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!
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UNMASKED!
It’s Masquerade
Time to find your disguise
a costume and mask
for we’re all on parade
better be wise.
Make your decision judiciously
or your deepest secret will
show through.
On New Year's Eve
the truth is visible
and oh, so clear.
If it’s deviousness
horror or evil you profess
it’ll be obvious
to those dead and most dear.
So cover yourself strategically
or give yourself away.
Just remember that ghosts of the murdered departed
are also looking
to make their creators
pay!
Entertainment Tonight covered the entire story. From the day
they met to the day she was reported missing. Her grieving husband, an up and
coming movie producer, shed tears for the camera. The search for the young
actress he’d taken for a wife went on for weeks, months, and years, but no
clue, no corpse, no answer.
Ten years later, during the Emmy ceremony, Donavon Fagen,
movie producer, celebrated with close friends, and for a moment, he thought he
caught a glimpse of her. Yet, he knew better. She was dead. Fagen pushed his
thoughts of her aside and ordered another drink.
Alone at night, her whispers woke him.
“I’ve searched and searched the Earth for you. You, who took
my soul for your own. You, the demon who stole my innocence and brutally took
my life. You left me in the desert with all the others.”
Donavon switched on the light, walked to his patio door, and
stared out over the desert. Why was she haunting him now?
The next morning, he saw her reflection in his bathroom
mirror. On the movie set, he spotted her in the crowd of extras. He began to
drink earlier and earlier every day.
Her whispers became more graphic.
“Their skin shrivels in the scorching sun. Yet mine is still soft
and supple. Their eyes were plucked out by the buzzards, and their innards were
devoured by numerous beasts, but I am whole. Perfect in my grave of graves.
Their bones were bleached, scattered, and sandblasted, but the evidence of your
wrath remains. Spirits all, and how they hate you, my love.”
Donavon began to sleep with the lights on, but the daily
visions occurred, as did the nightmares.
The night of the Hollywood Masquerade he wore the costume of
the Marquis de Sade during a dance with a beautifully dressed La Senorita
Spanish Flamenco Dancer. While dancing a slow dance she pulled him close and whispered
in his ear, “Giving me repose in my own special grave does not lessen my
heart’s desire. Revenge is my guaranteed destiny. I’ve wandered for years in
search of you, my creator. Your evil is written on my bones. I’ll never forget your
true essence. Those dark eyes, an abyss. Black holes with no light or
reflection. Those sharp, pearl white teeth dripping blood after each searing
kiss. I remember how your flesh showed years of decay, and how your claw-like
hands burned my skin as you stole the last breath in my lungs. You’ve covered
your evil well, but now I’ve found you, marked you. Unmasked on the night of a Masquerade,
I alone see true.”
He tried to pull away, but she held him tight, and then suddenly,
she was gone like a wisp of smoke. Several glasses of whisky couldn’t stop the
tremors as he searched the room, but she was nowhere in sight. He sighed in
relief.
A friend drove him home and finally with more whisky and a
sleeping pill, he wiped away all the ghosts, but even unconsciousness couldn’t
stop the whispers.
“I alone know your darkest secret. Killing the virtuous allows
your survival on the Earthly plane. Stealing my love guaranteed your existence.
And I, a naive bride, was blinded by what I thought was love and devotion. But
my dear, soon the world will know the truth.”
Donavon, wide awake now, got out of his bed and opened the
patio doors, but it wasn’t a cool breeze that greeted him. She
stood before him, just as he’d last seen her.
“Join us,
dear husband. We’ve come to claim our right.”
He screamed.
Then screamed
some more,
but to no
avail
as each of
his victims
took back
what he stole
until
finally, she kissed him
and took his all.
*****
January 2nd
Detective Grant arrived on the scene shortly after the
discovery. “What do you have, Officer?”
“Donovan Fagen, movie producer. The coroner says heart
attack, but if you ask me, that expression on his face says the man died from
pure terror.”
“How?”
“My guess, all his victims. Look around, the place is a bone
field.”
“And the girl, who is she?”
“His former wife. The young actress that disappeared ten
years ago. Why he chose to uncover her grave, we’ll never know. But she’s well
preserved.”
“Lots of killers enjoy visiting the graves of their victims,”
Detective Grant said.
“His undoing this time. His other victims are scattered.
It’ll take a while to figure out how many, but he’s been killing for a very,
very long time.”
“Fools, so many fools,” a young girl spoke, but none stood in attendance.
They all heard the voice, then the sound of a young woman’s
giggle, but the only people on-site were the officers removing the bodies.
A whoosh and the hot, desert breeze lifted the sand and
swirled it in dust devil form that danced across the desert before all grew
quiet again.
The Detective felt the hair on his body stand on end. “Maybe
you’re right this time, Sergeant. Maybe this serial killer found that the
spirits of the dead don’t lie quietly on New Year's Eve. I’d say justice has
been done.”
960 Words
Yolanda Renée © 2020
When
I was seven
I
found heaven
my
grandmother's house
I was the city mouse.
With
a large bed just for me
not
one bed, shared by three
awake
each morning
to a bird song melody.
Peace
and quiet
and
a pancake diet
amid
the flowers and the trees
I explored every nook and cranny.
A
crowing rooster, cows, and chickens
I
helped out in the barn and the kitchen
a
sewing lesson with needle and thread
soon exhausted, I curled up in my large bed.
Snakes
and storms, roses and thorns
homemade
ice cream and fresh corn
my
escape from a family of seven
Grandma's
Earthly home was heaven.
Yolanda Renée (C) 2020
***
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.
Or a simple shout out would be most appreciated.
Will this be a night of fear?
Or will the tricksters bring
cheer?
Will the living count their blessings?
While the bereft search for the ghosts
of loved ones taken too soon.
Because dear friends, voting
day is near.
Do you want another four years
filled with trepidation?
Or change, and a whole new
nation?
It’s your choice.
Time to use your voice.
A vote for humble and true.
Or the corrupt evil that Trump
spews?
A future where common-sense
rules.
Or constant worry that
dragoons
will soon knock on the door?
Please don’t hesitate.
You have a very important date.
Tuesday is November the third.
So please, make your voice heard!
Yolanda Renée (C) 2020
 |
| Just Published |
Elizabeth Barrett Browning says it best.
But I have an answer to the
question posed, just like the rest.
I love thee for washing the
dishes.
I love thee for doing the
chores and always answering the door.
I love thee for granting
most all my wishes.
I love thee for doing the
laundry and grocery shopping.
I love thee for pursuing
and never stopping.
I love thee for working
hard, especially in the overgrown yard.
I love thee for letting me
nap and for not acting like a sap.
I love thee for loving me
gently, taking me to the stars on a ride so heavenly.
I love thee for accepting
my worst; our lives have been blessed, not cursed.
I love thee unshaven or
perfectly coiffed.
I love thee unrobed or
fully clothed.
I love your mind, for an
intelligent man is hard to find.
I love thee because you are
you
and because you love me
unconditionally.
Yolanda Renée (C) 2020
***
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.
Or a simple shout out would be most appreciated.
Cleopatra’s
Curse
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…”
995 Words
Yolanda Renée © 2020
