Bone Lady

 Her house rests deep within the emerald wood,

The entrance hidden with sweet climbing moss.

Along the barrier for years it’s stood,

Few have approached and tried their best to cross.

But none have passed in so quickly a time,

The flames they dance and chase the darkness down.

And then cracked lips begin to speak in rhyme,

In this: Her place of bones, so far from town.

With ease her body turns upon the breeze,

Her spell is strong and will affect the mind.

The forest bends towards her, seeming pleased,

Peeling away the pulpy fruit from rind.

She’ll know you best in ways that seem obscene,

Not by heart; but venom of your spleen.

The Boy with Blue Eyes

The obnoxious sound of the alarm clock jarred Sam out of an awesome dream. He groaned and rolled over in his bed, hitting the OFF button and enjoying the sweet silence that settled around him.  He stretched and felt his muscles lengthen.  His nerves were getting to him.  As he began getting dressed, Sam could hear glasses and plates clinking downstairs.  The dense aroma of coffee teased his senses, and he knew both his parents would be awake having breakfast downstairs.  There were boxes and crates stacked in piles around his room, and he grimaced as he stubbed his toe on one while rummaging around for a matching pair of sneakers.

“Hey kiddo! Ready for your first day?” his father greeted him with a big smile as he sat down at the kitchen table.  His father always seemed cheery, even first thing in the morning.  First thing in the morning, Sam felt anything but cheery, and he wondered how his father managed not to let life get to him.  But he didn’t say that.  Instead, he said:
                “Ready as I’ll ever be,” as he shifted his weight in the wooden chair.

                “Aww sugar, are you nervous?” his mom, ever intuitive, broke in as she sat down with a cup of coffee.

                “It’s OK to be nervous, it’s healthy!” his dad added quickly from behind a mouthful of eggs.

                “I’ll be fine,” Sam replied, grabbing a couple of toast his mom had placed on the table.

                “Just remember what we talked about, son” his dad said as he swallowed, and raised an eyebrow.  Still the smile.  Always with the smile.  Before moving to the city, his parents had sat him down and discussed what he should expect of his new school.  Sam’s family was from a small Georgia town, where there was not a large multicultural setting – and his parents preferred it that way.  His father had received a promotion at work, causing the family to move to the over-populated and decidedly mixed culture of Atlanta. 

                Both of Sam’s parents had expressed their concerns about the new city and, even more so, Sam’s new school.  They didn’t want their son hanging in ‘mixed company’ as they called it.  They feared their son would fall victim to a lower-class level of behavior, and join a gang or become hooked on dope.

                “Especially the Black folks.  Steer clear of them, if you know what’s good for you” his father warned.  Sam’s mother and father weren’t part of the Klu Klux Klan, but they definitely had their prejudices.  Apparently, when Sam was just a baby, his mother had been mugged by an African American man.  His parents had never been particularly fond of any minority class, but after that incident their racism had become more solidified than ever before.  With a deeply rooted family tree hailing from the South, Sam’s parents still had misgivings about the South’s defeat in the Civil War.  Sam glanced at his mother, noticing her forehead had concerns racing in lines across it.

                “I’ll be fine guys!” he assured his parents, scraping his chair back and getting up from the table.  “Don’t worry about me, alright?  Y’all sound like I’m going to war or something.”  Sam grabbed his backpack and stepped out of his family’s new home and into the balmy Georgia morning.  His bus stop was about three blocks from the house, and as he walked he kicked a rock in front of him.  It made satisfying skipping noises all the way to the bus stop. 

                His new school was terrifying in its own right, never mind what his folks had to say about it.  The thing was huge, filled with tons of students and faculty – none of which Sam knew.  He kept to himself for most of the day and tried his best to blend in.  The day seemed to drag on forever and when the last bell rang, Sam made a fevered dash for the busses in fear of getting on the wrong one and winding up dropped off in one of Atlanta’s less-than-safe neighborhoods.  His backpack bounced behind him as he ran, and he was so busy trying to figure out which bus was his that he ran straight into another student.

                “Ow! Hey, watch it!” Sam started at the very deep voice and very black face of the kid he ran over. 

                “I’m sorry, man.  I wasn’t looking where I was going” he said, picking his backpack up off the ground.

                “Well, maybe you should pay more attention next time” the kid replied, collecting his own books that had toppled to the ground during the collision.  Sam noticed the kid’s hair was in some kind of twists, something his hair would never be able to do.  To his own surprise, he found himself thinking that the boy’s hair looked cool and unique.  He shook his head to clear it as he noticed the boy had already turned away and was walking toward a bus.

                “Excuse me, Ma’am?” Sam pulled a piece of paper from the front pocket of his Jansport book bag.  He had gotten the bag his freshman year, and it had held up through some rough times.  He hoped the bag would last until the end of his senior year as well. 

                “Yes, how can I help you?” the teacher was staring at him expectantly, waiting for a reply.  The woman’s glasses were smudged, her hair a mess, and her stockings were falling down her chubby legs.  He wondered if she knew how she looked to other people, or if she even cared.  It certainly didn’t appear to him that she put much thought into her appearance.  Blinking, Sam unfolded the paper.

                “I’m supposed to find bus 19, the one that goes into the Buckhead area?”

                “Oh, of course, it’s right over there” the teacher pointed at the second bus in the line of yellow and black busses parked in front of the school.  Sam thanked her and tucked the note in his pocket as he made his way over to the bus.  Stepping on to a high school bus is incredibly depressing, Chris thought.  For one, if you are a senior, you are definitely old enough to drive and should probably already be doing so - or at the very least catching a ride with friends.  For another, school busses always smell weird.  They smell like a mixture of faux leather, sweat, and desperation.  Not a great combination.  Sam hated riding the bus, but because he was trying desperately to not be noticed by anyone at the school until he felt comfortable, he hopped on and found a seat near the back.  It was then he noticed the boy – the one with the twists in his hair – was sitting a few seats in front of him on the same bus. 

                Sam had not encountered many minorities in his life, aside from on the television or Internet.  He took the opportunity to get a really good look at the boy.  His skin wasn’t as dark as Sam had originally perceived, but instead had a caramel color.  His hair was definitely like other African American hair, black in color and somewhat coarse in texture – yet it looked so different and interesting in the twists.  The boy wore normal clothes: white shirt, leather bomber jacket, and some light brown Timberlands.  His style was not at all what Sam had expected.  He thought all African Americans wanted to be thugs or actually were thugs (and, according to Sam’s mom, this was all true), but this kid seemed normal, judging from appearance alone.  Sam then realized the boy was looking back at him, and he turned away, embarrassed that he’d be caught staring.  But in the split second that he had met the boy’s gaze, he had noticed something else unique about him – he had blue eyes.  Sam had never seen an African American with blue eyes before.  It was disarming, intriguing, and looked altogether intense.

                 He was thinking about the boy with the blue eyes for the rest of the evening.  He wondered what kind of music the boy liked, what kind of sports.  He thought about the boy’s eyes and if he often startled people because of their color.  When Sam went to bed that night, he prayed to God for the courage to ask the boy about his eyes.  After all, what was the harm of holding a conversation with a peer from a minority group?  It’s not like they had to be best friends.  His parents wouldn’t even have to know.

                The next day after school, Sam sat in the same spot on the bus.  He waited for the boy to get on, and when he did and found himself a seat, Sam moved closer.

                “Hey,” Sam said, sitting behind the boy.

                “Hi” the boy replied, turning to see who it was.  When he noticed it was Sam, the boy squinted.

“Oh, its you.  Did you find out that you need glasses?”

                “No…” Sam trailed off.  Obviously the boy had not forgotten about Sam running him over yesterday afternoon.  He had no idea it would be this hard.  Sam cleared his throat and tried again.

                “I’m Sam.  What’s your name?” he asked the boy. 

                “I’m Bryan,” the boy answered, his twisted hair bouncing as the bus rolled over a bump in the road.

                “Hi Bryan, it’s nice to meet you.  Speaking of eyes, yours are really wicked!  I was wondering if you get asked often about their color,” Sam kept his tone light, in the hopes that his context would not be misconstrued. 

                “Oh yeah, happens all the time” Bryan said, smiling.  It was the first time Sam caught him smiling, and it didn’t seem scary or weird at all.  Bryan seemed open and friendly.  They talked the entire bus ride back to the Buckhead neighborhood.  Sam learned that Bryan had a 3.79 average, played a running back position on the high school football team, and listened to funk and jazz a lot. 

                “Have you ever heard the band Soulive?” he asked Sam as they pulled into his neighborhood. 

                “Nah, I listen to a lot of country and rock,” Sam replied.  Bryan pulled a CD out of his backpack and gave it to Sam.

 “Bring it back by Friday, but give it a listen OK?  It’s really worth your time”

“OK.  It was nice talking with you Bryan.  And thanks!” Sam said, indicating the borrowed CD.  Sam watched as Bryan walked up his well-manicured lawn to his home that looked as inviting as his smile, and wondered how possibly his mother could dislike a boy who had as much going for him as his new potential friend did.  He listened to the CD while he did his homework that night.  It was amazing, as cool as Bryan had said it was.  As he tried to work the Pythagorean Theorem, he found himself drifting off and thinking about his parents and how they had shaped his views of reality, of people.  Sam couldn’t believe he had discredited entire groups of people because of his parent’s prejudices.  He couldn’t understand why one isolated incident had caused them so much pain and hatred toward minorities.  People were people, after all.  His mother could have just as easily been mugged by a young White male.  Her perception was skewed, and he felt betrayed because her perception as well as his father’s had impacted his ability to relax and adapt in a new environment.  Bryan knew what kinds of people he wanted to be friends with, and who he shouldn’t hang around.  And though he might occasionally choose the wrong person, the person’s color or ethnic background never had anything to do with why they were the wrong person.  It was usually about their attitude, morality, ambitions. 

                There are certain types of people who drag everyone down.  And then there are those kinds of people who always bring a smile, uplift everyone, and make tomorrow a day to look forward to.  Sam, through taking the time to get to know one person from a minority group that shattered every misconception his mother had force fed him for years, had broken his own prejudices and found himself a new friend (and a new band he liked a lot) in the process.  He looked forward to the next day of school, no longer feeling the trepidation he had felt before his first day.  He made sure to return Bryan’s CD to him the very next day, after ripping it to his Macintosh computer first.  He also made sure to talk to Bryan on a regular basis, so that his thoughts about this person being a friend would actually come true.  And they did become friends.  The two were friends through their senior year of high school and became so close by the end of the year that they decided to room together when they went off to college in the fall.  Sam knew his parents were good people with good ideas.  But he also knew that they weren’t him – and he never made the mistake of judging a person based on their appearance again.

Lessons from the Dragons: A Fable

            Drakon the dragon and his mate, Ehecatl, had been waiting for what seemed like centuries for this day.  The dragons had names picked out for every green-and-gold egg that gleamed warmly out of the soft bed Ehecatl had created for her eggs.  Ehecatl and Drakon had both been tending to the eggs for months, waiting patiently for them to mature to be ready for hatching.  And now they were – warm, brightly glowing with energy, and some were even moving slightly as if quivering in anticipation themselves.  As the pair expected the eggs to hatch today, they were busy preparing for their new little dragons.  Warm towels and fresh baby mice were made ready for each of the nine egg-lings.  Soft beds were prepared for them as no doubt they would be tired from breaking out of their shells. 

            Crick, criiiick, crick.  Drakon and Ehecatl each caught their breath in their throats and their eyes burned into one another’s as they recognized the first sounds of one of their babies breaking free.  Silver smoke curled out of Drakon’s jaws as he grinned excitedly at his mate.  One of the eggs, the one they called Pachua, had a hairline fracture in its side and was wiggling around in some strange, hypnotic dance in its spot on the bed. Just as a small, grey claw emerged from the first egg, a second egg began to dance – and then a third and fourth almost simultaneously.  Soon, the nest was filling up with baby dragons, each as beautiful and alluring as the next.  Ehecatl was tossing her head with pride as her seventh baby, Tatsuya, broke free and immediately spread his purple wings wide – rushing at one of the pinkies that lie there ready for the hatchlings. 

Drakon was tending to Pachua and the second born Coaxoch as the eighth egg finally whirled, fell to its side, and a tiny orange tail poked through the bottom of the egg.  The baby was stuck in the egg, pushing its hindquarters into the base of the egg, unable to break it open any farther.  Ehecatl swooped upon the egg and helped the creature get free.  This baby they called Tanis, and she was an intriguing shade of red, with green and gold highlights.  The poor baby was shaking and frightened by his inability to break free of his shell, and Ehecatl quickly took him and placed a warm cloth over his back.  Drakon breathed deeply, satisfied that his baby was safe.

“The nine of you are so beautiful!” exclaimed Ehecatl as she nuzzled her babies.  It was then Drakon noticed the ninth egg still sat, unmoving in the nest.  Drakon sucked in a deep breath and went over to the silent egg.  Its surface was smooth, and seemed cool to the touch.  Ehecatl noticed Drakon and the unmoving egg, and she paced back and forth, breath puffing before her with worry like a train approaching on the horizon.  Drakon tenderly picked up the egg and rubbed its surface, and blew a shot of smoke near to the egg to warm it up slightly.  No response came from the egg.  It stared at the pair and they stared back, and the room grew silent as the hatchlings felt their mother’s mood change.  A soft rumble escaped from Ehecatl’s throat as she bent over the egg that would not hatch.  Large, silver tears leaked from her sapphire eyes as she mourned the loss of the ninth egg – the one they would have called Ladon.  The hatchlings gathered around as Drakon nuzzled Ehecatl in a gesture of comfort. 

“And that is your first lesson ever, my babies,” Ehecatl regarded her young, “Never count your dragon eggs before they are hatched.”  The new dragons looked up at their mother, their round eyes wet with feeling for their parent’s painful loss – for the loss of their sibling.  Before they settled in for the night as a family, Ehecatl and Drakon buried the un-hatched egg in a mossy spot near their cave, and marked it with a large stone.  Even today, one can go to the stone and meditate on the lessons mankind has learned from the dragons.     

Anicia's Madness

Alexandrus burst through the door of the meager cottage, ready to indulge himself in both pure covetous feasting and at the same time further driving Anicia out of her beautiful mind.  He sniffed the air like a Setter picking up the scent of pheasant, and headed for the flimsy door to Anicia’s parents’ room.  Anicia’s parents, having been sound asleep moments before, awoke startled at the sound of Alexandrus breaking into their home.

“Rise and shine,” Alexandrus taunted the elderly couple, his face changing into its true form, surfacing the hideous demon residing in his body. These two are too old to eat, he thought to himself as he smiled at the couple, his fangs sliding out over the bottom of his teeth.  He strode over to Anicia’s mother and broke her neck in one fast movement.  But not to kill, he thought with satisfaction, dropping the lifeless body to the floor.

“What’s going on…oh god,” Anicia stammered as she came into the room and saw the vampire standing over her mother’s body.  Her father had grabbed a gun that he kept in the nightstand by the bed; a shiny silver revolver of some sort, which glinted in the light of the moon streaming in through the open window.  He fired two shots, right into Alexandrus’ chest.  Alexandrus fell back against the wall and then slid down it, leaving a smear of dark red blood over robin’s egg blue paint.  Anicia shuddered and looked at her father, who seemed to be ok.  She was about to move closer to him when she realized she was hearing…laughter. The laughter came pouring out of Alexandrus like vile chunks of sour vomit, spewing into the room and distorting Anicia’s senses.

Then, before anyone could move, Alexandrus was on his feet and lunging for Anicia’s father.  “Anicia, get your sister out… of…here!” he cried as Alexandrus grabbed his head by the back of his hair, unsheathing a mean-looking pocket knife and lifting it to the old man’s neck.  Anicia screamed in terror as she watched the demon slit her father’s throat. 

 Ahh, sweeter than silence, he thought to himself and tore a chunk of flesh out of the man’s neck, sinking his fangs deep into the carotid artery.  Alexandrus fed off of the old man, letting his love get a head start with her sister.  He smiled, thinking of how captivating Anicia would be after he drove her completely insane.  But she wasn’t there yet.  He still had a few more festivities in mind for his lovely and chaste Anicia. 

He sniffed the air, picking up her scent quickly because it was perfumed heavily with something equally compelling but almost more delicious…fear. Goody, I need to work up an appetite, he said to himself.  Normally to Alexandrus, Anicia smelled faintly of ceder and pine, mixed with the slightly sweet smell of her blood.  He licked his lips as he thought of her blood; he couldn’t wait to drink a full drought of it.  Sure, he had tasted it a couple of times when she had been asleep.  After all, she had invited him into her home after only a few weeks of courting, which allowed him passage any time he so desired.  He watched her sleep many times and, during the night once or twice, had slipped into her room and had himself a pint or two.  Never anything she would notice, of course.  He had to get her to love him in order to better drive her insane.

Alexandrus picked up speed as he stepped out of the cottage and followed Anicia’s scent down a path behind it and into a cornfield.  He knew he was close, he could smell her all around him.  He stopped and listened for a minute.  He could hear shallow breathing and he crept toward the sound silently, tensing up and preparing to pounce on his prey. 

“Run!”  Anicia cried to her sister and pushed her away as she scrambled to get away from Alexandrus.  He could hear their hearts pumping and the smell of their fear was intoxicating.  He snapped out his arm and caught Anicia in the temple, causing her face to distort in pain and then go slack as she fell, unconscious, to the ground.  Alexandrus threw Anicia over his shoulder and checked the sky.  Only have a few hours until sunrise, he realized.  He would have to finish up here quickly.  He shifted Anicia to his other shoulder and went off in search of her sister.

*                                                    *                                                        *

Anicia woke up disoriented, chained to a wall in iron shackles.  It was cold and smelled damp here, wherever here was.  A chill ran down her spine as her eyes slowly became adjusted to the light and she realized she was not alone.  

“Hello?” she called out softly to the dark, blurry shape across from her.

“Anicia?” she heard her younger sister call out in a thin and frightened voice.  “Anicia, I peed in my pants,” the little girl began to hiccup and sob. 

“It’s alright, sweetie, that’s OK,” Anicia tried to comfort her sister.  The girls’ sobs slowly quieted down and Anicia peered around in the inky darkness.  As far as she could tell, they were chained in a basement somewhere. She tugged at the chains, to no avail.  They were firm; escape was looking less and less like an option.

Shortly after sunset, Alexandrus showed up looking like his normal self, no demon in sight.  He came into the room the girls were in slowly, holding a long stemmed white rose in his hand.  His features were smooth, classic, and ageless.  His hair glistened as he moved into the light and Anicia caught the flash of his perfect, flawless smile. 

“Ohh GOD Alex!” she said, warm tears of relief streaming down her face.  “He’s come to rescue us!  We’re saved!  Isn’t that wonderful, bella?” Anicia said to her sister who was beginning to look very pale. 

“Hello ladies,” Alexandrus said smoothly as he moved in closer to Anicia.  He reached out with the rose and traced the line of her cheek with its petals.  “My beautiful Anicia,” he said in a low voice as soft as the petals that grazed Anicia’s cheek.  Suddenly, Alexandrus’ face began to distort.  In a matter of seconds he became the demon she had just witnessed killing her parents.  The light of recognition became clear in Anicia’s mind and face as she looked up at Alexandrus.  She finally saw him for what he really was…a monster.  Fresh tears began to flow down her cheeks but they were no longer joyful tears.  Sorrow filled her heart as she realized that this was the same monster that had killed her Aunt and Uncle, along with their children, only months before. 

Originally, when the family first found out, they had been told wild dogs had somehow gotten into their home.  Their necks had been torn open and the bodies were drained of blood.  Anicia was beginning to piece the puzzle together and it was not a pretty picture.  If this is what love is, she thought to herself, I’ve had enough of it to last a lifetime.  She didn’t say that to Alexandrus, however.  Instead, she said, “I loved you Alexandrus, how could you do this to us?”

He laughed a dry, vicious kind of laugh that echoed throughout the dank cellar.  The vampire then let out a ferocious roar and grabbed Anicia’s sister by her shoulder with one hand, plunging his other hand deep into the girl’s ribcage.  Anicia screamed in fear as she watched the demon tear her sister’s heart out of her body and look at it admiringly for a few seconds before plunging his teeth deep into a ventricle.  Her sister’s corpse spurted blood in one rapid burst and then dropped to the ground in a heap.  Anicia shook with terror and she felt the walls closing in around her, trying to swallow her whole.  She sank into darkness and silence.

*                      *                         *                         *                      *

When Anicia came to finally, she could see a thin light coming from the open door to the basement.  Alex must have removed her chains when she was passed out because they no longer restrained her.  She rubbed her wrists where large red welts had formed.  Her wrists ached under her touch and in that instant she wished she could see her mother.  That was when the whole terrible scene came rushing back to her.  Where is my sister’s body?  She wondered silently to herself as she cautiously stood on her feet.  Other than concerned about the whereabouts of her sister’s body, she seemed to be alright.  She knew what she had to do.

Anicia arrived at the stone church about a mile outside of her old town.  She talked to the priests there and informed them that she needed refuge.  She told them about the man who was after her and that she needed a safe place to stay.  He would never think to look for her here, she explained.  They arranged to make Anicia a nun and began preparing her for her sacred vows.      Anicia spent her time there studying religion and thinking about what had happened to her. 

*                             *                            *                                 *                                 *

The night was particularly beautiful.  It had been a hazy day but the haze cleared up for the night as if it knew that this was Anicia’s special day.  Now there was a huge, brilliant full moon high in the sky.  The stars had all come out and were twinkling especially bright, and Anicia looked up at them feeling somewhat cheerful.  It was, in fact, the best she had felt since the night that Alex had terrorized her family.  She hadn’t spoken much since then because she found that when she did her voice didn’t sound the same as it used to.  It had become thin and wispy, almost languid compared to her normal clipped and somewhat stodgy British accent.  She hated it.  She couldn’t abide it.  And so she remained silent, only speaking when necessary and economizing her phrases into one word answers. 

But tonight wasn’t for thinking about her strange, new voice or the strange, new thoughts that always seemed to creep into her head.  No, tonight was for celebrating because today was the day she became a nun.  The warmth in her heart spread through her chest, making her smile and give a little sigh at the soft twilight enveloping her.

As she looked up at the moon, it appeared to speak to her.  It was telling her all kinds of terrible secrets.  She listened, transfixed, to everything the moon had to say to her.  Her body swayed as she listened, as though she were listening to a particular rhythm though no music was playing.

The bushes beside her rustled a little bit and Anicia turned her head to look in the direction the noise came from.  Just then, as she looked to her right, Alexandrus stormed in from her left, sweeping her off her feet and onto his shoulder.  Alexandrus made off for the woods nearby, putting enough distance between themselves and the church that he knew, for now at least, that they wouldn’t be disturbed.

Anicia screamed, kicked, and clawed at Alexandrus but he was much too strong for her to fight off.  He roughly raked her hair back away from her neck and sank his fangs into her pure, white skin.  She swooned as he drank deeply, fainting into a dreamy, trancelike state for what seemed like hours.  Alexandrus continued to drink, letting her blood consume him and fill his senses.  The demon inside him never wanted him to stop.  It always wanted more, the glutton.  But not her.  Not my Anicia, he thought to himself and slowed his pace, stopping finally before her heart stopped. 

Anicia looked up at Alexandrus, not really seeing him or anything in the room.  Her vision was totally blurred and she thought for sure she would faint or throw up or something…and then he was cutting his wrist and pressing it to her lips, urging her to drink.  Anicia clutched his wrist in her pale, effervescent fingers and brought the wound to her lips, sucking in a large mouthful of blood.

Anicia looked up from the wound into her ex’s face.  He was looking down at her, smiling, for what it was worth, a sweet smile.  Anicia pursed her lips and spit a huge mouthful of Alexandrus’ blood into his face.  Blood went all over his face, in his mouth and nose, burning his eyes.  Blinded by his own blood, Alexandrus growled, “BITCH….Look what you did!” as he stumbled backward, hands wiping at his eyes.

“I’d rather be dead than be what you are,” Anicia replied, watching as the demon fell back against a tree trunk.  Anicia took the opportunity to stagger to her feet.  She shook her head to clear up some of the fuzziness she was feeling, turned in the direction she thought they had come from, and took off as fast as she could back to the church.  She could feel briars sticking to her socks and branches kept hitting her in the face and catching her hair, but still she would not stop.  When she reached the church she began screaming, “HELP, Oh…god…HELP ME!”

One of the nuns happened to be in the cathedral, praying, and heard Anicia’s cries.  She ran to the door and threw it open, not knowing what she would find outside.  The nun saw Anicia running from the woods toward the church and motioned for her to come on, then.

A dark figure shot out of the woods, appearing as a shadow to the nun and to Anicia.  It ran to Anicia, grabbed her shoulder and tugged her backward.  Alexandrus laughed again, clearly enjoying the chase and the hunt.  He pulled her head back and bit into her again, draining her so near to actual death that she couldn’t move.  She sighed and her body went limp.  The nun, watching from the door, screamed and slammed the door of the church shut with an echoing clang.

Alexandrus hoisted Anicia onto his shoulder and made his way back to the crypt in the local cemetery where he had been living since Anicia had joined the church.  Once they were safely in his crypt, Alexandrus went about his business.  He fed his blood to Anicia, watching her as she drank and her strength returned.  Her eyes appeared to shine as they too gained a more radiant tint than they had been when she was mortal.  When the transformation was finished, Anicia stood before Alexandrus in all her glory.

“I’m peckish,” Anicia said, cocking her head to the side and giving Alexandrus a dark look.  “I think we should go hunting.  The stars are calling me by name,” she smiled and stared off, looking at nothing.

Alexandrus pulled a cloak off a peg and draped it around her shoulders, “Alright, we’ll go.” He grabbed his coat as well and the pair headed toward town.

Once in town, the pair found a pub they could settle in.  “What about him, ducky?” Anicia motioned to a rather large, wealthy-looking man with a moustache. 

“Oh, come on, An.  Really?  That guy?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Oh nothing, he’s just…well he’s not very handsome.”

“Well he’s OK.”

“Yeah, OK I guess…”

“Good, then,” Anicia said, adjusting her corset.  She got up from the table and strode over to the gentleman, who was sitting alone at a table in the corner of the pub. Alexandrus looked on as Anicia sat down with the man, leaning into a conversation with him.  Within the hour, they were kissing and creating quite a scene.  Alexandrus’ face turned red in rage.  He could hardly stand it, watching her be this brazen in the pub after all they had been through together. 

Alexandrus got up from the table, plunking a few dollars down on the table to cover the beer he had ordered but had never touched.  He banged out of the pub doors, shoving his hands into his pockets and putting his head down against the chill of the wind.  Someone nearby had a bonfire going, Alexandrus could smell the smoke.  He walked into the night toward the cemetery; heading toward his crypt.   

Three hours later, Anicia returned.  Her corset was covered in blood and she had blood smeared all around her mouth and on her nose.

“Did you have fun, then?” Alexandrus looked at her, fuming.

“Not really…he got stuck in my teeth,” Anicia complained.  She sank to the floor of the crypt, looking up at the ceiling with a black stare. 

“I can see the whole sky from here,” she said.

“You can’t see the sky from here, love.  We’re inside,” Alexandrus replied, raking his hands through his hair in exasperation.  In all his years of torturing humans, he never thought he would feel bad about making someone go crazy.  Anicia, he knew now, was exactly what he wanted her to be: insane.  But she will never be mine, he thought to himself, punching the granite wall with his fist.  He looked at her and felt nothing.

***This is a work of fan fiction based off of Joss Whedon's "Buffy the Vampire Slayer."  :)

Berevement

“No…please, god, GEORGE…NO!” Olivia cried as she watched her husband rip the little Jesus statue off the top of the headstone.  She knew what he meant to do with it.  George couldn’t hear her.  How can I make you hear me? She wondered as George kneeled in grief over the grave, crying into the autumn wind.  It was only seconds between this moment and the next, but to Olivia it felt like an eternity had passed before George got the courage to compose him self and finish his task.

            George gripped the statue and lifted it to his head.  This movement was incredibly quick but looked to Olivia as if it were in slow motion.  She cried out to her husband again as he bashed the statue into his fragile, eighty-year-old skull over and over again, with every ounce of strength he could muster at his age. 

Blood poured out of the wounds he made in his head, covering the ground around the headstone in thick, dark puddles.  He continued assaulting himself, letting nothing avert him from his task.  Even the sight and smell of his own blood couldn’t stop him now.  Getting weaker and weaker, he sank to his knees by the grave, waiting for death to take him away.

            It all started about a year ago when Olivia had gone in for a mammogram.  “We found a lump, Olivia,” the doctor told her, “We’ll have to do a biopsy to see if it is cancerous.”  She couldn’t believe it.  After all these years of not being sick or breaking a single bone, she may have breast cancer.  George was angry at first,

            “That doctor is an idiot. Seriously, Ollie, he’s a real quack. Get a second opinion!” he grumped at Olivia when she explained to him what the doctor had said. She didn’t press him further on the issue.   She figured she would wait until the biopsy results to bring up the issue again.  After all, why have a fight over nothing? she thought. Less than a week later, she got her answer.  The telephone rang,

            “Hello?”

            “Mrs. Maheu?” a woman’s thin voice echoed over the line.

            “This is she, who is this?” Olivia replied, hoping to herself that she had remembered to pay all of the bills that month.  Sometimes things would slip her mind in her old age, but she was pretty sure that she had paid all the bills.

            “This is Dr. Sculco’s office calling, your test results are in,” the woman answered her, “It appears as though you have stage three breast cancer.  Doctor estimates that you have about six months to live.”  Her words died off and the silence felt extremely loud and uncomfortable.  It was like the air had been sucked out of the room, so Olivia coughed and cleared her throat, attempting to thank the woman before she hung up the phone.

            Six months to live, she had said.  Olivia’s face paled and her head suddenly felt fuzzy.  She sank into a chair by the phone and took a deep breath, clearing her throat again.  Her dog, Bowser, trotted over to her and in a knowing way rested his head on her feet, making them warm.  How will I tell my children?  How will I explain this to George?  She thought, crying silently to herself as Bowser looked on, helpless to do anything else. 

            It took Olivia a week before she could break the news to George.  She had to figure out the exact right moment to explain to him that she was dying.  He was, after all, her love and her, well, everything for the last fifty years.  She knew he wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of losing her.  She knew exactly how she would feel if he explained to her he was dying.  She didn’t want him to go first; she actually preferred it this way.  She just hoped he would understand.

            They were sitting together in the morning, having the usual two to three cups of morning java, when Olivia finally plucked up the courage to tell him, “I’m dying, George.”  The words felt thick and unusual coming out of her mouth and they seemed to hang in the air like smoke, curling around her head and making the air stale and stagnant. 

            “Wha?” George was reading the paper and hardly heard the words issued from her mouth.  She cleared her throat.

            “I’m dying, George.  The lump they found in my breast, its stage three breast cancer.  They don’t estimate me havin’ much time left,” she looked at George and watched his face as he absorbed the news.  It darkened suddenly in anger as if a storm cloud were passing over the room.  George got up from the breakfast table, bumping the table and spilling coffee all over the tabletop.  He put on his coat, thrusting his arms through the sleeves in quick, agitated movements and grabbed his truck keys that were hanging by the door.

            “I’m goin’ out,” George spat at her as he walked out the door, leaving Olivia sitting there contemplating her own fate.  She died three months later.  Apparently, the doctors were just a little off in their estimation of exactly how much time I had left, she thought as her spirit watched the funeral.  It was a sunny May afternoon that they held her funeral, cloudless and just a little chilly.  George wept silently by her grave, his weary aged body racking with sobs, but no sound emitting from his mouth.   

            Olivia wanted to go to him, to tell him she was going to be fine.  She felt her spirit move toward him, reach out to him, and then pass through him.  She saw his face as her arm went through him.  He obviously had felt it on some unconscious level, because he shivered with goose bumps and rubbed his arms with his hands in an attempt to ward of the chill.  This was no good.  He couldn’t understand or even hear her now. 

            Six months had passed and George was still in deep mourning.  Olivia had attempted contact with him to let him know that she was alright several times, but nothing ever worked except in makeing George think he was going crazy.  She tried several tricks, opening cabinet doors and knocking, opening windows when he was sleeping to let in a breeze.  Nothing worked.  George would close the cabinets or window and go about his business.  He was never a superstitious man; they were a Catholic family and believed that when one dies they go to either hell or heaven. Olivia wondered which of these George thought she was in.  Either way, the days passed and she grew weary of trying to make her presence known.  And something was happening.

            George appeared to be deteriorating quickly.  He was growing thinner and he forgot about shaving all together.  Bowser was suffering too, as George couldn’t bear looking at him anymore.  He had been Olivia’s favorite dog, a loyal companion and one of her best friends.  It was killing her to see him wasting away like this.  Memories of the family playing Frisbee together would come rushing back when George walked the dog; a daily reminder of his dead wife.

            Every month, on the anniversary of Olivia’s death, George would visit her grave.  On this particular November day, George prepared to make his usual visit.  A short while after he left the house, Bowser began whimpering and whining.  His whining soon turned into vomiting, which lead way to convulsions, and then suddenly he stopped moving.  Olivia watched as the dog’s spirit rose out of the corpse and ascended…disappearing in a shimmer of light. My poor Bowser, she thought as she realized what must have happened.  George had poisoned the dog. At least he isn’t in pain anymore, she thought as she scanned the room for any indication of what George used to kill the dog with.  It was then she noticed the letter on the table.  It was addressed to their children.  She unfolded it and read the confused and sorrowful words of her husband as he explained to their children what it was he planned to do. 

            Olivia left the house at once, headed for her grave site.  It was a crisp fall day and the leaves were falling from the trees in bouquets of color; covering the ground in layers of orange and yellow and brown.  Springdale Cemetery was a big place but she knew exactly where George would be.  In the older half of the cemetery, next to a black stone with their last name, Maheu, carved into the stone, stood George.  Suddenly the leaves on the trees didn’t seem so bright, but instead appeared brown and withered.  The trees appeared to be grieving, with their bent trunks and crooked limbs stretching to the gray sky.

            “George,” Olivia called to him as he stood there deep in thought.  He wouldn’t turn to look at her.  “George, if you do this you won’t be with me ever again.  George, you’ll go to hell.  Please don’t do this, George.  Think of the children!  And who is going to come along and find you this way?”  she reached out to him, her hand going through his chest instead of making contact with him.  He shuddered deeply but made no sign that he could see or hear her.  He probably just thinks it’s chilly out here, she thought as she watched George to see what he would do next.

 “No…please, god, GEORGE…NO!” Olivia cried as she watched her husband rip the little Jesus statue off the top of the headstone.  She knew what he meant to do with it.  How can I make you hear me? She wondered as George kneeled in grief over the grave, crying into the autumn wind.  It was only seconds between this moment and the next, but to Olivia it felt like an eternity had passed before George got the courage to compose him self and finish his task.

            George gripped the statue and lifted it to his head.  This motion was incredibly quick but looked to her as if it were in slow motion.  She cried out to her husband again as he bashed the statue into his fragile, eighty-year-old skull over and over again, with every ounce of strength he could muster at his age.  Blood poured out of the wounds he made in his head, covering the ground around the headstone in thick, dark puddles.  He continued assaulting himself, letting nothing avert him from his task.  Even the sight and smell of his own blood couldn’t stop him now.  Getting weaker and weaker, he sank to his knees by the grave, waiting for death to take him away.

            That’s when the runner happened by.  Olivia watched as the man jogged slowly up the old cemetery road, his breath steaming from his lungs creating a grey cloud around him as he ran.  He was listening to headphones and running methodically, with an expression of focus on his face.  When he came upon George, he turned as white as a sheet.

“Hello, Sir?” He said as he looked at George’s crumpled body.  He slowed his pace and then came to a shuddering stop, reached clumsily into his pocket and dug out a cell phone.  He was shaking so badly he dropped the phone to the ground with a thud.  Bending and picking it up, he looked at George again and his mouth twisted in discontent.  With shaking fingers he dialed 9-1-1.  “Hello, emergency? Yes, there is an old man up here at Springdale Cemetery who’s losing a lot of blood….yes, that’s right….Springdale Cemetery, on Prospect Road…..ok, thank you,” he hung up and put the phone back into his pocket, turning his attention to George.  There was blood everywhere and the man appeared to Olivia as if he were too nervous to actually find out if George was alive or dead.

            She knew George was still alive because she hadn’t seen his spirit leave yet, so there was still time.  This man could have possibly saved him by happening along when he did.  The ambulance soon arrived with paramedics who strapped George into a stretcher and whisked him away to the nearest hospital.  Olivia tagged along in the ambulance.  Since she is dead, no one could see her so no one could tell her otherwise.  She wished she could hold her husband’s hand because his face was a mask of pain.  His breathing was shallow but the paramedics soon had it under control, just as they were pulling into the emergency area of the hospital. 

            After six hours of intense pain and suffering, George died.  No one else was in the room with him when he passed.  Olivia watched as his spirit rose from his body and, instead of ascending, appeared to descend and disappeared into the floor. She could hear his cries as death pulled him into hell, wretched and fearful.  She watched in grief, crying because she knew her husband was lost to her now.  Even if she could figure out some way to get into hell, there would be a slim chance of finding George there or even of being able to get back out.  Olivia sighed heavily and prepared to ascend, walking toward the light.  She could see Bowser and her Mom and Dad, among other ancestors and relatives who had long since been dead.   She walked toward them and disappeared into the light with one final, vibrating twinkle.

 

***This story is a work of fiction and does not reflect the author's views of the afterlife or theology.

 

As Sweet As Autumn Fruit

           The strawberries were grown in a field.  As they matured and ripened they grew heavy with juice and darker in their shade of red.  I can see the environment from which they sprung in my minds-eye, a happy entwining of berries nestled in a rolling meadow that smells of dew and fresh cut grass.  The light breeze carries the smells to anyone happening by the area.  The ground around the strawberry patch is warm; the strawberries sun kissed and swollen with ripeness as they near their harvest.  I imagine it as a quiet place, where the only sounds are those of nature and the occasional sound of a travelers foot steps walking through grass or up the dirt road nearby.  I can imagine small animals, a squirrel or raccoon, stopping to eat a few of the berries as they pass.  Bees drift in the air in search of pollen adding a drone to the sounds of the wind rustling the leaves of the trees and teasing the blades of grass.  Even more strawberries grow in the tilled soil there, strawberries that will one day grace the plates of others as these sitting before me.

            The apples that I have sliced come from an orchard full of apple trees.  The orchard is colorful with varying shades of apples – vibrant greens, yellows, and reds.  The smell of apples is intoxicating and evokes in anyone walking beneath the shade of the trees memories of happy times with his or her family during the fall and winter months.  Thoughts of warm cider and cinnamon-apple pies drift in and out of passerby’s consciousness, and children’s mouths water in anticipation of one of fall’s most delicious fruits.  Next to the orchard is a bustling store, filled with different foods and decoration.  Inside I can purchase fresh apple cider and apples by the bag full.  Red delicious, yellow delicious, McIntosh, and Granny Smith are separated into barrels and take up an entire room of the store.  Another room contains shelves and shelves of canned fruits, homemade jams, and caramel apples.  Behind the store is a small pumpkin patch, another fall fruit, adding more vibrant color to the orchard.  Beyond the pumpkin patch and the apple trees are more fields and a line of dark trees, stretching off into the distance.  I can hear the leaves as they crunch beneath the soles of my shoes, adding a smell of damp earth and decay to the already fragrant air. 

            The crust is done, a rectangle made up of flour, sugar, salt, and butter with deftly decorated edges.  The dough was pliable and easy to roll out and form into the pan.  I selected the plumpest strawberries and already sliced them and set them aside and I gently mix them together into the crust with some pink pearl apples and some crab apples.  I am careful as I place the fruit into the pan not to tear the crust.  The apples are coated with sugar, and they smell of autumn.  I finish filling the pie and rummage through the cabinet for honey, which I drizzle on the tart before placing it into the oven.  The oven heats the tart, causing the apples to wither and the strawberries to dry slightly.  The perfume of fall is thick in the air, causing my cat to stir and quiver his nose at the aroma.  Outside it rains, and there is a chill to the air.  I am glad for the comfort of my kitchen and the warmth coming from the stove.  As the tart cooks I wash the dishes and wipe down the counter, cleaning the mess I had made in preparation.  I retrieve a white plate from the cabinet and place upon it a brown paper napkin, readying the plate for the tart.  My cat has fallen back to sleep and is snoring lightly.  The smell of honey is thick in the air now, and I hurry to remove the tart from the oven before it is burned. 

            I let the pastry cool on the shelf before I place it on the plate I have prepared.  Outside it has stopped raining, and the sun is focused on forcing itself out from behind the ominous clouds.  I look at the pastry and think that it looks pretty to me, and brings to mind past autumns and time spent with my family.  I want to capture this moment and portray it to others to see if they feel the same way.  I take the plate and some forks and a knife to the whitewashed picnic table in the backyard.  The sun is warm, but I can still feel the coolness underneath the shade of the tree in the backyard.  I go back to the house to grab my camera and some powdered sugar.  Coming back outside I notice that the clouds are almost completely gone, and the sun is a shining star in the deep blue sky.  Arranging the utensils around the pastry plate, I listen to the urban sounds of the city around me and wish I was in one of the fields where the fruit had come from.   A motorcycle groans on the road and I think of the tranquility of the natural sounds that surround the strawberries and apples are as they mature.  This must be why they taste and smell so sweet!  I think as I snap some pictures of my pastry. 

            Settling down with some coffee and a slice of my homemade tart, I hear an ambulance in the distance. The sound seems disconnected from my reality, the reality of the pastry, and as it fades away I am left contemplating whether or not to stay in my architectural jungle.  The sounds of the city, previously comforting, had found the way to my nerves and had set them on edge.  This concrete context had me shaken and disturbed.   I longed for the scenic beauty of the country and its fields of fruit.  I knew that if given the chance I could ripen and become as sweet as the fruit from those fields.  I rose from the white washed picnic table that now seemed sad and obscene in the small urban backyard, and strode to the house to begin a new kind of preparation - this time for my departure.