Michela Walters Week 21: The Seer

Picture 1


Picture 2


Michela Walters’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: The Seer

She took hold of the discarded doll, the only lead the police had in the case. Closing her eyes, she allowed her mind to calm, and focused all of her energy on the object she held tightly in her arms. A flurry of images flew behind her closed lids. She knew this was the process, that they would eventually slow and she’d be able to hone in on the significance of each clue her guides presented to her.

Alexa was only called in when the detectives were really stumped, never wanting to admit defeat and that their resident psychic might actually be able to help them solve a crime. The good news was she was often able to aid their investigation, but usually by the time they’d come knocking on her door, there was little she could do for the victim.

Tonight was no exception. She knew Hailey Mills wasn’t still among the living. Her spirit was working with Alexa’s guides to help her.

“I’m seeing a map. There is some relation to Pembroke,” she started telling the two men sitting in her living room, looking uncomfortable and desperate.

A lightning bolt struck the map in her mind, usually her guide’s way of showing her exactly what she should be focusing on. “The intersection in Suncook Village. I’m seeing the number fifty-six and the letter B. I’m not sure if that’s an apartment, or a house number, but something significant took place in Suncook village.” Alexa knew her voice sounded tinny and distant, her deep trance-like meditation states often made her feel like she was floating above her body, taking in a motion picture on the back wall of her brain.

Her guides kept showing her image after image of clues that she knew only Hailey and her abductor would have known about. “There’s a basement. Look for one that’s built into the ground, with the big storm doors that open up. A dark blue sedan. Four doors. You might find a red plaid blanket as well.” Alexa continued to rattle off the items until her mind’s eye was abruptly flooded with blood. She wasn’t sure exactly the torture they inflicted upon this little girl, but Alexa had to close off her connection to the otherworld at that moment, unable to take any more of the horror.

“There’s going to be a lot of blood, or at least evidence of it somewhere.” She paused, knowing the next words were about to devastate a family who’d spent the last three days looking for the missing seven year old. “You’re not going to find her alive.” At the mention of her deceased status, the officer’s faces dropped but went slack with an emotionless mask after the briefest of time. The two stood, nodding and thanking her for her help, telling Alexa they’d be in touch if they needed anything else.

“One more thing,” she started, walking the men to the door. “Tell Hailey’s parents that she’s safe now.”

Closing the door behind the men, she slid down to the ground, allowing the grief to wash over her in a strangled sob. Tilting her head up to the sky, she asked her guides to take care of the girl, knowing better than to ask for relief from the gift she’d been given. If only someday they came to her first, maybe she’d be able to save a little girl instead of pointing them in the direction of her dead body.

--------------------------------------------------

Michela Walters is a wife, mother and book enthusiast. She is currently attempting her hand at writing her first romantic fiction novella. You can read her other stories on her blog: michelawalters.wordpress.com

#DailyPicspiration

Sarah Aisling Week 21: Got a Secret . . . Can You Keep It? (PartTwo)

Picture 1


Picture 2


Sarah Aisling’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Got a Secret . . . Can You Keep It? (PartTwo)

Ciel hesitated on the path, unsure if she should trust the man. Was it typical for a detective to stalk a minor and try to speak to them without an adult present?

“Should you even be talking to me without my parents . . . or . . . or a lawyer?” Ciel stammered.

“You in need of a lawyer, Ms. Cavanaugh?” Detective Hoffstra tossed a butt into the moist dirt and ground it under his heel. He leveled a keen gaze at Ciel, one she suspected was his “trademark.”

Ciel stared back back owlishly and shook her head. The detective's stare seemed to pin her to the spot, and her mouth wasn't cooperating.

He slipped his hands into the deep pockets of his trench. The slim volume of poetry was swallowed up within, and Ciel pondered how he'd come to have it. The anger heating up her veins like live wires loosened her jaw.

“Where did you get that book of poems?” Ciel nodded her head toward his pocket, her voice strong and sure.

That particular volume had disappeared the day she'd seen the woman stalking away from Janice's hideaway. Ciel was pretty sure it was the evil stepmother come to pillage their little retreat while Janice had detention. She probably hadn't know about Ciel, or perhaps she hadn't cared.

“Does it belong to you?”

“You know it doesn't.” Ciel frowned.

“Why does it matter where I got it then?” Hoffstra strolled casually away from the tree and onto the path but seemed to take care not to get too far into Ciel's personal space.

“Because she came and—” The words spewed forth before Ciel could curb them, and her face reddened. Isn't this exactly what the clever detective was trying to do? Get her to spill information? She didn't know who he really was, though—she just knew his methods seemed unorthodox.

Hoffstra halted mid-stride and turned on his heel to face her. “She who?” Sharp dishwater brown bloodshot eyes were trained on her every move now, searching for a chink in her armor. She had his full attention, but was that a good thing or a bad thing?

“Wh-what?”

“Why don't you tell me what you know about Janice's disappearance?”

“Me? Nothing!”

“Some people seem to think you've been following Ms. Strohm lately.”

“Following?” Ciel's forehead wrinkled with confusion. Then it hit her—the kids at school had no idea she and Janice had become close! If they saw her enter Jacoby Park trailing behind Janice, they might have assumed she was stalking her. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” She shook her head.

“Do you have an explanation, Ms. Cavanaugh?” Hoffstra's raised voice had more bite to it this time.

“Janice and I . . . we're friends.” A lone tear slid down Ciel's cheek. She missed Janice and now feared the worst. “Is she . . . I mean . . .”

“Dead? Why don't you tell me, Ms. Cavanaugh.” Hoffstra made an awful hacking sound and spat on the ground.

“Me? How should I know? I've been coming here every day . . . hoping . . . Janice would show up, or at least leave me a message.”

“Uh huh. So, when was the last time you saw or spoke to Janice?”

“I don't know the exact date, but she had detention that day.”

“Anything out of the ordinary happen around that time?” Hoffstra stuck a cigarette between his thin lips and cupped his hands against the breeze while he lit it.

Ciel watched him blow a plume of smoke into the air and remembered watching Janice smoke in their hideaway. Was there something she knew that could help the police find her friend? She didn't see the benefit of sharing Janice's trinkets or journal, which were now safely stowed in Ciel's room. She hadn't invaded Janice's privacy, tempting as it was. Maybe she needed to take a peek inside those pages and see if there were any clues to be found. If she told Detective Hoffstra about the treasures and the journal, he'd confiscate everything before she had a chance to go through it.

“Ms. Cavanaugh? Have you remembered something?”

“Y-Yes, sort of. Janice used to hide away from her stepmom. Janice said she was mean and would go through her room and stuff.” Ciel hesitated, hunching down into her coat against a sudden frigid breeze.

“There's more.”

“Well, the day Janice had detention . . . I walked home alone, and I saw a woman striding away.”

Hoffstra nodded his head, blowing another plume of smoke into the chill air. Ciel really wished she knew how to smoke at that moment. Instead, she balled her hands up and shoved them into her pockets. Something cold and smooth brushed against her right hand, and she realized it was Janice's silver bracelet—the one Professor Jeffries had given her.

“Did you recognize this woman? What makes you think she had anything to do with Ms. Strohm?”

“Well, she'd obviously raided our hangout. A few of Janice's poetry books were left in the middle of the trail.”

“Did you speak to this woman—maybe ask her why she'd done something so strange?”

Ciel shrugged. “No. I thought it was obvious she was sending Janice a message. I figured the stepmom was letting Janice know she had no privacy anywhere.”

A gloom was falling over the park as the sun dipped below the mountain ridge. Detective Hoffstra's face was in full shadow now, and Ciel was getting creeped out. Once again, she wondered why the police would accost a minor on the way home from school—especially one who walked through a mostly deserted park.

The sound of stifled laughter rang out from behind Ciel. A trio of football players rounded a curve in the path, shoving one another and horsing around. When they noticed Ciel and Detective Hoffstra further up the trail, they seemed confused. One of them was Jason Greene. He was sweet on Janice, Ciel knew. He was probably the only student who knew Ciel and Janice were friends. One time, he'd decided to follow Janice into the park and caught the girls giggling on the trail.

“I have to go now,” Ciel said abruptly, moving close to Jason and his friends.

The other two guys stared at Ciel oddly, but Jason's eyes were trained on Hoffstra. His brows lowered into a crunched up slash over his eyes, and he tugged on the sleeve of Ceil's coat, drawing her closer to him. “Sorry I'm late. Got held up with practice.”

“That's okay.” Ciel went along with Jason's deception. In reality, he'd never willingly spoken to her before—none of them had.

Once they were several yards down the trail, Ciel chanced one look back. Detective Hoffstra stood in the middle of the trail, smoke curling up from his cigarette. She couldn't see his face, but she could almost feel waves of frustration undulating from him.

“Keep walking,” Jason muttered.

“Dude, what the hell is going on?” Brad nudged Jason in the ribs.

“Shut up and walk, Brad.”

By the time the park let out into their neighborhood, it was almost dark. Brad and Tommy headed to the right and looked askance at Jason when he said he'd catch up with them later. They shrugged and loped off, pushing and shoving each other.

He waved a hand in annoyance and slung an arm over Ciel's shoulders. “C'mon, I'll walk you home.”

“Y-You don't have to do that.” A shiver ran through Ciel that had nothing to do with the cold. Jason Greene, quarterback of the football team, had his arm around her. No guys willingly touched her or walked her home. Ever.

“Sure I do, Ciel. It's dark out.” Jason's voice was deep and smooth, eliciting shivers that danced up Ciel's spine.

He knows my name, was the thought that caught and held like a fish hook in her mind.

“Thanks.”

Despite the dark, the streetlights hadn't turned on yet. Some houses they passed were filled with warm, inviting light; the windows of others were still black, their driveways empty. Ciel was glad Jason was walking her home.

“Who was that creepy guy you were talking to anyway?”

“A policeman investigating Janice's disappearance.”

“No, he's not.” Jason sounded very sure of himself.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the police talked to me a few days ago. They came to my house and asked permission from my parents. That guy is no cop, Ciel.”

Her heart thudded in her chest and she clawed at Jason's jacket. “Who is he then? Do you think he had something to do with Janice's disappearance?”

“Maybe. I don't know. Don't worry. We're calling the cops as soon as we get you home.”

Ciel huddled against Jason until they reached her house to call the police. She couldn't wait to be alone, though. Tonight she had a date with Janice's journal.

------------------------------------------------------

Sarah Aisling hails from New Jersey and loves living by the ocean with her incredibly indulgent husband and awesomely precocious daughter. She’s currently putting the finishing touches on her upcoming novel, The Weight of Roses. When Sarah isn’t being enslaved by her characters, she can be found with her nose in a book, biking, hiking, camping, and spending time with friends and family. Twitter: @SarahAisling Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/SarahAislingAuthor

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 21: Old and New

Picture 1


Picture 2


J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Old and New

The dappling of the sun across the wet leaves was like mirrors. I felt as if, had I been small enough, I could have slipped into another world, a world that matched ours in every way, except it was filled with otherness. The otherness I couldn’t define, but I knew it existed. And I was so wrapped in the daydream of other that I didn’t realize at first that Jenny had been talking to someone---not me--for quite some time. And it wasn’t the incessant chattering of a child talking to herself, because I heard a hushed reply.

I sat up from our blanket and looked for my young ward. She’d wandered across the small field we’d pick, her red jacket bright against the leaves. She was facing me and no one was near her. I looked around the clearing, standing. There was no one I could see through the trees, either and as bare as they were and I would have seen them.

But I know I had heard a voice. I crouched by Jenny, helping her build her pile of leaves. “Were you talking to someone, Jenny-Bear?”

She nodded quickly and smiled. “Yeah, he was funny.”

“Who was funny?” I tried not to sound worried, but with an empty clearing and a strange “he” on the run, my spine was starting to ice over.

“The man with the funny accent.” She dropped a few more leaves onto the pile, then separated them, making smaller mounds.

“Where is he?” I asked, glancing around--partially for her benefit, mostly for mine.

“He’s gone now.”

“But wasn’t he just here? How’d he leaves so quickly?” I tucked her hair behind her ear. “Can he fly?” I laughed, nervously.

“No, he just disappears.” She lifted her arms. “Poof.”

I tapped my boots and sat back, not minding the damp ground now that the problem had snowballed into a mystery that still gave me the creeps. “What did he look like?”

“Like me,” she said, holding her hand out for a high five. I gave her one. I was sure she meant white, and not black, like me, but I had not be sure.

“Cute?” I joked.

“Blue eyes,” she replied, pointing to her eyes.

“Blonde hair?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Dark hair.”

“And what was he wearing?”

“Weird stuff.”

“What was weird?”

She shrugged, bored with the conversation. “Like something from an old movie.”

I felt the pinch of a headache and decided that perhaps it wasn’t a big deal, perhaps she’d just made it up and I’d made it up and we could just pack up for the day and head back to the house. Being a nanny didn’t pay well enough to go into forensic science.

“Alrighty, let’s head back to the house, Jenny,” I said, standing and wiping off the back of my pants. I walked back over to the blanket and folded it up, holding it under my arm and waiting for Jenny to walk over.

She did so, but slowly; she was nearly pouting, but not quite. She normally with mutter a thing or two and I typically pay no mind, but what she said today made me stop dead: “He said that’s just what a mammy would say.”

“He said...” The word dried up in the confusion that suddenly beat down on me. I turned Jenny toward me. “Explain yourself right now, Jenny. Who told you I was a ‘mammy’?” It wasn’t hurtful. It was just stupid. And outdated.

“The man,” she said, her lip trembling already.

“There is no man, Jenny,” I said sternly. “Please, just be honest.”

Before she could speak, something behind me moved. Not someone necessarily, not something--it was just that shift in air that let you know something was right behind me. I turned and pushed Jenny back in the same motion, but what I saw--I couldn’t protect her from. I couldn’t protect me from it. It was the man. And he was like, Jenny--white, dark hair just like she said. But he wasn’t like us. He wasn’t alive. He didn’t speak, but the look on his face...well, it was constantly changing, nearly swirling and I felt the terrifying pang of vertigo. First, he looked pleasant, nearly handsome, but it moved to rage to disgust to lechery. I feared even taking a breath, let alone taking a step, but I needed to run, to scream. I was sinking into that mirror world, could feel my spirit slipping from the glove of my body.

“Go away,” Jenny said from behind me. The man shimmered. She grabbed my hand and stood in front of me. I still couldn’t move, but tears started rolling down my face. I didn’t know if it was because of the fear or the heart tweak due to her bravery. “You’re not funny anymore. Go. Away.” The second time she said he splintered in the sunlight and flitted to the ground. “Ready to go home, ‘Manda?”

I started shivering, but then I could move. I wiped at my face with the other hand, but desperately kept hold of Jenny’s hand with the other. “Yeah,” I said, voice as shakey as my body. I didn’t look behind us as she walked away from the clearing, but I still felt as if there was something behind us. It didn’t matter. There were clearly spirits everywhere--both old and new. I looked down at Jenny.

-----------------------------------------------------

J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacher, author rep'd by Gina Panettieri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

Jen DeSantis Week 21: The Fry That Broke the Camel's Back

Picture 1


Picture 2


Jen DeSantis’ Choice: 2

Title: The Fry That Broke the Camel's Back

The food went down in a tasteless ball, catching on the lump in her throat on the way. She swallowed hard, and let her shoulders sag before picking up another french fry. It wasn’t the best food, but it was greasy and it was cheap.

“Ready?”

Her head snapped to attention and she looked across the parking lot. LeRoy leaned casually against the Camero in his beat-up leather jacket, watching her through his dark shades. It was nearing dusk but she knew he wouldn’t take them off. He was that type. He thought it made him look tough. He thought it made him look boss, he said.

“Just finishing a few more bites,” she murmured, mechanically chewing the food.

He nodded coldly and crossed his arms across his chest as she walked over to him. She stood in front of him and offered him the rest of the fries. His black brows arched before he slapped them out of her hand. The fries skittered across the oil-stained cement while he laughed at her shocked face.

“Pick them up, Lorraine” he snorted, pointing with the toe of his boot.

Another game, another play to prove his superiority. Next, he’d probably want her to eat them. He’d laugh as she gagged on the dirty, greasy food. He might even try to hit her to see if she’d vomit it up.

“No,” she whispered, and covered her mouth in surprise.

“What ‘choo say, Raine?”

He slurred in his surprise and a giggle bubbled up her throat. She trapped it between her teeth and held it there, but the mirth gave her strength.

“I said no, LeRoy. I ain’t picking up your dang dirty fries.”

“You … bitch.”

Her lips curled up and she felt the faintest blush of color begin to rise on her pale cheeks.

“I do believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she sneered.

And then she kicked him square in the balls. LeRoy gave the most satisfying grunt before falling to his knees, his sunglasses askew. LeRoy’s life was about to get interesting in a hurry, but Lorraine had no intention of hanging around to see that change. She hopped delicately into the driver’s seat of the Camero and threw it into gear, leaving LeRoy and his beat-up leather jacket in a cloud of dust with the cooling, dirty fries scattered around him.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Jennifer DeSantis is a Horror and Paranormal Author and host of the #FridayPictureShow. She lives near Philly with her family. In her spare time is an aspiring ninja.

#DailyPicspiration

Jeffrey Hollar Week 20: Celestial Stres

Picture 1


Picture 2


Jeffrey Hollar’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Celestial Stres

It had been an exceptionally stressful week for Ivy and she was, gladly, looking forward to a day of rest and relaxation. Back when she’d been just another skater girl in Redondo Beach she hadn’t really given much thought to the idea of what happened to you when you died. She only knew she didn’t buy into that whole Heaven and Hell, St Pete and the pearly gates versus The Pit thing…well, until she died. Everything changed then in ways she could never have imagined.

One minute she was grabbing air on a half pipe and the next, she was looking at her own body with its head at a most unusual angle. The serene-looking dude in the flowing robes who led her away and in through those pearly gates was unexpected but not all that bad either. Turned out he was Dave, her Guardian Angel.

She wanted to be really catty about the fact he hadn’t done all that sweet a job of guarding her but she learned the straight facts about that soon enough. The Big Boss was VERY much into free will and such and, while Dave had done his best to guide her toward being worthy to wind up in Heaven, his hands were pretty much tied otherwise. Well, that was understandable and she could live with it…so to speak. She liked the idea once she got used to it. Her grandparents were here and, as that song said, they DID have a hell of a band.

Time didn’t exactly flow the same way here as it had when she was alive but there was a schedule and an order to things she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t all about flying around and playing harps and whatever. For one thing, she was kinda bummed to figure out she wasn’t gonna get wings at all. For another, she’d had no idea that “moving in mysterious ways” jazz meant the folks up here spent a LOT of time just trying to make sure the forces of good and evil did what they did on a level playing field.

That was how she wound up a Guardian Angel herself. She’d just been hanging out with some other girls of her generation when, of all people, Dave showed up and took her to meet her charge, Anna Leah. Ivy had never much been into babies but she felt an immediate bond to Anna Leah that Dave assured her she always would feel. That was how the whole thing worked. They would be forever linked to each other and Ivy would be the guide now.

There were a lot of things she had to learn and do and agree to and promise but she thought she settled into the job pretty well. It didn’t hurt that Anna Leah was a pretty good kid with decent parents. Ivy found herself nudging here and there but it was, mostly, like Dave had said just watching and worrying.

When the tone in her head alerted her Anna Leah might be in need of help, Ivy wanted nothing more than to pretend she hadn’t heard it. But, when your boss knows, literally, everything that’s going on anywhere, trying to pull a fast one on him is a really a counter-productive idea. With a nod of resignation, Ivy went to work.

Though she could have popped down to the mortal realm and taken a look firsthand, she didn’t like doing that anymore. It made her too nostalgic and a bit sad. With a sly grin, she decided it would be…the swings. Still a daredevil at heart, Ivy loved the swings. Even though there was no possibility she could fall, she did still enjoy the feeling of hanging upside down over all of that wide open space. What a rush!

Scanning the planet, she quickly located her charge and felt, momentarily, badly she’d somehow forgotten it was Anna Leah’s birthday! She was…hmm….15 today. Wow, how time had flown by. Zooming in on her, Ivy’s mouth gaped open and she mumbled some, decidedly, un-heavenly words. A low rumble of thunder in her immediate vicinity reminded her the Big Guy DID hear her.

Oops, she thought, but come on! A horse…a horse?! Did her parents just plain forget about the roller blade mishap when Anna Leah was five? Were they overlooking the motorized scooter debacle when she was nine? Did they somehow neglect to learn from the snow board/broken leg thing when the girl was 12? A horse? Why did it have to be a horse? Sighing, she wondered if Dave had purposely given her the care of a soul every bit as reckless and adrenaline-driven as Ivy herself had been?

Something told Ivy she was going to need to start paying a WAY more attention to this Guardian Angel gig than she ever had before.

-----------------------------------------------

Jeffrey Hollar is half Klingon, half Ferengi, visiting Earth in an attempt to negotiate a merger. He is currently working on a novella and a collection of zombie stories with his wife, Lisa McCourt Hollar. Jeff writes almost daily for his blog, The Latinum Vault, found at http://www.jeffreyhollar.com.

#DailyPicspiration

Cara Michaels Week 20: Adrift

Picture 1


Picture 2


Cara Michaels’ Picture Choice: 1

Title: Adrift

“Tell me where you go
When you reach the edge of the world
Tell me why you sail
Away on sun swells and moon tides...”

The melody floated through the dark on intermittent guitar strums and alto sighs, waking me from a light sleep. I soaked in the words, the melancholy tune. Beneath me, the ocean rocked me as gently as any mother with her baby. No wind pushed my boat along and no moon guided the way. I drifted.

“Tell me who you love…”

“Hello!” I called.

“Well met, sailor,” I heard in response. The singer’s voice pierced the lonely night. “I haven’t seen anyone on these waves in days.” She laughed. “I suppose I’m still not seeing. But hearing is good. I’ll take it.”

“Same here,” I said, smiling even though she couldn’t see it. A weak breath of wind rattled limp sails. “Where are you headed?”

“Mother Ocean willing, I’m making for the Bahamas,” she said. “Closest land by my reckoning, and I’m in bad need of supplies.” She paused, plucking at the guitar strings. “I’m hoping, you know? Just hoping.”

Hoping for an explanation. For news. For signs of life.

“I know.”

I’d packed for a month at sea and sailed a week before the world stopped. No power of any kind. At first I’d thought my boat had died. Then I noticed the absence of planes, freighters, anything powered. I’d spent the last two weeks alone, passing the occasional sailboat in the distance.

We fell into silence. It had been too long for me already; I’d forgotten how to make small talk. Or maybe the world seemed too big for it anymore. I stretched out on the bow, staring at the starry field above. Turning my head to either side, I strained to see my companion.

“Are you still there?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Will you sing?”

“If you’d like.”

“The world seems smaller,” I said. “It’s a good feeling.”

So she sang. Some songs I knew, others I didn’t. I fell asleep to the sound of her sweet voice and woke to the hint of sunrise, and the bump of another boat against mine. Damn, but I hadn’t slept so well in weeks. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I blinked the small vessel next to me into focus. It wasn’t meant for long trips like mine, maybe a day cruise here and there.

My balladeer lay curled up with her guitar. Frail, too thin. I wondered how long she’d been without food.

I opened my mouth to wake her with a good morning, to offer her breakfast, but her stillness became mine. I squinted, watching her chest. Five seconds became fifteen. She didn’t breathe. In her left hand, a scrap of paper rested in her loose fist. A note? A last request? I found I couldn’t let her go without knowing.

I lashed our rails together, the still air and calm sea making the job easier, and crossed over to her boat. I checked her pulse first to be sure. My hands shook to touch her warmth, to find the proof of her faded life. I worked the paper out of her grip and smoothed it open.

Thank you for seeing me to the end.

Tears stung my eyes.

“Thank you,” I whispered. I touched a finger to her soft cheek.

I took the few supplies she had and her name. Just in case I made it home. I’d tell someone about her.

I pushed our boats apart, the wind picking up at last. I made for the Bahamas, taking one last mental picture of her. The name of her vessel, painted in dark blue scrolling letters, came clear as the sun rose.

Adrift.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Adjusting my heading, I let the wind wash over me. “Tell me who you love,” I sang, “when you reach your journey’s end.”

---------------------------------------------------

Cara Michaels is the author of the Gaea’s Chosen sci-fi romance series and host of the #MenageMonday flash fiction challenge.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 20: Another When Part Three

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Another When Part Three

There were hardly any differences on the street than it had a moment ago. Some of the buildings looked newer and the trees were smaller, but it appeared the city was timeless.

I walked along the street, awash in memories. What was I doing on this day? Where was she? As eagerly as I wanted to see her, I didn’t want to accidently run into her along the street. I would probably say the wrong thing and frighten her or she’d recognize me and be freaked out about my ‘sudden’ aging.

It was bittersweet. I saw old friends I hadn’t seen in years, parents of friends that were still alive. I tried to keep my head down, just in case someone recognized me. It would make for too many questions that I wouldn’t have an answer.

As I walked, I finally remembered that Margaret and I were both working that day and wouldn’t be home for several hours. That was perfect. It would’ve made things much harder if I had to work around myself and her, no matter how much I wanted to see her.

My head was shrouded in the past, which was now my present, as I continued walking, my feet remembering a path that I hadn't traveled for years. The buzz of the city fell away into the quiet peace of the suburbs.

The peace that was broken that night.

My feet stopped in front of a modest, split level house. Bright flowers lined the stone walkway to the front door. Margaret went to great pains every spring to plant the flowers, using different colors every year. She was partial to yellow, which was the color of the flowers this year. I hated yellow after that.

I still do.

I looked carefully from side to side, to see any of my old nosy neighbors were looking before I walked up the driveway. This was my house after all, I wasn't a criminal.

The back door was unlocked, as it usually was. I quickly slipped inside and took a deep breathe. I had forgotten how the house smelled a bit like Margaret ... elements of her perfume and her favorite scented candles wrapped around me. I closed my eyes and allowed the moment to run its course. It had been so long.

A clock chimed nearby, pulling me out of my memories.

I slipped up the stairs into the kitchen. There were breakfast dishes in the sink and a cup of coffee left in the pot. I tried to remember what we had for breakfast that day.

I continued into the living room. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but just felt I would know when I saw it. I stopped on a dime when my gaze crossed over a picture that was long lost for me.

Margaret and I were holding hands, our expressions full of love, the photo commemorating our wedding day. I remember pulling that veil over her head and kissing those lips for the first time as husband and wife.

I remember kissing those lips for the last time, as I said goodbye when she laid in that satin lined box.

My vision blurred and I walked away before I was completely overcome with emotion. I hadn't found quite what I was looking for yet so I continued to the upstairs.

My hands shook as I approached our bedroom. Would I really be able to do this? I reached out with a tentative hand toward the doorknob. The metal was cold, enough to shock me out of my nerves.

Our room was just as I remembered it. Pictures were along the wall. The bed clothes were rumpled. We never were one to make the bed every morning. The book that Margaret was reading that morning was left open. I sat down on the bed and picked up her book, running my hand along the cover.

My reflections were cut short when I heard a door slam downstairs.

"Henry?"

-------------------------------------------------------

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration