WEP - GONE WITH THE WIND

 

Photo by Kaleb Dortono on Unsplash

KUSHTAKA'S EMBRACE

 The winds howled and tore all the warmth from the cave, as though their only purpose was to press the deep, frigid Arctic air into even the smallest crevice. I huddled under three blankets in a sleeping bag built for extreme temperatures. Yet I still felt the chill. But the sound, the whistling and whooshing, the cracking of countless branches, and the crashing of the large icicles, ice on ice, from the frozen waterfall, haunted my waking dreams.

Even though I'd sought shelter in a cave surrounded by solid rock. I was convinced the winds were hunting me. The beast from Alaskan legends, Kushtaka, had found a way into my shelter. The shapeshifter had turned to deadly frigid air and was seeking his prey.

Was it Kushtaka's purpose to destroy the last shred of warmth in existence on this mountain of pure ice? Was I the interloper? A passenger on a downed plane in the Alaskan Triangle. Was I the unwanted trespasser on alien land? I tried to push such silly thoughts from my mind, but the way darkness had fallen and the storm had arisen was unnatural.

Was the disappearance of my fishing pole under the ice a playful otter? Or the sudden howling whistle and the change in temperature, the supernatural work of a mythological beast, or an imagination run wild with fear and grief?

Surreptitious squalls twisted and coiled around my rock abode to extinguish the fire. My only genuine warmth. I'd built it with the last of the wood Chet had cut for me before returning to the crash site. Two days past his time of return didn't offer me hope. Instead, I felt a profound sadness and the hollowness of loss. I knew with certainty that I would never see Chet again.

The wind gusts became more violent as though they recognized their victory. Kushtaka had found me. A woman alone, vulnerable, and afraid. The perfect plaything for the mythological creature intent on torture.

Weakened by loss, fear, and hunger. I was the ideal victim. Had I already given up?

The bright orange flame of the fire shrank with each gust. Is it possible for a fire to surrender? I swear I saw it bow to a stronger foe without a crackle or hiss of attempted bravado. The flames died or burrowed under the cold ashes until their bright colors faded to black, gray, then solid white. Testament to the hue of the Snow God.

Is that how Kushtaka saw his role? As an Ice God defending his territory from any hint of warmth?

I watched the flames die, knowing with certainty that Chet had also left this existence. My tears froze the instant they fell. Ice crystals stuck to my exposed skin like newborn babies seeking sustenance. I tried to brush them away, but more formed until I had no more tears to give. I held them in my hands until they were again part of me. Absorbed into flesh.

Safe.

Ice against ice.

Salvation abandoned me. A piercing chill deeper than any I'd ever felt encircled me. Moving from the outside in until I was completely absorbed. Shrouded in ice.

At first, it was stinging, almost burning, then so bone-chilling I wondered if my insides would shatter like the ice cycles. Profound shivers took control. I was sure I put out enough energy to run a small generator. But even that lasted only a short time.

Eventually, my body relaxed into the Ice God's embrace. Into a faux warmth, but just the sustenance I was seeking.

All along, it had been right here.

Deep inside, the glacial frostiness of this massive beast that held me so delicately in his arms. He wasn't fierce or unkind. He offered himself, and I sensed his concern. Felt the purest of love and surrendered wholly.

I closed my eyes.

The beast held me intimately. Naked. Free. No more restraints or fear. No more feelings of abandonment or loss. Everything was gone, just like the howling wind.

I embraced the Ice God. And let go of my last ember of warmth. My final exhalation danced, twisted, and swirled in a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors before crystalizing into ice crystals in a flash of brilliance.

Just as the Ice God enveloped me in the warmth of pure love...

~*~

721 Words

Yolanda Renée Stout © 2023

~~**~~**~~**~~

 TAGLINE: Surrender does not mean giving up.

This is an excerpt from the 7^th book of my Alaskan Series. Murder on Mount Fairweather. Where survivors of a plane crash are fighting to survive the elements, hungry wolves, and the mythology of the Alaskan triangle.

Kushtaka or Kooshdakhaa. Are from a Tlingit myth that claims the Kushtaka is a shapeshifting otter-like creature that lures people into the wilderness, sometimes tricking them to their deaths.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kushtaka

https://www.travelchannel.com/interests/haunted/articles/everything-you-need-to-know-about-the-alaska-triangle-discovery-plus

~*~

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2022 Is A Blank Page

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WEP - Café Terrace Shantytown

Café Terrace Shantytown

          “You remember, don’t you? That week in Paris?” James asked as he put a cup of hot cocoa to his wife’s lips. “Take a sip, it’ll warm your insides. Just like that hot toddy that evening in Paris.”

          Jeana smiled. “That’s so good, did you slip some brandy in it?” She winked then sighed. “How could I forget about our honeymoon? We were so young, so in love. Foolish really, but despite our missteps in life, I’ll never regret one day, not a one!”

          “You’d wanted to have a drink at an outdoor terrace, just like in the Van Gogh painting, The Café Terrace. Then you just had to have the print. It cost almost as much as one night at the hotel,” James said as he held his wife close in their handmade haven, a cardboard box. 

          It was the deluxe model. Its former occupant had been the latest in cold food storage. The Viking Professional 5 Series 48-Inch 29.05 Cu. Ft. Built-In Side-By-Side Stainless Steel Refrigerator/Freezer. 

          The Stewarts have always had the best. He’d worked in retail all his life, and she’d taken time off to care for their young but put her time in as a clerk in an accounting office.

          But now that fancy house was gone. Their twenty-year-old car had finally given out, and while social security came in monthly, it had been whittled down to a little more than an allowance that allowed the Stewarts a few morsels of food and kept Jeana supplied with medication. Universal health care, the promised solution never happened, and Medicare had gone bankrupt years earlier. Every hospitalization whittled away at their savings then took their house and belongings. All they had left were each other, a few blankets and cherished mementos, and the cardboard box they now called home.

          Under the bridge near a slow-moving river, they shared the area with twenty other individuals. Each family had a cardboard box covered with a plastic tarp. A makeshift outhouse had been created for everyone’s use, and for the most part, neighbor supported neighbor.

          Jeana scoffed. “Ever the penny pincher, but that print has graced each of our homes, even this one.” Her eyes wandered to the print of the Café Terrace, salvaged from their house before foreclosure. “I can still hear the bells, see the Eiffel Tower, and taste the eclairs and wine.” Jeana giggled. “I think it’s the first time I ever got drunk.”

          “All it took was one glass.” James laughed.

          “That never changed, but I’ve always felt safe with you.” She blinked away tears. “The fun we had James, such wonderful memories.” Jeana looked into the tired eyes of her spouse. “We had a good life, didn’t we?”

          “The best Jeana, the absolute best.” James kissed the top of her head and resituated the blanket around her frail body.

          “How cold is it going to get tonight?” she asked.

          “They’re saying well below freezing. We need to move outside with the others at sunset, near the fire. If we stay here, we’ll die in our sleep.”

          “Not the worst way to go. Don’t you just fall asleep?” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

          “What are you thinking?”

          “Just that I’m tired. So very, very tired.”

          James sighed. “I know, sweetheart. I know. You rest, I’ll keep you warm. In my arms, you’ll always find warmth.”

…..

         After the ground thawed, a hole was dug. James and Jeana Stewart, still in their cardboard haven, were buried on the outskirts of the cardboard shantytown.

587 words / FCA

Yolanda Renée © 2020

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WEP - In Too Deep

THREATS & PROMISES

It was a calm spring morning when my world came to an end. An early morning rain made the marigolds brighter, the forget-me-nots bluer, and the multicolored pansies gave the garden a rainbow of color. I was sitting in the sunroom enjoying a cup of coffee when the sound of sirens destroyed the serenity and announced a day of reckoning.

~~*****~~

"Please, Mrs. Strong," the strain and impatience graveled FBI Agent Ronald Gray’s voice. "Just tell me about your husband," he pleaded. His tone was much less threatening than when we’d first been introduced. After being escorted to the Boulder police department by two surly police officers who refused to answer my questions, I was unceremoniously shoved into an interview room with the brusque Agent. His scrutiny made me feel as inadequate as a rat in a line-up of cats. A surlier man, I’d never met. He refused to answer my questions but kept demanding that I answer his.

"I don’t understand what you want from me. I haven’t seen John in two years. What can I possibly tell you?"

"Why. The world wants to know why Mrs. Strong. Why does a man kill innocent people? We deserve to know, why!"He slammed his fist on the table, and I felt the blow in my heart.

"John left this for you." The Agent slammed a letter down on the table. I read it, and that was the moment. There would be no more false bravado.

Deidre,

     You’ve always admired my penmanship. How do you like my blood red ink? Actually, my blood and written with a quill, can you believe it? Nothing but the best for you, my dear sweet wife.

     Well, you did it. You got away. Left the kids and me to follow your lustful heart. I hope he was worth it! No, that’s not true, I hope he beats you daily! Maybe took all your hard earned and hoarded money and left you high and dry. God, knows that’s a fantasy, a dream I have regularly. That and finding you.

     The finding you fantasy would’ve taken a book, but I’m sure you can imagine!

     But who knows? Maybe I’d have forgiven you. Now we’ll never know.

Enjoy the notoriety.

You’ve earned it sweetheart!

Always yours,

John

"Because of me?" I whispered. Tears streamed down my cheeks. "He did it because of me." I bowed my head over my arms and cried like a woman condemned. Hell would bring no more agonizing a punishment than the guilt that consumed me. The world went black.

At the hospital, I was all but catatonic. The doctors and my attorney refused to let the agent question me again. I slowly gathered my strength and agreed to talk to Agent Gray, but only on my terms. I wanted to go home, but no longer had one. Once the press learned of my location, no place was safe. I insisted on protection, and a new identity. The FBI saw to the changes, and I agreed to talk.

"You were married for over twenty years. What happened? What drove John to do this?"

"I can’t answer that question. I lived with the man for twenty years, and I can’t tell you who he was. I just know I could no longer live in the comfortable prison I'd allowed him to create for me. The children were adults. It was time. I found the courage."

"But why did you leave, why did it take you so long? We checked, there was no abuse. We talked to family and friends, they said you two were the couple everyone envied."

"We were, in public. For years I carried off the biggest fake out in history. I played the game. It made John happy, and when he was happy, I thought less and less of ending my life. It’s called survival."

"From what?" the agent asked in desperation.

"A man obsessed, controlling, angry. I’d left him before. But he always found me. We had children, they loved their father, even as they feared him. It was clear I’d never escape. If I did, it meant giving up my children too. Once they were adults, I could let go. I disappeared, changed my name, and prayed he’d never find me."

Agent Gray shook his head. "John left us a message too. He wrote, 'Ask Deidre. She knows the answers you seek. This is all on her.'" The Agent sighed deeply and asked the one question he’d been dying to ask for days. “Did you know?"

"Did I know?" I thought about his question. I stood, walked to the window and stared at the sky. "I knew it was a possibility. Ten years ago, John hears on the news that a gunman has killed twenty-five people from an elevated position and says, ‘I could see myself doing that, especially if you ever left me. I’d have nothing to live for.’ It was a threat, but one I knew in my soul he could accomplish.” I shivered. I couldn’t look at Agent Gray.

"I remember his grin. His self-satisfied nod, and his declaration, 'I could do it, and I would just to show you, you’ll never escape, and if you do. You’ll regret it until your dying day.'"

I wiped at the tears that seemed never-ending and caught the Agents eyes. "You tell me, did I know? Could I have stopped what happened based on that conversation ten years ago?"

Gray bowed his head. He couldn’t or wouldn’t look at me.

"If I’d reported him? Would you have listened?"

930 words / FCA

Yolanda Renée © 2018

~~*****~~

I wrote this a few months ago. I hate that it's a reality.
Please, Lord, Bless the children . . .

The Relationship Between Domestic Violence & Mass Shootings

When Domestic Violence Becomes a Mass Shooting

Many mass shooters have a history of domestic violence. It's time to pay attention.

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In Too Deep

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