I hope this isn’t too subtle. I’ve been reading E. M. Forster and class is on my mind.
My mother has that same bowl.
That was what Beulah saw when she walked into the Stantons’ living room. Not the fine china, the taffeta curtains, or the fresh yogurt on the kitchen table. It was the plain, almost tacky bowl, one that her mother had kept half-blackened banana in for baking, that drew her attention.
“Hey, you’re early,” Nick came out from the back. “Oh…yeah, that. It’s my Gran’s. Dad wanted to chuck it, said it ‘broke the aesthetic.’ Whatever; I think it’s cool. We had it since forever.” He grabbed the keys. “Ready?”
It’s been forever since I’ve done one. I may have gone super rusty, but here’s this week’s, nonetheless.
There was a pair of rubber boots lying in the gutter outside Janice’s door. One was on its side, slowly being submerged in the downpour. Janice pulled back the curtains. It rarely rained this hard in the valley, especially in the fall. Carl used to always wear those clumsy things in their garden, grumbling about weeds. She suggested buying a newer pair once and he almost blew a gasket. A grumpy man he was, that was evident, but one who had been with her most of her life.
She just turned fifty yesterday. She was not ready to be alone.
This one is a bit Halloween-y, although we’re technically past the date. Still, my mind’s been on witches for a while, so of course it manifested here.
The Problem with Familiars
“How about this one?”
Sai pointed to the various idols displayed in the shop. Her sister was rifling through them and muttering to herself. Too bulky, too round, too thin. Geez, what does it take to find a suitable vial stopper around here?
The one Sai liked looked like a cornucopia standing up. The end was gilded; its lip just big enough for their largest glassware. Jae practically leapt with joy once she saw it.
“Perfect! Unless Anubis suddenly grows opposable thumbs, I say we’re set.”
Anything’s better than the smell of potion-soaked cat, Sai thought, and grabbed it promptly.
There was a warehouse near the pier that was rumored to be haunted. Mob hits, government testing, secret prisons; the speculations were endless. What everyone could agree on, however, was the constant howling and the shimmering lights, ethereal like ghosts in the dark.
Lydia knew better. She was from the Otherside, after all, and she had seen timespace split like tissue paper many times. The interval between these “hauntings” was too regular to be a fluke. It was up to Menders like her to make sure things stay intact.
She veiled her face, snapped on her gloves, and ventured inside.
There were fresh flowers lying in a tool box in the garage. A note was attached to it. “Happy Mother’s Day,” it said, gold letters embossed on cream eggshell. There was even a pink bow tying the stems together.
They got delivered late due to a scheduling mishap. Rachel was on her way back already from her mother’s wake. They belonged in the trash but pickup wasn’t until next Wednesday, and Denise didn’t want Rachel to see them, even wilting in the bin. So out with the screwdrivers they sat, until she could drive out – alone – and dispose of them.
More of a setting than a story. I kind of cheated the word count with the title, just a little. But I think it plays better this way.
Alone, in the Foreign Quarters of Sutak
The streets of Marlow were always shrouded in a fine, yellow mist. It came from the digsites down river, and the warm southerly wind carried it through the city center like acrid decay. Carts and carriages traveled blindly through at night, and any exposed baked goods tended to come accompanied with a layer of crumbly sand.
Jesef hated it. Hated the duststorm days when he had to plug every seam of his house with wet rags. Hated the tingly faint odor of sulfur that lingered like death. It was odious, and pervasive, and never seemed to dissipate.
I finally got back to this haha. My last one was in February? Wow. I really should fix that.
(I actually was going to write one last week but the picture didn’t inspire me. Also, I found a new band to listen to while writing – Kanute. Too bad they only have two albums so far.)
Now, without further ado, I bring this week’s entry:
Ben drives. The rain clings to the windshield like glue. He doesn’t weave through traffic like he thought he would, after the hospital’s call. What would that accomplish? One accident is enough.
He thinks of Cameron’s face and then stops, because the images from the crash is ghastly. Instead he thinks of Cam’s birthday, two weeks ago, and the sound of his laughter. Of the way he spun drunkenly on the lawn. Of the sloppy kisses he threw Ben’s way.
Ben drives like any other morning. His vision is getting blurry; he curses, softly, and tries to blink it away.