Chicky, drama, Heavenly, love

Darling

darling

The redolence of centuries old inks and dust rose to my face as I opened the aged, leather-covered grimoire that had been handed down by my ancestors for eternities. I took in the essence of all the women before me, as I turned the thick hand-made pages until I reached the first blank page. Flattening the book open with the pressure of my hands, I took in a deep breath and focused on Mother before inking the quill. The golden glow of the bricked firepit along with the candle nearby gave off enough light to begin my message.

   Mother,
                           I miss you. Today, of all days, I wish you were here.
                          It did not work. And so, today, I will be setting him free.

I placed my hand over the written message, cleared my mind, blocked the echo of the dripping water behind me, and allowed the written thoughts to go to Mother, wherever her spirit may have been at the moment. I hoped, sitting with me.

The scent of roses drifted up from the book. The message was received.

I softly closed the book, said thank you, and stood to tuck it into the cellar wall amongst the rest of the tools I use to practice my craft, hidden from view for reasons of forbidden witchery. I ran my finger down the empty bottle that just yesterday housed my newest possession, one very expensive cinnamon stick. My head lowered to mimic my heart, for I used it to create a potion yesterday to make myself beautiful for he who did not show.

Accepting my fate to never find love, I begrudgingly made my way up the cellar stairs and into my bedroom. I pulled the box from under my bed, sat on the floor and opened it for the first time in twenty-nine years. Inside it was a folded sheet of parchment paper that instantly brought me back to this very room where I sat with my mother on a smaller, child-sized bed…to write my very first ever spell.

Mother sat next to me holding the candle above the paper that sat upon my lap.

“What do you want your husband to be, dear?” she asked six-year-old me with an excited smile.

The embarrassment came up and out of me with an uncontrollable giggle.

“Handsome,” I said, which came out more like a growling troll saying “Hnsm”.

“Write it down, Dear.”

As I sat with my memory, next to my bed, I opened the paper to reveal the five words needed to complete the spell. All in red crayon:

HANSUM
TALL
MAJICAL
KIND
DARLING

It was the last one that tugged at my chest.

“Darling?” Mother asked with a sly smile. “You want someone to call you Darling?”

“Yeees,” I said looking at the paper so I wouldn’t have to look at her.

“Why would you want that?”

“You know!”

“Because your father calls you Darling?”

“Ye-heh-es,” I said, the word separated by uncomfortable giggles.

“Well, then, Margery, write that in there!” Her arm around my shoulders gripped tighter for a moment. “Now,” she said, “repeat after me.” She paused until I looked at her. “And, so it is done.”

“And, so it is done.”

“Fold it up, put it in this box that has been handed down from my mother and her mother and so on. You will meet your husband on your thirty-fifth birthday.”

The name Darling always brings the memory of my father forward in my heart.

*****

I stood, looking over the bridge to the calm water below. It was my duty to release this man to whomever he had chosen over me. Life had intervened and given him to someone else, and in order for them to be happy, I had to release the spell to the river. This act would break the energy chord that had quietly connected us for twenty-nine years. My heart hurt as I released the paper and turned to walk away.

Despite the reason I was there, Heritage Park was quite beautiful that day. As I walked the trail, the breeze gently cleared the saddened energy I had carried with me since midnight, sixteen hours ago. Birds sang their own love songs. A song that I had accepted would not be mine. I looked up at the full trees as their leaves danced back and forth. The wind picked up with a large gust going one way and then another and then yet another, causing something to float past my face and to the ground. I lowered myself, adjusting my long skirt, to pick it up. It was a folded sheet of parchment paper. I began to open it and saw five childish words in red crayon, but they weren’t mine. Then a set of black boots and tanned breeches stood before me.

“I apologize, Darling, but the wind seems to have taken my note and passed it to you.”

My heart skipped. Could it be? I thought to myself. I slowly lifted my face to look to his. The arch in my neck confirmed that he was certainly tall.

“My goodness. You are quite lovely, aren’t you?” He said as he offered his hand. Once I stood, the most handsome man I had ever seen handed me a note. “I believe I got your note as well.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling the heat fill my cheeks.

“Cheeks like roses and eyes as blue as the ocean,” he said, gently touching my face.

I shied my head down. Realizing I still held his note, I offered it to him.

“Please, read it,” he insisted.

I looked at the words written by a child that read:

BEUTIFULL
BLU
NICE
ROZE
LUVLEE

“It would seem, Darling, that our love spells have crossed paths,” he said with a smile. “Is today your birthday, Lovely?”

“It was yesterday,” I said as I swam in his deep brown eyes.

“Happy belated birthday, Darling. My birthday is today,” he said with a smile as he took my hand and we continued our walk together for the rest of our years.

….end…

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Chicky, Heavenly, love

The Mist – flash fiction-drama

It was the first time in months that I felt joy. The further I ran, the happier I was. The wet chill reminded me of fresh grass clippings while running through the sprinkler during the summer. It clung to my bare feet and held on for the ride, wherever it would lead. I felt free. The order from my dad to stay in the yard was nothing more than a mere whisper that was washed away by the thin mist that surrounded me. Laughter bubbled up through my five-year-old self. And when it finally escaped me, it traveled through the field and was lost somewhere in the fog. I stopped running and yelled into the barely-there cloud. “Ha!” I guess I expected an echo. “Hello!” There was no return of my voice. I looked around. I was further out than I had ever been. In every direction I looked, I could only see grass, a tree or two, and a white blanket that consumed the distance, consumed my house. My laughter ceased. I felt the chill of the morning, and my toes were aching from the cold. I wanted to go home, but didn’t know which way. Panic filled me as I began to cry for my dad. Tear’s covered my face while I cried to no one. That’s when I felt her.

Mom placed her hand on my cheek. Her touch was soft, just like it always was, and it tickled, just like it always did. “It’s okay, Dear, I’m here. Look,” she directed me to look to my right. My pink tea-time table was set in the field, complete with my flowered tea set. I ran to it, and I sat. She sat with me. In that moment, I had forgotten that she had been gone for so long. But that no longer mattered because we were going to have tea at my table. Just like we did every morning until she left.

“I like your dress,” she said as I passed her a cup of imaginary tea. It was a white, lacy dress that Dad had recently bought me for church. “It’s beautiful, just like you.”

I smiled. Mom always told me I was beautiful. Every day. I missed that. “Are you going to stay, Mommy?” I asked. A flower appeared on the table. I picked it up and smelled rose. It reminded me of the previous summer when I helped her trim the rose bush. “I didn’t like when you were gone.”

She placed her hand on mine. It was lighter than normal. “I missed you too, sweetheart,” she smiled and stared at me. I don’t remember how long she stared; I was too busy passing out the pretend cookies. “Baby, I need you to know that even though you don’t see me every day, I am here, watching over you and I will be for the rest of your life.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know I went to Heaven, right?”

“Yeah, but you’re here now,” excitement tickled a smile onto my face.

“When the fog leaves, you won’t be able to see or hear me anymore, but I need you to know that I will still be with you, okay?”

And just like that, my excitement was gone. I stood up from my chair and moved to Mom’s lap. I held her, and she held me, until the fog lifted.

My father dismissed that day as a child’s overactive imagination. My aunt insisted I get grievance counseling, which I never did. Eventually, I also dismissed it as imagination. Whatever it was, it helped the younger me get through the passing of my mother from cancer.

But today…today feels so much like that day thirty-five years ago. I find myself in the field, distant my back yard. The sun has barely risen. I feel a slight chill. Everything is the same, except this morning is crisp and clear. There is no fog in sight.   I don’t know why, but every inch of me feels the same as I did that day. Stranger yet, I’m not sure why I am in the field or how I got here. I feel a soft touch on my cheek that leaves a tickle. “It’s okay, Dear, I’m here.” I look toward the touch, and I see her. My mom, who is just as beautiful as she was thirty-five years ago when she died, is standing next to me.

“Mom?”

She smiles and moves her hand from my cheek to my hand. “It’s over,” she says. “It’s finally over.”

My memories of the past six months come back to me. Pancreatic cancer. The pain. Secretly wishing I would die quicker to end the misery, and to end the burden I was on everyone. Wishing I would survive to be there for Declan. Knowing survival was not an option. Feeling angry. Feeling sad. Feeling… beaten. I remember leaving my body. Lingering. I lingered here for…

“Two months, sweetheart,” Mom answers my thought. “Once you pass, your spirit stays until the weather is just right for fog. It’s the fog that lifts us to Heaven.”

“But I don’t see any fog.”

You are the fog,” she says with a knowing smile.

“But fog is just moisture accumulation.”

“Partially. When fog forms, any lingering spirits on earth are gathered into it, and then raised to Heaven once it dissipates.” She nods her head to my left. I turn to see my six-year-old son who is, like I was when my mom died, crying and lost. “It also acts as a window,” she says, “allowing the living to see us if we choose. He is very handsome, dear.”

“Declan, his name is Declan,” I say, excited to finally share my son with my mom.

“It’s time to say goodbye, Amanda,” she says as she looks from me to my son.

I reach out and touch him. “It’s okay, Baby,” I say. “I’m here.” I think about our mornings that we played with his train track, and it appears. I guide him to his favorite toy as we play and say our goodbyes. He nestles into my lap and we sit on the earth, holding each other, until I begin to feel lighter.   Thinner.  And I leave this world behind, following my mother to a place called Heaven.
~~~
Written by Sheryl Marasi
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Chicky, horror, thriller

Murder and Flowers-flash fiction-thriller

I am quite exhausted of hearing the fact that men are serial killers. I mean, how often do we hear of a woman serial killer? Sure it has taken place in the past; however, names of serial killers that come to mind are Jack the Ripper — I love him, by the way — and Jeffrey Dahmer, the man who never let his murders go to waste. Ate them up, yummy. But, never does a woman’s name come to mind when one thinks of serial killers. There is, of course a reason for that. See, the old saying holds true. “Anything a man can do…a woman can do better.” Of course there are plenty of women serial killers out there! We just don’t get caught!

“My dear, I am so pleased you could make it to my home this afternoon. How did you find your way?” I ask the seventeen-year-old darling who sits uncomfortably upright in my kitchen chair. Her long blond hair is thick and reminds me of the yarn-haired dolls I mutilated as a child.

“Do you mean did I find my way here okay?” She adjusts herself in the chair. “Sorry, I didn’t quite understand the question.”

I lean forward in my chair, placing my face within two feet of hers. I breathe her in, filling my lungs to capacity. Flowers. She smells like fresh cut wild flowers, and my body begins to tingle with excitement. But I must control myself. “Yes, Dear, how did you find your way?”

“It was okay. I didn’t use GPS, if that’s what you mean. I did as you requested and picked up a map from the store and found my way here from that.” She smiles. “That’s the first time I’ve ever used a map. I won’t have any problems driving your child around while you are at work.”

“Oh good, good. And did you also leave your phone at home so you would not be tempted to use that GPS?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And where does your family believe you are right now?”

“At,” she pauses, her eyes slightly squint and her head tilts a little to the side, “a…a job interview.”

“Splendid, Dear, splendid, as right you are!”

She looks around the room a little more closely now. She even leans to her left to get a view of the family room. It, as is the kitchen, is spotless and filled with expensive furniture and beautiful, breakable artifacts. Dare I say, she looks a little…uneasy. Delicious.

“Where…” she starts. “Is the child I will be a nanny to here? I don’t… I don’t see any toys.”

My heart is beginning to race, and I feel slightly lightheaded from the rush that is beginning to flow through my body. Her pupils are growing larger, and her skin… Is it a shade lighter? Yes. “Oh, I keep everything in Jacob’s room. He’s sleeping in his crib right now. Through those doors.” I point to the double-entry door behind her. “Go see him, but shhhh, try not to wake him,” I say with my head tilting down in admiration of my “baby Jacob”. She looks uneasy, but stands and does as she is told. I follow with soft footsteps behind her.

The doors are silent as she opens them. A blue, boat-themed room is displayed before her. And in the middle, there is a white crib with a bundle of joy inside. Joy is in the heart of the beholder, after all.

An odor fills the room that was not there earlier. It is an odor that I am quite familiar with, yet not at all fond of. I am certain she must smell it too. She, however, will not be familiar with what the smell is. And, of course, she will be her most polite and not even mention it. Wonderful girl.

She looks back at me before approaching “Jacob” as if to get final consent to approach my love.

“Yes, Dear, go on. Go on!”

She quietly places her face over the crib, looking at the bundle below her. She can’t see his face, of course. Well, I know why she cannot see the face. There simply is not one. But she does not know that yet.

“I…I don’t see him. Is he in the blanket? I’m afraid he may be suffocating. I can’t see his face.”

“Oh, Dear, he is fine.” I give a slight chuckle. “But, please, feel better and remove the blanket from his face.”

“Oh no. If you think this is okay, I’m sure it is.”

“You had better move the blanket…just in case. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to little Jacob.”

She reaches into the crib and begins to tug at the wrapped bundle of blue and white striped cloth. And that is my cue to pull the blade from under the rocking chair cushion. I stand closely behind her. She is God awfully slow. She is a careful one, isn’t she? Then she stops. She does not move. I listen. I lean in closer and listen. She does not breathe. Yes, she sees what is in the cotton cover. The blood-stained, cotton cover. And there. There it is. Oh yes! Her scream. It makes me feel… And there it is again. Another scream. …so alive. I feel so alive. She turns and tries to run, but how can she with my knife in her chest? She tries to gasp, but she can’t breathe at the moment.  Her eyes fill with fear. Tantalizing. I soak that in before pulling the blade from her. Hunched and trying to hold her blood in, she moves toward the door. I skewer her back, the knife sliding easily between her ribs, but grazing the bone just enough to feel the dull grind as I pull it back out. She screams.  There, now she is breathing again.  Good for her!  She continues to hobble to the door. And I quickly slice through her soft flesh, anywhere–doesn’t really matter where–until she falls to the ground. Blood is everywhere, as though an artist has splash-painted red acrylic into a pattern only he understands. She has fallen and is nothing but a whimpering pile of blood-drenched flesh. She watches as I move toward her, her body no longer allowing her to do much else than stare up at me. I slice her wrist and watch the blood flow.

I don’t know if they are coherent at this point. Certainly in shock. But coherent? I’m not so sure, but I talk to her anyway.

“Got ya. Didn’t I? Everyone feels so safe when interacting with a woman. There is never a second thought about safety. Ever. You didn’t think about safety, did you? You silly, silly girl. You even left your phone behind. Something I’m quite certain you would not have done had I been a man. No one will ever trace you here now.” I pause. “How did you like the bundle in the crib, by the way?” I walk over and grab the decaying arm from the crib. “Do you recognize it? This arm?” Not that I expect her to answer. She just stares as I waive it “Hello” in front of her face. “It is your mother’s arm. Her interview was earlier this morning.” Her eyes glaze over. She is gone. Exquisite. That moment of departure is what I live for. I wonder if her mummy just pulled her to heaven. Who knows.

I guess the sexist fact that men have the stigma of being serial killers is a good thing. People trust me because I am a woman. Therefore, I am permitted do much more killing than they ever could. And because I am a woman, and so very clever, I will never get caught.
~~~
Written by Sheryl Marasi
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Original photo by Josealbafotos