She stood slowly drying the dishes with one of the towels he'd bought her as a housewarming gift. Once bright with happy daisies and cows, it was now faded and tattered. She felt that way some times. He'd made her feel this way. Perhaps not on purpose; but as she watched him, she wished things could have been different for them; better. He sat stoically under her favorite willow tree; his back to her, staring at nothing in particular. She moved quietly around the small kitchen and put together a little picnic to cheer them. Collecting his favorite wine, adding some of his best "snicky snacks" as he called them to her little basket, she then went up stairs to put on his favorite dress. Fussing and primping, a lovely yet fatigued woman finally stood at the back door ready to join him. She stepped out on the porch and began out across the yard, almost nervously. If only today could be different.
He didn't move as she touched his shoulder. Preferring instead to sit silently as she unfolded the blanket and laid out the goodies.
"I packed your favorites." her voice was soft and light; filled with hope while smoothing the blanket and laying out their picnic of little cakes and warm bread with fresh mozzarella and fruit. She uncorked the wine and poured, setting his down in front of him. He did not take it, nor did he respond to her chit chat.
"Don't be like this." she sighed heavily and scooted up next to him. She gingerly placed her arm along his broad back and rested against his shoulder. It was uncomfortable and awkward, but she did it Her hand twisted absently at the grass, wishing he would do nothing more than turn to her and smile or simply reach for her hand. She looked in the direction of his gaze, trying to rediscover the silence and beauty of their lake, their little piece of heaven that was once so precious to them both now only serving as an impassible barrier. The sun was getting drowsy, heading for the soft horizon of trees that lined the other side of the lake. The clouds were giving off their boldest and brightest attempts at romantic encouragement with dramatic pinks and velvety purples. It gave little comfort to her and did not change his stony expression.
"Kids'll be heading off to school soon I finally got their lists together. Nothing like waiting til the last minute. Typical me." she chuckled dryly, sipping from her glass. She rolled it in the sun,and watched as the prisms danced in the remaining light. "Ohhh Honey. I wish you wouldn't be like this. I wish you would just talk to me. Neither of us is happy like this." her sigh spoke of countless efforts to raise his voice, to get him to respond in any way. He didn't budge; only sat and stared.
The wine made her body warm in spite of his frigid insistence. She stretched out on the blanket and reminded him of their happier days. She giggled about how they had snuck out on to the dock that first night, making love passionately and falling asleep beneath a million blushing stars. She teased him about how he'd jumped and screamed like a little girl the first time he saw wild turkeys strutting across the grass, convinced they were carnivorous. She even reminded him of the fun they'd had swooshing down the hill on the toboggan in the dead of winter laughing so hard and long their tears froze. Frustration and disappointment were her rewards accompanied by his indifference. She asked him his opinion but to no avail. He ignored her. She yawned, twisting the stem of her glass. His remained untouched.
"You still won't budge?" she clipped with the first hint of anger. Her movements were more crisp now showing her displeasure. As she picked up, she flipped the blanket, not caring whether or not the crumbs bothered him. She plucked the final cracker from her dainty unnoticed plate and snagged it between her teeth, not offering the last bite and polished off the last dribbles of wine. "I hate this silence between us. It feels like it goes on forever." she pleaded at last. She knew he wouldn't change.
She kissed his granite cheek, leaving her tears and a little more love next to his stone. Alone, she walked back to the house. The willow tree bowed sadly in the breeze. Its thin whispy fingers reaching for her, unable to tell her she was beautiful and it was unfair or that their life together was precious and missed. No matter how it stretched to tickle her leg or capture her attention, it was unable to make his absence softer on her heart.
Something short and simple. I hope that you liked it. Thank you for coming over. It seems like forever since we've spent any time together. Not so long next time, okay?
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Good morning my Pretties.
Well I wanted to let you know, we moved up to higher ground after battening down the hatches. We'd prefer to ride this wave from Promises. We figured we could fly our kites from the dock. ;)
For my Jersey friends and family, be safe and have another hurricane on me.
I'll be back soon; knowing me, later today.
Love,
Tess
Well I wanted to let you know, we moved up to higher ground after battening down the hatches. We'd prefer to ride this wave from Promises. We figured we could fly our kites from the dock. ;)
For my Jersey friends and family, be safe and have another hurricane on me.
I'll be back soon; knowing me, later today.
Love,
Tess
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Upside down
Okay. This is tawdry bathroom humor. But I really had to laugh at myself:
In my office is a little "powder room"; a sink and a toilet. No flash, no glamour; just the basics. I happened to be in there the other day and guess what? I had to change the dom roll. Well, I didn't HAVE to. There was still some paper left ( but I confess there was more cardboard visible than "white puffy softness") So in all my stubbornness, I decided to let someone else do it for a change.
They did.
The NEXT time I went back, there was a BEAUTIFUL new roll albeit upside down. Complete with glue. Why do they glue the end down....better question...Why do they use so MUCH glue to glue the end down? Well, this is what I'm pondering, perched oh so precariously on the "pot-TAY". I reach over (it's not exactly in close proximity) and I snag it. I get a half-ply piece of paper that could be considered useful ONLY if they were to scrape under my nails during a forensic investigation. I purse my lips and try again to hear a "rrrriiiippp" but see just a skinny flash of white that has run ACROSS and INTO the roll. NOW I wiggle my finger into the "hole" I've just made and begin to spin; backwards. In the process of doing this, I have got two streamers that are two layers apart just rolling away. DAMMIT! I just want some motherfiretrucking paper! I am about ready to karate chop it and throw the entire thing in the trash, going for the air dry trick because my arse is getting numb and a little tingly from sitting on the seat so long. But I grit my teeth and try once more.
In a moment of shear genius, I decided to take the roll off the spindle and flip it. Well, apparently while sitting on the throne, I must have pinched a nerve somewhere in my spine which controls my dexterity and nimbleness. I dropped the damn roll and it ran away, leaving my streamers and an entirely NEW trail along the floor in a direct path to the damn door. Thank the Quilted Northern Gods for the door being shut because the vision I had is of that stupid party favor dashing down the hall all the way to my secretary where she would cock her head and say "Hmmm what's this?" following it much like Dorothy on the yellow brick road only to find me... well in less than a stellar position in life. NOW I have to tuck my feet around the bowl as if in a ceramic ballet, bend over, walk my fingers to the runaway roll and peel it back slowly so no more comes off and I don't unravel the entire thing...all while praying I don't face plant on the tile floor, break my nose and have to explain that I lost a battle with "Charmin, the fly-weight champion of the bathroom breaking world".
Victory is sweet though sometimes tainted.
It was too stupid and funny not to share.
I hope your day was more simple.
Thanks for coming over. I hope you smiled a little.
In my office is a little "powder room"; a sink and a toilet. No flash, no glamour; just the basics. I happened to be in there the other day and guess what? I had to change the dom roll. Well, I didn't HAVE to. There was still some paper left ( but I confess there was more cardboard visible than "white puffy softness") So in all my stubbornness, I decided to let someone else do it for a change.
They did.
The NEXT time I went back, there was a BEAUTIFUL new roll albeit upside down. Complete with glue. Why do they glue the end down....better question...Why do they use so MUCH glue to glue the end down? Well, this is what I'm pondering, perched oh so precariously on the "pot-TAY". I reach over (it's not exactly in close proximity) and I snag it. I get a half-ply piece of paper that could be considered useful ONLY if they were to scrape under my nails during a forensic investigation. I purse my lips and try again to hear a "rrrriiiippp" but see just a skinny flash of white that has run ACROSS and INTO the roll. NOW I wiggle my finger into the "hole" I've just made and begin to spin; backwards. In the process of doing this, I have got two streamers that are two layers apart just rolling away. DAMMIT! I just want some motherfiretrucking paper! I am about ready to karate chop it and throw the entire thing in the trash, going for the air dry trick because my arse is getting numb and a little tingly from sitting on the seat so long. But I grit my teeth and try once more.
In a moment of shear genius, I decided to take the roll off the spindle and flip it. Well, apparently while sitting on the throne, I must have pinched a nerve somewhere in my spine which controls my dexterity and nimbleness. I dropped the damn roll and it ran away, leaving my streamers and an entirely NEW trail along the floor in a direct path to the damn door. Thank the Quilted Northern Gods for the door being shut because the vision I had is of that stupid party favor dashing down the hall all the way to my secretary where she would cock her head and say "Hmmm what's this?" following it much like Dorothy on the yellow brick road only to find me... well in less than a stellar position in life. NOW I have to tuck my feet around the bowl as if in a ceramic ballet, bend over, walk my fingers to the runaway roll and peel it back slowly so no more comes off and I don't unravel the entire thing...all while praying I don't face plant on the tile floor, break my nose and have to explain that I lost a battle with "Charmin, the fly-weight champion of the bathroom breaking world".
Victory is sweet though sometimes tainted.
It was too stupid and funny not to share.
I hope your day was more simple.
Thanks for coming over. I hope you smiled a little.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Reflections of Regret
"TaaaDAHHHH" her hand flipped and swayed in front of the old dresser and mirror. Sarah sat it in the corner of the library; a misfit among the other crisp, light colors and sharp distinguished furniture. Its form contained a snake like molding that stretched top to bottom and coiled around gnarled clawed feet which were perched atop carved wooden balls. Above its thick, clunky body graced a mirror; faded and a little foggy but it balanced gracefully. Despite its black walnut stain, some painful gouges, and its tiny wobble when bumped, it was still an eye catcher; save for the crack in the lower right corner of the looking glass.
Her mother stalked it carefully as if it would bite her. "Where did you get THAT?" Maxine reached out to touch it but thought better. She sniffed presumptuously as if it contained mold or rotted food and needed to be discarded. She circled it twice more and at last opened the top drawer where she discovered some carvings: WD 1914. She touched the bureau more tenderly now and smiled at her daughter. "It belonged in this family." She said quietly. "My grandfather made it before he died. Webster Daniels."
Her daughter clapped delightedly and hauled it up to her room; so proud to have reunited family. The following days carried her to the family history books; photos and letters. Sadly, very little could be found about her great-grandfather or that "end" of the family. She went to the ultimate source; her mom, and asked about it. Her mother sighed heavily and rubbed the edge of the kitchen table.
"Well, it's not a very pleasant memory for the family." she said dryly. "You see, my grandfather was a hard working, gruff man. He worked his fingers to the bone on the railroad and worked at night as a carpenter. He expected things in his home to be ... a certain way." She folded her hands neatly in her lap hoping that would cinch it all up. She glanced at Sarah and realized it didn't so she continued. "My grandmother, Zula, couldn't give him a son and he was less than happy with the daughter he DID have. Theirs was NOT a marriage of love. As life got harder, so did they. He turned to drink and his fists while Gramma turned to God and prayer. One day, my mother, your Nina Sarah, woke to find Gramma gone. Nina knew she had run off to save herself. Things did not improve because my mother was now his focus. It was not pleasant." Once again she folded her hands hoping her daughter would take the hint. "It's really not a nice discussion to have."
"So how did he die?"
The older woman looked at the floor. "He drowned"
There was an instant heaviness in the air. Maxine stared out the window, pretending to be captivated by something invisible outside. Sarah toed the floor. Both women fidgeted in their chairs and decided abruptly they had more important things to do. Discussion closed.
Sarah's sleep was troubled that night. She had poured over family history and photos for days, so to see her great-grandmother wafting in and out of her nightmares trying to speak was not a surprise. Her manner was harried and panicked and in her dreams, Sarah heard "Look away" She woke several times with a rushing heart and sweat soaked night clothes. She dismissed it.
She also began to dismiss the odd little noises and happenings; scratching became a critter in the wall. The soft knocking was the gentle bump of the old dresser as her family moved about the hallway. The whispers from the shadows had to be the wind. They simply had to. She would pat the old wobbly dinosaur and promise. "Don't worry Grand-dad. You can stay. "
Then she saw him. As she popped in front of the faded glass one day, she caught a shadow behind her, but it was only in the mirror. Tall and thin it seemed to come to the front of the mirror in jagged, disjointed bursts. Sarah pulled away with a gasp and quickly looked behind her. Nothing. No one. But the man stayed. He was dark haired with black almost hollow eyes. His face was long and drawn into a scowl with deep angry wrinkles. He watched the younger soul intensely, leaning forward with a pensive half grin-half sneer. Sarah's flesh turned cold and pricked with sweat. She slammed her eyes shut against the frightening vision and turned on her heel, rushing from the room.
And so began the haunting of Sarah. The man behind the glass would come and stare at her often, pacing like a caged lion. He would rush to the front and laying his hands on it like a window, try to force it open. Sarah watched him, terrified as he glowered at her and from the looks of it, shouted at her. So consumed was she, that sleep itself became a wishful thought. She would find reason to stay out of her room; be it with friends or conveniently falling into a light doze on the couch. Her mother rarely said anything to her but at last came with a sheet.
"It's time Sarah. He's caused enough trouble for you. You need to look away."
Although struck by the words, the young woman couldn't leave him. She sat upstairs during the day for hours just focusing on the empty glass.
"Mom, I think he wants my help. I think there's something wrong."
Maxine shook her head and cautioned her daughter; "Those are not reflections of YOUR life Sarah. You don't understand what you're seeing. Look away before it's too late."
But Sarah knew better. She began to seek him. Waiting for his whispers at night upon which she would sit in front of the dresser and speak to him.
His voice was thick and watery, unintelligible even with the digital recorder she used, but he would nod furiously.
"Did you hurt someone?"
This would cause an emphatic shake. She watched as he slammed his hands on his half of the dresser or covered his face; in despair. He beckoned her to come closer where he would touch the crack in the mirror, his eyes dancing eagerly from the young woman back to that dirty, smudged fracture. Poor man. So lost. And so at last, she did what he had asked. She reached up and touched the broken mirror.
The room began to tilt and bend as Sarah felt a chill burrow through her bones. The smell of the room was sweet and sick; like too many roses used to cover a piece of rotting meat. She noticed through a mental fog that the room was not her own but the one from the mirror. There was water running. She felt called to it; down a dimly lit hall she crept. Hearing a soft crying, she stopped in front of a half closed door. Pushing it open showed her a woman; a young Nina Sarah leaning on the edge of the tub. In it was her father, a deep gash at the side of his head. His dark eyes were open under the water, seeing nothing. The liquid resembled Easter egg water; swirls of crimson and pink pranced along its surface. The young woman sat up, oblivious to the new witness and punched him with her fists sobbing. "No more Father. No more of this EVER." and then she lowered her head, continuing to sob. Startled by movement behind her, Sarah spun quickly to see the man; Webster. His jaw was set angrily and his eyes pierced her own. His skull, grotesquely misshapen and flat from a horrible wound was covered with a filmy and grey "skin", like damp molded bread. He opened his mouth to speak but a congealed, black liquid bubbled from his face instead, causing a thick, pasty groan. It wreaked of regret and death. Sarah wretched.
At first she reached for him to help him or offer understanding. But his mouth twisted into a sick coated grin. He grabbed her shoulder and began to drive her backward toward the tub with surprising speed and strength. Sarah was caught off guard and slipped on a small rug. Her Nina was gone. It was just the two of them. He forced her down to her knees and over the edge. The water was cold and murky. It stung her eyes as she forced them open, begging herself to wake up. She screamed into the tub and swung wildly with her hands and arms. He banged her head on the edge chanting her name with a dark hatred. Sarah was running out of breath. Her head ached and her throat began to tighten. Her lungs were screaming for her mouth to open; to gasp for air. And so she did.
The ugly little dresser sat neglected with a sheet over it for what seemed to Maxine like a hundred years. Since the death of her daughter, the woman had made sure it remained covered and locked away. They said her daughter choked while taking vitamins in her room. It was how they tried to explain the small puddle of water near her mouth and the amount discovered in her lungs. Drowning. Maxine lived the rest of her life looking away and knowing better. The old woman died with explicit instructions to "burn that damned piece of furniture to Hell" But the lovely young woman who was cleaning out the house noticed it. Loved it. It was certainly a unique piece ( "Even signed by its maker here in the top drawer!" the woman remarked to herself) and in good condition; except for the crack in the glass. She made a quick call and before anyone could whisper "Look away", it was loaded into her boyfriend's truck and heading off to a new home.
Silly? I suppose. A friend and I were rummaging through some antiques. She bought a little dresser like this and we laughed about it; joked about hauntings and ghosts. Of course, sitting here alone with just my computer light on...I don't think it's so damn funny any more.
Oh well. Giggle and point. I'm such a boob. I hope you had a nice weekend. Let's get together again soon. Thank you for visiting me. It was fun.
Her mother stalked it carefully as if it would bite her. "Where did you get THAT?" Maxine reached out to touch it but thought better. She sniffed presumptuously as if it contained mold or rotted food and needed to be discarded. She circled it twice more and at last opened the top drawer where she discovered some carvings: WD 1914. She touched the bureau more tenderly now and smiled at her daughter. "It belonged in this family." She said quietly. "My grandfather made it before he died. Webster Daniels."
Her daughter clapped delightedly and hauled it up to her room; so proud to have reunited family. The following days carried her to the family history books; photos and letters. Sadly, very little could be found about her great-grandfather or that "end" of the family. She went to the ultimate source; her mom, and asked about it. Her mother sighed heavily and rubbed the edge of the kitchen table.
"Well, it's not a very pleasant memory for the family." she said dryly. "You see, my grandfather was a hard working, gruff man. He worked his fingers to the bone on the railroad and worked at night as a carpenter. He expected things in his home to be ... a certain way." She folded her hands neatly in her lap hoping that would cinch it all up. She glanced at Sarah and realized it didn't so she continued. "My grandmother, Zula, couldn't give him a son and he was less than happy with the daughter he DID have. Theirs was NOT a marriage of love. As life got harder, so did they. He turned to drink and his fists while Gramma turned to God and prayer. One day, my mother, your Nina Sarah, woke to find Gramma gone. Nina knew she had run off to save herself. Things did not improve because my mother was now his focus. It was not pleasant." Once again she folded her hands hoping her daughter would take the hint. "It's really not a nice discussion to have."
"So how did he die?"
The older woman looked at the floor. "He drowned"
There was an instant heaviness in the air. Maxine stared out the window, pretending to be captivated by something invisible outside. Sarah toed the floor. Both women fidgeted in their chairs and decided abruptly they had more important things to do. Discussion closed.
Sarah's sleep was troubled that night. She had poured over family history and photos for days, so to see her great-grandmother wafting in and out of her nightmares trying to speak was not a surprise. Her manner was harried and panicked and in her dreams, Sarah heard "Look away" She woke several times with a rushing heart and sweat soaked night clothes. She dismissed it.
She also began to dismiss the odd little noises and happenings; scratching became a critter in the wall. The soft knocking was the gentle bump of the old dresser as her family moved about the hallway. The whispers from the shadows had to be the wind. They simply had to. She would pat the old wobbly dinosaur and promise. "Don't worry Grand-dad. You can stay. "
Then she saw him. As she popped in front of the faded glass one day, she caught a shadow behind her, but it was only in the mirror. Tall and thin it seemed to come to the front of the mirror in jagged, disjointed bursts. Sarah pulled away with a gasp and quickly looked behind her. Nothing. No one. But the man stayed. He was dark haired with black almost hollow eyes. His face was long and drawn into a scowl with deep angry wrinkles. He watched the younger soul intensely, leaning forward with a pensive half grin-half sneer. Sarah's flesh turned cold and pricked with sweat. She slammed her eyes shut against the frightening vision and turned on her heel, rushing from the room.
And so began the haunting of Sarah. The man behind the glass would come and stare at her often, pacing like a caged lion. He would rush to the front and laying his hands on it like a window, try to force it open. Sarah watched him, terrified as he glowered at her and from the looks of it, shouted at her. So consumed was she, that sleep itself became a wishful thought. She would find reason to stay out of her room; be it with friends or conveniently falling into a light doze on the couch. Her mother rarely said anything to her but at last came with a sheet.
"It's time Sarah. He's caused enough trouble for you. You need to look away."
Although struck by the words, the young woman couldn't leave him. She sat upstairs during the day for hours just focusing on the empty glass.
"Mom, I think he wants my help. I think there's something wrong."
Maxine shook her head and cautioned her daughter; "Those are not reflections of YOUR life Sarah. You don't understand what you're seeing. Look away before it's too late."
But Sarah knew better. She began to seek him. Waiting for his whispers at night upon which she would sit in front of the dresser and speak to him.
His voice was thick and watery, unintelligible even with the digital recorder she used, but he would nod furiously.
"Did you hurt someone?"
This would cause an emphatic shake. She watched as he slammed his hands on his half of the dresser or covered his face; in despair. He beckoned her to come closer where he would touch the crack in the mirror, his eyes dancing eagerly from the young woman back to that dirty, smudged fracture. Poor man. So lost. And so at last, she did what he had asked. She reached up and touched the broken mirror.
The room began to tilt and bend as Sarah felt a chill burrow through her bones. The smell of the room was sweet and sick; like too many roses used to cover a piece of rotting meat. She noticed through a mental fog that the room was not her own but the one from the mirror. There was water running. She felt called to it; down a dimly lit hall she crept. Hearing a soft crying, she stopped in front of a half closed door. Pushing it open showed her a woman; a young Nina Sarah leaning on the edge of the tub. In it was her father, a deep gash at the side of his head. His dark eyes were open under the water, seeing nothing. The liquid resembled Easter egg water; swirls of crimson and pink pranced along its surface. The young woman sat up, oblivious to the new witness and punched him with her fists sobbing. "No more Father. No more of this EVER." and then she lowered her head, continuing to sob. Startled by movement behind her, Sarah spun quickly to see the man; Webster. His jaw was set angrily and his eyes pierced her own. His skull, grotesquely misshapen and flat from a horrible wound was covered with a filmy and grey "skin", like damp molded bread. He opened his mouth to speak but a congealed, black liquid bubbled from his face instead, causing a thick, pasty groan. It wreaked of regret and death. Sarah wretched.
At first she reached for him to help him or offer understanding. But his mouth twisted into a sick coated grin. He grabbed her shoulder and began to drive her backward toward the tub with surprising speed and strength. Sarah was caught off guard and slipped on a small rug. Her Nina was gone. It was just the two of them. He forced her down to her knees and over the edge. The water was cold and murky. It stung her eyes as she forced them open, begging herself to wake up. She screamed into the tub and swung wildly with her hands and arms. He banged her head on the edge chanting her name with a dark hatred. Sarah was running out of breath. Her head ached and her throat began to tighten. Her lungs were screaming for her mouth to open; to gasp for air. And so she did.
The ugly little dresser sat neglected with a sheet over it for what seemed to Maxine like a hundred years. Since the death of her daughter, the woman had made sure it remained covered and locked away. They said her daughter choked while taking vitamins in her room. It was how they tried to explain the small puddle of water near her mouth and the amount discovered in her lungs. Drowning. Maxine lived the rest of her life looking away and knowing better. The old woman died with explicit instructions to "burn that damned piece of furniture to Hell" But the lovely young woman who was cleaning out the house noticed it. Loved it. It was certainly a unique piece ( "Even signed by its maker here in the top drawer!" the woman remarked to herself) and in good condition; except for the crack in the glass. She made a quick call and before anyone could whisper "Look away", it was loaded into her boyfriend's truck and heading off to a new home.
Silly? I suppose. A friend and I were rummaging through some antiques. She bought a little dresser like this and we laughed about it; joked about hauntings and ghosts. Of course, sitting here alone with just my computer light on...I don't think it's so damn funny any more.
Oh well. Giggle and point. I'm such a boob. I hope you had a nice weekend. Let's get together again soon. Thank you for visiting me. It was fun.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
A night not quite
He couldn't believe the luck in finding her the first time. God bless Classmates.com It had been a whim and they had enjoyed talking and catching up. She was on her way back home and he happened to be in town. They planned lunch but work called on them both and it was cancelled. His life moved quickly forward without her. But sometimes he thought back on her face; her smile. He swore sometimes he could hear it in her typing.
Growing up, she had always adored him from afar. He was the one that made her too shy to talk, too nervous to pursue and so she dreamed of him. She laughed at herself for keeping a picture he'd given her in kindergarten. He was her first "love". She had wanted to marry him before that meant anything other than chasing him around the playground. She wrote his name and drew little hearts and stars beside it. It was the first time she had ever written "Mrs." Anyone. Disappointment was heavy in her heart when he cancelled their lunch but with that came the confession that she was petrified to actually sit with him. The thought sent a flush to her cheeks and a race to her heart. Their second reunion was thanks to the advent of social networks. He seemed closer; within reach. Their conversations were filled with reminiscence and expectations for their lives so far apart and separate. They were both happy and content. They were doing well in their businesses; over congratulating each other for success. It surprised her how well their humor melded and their lives paralleled. She was surprised to hear the invitation when she mentioned a trip to a nearby city. They made arrangements to meet for dinner. He recalled the restaurant in her hotel was nice; not too romantic but not too loud so he made reservations. He had remembered her favorite color and wore it well. He had debated about flowers and decided on wine instead. They had a common love of it and had fallen back to it when lost for words; the correct ones at least. He spotted her the minute he walked in. It was a dress they had laughed about before, but he wasn't laughing now. She was more beautiful than he remembered. He cupped his mouth and stroked his goatee. Did he hug her? Kiss her cheek? Shake hands? Now he seemed choked with formality and uncertainty. His skin pricked with a nervous perspiration. She turned...
And saw him. Instantly she smiled. His dark eyes seemed to swallow her. She stood and opened her arms, hugging him warmly and as he helped her return to her seat, she caught the bartender, ordering a bottle of wine to be sent to the table. They remained and had cocktails; talking innocently of the trip for both of them.
She chose a dress that was sexy but left something to the imagination. She had alluded to it in a brief conversation they'd had online one day. She arrived early, stopping in the ladies room a dozen times to check and recheck her hair and make up. Her stomach fluttered with a million butterflies. Her skin tingled at the anticipation of his touch. Would he hug her? Shake hands? Her heart thumped as if she had run a hundred miles. She saw him at last from across the lot; tall, handsome. This was cause for one more mad dash to the bathroom. Nope. It was all still the same. When ready, they were seated. he sat close to her offering his jacket.
"Are you cold?"
She laughed and rubbed her arms carelessly. "No. Just nervous I guess." she shrugged and smiled.
"Nervous?" he asked in surprise.
"Quit." and she nudged him playfully. "You know that I am."
"You don't seem it. Don't be. It's just me." and he laid his hand across the back of her chair.
She leaned back and let his had softly trail along her bare flesh. The shiver that ran through her caused them both to look at each other and giggle.
"It was never "just you"." she said quietly, sipping from the wine glass in front of her.
"Now it's my turn to be nervous." he confessed. "It IS just me. Not bigger than life. Not more than a man."
Her eyes softened over the candle at their table and his mouth went dry as she grinned into her glass.
It took them both by surprise; his kiss. He bent, gently touched her chin and barely brushed her mouth with his. The wine tasted better on her lips. She lingered only long enough to catch his eye and bite her lip. Pulling away with a nervous giggle.
"Where are you going?" he prodded and kissed her temple. He breathed in the swirl of perfume, shampoo and desire that surrounded them.
"Absolutely nowhere." she breathed and touched his face. She looked deeply into his eyes.
"Wow." he said catching his breath. "I like this."
"Me too." she said, willing her knees to stop knocking under the table. Her entire body was on fire. She wanted to climb into his lap and whisper all the thoughts, all the wants she'd hidden for so long; for a lifetime. She wanted to touch and kiss every inch of his body because it was perfect to her; as it always had been.
He must have read her mind for he reached under and lightly drew along the back of her leg. She closed her eyes and almost drowned in the pleasure his hands brought to her. Her cheeks grew warm but she did not pull away or stop him. Carefully he teased the hem of her dress relishing the tension that grew between them. She was taken by surprise when the waiter came to take their order; glancing away mildly embarrassed. He ordered for her and whispered against her shoulder that although she looked wonderful, he wanted to see the dress on the floor. He kissed her lightly. The soft pressure on his thigh confirmed a similar feeling.
It was her turn to catch off guard; her hand daintily wandering along his leg. Reaching what she wanted, her fingertips became more insistent, curious; running the length of his body and smiling innocently.
"What do you think you're doing young lady?" he whispered heavily shifting his body in his chair. She only batted her eyes and smiled softly.
"Nothing. What did you do today." she cooed.
"What?" he couldn't think.
Her hand caressed him a little more firmly. "What did..."
"I don't know." he confessed in a heated rush.
She giggled. "Good. I'm glad I have your attention." and she leaned in to tell him a secret. He felt her breath warm against his neck as she whispered that she wanted him. Her tongue and lips nuzzled his earlobe and his body responded instantly to her touch and passionate words of need and wish.
He actually turned to speak but found her hungry, full mouth instead. She sighed quietly and asked to go. She pouted only a little and kissed him once again. He couldn't have agreed more. The bill was settled and they headed for the door.
"Would you like to come up to my room?" she asked, sliding her hand into his and giving it a tug. He wanted to pick her up and carry her off. He wanted the rest of the night to disappear in skin and sex. He didn't speak but followed her to the elevator. Once inside, he quickly ushered her to the back corner. His mouth was firm and eager. His hands slipped around her waist to cup her backside. Feeling her legs part, he slowly traced her hips, her thighs and cautiously explored her body. He felt her begin to shake with anticipation. He kissed her chin and neck almost growling her name as she pulled selfishly at his clothes. Her breath came in gasps and giggles. He found her mouth again tasting her tongue and lips. He pushed against her as his belt and trousers jingled playfully; lifting her up, he ached to feel the tightness of her body.
"Oh God. Please...." she began and moved against him. She whimpered and asked him once more. "No. Wait. We can't..." she huffed suddenly.
"We can't?" he pulled away to make sure he'd heard her right. Her hair was disheveled but she continued to kiss him. He weighed in again with a new barrage of words and touch against her silky skin.
~I can't.
"Why?"
~I can't make it.
He read the typed words again and sent his response.
WHY?
~I have to work and won't make the flight.
Take a later one.
There was a blank screen. He could hear her thinking. He kept sending his selfish thoughts. He wanted to see her; hold her; have her. He knew she felt the same.
~I can't.
I want you to.
~I want you too.
Please.
As he typed it, he knew the answer. His heart sank in disappointment. He read the words with a different ache in his chest.
~I'm sorry
They danced around their pain and frustration. They joked about another rendezvous. They agreed to chat the next day and the next... But in the end, as always with their conversations, it ended with lights out, worlds apart. Two lovers left to dream of what would never be.
Growing up, she had always adored him from afar. He was the one that made her too shy to talk, too nervous to pursue and so she dreamed of him. She laughed at herself for keeping a picture he'd given her in kindergarten. He was her first "love". She had wanted to marry him before that meant anything other than chasing him around the playground. She wrote his name and drew little hearts and stars beside it. It was the first time she had ever written "Mrs." Anyone. Disappointment was heavy in her heart when he cancelled their lunch but with that came the confession that she was petrified to actually sit with him. The thought sent a flush to her cheeks and a race to her heart. Their second reunion was thanks to the advent of social networks. He seemed closer; within reach. Their conversations were filled with reminiscence and expectations for their lives so far apart and separate. They were both happy and content. They were doing well in their businesses; over congratulating each other for success. It surprised her how well their humor melded and their lives paralleled. She was surprised to hear the invitation when she mentioned a trip to a nearby city. They made arrangements to meet for dinner. He recalled the restaurant in her hotel was nice; not too romantic but not too loud so he made reservations. He had remembered her favorite color and wore it well. He had debated about flowers and decided on wine instead. They had a common love of it and had fallen back to it when lost for words; the correct ones at least. He spotted her the minute he walked in. It was a dress they had laughed about before, but he wasn't laughing now. She was more beautiful than he remembered. He cupped his mouth and stroked his goatee. Did he hug her? Kiss her cheek? Shake hands? Now he seemed choked with formality and uncertainty. His skin pricked with a nervous perspiration. She turned...
And saw him. Instantly she smiled. His dark eyes seemed to swallow her. She stood and opened her arms, hugging him warmly and as he helped her return to her seat, she caught the bartender, ordering a bottle of wine to be sent to the table. They remained and had cocktails; talking innocently of the trip for both of them.
She chose a dress that was sexy but left something to the imagination. She had alluded to it in a brief conversation they'd had online one day. She arrived early, stopping in the ladies room a dozen times to check and recheck her hair and make up. Her stomach fluttered with a million butterflies. Her skin tingled at the anticipation of his touch. Would he hug her? Shake hands? Her heart thumped as if she had run a hundred miles. She saw him at last from across the lot; tall, handsome. This was cause for one more mad dash to the bathroom. Nope. It was all still the same. When ready, they were seated. he sat close to her offering his jacket.
"Are you cold?"
She laughed and rubbed her arms carelessly. "No. Just nervous I guess." she shrugged and smiled.
"Nervous?" he asked in surprise.
"Quit." and she nudged him playfully. "You know that I am."
"You don't seem it. Don't be. It's just me." and he laid his hand across the back of her chair.
She leaned back and let his had softly trail along her bare flesh. The shiver that ran through her caused them both to look at each other and giggle.
"It was never "just you"." she said quietly, sipping from the wine glass in front of her.
"Now it's my turn to be nervous." he confessed. "It IS just me. Not bigger than life. Not more than a man."
Her eyes softened over the candle at their table and his mouth went dry as she grinned into her glass.
It took them both by surprise; his kiss. He bent, gently touched her chin and barely brushed her mouth with his. The wine tasted better on her lips. She lingered only long enough to catch his eye and bite her lip. Pulling away with a nervous giggle.
"Where are you going?" he prodded and kissed her temple. He breathed in the swirl of perfume, shampoo and desire that surrounded them.
"Absolutely nowhere." she breathed and touched his face. She looked deeply into his eyes.
"Wow." he said catching his breath. "I like this."
"Me too." she said, willing her knees to stop knocking under the table. Her entire body was on fire. She wanted to climb into his lap and whisper all the thoughts, all the wants she'd hidden for so long; for a lifetime. She wanted to touch and kiss every inch of his body because it was perfect to her; as it always had been.
He must have read her mind for he reached under and lightly drew along the back of her leg. She closed her eyes and almost drowned in the pleasure his hands brought to her. Her cheeks grew warm but she did not pull away or stop him. Carefully he teased the hem of her dress relishing the tension that grew between them. She was taken by surprise when the waiter came to take their order; glancing away mildly embarrassed. He ordered for her and whispered against her shoulder that although she looked wonderful, he wanted to see the dress on the floor. He kissed her lightly. The soft pressure on his thigh confirmed a similar feeling.
It was her turn to catch off guard; her hand daintily wandering along his leg. Reaching what she wanted, her fingertips became more insistent, curious; running the length of his body and smiling innocently.
"What do you think you're doing young lady?" he whispered heavily shifting his body in his chair. She only batted her eyes and smiled softly.
"Nothing. What did you do today." she cooed.
"What?" he couldn't think.
Her hand caressed him a little more firmly. "What did..."
"I don't know." he confessed in a heated rush.
She giggled. "Good. I'm glad I have your attention." and she leaned in to tell him a secret. He felt her breath warm against his neck as she whispered that she wanted him. Her tongue and lips nuzzled his earlobe and his body responded instantly to her touch and passionate words of need and wish.
He actually turned to speak but found her hungry, full mouth instead. She sighed quietly and asked to go. She pouted only a little and kissed him once again. He couldn't have agreed more. The bill was settled and they headed for the door.
"Would you like to come up to my room?" she asked, sliding her hand into his and giving it a tug. He wanted to pick her up and carry her off. He wanted the rest of the night to disappear in skin and sex. He didn't speak but followed her to the elevator. Once inside, he quickly ushered her to the back corner. His mouth was firm and eager. His hands slipped around her waist to cup her backside. Feeling her legs part, he slowly traced her hips, her thighs and cautiously explored her body. He felt her begin to shake with anticipation. He kissed her chin and neck almost growling her name as she pulled selfishly at his clothes. Her breath came in gasps and giggles. He found her mouth again tasting her tongue and lips. He pushed against her as his belt and trousers jingled playfully; lifting her up, he ached to feel the tightness of her body.
"Oh God. Please...." she began and moved against him. She whimpered and asked him once more. "No. Wait. We can't..." she huffed suddenly.
"We can't?" he pulled away to make sure he'd heard her right. Her hair was disheveled but she continued to kiss him. He weighed in again with a new barrage of words and touch against her silky skin.
~I can't.
"Why?"
~I can't make it.
He read the typed words again and sent his response.
WHY?
~I have to work and won't make the flight.
Take a later one.
There was a blank screen. He could hear her thinking. He kept sending his selfish thoughts. He wanted to see her; hold her; have her. He knew she felt the same.
~I can't.
I want you to.
~I want you too.
Please.
As he typed it, he knew the answer. His heart sank in disappointment. He read the words with a different ache in his chest.
~I'm sorry
They danced around their pain and frustration. They joked about another rendezvous. They agreed to chat the next day and the next... But in the end, as always with their conversations, it ended with lights out, worlds apart. Two lovers left to dream of what would never be.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
All fun things must come to an end. As my vacation draws to a close, I'm sad to realize just how hard it is to leave here. We've had such a great time and enjoyed so much laughter, relaxing and sharing with some of the wonderful people in our lives.
I accomplished many "pats on the back" including my White Chapel shortie that I REALLY like and a couple of others that I was pleasantly surprised by their nice turnout. My biggest kudo was to ride the mountain on my bike. Oh yes my Dears, I did it; all thanks to Cheech's encouragement. It was sixteen miles of Hell but I stayed in the saddle and I finished it; more than once this week. Having almost ended up as someone's hood ornament when I was younger, traffic is very frightening to me. I would be content wobbling atop a trike fitted with a huge basket, red safety flag bouncing about while cruising up and down the driveway. ... Not really. But I am very scared when on the busier sections of my ride in NJ so when I started out with all the curves and blind hills I thought my heart would beat right up my chest and out my mouth, but it stayed and thumped so I continued on. By the time I was finished, I had to do two things: convince my body I was not dead and remind my legs how to walk. But it was SUCH a rush. There is nothing like flying down that hill....
"Wheeeeeeee!" to almost poop yourself realizing you much climb that firetrucking hill in second gear while your feet make tiny circles, somehow you keep moving and then? You are rewarded with a curve, another hill and a semi tractor trailer barrelling at you head on. But I did it and I was queen of my mountain; proud and tall...for 5' 4". ;)
Everyone has had a blast; especially Winston. He discovered a new and rewarding trick. He realized that the pantry door can sneak open if not latched. In fact, it is open about the width of a foot; WINSTON'S foot. So once that is accomplished there is a magical stairway; right up the napkins, Starbuck's Frappuccino and the first two shelves to something that he has only recently discovered he loves; marshmallows and graham crackers. They apparently rock his world more than the dog cookies. How do I know this? Well the empty bags and the lovely sweet breath that Wee man puffed all over me trying to tell me that Birdie did it. Additionally, he has an affinity for messes, both making and cleaning up. I came back from a ride and found Birdie jumping and nipping which means one thing; she wants to show me what Winston has done. She is laughing her ass off because he is SO busted. I went out and found Winston rummaging in the burn pile and focusing heartily on the empty bag of flour. Although I share my "toddlers" affinity for cookie dough and cake batter, I DO make sure all ingredients have been added. Winston missed the cake batter, but knew what went in it...and was determined to find some...in that damn bag... which he shredded all over the porch and well... you can see for yourselves.*sigh*
All I could do was laugh at his long drawn face covered in poofy powder. Birdie was unimpressed with his punishment of picture taking, pointing and giggling.
So it was a success. We had a ball. We will travel home today. I will catch up with you probably mid week. After all, I have to hit the door running, get back in the swing and all those other cliches for back to the grind.
Yes, the price we pay for having fun.
Thank you for checking in on me. I appreciate it.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Those who would not sleep
In the pitch of night she stood shivering; from fear or hatred, she was no longer sure. It was such a tedious action: dig the hole, put the body in it. She had done it countless times; loathing the screaming of rocks against the shovel and the heavy chug of dirt on the pale empty faces. She paused, stared at that face one last time and then without regret said good bye to it forever. She had learned early to never look back.
Madness always sang softly in her ear; much like a neglected music box: rusted and flat. Once she was able to change the channel so to speak but then one day, she simply got stuck: one channel; simple reception. So many paid the price.
The mother did her best by going to work as a librarian. There, she was tucked away in a rigid documented silence where chaos was only introduced by the opening of a book and only words rushed out. She maintained control with her clipped "Shhhh!" accompanied by an authoritative stare. Her marriage was filled with slow, steady predictability. She cooked, shopped, cleaned and socialized according to her calendars. She kept it very organized and mistake free. All with that same clipped..."Shhh!" and stare.
Motherhood. It was where the channel got stuck. Babies were unpredictable, unreasonable and loud. Perhaps it was the crying. It rattled between her ears, tearing at the very foundation of the self she tried to establish. So who failed? Did the babies? Or did she, as a human being?
It began with Baby Jon. He was dimpled and dark haired; a charmer from day one. But the mother didn’t always remember to care for him. Babies never understood what a tight schedule she had. He cried when he was wet or hungry and her face would pull in; her shoulders would raise and she would bite her lip. The smacking only made it worse. And, as she discovered, shaking caused brain damage; so Baby Jon would cry always because of ... his crying... as she saw it. The mother then made the heroic decision to spare the unfortunate baby (more likely herself) a torturous life.
That was her logic behind the pillow. Baby Jon died mysteriously, leaving the house with none of the fanfare with which he arrived.
Second came Caroline. The mother seemed to enjoy the pink frilly baby doll aspect of the girl's life. That and the luck of her husband’s ill mother who had been moved in to the house. Nonna took over as guardian angel and nanny for the daughter. Nonna realized something inside the mother was broken; always speaking with a hushed, almost frightened tone. She often glanced around as if searching for her . Nonna taught the girl the importance of silence.
“Shhh Caroline. Be safe.”
Caroline was five when Nonna died- in her sleep. Looking back there was always the thought of what the mother had to do with that; perhaps hustling the old woman up the steps to St. Peter’s gates, but the answer now is moot. As long as she was quiet, Caroline was forgotten; for the most part.
When the mother gave the giggly new of the pregnancy, there was a tightening in Caroline’s throat. She had formally been introduced to dread as it marched in, making a burning , heavy home in her gut. That one was Baby Amelia. She came home with colic and left without notice four months later in a not so peaceful sleep.
The others? Well six more total: Marcus, Christina, Margaret, William, Jane and Frederick. Frederick was the favorite. He was born deaf and made very little fuss.. He, in fact did very little at all. The mother seemed almost elated by the disability but soon discovered what it cost in time and effort to properly care for a special needs baby~ while difficult for some, it was impossible for the mother. Frederick was three. Caroline had tried so hard to be like Nonna.
“shhh Be safe”
But at ten, there was the horror that she had failed when Frederick left without a goodbye, having died mysteriously in his sleep.
When the baby clothes arrived once more and the sweet soft humming of lullabies began, Caroline wept from deep inside and became violently ill. Unable to believe there would be more crying, death and late night trips to the “family place” as the mother called it "where little angles slept", drug Caroline down into a despair only written of in stories. Sometimes the mother would look at the daughter, the one who made it and be amazed at the presence. Most days there was pinching, burning and ugly words but from the daughter only silence. She was alive; sort of . She didn't know whether to thank Nonna or not.
When Baby Dena came home, there was an instant love between the sisters. The cherubic little girl was beautiful and happy; never a grump or a fuss. Surely the mother would keep this one. But the smiling and happy baby was immediately viewed as mocking and selfish for stealing attention and notice away from the mother who was always showered with gentleness, pity, and hushed tones. To keep the baby safe, the daughter slept in Baby Dena’s room, taking care that she got to the neighbors’ on time both before and after school. Always there was the warning:
“Shhh Be safe.”
Dena was almost two when the ear infection woke her in the night. The mother seemed stunned that she had any children at all but the tears and the wailing brought a wrath Dena had never known. The first swing sent her to the floor, then the mother got out the pillow; preparing yet another little angel for sleeping at the family place. Since Caroline was now twelve, she was told to actually carry the little girl. The mother followed her out passed the bachelor buttons and zinnias. Back where there was only soft moss and dirt. And babies.
Caroline was told to dig. All night that shovel bit at her hand causing a blister and bringing blood.
Then there was a small whimper. Dena began to stir. The mother was shocked and speechless.
What was she to do?
With every ounce of strength she had, she swung the shovel. It cracked the mother's jaw and dropped her to her knees. As if in prayer, she dropped her head in her hands and Caroline swung once more; hearing a thick crunch and feeling a warm spray across her face and chest. The little girl knew there was no need for a pillow.
With every ounce of strength she had, she swung the shovel. It cracked the mother's jaw and dropped her to her knees. As if in prayer, she dropped her head in her hands and Caroline swung once more; hearing a thick crunch and feeling a warm spray across her face and chest. The little girl knew there was no need for a pillow.
So it was in the pitch of night she stood shivering; from fear or hatred, she was no longer sure. It seemed like a natural progression; dig the hole, put the body in it. She had done it countless times; loathing the screaming of rocks against the shovel and the heavy chug of dirt on the pale empty faces. She paused and stared at that face one last time and then without regret said good bye to it forever. She had learned early to never look back.
She wrapped the baby in the blanket thought to be a burial shroud and picking up her sister, holding the small crying child to her as tightly as she could, she whispered:
“Shhhh. We’re safe.”
They walked out of the family place; those two little angels who would not sleep.
Dark, I know. I did some research on the case of Marie Noe and based this story loosely on it. The truth was horrible, repulsive and tragic; not ending as I had hoped... wanted; as a mother. Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy displayed so boldly yet missed because of SIDS diagnoses... ten times. I simply wrote this to soothe myself. I thank you for stopping in. I hope to see you again soon. Enjoy your weekend.
The Murder Room: The Heirs of Sherlock Holmes Gather to Solve the World's Most Perplexing Cold Cases: Mark Capuzzo, Gotham Books
The Wacky World of Murder:
http://www.users.on.net/~bundy23/wwom/noe.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marie_Noe
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Fooling them all
They tried to find me. They blamed a simple minded fool, a Duke, a physician, finally an artist. They failed. At first, it angered me. After all, I had given them all kinds of hints both subtle and bold. I sent letters to my proclaimed nemesis Inspector Abberline and of course Charles Warren. But I did love my little game and in the end, I won.
Many would query why or how? If caught, perhaps they would not ask at all but merely leave me dangling from the scaffold shamefully to be battered with vengeful stones or poked with curious hateful sticks as I once brazenly did, but that is something we will simply never know.
They were hateful crimes. That I will confess; filled with a jealousy and rage that boiled in my blood with unsatiable heat and uncontrollable desire. I wanted each of them dead; beyond dead. I wanted them erased from this earth and with my knife and my hands, I did my best and had my fun. I took from them what made them filthy women and as I tore it from the shells of their bodies, it was soft, warm, and dark.
He was broken when I met him; could never give me the children I deserved or the love I needed from a normal man. Yet, he never lost the desire to try and so I met his other women; the whores of White Chapel, through his one time friend and mentor; Whistler who had professed to me that during the evenings they spent in the card rooms, my husband would disappear Oh they were a foul and disgusting lot; those dahls. The feeble shillings they earned lifting their skirts was turned around even more quickly to drink or the more rare room for the night. I watched him grunt and push against them in the swill drenched streets and realized how pathetic it was. But no matter how I tried to reclaim my husband, he made the other choice; an easy dirty woman who slurred his name in the dark against a soot stained wall.
The first one was "Holly" or "Polly" It escapes me now. I was new to the game. But I knew she had to go because as he tucked money into her dirty hand, she wiped her mouth, as if he had left a bad taste for her. A time had been when he was gentle with his lips and kinds with his kiss. Now? He slobbered and growled like a street dog.
Annie was a pig. Bloated and drunk and half crazed with some God forsaken disease; she whored for money for her own full cup leaving children behind. She often called herself a flower girl. Hardly. She deserved no children. She abandoned the ones she'd had while I myself was barren. It was in the early hours of the morning, that I found them together. Once my shabby genteel husband had begun his travels homeward, I stepped in. I removed anything that would identify her as the same gender as me carving and pulling her insides out and strewing them through the street like the rubbish she simply had chosen to be.
Then of course there were the twins, as I like to call them: Catherine and Elizabeth. This was the only night I struck twice. I was interrupted the first time leaving only gashes and mild carvings in her overused flesh. But to catch my husband with a second. later in the same evening, sent me into a rage. I justly made them undesirable...to ANY man.
The last? Little Miss Mary? She was the worst of them all. She had a room. She took him in. He kissed her mouth. Stunned was I to see him try foolishly to be gentle with this common girl. He had lowered himself and swum in the sewage of the city. Yet she was somehow deserving of his attention? His affection? Oh no. Not true. So I took my greatest anger on her. She had defiled my marriage bed. I defiled her essence.
So engulfed in his own little trashy game was he, that he failed to notice my own whereabouts. He rarely asked. I assume now that he didn't care. It hurt me to know that I wasn't worth effort or want. I would have tried. I loved him once but then with his carnal sport, that all fell away and I took my own sense of justice. I followed him on his gentleman's nights. I saw first hand that he was nothing more than a stinking tomcat. When he left them, I would swoop in and destroy, (jealously?) those that took his "love" so carelessly; cheaply. I wrote the letters and had him post them. He was such a fool that he never paid any mind to the addresses. I left items of his around, his heavy watch chain, monogramed personal linens and my favorite; his bloody initials on the wall of Pretty Miss Kelly. Nothing. No one ever saw me. No one was looking for a woman.
When he was finally questioned and his face was recalled, we swiftly moved. This did not change his habits; or mine. But no one bothered to connect the dots so to speak. I simply continued to punish him. All that he valued; all the love he sought; I destroyed.
And so now you know. haha
Fools
Jack the Ripper.
Having studied these atrocities for a long time, I have enjoyed immensely the suppositions and speculations that have surfaced over the years with regards to the true identity of Jack the Ripper. I have tons of books, letters, and research; including a book where one author performed DNA tests on the letters. This is a case that will never die. I just thought I would put a little spin of my own on it. I hope you enjoyed it. It was tough to write and have come together but finally, it did. I'm pretty pleased.
Thank you for coming in and staying a while. I appreciate it and your company.
Letters From Hell: SP Evans and Keith Skinner, Sutton Publishing Ltd. 2001
The Diary of Jack the Ripper: First pblsh 1993: Smith Gryphon Ltd
Narrative/commentary 1993 Shirly Harrison and Michael Barrett
Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper~Case Closed: Patricia Cornwell: 2002
Many would query why or how? If caught, perhaps they would not ask at all but merely leave me dangling from the scaffold shamefully to be battered with vengeful stones or poked with curious hateful sticks as I once brazenly did, but that is something we will simply never know.
They were hateful crimes. That I will confess; filled with a jealousy and rage that boiled in my blood with unsatiable heat and uncontrollable desire. I wanted each of them dead; beyond dead. I wanted them erased from this earth and with my knife and my hands, I did my best and had my fun. I took from them what made them filthy women and as I tore it from the shells of their bodies, it was soft, warm, and dark.
He was broken when I met him; could never give me the children I deserved or the love I needed from a normal man. Yet, he never lost the desire to try and so I met his other women; the whores of White Chapel, through his one time friend and mentor; Whistler who had professed to me that during the evenings they spent in the card rooms, my husband would disappear Oh they were a foul and disgusting lot; those dahls. The feeble shillings they earned lifting their skirts was turned around even more quickly to drink or the more rare room for the night. I watched him grunt and push against them in the swill drenched streets and realized how pathetic it was. But no matter how I tried to reclaim my husband, he made the other choice; an easy dirty woman who slurred his name in the dark against a soot stained wall.
The first one was "Holly" or "Polly" It escapes me now. I was new to the game. But I knew she had to go because as he tucked money into her dirty hand, she wiped her mouth, as if he had left a bad taste for her. A time had been when he was gentle with his lips and kinds with his kiss. Now? He slobbered and growled like a street dog.
Annie was a pig. Bloated and drunk and half crazed with some God forsaken disease; she whored for money for her own full cup leaving children behind. She often called herself a flower girl. Hardly. She deserved no children. She abandoned the ones she'd had while I myself was barren. It was in the early hours of the morning, that I found them together. Once my shabby genteel husband had begun his travels homeward, I stepped in. I removed anything that would identify her as the same gender as me carving and pulling her insides out and strewing them through the street like the rubbish she simply had chosen to be.
Then of course there were the twins, as I like to call them: Catherine and Elizabeth. This was the only night I struck twice. I was interrupted the first time leaving only gashes and mild carvings in her overused flesh. But to catch my husband with a second. later in the same evening, sent me into a rage. I justly made them undesirable...to ANY man.
The last? Little Miss Mary? She was the worst of them all. She had a room. She took him in. He kissed her mouth. Stunned was I to see him try foolishly to be gentle with this common girl. He had lowered himself and swum in the sewage of the city. Yet she was somehow deserving of his attention? His affection? Oh no. Not true. So I took my greatest anger on her. She had defiled my marriage bed. I defiled her essence.
So engulfed in his own little trashy game was he, that he failed to notice my own whereabouts. He rarely asked. I assume now that he didn't care. It hurt me to know that I wasn't worth effort or want. I would have tried. I loved him once but then with his carnal sport, that all fell away and I took my own sense of justice. I followed him on his gentleman's nights. I saw first hand that he was nothing more than a stinking tomcat. When he left them, I would swoop in and destroy, (jealously?) those that took his "love" so carelessly; cheaply. I wrote the letters and had him post them. He was such a fool that he never paid any mind to the addresses. I left items of his around, his heavy watch chain, monogramed personal linens and my favorite; his bloody initials on the wall of Pretty Miss Kelly. Nothing. No one ever saw me. No one was looking for a woman.
When he was finally questioned and his face was recalled, we swiftly moved. This did not change his habits; or mine. But no one bothered to connect the dots so to speak. I simply continued to punish him. All that he valued; all the love he sought; I destroyed.
And so now you know. haha
Fools
Jack the Ripper.
Having studied these atrocities for a long time, I have enjoyed immensely the suppositions and speculations that have surfaced over the years with regards to the true identity of Jack the Ripper. I have tons of books, letters, and research; including a book where one author performed DNA tests on the letters. This is a case that will never die. I just thought I would put a little spin of my own on it. I hope you enjoyed it. It was tough to write and have come together but finally, it did. I'm pretty pleased.
Thank you for coming in and staying a while. I appreciate it and your company.
Letters From Hell: SP Evans and Keith Skinner, Sutton Publishing Ltd. 2001
The Diary of Jack the Ripper: First pblsh 1993: Smith Gryphon Ltd
Narrative/commentary 1993 Shirly Harrison and Michael Barrett
Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper~Case Closed: Patricia Cornwell: 2002
Monday, August 8, 2011
Crybaby
"Oh This is going to be PERFECT!" Charlie smiled as Alex pushed her chair up toward the house; marvelling at the tall old ash trees collared by pink and white peony bushes. The old wood fence bent and misshapen snaked along the drive.
Alex toed the cinders. "Stupid house. Don't see why we had to move here. " he'd had to leave his best friends Dylan and Stephen as well as all their cool summer plans behind. He was unmoved by the scenery.
"Alex" she tried to soothe. "It's closer for me to the hospital."
"And it's all about you." regret filled his nine year old mouth instantly; tasting salty and bitter but he did not apologize.
"Alex, we've been living in your mom's house for a long time We are family now; you and me. I can't get up those stairs. My legs don't work yet." Charlie's voice was patient and tired. This was not the first discussion they'd had like this. He could be so selfish sometimes; careless.
"When they do, can we go back? In case Mom is looking for us?"
Charlie sighed feeling the good humor being sucked out of her body. "No Alex. " She knew where this was heading.
The young boy had been left in her care when his mother had "disappeared". His mom, Lisa, had been struggling with depression and a bad break up in addition to raising what Charlie considered to be a spoiled little boy all alone. Lisa had spent many a night crying over spilt milk and wishing for better days. The two women had struck up a fast friendship at the hospital where Lisa worked and Charlie went for therapy.
Lisa took Charlie home to meet her son and the three became thick as thieves. Charlie and Alex got along well spending bedtimes not with nursery rhymes but urban legends and ghost stories. It was cause for many a nights with the soft glow of a dim bulb to soothe fears and ward off the monsters which added another difficulty to Lisa's limping life. She knew her friend meant well, but it was one more thing for Lisa to have to deal with. She tried to keep herself in the definitive mother roll not permitting Charlie to intercede or assist. It hurt Charlie's feeling often, since she, herself, would never have children. But at this time with these circumstances, Charlie was glad she'd been around. Most said Lisa had run off to start again. Charlie wasn't baited into discussion. She was too busy being a new single mom.
"This place is wrong. " Alex almost whispered startling her from her thoughts. "Bogeymen live here I bet." his eyes trailed the dense wood slowly searching for signs of one.
"You'll only find out if you are bad" Charlie warned.
Alex heaved a large sad sigh and slumped toward the house where he didn't want to live.
The summer unfolded softly, quietly around Alex who spent time walking up and down in the cinders or exploring the woods. He was never gone very long; claiming the eery feeling of being watched or hearing his name mumbled in the rustling leaves. Charlie dismissed his childish fears and moved about her days; at the hospital. He would wait for the sound of her tires pulling out and only then, missing his mom, would he cry. Charlie didn't like weak momma's boys, threatening once again this would be cause for a bogeyman's visit.
"If you don't get ahold of those tears, the Cryer will come while you sleep." This legendary beast was called by the sound of tears whether it was from sadness, fear or its personal favorite; a spoiled tantrum. Its desire was to drink the tears and give itself strength, but it rarely could stop a feast once started so those "bad children" who cried were often never seen again.
Alex laid in bed night after night hearing heavy dragging first outside and then up and down the hall of the house. He swallowed the fear and the tears but could hear the sniffing as the monster searched for the "bad child". He complained to Charlie of the wet wool and earth smell that seemed to plague their new abode. He begged Charlie to leave. So frightened by the sounds and things he didn't clearly see or hear: a shadow, a voice; that at last, he tried to run away. The poor boy only got a short distance from the house before whatever it was that watched him crept closer; so close he could feel its eyes and breath. He knew it didn't want to be friends. The smell was cloying and thick; like hunger and greed. He felt the first tears fall down his cheeks and began to run. He gasped and blinked, forcing them back. There came a low menacing chuckle as the brush behind him began to rattle and bend. He'd called the Cryer. Terror burned in his throat as he bolted up the drive and leapt on the porch. Yanking at the door, he slammed it shut and dashed to his room, crouching in the farthest corner. The sobbing little boy rubbed his eyes angrily, denying the spillage; hiding the invitation to such a horrible monster. He plugged his fingers in his ears, cradling himself against the slow, determined dragging noise that approached. With a heavy "whump", it hoisted itself up onto the porch and began slithering down the hall.
"CHARLIE" the boy cried, kicking his feet, desperately trying to squish himself smaller, wishing he would just disappear. The door opened and the little boy felt his soul freeze. There was a gravelly sigh and the gurgle of his name. The monster loped toward him. "NO! Please. I..." he stammered and sniffed.
In the dark, it wobbled its head side to side slowly almost grinning: "Too late. Too many tears." it croaked and the thing clutched the boy's wrists, pulling him in like a hug. "I warned you Alex." the Charlie-like thing sneered and she began to drink. The boy screamed and struggled against her but she held firm. Once the tears were gone, she hugged him close and snapped him enabling her to continue her feast. "Like mother like son" she burped at the end of her meal. Slowly she limped to bed tenderly enjoying her first steps on her new legs. She wiped her mouth and decided he had been worth the wait.
"When can you move in?" Charlie asked hopefully tapping her cane on the floor.
"Whenever- I just broke up with my boyfriend and need a place to go." the young woman in the hospital wiped her eyes. "I can't thank you enough."
Charlie clapped her hands and grinned. "You're doing me the favor."
Alex toed the cinders. "Stupid house. Don't see why we had to move here. " he'd had to leave his best friends Dylan and Stephen as well as all their cool summer plans behind. He was unmoved by the scenery.
"Alex" she tried to soothe. "It's closer for me to the hospital."
"And it's all about you." regret filled his nine year old mouth instantly; tasting salty and bitter but he did not apologize.
"Alex, we've been living in your mom's house for a long time We are family now; you and me. I can't get up those stairs. My legs don't work yet." Charlie's voice was patient and tired. This was not the first discussion they'd had like this. He could be so selfish sometimes; careless.
"When they do, can we go back? In case Mom is looking for us?"
Charlie sighed feeling the good humor being sucked out of her body. "No Alex. " She knew where this was heading.
The young boy had been left in her care when his mother had "disappeared". His mom, Lisa, had been struggling with depression and a bad break up in addition to raising what Charlie considered to be a spoiled little boy all alone. Lisa had spent many a night crying over spilt milk and wishing for better days. The two women had struck up a fast friendship at the hospital where Lisa worked and Charlie went for therapy.
Lisa took Charlie home to meet her son and the three became thick as thieves. Charlie and Alex got along well spending bedtimes not with nursery rhymes but urban legends and ghost stories. It was cause for many a nights with the soft glow of a dim bulb to soothe fears and ward off the monsters which added another difficulty to Lisa's limping life. She knew her friend meant well, but it was one more thing for Lisa to have to deal with. She tried to keep herself in the definitive mother roll not permitting Charlie to intercede or assist. It hurt Charlie's feeling often, since she, herself, would never have children. But at this time with these circumstances, Charlie was glad she'd been around. Most said Lisa had run off to start again. Charlie wasn't baited into discussion. She was too busy being a new single mom.
"This place is wrong. " Alex almost whispered startling her from her thoughts. "Bogeymen live here I bet." his eyes trailed the dense wood slowly searching for signs of one.
"You'll only find out if you are bad" Charlie warned.
Alex heaved a large sad sigh and slumped toward the house where he didn't want to live.
The summer unfolded softly, quietly around Alex who spent time walking up and down in the cinders or exploring the woods. He was never gone very long; claiming the eery feeling of being watched or hearing his name mumbled in the rustling leaves. Charlie dismissed his childish fears and moved about her days; at the hospital. He would wait for the sound of her tires pulling out and only then, missing his mom, would he cry. Charlie didn't like weak momma's boys, threatening once again this would be cause for a bogeyman's visit.
"If you don't get ahold of those tears, the Cryer will come while you sleep." This legendary beast was called by the sound of tears whether it was from sadness, fear or its personal favorite; a spoiled tantrum. Its desire was to drink the tears and give itself strength, but it rarely could stop a feast once started so those "bad children" who cried were often never seen again.
Alex laid in bed night after night hearing heavy dragging first outside and then up and down the hall of the house. He swallowed the fear and the tears but could hear the sniffing as the monster searched for the "bad child". He complained to Charlie of the wet wool and earth smell that seemed to plague their new abode. He begged Charlie to leave. So frightened by the sounds and things he didn't clearly see or hear: a shadow, a voice; that at last, he tried to run away. The poor boy only got a short distance from the house before whatever it was that watched him crept closer; so close he could feel its eyes and breath. He knew it didn't want to be friends. The smell was cloying and thick; like hunger and greed. He felt the first tears fall down his cheeks and began to run. He gasped and blinked, forcing them back. There came a low menacing chuckle as the brush behind him began to rattle and bend. He'd called the Cryer. Terror burned in his throat as he bolted up the drive and leapt on the porch. Yanking at the door, he slammed it shut and dashed to his room, crouching in the farthest corner. The sobbing little boy rubbed his eyes angrily, denying the spillage; hiding the invitation to such a horrible monster. He plugged his fingers in his ears, cradling himself against the slow, determined dragging noise that approached. With a heavy "whump", it hoisted itself up onto the porch and began slithering down the hall.
"CHARLIE" the boy cried, kicking his feet, desperately trying to squish himself smaller, wishing he would just disappear. The door opened and the little boy felt his soul freeze. There was a gravelly sigh and the gurgle of his name. The monster loped toward him. "NO! Please. I..." he stammered and sniffed.
In the dark, it wobbled its head side to side slowly almost grinning: "Too late. Too many tears." it croaked and the thing clutched the boy's wrists, pulling him in like a hug. "I warned you Alex." the Charlie-like thing sneered and she began to drink. The boy screamed and struggled against her but she held firm. Once the tears were gone, she hugged him close and snapped him enabling her to continue her feast. "Like mother like son" she burped at the end of her meal. Slowly she limped to bed tenderly enjoying her first steps on her new legs. She wiped her mouth and decided he had been worth the wait.
"When can you move in?" Charlie asked hopefully tapping her cane on the floor.
"Whenever- I just broke up with my boyfriend and need a place to go." the young woman in the hospital wiped her eyes. "I can't thank you enough."
Charlie clapped her hands and grinned. "You're doing me the favor."
Friday, August 5, 2011
Laptop. Check. Research. Check. A desire to slow down and breathe without gasping? CHECK.
I finally crossed the finish line and am heading out. I can hardly wait. I have four stories I want to get finished and am really looking forward to the time to do it. I confess that I've talked to the lakers and I KNOW I won't be back here before Sunday. We have much catching up to do. : )
Sorry for the rush but we'll catch up soon. Enjoy your weekends.
I finally crossed the finish line and am heading out. I can hardly wait. I have four stories I want to get finished and am really looking forward to the time to do it. I confess that I've talked to the lakers and I KNOW I won't be back here before Sunday. We have much catching up to do. : )
Sorry for the rush but we'll catch up soon. Enjoy your weekends.
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