Tag Archives: Demons

Imprint of a Bad Dream


Three a.m., and Rachel woke suddenly, feeling as if an arm had withdrawn, a body, light,  pressed against her. Her heart pounding, Rachel turned away from the wall and searched the darkness. She should be alone, had been alone, for a long time now. No arms draped around her, no heat generating body snuggled in such a familiar way, no touch, no caress, nothing. Laying on her back, the clock light the only illumination in the room, the only sounds the passing of a car, then others…Rachel was aware of being the sole occupant in her bed.

Why, then, did she still feel like she’s still being held?

Tossing and turning, the night crawls by. Her pulse rate takes its time in returning to a relative state of normal, chest finally relaxing where she no longer feels like her rib cage would expand to bursting. Sleep comes, but is interrupted often by a quick wake up, startled, flipping over, wrapping her sheet around her, kicking off the blanket, putting the blanket back on. Three and a half hours pass this way.

Rachel slams the alarm button, and the clattering noise stops and leaves her hearing her own ragged, panting breath. The left eye hurts, the right one not much better. She rubs them with the palms of her hands, and they tear when she blinks them open again. Massaging her temples, Rachel puts her feet in her slippers and gets up off the bed. It takes a second to balance herself.

Her morning rituals go without a hitch. Rachel is on auto-pilot, showering, dressing and completing all her needs in the correct order, as she’s done for so many years, and while this stabilizes her, at the back of her mind she can not get over the feeling of the arm, the hand, the fingers splayed upon her back. “A dream” she says to herself. “A nightmare.” Shrugging it off, Rachel leaves to, as she sees it, truly begin her day.

It is one disaster after another. Stress piled on top of anxiety on top of belittlement, with a dash of confusion, worry and angst blended in to the mix. The car that cuts her off; the boss reaming her out; the phone call not returned; the splatter of grease from her lunch on her suit; the call that interrupts; her mother; the co-worker; the bill that she thought she paid; the smile not returned; the feeling that she still has not shaken off the nightmare grope, what it meant, why it still is touching her.

She feels as if she carries around an imprint of the appendage from the night, that it is affecting her day by rippling out to those around her. Rachel sees a grasping, a clutching that cuts off anything from running smoothly, the same old same old to the unexpected. It tightens and pulls, runs strangle holds over thought processes, thumps speeds bumps into her path. She was physically exhausted from lack of sleep already; Rachel felt, by end of her work day, completely beaten up, drained of energy, worn out, worthless.

Her briefcase, shoes, stained suit, shirt, stockings, bra and panties are scattered from the front door of her apartment to the bathroom. That was not like the normal Rachel, the put together Rachel, the almost OCD Rachel, the orderly, neat and clean obsessed Rachel. That Rachel had a phantom arm around her throat, constricting her every movement.

The shower head pumps out steaming hot water, the mirror fogs up in seconds. Soon her white skin is pink, turning to red, and it gets to the point where she almost screams that she feels the limb dissolve, melting away in the heat, running down the drain with the too hot water. Rachel presses herself against the tiles, cold on her back, fiery blast assaulting her front. Closing her eyes, she stands there until the pain finally reaches her, and she stumbles to turn off the left faucet, letting icy water race down her torso, genitalia  and legs.

Eleven p.m., and Rachel has finally made her way to her bed. Before this it was  mindless TV watching on the couch, huddled in her pj’s and terry cloth robe, nursing a beer along the way while she downed a few shots of Tequila. Her normal to bed time went by an hour ago, and she knew she could not put it off any longer. Two days of little to no sleep would do her no good, nor would two days in a row of being batted around by others, and herself.

Lying on her back, eyes wide open, Rachel checked the darkness, looking for any sign of movement. Nothing. She closed her eyes, re-shifted, opened her eyes, tried to focus, closed them, shifted again, and again, pulled the top sheet and cover up to her neck, swaddled her feet, curved into a semi fetal position, and finally…finally….finally…

Three a.m., and it was more careful this time, not wanting to wake her, to distress her, to cause her any pain. It floated its caress around her,  a diaphanous embrace of the night.

It was a Bad Day… (The Obsidian Journal)


Click to read: Part One: The Obsidian Journal

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."
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.


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)