New Novel, Cherry, in Proof Stage!

I finally finished writing Cherry! I did all the book set up last night and ordered the proof copy this morning. Can't wait to hold it in my hands...should be here tomorrow or Friday!

Cherry is about strays- humans and animals, and finding a new place to call home, new people to call one's family.

Onto the next project while waiting for the proof copy!

Another Older Story-The Picnic

THE PICNIC by Susan Buffum

     Sweet grass crushes under the children’s eager feet as they high step in single file toward the picnic rock under the great weeping willow that bends its shaggy head toward the cool river with a thousand parched lips pursed to take a sip of that refreshing water.  The scent of the grass and of the hay being mown a half mile back down the road tickles my nose and makes me want to sing, but no song comes readily to my lips, so I hum the tune my grandfather always hummed when he was puttering around in his shed pretending to be busy so that my grandmother would not put him to work at some task that was not to his liking.  It is a tune that fits all occasions from rocking a fussy baby to sleep to speeding toward the hospital where your mother lies on the verge of death.  It’s a tune that keeps life in balance and the birds don’t seem to mind a little mild, unobtrusive competition to their twittering, trilling concert.  The excited shouts and laughter of the children mingle with the lazy droning of the bumblebees and the mellow sun is a balm against the skin.

     The picnic rock is a large pale outcropping that juts up through the ground like the thumb of a giant who lies petrified and buried beneath the placid meadow.  We have come to this place for generations.  It is a family tradition, and I imagine it is pretty much unchanged since the time of my great-great-grandmother who once took a tumble in the river.  It took three men to lift her sodden self out of the slowing moving water and I can hear the echo of her outrage and the men’s laughter mingling in the whispers of the water still.  Her hat, a monstrous affair suffocating beneath a bouquet of vivid purple cabbage roses and blue-dyed ostrich plumes, had floated down the river.  It had been fished out at Cobbler’s Wharf two villages below by a ten-year old boy who’d used it as a mythical island for his lead soldiers to fight their battles on amid the blooms until his mother had taken it away.  She’d recognized the hat as belonging to one Liddie Canton of Pierpont and had kindly asked the dry goods peddler to return it to its owner as he was heading up that way.  Therefore, two weeks after losing the hideous hat in the river it was returned in a somewhat bedraggled state to Miss Lydia who promptly had the hat made over by her big city milliner much to the disgust of her father Arcadius who forbade her to wear the hat on picnics, but he did allow her to wear it to the horse races.

     The hat is in a dusty trunk in the attic of the house, the colors of the blooms faded like a bruise, the flowers themselves drooping tiredly like old hound dogs after a long day of scaring up pheasant and rabbit.  In a curio cabinet in the front parlor there is an age-speckled tintype of proud Lydia wearing that very same hat, her jaw thrust forward in defiance as she stares down her narrow nose as though daring anyone to remark that the hat is an atrocity.  I have some of her strong will, some of her stubbornness and pride, but her traits have been weakened by breeding so that I am more my father’s daughter than anything else, a laid back, easy going woman with a quick laugh and a desire to avoid conflict.

    The children scatter like a handful of stones, the oldest two racing toward the river bank, the next oldest to the tire swing on its thick but fraying rope, the two youngest off to gather a bouquet of wildflowers to grace our stony table.  Five voices shouting like a symphony.  I sling the wicker hamper up onto the rock and throw it open to take out the blue and white checkered tablecloth with the grape juice stains.  I fling it open and let the breeze settle it slowly down upon the giant’s thumb.  Behind me I can hear the slam of car doors as my sister and her three children arrive, their voices carried on butterfly wings of breeze to my ears.  I turn and wave, see my sister throw up her arm like a drowning woman as she wades through the waist high grass. The heads of her three little ones are invisible, but I see the fluffy tips of the grass bend and sway as they make their adventurous way to the rock.  It is like watching a serpent move toward me through the grass, but I am not afraid of this serpent’s bite.

     I return my attention to the hamper, taking out old china plates and slightly tarnished silverware, small glass tumblers for the raspberry lemonade.  In my hamper I have brought cornbread and cold fried chicken, chilled grapes and thick wedges of watermelon.  My sister pants as she heaves her own basket up beside mine. Her cheeks are flushed and I notice they are crinkly as though the top layer of her skin is made of tissue paper that someone has sat upon for some length of time.  Without thinking I touch my own cheek and am reassured by the smoothness of the skin beneath my fingertips.  Martha has always been a sun worshiper and now the damage is beginning to tell on her.  She is all freckled like the speckled egg of a bird.  Her hair has the texture and color of summer straw.  I think I could weave a fine basket from her hair, something I could take blackberry picking with me.

     She turns her cornflower blue eyes on me and my reveries snap like cane sugar back to the here and now.  She throws open her picnic basket to reveal pink slices of ham and cold corn on the cob, and over to one side protected by a little wooden table is a pie that weeps translucent blood.  I am almost certain it is cherry, but it could be strawberry rhubarb.  She has been known to take a stab at mother’s old recipe now and again when the mood strikes her.  She has a thermos of Kool-Aid for her kids, a toxic radiator fluid green.

     It’s nice how we don’t have to spoil the mood with a lot of talk.  We can talk for hours on the phone, but when we’re together it’s as though we don’t have much to say to one another, or much of anything that needs to be said.  We make a few comments, share knowing smiles, summon the children and inspect hands.  Then we climb up onto the giant’s thumb and eat.  My youngest sits on my lap where I feed her bites of chicken as though she is a little bird because her fingers are stained green with chlorophyll that will not wash off in the river.  She occasionally nips my fingertip and giggles.  I pop a grape into her round little mouth and brush the golden hair back away from her flushed cheeks.  She has the clean scent of little girl sweat about her as though there is nothing yet soiled or corrupted within her that needs to be pushed out through her pores.

     After we’ve eaten the children go back to their own adventures. My sister and I sit weaving the stems of flowers, knitting them together with long grass.  I announce that I am making her a hat much like Liddie’s horrible one and that I’ll make her wear it home.  She laughs and tells me she will not wear it home, thank you very much!

     We work away at our creation, pausing occasionally to kiss a skinned knee or put ice on a bee sting.  As the afternoon sun gives a yawn behind a wisp of pink cloud we carry our enormous and gaudy hat to the river bank.  The children gather around us to watch us fling the hat out into the current.  They cheer and leap into the sun-gilded air as the hat lands atop the flashing water and begins to spin and drift lazily downstream.  We try to guess who will be first to discover the flower-bedecked hat.  A boy fishing for minnows, guesses my son.  He has heard the story of Liddie’s hat many times, so many times his imagination is no longer open to other possibilities.  A hobo down by the railroad tracks guesses my sister’s oldest, unaware that there have been no hobos in the railyard for at least forty years now.  A doe who’s brought her fawn to the river’s edge guesses my daughter, the romantic dreamer.  The captain of an ocean liner argues my sister’s middle child who sees a larger world than the rest of them do.  Winnie the Pooh guesses my youngest.  All the world is the Hundred Acre Wood to her, as though little pink pigs and bouncing tigers are commonly found in the forest.  Arcadius, guesses my sister, and he will tear it all apart and we will have rain this evening because Lydia will be in tears.  I glance at the gathering lavender and gray clouds and think she may be right about the rain.  But I guess Liddie herself will find the hat and weep tears of joy.

     The giant’s thumb is swept clean of crumbs and chicken bones.  The old tablecloth now bears the red stains of spilt cherry juice so that it looks rather patriotic.  The children straggle along behind us as we wade through the tall grass back to the road.  My children and I will hike to the house a mile down the road despite my sister’s offer of a lift.  Her car is too full of kids and the paraphernalia of a busy life.  I prefer the feel of the dirt road beneath my feet no matter how tired they may be. Terra firma.  I am like a root longing to burrow down into the soil and hold my place in the world.

     As we reach the gate that creaks on hinges desperately in need of oil, something that has been on my to-do list for three months now, the first soft blush of sunset sits low among the hills, and a few drops of soft summer rain kiss our dusty faces.  Liddie has found her hat afloat upon the winding green ribbon of river.  I pause and lift my face to the dusky sky, close my eyes and feel her cool lips pressing against my cheek.  I promise her once again in my heart that I will keep her house in the family, I will keep her collected treasures intact.  And, I will keep her crumbling hat safe in the trunk in the attic, for if I do, then she will never truly be lost to any of us.



 

    



    

Blackstone's Menagerie

 BLACKSTONE’S MENAGERIE by Susan Buffum


     Rex Blackstone frowned as he shoved the drapes aside and saw that once again his trees had been festooned with what must be dozens of rolls of toilet tissue. It would take the gardener at least a full day to clean up the mess. “Damn kids,” he grumbled, tugging the drapes closed and turning away. He hated Cabbage Night. It was a nuisance. The same old tricks- soaped windows, overturned flowerpots, toilet paper thrown into trees and bushes, trash cans tipped, eggs thrown against the siding. There was nothing new in this world. Humanity had slipped into mediocrity and become complacent with the acceptance of the less than extraordinary.

     Striding out of the study he went to the dining room and took his seat. He sat there for several minutes brooding, drumming his slender, pale fingers against the fine and highly polished grain of the lengthy table around which it had been a very long time since guests had been seated. He had become a rather solitary man through the years. He had aged well. He could not argue that but if truth be told, life had become rather boring for him.

     With a weary sigh he reached out, lifted the silver bell and gave it a brisk jangle before setting it back down, signaling the footman that he was ready to be served his breakfast. He hoped it would be something more appetizing that oatmeal and raisin toast. If he had to look at another slice of raisin toast his brain would most likely implode.

     “Good morning, sir,” murmured the footman, a tall, cadaverous man with a receding hairline and a sharp beak of a nose quite out of proportion to his other facial features. His chin was underslung which gave him an overall superior if somewhat peevish appearance. His eyebrows were too bushy above ordinary brown eyes. His complexion was remarkably similar to that of a sun-bleached wax peach. Max set the silver dish down before his master, then whisked the domed silver cover aside to reveal a bowl of grayish lumpy oatmeal and a plate of…raisin toast. “Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

     “My pistol and a silver bullet, if it’s no trouble.” Max’s brow rose but his expression betrayed no undue surprise. “I would like to blow my brains out.”

     “Shall I lay out a tarp to protect the Persian carpet prior to your suicide, sir?”

     “You might just as easily roll my body up in the damned carpet and heave the whole bloody lot into the incinerator behind the carriage house.”

     “Very good, sir.” He crisply clicked the heels of his highly polished black shoes, made an elegant bow from the waist, turned and headed back to the pantry from whence he had come.

     “I am quite serious, Max!” he called.

     “I understand, sir. I shall have Bertrand clean your pistol immediately. I am not sure if we have a silver bullet left in the house. However, if we do, I shall polish it until you can see yourself in the casing, sir. It shall be delivered to the table shortly as you commanded.”

     “Oh, don’t bother!” he snapped, pushing his plate back and rising from his chair. “I am feeling out of sorts this morning. Find George and have him begin removing the streamers of single ply  from the trees, will you?”

     “I shall give him your direction immediately, sir.”

     “I’ll be downstairs checking on my pets.”

     “Very good, sir.”

     The door to the basement was located beneath the main staircase in the hall. There was a glass window in the door, and the doorknob was cut glass. He opened the door, flicked on the lightswitch then slowly descended to the large basement. It was beginning to smell rank again. Had he been neglecting his pets? Probably. Sometimes days passed in a blur of ennui.

     At the bottom of the stairs he turned right into the control room. Here he pulled the switch to activate the ventilation system that would flush out the stale air and bring in fresh air. The sanitation system was crude but effective when working properly. Max attended to the daily feeding and watering duties but Rex liked to indulge his pets with treats when he visited them.

     He selected the treats for each pet, placing them in a plastic carrier with a handle, then he went back out into the corridor, walked ahead and entered his private zoo. In a large barred enclosure to his right a roan-colored centaur rose stiffly to his feet upon seeing Blackmoor. He glared at the man through flashing brown eyes. “I need to be allowed outdoors to cantor. You’re crippling me!” it complained. “I’m getting arthritic joints!”

     “Pity, that. I brought you a persimmon but all this complaining has dissuaded me from giving it to you.”

     “Bastard!” muttered the centaur, turning its back on the man, flicking its tangled tail.

     Blackstone sighed. The beast had once been brawny and proud. Its muscles were wasting away. Its  hide was dulled, not having been brushed and curried. Its tail was a veritable rats nest of snarls and tangles. Feeling a bit ashamed of the neglect of his pets he rolled the persimmon into the cage. The centaur looked down at it then crushed it beneath its hoof disdainfully.

     He moved to the tank beside the centaur’s enclosure. A green-haired mermaid lay curled in the back corner of the tank. He rapped a knuckle on the glass and she slowly raised her head and looked toward him through silver eyes that looked dull. Opalescent scales littered the floor of the tank. There appeared to be some sort of disease process going on that was eating away her magnificent tail fin, but then he realized that she had been biting her own tail for some unknown reason. Her beautiful breasts had withered away to little more than fleshy sacs that lay against her rib cage. “Oh, dear,” he murmured, climbing the ladder to reach the slot where he dropped a dozen little crawfish into the tank. She merely watched the little creatures spiral down to the bottom of the tank before lowering her head, curling back up. She resumed biting her tail, her eyes closed, face taut.

     A foul stench was emanating from the next cage. The yeti, one of his most prized pets, lay dead in its own excrement. This gave his heart a wrench. It had taken him centuries to track and capture one of these rare beasts. How long ago had that been? Perhaps the thing had merely reached the end of its natural life? But then he noticed the piles of putrid vomit here and there, half dried on the floor. The yeti had been sick. Why hadn’t he thought to come down here and check on his menagerie days ago? What had he been so preoccupied with?

     Ah, yes. He had been unable to rise from his bed, pinioned there, pressed down by the black mass of depression so profound, so dense he had felt as though he were suffocating. Fortunately, it had passed and he had been able to rise from his bed today.

     He moved to the next enclosure. The occupant of this pen was sitting on the floor in the far left corner, knees drawn up, face turned against the wall. The floor of this enclosure was littered with dingy, ragged feathers. Was she molting? Had she molted before? Did angels molt at all? He had one of her feathers upstairs on his desk. It was long, pure white and glossy, pliable. “I have a pomegranate for you, my dear,” he said. This did not elicit a response from her and for a moment he felt a frisson of apprehension that she too had perished since his last visit. A very slight movement of her wing indicated to him that she was still alive. “Come, my pet. You adore pomegranates.”

     “I want nothing from your hand but my freedom,” she replied, her voice soft and still musical despite the flat tone.

     “How can I set you free when it took me one thousand years to capture you? You were my most difficult find. I scoured the known world for you.” She said nothing, would not even look at him. “’ziel,” he said, calling her by his abbreviated name for her as he has never been able to pronounce her full celestial name. “Zia.” This is his more intimate name for her for, if truth be told, he has been enamored of her since the moment he found her in the trap he had set hoping to catch an angel. “Please, come and take this from my hand. Let us not be at sixes and sevens with one another.”

     “The yeti has passed,” she murmured. “The mermaid is stressed and starving herself. The centaur is angry, his pride severely wounded. The gryphon has wounded itself, eaten pieces of its own flesh because it too is starving due to your neglect.”

     “But Max feeds you and waters you daily.”

     “It is not the natural foods we normally consume. You have made us subsist on your whims and notions.” She made a hopeless gesture. “There is no further point in speaking with you. You only hear what you want to hear. Leave me.”

     He bent, lifted the little door and rolled the pomegranate into her enclosure; closed the door. “As you wish,” he murmured, his heart heavy but raw around the edges now with some anger and some despair. The combination of two strong emotions acted like a carbolic acid.

     The gryphon was in the next cage and he immediately observed the open festering sores. It had been using its beak to nip chunks of its own hide off. “This is unacceptable,” he cried aloud, disturbed and disappointed by what he was seeing. His private zoo, his pets, his menagerie had always been his pride and joy. The gryphon glared at him through its golden eye, then opened its beak and made a raucous angry noise. “Oh, be quiet!” He rolled a half dozen ostrich eggs into the enclosure then turned away.

     The sphinx lay sprawled on her side, flanks heaving in a pool of her own foul urine. She too was ill. He lacked the veterinary skill needed to keep these creatures healthy.

     How had his greatest treasure deteriorated to this degree? He tossed the dead rabbit into the sphinx’s cage, hoping the scent would entice her to eat but she did not even stir.

     He turned and walked back the way he had come, no longer interested in seeing the condition of the remainder of his collection. He was deriving no pleasure from this visit.

     As he passed the angel’s enclosure he saw that she had gotten to her feet. She was still in the same corner. She swayed ever so slightly backwards and forwards as if the weight of her own wings was too much for her and was throwing her off balance. He noticed that her gown was  thin and tattered, soiled, wrinkled, worn transparent in places, torn in others. Her pale flesh was luminescent beneath a thin layer of grime. Her ginger hair was as snarled as the centaur’s tail. She’d had beautiful flowing ginger curls when he’d captured her. Her hair was dull now, brittle. “’ziel,” he said.

     “I am praying,” she replied softly.

     He should leave her alone then. He knew that, but he could not do that.  Of all his creatures she had always been the one he had conversed with easily. He had always enjoyed his discussions with her. “If I were to release you, would you accompany me upstairs where we can talk together?”

     “I have nothing more to say to you.”

     “Then you would not need to speak. You could just listen.”

     “I do not wish to accompany you anywhere.”

      He turned and walked away, throwing the plastic carrier in the treat room before he hurried up the stairs and switched off the lights. He closed the door more firmly than he’d intended to.



     There is a black cat with glowing orange eyes in the hallway. Blackstone hesitates as he leaves his bedroom, feeling both confused and apprehensive. He does not own a cat, therefore no cat should be present in his home. “Scat!” he says. The cat opens its mouth wide to display it’s impressive fangs, and hisses loudly, back arched, tail like a bristle brush. Then it turns and bolts down the corridor toward the stairs. “Damned cat,” he mutters, starting after it, wanting to chase it out of the house. One of the servants must have left a door open again.

     As he passes a painting, one that should be familiar as all his ancestors portraits line this hallway, something causes him to come to an abrupt halt, to take two steps backwards. He turns to face the portrait. “What the deuce!” he cries.

     The portrait is of him although he is quite certain he has not yet sat for any artist to have his likeness committed to canvas. It is not even a very good likeness. The artist has painted his face half in shadow and the side he can see is pallid, drawn, the familiar dark eye sunken, the cheek hollow, the lips thin and grimly compressed. His dark hair hangs lank and shot through with white as if he has aged when he knows that is impossible. He is ageless. Isn’t he?

     He stares at the image, tries to discern the darker half of his image and can just make out a rather skeletal form, the eye socket dark and hollow, the nostril sunken in, the teeth clenched. “How can this be!” he cries, backing away from the portrait.

     A movement in the periphery of his sight draws his eye. It is the cat, pacing near the head of the stairs. He glances back at the portrait. It remains unchanged, resolute. Quickly he resumes chasing the cat, wanting to flee from the terrible portrayal of his countenance.

The cat dashes down the stairs and he follows. It leads him to the cellar door which stands open. This door, he knows, is supposed to remain closed. The cat vanishes down the dark stairs. He flicks on the light but it is a strange, eerie light, much like the orangey-yellow flickering of a fire on the hearth when there are no other lights on in a room.

     Quickly he descends into a hellish place. The paint on the basement walls has peeled away from the damp brick. Brittle curls of paint litter the cement floor, crunch beneath his boots as he turns the corner to approach the enclosures where his precious creatures dwell. The stench invades his nose and causes his stomach to clench. He instinctively breathes through his mouth, not his nose as he approaches the centaur’s cage. The beast lies rotting in the middle of its pen. Glossy black beetles swarm over the corpse. Already sinew and bone are visible above the hoof and at the wrist he can see. “Damnation!” he cries.

     He turns to the mermaid’s tank and finds her floating lifelessly just below the surface of the water, her green hair eerily still, her silvery eyes gone for her face has already deteriorated. He groans as he passes the empty cage of the yeti who was buried only days ago if he’s not mistaken.

     The angel’s enclosure appears empty as well. In the next cage the gryphon lies dead upon it’s back, beak open, claws curled, tawny eyes dulled by death. Turning, he sees the sphinx is dead as well. The stench from the dead creatures is unbearable. “How can this be!” he cries. His beloved menagerie, decimated by death!

     He returns to the angel’s enclosure. His beloved angel. But the enclosure seems empty! Where is she? She’d been alive the other day. He’d spoken to her. Her lost feathers litter the floor of her cage. She cannot be dead! He refuses to believe that she can be dead! “’ziel!” he cries. “Where are you? Show yourself!” His hands grip the bars of her cage and he rattles the gate. “Zia! Answer me!”

     “I am here,” she replies, her voice quiet.

     He leans his forehead against the bars, sick with relief. “I thought you had left me,” he murmurs.

     “I am here,” she says a second time.

     He raises his head and peers at her through the bars. “What has happened here? How can this be? How can my beloved creatures all be dead?”

     “You neglected us,” she replies. “And you neglected yourself.” She drifts toward the bars, her wings beating slowly, gently behind her.

     He takes a step back as she approaches closer. His foot crushes something on the floor. He tears his eyes from her and looks down, discovers that the sole of his boot has come loose and is turned askew. He gets down on one knee to try to fix it, but the leather of his boot feels coarse and dry to his touch.  “What’s going on here!” he cries, suddenly alarmed. His boots have always been kept in good repair- taken to the cobbler, resoled as needed, polished regularly. He stands up, hikes his pant cuffs and sees the other boot is also in deplorable condition. And now he notices the hems of his trousers are stained and tattered. His coat is filthy, the cuffs frayed. His shirt is stained terribly, two buttons are missing and a third hangs by a thread. His eyes widen in shock and disbelief. “What is going on here?” he cries. And then, when he raises his eyes to meet hers he notices that the angel is standing in the open corridor. He can see the electricl conduits behind her , the pipes above her head.

     Spinning around he discovers that somehow he has traded places with her. He is in her enclosure for the floor is littered with dingy feathers that have been swept into a pile in one corner away from the foulness in the other corner. He cannot believe his eyes. His mind cannot grasp what has happened.

     Turning back to her he stares at her, open-mouthed, wide-eyed. “How?” he croaks. “Why?”

     “I prayed,” is her simple response.



     Blackstone jerked awake from his dream, his heart pounding. His nightshirt clung cold and damp to his body. His hair was wet, his pillow damp. He felt both hot and cold. Hurling the covers aside he sat up, swung his long legs over the side of the bed, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “It was a dream,” he told himself. “It was just a dream.”

     After a few long minutes he felt steady enough to trust his legs to hold him up. He got out of bed, went to his bathroom and turned the faucets on. Soon the bathroom was full of steam. He stripped off his nightshirt and stepped into the deep claw-foot tub, drawing the shower curtain closed on its steel oval track.

     He stood with his head beneath the spray, letting the water wash the sweat from his longish black hair. Then he turned and tilted his face up to the water, his eyes closed. He grabbed the soap and washed himself, then the shampoo and washed his hair. He enjoyed the water for another few minutes, then twisted the knobs to turn off the flow. Looking down between his feet he saw a curious sight. The water at the bottom of the tub looked dirty and strangely stained red. He shifted his gaze to his pale torso, his legs. His skin appeared to be intact. He checked his arms, his hands. He did not appear to be injured in any way.

     He grabbed the shower curtain and whipped it open on its rail, reached for his towel and used it to vigorously dry his hair. He blotted his face, then lowered the towel to dry his neck and chest, his shoulders, and that when he saw her, the angel, sitting on the closed toilet, her elbows on her knees, chin propped in the brackets of her cupped hands. She gazed at him with a serene expression. “My God!” he cried, lowering the towel to cover his groin.

     “Mine, as well,” she replied quietly.

     “How did you get here? Who released you?” he asked.

     “You did.”

     “I did no such thing!” As she slowly rose from the toilet he noticed that her gown is pristine white. It looks perfect, no tatters, no tears. His eyes shifted to her great tall wings. They too are snowy white, no bent or molting feathers marring them. Her face is beautiful once more, not pinched and strained. “How can this be?”

     “You have redeemed me,” she answered.

     “I…”

     She held her hand up to stop him. “I had fallen,” she continued. “I had fallen and was easily captured in your trap. All the many years that I have been held captive here, that I have suffered at your hand, have led to my redemption. He calls me home and I must go.” She took a step toward him. “Your menagerie? It was and is the end for all of those creatures. Their kind have all died off. The few remaining in your basement cannot survive in the harsh unfamiliar world of this age. Show mercy, Rex Blackstone and put them out of their misery. Let them go.”

     “You’re leaving me?” His voice betrayed his stunned disbelief, his profound sense of loss.

     “I never belonged to you. I have merely been your prisoner.”

     “No, ‘ziel! No, my Zia! My pet!” he cried.

     “I am no pet,” she said quietly.  “Goodbye, Rex.” And before his eyes she vanished in a gentle twinkling of light.

     “Zia!” he cried. “Come back!”

     He clamored from the deep tub, slipped and slide into his bedroom, rushed to the dressing room where he quickly dressed. His hair was uncombed, still dripping, as he tugged open his bedroom door and ran down the hall. He passed the line of portraits then slid to an awkward abrupt halt and backtracked to the portrait that had caught his eye in passing.

     He felt a cold chill race down his spine as he stared at the visage of the grinning skull in the gilt frame. It was terrible. Horrible. His eyes fell to the brass plate naming the person whose portrait he was gazing upon with disbelief. Rex Blackstone. It was him. Death was him! He was Death! “No!” he cried, backing away from the portrait, raising his hands to shield his eyes from Death’s deep, black unblinking stare.

     But one cannot hide from the truth.

     He turned and continued rapidly along the hallway, down the main staircase. Crossing the broad hall he entered his study, went to the cabinet, threw open the doors and reached for his pistol. With a shaking hand he loaded the weapon then turned and left the room with a determined stride.

     He wrenched open the door to the basement, snapped the lights on and descended. The smell was horrendous. He covered his mouth and nose with his right arm as he approached the centaur’s cell. The beast was on its knees, arms at its side. It raised its head to look directly at Blackstone then nodded once. Blackstone raised the pistol, aimed and fired a single shot dead center into the beast’s forehead. The centaur’s head snapped back with the force, then fell forward. It’s body fell sideways and it lay still.

     The mermaid, as in his dream, floated lifelessly just below the surface of the water in her tank. She was already, mercifully, dead. He stalked past the empty yeti’s enclosure and came to the cell where the angel had been confined for such a very long time. The floor remained littered with her shed feathers but was otherwise empty.

     The gryphon raised its head at the sound of his approach. He put it down quickly then turned to the sphinx. She was still. She, too, had already died. He walked forward. The unicorn had been gone for a long time. So had the Cerberus. But the harpy was still alive. She began screeching at him the moment he came into her view. “I should have shot you ages ago,” he said. As she opened her mouth to screech again he shot her and she gave him a stunned look before toppling over.

     The other cages were empty. His menagerie had been dwindling for a long time . He realized that now. That he had had them this long was unusual and unnatural.  He understood. Their time here was gone. He could not keep them forever. Only he, he and the angel were eternal.

     Already his heart ached for her company. He looked down at the weapon in his hand, opened it and counted the remaining bullets. Three.

     Three bullets and they were useless to him. His menagerie was gone. Max and George would remove the remains, bury them someplace on the property in the dead of night.

     He returned the pistol to the cabinet, closed the doors. Wearily he climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked down the long corridor to his bedroom. He closed the door, went into his dressing room, undressed, pulled on a clean night shirt then went out into his room, climbed into his bed and pulled the covers up. He closed his eyes and sought sleep, sought dreams. In his dreams he could go anywhere.

     He wanted to go to Heaven.


(This was a contest winner. It was also the inspiration for an episode that will be included in a future novel tentatively titled Circus Rising that is 1.4 written at this time.)

An Older Piece Why I Write

AMUSING THE MUSE

My days are like ornaments hung upon the branches of the tree of my life.  Some days are jeweled and glittering, some days decorated with daubs of paint and frost.  And some days are bare-faced orbs dully reflecting whatever lies before them.



I am not crowned with candles.  No bright flames dance amid my boughs.  No sparks sizzle and singe my branches.  I wear a humble star. It is my only light, my only illumination- one softly glowing white star- pure light, radiant light, and a steady gentle warmth- who says the stars are cold and only the sun is hot?



I am not strung with tinsel garland nor ropes of glossy cranberries and white airy kernels of corn.  I am draped in dreams and decorated with streamers of imagination.  I am dressed in visions and at my roots lie the seedlings of poetry and prose. My taproot runs deep, deep into the earth through centuries absorbing language and rhythms primeval.  I know the songs, the stories.  They are bold and vivid in my core, in my heartwood.  I have embraced history and wrapped myself like so many layers of tissue around them and absorbed them into my very being.



I am able to speak in a multitude of voices, to sing songs, both old and new, ancient and current.



I glimmer on the precipice of the future like a promise of a new day, reflect in the past and resonate in the present.



I breathe the stars and swallow the long, dark night like a medicinal draught that refreshes and restores me.  All the secrets of the universe are whispered in my ears beneath the velvet star-studded canopy, many voices speaking, murmuring, impatient to be heard.  Like raindrops they fall in my ears and are absorbed.  Like tears they cleanse me and instill hope.



I shake off the webs of night’s dewy embrace and lift my green face to the first fragile fiery glow of morning.  I am reborn again and again.  I must relearn myself, remake myself, reshape my ideas.  I must draw deep from the taproot and infuse my hungry, thirsty particles of being with light.



And before the sun winks out below the rim of the sea I must give something of beauty back to the world.  I must hang an ornament upon the tree however small, however seemingly insignificant- for if I miss just one day I will have failed to touch someone’s heart and soul.  A moment in time will have slipped away, a gap created, a rent in the fabric, a link not yet forged in the chain, a thread not cast upon the web…something missing for all eternity.



I am compelled to write.

A Man Gives His Heart

This isn't a ghost story. This is my nod to Shirley Jackson who could paint a perfectly normal world and then via her characters, give that world a hard twist into the surreal and horrific.

 A Man Gives His Heart



     I’d known Mrs. Jackson all my life. She lived in the big, white Victorian house halfway down the street, around the corner from where I still lived with my parents. I was going to the community college, studying to be a veterinary technician. My parents didn’t have the money to send me to college to be a vet, but I was thinking I could get a job, save some money and finish my education, even if I could only take a couple of classes each year. I was young enough to do that. And I could make extra money so I could afford those classes by doing odd jobs like this one.

     Mrs. Jackson had called to ask if I could drop by today. She had a leaky faucet in the kitchen and now the incessant dripping had turned into a constant trickling. I was pretty good at small plumbing jobs so had quickly diagnosed the issue. A blown gasket. Well, basically, it had disintegrated, it being so old. A quick trip to the hardware store on Main Street and now I was back with the few small things I needed to repair the faucet.

     Mrs. Jackson, a widower a number of times over, was busy at the stove frying strips of what looked and smelled like bacon. “I’m making you a nice sandwich before you go,” she said.

     “You don’t have to do that,” I replied.

     “You work so hard, Billy, it’s the least I can do. How are your classes going, by the way?”

     “I aced the anatomy and physiology exam last week.”

     “Good for you! Your parents must be so proud of you.”

     “I guess.” I think my parents were anxious to get me out of the apartment. I was costing them money still.

     “You’ll get your degree in May?”

     “Yup. I’ve already been doing an internship at We Care Veterinary Clinic out on Shore Road.”

     “You’ve always loved animals. You’ll make a good veterinarian one day.”

     “I think they’ll offer me a job when graduation gets closer.” She nodded. I turned back and gave the faucet handle a few tries. On and off. On and off. No drips. Good water pressure. “I think you’re all set.”

     “Thank you, dear. Henry was a plumber, you know. He always took care of the pipes and drains.” Henry had been one of her husbands. I didn’t remember how many she’d had, but there had been more than six. She hadn’t had much luck with husbands. They’d all had health issues and died fairly young. “John was an electrician. Peter was a carpenter. They kept the house up through the years. I always seemed to have the right husband at the right time, when something went wrong in the house. Old houses are like old ladies, dear. You can keep up the appearance with some paint and primping, but the internal mechanisms, the heart of the home deteriorates.” She sighed as she turned the strips of meat in the pan. “I miss them at Valentine’s Day. They always brought me candy.”

     Now I wished I’d thought to stop at the drug store to get her a small box of candy on my way back from the hardware store. It would have been a nice thing to do. She must be lonely here all by herself. But, hadn’t I heard that she was pretty close to Mr. Baker these days? Mr. Baker was one of the ushers in church. He was a few years younger than Mrs. Jackson, according to what Mom and her friend Barbara had been saying over coffee in the kitchen the other day. “Maybe Mr. Baker will bring you some chocolates later.”

     She nodded. “Perhaps. He is coming over for dinner tonight. He’s been so lonely since Louise passed. I thought a nice dinner would cheer him up.”

     “Maybe he’ll bring you roses,” I said as I turned on the tap so I could wash my hands.”

     “I didn’t think of that.” She paused, thinking, and then said, “You’re tall. Would you go in the pantry and reach down a vase for me? They’re in one of the cupboards.”

     “You got it. No problem.” I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel then walked toward the pantry.     “You’ve sure had a lot of husbands,” I said, what I was thinking in my head just slipping out of my mouth.

     “Yes, I have. I’ve been lucky though. Every one of them gave me his heart.”

     “Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be, though? A guy gives his heart to his girl,” I said, pausing in the pantry doorway to look back over my shoulder at her.

     She turned her head and smiled at me, her blue eyes twinkling. “Yes, it certainly is supposed to be that way. You’re right about that.” A strip of meat popped in the pan. She flipped it over using the long handled fork she held. “You’re still young, but one day, there’ll be a special girl who comes along and you’ll find yourself doing exactly that, Billy, giving her your heart.”

     I nodded. I liked a girl in one of my classes. Her name was Annie. She was cute. She had freckles. I stopped and surveyed the pantry. It was narrow and deep, lined with cupboards above a counter and cabinets beneath. There were two dusty windows looking out toward the old carriage house and attached shed in the side yard.

     I began opening cupboard doors, not sure where she kept vases. There were canned goods and packages of various types of pasta in the cupboard closest to the doorway to the kitchen. Dishes and glasses in the next. Then I noticed a glint of glass through the gap where the last cupboard door was slightly ajar. I walked to the end and opened that door

     I didn’t quite know what to make of what I found in that cupboard. There were canning jars in this one, each one containing one preserved something or other. I reached in and rotated one f the jars. There was a strip of old masking tape that had come loose. I ran my thumb over it to lay it flat but the adhesive was too old, it wouldn’t stick and the rest of it came loose. “Oops,” I murmured, picking up the piece of tape to see if any part of it still retained any stickiness. It felt crisp and dry. It was very old. But the writing on it was still fairly legible. It looked like the word heart. My eyes went back to the jar where my brain acknowledged that yes, it looked like a preserved heart in the jar. I’d seen stuff like this in anatomy and physiology. I had dissected a sheep heart, a cow heart, and a pig heart. I wasn’t absolutely sure what kind of heart this was, but it seemed weird she had a cupboard full of jars with hearts in them.

     “Not that one, dearie,” Mrs. Jackson said from the doorway. “The next one back toward me has the vases in it.”

     “The label fell off this jar,” I said, holding up the piece of tape. “It dried out.”

     “I’ll make a new label later on. Just leave it on the counter so I remember. Now, grab a vase, and then come and have your lunch. It’s ready.”

     I nodded and she went back into the kitchen. Glancing down, I looked at the label. It wasn’t the word heart like I thought. It was a name. The name Henry was written on the piece of tape. My eyes went back to the rows of jaws, to the jar missing its label first and what it contained. Then my eyes shifted to the next jar. Its label also looked kind of brittle, but the name on it was still legible. Frank.   The next piece of tape read Peter. The one behind that said John.

     My heart was pounding as I quickly swung the cupboard door closed. It didn’t quite catch and kind of bounced open again. The door either needed to be sanded because it had warped or the hinges needed oiling. I could fix that for her, but then I shook my head. There was something weird here, something not right. I couldn’t shake the goosebumps that had popped up all over me.

     “Billy, are you coming to eat your lunch?” Mrs. Jackson called from the kitchen. Again she appeared in the doorway, long fork in hand. Her eyes fell on the open cupboard door and then slowly returned to meet mine. “I still do my own slaughtering and butchering,” she said. “One pig will last me a couple of years. I always preserve their hearts. Down in the cold cellar, I have jars of pig’s feet, pig’s ears, and pig’s knuckles.” She smiled at me. “Come along. I’m sure you want to get home and get cleaned up. You must have a big date tonight?” I nodded. I was taking Annie out to a movie and then for something to eat.

     “I can fix that cupboard door for you, if you want,” I said as I swung the door mostly shut.

     “Another time,” she replied. “Just grab a vase down from the shelf in that next cupboard before you come to the table, will you? And wash your hands before you sit down.”

     “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, opening the next cupboard door, expecting to see a shelf full of grinning skulls, but there were only vases and miscellaneous bowls and platters. I grabbed a tall vase off the top shelf. It looked sturdy enough to hold a dozen roses. Cautiously, I entered the kitchen, thinking she might run me through with her fork, but she wasn’t in the room. The cellar door across the room stood open however.

     Glancing around, I noticed the sandwich, thick with bacon that she’d fried up, on the table. There was only one place set. A glance to my right showed me that there were still some wide, thick strips of bacon sizzling in the frying pan. The burner, however, was off. I walked over and stood looking down into the pan. I’d never seen home cut bacon before, but even so, it seemed a little odd to me, not quite right. It didn’t quite smell like any bacon I’d ever eaten either. I didn’t know how she’d cure it though. Maybe she did it some old-fashioned way that I didn’t know about.

     “Billy! Before you sit down, can you come downstairs a minute? I could use some help, please. I’ve got something heavy that needs to be moved into the root cellar.” I walked to the cellar doorway, but something made me stop at the top of the stairs. I could see her shadow moving around down there. No, it wasn’t her. It was something else, something large, the shadow of something big swinging slowly back and forth on what appeared to be a segment of rope or several thick links of chain. My God! She must have something hanging from the basement ceiling!

     As I stood there, I heard her footsteps approaching the stairs. “Billy?” She appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me with a sweet smile on her face, her blue eyes twinkling.

But that was how she always looked, well, except for her hands. Her hands were wet and red, dripping with gore. In her right fist she gripped the handle of a long butchering knife, its blade red with blood also. Clutched in her left hand was what made me turn and bolt for the front door. It was a heart, a very human heart!

copyright September 2019, Only BOO, and nothing more by Susan Buffum

Something for a Cold November Night

A RAY OF SUNSHINE



     He stood on the sidewalk looking at the plate glass window with its fancy gold lettering for some time, being jostled by pedestrians, scowled at by others as they moved around him. Finally, he shoved the sunglasses up on top of his head, grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. A bell jangled merrily. A few heads turned his way, but quickly turned back to their sandwiches and soup as he walked to the counter where a pretty redhead was pouring coffee for an elderly man. He sat down beside the old man, resting his forearms on the counter. “Coffee,” he said.

     “Be right with you,” the redhead replied, topping up the old man’s cup. She dug some creamers out of her apron pocket, setting them on the counter beside the cup.

     “Any day now would be nice,” he grumbled.

     The old man turned his head and gave him a look. The young man with the shaggy, raven-black hair gave him a dark look in return.  Shelley set a cup and saucer down before the younger man and filled it. “Still take it black?” she asked, drawing his attention away from the man beside him. His dark eyes met hers. “Three sugars?”

     “You remember,” he said, his voice low. “That’s a surprise.”

     “I have a head for trivial information.” She slid the container of sugar packets closer to him.

     “Is that all I am to you?” he asked. “Just a bunch of useless trivial facts?”

     “Not useless. You have your coffee the way you like it, don’t you?”

     This was new, her talking back to him like this. She was more confident, more sure of herself these days. “You remember what I like to eat?” he asked next. Her hazel eyes began to slew away from his intent gaze. “For lunch,” he clarified.

     “Grilled cheese and bacon on whole wheat,” she answered. “And tomato soup with a dollop of cream.” This earned her a sardonic grin. “It’s not on the menu, but I know the cook.”

     “Is your old man going to kick me out of here?” he asked, stirring sugar into his coffee. Before she could answer he dropped the spoon, reaching across the counter to grab her left hand. His index finger and thumb massaged the faint indent of a wedding band that lingered on her ring finger. “I heard a rumor about this,” he murmured.

     “It’s not a rumor, it’s a fact. He’s not here anymore. I have a new cook.”

     “Is he just a cook or more than that?” he asked, his dark eyes rising to meet hers.

     “Just a cook,” she replied lightly. His fingers continued to massage her finger a moment or two longer before he let go. “I’ll go put your order in.”

     He watched her walk to the swinging door and go into the kitchen. She was still the prettiest girl in the Berkshires with her copper hair, now cut in a short pixie style that only emphasized her fox-like features. He’d been an idiot to let her slip away, but he hadn’t been ready for this sort of thing back then. He’d had a lot of wild oats to sow and she’d known it. That’s how Tommy had stolen her away, offering her a version of the American dream that had satisfied her at the time. If he’d been around he would have warned her about Tommy, saved her a lot of heartache. At least she’d gotten out of that marriage and he didn’t have to worry about any assault and battery charges beating up that asshole who’d cheated on her every chance he’d had.

     “You know Shelley?” the old man asked.

     “Mind your own business.”

     Beside him the old man shifted on his cushioned stool. “She is my business,” he replied levelly. “Shelley’s my granddaughter.”

     Reve turned his head and looked again at the man. “I know her. We graduated from high school together eight years ago. We dated some in school. Her parents weren’t crazy about that. I was from the wrong side of town.”

     “I know who you are. Recognized you the second you come through the door. You’re that Sanborn boy. The middle one who went to jail.”

     “No, I didn’t go to jail. Charges were dropped. There was no evidence that I robbed that gas station, primarily because I didn’t do it. I was in Springfield at the time.”

     “Reve, that’s your name, isn’t it?” He nodded. The old man looked down into his coffee cup. “Things have never gone right for her. That damned son of a bitch she married, he cheated on her with every bimbo in town and the next towns over either side. He never treated her right, but she was afraid to leave him.”

     “So what happened? How’d she get up the nerve to divorce him?”

     “Finally took my advice and went for counseling. Met Caroline Shea. Good woman, that one. Took a couple of years, but Shelley finally got up the nerve to kick his ass out of here. This is still the family business. It’ll be hers as soon as I’m gone. Her father’s not interested. Her mother’s got her real estate license now. Shelley’s the one who’s always loved this place. I’m leaving it to her. Won’t be long now. I got liver cancer. It’s spread here and there.”

     “Does she know?”

     “She knows I been to doctors and the lawyer. She knows she’s signed papers, but I’m not sure she understands completely what it’s all been about yet. I’ve taken care of her. She’s always been a good kid. Smart. She could have done so much more with her life, if she hadn’t married that dumb ass womanizer.”

     “Shelley’s always liked to cook and be around people. This is probably where she’s happiest. She’s worked here since she was fifteen, hasn’t she?  I used to come after school for a burger and a Coke. She’d be running around here taking orders, dancing to the music, chatting up everyone, laughing.” He shook his head. “She’s a regular ray of sunshine, she is.”

     “What are you doing back here? Thought you went to Connecticut or something.”

     “Rhode Island. Vermont. New York state. I’ve been around learning my trade.”

     “What trade would that be?”

     “Classic car restoration, customizing cars.” He added a bit more sugar to his cup, slowly stirred it in. “I have my own place in Lee. I’m doing all right.” He turned slightly, nodding toward the window. “That’s one of my custom jobs out there.”

     Mr. Colter turned on his stool toward the window. There was a black GTO with orange pin striping parked out front. Lots of chrome. “Nice,” he said. “You sell a lot of cars?”

     “I find old cars, customize them then sell them at the shop or send them to auction. I make good money on them.”

     Shelley came back with his grilled cheese and bacon and bowl of tomato soup. “Here you go,” she said, setting the plate and bowl down in front of him. “Anything else you want?”

     “Your phone number,” he replied. Her eyes flicked to her grandfather and back. In the periphery of his vision he’d seen the old man give her a slight nod.

     “Remind me before you go.”

     “Give it to me now,” he answered, taking his cell phone from his hip pocket. “I may have to rush off. Bring me the check, too. I’m meeting someone at one thirty.” She gave him her cell phone number then moved off to wait on a couple that had come in and taken the last available booth. “She seeing anyone?” he asked, stirring the cream into his soup.

     “She has dinner and goes to local hockey games with Pete from the post office now and again. No romance, just friends. He eats here every day.” Reve nodded. “You thinking of asking her out?”

     Reve sampled the soup, nodding to himself. It was good. “Think she’d go if I asked?”

     “She just gave you her number.”

     “I saw you give her the okay.”

     “She was always crazy about you. Never let anyone say anything bad about you. Still defends you if your name comes up and someone starts in on old history.”

     Reve’s eyes rose as he followed Shelley who came back around the counter to go out to the kitchen with the order she’d just taken. “I broke her heart,” he said.

     “You can fix that quick enough. She ain’t ever stopped loving you, you know.”

     “I didn’t know.” Reve ate half his sandwich. Shelley came to refill his coffee.

     “Grandpa, you want a piece of that banana cream pie you love so much?” she asked.

     “A small one, sweetheart. Watching my weight.”

     “Be right back. Reve, you still like chocolate cream pie?”

     “Yeah.”

     “I’ll bring you a piece, on the house.” She disappeared back into the kitchen.

     “You see what I mean? She don’t forget a thing, but she can forgive in a heartbeat.”

     “I don’t deserve that kind of quick forgiveness. She’s too good.” He finished his sandwich, sipped his coffee then got out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?” he asked her as she set their plates of pie down before them.

     “Seven dollars.”

     He took out a twenty and a card, slid them across to her. “Keep the change. Keep the card.” He stopped her from picking up the card. “Let me see your pen.” She handed it to him. He flipped the card over and wrote another phone number on the backside. “That’s my cell number. Hang onto it.”

     “I will,” she said, her eyes meeting his. He winked at her. She smiled and blushed simultaneously then looked at her grandfather who was enjoying his pie. “You good, Grandpa?”

     “Yup. Thanks, sweetie.”

     “See you again?” she asked Reve.

     “I like the food here. I’ll be back,” he replied.

     “Good.” She went to wait on a man at the far end of the counter who’d just sat down.

     “Look,” said Mr. Colter. “I have a ’64 Mustang convertible in my garage. It was my mid-life crisis car. Needs work. You interested in it? Making it a sweet ride for my little girl?”

     “You asking me to make it cherry for Shelley?”

     “Yeah, guess I am. What do you figure it’ll cost me?”

     “I’d have to see what you’ve got before I can give you a price.” He ate the last piece of his pie.       “What if I swing by on Saturday evening? Will you be home?” Mr. Colter nodded.  “I’ll take a look, make a list of what needs to be done then work up some figures and get back to you by Wednesday at the latest. We changing the color?”

     “Buttercup yellow.” Reve winced. “She likes yellow.”

     “Okay, but I can’t see myself tooling along the Pike in a bright yellow Mustang.”

     “Not even with a beautiful redhead behind the wheel?”

     Reve ran his fingers up through his tousled hair. “I’d have to think about that for a bit.” He stood up, held out his right hand. “Good seeing you again. You still out by the lake?”

     “Good seeing you. Yup, still on Shady Cove Lane. White cottage with the bright blue shutters.”

     “See you Saturday about seven o’clock?”

     “Sounds good. You drink beer?” Reve nodded. “We’ll have a couple beers and look that car over good.”

     Shelley came back through the swinging door. “You going so soon?”

     “Have a meeting to get to.  I’ll call you in a day or two.” He turned and walked to the door, pausing to glance back over his shoulder at her before he left. She was standing behind the counter watching him. Something about the way she was looking at him made him think that she was afraid he’d never come back. That told him what he wanted to know right there. He was pretty sure her grandfather would tell her what she wanted to know.



     You awake?

     Shelley reached over to the bedside table to grab her cell phone. She had been lying in the dark, unable to fall asleep. Reve had said he’d call her in a day or two, but he hadn’t called yet. Therefore, she was surprised when she saw the text was from him. Can’t sleep, she texted back. Too hot.

     Want to go skinny dipping?

     Her heart leapt into the back of her throat. Her finger hesitated over the keyboard. Taking a breath she quickly typed, Where are you?

     Down by the lake.

     Swimming?

     Thinking about it. Want to join me?

     She hesitated again then typed, Sure.

     His response came about thirty seconds later. Put your suit on. Neighbors may be awake.

     She blew her breath out, relieved. You want me to drive there?

     I’ll come get you. Give me fifteen minutes.

     I’ll be out front.

     Her legs felt wobbly as she got out of bed to rummage in her dresser for the two pieces of her tankini.  It was eleven thirty on a Thursday night and she was going to go swimming with Reve at the lake! It was insane! She had to be up at five to get to work for five thirty to do some prep work, get the coffee started, the deliveries checked in.

     She looked at the phone she still held in her hand. She should text him that she couldn’t go. She had to get some sleep, but her heart was going a million miles per hour. There was no way she was going to be able to get back into bed with any hope of sleeping. “This is sheer madness,” she muttered as she tugged off her nightgown, pulled on the bottom of her suit. She slithered into the top then flipped on the overhead light, searching the floor of her closet for her flip flops. In the narrow hall linen closet she grabbed a beach towel then hurried to the front closet to get the tote bag she used for going to the lake. Groaning, she ran back to the bedroom, pulling on a pair of denim shorts. She stuffed a t-shirt into the tote bag, then threw her keys and a small bifold case with her ID and a twenty dollar bill in the bag.

     She switched off the lights then ran down the steep stairs to the sidewalk door. She had the front apartment above the café. There was some traffic as usual for a Thursday night. The bars were still busy. There were a lot of people at the lake this summer. As she waited in front of the café she wondered where on the lake he was going to take her? The public beaches closed at nine o’clock. Was he at a friend’s?

     “Shelley!”

     A Jeep had pulled up to the curb. “Hi,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat, stuffing her bag down by her feet. She buckled up as he pulled into traffic. “Where are we going?” she asked. “The beaches are closed.”

     “Not the private ones,” he replied. She glanced at him. “I just got back from Worcester at eight thirty. Had some things to do around the shop. Thought I’d take a swim before going to bed. I didn’t wake you?” She shook her head. “Thought I might be. You must have to get up early. Didn’t think of that when I texted you.”

     “I couldn’t sleep. My air conditioner’s not working right.”

     “You didn’t leave it on, did you?” She shook her head. “Good. Don’t want the place burning down if it’s a shot compressor.”

     “I have the windows open and had the fans on.”

     He soon slipped out of traffic to follow side roads. She had no idea where they were going. She wasn’t familiar with all the little roads and lanes around the lake itself, but he seemed to know where he was going. Still, her insides felt like wobbly jelly and she had to sit on her hands because they were shaking. It’d been a long time since she’d gone anywhere alone with Reve Sanborn like this. Her grandfather had told her he owned his own business, something to do with cars, but she hadn’t quite caught what he was saying as it had been during a rush of customers after Reve had left that day. If Grandpa had given him the nod then she should be all right, even though Grandpa was getting older and he had health issues now.

     He pulled up in the yard of a two story beach house with a separate four bay garage with what looked like a small shop at one end. There was another building across the driveway, a bunkhouse, maybe? The main house had a deep front porch facing the lane they’d come in by. “Come on,” he said.

     She climbed out and followed him along the path beside the house. The rear of the house had a huge deck for outdoors entertaining. There was a balcony off the second floor rear with atrium doors that must have an awesome view of the lake. “Whose house is this?” she asked as she jogged a few paces to catch up to him after goggling at the house.

     “Does it matter?”

     “We’re not trespassing, are we?”

     He laughed. “No. We’re not.”

     The path led to a private beach. White sand had been trucked in. Quite a lot of it. It went all the way from the end of the path to the water.  Reve was stripping off his t-shirt, kicking off his sandals. Her heart nearly stopped as he unfastened his denim shorts, but he had a regular trunk-style bathing suit on underneath. She threw her bag down in the sand, tugged down her shorts. He told her to jump in before the mosquitoes drained her dry.

     She ran down the sand and splashed into the water. The lake bed quickly graded down and she found herself neck deep in the water. It felt cold after the heat of the apartment and the sultry night air. Reve dove in close beside her, startling her. She caught glimpses of him as he swam underwater. He swam like a fish. It brought back memories of high school days, hurrying home to do her chores and homework, make supper for her parents who both worked so they could eat when they got home, then going to the lake with friends, seeing Reve there. They’d dated senior year for a while, but her parents had made a fuss about him. Then he’d been accused of robbing that gas station not too long after graduation and her parents had forbidden her to ever see him again. And Tommy had started pursuing her. She’d lost track of Reve in the hectic days that followed as she began working full time at the café.

     She swam out a ways, felt something skim past her beneath the water and gasped. Reve surfaced a few feet in front of her. “You swim like a fish still!” she said. “I thought you were a shark!”

     “No sharks in this lake,” he said. “Just big fish.”

     She swept wet hair back from her face. “Are you a big fish?”

     He swam toward her and she back paddled. “What did your grandfather tell you?’ he asked.

     She shrugged. “Not much. He said something about cars. You do something with cars. It was crazy busy after you left. He’s been in Boston for tests the past few days. I haven’t talked to him.”

     “I customize cars, restore vintage cars,” he said.

     “Oh, like on TV?”

     “I suppose so.”

     “Who do you work for? Anyone I know?”

     “You know him,” he replied. He ducked under the water before she could ask him who. She screamed when he lifted her up and threw her over his shoulder.  She came up a few feet behind him sputtering a little.  “Come back here.” She swam back to him. “Here, get your feet into my hands. You used to like to dive off my hands.”

     “I’m not seventeen anymore.”

     “You’re twenty-six years old. You’re not a decrepit old lady yet. Come on. Up you go.” She got her feet into his hand, squealed as he lifted her up. She flew off his hands, diving gracefully into the water. He let her dive off his hands about ten times before he chased her, easily catching her. She wrapped her arms and legs around him like she used to as he treaded water. “At least he didn’t beat the fun out of you,” he said.

     Her face was close to his. Her eyes met his in the moonlight and starlight. “No,” she said. “He didn’t.”

    “You divorced him?”

     She nodded. “Grandpa helped me pay for a private investigator. He got enough evidence to prove in court he was unfaithful to me. Tommy couldn’t deny it. I got a lump sum of twenty-five thousand dollars before he took off. I haven’t heard from him since.”

     “You’re well rid of him.” He touched her cheek.  “I wish I’d been around to stop you marrying him in the first place.”

     “What would you have done? Barge into the church, march down the aisle, rant and rave about him not being good enough for me then thrown me over your shoulder and carried me out to your Harley, roaring off into the sunset with me trailing seed pearls, bugle beads and baby’s breath in our wake?”

     “If that’s what it would have taken, yeah, I would have done that.”

     She bent her head, resting her forehead against his, her eyes closed. “Where were you, Reve? Where were you when I needed a black knight to come to my rescue?” she asked quietly.

     “Off trying to make a better man of myself,” he replied. “I thought you’d wait for me.”

     “My parents put too much pressure on me. I broke. I crumbled.” A little sob burst out of her. “I wasn’t strong enough to chase my dreams!”

     “Shh!” he said. “Don’t cry, Shel. If you think about it, neither was I. I wouldn’t have left you behind if I’d had any strength or sense back then”

     “I nearly fainted when you walked through the door the other day. I never thought I’d see you again.”

     “I wasn’t sure I’d ever be back, but things worked out better than I thought they would. When I had a chance to own my own business I was ready to go west, or south. Then one night I had a dream and you were in it. I woke up the next morning and started scouring the internet for any sign of you. I Googled the café and there you were. You and your grandfather, right where I’d left you eight years ago, except you had Tommy’s last name.”

     “The site hasn’t been updated. I took Colter back, got rid of the Birch. I’m Shelley Colter again.”

     “Just like you were when I left.”

     “Only older and wiser.”

     “We both are, older and wiser.”

     “Did you ever get married?’ she asked.

     He shook his head. “Had my share of girls. I’m no saint, Shel. I’ll be honest with you about that. I had a lot of girls.”

     “You’ve always been a chick magnet.”

     He made a face. “Yeah, well, the only one I ever wanted I had to let go of.” He brushed tears off her face with his wet hand. “Shelley, you agreeing to come swimming with me like this, does that mean you were just hot and unable to sleep and needed a diversion, or does it mean you…”

     “Oh, stop already and just kiss me!” she cried. “I just want you to kiss me.”

     He did not hesitate. He caught her mouth with his and kissed her. Her arms tightened around the back of his neck and she kissed him back. Immediately, he was eighteen years old again, kissing pretty little seventeen-year old Shelley Colter in the lake behind the canoe, amazed that such a sweet and innocent girl would even allow him to touch her never mind kiss her.  He wanted to make love to her back then, but knew he couldn’t. He’d waited until a week before her eighteenth birthday before he brought her back to the lake one night and made love to her under the stars. He’d been her first lover, and he’d liked that. She’d waited for him. Two months later everything went to hell with the gas station robbery, his being arrested, her parents forbidding her to ever see him again. Even after he was acquitted they had not allowed him near her. In frustration, he’d taken off. After a year of living rough, barely surviving, he’d found Henry Fitch and begun to learn all there was to learn about classic auto restoration and customizing cars. He’d worked hard to learn his trade, had saved his money by living frugally. Dreaming about the girl he had loved and lost because of some rattled gas jockey’s misidentification had led him back home, to this moment he had never dared dreamed of. “Shelley,” he said, his voice husky. “We need to get closer to shore. I need to put my feet on solid ground.”

     “Mm, sorry.” She slid her mouth from his, tilting her head, trailing little kisses down his jaw, the side of his neck as she unwound her legs from his waist, sliding down his body, letting go of his neck. She sank beneath the water and he felt her circle him, brushing against him, not once, but twice, and then she was gone.

     He swam after her, catching her near the shore, bringing her up out of the water.  “Little fishy, I thought you were going to take the bait back there,” he said.

     “Whose house is this?” she asked. “Is the owner home?”

     “The owner is home,” he acknowledged.

     “Oh, damn it all!” she cried.

     “Why? What’s the matter?”

     “I don’t want him calling the police, reporting lewd behavior on his private beach, trespassers. I don’t want to get you in trouble. We need to go. Come home with me.”

     “To your hot little apartment? Why can’t we just stay here?”

     “Because we’ll get in trouble!”

     He suddenly laughed. “I’ve been in trouble before. I think I can get us out of this if the owner complains.”

     “Reve…” She seemed exasperated, anxious.

     He decided to set her mind at ease. “Shel, this is my house. This is my beach. And you’re my girl, aren’t you?” She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. “You still think you’ll upset the owner?”

     “Are you serious?”

     “You want to see the deed? I have it in a safe inside.”

     “Do you have the keys?”

     “Of course I do.”

     “Where?”

     “In my shorts pocket. Front right.” He watched her march up the sand to where he’d stripped off his shirt and shorts. She grabbed his shorts, dipping her hand into the front right pocket, pulling out his keys. “What are you going to do with those?” he asked.

     “I’m going to go inside. Nothing is worse than sand in your cracks and crevices.”

     He laughed, strode up the beach, scooping up their things, following her to the back deck of the house. She was trying keys when he caught up to her. “There’s an alarm system. It’s the next key. Get the door open then let me go in first to disarm it before the cops really do show up.” She opened the door and he slipped inside, going to the alarm panel. “All set. Come on in.”

     She didn’t see much of the house in the dark. He secured the door then led her through a large room to a hallway, then up an open flight of stairs to the second floor to the bedroom with the balcony overlooking the lake. She really didn’t see much of the bedroom either except shadowy dark forms and then the bed as he picked her up and tossed her into the middle of it. “I’m wet!” she cried.

     “I hope so,” he replied.

     And that’s all the talking they did for quite some time except for a few murmured words here and there as they relearned one another’s geography. He was better at it then he’d been in high school from the sounds she was making. And she wasn’t as shy as she’d been back then. She’d learned some things that surprised and pleased him and made him want her all the more. 

     It was after two o'clock when they finally fell apart, breathing hard, lying side by side, arms touching. “You okay?” he asked.

     “Never been better,” she replied, her voice a little raspy and breathless still.

     “Think you can sleep now?”

     “You taking me home?”

     “No, I meant here, with me. Think you can sleep?”

     “I have to be up in a couple hours.”

     “I’ll be up. I’ll wake you up.”

     “At four? I have to get home, take a shower, get to work for five thirty."

     “I’ll get you up at four, we’ll take a shower. I’ll get you home for quarter past five. You can run upstairs and get dressed then get back downstairs in time to go to work. I’ll hang around, have breakfast, if that’s all right with you.”

     “That’s fine with me.” She turned toward him, smiling. “Don’t make me late.”

     “Okay, we’ll make love in the shower to save a little time.” She laughed. He liked how she laughed, how she smiled at him in the near darkness. This is what he’d missed all those years. This is what he’d wanted. He hoped it was what she wanted too, that it would last. “Go to sleep, little fishy.”

She turned onto her other side and snuggled back against him. “This little fishy has always been attracted to your bait,” she said, sounding drowsy.

     He put his arm around her, pulling her closer, tucking her head underneath his chin. She was going to be tired tomorrow and so was he, but it had been well worth every minute he’d spent with her tonight. As her breathing evened out and slowed in sleep he let his mind drift to the 64’ Mustang convertible in her grandfather’s garage. Buttercup yellow. It wasn’t a color he’d have chosen, but Shelley was like sunshine in human form. It suited her, he thought. He felt warm and illuminated just being close to her. “I love you,” he whispered, practicing the words he had always wanted to say to her, but never had. He had a good feeling that maybe this time they would finally get said and he’d hear her say those same words back to him after eight long years of waiting and wondering if she still cared about him as much as he still cared about her. “Goodnight, sunshine,” he murmured as his eyes finally drifted closed.

copyright January 21, 2016  A Ray of Sunshine is included in Cupid's Darts: A Sweet Hearts Collection

2019 NaNoWriMo is On!

November 1st was the start of the 2019 National Novel Writing Month challenge. I have done this challenge annually since 2012 when Kelly told me I needed to participate after she did it in 2011. Seven of my eighteen novels had their origin as NaNo novels. I like the challenge of writing a novel in 30 days. I thrive on challenges like this.

This year I have a second novel that I'm also continuing writing through November. I started writing it a week before November 1st and had about 20,000 words written.

I got off to a great start since I was on vacation the first three days of the month. I've managed to keep up the momentum the past two nights after work, but am starting to feel a little blurry-brained trying to write both novels simultaneously. If I can't keep up with it, then the first one will have to wait until December so I can finish the official NaNo novel, Spindrift.

Meanwhile, I'm looking forward to a chat over coffee with an author I recently met, Richard Wayne Horton. Richard read from his book, Artists in the Underworld, at the October 19th edition of Ghost Stories Live! in downtown Westfield, MA. Kelly and I both read new stories at the event. I had picked up Richard's book about two weeks prior to Ghost Stories Live and hade been reading it, so was looking forward to hearing him read his own work. To hear an author read their own work is to really understand their voice, their thoughts, and what they are saying to you, the reader/listener.

I was also excited to find out today that author friend, Melissa Volker, is preparing for publication a Christmas story/fable written by her late father many years ago. Melissa also designs fabulous book covers. She's extremely creative and talented, and an exceptional writer in her own right. I'm looking forward to reading her father's story, anxious to hear his voice. It'll be interesting for me, at least, to compare his voice and hers. I do this with my work and Kelly's. She has her own unique voice, yet some of the things she writes surprisingly mirror what I'm writing. It's as f our brains are in sync, but we have two voices, two very different ways of telling the story.

For the past year I've been doing far more drawing than writing. I took a break and had some fun doing something else I love doing, but now it's time to get back into writing. I'm happiest when I'm spending time with my author friends and writing stories that often take on a life of their own. I'm just the medium through which these stories are told. I am, basically, my muse's typist.

Special thanks tonight to my surrogate Mom, the woman who "adopted" me after a Tom Deady (Massachusetts' Bram Stoker Award winner for his novel Haven) book signing about two years ago. She gave me a call and got me laughing. Laughter truly is good medicine!

Midnight has tolled...my pillow is calling to me...to sleep, to dream...goodnight!