DEFENDING THE PEN
It’s all about murder . . . romance – writing it!
I post flash fiction, book announcements, interviews, and the things I love.
Careful . . . you may end up the victim . . .
of fun!
For Opal is a collection of poems written in memory of Lilly Opal
Stansberry, my grandmother, and the inspiration for my writing. These poems
portray a moment in time. Highlighting love, loss, tragedy, and survival. A few done just for fun and several that have a murderous slant. But they
are all a small picture of life. Some are real and others pure fiction.
Before she passed, I promised her I would
publish a book of poetry. This is that promise kept. Publication date November
2nd - would have been her 108th birthday.
I'm under no illusion, a poet I am not, but each
verse has meaning for me.
Maybe it will strike a chord for you too!
*****
Anyone willing to do a blog post for my poetry book. Let me know. I'll send you a copy and we can discuss the subject.
Have you ever seen a beautiful
young woman with a man that can only be described as ‘toadyish’? He’s at least
twenty years older than her, potbelly, short, and mostly balding. She’s a
towering model type: perfect body, perfect skin, just exquisite. You wonder,
why, how, what?
Well, I’ll tell you. It’s all about
the money. What else?
I married a very wealthy man—me, a
girl raised in a trailer park who made a living as a waitress and dancer.
People even referred to me as white trash, and yet, I made it to the top. And I
mean the very top. Gold everywhere. Anything and everything I‘ve ever wanted
and more, even acceptance. Now people want to know me, want to be invited to my
parties. Hell, they clamor just to be in my presence or merely the same room.
My husband, as I said, is filthy
rich, and yes, he bought me. But he also put a diamond ring on my hand and
promised me that the world would bow at my feet. He kept his promise, and I’ve
kept mine.
I take his abuse. It’s my only job.
Make the man happy in the sack, anytime, anywhere, and anyway, he desires it.
It was our agreement. I live in the lap of luxury and have people at my every
command. Nothing I want is off-limits. I am fulfilled! I am rich, and his
temper tantrums don’t last long, neither do the bruises.
You say why? I say, why not? Most
of my life was hell: going to bed hungry, various uncles taking
advantage at all ages. I was considered a whore before the age of thirteen.
The few men I did learn to trust proved to be liars, but now I have a signed
contract. Yep, got it on paper, all of it. And if he breaks any of the rules,
he pays me a ten-million-dollar settlement.
It took a while, but I soon
realized that most men are pigs. All they think about is getting the child,
girl, or woman into their bed. And most will take advantage given just half a
chance. And some will do it without any invitation or a so sorry
immediately on their lips. Liars, users, rutting animals, the whole species!
So why shouldn’t I sell my soul for
the best things in life? I couldn’t have gotten them any other way. This has
worked for me for the last twenty years. But I will admit that I’m getting
bored, and his violence comes much more often and without the usual financial reward.
He’s been slipping but only to the point where he hasn’t broken the contract. I
think it’s time to say sayonara!
We’re planning a Halloween cruise,
so maybe the bastard will fall overboard and drown, leaving me a rich widow? All
it will take is a little planning…
*****
Okay, so I figured the bastard
wrong, the cheater. He’s not only broken our contract, but he’s also done me
in. I can’t collect that cool ten million I was guaranteed because they don’t
have lawyers on the bottom at the ocean, my new abode.
Hubby told the world that I fell
overboard. Nice. But on Halloween night, the same night I planned his demise,
he was a step ahead. I supposedly slipped on a wet deck during a masquerade
party and went overboard in my beautiful designer Cleopatra costume, never to
resurface again.
Dozens of men jumped into the ocean
to find me but failed because, at that time, I was unconscious in the closet of
our bedroom. When everyone finally retired, and the police reports were filed,
my sweet, generous husband simply dumped me overboard with my feet solidly encased
in cement. Yes, I was conscious, but my screams were muted by the gag in my
mouth.
I cursed the bastard with each
bubble that left my lungs as I tried my best to hold my breath. I did well
until the cement my feet were encased in hit the sandy bottom, then in an
instant, the air was replaced with seawater.
Exactly One
Year Later
*****
Detective White carefully made his
way into the Tower penthouse. The place was covered in water, sand, seaweed,
dead fish, and seashells. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn the site
was located on the bottom at the ocean.
“Well, Derek, what can you tell
me?” Detective White asked the coroner as he stared down at the two bodies lying
side by side in the king-size bed.
“They drowned. No doubt about it.
But the why and how, your guess is as good as mine.”
“You sure it’s ocean water, doc? I
mean, we’re in a high rise. The doorman said no deliveries were made today or
this week. And he saw these two an hour ago, alive and well.”
“Positive. Their lungs are filled
with seawater.” He pushed down on the man’s chest, and deep green water seeped
out. “I’ve tested it. It’s seawater. Look at the fish, sand, and seaweed.
Whoever crafted this murder wanted to make a statement.”
“Yeah, but did they leave any
clues?”
“Just the remnants of lipstick on
his face. It’s clearly not the same color this young lady is wearing. Maybe
that unique color will tell you the dame that wanted this man dead.”
Detective White laughed as he moved
to the chaise across the room. A sick sound that had the coroner looking at him
oddly. “The only woman I can think of who’d want him dead drowned a year ago.
His wife, remember, she went overboard during a Halloween party on his yacht
last year. She was wearing a Cleopatra costume.” He held up the wet costume he
found lying on the chaise. “I think she came back for a change of clothes and
revenge…”
I’ve seen all the ‘fog’ movies and watched gleefully as the
victims paid for their audacity. Slashers, horrendous creatures, and hideous
bugs have all hidden their evil in the murkiness of a foggy night. But that’s
movie-making, the scarier, the better. In reality, a walk into the thick mist
is super energizing.
It allows me to disappear, lurk, stalk, and yes, kill with
delicious precision. I bet you thought I was going to talk about how I enjoy
being swallowed by nature. How I become part of it and relish the experience.
Well, that’s all true, but for me, it’s all about the victim.
After all, I know their fear. It’s the best part. My victim’s
terror is what feeds me. I can smell it on them as they cautiously move past me,
unaware and yet very aware that I’m there. As the smell of panic becomes more
potent, I wonder why they come out? Is it a dare? Are they looking for a
confrontation? It can’t be to prove their bravery. They exhibit none! Because
no one accidentally wanders into the woods in the dark of night. Well,
no one but me.
My favorite victim is the lone young woman. Although I do
adore the young couples looking for a place to be alone. But tonight, I’ve hit
the jackpot. A young woman is walking nonchalantly down the path. She’s not
cautious or fearful, which takes a bit of the fun out the night. The bitch is
on her phone and barely paying attention to the direction she’s taken. Still,
she’s the perfect victim. Lost, stupid, and unaware. I can’t just let her pass.
She’s mine. All mine!
I move ahead of her and get ready to pounce—my best blade at
hand.
I jump in front of her, grab her with both arms, and say,
“Excuse me. I didn’t see you there. The fog tonight is so thick.” Then I give
her my best laugh and wait for her to realize her fate.
She rolls her eyes. “I know,” she says. It was specifically
prepared for the night. My people know the perfect thickness for a Halloween
cover. It’s the best way to catch predators. Like you.”
Her smile shows perfect white teeth, a lot of jagged, and terrifyingly
sharp teeth. I try to shake off my shock at her response. “What?” I mumble, caught
totally off guard by her words and that mouth—those teeth.
But she only smiles. “What number am I? The tenth, isn’t it?”
“You…you know me?’
“We keep track. Thought the police would take you off the
street, but the cops haven’t, so we have to.”
“You? Who are you?” My knife slips from my overly moist hand.
“Your worst enemy, my dear.” Her laugh stuns, and her teeth continue
to grow. Before my eyes, her body morphs into the most hideous creature I’ve
ever seen.
This monster was a mixture of dark colors, red, black, purple,
and flowing with green blood coursing through transparent veins. She had arms
everywhere, long, powerful legs and now stood at least ten feet tall—her
mouth. Oh god, that mouth and those sharp, hideous teeth that dripped with putrid
saliva caused my stomach to lurch in revolt. She wrapped her arms around me, and,
in a flash, we were in the middle of the forest.
Within minutes I was stripped of all clothes. My hands were tied
behind my back with twine, and with a grubby potato stuffed into my mouth, her even
uglier friends gingerly lowered me into a large pot of cold water. She dropped
in cups full of salt, pepper, cayenne, and several bay leaves.
“Dinner will be ready in about two hours,” she announced as
she lighted a fire under the pot I was in. “We want this one to simmer awhile.
I like my soup thick,” she told the crowd around her as two other monsters
added several large pots of navy beans.
The crowd shouted their appreciation. I watched, dumbfounded,
as the monsters settled down on the grass to continue their games and
conversations. I noticed that the fog had separated. It circled the area and
provided a dome of protection. What I once relished as protection had betrayed
me. A higher evil had assumed power.
Fear the fog! Don’t venture down an unknown or even known
path on a profoundly thick night, and especially on Halloween.
Listen to what I tell you. I know, I should have heeded my
own words. Remember when I said that no one accidentally wanders into the fog
on a dark and lonely night, especially on Halloween! What I thought was a beautiful,
young girl proves my word.
Yes, I know it’s all too funny. Especially as these are the words
of a serial killer. But if folks like me don’t get you—maybe these hungry creatures
will!
It's
Halloween, the one night I roam the Earth. It was my decision to leave this
world. I was sure it would solve all my problems. I was wrong. Regardless, one
fateful Halloween night, I walked into the ocean. Now I rise at 12:01 a.m. and
return at 11:59 p.m. every year on that same day, Halloween.
I pray
for the day my soul will finally be released, the day my problems will indeed
be solved, but that can only happen after I pay penance for my error.
You see,
suicide is wrong. It goes against all the laws of man and God. I knew this but
didn't fully believe it. So yes, I committed the ultimate sin.
Given two
options, hellfire for eternity or heaven, I chose forgiveness even though I knew a penance was due.
The devil
would gladly accept my soul, he's told me so, but I want to prove that I'm
worthy of God's grace, and the only way I can achieve that is to keep one
hundred other people from doing the deed I accomplished. Since I died on
Halloween night, it's the only night I can return to Earth to save like-minded
souls.
Not an
easy task as I am the way death has left me. Getting folks to accept a bloated
corpse, dripping with seaweed, sand, and saltwater is not an easy task even on
Halloween. My skin is gray-green, and I have open wounds caused by hungry sea
creatures. With hanging flesh, dripping hair, and blackened eyes along with
hesitant movements as I try to remember how to walk on land vs. floating in the
dark void of the sea, I frighten more than impress.
My only
salvation is that most of the world is also in costume. I get numerous
compliments, mostly from drunken partiers, but finding a suicidal person
willing to listen to my message is nearly impossible. I've been haunting
Halloween night for over seventy-five years, and I've only saved thirty people.
Not surprisingly, at first, I drove just as many to madness or death. Until I
learned a method to the madness that worked.
Of late,
I've heard through the rumor mill that I may get amnesty if I continue to do my
best and complete a hundred years of service to the cause, but I've also heard
rumors of an even longer punishment.
The task
is challenging, but I haunt on as I have a goal to achieve because the sea's
moist, icy darkness is much more palatable than Hell's arid burning brightness!
Please,
my dear sad and lost souls, consider your quest. Your penance may be much more
challenging and way longer than mine.
