt.

Returning to the table, Richard was gone, his mug of beer knocked over and running along the table and onto the greasy floor. Tew went out the front looking for him, but to no avail. Walking quickly, he made it back to where he lived. Tew packed his few belongings, which was easy as he was wearing his only suit, thought to leave a note, but decided against it.

He closed the door and left the run down apartment building. Kicking debris out of his way, Tew made off, hoping to leave the devilment of Richard P. Robinson far behind him.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

The story above comes from a true murder in NYC in the latter part of the 1800′s. I found out about Helen Jewett through an article in Sunday’s Daily News: an interview with the great Martin Scorsese. When asked about movies he’d still like to make, this murder was mentioned as one of the “lurid tales” of old NY that intrigued him.

It swirled around my head all of Sunday, and through research (first dug up by my SOand then later myself) this story came about. Tew was Robinson’s roommate; no last name was given in the newspaper article I read. The story above, while based on real life, is totally fictional and is mine.

Thank you, Mr. Scorsese.

It Was a Bad Day (part two)

Manifold Destiny (part three)

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Too Much, Succubus (part four)

Journal Entry:

~Lilith Entry~

Aw…you ARE using the journal I gave you. You shouldn’t just leave it around, you know. Go off to cause mischief of one kind or another, and leave your Lilith all alone in bed? Mmmmm…I’ve read through what you’ve written so far.

You really think that, of little o’ me? ~~~sizzling smooch, you old devil.~~~ I mean, Devil. Sir, yes SIR.

Mmmmm…we didn’t have much time for talking when I got back from my little trip topside. You were having fun in your Diablo, and me? I was have big fun in my ride. On my ride. Under my ride. All ways, as you well know.

Should I tell you about how I went dancing around the world, wearing that way too short black dress you like so much, killer boots with heels (well, boots made in Hell…what else were they supposed to be?)…and yes, that’s it…and I attracted the attention of some club roving predators. Both sexes, and them not knowing they were not the top of that particular food chain? Tsk Tsk! They got on my bus with a whimper, but oh…they roared, later. :::smirk:::

Should I tell you about being pulled over by  six state troopers in upstate New York? Sillies…they first stopped me from speeding, then they wanted to arrest me for “Indecent Exposure”! They joined the party celebration on the bus. You could say they had Cop-ulation!

Should I tell you about how I came this close to getting a button pushed, how it would have spewed death and destruction across the orb you and HE play so many games across? How it would have ruined many of YOUR plans? How things would have gone too far in such a very, very short time? (It’s more fun-for now-just letting you know I could have.)

Do you want to know about how easy it was to raise lust in so many mortals? Do you want the details, oh Lucifer…oh, my dark Lord? Do you want to know how they would do anything, and I mean anything, I asked of them so they could “please” me?

Oh, Father of Lies; oh, Abbaddon, oh Morning Star, Mr. Scratch, Old Nick, Son of Perdition, Mephistopheles, Father of Murder, oh…Satan. Oh,  my wicked one…

You left me alone in bed, and I’m bored. I think I’ll go incite some more pleasure for myself.

Bite me, Lover.

Again and again and again…

Lilith

My Lamborghini Diablo VTTT was purring in idle, waiting to eat the levels of hell. Tricked out with a Demon Carb and T9 turbochargers , pushing the already powerful V24 block, the blood red monster  gleamed and was raring to roar. My perpetual mechanic minions worked themselves to death-literally-their inner ichor draining off while they whistled while they toiled.

I hate whistling!

Of course, nothing stays “dead” in the land of the dead. Damnit! One of those things HE and I disagreed on. Oh well…their eternal servitude brought them back to their feet as I vaulted into the drivers seat. It felt delicious, as I shimmied around on the real Corinthian leather, made out of real Corinthians.  Two of the flunkies were corporeal enough to close the vertical Lambo door for me. They got a sneer and a snarl for their duty.

Rolling out of the Manifold Destiny garage, I noticed Lilith had a large Suku-Bus in for repairs. Damn good idea, she had; it got a lot of rides. More souls for less. Makes me almost smile.

Almost.

Outside, and it was pedal to the metal! The full turbo boost of the monster lept into action as I smoked down hell’s boulevards. Most got out of the way. Many did not, and the squeals and suffering were musical afternotes to my ears. The odorous mélange of the ever changing landscape wafted through the car’s cabin, and I felt a dark smile reach my lips as the double Diablos (I laughed at that one!) rocketed out of my domain…doing 355 per mortal hour, if memory serves me right.

Shooting through The Seven Gates of Hell in York, PA (you just have to admire that designation), we screamed through the land of  sleepy night heads. I stopped here and there to tip some cows over, leave some alternate hexagons in place of the Mennonites symbols, and picked up a hitchhiker. 

Really? Was he kidding, thinking of pulling a gun on ME? He was an amusing plaything for all of five minutes. I should check to see if the farmer enjoyed his new scarecrow. I know the crows enjoyed their meal.

I tooled around Hellam (my type of town), thumbed my nose at you-know-who as I  breezed through Mt. Zion and Paradise, and stopped for a time in Intercourse. Along the way I found sinners of all cloth, and dealt with them accordingly. My glove compartment (gloves? really? Hell, remember?) was full of deals signed in blood (the rubes), with “promises’ to come for their souls.

The thought of those promises did make me laugh on the road, causing a bit of a tumult. I saw that another flock of birds were found dead the next day: news at Eleven. C’est la mort! Promises…after all, I’m not the Prince of Lies for nothing.

Winding my way around the trenches of this so called life was exhilarating for a short while, but…boredom comes so easily after so many years. I put the Diablo on auto-cruise, sat back to watch the too little devastation in my wake (got an early morning buggy to do five 360′s!) and soon found myself through The Seven Gates of Hell (figuratively and literally).

Wheeling into Manifold Destiny, the ame damee surrounded their Diablos, taking good care of both.

Lilith’s Suku-Bus was gone. Good. She’ll have a tale or twelve to tell when she comes to bed later.

My "Baby"

“The Whistler Is Dead!”

Cruel, in the way the note was written, but to the point. There was no way else to put it but firmly, as Richie, The Whistler, had been such a fixture for so long, caressing the ground floor with his presence.

The lobby area of the building would carry the off key, tuneless whistles, as the old man sat for hours blowing out his stagnant air. Sometimes the tap, tap, tap of his cane would accompany the discordance,  in its own incongruous way, measuring out beats that just did not add up. He’d watch all the comings and goings of the main entrance and the elevators, creating a sound track that underscored the movements of the tenants, their visitors and their deliveries. The Whistler was either greeted or ignored, but his sound was an accompaniment to the days goings on.

When the mail man arrived, The Whistler moved his performance spot. He rambled a daily conversation between not carrying a tune, setting up shop outside of the laundry room, right by the mail boxes. Here, all those entering from the parking lot were woven into his world. The children said hello as they came in from school, or played around as their parents washed the clothes. When not near him, Richie would serenade anyone in hearing distance.

It was known to not let The Whistler be aware that you did not enjoy his musical styling. He would grab onto that fact and create louder trills and blats, tapping his cane in a frenzy of off meter whacks. A secretive smile would cross his face, if you checked as you rushed into the elevator that always took too long to arrive.

The Whistler was privy to details into the lives of the apartment dwellers. It was said he knew secrets which many dared not speak, but that was from the old timers who affixed to him more power than they should. He smirked at tales of others stupidity, and voiced his outrage when he had little of his own.

During a holiday rush, when all were fixated on their own inner familial workings, The Whistler passed away. I was caught up in my own three ring circus of drama, not noticing what was missing. The notice by the mailboxes brought it to my attention, and I glanced around as it dawned on me: there was a gaping hole in this scene.

There was silence. Not quite silent, as the building hummed electronically, and the lobby door lock sounded as it was unlatached, and footsteps walking in mingled with the shouting of some of the kids home from school. But, no cacophony of noise that emanated from a lonely old man who found his place in a hard plastic chair by the laundry room.

I put the key in the lock and opened the door to my apartment. Walking in, I stood for a little bit, looking down the empty hallway that led this way from the elevator. Empty space, every life locked behind a multitude of doors. My wife called out to me, wondering what I was doing. I closed the door, locked it, and walked over to her.

“The Whistler is dead,” I told her.

She blew out an exclamation of grief upon hearing the news.

Author’s Note:

As I’ve had to post a number of times before, sometimes I write FICTION in the FIRST PERSON.

Such is the case with this piece. I am not a murderer, woman, drug addict, superhero, thief, suicide patient, or any number of things I’ve written in the first person.

What you’ve just read is fiction, plain and simple.

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The Whistler was an old time Radio Drama that was later made into several film noir movies by Columbia. The programs (what exist) can be found on CDs.

If you’re wondering what the poster above reads,  it is the intro to the radio program, The Whistler:

I am the Whistler, and I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales, hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes… I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak.

I have a guest blog up at Polka Dot Banner: Driving Traffic to your Blog via a Fiction Series

It’s a bit(more) about how I write, and why I’ve been so sporadic lately. Hope you enjoy it.

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Second things second:

Thanks to Lisa at Woman Wielding Words, I found another prompt challenge. This time, it’s the 100 Word Challenge for Grown Ups.

Pretty straight forward: you get a prompt (this week the prompt is the word Wednesday); you get to write a piece that must include that word in the 100 word allotment; you have until Monday, February 6th to post; add a link back, check the other participants out, and voila. 100 words.

What the Mourning Brings (100 Words)

A cold, wind driven rain confronted Cassie early Wednesday morning. Leaving the hospice, she craved for any feeling other than numb. Cassie had held her father’s hand all night, praying for a chance, a difference. It happened; a little after five. The machines screamed flat line.

Cassie clung to the cold hand, bowing her head as tears streamed down her face, dampening the bed sheet. She was aware of the others only when they pried her hand from his. Cassie left the words of condolence, shucking them off, as she slipped out of the building.

She saw the truck coming.

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Third Things Third:

Bluebell Books Short Story Slam Week #20, is hosting a challenge to write a story in 55 words.  I’ve used their prompts before, and JUST got this in my email:

we challenge you to write a short story or a poem in exactly 55 words, you have about 4 weeks to work out your entry, the submission is from today to February 31, 2012, which means you have enough time to make your effort, this helps you improve your creative writing skills by restricting your word counts in 55 words.

I’m taking this one step further for myself: to trim the same story I wrote above by 45 words.

What the Mourning Brings (55 Words)

A cold, wind driven rain confronted Cassie; craving any feeling, numb. Cassie held her father’s hand all night, praying…the machines screamed flat line.

Cassie clung on as tears streamed down her face. They pried her hand from his. Cassie left words of condolence as she slipped out the hospice.

She saw the truck coming.

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No challenge, except to myself…

What the Mourning Brings (a Haiku)

Part Two: It was a Bad Day…

“It was a bad day. A very bad day.”

Lucifer laughed as he entered those words into his Obsidian Journal. Minions ripped each other to shreds as they tried to get out of hearing distance. The Morning Star’s laughter was infectious, as it drove itself deep inside and twisted whatever passed for guts in the hell spawn. His chuckles cut like an axe blade; his guffaws gnawed as if mite infected every nerve system; his titters…his titters…

Satan never tittered.

He thought back over this day’s activities. It was a long list. Tilting back in his uneasy chair, putting his hooves up on the desk top. A deep satisfied sigh resounded throughout the caverns of Hell and causing a few earthquake readings around the topside of the globe.  This caused a few geologists to sputter, but they quickly subsided, as did the quakes.

Picking up his journal and Corinthian pen, he started to list his machinations on the human plane which had occurred during their twenty-four hour period:

Wild Fires... "Check."
Earthquakes..."Check."
Damned Souls... "Check."
South Carolina Republican Primary... "Check."
UN-natural disasters... "Check."
Demonic Possessions... "Check."
Giving the finger to HIS Angels... "Check."
Signing contract for "Real Housewives of Washington"... "Check."
Putting bug in ears to cut more jobs, create more unemployed... "Check."

…and the list continued on for a few pages. Lucifer checked his list, twice, and was satisfied. He closed his Obsidian Journal and put it and the pen into his desk drawer. Shutting it with a slam, The Morning Star flexed his wings and flew out of his office.

“All in a bad day’s work!” he exclaimed.

He flew up through the nine levels, soared up up and away and ascended into the heavens…second to the right, and straight on till morning.

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My 200th Post on Tale Spinning

I didn’t even realize how many I’ve done in less than a year of writing this blog. Tale Spinning’s “anniversary” comes up sometime in early February (not really sure of the actual date and I’m too lazy to go look it up). I only have a handful of Non-Fiction published here, so…maybe 190 pieces of creative writing? I’m happy with that.

Thank you to everyone who has been following Tale Spinning. I have a lot more readers then I have people who comment, but that is the norm here on the internet. I do appreciate one and all in stopping by, and I hope you’ve been enjoying what you find.

If you like my writing, I have a few pieces on Amazon:

Flash Over (my first published eStory)

After Dark Charity Anthology (“Trolling for Love”)

Dawn of Indie Romance Charity Anthology (“Redhead Riding”)

and coming soon from Trestle Press: The Path Away From Love (my first solo collection)

(ps: you don’t need to own a Kindle: Amazon has free plug-ins for your PC, MAC, and portable devices)

His despair was genuine, as was his outrage, all swiftly turning into self-loathing and shame. He fled his court, wailing at the travesty brought upon him by his golden touch. He never returned.

The Golden Princess was left behind. The hand that had reached out to her father in his anguish was still outstretched. Her still face reflected the the concern she had for him, her shoulders slightly hunched; all immobile. Except…

She was aware.

Aware of all that went on around her. The King’s advisers tried to keep decorum, waiting (in vain) for Midas to return. That lasted only so long. A bloody power struggle for the rule of the land ensued, as the only true heir was a lovely gold statue.

Whatever gold items that had been left behind were taken: either to support the efforts of the warring factions, or stolen to create a new life somewhere else. The Golden Princess was the last artifact of The Midas Touch remaining in one piece.

She was aware of all the plotting, the treacheries, the betrayals. She heard her father both cursed and praised, although the praises were for the gold he created. She heard grief about her own loss, from servants and from lords, and she heard some of the tales of those who wished they had bedded her…and more.

Awareness was a curse unto itself.

Time passed. Long giving up counting the days and nights, she knew not how long. Moved around now and then, new faces appeared, new voices heard. They long since stopped calling her Princess Marygold. The Golden Princess became her own legend.

The worst, or so she thought at the time, was being placed into a dark room. Hearing the bolt and lock clack and snick so loudly, she remained in darkness for an uncountable determination. She screamed and cried and wailed and keened…all inside her golden self.

No one heard. No one heard anything of her for a very long time.

Voices. Loud yells…and screams. Clashing of metal on metal, explosions shook her, waking her out of her stupor. “I’m here. I’m here!” she wanted to bellow. She wanted light, freedom, release. It had gnawed at her.

She was aware of the sound of the lock being broken, of the bolt driven back, of the door flung open and torch light coming in. The joy she felt at these things, taking in the unknown faces. The men, battered and bloody, whooped and grinned when they saw her. She heard shouts of “The Golden Princess!!” from these men and then outside of her imprisonment.

Lifted up and out, with great effort, the men brought her up to the throne room. Or, what was left of the room. She was aware there was blood along the way, bodies strewn. Damage…damage to the walls, stairways crumbled, light streaming in from what had been the west wall of the hall.

The Golden Princess was placed down in a shaft of light that streamed in from the gaping wound of the castle. The men talked continuously, starting at her, running their hands all over her. All over her. They stopped only when one man yelled to them, as he walked over and they parted for him, going to  knee.

“Please,” she thought with urgency. “Please, find a way to release me.”

In a language she was unfamiliar with, he spoke to his horde. They brayed in unison at times to his speech, the rest of the time they were rapt in attention. When he was done, as one, they stood, and cheered, cheered, cheered!

If she could have shed tears, a dam would not have been able to hold them. She did not know these people, but to be in the light, to not be so alone…

They removed her from her castle, her home and prison of so long. She was aware of being put on a cart and moved, screaming inside when a covering was placed on her, again hiding out any light. She was aware of the voices, the animal noises, the movement of the cart, then being hoisted off the cart and brought inside.

She was aware when the covering was taken off, and she was equally aware of the immense heat around her. A cauldron, large and blackened, fire raging underneath it,  took up a good part of the room. New men surrounded her, black with soot and grease and sweating.

Their rough hands brought her to the edge of the cauldron. She was aware of their laughter, their horrid, filthy jokes. Vile, vile men, they handed her with no care. They dropped her on the floor, and her outstretched hand…her outstretched hand…one of them took red hot glowing pincers from a smaller smoldering bin, and she was aware as he took great care in separating that hand, at the wrist, the thinnest part.

She was aware of the noise it made as it hit the floor.

Great peals of laughter surrounded her now. The hiss and noise of the fire and cauldron goo mixed with the glee of the men. Many hands now were on her, and again she was aware she was lifted. A count started; they all joined in, and what she assumed was three, they tossed her.

She was aware of the hands letting go. She was aware of the short flight in the air. She was aware of the horrible heat. She was aware of the splash she made, and the sinking down, and the melting away, and she was aware, aware, aware…

She was aware…they found a way to release her.

Amunet locked eyes with the priest, old and sand scarred. The pain she felt was mixed with hatred.  Amunet howled a curse as he pulled the knife out of her chest. The priest was  holding the blade’s handle, a tinge of fear on his face, then anger for not having struck a death blow.  Before he could react, Amunet grabbed the hilt, reversed it, and slashed the priest’s throat. In a gurgle, then a gush  he fell to the ground, dying at her feet.

Behind his corpse was a mantle, and the relics that were to be entombed alongside the dead. Amunet stumbled towards it, her life memories, short and brutal, unfolded as she bled out. She held onto the ceremonial knife.

First step: a different life, a different name. A Greek girl, blonde and often praised for her beautiful skin; kidnapped along the coastal shore of her village. Bound and bagged, dropped in a hold with other young girls.

Next step: stripped, passed around from pirate to pirate throughout the voyage. Beaten, starved, raped. Other captives died along the way. They were tossed over the side. She helped toss some over the side.

Fumble step: Only the beatings ended as they announced land in a few days. No scars, no marks on her beautiful skin. Fed more, and passed around even more.

Stopped, panting, holding onto the wound, blood seeping out between her fingers: Naked, auctioned off like cattle; poked, prodded, fondled, pried open. Bought by her “master”, not knowing the language, then. He took her that night, and nights after. Gave her her name. Amunet, the hidden one. Beatings, never at his hands, until she came into line. She was a novelty, with her skin, her coloring, and her master enjoyed sharing his treasure with others.

Two half steps closer: Watching him clutching his arm, then his chest. He tumbled off his chair in front of her and the other slaves. Only one slave moved to his side. Not her. Never her. She smiled.

Collapsing on the mantle: Amunet clutched the doll, the one to protect her “master” in his next life. It’s hair was of sun-baked clay strung on flax thread. The doll’s  body was of wood in the shape of a woman, symbols of fertility etched into it. She held the doll to her chest; she cursed the men who stole her, she cursed all those who used her, she sent out waves of anger and primal hatred. Her blood soaked into the wood carving, the flax thread, stained the sun-baked clay. Her battered life unfolded into the doll.

On her knees, grasping the doll, her head bent over it, laying her curse, she took the knife that she held and stabbed the doll.  Another priest came behind her and rammed his blade into her back. This priest’s blow was true. Amunet fell forward onto the doll.

Her spirit of rage became the doll. A knife became her weapon. She took others through the ages: just, unjust…it did not matter to The Unfolding Doll. For centuries, her revenge glistened on her knife’s edge over and over again.

She grew careless, once, and was trapped by a mage whose son she had taken. Too strong to be destroyed, he did what he could. Caught in his daughter’s room, he fought her and won, binding her spirit in the child’s dollhouse. The mage sold it to a very special shop. He knew he could not stop her completely, but limit the murderous spirit? That he could do.

Be careful when entering The Abysmal Dollhouse. There lies the hidden one, the Unfolding Doll.