Showing posts with label Theresa C. Newbill. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Theresa C. Newbill. Show all posts
Silent Scream
By Theresa C. Newbill and Harris Whitman
In the stillness of her studio, she studies the stranger so she can capture his essence. He has put forth a projection, the perfect portrait of the person plaguing her dreams, turning them into nightmares. He has come to her in the shadows of night, hauntingly summoning her in a dance of death.
The solitary skylight projects radiant beams of moonlight as it hits the mirror, magnified by a lone flickering candle illuminating the canvas. She is safe there, her sanctuary from the outside world. The sights and sounds do not penetrate the protective walls of her accomplice workspace.
She has selected the tools of her trade, the oil based paints that will bring forth life, where once there was nothingness, the abyss. Sky blue shimmers as cerulean saunters in, shifting the shadows with shades of light and life; a burst of fresh air sweeping across the canvas. His silhouette starts to take shape; gentle brush strokes of titanium white blend with brilliant yellow and a hint of cinnabar, slowly manifesting his being, captured on canvas.
Trees in all their magnificent colors with leaves of emerald, sap, deep viridian green, take shape; burnt umber, burnt sienna bark; the taproot giving them life. A solitary cardinal, terra rosa belly, venetian red wings with transparent maroon highlights; give depth, movement, honing in on a cherry tree. Done for the day, she will add more color and details in the morning.
Rising up from her slumber, sunlight hitting her face, she wakes up drenched in sweat with the sheets kicked back, the duvet strewn from the bed. Immediately she walks to her painting, ready to get back to work, lifting the muslin sheet draped over her work. She gasps, dropping her easel and the draping cloth.
Where once there were bright blue skies there is now a dark purplish blue-black atmosphere. The beautiful blazing bright orange sun has been transformed into a Payne’s gray moon with raw umber craters and a pock marked face. An ominous black hawk with piercing eyes swoops down, talons outstretched towards the lifeless gray brown tree with barren branches.
The radiant figure has been replaced with a hideously deformed blue gray representation with skeletal features; hollowed out sunken furrows with blood red crimson eyes, black slits piercing back at her, human heart dripping life’s fluid in his right hand, a sickle in his outstretched left hand, droplets of blood trickling down from the finely honed shimmering steel gray blade. With an evil smile, he looks right through her, not back at her, as she runs from the room.
With every few strides she stops frozen in place by the sheer terror. Her nightgown soaked with sweat, stained with paint, flowing down her arms with wet sleeves; her whole world, changing overnight into something totally unknown. For years she has seen angels in the faces of little children, sketched out the innocence of common sea gulls ledged on a hillside rock, rooted there by wind and sea then choreographed into flight by her own hand, yet today she is shielded by darkness, her thoughts half shadow half light.
It all started two days ago while on the subway along the elevated tracks. It was cool and the Hudson River seemed to gleam surrounded by a possessed mist that circled then dispensed in waves into the night air. The car sufficiently isolated or so she thought, except for a mother and child. The child had a relentless and uncompromising force in his eyes that captivated her very essence. He looked primitive, like an abstraction void of youthful freshness, and she felt as if she was viewing him through fixed glass.
He glared at her with piercing eyes, devoid of life, transfixed, as if in a trance, clutching a well-worn Ouija board. Through her peripheral vision she noticed him occasionally coughing up blood as the frequency of vibration on the train increased slowly sinking then rising with speed and forward momentum. It was as if a centrifugal energy was pulling her away from the center. At that moment she could think of nothing but colors, colors that projected intuitive sympathy.
When she regained composure, she could see a fully packed subway car filled with suits heading home from a hard day at work. This caused her no distress, in fact she was relieved. Sometimes her artistic visions took on the illusion of singularity; it helped her focus, concentrate on a particular object for creative representation although it was the first time she had spent what seemed like hours transfixed by the scenery of this particular mother and child.
Every now and then she rested her eyelids by closing them, taking in small glances, a still photograph of the images in front of her. That was when she saw him, the handsome man who looked directly into her eyes with a pleasantly exhausted demeanor. He had a symmetrical pattern to his face, an eagerness and yearning even through the jettison waves of brooding conformist that she found so alluring. She straightened her shoulders and smiled at him, dreaming him into a different background in her mind’s eye, one where light and life flourished beneath a lone cherry tree.
There was a gray invisibility abound the folded paper he carried tucked under his arm, and around his briefcase. She was in a somnambulist kind of state when she heard a voice say, “Fuck my job! Fuck everybody”, followed by a loud boom, which propelled her into the air spinning, pinning her against molten strap handles, bars and steel.
“No no no no no! She said, as rapid eye movements maneuvered through absolute darkness, the accoutrements of metal drowning out her cries.
In her nightgown at home she remembers in fragments, a tingling sensation surging through her chest upward into her throat. Startled, she walks back to the painting determined to understand what is going on with her body, with her brain. She is conscious, ALIVE, despite the overwhelming presence of death. The frame has been bent but she quickly shapes it back to normality. With frantic strokes of her paintbrush, she begins to restore the painting, but her left arm becomes weak, her lips turn blue, she tries to call out for help, silently screams, her lungs tighten, vocal chords paralyze, unable to speak.
She is in the painting with him! Bonded to him by one split second when the g-force maximized her into a bloody, dirty clump of teeth and gums.
The oil painting falls on top of her white linen gown, the painting outlining her body on the hardwood floor, her earthen body fading away, leaving a relief where her physical form once was, her pained mirror image now captured on canvas embraced by the dark ominous stranger. The panel dripping, dripping with…
blood, blood...
“Whose blood is that?" the nurse asks the little boy in a frantic high pitched shriek, alarmed by the sight of deep, thick, sticky crimson spreading out across the floor."
Four months in a sanitarium had him recuperating from the events of that faithful day. Physically he was better, but mentally, emotionally he was silent, his speech taken from him in an instant, indelibly etched, forever present in his young mind. He has the ability to talk but refuses to do so. Instead he chooses to communicate a different way. He paints.
“Whose blood is that?” the nurse asks once again.
The little boy points to the Ouija board, as the lady and the stranger appear in lightening reflexes, harbored by an abstraction that steals your days, breaks your spirit, demands your soul yet he struggles with language, with the images raked and rounded on a portrait, as he stutters saying…
“I thought I was going to die, but I didn’t, and she, she did.”
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
Harris Whitman is a NYC native, an avid traveler and outdoorsman, celebrates life, exploring nature trails, architecture, archeology, ancient history and anthropology. He enjoys writing poems, songs, short stories and social commentary on various subjects. He also appreciates fine art and dabbles in sketching, drawing, cartoons, creating photoshops and site gags in his free time.
By Theresa C. Newbill and Harris Whitman
In the stillness of her studio, she studies the stranger so she can capture his essence. He has put forth a projection, the perfect portrait of the person plaguing her dreams, turning them into nightmares. He has come to her in the shadows of night, hauntingly summoning her in a dance of death.
The solitary skylight projects radiant beams of moonlight as it hits the mirror, magnified by a lone flickering candle illuminating the canvas. She is safe there, her sanctuary from the outside world. The sights and sounds do not penetrate the protective walls of her accomplice workspace.
She has selected the tools of her trade, the oil based paints that will bring forth life, where once there was nothingness, the abyss. Sky blue shimmers as cerulean saunters in, shifting the shadows with shades of light and life; a burst of fresh air sweeping across the canvas. His silhouette starts to take shape; gentle brush strokes of titanium white blend with brilliant yellow and a hint of cinnabar, slowly manifesting his being, captured on canvas.
Trees in all their magnificent colors with leaves of emerald, sap, deep viridian green, take shape; burnt umber, burnt sienna bark; the taproot giving them life. A solitary cardinal, terra rosa belly, venetian red wings with transparent maroon highlights; give depth, movement, honing in on a cherry tree. Done for the day, she will add more color and details in the morning.
Rising up from her slumber, sunlight hitting her face, she wakes up drenched in sweat with the sheets kicked back, the duvet strewn from the bed. Immediately she walks to her painting, ready to get back to work, lifting the muslin sheet draped over her work. She gasps, dropping her easel and the draping cloth.
Where once there were bright blue skies there is now a dark purplish blue-black atmosphere. The beautiful blazing bright orange sun has been transformed into a Payne’s gray moon with raw umber craters and a pock marked face. An ominous black hawk with piercing eyes swoops down, talons outstretched towards the lifeless gray brown tree with barren branches.
The radiant figure has been replaced with a hideously deformed blue gray representation with skeletal features; hollowed out sunken furrows with blood red crimson eyes, black slits piercing back at her, human heart dripping life’s fluid in his right hand, a sickle in his outstretched left hand, droplets of blood trickling down from the finely honed shimmering steel gray blade. With an evil smile, he looks right through her, not back at her, as she runs from the room.
With every few strides she stops frozen in place by the sheer terror. Her nightgown soaked with sweat, stained with paint, flowing down her arms with wet sleeves; her whole world, changing overnight into something totally unknown. For years she has seen angels in the faces of little children, sketched out the innocence of common sea gulls ledged on a hillside rock, rooted there by wind and sea then choreographed into flight by her own hand, yet today she is shielded by darkness, her thoughts half shadow half light.
It all started two days ago while on the subway along the elevated tracks. It was cool and the Hudson River seemed to gleam surrounded by a possessed mist that circled then dispensed in waves into the night air. The car sufficiently isolated or so she thought, except for a mother and child. The child had a relentless and uncompromising force in his eyes that captivated her very essence. He looked primitive, like an abstraction void of youthful freshness, and she felt as if she was viewing him through fixed glass.
He glared at her with piercing eyes, devoid of life, transfixed, as if in a trance, clutching a well-worn Ouija board. Through her peripheral vision she noticed him occasionally coughing up blood as the frequency of vibration on the train increased slowly sinking then rising with speed and forward momentum. It was as if a centrifugal energy was pulling her away from the center. At that moment she could think of nothing but colors, colors that projected intuitive sympathy.
When she regained composure, she could see a fully packed subway car filled with suits heading home from a hard day at work. This caused her no distress, in fact she was relieved. Sometimes her artistic visions took on the illusion of singularity; it helped her focus, concentrate on a particular object for creative representation although it was the first time she had spent what seemed like hours transfixed by the scenery of this particular mother and child.
Every now and then she rested her eyelids by closing them, taking in small glances, a still photograph of the images in front of her. That was when she saw him, the handsome man who looked directly into her eyes with a pleasantly exhausted demeanor. He had a symmetrical pattern to his face, an eagerness and yearning even through the jettison waves of brooding conformist that she found so alluring. She straightened her shoulders and smiled at him, dreaming him into a different background in her mind’s eye, one where light and life flourished beneath a lone cherry tree.
There was a gray invisibility abound the folded paper he carried tucked under his arm, and around his briefcase. She was in a somnambulist kind of state when she heard a voice say, “Fuck my job! Fuck everybody”, followed by a loud boom, which propelled her into the air spinning, pinning her against molten strap handles, bars and steel.
“No no no no no! She said, as rapid eye movements maneuvered through absolute darkness, the accoutrements of metal drowning out her cries.
In her nightgown at home she remembers in fragments, a tingling sensation surging through her chest upward into her throat. Startled, she walks back to the painting determined to understand what is going on with her body, with her brain. She is conscious, ALIVE, despite the overwhelming presence of death. The frame has been bent but she quickly shapes it back to normality. With frantic strokes of her paintbrush, she begins to restore the painting, but her left arm becomes weak, her lips turn blue, she tries to call out for help, silently screams, her lungs tighten, vocal chords paralyze, unable to speak.
She is in the painting with him! Bonded to him by one split second when the g-force maximized her into a bloody, dirty clump of teeth and gums.
The oil painting falls on top of her white linen gown, the painting outlining her body on the hardwood floor, her earthen body fading away, leaving a relief where her physical form once was, her pained mirror image now captured on canvas embraced by the dark ominous stranger. The panel dripping, dripping with…
blood, blood...
“Whose blood is that?" the nurse asks the little boy in a frantic high pitched shriek, alarmed by the sight of deep, thick, sticky crimson spreading out across the floor."
Four months in a sanitarium had him recuperating from the events of that faithful day. Physically he was better, but mentally, emotionally he was silent, his speech taken from him in an instant, indelibly etched, forever present in his young mind. He has the ability to talk but refuses to do so. Instead he chooses to communicate a different way. He paints.
“Whose blood is that?” the nurse asks once again.
The little boy points to the Ouija board, as the lady and the stranger appear in lightening reflexes, harbored by an abstraction that steals your days, breaks your spirit, demands your soul yet he struggles with language, with the images raked and rounded on a portrait, as he stutters saying…
“I thought I was going to die, but I didn’t, and she, she did.”
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
Harris Whitman is a NYC native, an avid traveler and outdoorsman, celebrates life, exploring nature trails, architecture, archeology, ancient history and anthropology. He enjoys writing poems, songs, short stories and social commentary on various subjects. He also appreciates fine art and dabbles in sketching, drawing, cartoons, creating photoshops and site gags in his free time.
Conversations With Jimi Hendrix
By Theresa C. Newbill
I noticed you’re sleeping deeper,
more peacefully now, but I miss
you, man. My energy is just a bit
low today, so I’m practicing on
an old guitar tonight. Yeah, many
don’t even know I own one but
I got me a nice blue guitar at Sam
Ash that I named Jimi awhile back.
Focus, my friend, hope you’re
catching up with me. We always
have nice, quiet enjoyable times
together, don’t we? So I got this
natural swing in me, a gift from
Tequila and Meukow Cognac. But
there’s this one bottle of Cognac,
the one labeled Benedictine
Marques Deposees, too perfect to
open, know what I mean?
I’m feeling fine about having my
own space; like a rolling stone,
man, it gives me more freedom. I
was pleased to hear, changes ain’t
nothing to be concerned about, crazy
days move along to keep score. So I
guess you don’t know the latest
gossip, Jon and Kate got divorced.
Yeah, too bad huh? But hey, Lennon
had the same emotional release before
his beautiful relationship with Yoko.
I didn’t sleep at all last night, you
know how hard it is to maintain this
feeling of equal balance between the
two levels of my life now. Sometimes
the personal and the creative mesh and
that’s always cool. Hey Jimi! You
listening to me, Chief? The moon is
casting some strange light on the
windowpane. It’s always a good omen
when that happens. I guess it verifies
this music and me connect.
Hey Jimi, you think there will ever be
a time when the various facets of my life
will no longer be connected and balanced?
No? Me, either. So here I go, Jimi, you
still with me? Cool. Where are the words
in the shadow of deeds and hard work? In
initial dreams there is the sweetest of
songs. I sing along; in my head is truth
and a bar, and a tenement house, my brick
building on the back-drop of a purple haze,
this psychedelic paper representation,
imperfectly made, travels the wind in the
blindness of naïve skin that still
preaches, peace and love. I survey the
continual fall of man, the way people hate,
judge. I think it’s due to angry consciences
that sever happiness into fractions of
obligations and duties, some religious, some
political.But I pray that someday, someway,
they’ll tear their four walls down, and think
about the metaphor they've become.
Hey Jimi, how are you doing? I hope you know
you still shine with overflowing light, yeah,
it’s called fate. No man, it ain’t no curse.
You hold the key to grace divine, definitive;
you’re my black pearl of pride. How does it
feel? To be ripe and renown. I still mourn for
you, Jimi, and for the few who never saw the
flowing wonder of your ways and the beauty of
days. I could have been one of them if it
weren’t for you. And yeah man, I know you’re
all done with that sh*t; with the rising and
the falling.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
I noticed you’re sleeping deeper,
more peacefully now, but I miss
you, man. My energy is just a bit
low today, so I’m practicing on
an old guitar tonight. Yeah, many
don’t even know I own one but
I got me a nice blue guitar at Sam
Ash that I named Jimi awhile back.
Focus, my friend, hope you’re
catching up with me. We always
have nice, quiet enjoyable times
together, don’t we? So I got this
natural swing in me, a gift from
Tequila and Meukow Cognac. But
there’s this one bottle of Cognac,
the one labeled Benedictine
Marques Deposees, too perfect to
open, know what I mean?
I’m feeling fine about having my
own space; like a rolling stone,
man, it gives me more freedom. I
was pleased to hear, changes ain’t
nothing to be concerned about, crazy
days move along to keep score. So I
guess you don’t know the latest
gossip, Jon and Kate got divorced.
Yeah, too bad huh? But hey, Lennon
had the same emotional release before
his beautiful relationship with Yoko.
I didn’t sleep at all last night, you
know how hard it is to maintain this
feeling of equal balance between the
two levels of my life now. Sometimes
the personal and the creative mesh and
that’s always cool. Hey Jimi! You
listening to me, Chief? The moon is
casting some strange light on the
windowpane. It’s always a good omen
when that happens. I guess it verifies
this music and me connect.
Hey Jimi, you think there will ever be
a time when the various facets of my life
will no longer be connected and balanced?
No? Me, either. So here I go, Jimi, you
still with me? Cool. Where are the words
in the shadow of deeds and hard work? In
initial dreams there is the sweetest of
songs. I sing along; in my head is truth
and a bar, and a tenement house, my brick
building on the back-drop of a purple haze,
this psychedelic paper representation,
imperfectly made, travels the wind in the
blindness of naïve skin that still
preaches, peace and love. I survey the
continual fall of man, the way people hate,
judge. I think it’s due to angry consciences
that sever happiness into fractions of
obligations and duties, some religious, some
political.But I pray that someday, someway,
they’ll tear their four walls down, and think
about the metaphor they've become.
Hey Jimi, how are you doing? I hope you know
you still shine with overflowing light, yeah,
it’s called fate. No man, it ain’t no curse.
You hold the key to grace divine, definitive;
you’re my black pearl of pride. How does it
feel? To be ripe and renown. I still mourn for
you, Jimi, and for the few who never saw the
flowing wonder of your ways and the beauty of
days. I could have been one of them if it
weren’t for you. And yeah man, I know you’re
all done with that sh*t; with the rising and
the falling.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
The Death Farmer
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part nine of nine
Three years later.
A young man and a young woman with just married signs and coke cans attached to the rear of their car swerve violently to avoid a black cat that suddenly darts out into road. After the initial startle, the young man looks in his rear view mirror and sees a lone man disappear into the path of an empty lot. The For Sale sign visible from the road, the smell of burned wood, are all disturbing.
"Did you see that?"
"Yes, that cat almost got us killed."
"No. Not the cat."
"What?"
"Never mind."
"Charlie look at the sky, it's still early enough in the morning that the sun seems to almost blend in with the moon. It's so cool."
"It's almost like a sign, nature seeking balance and harmony."
"Or like a kiss. The kiss of love meeting the kiss of loss."
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part nine of nine
Three years later.
A young man and a young woman with just married signs and coke cans attached to the rear of their car swerve violently to avoid a black cat that suddenly darts out into road. After the initial startle, the young man looks in his rear view mirror and sees a lone man disappear into the path of an empty lot. The For Sale sign visible from the road, the smell of burned wood, are all disturbing.
"Did you see that?"
"Yes, that cat almost got us killed."
"No. Not the cat."
"What?"
"Never mind."
"Charlie look at the sky, it's still early enough in the morning that the sun seems to almost blend in with the moon. It's so cool."
"It's almost like a sign, nature seeking balance and harmony."
"Or like a kiss. The kiss of love meeting the kiss of loss."
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
The Death Farmer
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part eight of nine
Alan Parker has an avocado salad for breakfast as well as a tall glass of vodka before heading out to the upper riverbank where he has planted a variety of flowers for the past year. It would seem a near impossibility for anything to grow there but the garden is rich and vibrant. It was the same riverbank where he noticed the first crescent moon as a child and felt the outrage of betrayal as an adult. He could almost smell the alcohol, and the idea that was still fresh in his head even after a year has passed. Alcohol allows a fire to grow undetected. Faulty wiring would appear on the report. That's it, faulty wiring.
As Alan starts his car he can swear he hears the hoot of a barn owl and dogs barking. There's a heightened sense of surrounding that was never present before. The humidity seems to be at an all time high yet the trees are lightly swaying over a cloudless sky, paying homage to God. The smell of vanilla permeates through the interior of the vehicle and Alan is lost within the scent. Suddenly a black cat appears on the roadway. It's Rowan. He swerves to avoid him. The car fishtails into an oncoming truck. Alan sees them, Kelly, Steve and Sarah, happily together in his line of vision as the car bursts into flames.
***
That same morning Father Oliviere awakens to the smell of roses, the smell of sanctity.
***
Old Clara awakens clutching the picture poppet of Kelly and Steve. On the one corner of the picture she notices a small orb that wasn't present before. Rowan looks up at her from the foot of her bed and meows. Old Clara feels the floating energy of peace.
***
Kevin awakens Mitchell with a pillow fight and lots of laughter.
"Promise you'll always take care of me big brother."
"I promise."
"Pinky swear?"
"Pinky swear."
"Are we going to see your grandma today?"
"Hush with that. You said you'd never tell."
"Well, are we?"
"Yes, we are."
"Dork!"
"Fool!"
The playful pillow fight continues.
***
Floating in the river is a white cloth that holds two wedding rings that are visible as the rag begins to unravel.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part eight of nine
Alan Parker has an avocado salad for breakfast as well as a tall glass of vodka before heading out to the upper riverbank where he has planted a variety of flowers for the past year. It would seem a near impossibility for anything to grow there but the garden is rich and vibrant. It was the same riverbank where he noticed the first crescent moon as a child and felt the outrage of betrayal as an adult. He could almost smell the alcohol, and the idea that was still fresh in his head even after a year has passed. Alcohol allows a fire to grow undetected. Faulty wiring would appear on the report. That's it, faulty wiring.
As Alan starts his car he can swear he hears the hoot of a barn owl and dogs barking. There's a heightened sense of surrounding that was never present before. The humidity seems to be at an all time high yet the trees are lightly swaying over a cloudless sky, paying homage to God. The smell of vanilla permeates through the interior of the vehicle and Alan is lost within the scent. Suddenly a black cat appears on the roadway. It's Rowan. He swerves to avoid him. The car fishtails into an oncoming truck. Alan sees them, Kelly, Steve and Sarah, happily together in his line of vision as the car bursts into flames.
***
That same morning Father Oliviere awakens to the smell of roses, the smell of sanctity.
***
Old Clara awakens clutching the picture poppet of Kelly and Steve. On the one corner of the picture she notices a small orb that wasn't present before. Rowan looks up at her from the foot of her bed and meows. Old Clara feels the floating energy of peace.
***
Kevin awakens Mitchell with a pillow fight and lots of laughter.
"Promise you'll always take care of me big brother."
"I promise."
"Pinky swear?"
"Pinky swear."
"Are we going to see your grandma today?"
"Hush with that. You said you'd never tell."
"Well, are we?"
"Yes, we are."
"Dork!"
"Fool!"
The playful pillow fight continues.
***
Floating in the river is a white cloth that holds two wedding rings that are visible as the rag begins to unravel.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
The Death Farmer
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part seven of nine
Old woman Clara likes to keep the furniture of her home covered in burlap sacks. Dead flies inhabit her cat Rowan's milk bowl. Her dining room table smells of rotted wood yet she sits there stitching loopholes around a white and blue cloth. Further examination shows the cloth holds a picture of Kelly Anderson on one side and her son Steve Padula on the other. Seven ritual candles of various colors are placed strategically around the round table. Old woman Clara mutters an incantation while busy at work, stitching.
Oh, Seven Great Powers, you who are so close to our divine Spirit,
with great humility I implore your intercession.
Hear my petition and grant them peace.
Oh Olofi, I trust in the words "ask and you shall receive". Let it be so!
The smell of burnt candles and incense mixes in with the musty smell of wet burlap. And old Clara is absorbed by all of it.
***
Father Oliviere feels severe stomach pains. He sits up in bed, still asleep, and gasps.
"Bless me Father for I will sin, it's been a very long time since I've been to confession."
Father Oliviere sees Alan's Parker's face blend into his own, as the image starts to appear smaller then bigger and bigger until he has a clear visual of Kelly, Steve and little Sarah, in flames, reaching out to him.
He awakens, runs to the bathroom and throws up.
***
Kevin is pacing back and forth in his room holding a picture of his little sister Sarah.
"Isn't she beautiful, Kevin? Your baby sister, red hair and all." Kelly reaches out to Kevin with one hand and pulls him closer to her hospital bed. Sarah is peacefully sleeping by her side.
"She's got red hair, like me, something to taunt Mitchell with. My baby sister is just like me."
A serious look flashes through Kelly's face as she pulls her son sharply next to her so that they are nose to nose.
"She is your sister, Kevin. Do you understand? She is your sister."
Kevin is in a state of shock and fear but replies, "I understand, mom. I understand."
Alan and Steve arrive at the hospital at the same time and run into each other as they enter the room. Shaking hands they greet one another amicably but Steve's presence is unnerving.
"So why are you here mate?"
"I came to visit a friend and her newly born baby girl, and as the humble firefighter that I am, I came to congratulate my boss, the man on the board of fire commissioners. Look at her, such a doll, " he says as he takes closer steps to baby Sarah, "She has red hair, like me."
***
Mitchell is sleeping soundly in his room. It took him awhile to adapt to the new home which is a lot smaller than the Parker estate was. A breeze flows gently through the open window and the moonlight is shining in upon his face. There seems to be no special reason why the light should focus on him. But it does.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part seven of nine
Old woman Clara likes to keep the furniture of her home covered in burlap sacks. Dead flies inhabit her cat Rowan's milk bowl. Her dining room table smells of rotted wood yet she sits there stitching loopholes around a white and blue cloth. Further examination shows the cloth holds a picture of Kelly Anderson on one side and her son Steve Padula on the other. Seven ritual candles of various colors are placed strategically around the round table. Old woman Clara mutters an incantation while busy at work, stitching.
Oh, Seven Great Powers, you who are so close to our divine Spirit,
with great humility I implore your intercession.
Hear my petition and grant them peace.
Oh Olofi, I trust in the words "ask and you shall receive". Let it be so!
The smell of burnt candles and incense mixes in with the musty smell of wet burlap. And old Clara is absorbed by all of it.
***
Father Oliviere feels severe stomach pains. He sits up in bed, still asleep, and gasps.
"Bless me Father for I will sin, it's been a very long time since I've been to confession."
Father Oliviere sees Alan's Parker's face blend into his own, as the image starts to appear smaller then bigger and bigger until he has a clear visual of Kelly, Steve and little Sarah, in flames, reaching out to him.
He awakens, runs to the bathroom and throws up.
***
Kevin is pacing back and forth in his room holding a picture of his little sister Sarah.
"Isn't she beautiful, Kevin? Your baby sister, red hair and all." Kelly reaches out to Kevin with one hand and pulls him closer to her hospital bed. Sarah is peacefully sleeping by her side.
"She's got red hair, like me, something to taunt Mitchell with. My baby sister is just like me."
A serious look flashes through Kelly's face as she pulls her son sharply next to her so that they are nose to nose.
"She is your sister, Kevin. Do you understand? She is your sister."
Kevin is in a state of shock and fear but replies, "I understand, mom. I understand."
Alan and Steve arrive at the hospital at the same time and run into each other as they enter the room. Shaking hands they greet one another amicably but Steve's presence is unnerving.
"So why are you here mate?"
"I came to visit a friend and her newly born baby girl, and as the humble firefighter that I am, I came to congratulate my boss, the man on the board of fire commissioners. Look at her, such a doll, " he says as he takes closer steps to baby Sarah, "She has red hair, like me."
***
Mitchell is sleeping soundly in his room. It took him awhile to adapt to the new home which is a lot smaller than the Parker estate was. A breeze flows gently through the open window and the moonlight is shining in upon his face. There seems to be no special reason why the light should focus on him. But it does.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
The Death Farmer
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part six of nine
Alan Parker is sweating profusely as he tosses and turns in his bed.
"What exactly are soul-mate eyes, anyway?" Alan asks as he swims closer to Kelly.
"The ones you have when you look at me, " she says as she splashes some water over his head.
"You're really weird Kelly Anderson."
"Yeah, I get that a lot."
Kelly swims over to the riverbank where a multi-colored blanket awaits her arrival. Alan follows her and lies down beside her on the blanket. Kelly looks over to Alan and recites,
"I drove until I found the grove of apple trees heavy with fruit, and left the car, the motor running, beside a sagging fence, and entered his life on my own for maybe the first time. A crow welcomed me home, the sun rode above, austere and silent, the early afternoon was cloudless, perfect…"
She cocks her head with a smile before pushing her shoulder up against Alan's body.
"So what's that from?"
"It's an excerpt of a poem by Philip Levine."
Kelly lies down taking in the sun and the cloudless day. Alan scans her body noticing a slight swell on her belly. He passes his hand slightly over it, "I take it he wasn't your soul-mate. So what's his name?"
"Steve. No, he's not my soul-mate."
"He doesn't want to take care of the baby?"
Kelly shrugs, "He wants to make something of himself before... He says he doesn't think he can make me happy."
"So I'm your soul-mate, huh?"
"Well, you have those soul-mate eyes."
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part six of nine
Alan Parker is sweating profusely as he tosses and turns in his bed.
"What exactly are soul-mate eyes, anyway?" Alan asks as he swims closer to Kelly.
"The ones you have when you look at me, " she says as she splashes some water over his head.
"You're really weird Kelly Anderson."
"Yeah, I get that a lot."
Kelly swims over to the riverbank where a multi-colored blanket awaits her arrival. Alan follows her and lies down beside her on the blanket. Kelly looks over to Alan and recites,
"I drove until I found the grove of apple trees heavy with fruit, and left the car, the motor running, beside a sagging fence, and entered his life on my own for maybe the first time. A crow welcomed me home, the sun rode above, austere and silent, the early afternoon was cloudless, perfect…"
She cocks her head with a smile before pushing her shoulder up against Alan's body.
"So what's that from?"
"It's an excerpt of a poem by Philip Levine."
Kelly lies down taking in the sun and the cloudless day. Alan scans her body noticing a slight swell on her belly. He passes his hand slightly over it, "I take it he wasn't your soul-mate. So what's his name?"
"Steve. No, he's not my soul-mate."
"He doesn't want to take care of the baby?"
Kelly shrugs, "He wants to make something of himself before... He says he doesn't think he can make me happy."
"So I'm your soul-mate, huh?"
"Well, you have those soul-mate eyes."
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
The Death Farmer
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part five of nine
Rachmaninoff is playing on the cd in Alan's room. Even after taking a relaxing shower, he cannot sleep. White petals of fresh flowers fringe the corners of picture frames that hold the images of Sarah and Kelly. Men cry from the graves of their loved ones but Alan Parker cries alone in his room. Kelly's dresser still holds the cold cream she used along with a variety of toiletries. Alan picks up the cold cream and opens it, taking a whiff of the sweet vanilla scent. It is the fragrance of innocence that nourishes his pale green eyes. Lying on his bed, Alan is taken back to the first time they met. The rainbows are canceling each other out as speckled geese play in the dunes of drifting sands between episodes of total river emersions, incessantly hunting tiny fish. Kelly swims taking in the sun, oblivious to their presence. He remembers seeing her at church, the sway of her hips, arms raised to God singing His praises. She is special, a free spirit that enjoys trotting along the speckled geese in her bra and panties.
"Hey! Hi, " she yells and waves as a young Alan swims in closer to her.
"So what's your name?" Alan asks.
"Kelly Anderson, " she replies and continues as she stares intently at him, "oh you have soul-mate eyes."
It chills him.
***
Father Oliviere is also having a hard time sleeping tonight. Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of the fire that killed most of his friends. He sits at the edge of his bed with prayer book in hand. The book falls open to a page that holds a wedding picture/thank you card of Kelly and Alan Parker.
"Do you like poetry, Father?" A very young Kelly asks, and before the priest has time to answer she continues, "I think Bob Dylan is poetic."
Father Oliviere smiles and says, "One push of the button
And a shot the worldwide
And you never ask questions
When God's on your side."
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part five of nine
Rachmaninoff is playing on the cd in Alan's room. Even after taking a relaxing shower, he cannot sleep. White petals of fresh flowers fringe the corners of picture frames that hold the images of Sarah and Kelly. Men cry from the graves of their loved ones but Alan Parker cries alone in his room. Kelly's dresser still holds the cold cream she used along with a variety of toiletries. Alan picks up the cold cream and opens it, taking a whiff of the sweet vanilla scent. It is the fragrance of innocence that nourishes his pale green eyes. Lying on his bed, Alan is taken back to the first time they met. The rainbows are canceling each other out as speckled geese play in the dunes of drifting sands between episodes of total river emersions, incessantly hunting tiny fish. Kelly swims taking in the sun, oblivious to their presence. He remembers seeing her at church, the sway of her hips, arms raised to God singing His praises. She is special, a free spirit that enjoys trotting along the speckled geese in her bra and panties.
"Hey! Hi, " she yells and waves as a young Alan swims in closer to her.
"So what's your name?" Alan asks.
"Kelly Anderson, " she replies and continues as she stares intently at him, "oh you have soul-mate eyes."
It chills him.
***
Father Oliviere is also having a hard time sleeping tonight. Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of the fire that killed most of his friends. He sits at the edge of his bed with prayer book in hand. The book falls open to a page that holds a wedding picture/thank you card of Kelly and Alan Parker.
"Do you like poetry, Father?" A very young Kelly asks, and before the priest has time to answer she continues, "I think Bob Dylan is poetic."
Father Oliviere smiles and says, "One push of the button
And a shot the worldwide
And you never ask questions
When God's on your side."
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
The Death Farmer
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part four of nine
During the ride home Alan Parker and Mitchell exchange jokes through licks of chocolate ice-cream while Kevin rides quietly in the back seat. The range-rover doesn't seem to mind the sudden weather change as heavy rain begins to fall making visibility an almost impossibility. Through the mauve decline of bluebirds, butterflies and fireflies, the faint sounds of drums are heard. The beat is habitual, ritual, through the swells of rhythms, which are getting louder and clearer. Behind the thick orchards that line the roadway, a black cat darts out into traffic. Alan Parker swerves violently before slamming on the brakes, coming to rest on the side of the road. Everyone is buckled in and no harm comes to the Parker family. The rattling noise of drums continues, bristling around the car. From the rear view mirror Alan Parker sees old woman Clara cuddling her cat before she disappears into a luminous purple wind. He feels her energy swoon inside his head with bloody blows that leave him nauseous from the migraine. Sometimes the geography of a place holds its hands so far from one's breast, that it pushes you away in defense. That is how Alan feels every time he passes past old Clara's place, past the place so close to his former estate where one evening ended in total devastation.
"Are you okay, dad? Kevin are you okay?" Mitchell asks.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Dad?" Kevin enquires.
"I'm fine, just tired. That damn cat is always roaming around here darting in and out of traffic. Old Clara should put him down before someone else does." Alan replies.
"Ah dad. Rowan's a good kitty. And Old Clara, well, she's good to Kevin and me. When she sees us, she always offers us some lemonade and a warm hug." Mitchell says.
"Yeah, Rowan's a good kitty. A good kitty filled with night kills and vindictiveness, " Kevin replies with brief laughter as he stares at this father mockingly.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part four of nine
During the ride home Alan Parker and Mitchell exchange jokes through licks of chocolate ice-cream while Kevin rides quietly in the back seat. The range-rover doesn't seem to mind the sudden weather change as heavy rain begins to fall making visibility an almost impossibility. Through the mauve decline of bluebirds, butterflies and fireflies, the faint sounds of drums are heard. The beat is habitual, ritual, through the swells of rhythms, which are getting louder and clearer. Behind the thick orchards that line the roadway, a black cat darts out into traffic. Alan Parker swerves violently before slamming on the brakes, coming to rest on the side of the road. Everyone is buckled in and no harm comes to the Parker family. The rattling noise of drums continues, bristling around the car. From the rear view mirror Alan Parker sees old woman Clara cuddling her cat before she disappears into a luminous purple wind. He feels her energy swoon inside his head with bloody blows that leave him nauseous from the migraine. Sometimes the geography of a place holds its hands so far from one's breast, that it pushes you away in defense. That is how Alan feels every time he passes past old Clara's place, past the place so close to his former estate where one evening ended in total devastation.
"Are you okay, dad? Kevin are you okay?" Mitchell asks.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Dad?" Kevin enquires.
"I'm fine, just tired. That damn cat is always roaming around here darting in and out of traffic. Old Clara should put him down before someone else does." Alan replies.
"Ah dad. Rowan's a good kitty. And Old Clara, well, she's good to Kevin and me. When she sees us, she always offers us some lemonade and a warm hug." Mitchell says.
"Yeah, Rowan's a good kitty. A good kitty filled with night kills and vindictiveness, " Kevin replies with brief laughter as he stares at this father mockingly.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
The Death Farmer
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part three of nine
A sharp, hard slap registers across Kevin's face leaving a notable handprint, one that burns among the fluorescent hospital lights.
"I told you to watch over him!" Alan Parker exclaims as he sneers at his eldest son.
"Like you watched over mom and Sarah?"
Alan Parker's face flashes hot with anger in Kevin's presence and he contains himself enough to respond, "You would never have the strength to endure what I have endured, little man. You are guarded by the tenderness of childish infatuations and silly games. The kind that almost got your brother killed today!"
“You hate me don’t you? You never meant for me to make it out of that fire alive, did you?
“Don’t you challenge me boy!” Alan Parker says as his face distorts with immense disgust.
By six o' clock the next morning Mitchell is sitting up in bed reading the comics and having breakfast feeling no worse for the wear except for a nasty bump on the side of his head.
"Next time, wear a helmet, " the doctor says as he writes in Mitchell's chart, making the rounds to the rest of the patients in the children's wing.
"The doctor told me you will be able to come home tonight, " Alan Parker says as he stands over his son's bed.
"Way to get attention, doofus, " Kevin playfully says as he reaches for his brother's hand. "I'm glad you're ok."
Mitchell smiles, rolls over, away from his father and brother, "I saw them last night. They were here, Sarah, Mom and Steve. They were here. They were here, dad. They were here."
Alan Parker draws back from Mitchell's bedside and sighs. It is a sigh full of disappointment, knowing that truth has been spoken in a soul-to-soul connection kind of way.
The room seems to pick up on the sixth sense as the light flickers around the walls revealing a pent-up Father Oliviere passing slowly by the doorway of Mitchell's room. His eyes meet those of Alan Parker's and they widen in horror at the encounter.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part three of nine
A sharp, hard slap registers across Kevin's face leaving a notable handprint, one that burns among the fluorescent hospital lights.
"I told you to watch over him!" Alan Parker exclaims as he sneers at his eldest son.
"Like you watched over mom and Sarah?"
Alan Parker's face flashes hot with anger in Kevin's presence and he contains himself enough to respond, "You would never have the strength to endure what I have endured, little man. You are guarded by the tenderness of childish infatuations and silly games. The kind that almost got your brother killed today!"
“You hate me don’t you? You never meant for me to make it out of that fire alive, did you?
“Don’t you challenge me boy!” Alan Parker says as his face distorts with immense disgust.
By six o' clock the next morning Mitchell is sitting up in bed reading the comics and having breakfast feeling no worse for the wear except for a nasty bump on the side of his head.
"Next time, wear a helmet, " the doctor says as he writes in Mitchell's chart, making the rounds to the rest of the patients in the children's wing.
"The doctor told me you will be able to come home tonight, " Alan Parker says as he stands over his son's bed.
"Way to get attention, doofus, " Kevin playfully says as he reaches for his brother's hand. "I'm glad you're ok."
Mitchell smiles, rolls over, away from his father and brother, "I saw them last night. They were here, Sarah, Mom and Steve. They were here. They were here, dad. They were here."
Alan Parker draws back from Mitchell's bedside and sighs. It is a sigh full of disappointment, knowing that truth has been spoken in a soul-to-soul connection kind of way.
The room seems to pick up on the sixth sense as the light flickers around the walls revealing a pent-up Father Oliviere passing slowly by the doorway of Mitchell's room. His eyes meet those of Alan Parker's and they widen in horror at the encounter.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
The Death Farmer
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part two of nine
Alan Parker stands over the foundations of Saint Michael Bridge staring at the flowing water beneath his feet until he feels light-headed and dizzy. He thinks about the wealth he and his family have accumulated over many decades and how it too is floating away like the surface ripples of the mighty, muddy waters. He has just come from the church across the way where he donated a sizeable amount to the alms box, lit three candles and had Father Armando Oliviere listen to his confession. From the riverbank Mitchell age nine, and Kevin age twelve, watch their father go through his weekly ritual from the seats of their mountain bikes before riding to the local swimming hole. Alan Parker is unaware of his children's presence as he exposes a white cloth from beneath his windbreaker. After holding the rag to his mouth and forehead, muttering a few prayers, eyes shut in deep concentration; he tosses the object into the river and walks away.
Mitchell and Kevin race their bikes in the woods avoiding trees, shrubs, and small animals. They are pumped full of energy and competition. The wind blows cold as they speed through a tunnel of thick foliage.
"Slow down you dork. I can't keep up, " Mitchell says.
" It's those pee wee legs of yours, pump harder, fool, " Kevin responds.
Mitchell is always conscious of his small size and skinny legs. He longs to be like his big brother who has a strong, massive build for his age.
Mitchell pedals faster and faster in an attempt to catch up to his brother.
Kevin finds the chase funny until a ghastly fear suffocates him to the point where he feels his spirit leaving his body, as everything before his eyes begins to turn, like a film playing.
Faster and faster they travel down the path they had taken thousands of times before. Mitchell and Kevin know every step, every turn, and they can smell their way through every low hanging moss. But today is different, like a claustrophobic dream that keeps rising with anxiety higher and higher. Just then, the front wheel of Mitchell's bike hits a protruding rock. Mitchell is thrown from the front bumper and strikes the ground hard. Kevin counterbalances his own body as he clears his head to look back. Mitchell is lying on wet earth, blood dripping out of his mouth and nose where small air bubbles of breath are slightly gurgling as he moves.
"Hang on Mitch, I'll get help. Please, hang on."
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part two of nine
Alan Parker stands over the foundations of Saint Michael Bridge staring at the flowing water beneath his feet until he feels light-headed and dizzy. He thinks about the wealth he and his family have accumulated over many decades and how it too is floating away like the surface ripples of the mighty, muddy waters. He has just come from the church across the way where he donated a sizeable amount to the alms box, lit three candles and had Father Armando Oliviere listen to his confession. From the riverbank Mitchell age nine, and Kevin age twelve, watch their father go through his weekly ritual from the seats of their mountain bikes before riding to the local swimming hole. Alan Parker is unaware of his children's presence as he exposes a white cloth from beneath his windbreaker. After holding the rag to his mouth and forehead, muttering a few prayers, eyes shut in deep concentration; he tosses the object into the river and walks away.
Mitchell and Kevin race their bikes in the woods avoiding trees, shrubs, and small animals. They are pumped full of energy and competition. The wind blows cold as they speed through a tunnel of thick foliage.
"Slow down you dork. I can't keep up, " Mitchell says.
" It's those pee wee legs of yours, pump harder, fool, " Kevin responds.
Mitchell is always conscious of his small size and skinny legs. He longs to be like his big brother who has a strong, massive build for his age.
Mitchell pedals faster and faster in an attempt to catch up to his brother.
Kevin finds the chase funny until a ghastly fear suffocates him to the point where he feels his spirit leaving his body, as everything before his eyes begins to turn, like a film playing.
Faster and faster they travel down the path they had taken thousands of times before. Mitchell and Kevin know every step, every turn, and they can smell their way through every low hanging moss. But today is different, like a claustrophobic dream that keeps rising with anxiety higher and higher. Just then, the front wheel of Mitchell's bike hits a protruding rock. Mitchell is thrown from the front bumper and strikes the ground hard. Kevin counterbalances his own body as he clears his head to look back. Mitchell is lying on wet earth, blood dripping out of his mouth and nose where small air bubbles of breath are slightly gurgling as he moves.
"Hang on Mitch, I'll get help. Please, hang on."
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
The Death Farmer
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part one of nine
The house is burning. And for a moment it seems like it is taking in tempestuous breaths between the shooting flames and falling pieces of wood reduced to ash. The moon rose empty, a bad sign, now it passes into the clouds as white waves of smoke disappear among a starless sky. The volunteer firefighters in the small southern town, drunk on bourbon just a few hours before, had no idea they would be standing alone in corridors without passages. Their cries along with those of little Sarah, trapped in her room, echo through the spatial emptiness.
"Where are you Sarah?" Firefighter Steve Padula asks before falling to his knees.
Leaning over him is the shadow of a woman, "I can't find her Steve. I can't find her."
"I've always loved you, Kelly. All I ever wanted was your happiness."
The two of them slip into an embrace as the flames engulf their bodies whole.
The heat continues to rise building pressure.
In the walk in closet of her room, Sarah, lies down with her rag doll Missy, and falls asleep.
The windows explode one by one as isolated blasts start to reduce the home to rubble.
Tears and shock run down Alan Parker's face while he holds his son Mitchell in safety. His other son, Kevin is holding an oxygen mask to his face by the fire trucks, ambulances and police vehicles. All that appears in the distance beyond the mayhem are two large blue eyes belonging to old woman, Clara, holding her black cat, Rowan, who is pushing and flexing his forelegs with half-sheathed claws.
Today, the mail won't come to the Parker estate. Instead the sun will shed its light over the open graveyard, capturing with silence, the frozen faces of death.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
Part one of nine
The house is burning. And for a moment it seems like it is taking in tempestuous breaths between the shooting flames and falling pieces of wood reduced to ash. The moon rose empty, a bad sign, now it passes into the clouds as white waves of smoke disappear among a starless sky. The volunteer firefighters in the small southern town, drunk on bourbon just a few hours before, had no idea they would be standing alone in corridors without passages. Their cries along with those of little Sarah, trapped in her room, echo through the spatial emptiness.
"Where are you Sarah?" Firefighter Steve Padula asks before falling to his knees.
Leaning over him is the shadow of a woman, "I can't find her Steve. I can't find her."
"I've always loved you, Kelly. All I ever wanted was your happiness."
The two of them slip into an embrace as the flames engulf their bodies whole.
The heat continues to rise building pressure.
In the walk in closet of her room, Sarah, lies down with her rag doll Missy, and falls asleep.
The windows explode one by one as isolated blasts start to reduce the home to rubble.
Tears and shock run down Alan Parker's face while he holds his son Mitchell in safety. His other son, Kevin is holding an oxygen mask to his face by the fire trucks, ambulances and police vehicles. All that appears in the distance beyond the mayhem are two large blue eyes belonging to old woman, Clara, holding her black cat, Rowan, who is pushing and flexing his forelegs with half-sheathed claws.
Today, the mail won't come to the Parker estate. Instead the sun will shed its light over the open graveyard, capturing with silence, the frozen faces of death.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
Izabelle
By Theresa C. Newbill and Harris Whitman
She giggles, invading his house
with her cutting-edge gadgets,
the same ones she conceals in
a Victorian tote with a photo
of her favorite author.
He watches her undress; vintage
tea gown embroidered with inset
lace falls off her shoulders, past
hips, to delicate white ankles.
Two black cats hiss in unison,
their fur standing on end. Classic
countess boots strut, synchronized
in their movements, purposeful
in their intent. He finds parallels
to her in his own life;
he’s under her influence, turned on
by her malevolent mind. She’s in
her bra and panties now, nearly nude,
sucking in her lower lip; she nods,
constantly keeping an eye on him.
There’s a Smith&Wesson .38 revolver
he keeps locked in his nightstand. He
thinks about it as she climbs into bed.
He smells the faint, primal odor of her
femininity
as she straddles him, her hands sliding
up and down his naked body in a game
of shared physical chemistry. Her teeth
scrape across his chest; he bleeds from
multiple bites and scratches,
his body throbbing, pulsating between
passion and pain. A faint smile then
taunting smirk causes him to have a
momentary jittery, unsettling feeling,
but he likes the way
her dark eyes mock him. His heart races,
skips a beat, as she displays a leather
satchel. He braces himself; the sound of
cold hard steel, sliding, metal on metal;
a straight razor
glistens in the moonlight from an open
window. Titillation turns to terror; a
small, smooth, serene slice rakes over
flesh, sweet fluid to sample. She licks
his cheek, kisses him deeply,
forcefully, his own blood mixes with her
essence. She gently runs the backside
of the razor across his shoulders, to the
center of his chest, slowly down past his
stomach,
stopping just above his excited manhood.
She looks at him, letting out a lascivious
laugh, smacking his face, removing her
panties, holding them up playfully. Leaning
in, her erect breastsacross his
bare chest, she stuffs her underwear in his
mouth. Half a bottle of Bacardi Rum follows,
he gags; her fingers touch his lips,
shhhhhh. Silken brassiere sways on the
headboard he's tied to. Lemongrass from a
small carafe makes contact with open
wounds, igniting a firestorm of anticipation
in death's caress. A breeze ruffles her
light brown hair as he penetrates her. He can
feel as she disengages psychologically from
him. Panic sets in before the climax.
She's learned that making love to a man doesn't
mean he will have any love for her, and she's
willing to rectify her mistakes. His ending
is a predictable one, while her name and true
nature, remain a mystery.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
Harris Whitman is a NYC native, an avid traveler and outdoorsman, celebrates life, exploring nature trails, architecture, archeology, ancient history and anthropology. He enjoys writing poems, songs, short stories and social commentary on various subjects. He also appreciates fine art and dabbles in sketching, drawing, cartoons, creating photoshops and site gags in his free time.
By Theresa C. Newbill and Harris Whitman
She giggles, invading his house
with her cutting-edge gadgets,
the same ones she conceals in
a Victorian tote with a photo
of her favorite author.
He watches her undress; vintage
tea gown embroidered with inset
lace falls off her shoulders, past
hips, to delicate white ankles.
Two black cats hiss in unison,
their fur standing on end. Classic
countess boots strut, synchronized
in their movements, purposeful
in their intent. He finds parallels
to her in his own life;
he’s under her influence, turned on
by her malevolent mind. She’s in
her bra and panties now, nearly nude,
sucking in her lower lip; she nods,
constantly keeping an eye on him.
There’s a Smith&Wesson .38 revolver
he keeps locked in his nightstand. He
thinks about it as she climbs into bed.
He smells the faint, primal odor of her
femininity
as she straddles him, her hands sliding
up and down his naked body in a game
of shared physical chemistry. Her teeth
scrape across his chest; he bleeds from
multiple bites and scratches,
his body throbbing, pulsating between
passion and pain. A faint smile then
taunting smirk causes him to have a
momentary jittery, unsettling feeling,
but he likes the way
her dark eyes mock him. His heart races,
skips a beat, as she displays a leather
satchel. He braces himself; the sound of
cold hard steel, sliding, metal on metal;
a straight razor
glistens in the moonlight from an open
window. Titillation turns to terror; a
small, smooth, serene slice rakes over
flesh, sweet fluid to sample. She licks
his cheek, kisses him deeply,
forcefully, his own blood mixes with her
essence. She gently runs the backside
of the razor across his shoulders, to the
center of his chest, slowly down past his
stomach,
stopping just above his excited manhood.
She looks at him, letting out a lascivious
laugh, smacking his face, removing her
panties, holding them up playfully. Leaning
in, her erect breastsacross his
bare chest, she stuffs her underwear in his
mouth. Half a bottle of Bacardi Rum follows,
he gags; her fingers touch his lips,
shhhhhh. Silken brassiere sways on the
headboard he's tied to. Lemongrass from a
small carafe makes contact with open
wounds, igniting a firestorm of anticipation
in death's caress. A breeze ruffles her
light brown hair as he penetrates her. He can
feel as she disengages psychologically from
him. Panic sets in before the climax.
She's learned that making love to a man doesn't
mean he will have any love for her, and she's
willing to rectify her mistakes. His ending
is a predictable one, while her name and true
nature, remain a mystery.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
Harris Whitman is a NYC native, an avid traveler and outdoorsman, celebrates life, exploring nature trails, architecture, archeology, ancient history and anthropology. He enjoys writing poems, songs, short stories and social commentary on various subjects. He also appreciates fine art and dabbles in sketching, drawing, cartoons, creating photoshops and site gags in his free time.
