The Hand of Jealousy
She had received a call from her younger brother.
And on Fashion Week.
An-- interesting call. With a great commotion in his "sanctum," where he made all his babies flourish and fly off the mannequins' hard, lifeless bodies.
He must be dying, she decided. Odd that she'd be her first call. Had it been their Mother-- well that old bag wouldn't have told her. And Dad probably knew, being dead and all. Or a dandelion by now. He'd liked all that Buddhist stuff.
She didn't use the bell. Deciding to surprise him of the wine cradled in her arm. If he really was going then he deserved a treat. Just this once.
She'd even cry a little with him.
Having stolen his spare key a long time ago she let herself in.
To where she heard a moan and then a crash. Then her brother mewling his lungs out like Torbin Bates after she'd dumped his own cat's litter over his head. Shouldn't have called her insect fairy of a brother a fairy! Only she got to do that.
And perhaps he'd finally admitted that to himself and got himself a fine, gentlemanly hooker to entertain.
"No! Not Arn I need him for--!!"
He screamed again!
And this time with the thud of what could only have been his fists pounding on the floor as he sobbed.
"Twink!" she cried.
"Oh Pheebs, Pheebs save meeeee," he whined.
Among the explosion of fabrics and gaudy colors was Quinton, besieged upon by one of his female models.
The ravishingly firm and black Ramona mannequin.
Beating him with one of its own plastic hands.
And Arn? Another dummy who was now defiled in orange and black and puce green marker.
Phone out, she flashed a photo. "Hehehe, girlies got jealous you dog?"
And then Ramona paid her mind.
Besides the truly artful work on her lashes... she needed that midnight blue and black for herself... there was, an eerie green about her eyes. And she was sure her brother didn't have that kind of color. Because that color... that color was lighting up the whole studio.
"And who is this whore sweetums!?!?!?"
That's it.
She was going to Exorcist puke across this whole situationship.
Brownie
Dr. Seth Morgan, graduate with a Masters and Ph.D in Veterinary Medicine. Owned his own practice after his elderly mentor had peacefully passed with friends and family nearby. Passing on his equally stout and well-worn and loved office to the young apprentice twenty-three years old who happened to have an odd fascination somewhat off-kilter and unsettling to the rest. Of the man's family who were just a little stiffer whenever he got to talking about the matter.
When he told the elderly man he would be greeted in a beautiful light warm and full of a love inconceivable in this life try as we might to emulate it. Such all-encompassing love, forgiveness, and acceptance.
Asked if there were any other wishes, if he was truly sure, that his family would not appreciate to have the practice.
Dr. Seth Morgan was well-versed when it came to death.
In his office, in his operating room, and in his apartment and childhood home there were pictures of a boy. Blond hair and green eyes, down to the face shape and the way his ring finger was chosen to scratch when nervous an exact copy of Seth however not Seth.
Sixty-six seconds seemed to have made all the difference.
Could it be his younger brother had not had enough air? Had gotten hungry? Perhaps his elder brother would hold his neck too long in the womb? So that for a scant moment his eyes saw what was never meant to be seen. And so came about an affinity for this life, the creatures beyond human vision.
Then again, such experiences didn't explain future sight and surely not telepathy.
Dr. Seth Morgan reminisced often of those teenage years. Fall, the season of change and of the greatest pain, just after his brother succumbed to an unlucky genetic illness. When he'd been laid in a casket! At fourteen he'd been in a casket, in his best suit, and done up in the embalmers' makeup so he didn't look so decrepit and \\dead\\.
In everything he and Drake had been identical.
In adulthood Seth even had a knob on his head similar to one Drake obtained-- thank you Jieum Ban-- on an undead investigation.
The day was one of many in a heavy, humid summer fugue.
His secretary was young, eager, and constantly urgent.
However today her well-kempt, professional appearance was foregone. Hair across her face, cheeks furiously red when she'd unceremoniously thrown his office door open.
"Francine--" he greeted.
"There's a boy here to see you, his puppy's losing a lot of blood!"
And with that he stormed from his seat and into reception.
There were a few patients, some here for consult, but on a singular seat where many threw pitying glances was a boy all alone cradling a quivering mass of mutilated, fuzzy flesh slicked with blood. One of which scabbed over in even, equal scratches across the eye.
"Alright son, just give me the poor thing for now. Fran lead him in and kid," Seth said with warmth.
"Ye-- yeah?" he asked, voice warbled in his tears. Fat teardrops still flowed down his cheeks and snot began to trickle out of his nose.
"I'll need you to be brave for a second. So let's stand up," he complimented the child as he did, who used Seth's shoulder for support, "good you're doing well. Okay so I need your name, the puppy's name and what happened okay. And once that's done Francine can patch you alright."
"But-- but Brownie! He's never been without me before! He-- he needs and I need him!"
"Shhh, shh, I know I know, come on keep going," he urged. "Right now Brownie is fighting really hard and he's going to need help sooner than later."
The boy's breath hitched.
Continuing toward the operating room Seth turned back, smiling at the child. "It'll stress him if he hears you're crying. But I promise, on my job and my title that I'll do all I can. You did the right thing bringing him."
The child thought for just a moment, before his watery eyes set on their resolve.
"He got bit by another dog!"
And so did he. His leg wasn't bleeding anymore but the cut was still long and had stained his whole calf red.
"The owner said he'd gotten that awful monster his shots which yeah is probably true else animal control woulda taken him after he ate a stray cat and Mrs. Warbler's colorful birds."
"Dear," he replied.
"Yeah no kidding."
Turning the door open the boy shouted for the whole building to hear; "I trust you! So you better save him big brother!"
There was no time to think on it or to address the sudden rush that stole the air from his lungs.
What mattered now, was the sweet friend called Brownie.
Gently setting the dog on his side, he flicked on the overhead light.
Turn on the faucet, water boiling hot he washed his hands of the blood.
A pair of gloves snapped as he put them on over his hands.
Mask.
Surgery cap.
Francine had called ahead to have the set-up ready.
Then it means she had seen the child's injury too. That would be a mark positive for her evaluation tonight.
From just what he could see there were several lacerations across the pup's side.
Teeth had punctured the abdomen to the stomach.
They'd clamped down on the poor thing's neck too. He worked on getting a sheet over that so the poor thing could breathe.
Get him on a mask.
One of his interning veterinarians had came back on Francine's call as he readied to make the first incision.
__________________
\\Save him big brother!//
Seth had changed into clean scrubs as he went to face the child.
Seated in Francine's chair, spinning lazily.
His leg had been tightly bandaged and from the extra pink slip he'd been given a prescription for his physician and parents to look into.
"Oh hey..." any manner of cheer was bluntly dashed at the look. The pity.
And in the solemn way he pulled off the mask.
"I'm sorry son."
"But Seth, you studied. So hard and a whole lot. Vet school's hard."
"Yes it is, but I-- I'm not perfect."
He ignored just how this child knew his name. Perhaps he'd read something.
The tears came even as the boy tried to smile.
Continued and held his voice captive even as he tried to reassure the adult: "thank you. It's-- it's good you tried. You-- You did a good jo-o-o-ob!"
And he broke down.
"Hey, hey its going to be okay. That's alright just let it out, let it out," Seth soothed.
"Do you want a hug?"
"God this body cries too much!" the child screamed.
"Hmm I bet it does," he agreed.
"I wanna hug."
"Thanks big brother," he said into Seth's shirt.
"Okay listen, I can let you see him for a few minutes and then you'll have to call your parents so they can pick you up."
"Don't worry, I don't want to cause you trouble."
"That's good, come on," he said offering his hand.
"So big brother huh," Seth prompted, hopefully to get more information. He was well aware the most likely explanation was simply that he was in a state of distress and the child latched on to Seth for looking like an actual elder brother.
"Yes," he said. "You're my big brother. But I wish we didn't have to actually meet this way. I am really, really sad about Brownie but," the child squeezed tighter, "I've never felt too sad when you're around. Even when I died."
And Seth stopped.
His head went fuzzy and it distinctly felt that he would collapse. What-- no. No way. That was impossible.
But, he still had a child who was severely disturbed or something else wrong.
"I'm so proud of you. I saw all the drawings in your office," the child smiled.
The child with black hair, brown eyes and was Latino for crying out loud! This wasn't-- this wasn't real. Not like ghosts and restless spirits and ESPs were real. He had examples for those!
"Seth, Seth please don't be scared. Y'know I never did meet a reincarnated person so I didn't write about it in any notes or my diary. Hey what did you do with that by the way?"
"You aren't-- kid how long have you been in the sun? Have you eaten? Do you feel any pain besides your leg? Oh," he swallowed away the lump, "I didn't even ask. Does it hurt?"
"Did you get married?"
"That's not important," he said, now employing a much more stern tone. "We're talking about you and listen please just tell me your name."
"Oh, yeah my name's Enzo now. Lorenzo Ortiz."
"Okay, okay and you live around here Enzo?"
"Was it Maria?"
"The Mother Mary?" Seth tried.
"Oh Gods do you call her that? Does she hate it? Well alright, maybe a little less if you guys maybe realized some feelings were there after high school. Or did you reconnect after so many years in that little old town where she had the yellow picket-fence clubhouse?"
"Wh-- what?"
"Hey Seth! Took you long enough so come on tell me, tell me."
"That house--"
The yellow clubhouse that twenty years ago was probably a storage shed in the backyard of a newlywed or newly moved couple. He never did know as much about his friends' childhoods as he should.
What he did know is that in ten years, that yellow picket-fence clubhouse, was for the self-made Occult Club.
"Yeah, yeah," he dismissed. "But seriously how is everyone. Look I'm as surprised as anyone, I couldn't tell you who or what or why, much less even when it was decided for me. They got the math way off making me wait so long. Whoever they are."
"Maria. Maria Schaer?" Seth inquired, "En-- Lorenzo, do you mean Maria Schaer who lived at Blackberry Boulevard when she was-- when she--"
"Since she was born until I assume she moved out for college right? Okay not her then, soooo sweet, artistic Anne Danvers. I read about her, she's doing pretty well for herself as a gallery feature. God if only Mom, well new Mom, had the money for that sort of thing. But, I can always track her down when I'm a teenager."
And in his eye was a strong glint, the shine of a will much bigger than a body that size should feasibly be able to hold.
"Oh and our parents! Seth you haven't been too much trouble since I left right? I mean look at you, if you aren't engaged and girls are still obsessed with you but no surprise though you look like that," and there was an old sense of bitterness in that tone.
Again, completely discordant of a five year old.
"Drake!" he cut into his rambling, because he'd heard scant little about-- about the how that Drake could so helpfully explain.
There was no telling just how much Dr. Seth Morgan could take before clocking out early and hitting-- something. Likely copious amounts of Chinese food and sugar.
"How are you?" he asked quietly. Since for one, his dog had just died. Mauled to death. And he'd brought in the too small critter in alone.
It hadn't set well with him from the start.
"I don't get what you-- you're looking at me really weird. And I-- I can't tell what you're thinking? Is that weird I mean I at least, geez, we were never weird like that but still."
"It's okay. Take your time, this is, this is a lot. For me too."
He had come down to his knee, looking at him straight in the eye and just wanted to keep his hands clapped on this boy's shoulders forever. His clothes were of faded colors, bands with skulls and three sizes too big.
All not good.
"I am fine so please don't look like that. Teachers have been giving me those looks too and some of my Mom's sisters. They've been acting mean and I don't know why."
Drake crossed his arms, face in an epic pout. So that even when choked up and ready to explode Seth let out a small, watery laugh.
"Well then can you tell me, honestly, why you chose that shirt? It's way too big."
He looked down and then back at his brother as if he'd asked something quite stupid.
"I-- I liked it. I dunno I didn't before but I guess I do now. Oh one of my cousins, he plays his guitar all the time at his house. Said he played riffs in my ears from when I was one."
"Hah. Okay, okay you're a cool cat. And should I--"
He pointed at Drake's tiny ear. "Do you hear ringing or anything? How does my voice sound to you when I--" he drew out his lips into long, rounded vowels.
"Completely silly. I never noticed just how silly doctors were. Hey, do you think I could have been a good doctor? I mean most kids I handled were already dead..."
"I think you'd have been an excellent caretaker whatever way you chose to do it. If that was what you would have settled on."
"Did you ever get that spa off the ground?"
"Don't you even," he started, only for Drake to laugh. "I'm well alright I'm not sorry but I'll stop."
"So practically a little brother in this life then?"
Patting his head, Seth started to stand. Only for his knee to creak and a girly squeak to force itself out in response.
"GAaaggh."
It took more time than he'd care to think about to get back up so they could see the last of Brownie.
"What happened, did you get a bypass from an eighty year old or something Seth?"
"No," he snipped, "that's just what happens when you're middle aged."
"Don't let Mom and Dad hear you."
"No kidding."
"You seriously thought though, that my parents don't treat me right did you?"
"You have to admit wouldn't you? How many kids did you see that looked lost and abandoned that were actually dead?"
"Okay I see the point-- except I'm not."
"Not anymore."
"I came alone because home was too far and Mom would have asked too many questions. It would have-- it would have taken too long," Drake wrung his shirt, gazing down at it with melancholic eyes half closed a bit like his puppy.
Gently Seth unclamped his brother's hands from his shirt. "Just breathe alright. Listen we can wait in reception or we can spend some brother time in my office," he made sure to keep his voice somewhat muted, temps and assistants as well as the other two senior vets were walking around, "anyway we don't have to--"
"It's okay. I do want to. Please."
"Okay."
Drake gently caressed the dog's head, fingers just over where the eye had scarred.
His voice choked up. "I really, really loved him. He was actually what helped me remember stuff. I'd found him while walking with my friends, he was filthy, full of nicks and fleas too. My parents had to deep clean my clothes."
Seth simply stood in silence. Securely standing over him as he grieved.
"He'd almost bitten, until, I remembered somehow. To let him sniff, to speak slowly and gently and stay very still until it was ready to come out. Because you studied on that stuff. I remembered how you named your puppy Shadow! Since you found him at night and you almost missed him when walking to the bus or to home?"
"To home," Seth said. "And Shadow he, he passed away too. Just a year ago, maybe they'll meet each other."
"Yeah!"
Hand on his back they stood there awhile. And much like handling a puppy Seth was silent and he was attentive to any body language, any prompt to ask when.
All at his own pace.
When Drake was ready he turned for the doorway. "Let me tell Mom about you and you can meet her, she takes real good care of me. Promise."
"I'd like that."
Only a ruckus preceded their exit.
What sounded vaguely like a woman's voice.
Until both Francine and another older looking lady burst in. The latter scooped up Lorenzo in her arms.
"Hay mi cielo me distes un ambolismo. Que estabas pensando con ese perro talludo y por Dios ni llamastes, bueno no sabes el numero," she scolded, yet all the while nuzzling him close to her chest.
"Thank you sir, and I'm sorry if he's caused a fuss or caused a disturbance," she rounded, in a thick accent that Seth could only guess might have been Cuban of all things.
"No senora, era una alegria. La cosa es su perrito--"
"Si donde esta el pobrecito?"
"Ahi. Perdoname."
"Ay hiciste todo lo posible estoy segura."
Seth couldn't help the degree of confusion but answered in the affirmative anyway.
"Si perdon, my English. Isn't good yet."
"No worry at all," Seth assured, "but senora may I speak on something? Your son-- Lorenzo--" and his face just twisted. Because much as he was now Lorenzo Ortiz he was also Drake. His Drake. His twin.
"Te dijo entonces. Esa historia de la otra vida y el gemelo."
"Senora, me dijo de su perrito, como el mio. Me dijo de mis amigas."
"Una obsesion, casi enfermo de esta clinica desde que podia leer."
"Leer. Read?"
"Desde que tenia tres. Veterinario-- vet-- su palabra favorita."
Brother Sister, Brother, BrotherSister
Note: I tried Horror exactly once as a long-form story and it ended up better matching an Urban Fantasy or Paranormal.
**************************
The first night, no matter how dangerous, how bullheaded, and unbelievably insensitive to Donna's constant badgering or the motherly hysterics from Mom, Cole had visited Josh's little grave when his sister had first been lost.
Following a long, long, loooong coming "first date," with who had seemed a sweet, somewhat dweeb of a Tony McGuire fanboy.
There was a sleet of harsh rain at two eighteen in the morning, battering the cemetery. Completely stealing away his voice having barely opened his lips.
After all, shadows among the stones, or peeling up and down from the green bed of grass and jauntily blossoming sprouts from fresh mounds could very well be ghosts. And the very moon in the sky full and lustrous, was really a metallic drone watching and recording.
"I'm telling you little brother there's something out there. I knew that upswing of reported crop circles had been important. It's such a cliche but its completely possible they either don't care or don't think its important. For goodness sake if they've committed the perfect kidnapping not to mention figured intergalactic space travel what do they care about what us bugs think are patterns," he ranted and raved. Sounding crazy as always, in just the way that drove Donna insane. In just the way that swept him up and could sweep him away from his thoughts.
Of the too small, too beautiful gravestone. But Josh deserved nothing less, had been so, so much, and died much too young one summer's afternoon on a camping trip upstate with his scout troop.
Dad had spitefully sued the neglectful teens on duty and in fact the entire chapter to the ground.
"Dad wants to kill Zack," Cole informed to the silent marble. Not much of a marvel, hardly worth the waver. Despite knowing the poor, sweet guy was the last person to have been guilty. "No really, not just the usual, though that was funny to watch," and a genuine if not brittle smile came to him at the thought.
Then again, there'd been some tempers flown at Donna too, she hadn't told anyone they'd transitioned to dating.
"Let me tell you about what I found out, see there's this Occult website that sells really well and their products actually look homemade. Each one has its own flare," he continued on, smile hitched on his face, gleaming oddly in the scant light, "I-- I bought this salt, see we'd have maybe gone demon hunting around the woods and other such places dotted around, it's supposed to protect against demons and evil spirits."
Cole emptied the hemp bag in a negligible circle, careful with each palmful, that about half still turned to paste in the storm.
Saying a prayer, about twenty or so minutes later, Cole said his goodbyes and biked against the wet pavement, slippery and squeaking, fighting the tires and shocks of his once shiny new mint bicycle.
Able to creep back into the yard through the purposefully unlocked lawn gate sopping wet and stripping down to his boxers disposing of the offending clothes in an empty basin meant to be filled with a sizeable plant. Alarm set for a couple hours so he could take up collecting and piling the clothes into a couple hours with the dryer.
Well, that night turned to two then three and four, for five weeks without exception. He began to resemble a skin walker himself off his conspiracy boards, constantly grimy, stinking of wet soil, so, so grimy, itching everywhere scraping his nails across flesh to rash-worthy red.
Cole had been forced to admit, exclusively to himself that when the sound of the pipes dripping just underneath the wall, was his own heart, somehow outside his chest someone somehow dead. That something, some unholy thing wanted to devour him that he may have been losing his mind just a little.
He had admitted to a lesser crime, he admitted to meandering //inside// the house at odd hours unable to rest, so his parents permitted he skipped school.
And selfish as it was, Cole couldn't help but boast that included an exam in the dreaded literature class.
It took something of a terrible person, that once his head did hit a pillow, Cole slept without complaint. Without nightmares and without question. Of whether Donna would live or die. When. Or if she was found.
And in fact they did find her.
A very nice homeless man called the police and with the proper tests done did in fact ascertain there'd been no foolishness.
And the momentary flash, red and made of primal, inherited vitriol abated.
The good man had done a very good thing.
A very, very good thing.
"Hi! My name's Donna! I'm four years old! I don't, I don't know my full address yet," she said, hand distorting her words.
"Oh!" she shot out, pointing to Mom, "that's my Mom, her see and Dad too."
She giggled at her shaved head, squealed in naive curious fear of the bandage at her head.
Making her whole family flinched in how closely she fingered a blatant hole that had caved her head. Slick and sticky with blood, too much blood and fluid.
Somehow Cole still slept through the nights.
Some nights he did sleep through the way Donna wandered around the hall where the bedrooms are, eyes wide and in some way glazed. Somehow dusted with a silver there hadn't been before.
Other nights he heard her, humming an absent, toneless song in an airy fairy-like voice. Fitting for her delicate, ethereal young age.
In all seriousness, Donna had never been so, so... dim yet curious.
Her little red black button up easter dress always came back as clean as she had left in it.
However the doctors had said to expect it.
Even if it did prickle uncomfortably at Cole.
The little parts of Donna that came out wrong from that place she had been in.
But four year old Donna had cried when fed celery and broccoli at that age. Which had allowed him to be the good one for once.
And now she balked at the concept of meat and the dead animal.
Mom and Dad, the doctors, heads lowered in such pity concede all the manner of gruesome things she could have encountered.
Once the concept had finally sunk in, that like some fairytale her brother had grown big without her, she clung to his every word and asked a myriad of questions.
An otherwise perfect impression.
If it weren't for the unnatural misted shine of her green eyes and the sheer oddity of her childish smile.
Cole tossed and turned at night. The word skating across his brain.
Skin walkers. Dead. Changing faces, skin dirty becomes clean. Crops. No hair, no prints. No struggle at all.
FAKE.
Donna, was a fake.
His breath had just about turned to ice when the door knob turned.
Creak
Creak
Creak
Eyes bored down his nape.
Cole reluctantly sucked in a breath past the sudden marble in his throat.
"Are you awake?" she asked shyly, maybe wringing her hands.
"I had a nightmare, I was scared."
Cole kept his silence.
"Can I sleep with you?"
//I'll keep the nightmares away!//
Cole had once declared that, announcing an impromptu sleepover as the neglected older children with that pink ham named Josh around.
The thing that looked like his sister crawled into the covers.
Settling in contentedly next to him lying close enough that her nose touched his back.
"Are you okay? You're tense, really, real tense."
Under the Treetop Tunnel
Emile eventually broke their tender embrace.
Smiling soft with considerable levels of care, "no more tears alright. We'll celebrate," he decided giving one last slap to his shoulder.
Abel pulled on the shoes.
"How about ice cream or candy? Oh no, you don't like that do you? Oh I'm craving something sweet, yeah so we'll make a quick stop. Or, or, to the community center they're doing an escape room."
Only the last sounded remotely appealing. However there was one activity that had popped to mind. One that they had done together as butler and charge.
"The library?" Abel requested.
It took some seconds as he likely had the same thought, until his face lit up.
Great idea, you'll love it, a two floor rustic sort of place and their novelty fairytales are beautiful. And historically accurate."
Emile drove onward on the dirt path that grew then curved into an isolated road.
With a moment's consideration he turned right onto a smoother one clearly meant for cars. The reach and girth of the intertwining branches turned the mass of green into it's own little grotto.
Imposing onto Abel just how much time had passed.
But beyond that point he focused more on the turns and street markers.
Emile tried to coax him into conversation. He engaged as much as he was able, better averting any reason for his captor to be cautious.
"Have you enjoyed the reading material I've gotten you so far?"
"Yes, it's quite fascinating," he affirmed.
"That's good."
"I quite like the history ones you've chosen," Abel continued to elaborate, slowly herding and taking control of the conversation.
A mile marker for the wider town. Ads beginning to crop for some of the historically preserved buildings, doubling as some authentic businesses.
About time he did briefly at least, touch on the topic of allowance for his chores. Or, just what "outside" would mean.
It was at the crest of an incline that the town suddenly sprawled to life.
The buildings had a homely, picturesque charm to them. Perfectly replicating the photographs of small town, tight knit hospitality and the fruit vendor out in open sun from the one "general store."
Emile parked his car on a rounded section, above most where only a few strong, sturdy trees were allowed to grow and benches lining the edge permitting a truly beautiful view of a city hall made up in New English architecture, deep, bellowing church bells within a steeple, and small, rickety shops.
With a smile his captor so presented the town. "Welcome to Winterset. Quite the sight."
With a cursory look he unlocked the car, coming out from his own side and opening the door for Abel who took the obliged hand.
"Candy store is right over," he looked right down on the railing, "ah, right there."
He pointed just past the sloping pedestrian walkway to the general store building with wooden floorboard and awning thatched roof.
"And then the library is," his gaze wandered, acting turned around and spinning.
"Not on this street?" Abel asked, not truly a question. Else Emile would have just pointed it out.
"Yup," he replied cheerily. "It's down the avenue, and toward city hall, at least, the one near the school is." and made a showy wink. Ah. Obviously. Close to children, much more reason to appeal for children.
"I see then, okay," Abel murmured quietly, heading for the stairway.
"Ah remember Abby--" he never had liked that nickname. And yet never did Emile stop, even under their pretense. "--By me at all times. Don't want you getting lost."
Plenty of people were out at the hour, often with cloth grocery bags overflowing with either produce or the peeking out summer sausages and cheese.
And they all cooed over a new child. Despite a sundry look and all too proper, dark colored clothing.
"How sweet and oh, oh he holds so tight."
"Yes, I know. Well to be honest I sort of have to," Emile admitted with a bashful smile, remorse in his honey gaze.
"A foster child, now he has his issues, poor kids of his kind often do. Especially gifted ones."
Women tried to pinch his cheeks.
And Emile thankfully pulled him away from that.
At the general store there was a man. Tall and lean, not too imposing and a scraggle of greyish-white for a beard down to his chest.
"Ahh nice to see you here again Frau, and with the foster you couldn't stop raving over," he greeted grandly.
"Yes hello, Mr. Haley," he chirped.
Haley General Store.
The man quickly caught on to Abel's unmoving stare, acknowledging him indulgently.
"A piece of candy? On the house for you child."
He opened his mouth, intending perhaps to agree. A lemon jawbreaker wouldn't go unappreciated. And he could ingratiate himself with one adult. Who did not speak at overwhelming volume and unacceptably trite and horning tone.
"No I'm sorry," Emile replied, voice now absent of joviality, "it's a kind offer really but he is grounded at the moment."
"Oh and what for?"
"Please, I'd rather not get too into it, but well just, I believe he wasn't fed or some manner of issue. Before assuming of course--" and then whispered to the owner, "kleptomania."
"Hmm hmm, okay I see. But bring him around some other time, I insist Emile. Let me indulge the child a bit."
Abel shuddered at the idea of being throttled lovingly by yet another stranger, only to find the owner to be quite practiced at gentle head pats.
It felt nice. Overall.
Emile did not leave Abel an inch to work with on his own through the old, creaking floors of the store and their old fashioned shelving and paper labels system.
The trip turned out quite brief and Emile indulging Abby for some sour jawbreakers.
Laughing and petting all the while as he pointed them out for the scoop.
"There you go, say I'll pay and-- just come back quick," he jutted his head subtly towards a section of little toys. Matchbox cars and the like.
Abel wouldn't miss the opportunity, nodding though somewhat slow in releasing the hand holding his. Until he was absolutely certain his captor truly had parted. "Thank you Emile."
"Okay just have fun. But don't be too long!"
The cars were really of little interest and no value of any kind. His Mother had once rewarded his test marks one year with a racetrack. But then he had advanced further from force, friction, and wind resistance.
There were packs of jacks and marbles. And while he's seldom been downstairs all that much they could prove essential.
Only it certainly wasn't wise.
No. Taking up a toy in hand, a toy he would never want otherwise-- it would only lend credibility to these little lies.
Kleptomaniac. Stealing from an emotional desire inexplicable and often heeded to suppress that very desire. Often accompanied by shame and guilt after the fact. So stolen items were often returned.
Though there lay some doubt that such a small village worries or harps about such nuance. It was-- a bit revealing to see they knew what the word meant.
He returned to Emile when there were just one person in front.
Jawbreaker stuffed in his right cheek.
"Don't be so mad," Emile prodded. "Wouldn't be too much of a game if I didn't pull some tricks too."
"You mean lying and speaking of me and in ill terms?" A searing accusation heavy in my tone.
"Yes, utter and horrible lies. Which I don't believe and I know better than think you'd fall for."
"You would be right at that at least."
Boo Radley came to mind from his literature studies that spring.
"Hey, don't blame others too much okay. I mean I am a grown-up you gotta admit which isn't all fair at all," he pouted.
"Grown ups do lie a lot more," Abel reluctantly acquiesced to this unexpected astuteness, "especially for what they want."
And somehow, the shoe is always on the other foot. About Abel being the unfairly deceitful.
****************************
The library was a two-floored and rounded structure, walls painted with large tree leaves and a plastic tree realistically textured blooming off the floor.
On the balcony above them were shelves of books but with small enclaves carved out for pillows and beanbag spaces.
Where the children read or had their parents do so.
"I'll go find us a place. Have fun Abby."
And like that he was left to the first floor.
Rows upon rows of books. And one stand, near a reading area clearly meant for group reading or other shows of fairytales like the Magnificent Marlon or Magic Beanstalk.
Swiveling forward, he came among a squirming gaggle of kids all endeavoring to get the best look, it gave him some odd type of feeling. People his age who could appreciate a good book.
So perhaps they could be polite about it, and allow him a good look.
For curiosity's sake. Entirely so.
"E-- excuse me," he said, and while struck by the meandering stutter let it flow away like water down his shoulders.
As all eyes had turned towards him.
Mostly common brown of dark shades and matching hair types. Only two had either grey eyes or an intriguing meld of green and hazel.
"Who are you?"
"Yeah!"
"You look kinda weird."
"Looks all weird too."
"Standing there!" And so they laughed together.
"Hello my name is Abel," he said, "the book," pointing a finger outright.
"You like fairytales?" asked the one who had first inquired. An odd kind of light flashing in his eye.
"Uhm, yes. Yes. I suppose I do."
"Hahah! You talk really funny," the boy chided casually.
And then took his hand straight out of nowhere.
"Lucky you're new, new guy else you'd have to wait a turn till we were done."
He could now see there was a singular girl, with a bob cut, nose up in the air who nodded.
She appeared extraordinarily proud for someone in pink glitter everything. And a unicorn prancing across on her shirt.
"Heya so where is your Mommy?" asked another, head down opposite Abel himself now. He did not need the stool provided on the stand.
He'd been solely concentrated on the delicate brush clearly used, the heavy feel of the pages, and such beautiful illustrations. Taking slow, thoughtful care of the Cinderella story they weaved. Where here the Princess had a bejeweled coif of ember black hair.
So that when he jerked it was much more sudden then could be considered polite. And the question striking completely uncalled for. Unnerving. Unanswerable.
What was this heavy thing?
Homesickness was bile in your stomach, a constant heavy rock protruding from your navel area.
This, this thing lodged right into his throat.
"My Mother, Mother and Father--"
"Yeah! Where are they? You gotta have a grown-up!"
As if that were the most obvious, most dumbest notion to not simply know.
"Are you alone?"
"Woah, do you get to walk to here all by yourself?"
"No, well not allowing," he began. Lie. Lying was the right answer.
"Haha! That's so cool!"
"You're the coolest."
"Yes, thank-- thank you. Thank you." He nodded, and with a stern conviction jerked back for the pages.
Intending to simply graze, see if this were a Grimm version. Would they draw the birds as doves? Or ravens or crows?
Turning and turning he turned to the end.
Each time a suck of warm breath and the whispers of his audience.
For some reason just as taken of what he was doing.
"Thank you," he said, excusing himself.
"Huh uhh okay. You read fast."
"I know."
"Abby!" trilled another voice. Just as eager and at ease. Emile. "Who are they? Hello there, are you all having a good time together? Well we can read here then if you like?"
"I'm sorry no, I don't know them," Abel responded.
"Mr. Abel's Dad?" the leader boy again inquired first.
"Huh." And then his stupefied look became a soft, tittering laugh. Which he had grown so used to hearing. "No, no, well he wouldn't say yet."
And yet this boy had turned completely red, his bob-haired partner pouted, and hackles raised among the rest of the group.
"I gotta go back to my Mommy," decided the one having asked before about Mothers.
Slowly some nodded. Leaving.
"I just don't wanna be here now," and then the leader gave him one last once over. "Bye Abel."
And like that scampered off fast as his sneakers would run.
"They sure are a laugh," Emile mused on, "smart too to be fair. Did they-- say something? You look... sickly."
Abel pointed to a shelf of books.
"Go on, and I've gotten this folklore book. It has all types of monsters. Not real though don't worry."
"You would be scared silly if that were the case."
Emile seemed to break into hives at all things ugly.
"You know me. Like a book."
And clearly he expected some manner of response. A laugh or a pity hum.
Rather he fixed a strong dry glower, face ever set in disinterest and formalities. "Okay."
Abel luckily was right to assume fairytales, he easily found Aladdin, the Prince and the Pauper, Anastasia, any and all books that included a thief character or street child with street smarts. Also in his find was a book of magic tricks, clearly left disorganized, perhaps by the very same group oggling the older aesthetically placed Cinderella.
Not that he would know.
And such minor things were not for him to care.
With a pat Emile proudly led Abel up the stairs into one of the circular reading spaces, privy holes smashed in at random intervals or the beanbags and pillows simply strewn about either way. In a frenzied mess.
He could not imagine anyone in his house being too pleased to see such a thing. Abel was sure not even the head housekeepers or elder maids would hide the disapproval. As Father permitted staff to scold foolery. Including Abel's own if ever need be.
Per usual Emile insisted Abel close. Pressed into a warm, such overwhelmingly large figure. Arms effectively locking him in place to stare up at his head as he began to read.
By page two Abel had begun working on the jawbreakers. Occasionally deciding to taste some of the worms Emile had gotten too.
"Tinker Bell huffed and sniffed with a shudder when Wendy and Peter hugged close to fly."
"Both her brothers were awestruck, grinning as they looped and danced in the sky."
Never?! You've never been with kids and just, played? Not even a brother or the carpenter's son
That-- that's so sad
Am I something of a big brother then? Since you don't-- have one of the little ones Abby?
"Would you have liked one?" asked among one of the many days they spent staring blankly at the night sky on his ceiling, Emile dropped such out of pocket, completely outrageous questions. "A little brother I mean. So cute and fun and you know, they'd adore you. Adore you for being you and being his family, nice to it as you are to me."
_______________________
Hook had tricked Tinker Bell and she was beginning to fade.
And he was slowly creeping for Peter Pan.
Abel couldn't help, as he meandered on such ludicrous, baseless questions, take that arm across his chest and hide himself, just a little bit.
Taking in a sweetly, heavy sort of scent.
In the city people were no bigger than gnats from up in a high-rise penthouse. His room, he knew, bigger than most housing layouts for the typical nine to fiver.
Abel had always been aware he was a cut above. In many ways better than most and with privileges.
Not always, necessarily told.
A trait often appreciated in the presence of their parents' circle.
Many times among the decided upon holidays or hands-on days did he get to sit in on another monolith of metal and glass. Father's company soared upon the city and watched the entire sprawl below. From the very top office in a fine, professional atmosphere and very large and soft chair.
Father, like his tutors, imparted his lessons.
Standing straight and with an impassive expression toward the window.
Abel copied him.
Always receiving the same short, stinted humm of approval. "Do you realize why you are here? Here with me rather than at home or at your mother's lap?"
Abel made eye contact. And then thought but could not come up with a satisfactory answer. None at all.
"It is because you are a cut above the rest Abel. You are a prodigy and that is something you must never forget."
"I see and why? Is it so important?"
Father had never disapproved questions.
Never. Not of any kind.
"You have been afforded a gift, a gift neither I nor your Mother gave you, it is all your own so you may rise higher than I've ever been capable of."
It was a fact of life.
As his Father's son, Abel would inherit the company to do with as his brilliant mind decided was best.
____________________________
"Magic tricks, lock picking too," Emile said once they left. "You're so smart Abby, but no."
He'd have to rip out the respective pages then.
Abel breathed a bit deeper than normal.
Easily written off, when he would throw the vandalized books to his captor's face.
The locked door.
It would make a nice starting point to practice.
“I Arose as a Mother in Israel”
When I picture Deborah, there is no hearth or home involved. Instead, I see her on top of the domelike Mount Tabor with the general Barak, watching as the oppressive Sisera gathers a terrifying army of 900 chariots below.
I imagine her turning to Barak, and with command in her voice saying "Up! For this is the day in which the Lord has given Sisera into your hand. Does not the Lord go out before you?”
Then I imagine Barak stirring, calling his troops to attention, and storming down the mountain, all under Deborah's watchful eye.
Later, after the battle, I picture her and Barak again on top of Mount Tabor, looking out on the scattered bodies of Sisera's troops. I picture the joy on her face, as she receives the news that her prophecy has come true: it was to Jael, a mere tent-dweller, that the Lord had delivered the fleeing Sisera: the oppressor of her people is finally vanquished.
And then, I picture Deborah breaking out into song, braids possibly flying:
“In the days of Shamgar, son of Anath,
in the days of Jael, the highways were abandoned,
and travelers kept to the byways.
7 The villagers ceased in Israel;
they ceased to be until I arose;
I, Deborah, arose as a mother in Israel."
Deborah was a prophetess, a military leader, a mother figure, and a judge during a time when her nation was oppressed by cruel rulers, such as Sisera. Yet not once do we see her flinch, and not once do we see her acquiesce, even while the men around her are quaking in their boots (sadly, many of the tribes, refuse even to rise up against their oppressors).
How does Deborah, a mere woman in a nation of male dominance, have such confidence and clout?
“Lord, when you went out from Seir,
when you marched from the region of Edom,
the earth trembled
and the heavens dropped,
yes, the clouds dropped water.
The mountains quaked before the Lord,
even Sinai before the Lord,[a] the God of Israel."
Her confidence is in her God, and in no one else. And from God comes her clout. That is how she could tell Barak clearly that it was time to attack: that is how she could command with decisiveness and purpose. And not once in the Bible can you find a caveat for Deborah's leadership, such as you hear in many pulpits today (i.e. 'Deborah was only in charge because there were no suitable men around'). The Bible does not offer any excuse or apology for her leadership - it simply paints her as a stellar example of a leader who listened to God and did what he said. Period. No gender roles involved.
This is to me, a wonderful example of a godly, unapologetically strong woman. We women who now trust Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior; we women who have the very same God as Deborah guiding us (in the form of the Holy Spirit); we women who are instructed by Paul to take every scripture as God-breathed and useful for teaching and instruction in righteousness; we women (and men too), can learn that when we listen to God and point our noses unyieldingly in the direction of his will, he will use us in mighty ways, regardless of our gender.
Deborah was not obedient to man - she was obedient to God. Deborah was not submissive to the commander Barak - she was submissive to God. Deborah was not quiet and home-centered - yet her spirit was quiet and centered in the will of God. Does God find delight in a woman like that? It sure seems so.
Job
Job everyman yes man nowhere man hue man
sitting in ashes scraping putrid pustering boils
while his helpmate nags to curse god and die
yet like us stubborn in innocence and outrage
just wanting logical rational human explanation
how suffering can possibly be the reward you get
after being upwrite diligent and telling it as it is
as we see it through our sole eyes soul vocabulary
no pretty picture nothing to look at here ma'am
fortunate son earned in a throw of twinkling dice
fallen flat greased pig up the flagpole of eternity
Job the odd man out no author no explanation history
yet learned cannot avert their pupils from this poetic bit
inserted in the massive groaning text deemed sacred
words taken out of context repeated monastery chants
as chemically plumped up coutured bodies are lowered
provide deficient distraction to drown out weeping wailing
naked I came naked I disappear all given now striped away
licked clean dog quick on baby back rib fallen unaware
in the void of meaning we are left to wander and mutter
praise be the name of whatever master in whose game
we pawned a lifetime for in search of elusive meaning
Writer’s Block
The biggest challenge as a writer, I find, is writer's block.
I do not mean to turn anybody off writing; it is a creative and, sometimes, even a lucrative, hobby. The more competitions you enter, the higher your chances of winning a prize, even it if is not the top prize. You may even decide to take up writing for a living, i.e. enter into a publishing contract and earn quite a fortune.
Writer's block is the nuisance which hinders you.
Today I am writing, but there are days when I visit this website and stare blankly at the screen. No inspiration comes to me. I so badly want to enter into competitions but my mind goes blank. I wish that I could kickstart myself into being able to write every day but, most days, I cannot. I wish that I could get out of this dilemma.
This Karma of Evil,
Is not yet over.
And so it went.
The good receive good paid forward.
The bad receive only what they've put into the world. Souls stained dark and so their lives would be in this world we lived in.
Where evil paid unto evil.
A God somewhere above indifferent or perhaps ignorant to nuance and how complex each action and inaction truly was. For there was no black and there was no grey.
I'm sure even the thought is traitorous. Promising another rain of hot coals and spiked shoes.
\\I don't think... I'm that awful a person//
Head bowed I was careful to keep to my space, wary of bumping anyone. For good reason. Some looking surly, others smiling from ear to ear, happy and glimmering with pink and cobalt little gems stitched onto their clothes or glittering their cheeks in healthy, almost magical glow.
I couldn't say, why they looked the most grotesque of all.
Black Spider Nursery Rhyme
Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet when along came the
hideous spider that burrowed up inside her
in a web that traps a
spider comes here every night,
into a fortress of filth and garbage that reaches to the ceiling.
It rots with food, maggots, storybooks, torn ragged dolls
bearing an uncanny resemblance to the almost-woman
peering at herself with hollow eyes in the mirror. A horrific house of clutter
filled with sickness, rage and something started long ago
inside another house shrouded in shadows.
I whisper my way through yard sales lured by the siren call
of priceless treasures stupid people give away; bro ke n teacu ps,
cracked mirrors, scuffed shoes, old dog collars, mismatched earrings
bottle caps, buttons.
My whole life is laid bare in this fortress made of glorious, damaged goods.
What do you think I am anyway?