Overlooking The Past By The Sea

Read Right! What you know! for what this story alludes to…or not.

Emma stood in the doorway of the kitchen, wringing her hands in silence. Frederick had been in such a state that she had not witnessed in years, ever since that note was found slipped under their front door. She was the one who found it, and as she held the sealed envelope addressed to Inspector Abberline it took all of her resolve to just tear it to bits and toss it into the kitchen fires.  Emma was dreadfully sorry she had not done so.

Her husband stood by the bay window, right hand raised, holding himself upright and away from the glass planes. His left hand was behind him, and in it he clutched the letter he would not let her read. His mood was betrayed by his stance: taut, tense, and far, far away in thought. Emma had seen Frederick like this all too often, in London, in the days of the Ripper. Try as she would, he wound up sharing nothing with her, placating her with gentle brush offs that “…nothing was wrong, nothing to worry about…what’s that delicious smell, dear?”

The papers told her all that her husband as Inspector did not relate. It was all a gruesome, horrible business, and Emma had thought they were both done with it after leaving Scotland Yard,  London,  and the Pinkertons behind.

“Frederick, dinner is getting cold. Please, dear,” she entreated, only to be met with silence.

She approached him, sitting on the window seat, trying to take his left hand in hers. Shifting slightly but not looking at her, Frederick tucked the letter into his jacket pocket and placed his hand in hers. Even with the fireplace roaring his hand was cold to her touch. She placed it on her cheek to it and rubbed it to warm him, as best she could.

Evening was upon them and Frederick finally settled down. His sleep, when it came, was marred by tics and pulling the sheets out and winding them about him. Emma was awake through all this. “This was how he was like during the worst of it,” she thought, “and I can’t let him go through this again.”

She crept out of bed, found his jacket, and took the letter out of the pocket. Walking into the front room, the embers in the fireplace were playing off the last of their heat. They were also still hot enough to reduce the letter to cinders. She knew he would be upset, and a week would be full of awful silent recriminations, but she also knew it would pass.

Emma stopped at the bay window. By moonlight and reflected fog she saw a figure, shadowed, standing up the slope, by the copse of trees that separated their land from the neighbors. She saw nothing but the shadow, but she knew it was a he, and she knew he was staring at the house, at her.  A cane was in his left hand, and a gentleman’s top hat sat upon the figure.

Emma held her breath to the point of hard labor. Sweat drenched her where she stood, and stand fast she did for she was unable to move. They remained that still, together, until the tip hat was doffed in her direction followed by a slight bow.

Hat back in place, the cane slashed from left to right. Noticing only those movements, Emma did not see the figure fade into the night.

Frederick found her lying on the floor by the window in the morning. She was so chilled that he called for the doctor; he remained at her side, ministrating to her needs for the rest of that day. No mention was made of the missing letter, nor did he press for what disturbed her so.

That evening, at the Black Dog Inn, a stranger bought the locals a round. They cheered, swarmed around the bartender, and forgot all about him as they drank to his health. A working girl was appraising him as she drank her pint of bitters, her eyes smiling in his direction.

“Cheers,” he said to her, and then he tilted back his Black and Tan and drank heartily.

Leda and the Swan: National Flash Fiction Day

Man Ray: Leda and the Swan

A swan walks into a bar…

No, not really.

A God walks into a bar…actually, the once King of the Gods…well, Greek Gods…and not King for a pretty long time…

…and it’s not really a bar, per se, but the bar in a disco, The Metamorphoses.

He’s not really Zeus anymore, either,  having given up that name for quite a while.  Too many just don’t believe in him and his anymore.

Zeus took flight and has  lived a long time as Mr. Swan.

So…A Swan does walks into a bar…

Mr. Swan saunters to the Metamorphoses bar and his burps dissolve into the loud music; his gastrointestinal expulsion is showing  his appreciation of a fine meal. He had just come  from the Olympus Diner, where he had:  an appetizer of Spanokopita; a generous helping of Lamb Souvlaki with rice; and he followed all that by two large slices of Baklava, dripping with extra honey (the waitress was enthralled, naturally, without knowing why). His stomach was happy, well sated. But…the diner had no liquor license (he’ll fix that in the morning). Swan wanted to get drunk…and he was looking for a little bit more pleasure.

The dancers were staying alive on the multicolored lit floor, the pulsating music swarming around the enclosed room. He scooped up a double Ouzo the bartender (a lithe blonde he intended to revisit) had set down, snorted a line of coke that was offered to him, and settled in. Swan scoped the place out, dazzled by the gyrating young flesh moving to a beat that stirred him in a number of ways. Sipping his drink, a smile playing around the rim of the glass, Swan found what he was looking for.

His eyes locked on a tableau: she was tall, curvy, long legged and teased out brunette hair. She had stylish (“for this age”, he thought) earrings, was not chewing gum, and best of all…she was alone. Downing his Ouzo and taking the replacement glass that was immediately in front of him, Swan boogied on down the steps of the bar/lounge area, across the dance floor, and up to his prey’s high top.

Chatting her up wasn’t all that hard, music blaring or not. Her name was Leda, she was a Broadway wannabe, and just had a fight with her boyfriend, Ty. She came with her girlfriends to let off some steam, and why was she telling him this and more, but Leda could not stop, nor could she refuse the copious amounts of Ouzo that Swan ordered for her. They talked, she laughed, he flirted, and they took it all to the dance floor.

If you ask anyone who was there at the Metamorphoses that night, no two stories would be the same, except for one thing: that night was magic. Everyone spilled out onto the dance floor, hours upon hours of drinking and drugging and sweating and laughing, taking things to an extreme that had never been experienced before.

And sex. There was a lot of sex that night.

Leda found herself with Swan in a ladies room stall. She wasn’t the only one that evening, but she was his main event.

Mr. Swan walked out in the early hours of the next morning bedraggled but beaming. He kept the music alive in his head and an arm around the blonde bartender, heading back to the Olympus Diner for some eggs, disco fries, ambrosia,  and the still enthralled waitress (her shift was over when she paid for his bill). The three of them had a fun morning.

Leda found Ty sitting in front of her apartment door. He as ten times ten apologetic, taking all the blame and asking her not only to take him back, but to marry him. He was an idiot, he admitted, and…and…and…

Leda said yes later that afternoon, after the two of them got out of bed and got dressed. They went for lunch at the diner (missing Zeus..um…Swan drop off the waitress by minutes) then got in his car and eloped,  driving to New England.

Nine months later, they had twin girls: Poly and Helen. Leda never questioned, Ty never knew, and the both of them loved to love their babies.

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From the UK comes the first ever Flash Fiction Day (National should become International, but that’s for another time).

What is Flash Fiction? Well, you can read about it HERE or HERE or even HERE.

My working definition: It’s a very short piece of work, not normally considered a short story (which usually has word counts under 7,500 words). Flash is basically considered anything from a few words to one thousand (give or take). It cuts out meandering sentences, extra words, and run on sentences, as you, as the writer, are forced to focus on being as concise as you possibly can. Unlike this explanation. 🙂

Most of what I write here on Tale Spinning has been Flash Fiction (without my announcing or championing it). I really discovered what FF is thanks to Lisa Vooght, author of the aptly named blog, Flash Fiction. She’s also the one who let me on that there was a National Flash Fiction Day. There are many others out there, and it’s been a pleasure finding them, bit by bit. Might be a blog post just on other FF blogs to find, but again…that is for another time.

You have 16 more days to read my Swan Rise series before it comes down on June 1st. Click HERE for all the links to the 26 stories. (and no…this story is not part of Swan Rise).

Yeah…Life Goes On… (#AtoZChallenge)

Welcome to the A to Z Challenge : 26 Stories during the month of April

Welcome to… The Apartment Building: Swan Rise

(For Links to the previous stories, CLICK HERE

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So…

Taking its last breath, Swan Rise Apartments released its denizens. A forty-five year microcosm of life, crawling through the hallways into apartments and behind closed doors. Unfettered, except by memories and, for some, scars mental or physical, the inhabitants moved on.

Life happens after death.

Dragana’s claws were sharpened after she dealt with what she had done. She rode Andres unmercifully, constantly deriding, belittling, and scorning him. He payed, with interest that would never stop accruing, for his infidelity (she could never prove there were more, but she knew…she knew). He had to beg for any intimacy, and it was given only when Dragana wanted it more than he did.

Andres was investigated for negligence. Cynthia, Mrs. Beatty’s daughter, told anyone who would listen that her mother had called about the gas smell. She was there when the call was made, so “…yes, it was heard first hand!” Nothing ever came of it for him: the building management insurance paid for damages and a suit went on for years for negligent homicide. That is still in the court system. Andres was fired, in more ways than one. He and Dragana went upstate where he worked in maintenance, sans cigar chomping, sans kingdom.

Katie, Amy’s mother had fallen in love and remarried by the time Amy graduated from college. She missed her daughter fiercely, as Amy remained in Boston. Amy would contact her on Skype and text often, and while Katie felt they saw each other in person too infrequently, she realized they found a strong bond. They stayed in the area due to the jobs she and her husband had, but she planned to bring up moving to New England once they finally retired.

The Weather Man got older, as did his wife, and they both moved into the basement apartment of a two family home in the same neighborhood. He continued to wander the streets, often stopping near where Swan Rise was, and stare at the car accidents or up at the stars on clear nights. One early winter night he did not come home. He was found on a bench in the playground down the road, reclining, eyes open and staring to the heavens.

Frank had been starting to go out on dates in the last year of the building, joining numerous online dating sites. Most of them were no more than first dates, but he was starting to get the hang of it when the building went to pieces. He moved closer to work, still a studio apartment, but this time the woman he saw that attracted him…he talked to her, in that building’s laundry room. Telling the story of the demise of Swan Rise, folding clothes and embellishing some facts, Judy laughed at appropriate moments, listened attentively, commiserated, and smiled with Frank. They went out for coffee and began seriously dating less than a month later. They now have a very active two year old (William) and are expecting in the Fall.

The Laundry Room Mafia was dispersed. Their power base destroyed with the rest, they went fleeing to different parts of the country. Oldest children found themselves sharing their lives again with a parent. Ida and Bella stayed with theirs, while Helen and Evelyn soon went into elder living communities. Dotty, their Capo, was never the same after the destruction. The devastation was more thorough for her: all of her belongings, all of her cherished keepsakes, her photo albums, all of her hoarded life’s items were gone, and Dorothy did not handle it well at all. She went from assisted living to a nursing home in a very short time. Her daughter was on her way to visit her, the first time in two months, when Dotty passed away.

Marc and Sean remained married. They were horrified and tragically upset at the news of Mrs. Beatty’s death, and they attended the wake and ceremony service. “The Boys” became rocks of support for Cynthia during the ordeal. They soon became friends, and grew to treat each other like family Every Christmas was spent together, Marc and Sean welcoming Cynthia as they did her mother.

Bob and Beth Fields, after his heart attack recovery, continued to celebrate the holidays. They moved near their son and his family, and every occasion was a special treat. Susie and Vicky, their grandchildren, learned how to have fun from Bob. Grandma Beth had the “Stern Eye!” but she was a lot of fun too, just more when it was just the three of them. Bob slept best when he and Beth held hands.

The “prostitute in the parking lot” saw the whole thing from her apartment window in the building across the way. She had been sitting having a cup of coffee and just looking out. Her husband was out of town, again, and missed the whole thing. Running into the bedroom to throw on some clothes, she pushed her upstairs neighbor to get dressed and out. She found his underwear under her top sheet later and laughed uncontrollably.

James Davis had lost a lot in the building: his parents and his dog had died in years past, and his marriage ended here. He was glad to pack up what he could (his apartment was on the other side and only got some smoke damage) and he moved to be closer to his sister and his niece, Sara. He was a good uncle, and he too found a life mate after leaving. Sara’s teacher fell in love with him the times they intermingled when he would drop her off or pick her up at school. Sara was embarrassed, but the next year it didn’t matter to call her Aunt Annie.

Seth told his father about what happened to Swan Rise. Lev listened, but didn’t know what Swan Rise was or why the young man in front of him was bothering him. Lev was looking for his wife, although he could not for the life of him remember her name, and this was upsetting him. The young man was patting his hand, telling him to calm down. Lev started to yell, then cry. He found himself being held by his son, and he didn’t know why.

Merry got married and moved out just before the explosion. She moved into his apartment in the city, where they lived together for four years before getting a divorce. Some time passed, Meridith began dating again and two years later got engaged again. She eventually got another dog, who she loved very much and the dog loved her back.

Patty was Patty, and she wound up ruling the next building she moved into. She had a couple of affairs over the years, and got older, and had plastic surgery, and had more plastic surgery, and dyed her hair, and had tummy tucks, and she lived a long plastic life in a plastic world of her own making.

Amy stayed in Boston. Her music was really her life, in school and with the band she founded, The Swans. She sang, played the drums, composed most of the songs they ripped through, and eventually got a small label to work with them. Amy found time to graduate and to fall in love. She married a year after her mom did and got accepted into a music Graduate/Doctorial program soon after that.  Amy took her time: in her second year of grad work she became preggers (as she like to say), and months into the process, when she was really showing, her daughter (they knew it was a girl!) was swirling around, arms and feet and elbows and knees making a syncopated beat on her mom’s swollen belly. Like mother, like daughter, like mother…Amy was happy.

…and in the evening she’s a singer with the band.

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Holidays, Haunts and Hearts (The #AtoZChallenge)

Welcome to the A to Z Challenge during the month of April

Welcome to… The Apartment Building

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Do you remember walking into your parents or grandparents home during a holiday, and the smells that engulfed you as you opened the door? Close your eyes and think about that for a moment. Take it in, remember the smells that made you salivate, wanting the special meal to be ready right now instead of “sit, drink, mingle, How are you?” small talk. Take the hugs and kisses, take off the coats, and take in the aromas that drift about.

Now, imagine that smell times fourteen:  the elevator doors open and you walk onto the apartment building floor. It doesn’t matter what floor you walk onto: the aromatics pounce and you breathe them in, letting the deliciousness find its way to the pleasure centers in your brain. If you were a cartoon, you’d be able to see the tendrils of this olfactory desire pick you up and float you to your destination. Your stomach would growl in anticipation, gurgles that needed to be sated, and soon.

During the first three decades of Swan Rise Apartments, the scents were a mixture of Italian, Jewish and some Irish. Everyone celebrated St. Patty’s Day: boiled cabbage left its special tang throughout the building and out onto the parking lot and street. During the other main holidays you had a bouquet, an olio of cooking meats, sauces, gravies, spices, all spilling out into the hallways, melding into a gastronomic dance.

People moved on, one way or the other, over the years, and the traditional smells seemed to decrease as the building found new salivary accompaniments: Asian, Mexican, Island, Southern and more entered the aroma grounds, replacing some, adding overall to the party.

Some say the building was haunted, and more so during the holidays.

Meredith in 5G, and her guests at her first Seder, heard the tinkling sound of dog tags by the front door. Her beloved pup, Pooh, had been gone for two years now, and she couldn’t face up to getting another dog after a fourteen year bond. She would not let anyone open the door for Elijah, cup full of wine or not.

Mrs. Clarke would feel her mother when she was baking Christmas treats, especially when she was making their favorites. She felt Mama with her, helping her mix the bowl, drop the cookies onto the baking sheet, and in all the years since her passing Mrs. Clarke turned out perfect cookie after perfect cookie…just like her mother had.

It was the small noises that creeped Mrs. Beatty out the most: the window blind’s light clanking against the pane or the glass, when there was no wind, no window open; the creaking on the ceiling (she lived on the top floor); the kitchen cabinet door that squealed when it swung open on its own;  the taps, mutters, growls, scratchings, whispers, thumps…all of these things preyed upon Mrs. Beatty. She did not need a holiday to fear them, they just seemed worse to her, then.

Scott and James felt the spirits enter them on most holidays, and most weekend nights, leaving them worse for wear the mornings after.

The holidays also produced a lot of joy in the Swan Rise over the years. So many marriage proposals happened during these hectic days, or announcements were made at the family gatherings. Cheers rang out from behind many apartment doors, and the good will and sentiments spilled out around the building  in the days after, passed around in the elevator rides and the laundry room gossip and waiting for the mail.

Smiles were produced on an ongoing basis as the children grew up and found themselves starting their own families. Many ended, many more stayed together, and many produced new little feet to run down the hallways.

James’ older sister, Katherine, went into labor during a holiday. Went into labor AT the Thanksgiving dinner. Little Sara did not want to wait for her father to get the car, nor for any fancy machinery or her mother’s protestations of OOohhhs and Gahhhhs and other squeals of through-gritted-teeth pain. Her grandmother had been a nurse, and that was good enough.

Sara’s grandfather said, upon seeing his newborn first granddaughter, that she looked like a small naked turkey. His wife smacked him in the arm and shooed him out of the room.

The fragrances of the many Thanksgiving dinners wafted into the apartment to greet Sara, welcoming her to a world of vast sensory caring. Sara’s parents, grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts milled around, stirring the fragrance pot.

If they hadn’t been cooing and ahhing over Sara, they would also have heard the sound of the tinkling of a dog’s tags and the rapid swishing of a tail, all by the front door.

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Author’s Note:

I apologize to all who read The Apartment Building series for being so late in posting today. MY holidays got in the way, and I found myself doing a lot more traveling than anticipated.

I hope this story makes up for it, and I’ll do my darnedest not to let this happen again.

The Golden Princess: An Un-Fairy Tale

Once upon a time…King Midas touched his daughter and she turned into gold.

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.

 

Beginnings: The Abysmal Dollhouse

The priest drove the blade deep into Amunet’s chest. The suddenness of the attack shocked her as much as the pain that followed it. This action was repeated by five other priests with all the house slaves in the Mastaba, the final resting place of her master. She saw the others die. This priest’s blade was not true, not penetrating her heart on the first strike. But still, it caused her impending death. The time she had left, though, was enough.

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.

Tails of the Fox: Nine Haiku’s

This was submitted for the Third Sunday Blog Carnival: 60 contributors of poetry, fiction and writer blog posts. Please visit them to expand your literary horizons.

Our Story Thus Far…

It ancient Japan, Chiyoko had bribed Kitsune, the trickster Fox, with his favorite food, a freshly caught kunimasu salmon that was ready to spawn. From that day forward, Chiyoko would be known, and feared by many, as The Kitsune-Mochi, the Fox Witch. On a path of vengeance against the wicked, The Kitsune-Mochi used the powers of Fox to call on lesser demons (oni) to right wrongs. That is, until she crossed paths with Red Helen, a beautiful oni made up of a hundred-hundred deadly butterflies. Their parting was not amicable.

Fox, while liking being fed, does not like being held under anyone’s sway for too long. He plots to change this…

(1)
Dreams of giving chase
Nestled in Fox den; at dark
Fortunes change in light

(2)
Embrangled tightly
Fox waits for chance to break free;
Desire, Bidding time

(3)
Kitsune-Mochi sits
Trickster Fox food devours
Her will, for now, done

(4)
Vengeance Spirits come
Engulf the wicked, ensnare
Fox yawns; time is near

(5)
The Fox Witch grows tired
Her grief so long to abate
Lamentable, she

(6)
Red Helen, intrigued
Plotting with traitorous Fox
Smiles deadly poison

(7)
Asleep, alone; NOW
Driven winds of hundred wings
Deadly red blanket

(8)
Curse uttered slowly
Kitsune-Mochi spins away
Defeats betrayal

(9)
Fox Witch hunts the Fox
He slinks in shadows and dusk
Wrath is on his tail

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To learn more about The Nine-Tailed Fox in mythology

I have collected all of my stories & narrative poems on The Fox Witch in one spot:

If you’d like to read the series (as is, to this point), please go to The Prologue: The Kitsune-Mochi Saga

Author’s Note on This Posting:

I was asked to submit a Haiku for a competition by someone who has read my work (mentioning Coconut Music specifically). I haven’t written one in about five years, even though I do it with students. The compliment got me thinking, and drove me to try a new tactic for this series, which I do love. I hope it works on some narrative level, even if you’re not familiar with the myth or the previous work I’ve written on this. I’d appreciate any comments you might have. Thanks.

What We Hold Onto: A Tale of the Abysmal Dollhouse

The late December air outside The Abysmal Dollhouse smelled like snow; it was either a pleasant promise or a horrible threat, depending on how you felt about this turn of the weather. The Shopkeeper had been busy decorating, dusting, and defending herself inside the shop. Most of the time was spent puttering around, but there was just as many times when she had to… sidestep mishaps.

She had already frosted the windows, hung garlands of greens, reds and silver. The blue and white lights twinkled on and off, in various patterns and in complicated loops throughout the store. Many of the dollhouses were opened wide, reveling in the joyous patterns that were presented for all of them. Many, but not all. Those… Those are not ones that even the season allowed them to join in.

The front door opened with a tinkling of bells, and a heavily bundled older woman entered, closing the door behind her, checking to make sure it was firmly closed. The shop was warm and cozy, allowing her to undo her knit scarf, unzip her parka, and take off her gloves. She left her hat on, just in case.

Looking around the store, she smiled broadly. It was transformative, that smile, and The Shopkeeper could not help but smile broadly too. It was infectious.

“Can I help you, Mrs…”

“Miss. Miss Singleton.”

“Oh, but you…”

“Miss…Singleton,” she said, losing part of her smile, as she glared at The Shopkeeper.

“Of course,” acquiesced The Shopkeeper. “Welcome to my shop. How may I help you?”

“I’m not sure. I was just on my way home, and I noticed the dollhouse in the window, and the lights, and…oh, you did a marvelous job decorating. I assume it was you. Was it?”

The Shopkeeper nodded. Her smile returned, enjoying the compliment.

“Wonderful. All these dollhouses…so many different styles. I was never interested in such things when I was a child, or even as I grew older. Do you mind if…”

The Shopkeeper lifted her hand, palm up, an invitation. “Of course not. Stroll around, and if you have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them for you.”

Miss Singleton put her gloves in the pockets of her parka, and in an unconscious way tugged her sweater down. She ran her fingers through her fine white hair as she took her time studying the miniature displays. She said “Thank you” as an afterthought, transfixed as she was by not only the delicate craftsmanship but the stories the placards told.

The variety of the houses captivated her. Some, Ms. Singleton sensed, were not “right”, so those she avoided in as wide an arc as she could in the cramped store. She noticed some houses behind glass, against the back wall, and these radiated more ill ease. She shook her head, laughing a bit at herself. “They’re just dollhouses, silly old woman,” Ms. Singleton said to herself in a whisper.

 

The Shopkeeper walked around and shut a few of the dollhouse exteriors. Ms. Singleton thought she heard voices from those being closed…all sounding like “No!” or “Mine!”

“I’m sorry to distract you,” said The Shopkeeper. “I should oil the hinges of these. They make such awful little noises.” Walking over to the back wall, she drew a heavy looking black curtain across the displays.

Miss Singleton’s attention wandered back to the open dollhouse in front of her, off handedly remarking that it was all right, she understood. She was bending over an antebellum style Southern mansion: the Nottoway Plantation, the placard mentioned. “At any given time, 200-300 slaves worked the fields. Many died and were buried outside the plantation grounds. During the Civil War, Mr. Nottoway took 200 slaves to Texas. None made it back.”

With each dollhouse, Miss Singleton noticed all the details, the furnishings that looked just right. The craftsmanship was uncanny, and she deeply appreciated the work that went into what she saw.

She was most enamored of le Conservatoire d’épouvante Maison De Poupée, with its Wall of Death. Miniature skulls of differing shapes and sizes, and a magnifying screen so she could read the mini signs, each describing how death occurred. She covered her mouth when she began to laugh out loud at “Death by Stupidity,” and ended up chuckling to herself, wondering about all the stupid things she saw in her long life that could have caused someone to die from it.

The Death by Stupidity skull’s jaw began to move…

“Shhh!” The Shopkeeper tapped the dollhouse, surprising Miss Singleton. “I’m sorry to intrude, and I did not mean to startle you. I think there is a dollhouse you should see. Follow me, please?”

Miss Singleton let herself be led away. She looked back, once, and thought she saw tiny movements from the Wall of Death, and thought she heard tiny sing-song voices coming from the dollhouse. She shook her head and looked away, back to where The Shopkeeper was taking her.

“Here, Miss Singleton. I think you might appreciate this dollhouse.”

The Shopkeeper gestured, and Miss Singleton stood stock still.

“That looks like the house I grew up in,” she said. “How…oh, look.” Examining the exterior, she was filled with memories of climbing out of windows, running in and out of the doors, anything to play wild outside. She turned the dollhouse around, inspecting all the sides.

She stood up and made eye contact with The Shopkeeper.

In a whisper: “This IS my house!”

The Shopkeeper bent over the house, touched a part of the roof, and the house opened up.

Every room was identical to what Miss Singleton remembered. Details in miniature were exact, from wall coverings and paint colors to the furnishings. She explored every room, one at a time, picking up items from each location, and then carefully putting them back.

“My room…” and it felt, to Miss Singleton, like it had been forever since she had been so happy, so free, as her eyes wandered around “her room.” Bed, books, desk…all there; and, lying next to the bed…

He rose up on his hind legs and barked at her, waiting for her to get off the bed. She dove off the mattress, giving the large German Shepherd a huge hug, driving her hands into his fur. He wuffed and tried to wiggle out of her embrace, but the dog was no match-this time-for the strength of a girl who loved her dog.

Wiping away tears, she got up, looked out the window, and noticed what a beautiful day it was outside. Dressed already for it in tee-shirt, shorts and sneakers, she opened the door.

“Come on…let’s get out of here!”

The dog bounded after her, as she ran past her sister’s room (knocking on it really hard), flew down the stairs and bolted out of the front door. Her laughter was mixed with her companion’s barking the whole way.

Catching up to her, he ran circles then between her running legs. Down she tumbled, her smile broader and her laughter deeper, and they wrestled together on the lawn, and she didn’t care if she got grass stains on anything. She was happy, and she was with her dog. The dog.

The thing she loved most of all.

The Shopkeeper had been watching all of the joy and merriment happen before her. She heard the squeals of giggles and barks…straitening up, she knew she was not alone.

Turning to her right, The Unfolding Doll was motionless, fixated on Miss Singleton’s escapades. The Shopkeeper noticed there was no knife present, and she relaxed a bit. She had never seen this behavior before from the doll, and never had felt this sense of…calm, either.

They stayed like that for a short while. The Shopkeeper’s attention was brought back to the dollhouse with a slamming of the front door, and she noticed the young Miss Singleton now seated in the dining room, her companion lying at her feet, and she doing her best to put her feet on him. He grumbled and moved; she did as well.

More than satisfied, she closed the dollhouse, snapping it shut. The Shopkeeper had kept The Unfolding Doll in her line of sight. The doll’s head turned slightly, its glass eyes locked onto The Shopkeeper’s, who was expecting the worst. They stood that way for close to a minute, neither moving.

“I…,” began The Shopkeeper, but the moment she spoke The Unfolding Doll faded back into the dark parts of the store. The Shopkeeper was alone. She patted Miss Singleton’s house, and before she walked away, she heard the sound of feet running up stairs-both human and canine-doors being knocked on and then slammed…and always laughter mixed with barks.

Going to the front of the store, The Shopkeeper looked out the front window. It was snowing; that deep heavy looking all white snow that covered all outside. She smiled, enjoying the silent pleasure before her, and the pleasure that she had experienced, and shared. It brought back her own memories, before she took over the duties of overseeing the shop. Good memories, mainly, and knowledge that she found comfort in her life, then and now.

“Well, that was a start,” she said, turning away from the window, speaking to the back shadows of The Abysmal Dollhouse. “If you can hear me, you can have pleasure too. It does not always have to end in violence. You can have what she has.”

No answer. She had not expected one.

But, as she said, it was a start.

2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Syndey Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 18,000 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 7 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

The Dragon’s Flame

“…aw, please… One more story?”

Sigh. ” It’s late, Adam.”

” Please please please!”

Dad sits adjusting the blankets around his son.” Okay one more… What do you…”

” PUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON!”

” We’ve done that to death. I have an idea. How about one of Puff’s Dragon ancestors? You do know that they are all named Puff, don’t you?”

” Well… I think so. Okay. A story about Puff … The ancestor! Dad?”

” Yeah?”

” What’s an ancestor?”

Sigh.” This Puff was his great – great – great great great great – Grandfather. Do you understand?”

Adam nodded yes, pulling the covers closer to his chin and snuggling down. “Now, I have a question for you: something happened to this Puff… What do you think could have happened to him?”

” I know I know… Couldn’t breathe fire!”

“Aah… That is right I forgot. So… At this time, all dragons were fierce and they flew. Their bellies were full of fire, and this  is what helped them fly. But, sadly, this Puff lost the fire in his belly. Gee, you know… I seem to have forgotten how that happened?”

” Maybe it’s cause, um… Somebody yelled at him?”

” You are right. Somebody yelled at him, and he lost the fire inside of him. Puff had been one of the bravest, most handsome, most wonderful of all dragons. Every body looked up to him, except one horrible mean disgusting nasty icky Dragon: the grandmother!”

” DAD! Leave grandma alone.”

They both smiled.” Okay, okay. It was the Queen of the Dragons… Dragonbubby! She was the most feared Dragon of them all. One day Puff got in her way while he was trying to clean a section of the Royal Cave. He missed a major area that the Queen wanted to shine. It was an honest mistake, but sadly… The Queen took it the wrong way. She screamed and  ranted close to an hour… And then some.”

” That is a lot of screaming.”

” Yes it is. At the end, Puff was worn out. His tail drooped, his years flopped, and his wings were bent really weird angles. He left the cave to go fly off but when he tried… He found he could not fly. All the fire and him had gone out. I hate to tell you this but he felt like crying. Walking around the cave area all the other dragons felt bad for him. Well, most of them did. Not all. Those dragons make fun of him.

A week passed, and he still did not have the fire in his belly so that he could fly. He went to five different Dragon doctors, and they all stroked their white beards (which, you do know, that all wise Dragon doctors have long white beards)…”

” Even Lady Dragon doctors?”

” uh huh. Well, all of these doctors had different things to tell him, but again, sadly, none of them knew how to fix this problem. Puff was down by the lake of the Crater of the Moon, just staring at himself in his reflection in the water. Suddenly, overhead, he noticed a Golden blonde Dragon flying overhead, circling.

It was an old friend his and he had not seen for quite a while. Her name was Sally…”

” Hey… That’s mom’s name!”

” Funny thing… You are right. Well, Sally landed right next to Puff and asked him him what was the matter.

Up unto this moment, Puff had not really been paying attention to her. When he turned to her to answer her, he just stopped. She was smiling, happy to see him after so long…

She glowed. Her smile was a golden transformation of utter brilliance. It was her  that shone like the sun; a smile that gleamed like 1000 sparklers. Sally was so gloriously beautiful it took Puff’s remaining breath away. He was speechless.”

“… Yeah? And then?”

“um… They talked and they talked and then they talked some more. She made him laugh. He made her laugh. He told her what was wrong and she listened. The smile on her face grew and became her face. The smile became her. She said: ‘look, Puff, you… You are glowing.’

He was. There was a heat in his belly that was far greater than any fire he had ever experienced in his entire life. His tail undrooped, and his ears unflopped, and his wings unbent into their normal shape. Puff had never felt like this before. Neither had Sally.

At the same time, they jumped in the air and flew. Puff was always a great flyer, but he was able to soar higher then ever. So did Sally. It is still said today, in Dragon tales, how they flew. Together they were golden sunshine, and together they remained for a very, very long time.

Okay. That’s it. Time for you to go to sleep. Love you!”

” Love you too, dad. ‘Night”

He got up, went to the door, turned off the lights, and stepped outside into the hall way.

” Hi.” It was a smile on her face.

” You there the whole time?”

” Yeah. I was.” The smile grew brighter.

He smiled back, equal.

“C’mere “Puff”… I think some golden sunshine is coming your way!”

They kissed.

” I love you.”

” I love you!”

The hallway lit up like 1000 thousand suns.