Aleea Davidson Week 151: Eulogies in Gray

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Eulogies in Gray

If there was such a thing as a perfect day for a funeral, today would be it. Gabriel—‘Gabe’—Montgomery shrugs his shoulders under his thin coat trying to push the collar up to garner some protection against a witch of a wind trying to scrap her icy fingers down the back of his neck. He tightens the muscles in his core to suppress an urge to shiver. He believes in maintaining complete control over his mind and body. The cold will not dictate how he acts.

Everything is shades of November gray. Slate-gray sky, coal-gray dirt piled by the grave site, naked trees with skeletal talons for limbs turned the dreary colour of ash. He supposes it all fits his gray mood.

Mouth dry and back aching from the frozen ground he’s been standing on for the last half hour, Gabe half-heartedly listens to Father Donahue pepper an impersonal eulogy with bible verses meant to comfort grieving friends and family. It’s all bullshit. The man being buried didn’t engender grief in those he left behind.

Wondering again why he’s here, Gabe comes up void of an answer same as he has every other time he’s asked.

Guilt? Obligation? The search for closure? He fights the urge to laugh out loud at that last one. Closure? Not fucking likely.

He stares at the dark rectangular hole in the ground then glances at the coffin to its side. Like everything else the final resting place for his father’s body is a fitting shade of steel gray—gray like the soul of the man lying inside.

Father Donahue rambles off a line about forgiveness, and Gabe resists the urge to look up and see if the Priest’s eyes are directed at him. He wouldn’t put it past the old codger. Twenty-six years have passed since the last time Gabe felt his ass go numb sitting on a wooden pew in the Saint Michael’s Church. He still, however, remembers the glare Father Donahue would direct his way whenever he had a bit of wisdom he wanted to impart to a headstrong kid with a temper and a penchant for trouble.

Too bad the man never thought to direct some of that advice to Gabe’s father. Guess that would’ve been hard to do though, given Neil Montgomery never stepped a foot into a church his entire life.

Gabe battles back a relentless slew of memories swimming to the surface of his mind. They come anyway, mashing together in a chaotic, toxic swill of images and words. His teeth clench hard enough the joints of his jaw protest with a burst of pain reminiscent of a meaty fist hitting the side of his face.

Useless, stupid, good-for-nothing, idiot, bastard...

The words bounce around inside Gabe’s head, barbed and painful. The old man sure knew how to deliver an insult with his punches. The words, reeking of cheap whiskey and wet with specks of frothy spit, never failed to take their toll. To this day, Gabe struggles against the roots they dug into his psyche. At thirty-six he’s built a veritable business empire. He’s well known and well respected, probably even a little feared, and he has more money than he could ever spend. Despite it all a part of him has never stopped longing for the approval and love he never received as a child. He’s such a fucking cliché.

Up until the day the lawyer called to tell him the old man had passed, Gabe thought he at least had a handle on all his emotional baggage. Guess not. Now he’s here, back in this crummy town, wading through a wealth of unresolved crap and trying to settle the old man’s estate.

‘Estate.’ What a laughable damn word. Neil Montgomery’s ‘estate’ was a shitty little house with a sagging front porch. Tiny rooms with weathered furniture boasted walls stained yellow from cigarette smoke, dingy carpets reeking of nicotine and spilled booze. The entire place needed to be bulldozed. A battered, rusted out truck and a bank account with seven hundred and thirty-six dollars rounds off the entire life achievement of his old man.

Jamming his cold hands into his pockets, Gabe waits out the final minutes of the eulogy then watches the casket lower into the ground. The few mourners—a motley collection of distant cousins and the local bar crowd—scurry away, eager to get out of the cold and away from the reminder their lives have an expiry date.

Gabe stays longer than he should, afternoon darkening into evening, before he finally makes his way to side of his father’s grave where he crouches down, staring at the scraped-smooth dirt walls. From his pocket he removes a tarnished silver flask that he found in a desk drawer in the old man’s bedroom. He drops it down beside the casket, lid off, the glug of draining liquid reaching his ears seconds before his sight registers the darkening soil created by the expensive single-malt Gabe filled it with.

Standing, Gabe impulsively grabs a handful of dirt from the pile and lets it rain down from his hand to the casket.

When he speaks his voice is steady and strong, and the knot in his gut eases just a little. “You used to call me a bastard, dad, but the truth is no one was more of a bastard than you.” Gabe sighs. There are a thousand hurts and accusations he could voice, but the cold wind sucks away the heat of any lingering anger and all he feels is...lost.

“Rest in peace, old man.”

Gabe dusts the grave dirt from his palm and turns, leaving behind the shell of the man who never loved him.

He is not his father’s son.

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Aleea Davidson Week 147: Hearts as One

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Hearts as One

Falling...

The wedding is a blur. White dress, white pearlescent flowers, precious circles of gold that bind their promises with concrete evidence adorning their fingers. He knows he cried when she came down the aisle, something he thought he'd never do. Reception champagne and food he never really tasted are mere blurs in the memory department. All that really matters is now, the present, this moment when finally she's his and his alone.

They are as close as two people can get without crawling under each other's skin. He hears her heartbeat, feels it against his chest as he breathes her in. He wishes she was his first as he is hers.

So many past regrets. He never knew precious and important until she smiled at him, flirtatious and blushing inside a crowded subway car.

His hold tightens.

Night creeps up against the hotel windows, slipping inside to cradle the room in shadows. They stay still, arms and legs entwined, intimately connected for the first time. Pleasure curls low and deep, but for now this is enough. Love sets its own pace and slow is all they know.

They've been cautious, dancing around each other with tender touches and slow persuasion. He wants so badly to heal all her hurts, fill every hollow. She arches slightly, shivering and turns her face to his neck.

Everything about her pulls him in deeper, ripens the moment until need dictates a desire for more. He begins to move, careful, learning sex pales in comparison to making love, and her flesh means more than his own. He wants to feel her come undone so he can prove he'll catch her...

every

time

she

falls.

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Aleea Davidson Week 145: Catching Up

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: One

Title: Catching Up

Late October chill hangs heavy in the air. Why Genevieve insisted on an outdoor cafe, Gwen doesn't know, but it's always best to humor her irascible sister. At least the espresso is good.

She sips from the dainty cup, the liberally sweetened yet still bitter brew is a delicious explosion of heat and flavor in her mouth. She ghosts a gloved finger lightly over the tarnished silver of her newest treasure. The Victorian era hand-mirror was an exciting find; one she didn't expect to discover at the tiny second-hand shop Genevieve dragged her into.

"I can't believe you bought that old thing." Genevieve sniffs disdainfully, ever the critic. If it isn't modern, she simply won't have it. One of many differences that exist between them. Blood they may share, but little else seems to bind them.

Gwen sighs, knowing the futility of explaining the visceral appeal such items hold, and turns her attention to the sidewalk. Hustle and bustle accompanied by the click of heels and the thud-scuff of boots mingles with snatches of conversations. Busy, busy. Life is always so busy. She misses their tiny hometown and a simpler life. The roaring twenties in a brimming city can't compete.

"...it's the jazz age, after all."

Realizing she's lost the thread of her sister's chatter, Gwen attempts a nod.

"Oh, do pay attention, Gwenie," Genevieve snaps, tapping her cigarette ash to the ground. "Really. Always off in your head somewhere." She exhales a plume of smoke then suddenly smiles, her expression sly.

"What?" Gwen asks, alarmed by the look.

"I like that shade of lipstick on you," Genevieve replies, then, apropos of nothing, "New man in your life?"

Blushing, Gwen drops her gaze.

Genevieve laughs, scooping up the mirror and examining her chic hair in the reflective surface that bears only a few deep scratches. "Good. It's about time, sister dear. I worry you'll turn into an old maid with how picky you are."

Smiling shyly, Gwen shakes her head. "He's just a boy. You know I'm holding out for a man who'll move mountains for me, Gen-Gen."

Genevieve smiles, surprisingly tolerant, perhaps warming to the use of her childhood nickname. She places the mirror down and reaches for Gwen's hand, squeezing her fingers gently in a rare sign of affection.

"All right. Tell me all about this 'boy' then. I do love a diversion." She winks and Gwen laughs, a rush of love for her sister doing more to warm her than the espresso coursing it's caffeinated magic through her body.

"My little sister, the inexhaustible romantic." Genevieve sighs, laughs, and flags the waiter. "I believe we're going to need cocktails."

Gwen finds herself agreeing. It's an odd mixture - espresso, cocktails, antique mirrors, and her and Genevieve. Somehow, it all works.

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Aleea Davidson Week 143: Light The Dark

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: One

Title: Light The Dark

Cara stares at the framed photograph and sips her chilled complimentary wine. She's viewed all of the photography showing in the gallery tonight, but only this one has drawn her back. The crowd has finally thinned, and she should be in her office tallying sales she expects will far exceed any other showing this year, but something about this work speaks to her on a visceral level.

"Like it?"

The voice has a warm male timbre, easily recognizable with its Scottish burr. She didn't hear his approach, yet she's somehow not surprised he's there. Her intense scrutiny probably pulled him in.

Connor Malcolm. Famed photographer. Handsome, powerful, kind, driven; everything she's ever wanted and more. It's his work she can't drag her eyes from, perhaps hoping to learn more about the enigmatic man behind the camera that captured this scene. Procuring his work for the gallery was a career coup, certainly, but she never expected to develop these feelings in the process. At twenty-eight she feels too old to harbor a schoolgirl crush, getting weak in the knees every time he pays her the slightest bit of attention. It's embarrassing really.

"I don't know," she answers truthfully, then blushes slightly. "I mean of course I like it. That goes without saying, Connor. I'm just unsure my level of perception is up to the task of defining your work. You're exceptionally talented you know." She chances a peek over her shoulder, steeling herself to remain professional regardless of how handsome he is. It should be illegal for a man to have eyes like his - stormy blue and sexy as hell.

He laughs softly. "You've been staring at it for nearly twenty minutes, Cara." The humor in his expression is teasing though not condescending. His accent drags the syllables of her name through coarse silk.

She startles at the realization of how much time has escaped her. A nervous laugh slips from her throat as she self-consciously glances around the room, wondering if she's made a spectacle of herself, gawking so long at one picture. "Really?"

He hums a decidedly amused and classically Scottish sound of affirmation as her gaze returns to the photograph.

"What do you see that draws you so?" he asks.

She swallows past a sudden emotional lump in her throat. "The way you captured the light filtering through the clouds is beautiful yet also surreal." She shrugs, words failing her. Unnerved by his close proximity and her inability to offer an opinion that doesn't sound banal, she finds herself blurting her secret thought. "It's haunting. It conveys such loneliness."

The second the opinion is voiced, she wishes she censored herself. She doesn't want to insult him, finding melancholy where none may exist. Still, the photograph makes her yearn, as if she's there in the picture, staring up at a cold moon, searching for connection.

She feels Connor move closer. The heat of his body mingling with the all too appealing musk of his cologne makes her head swim. She's tired. It's been a very long month. She's worked ridiculous hours since she moved to London and accepted this job. She hasn't dated in over a year, that's why her heart suddenly beats so hard. Sexual deprivation will do that to a girl, she tells herself. And certainly his hand settling on her hip isn't flirtatious. . .is it?

"Would you be surprised if I told you this piece is a last minute addition? I took it less than a week ago, only steps outside the front door of this very gallery."

The heat of his palm works its way through the fabric of her dress, sizzling and electric. She feels certain her skin beneath is being branded, leaving a perfect, delicious imprint. Her heartbeat trips over itself, and the remnant of her wine shivers against the sides of the glass that is no longer steady in her grasp.

"When I captured that image, I was thinking of a beautiful woman who doesn't seem to know how desirable she is. I was longing for her to be by my side, sharing the magic of a dark night and a full moon."

Cara exhales an unsteady breath, fighting a smile. The insinuation the woman is her is both flattering and nerve wracking. She wonders how she missed the signs the attraction wasn't one-sided. Was she oblivious or simply too chicken to believe his attention wasn't based solely on manners and budding friendship? "Why didn't you invite her out?"

"Ah, well, she's a skittish thing, you see. I fear she's been hurt, and so she hides her feelings. It's a bit wounding to a man's ego, ya ken?"

A frisson of anxiety dances down her spine. He's right. She has been hurt. He's asking her to take a chance and suddenly she's unsure, no matter the fact she's been lusting after him for weeks. Fantasy is one thing, reality something else. Can she trust him?

A sip of her now flat wine does little to alleviate the dry mouth that comes from pure anxiety.

"What would you have said to her if she was there with you, staring up at that moon, fearful she might always be alone?" she dares to ask. Trepidation has her nearly whispering.

"I'd have told her she was only looking in the wrong direction," he answers as quietly as she asked, his voice a caress to her nerves. "I'd think she doesn't see what's right behind her or she'd know she wasn't the least bit alone."

His fingers skim across skin bared where her dress dips, making her shiver and wish she was brave.

"It's never that simple, Connor," she replies, but she's already starting to doubt her own words.

"It is, lass. All you have to do is turn around."

She shivers when he drops his hand, no longer touching her, merely waiting. She senses he'd respect her choice if she chose not to move, walk away as silently as he came and let her go. He's not the kind of man who plays games. His cards are on the table, open-faced for her to see.

Cara takes a deep breath and then...she turns around.

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Aleea Davidson Week 141: Little Joys

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Little Joys

A/N Taking a short break from Wither this week. Mara and Glen will return next time. Thank you to those who may be reading. I'm humbled any of you would take the time to read my words.

. . . . . .

According to the calendar hanging on her kitchen wall it was supposed to be the first day of spring. As the soles of her boots broke through the icy crust that covered layers of snow caked three inches thick in her driveway, Kate thought Mother Nature had a warped sense of humour.

Pulling her hood up against a wind that felt like it had teeth hungry for nips of her skin, she shuffled her way to her car, mindful of the ever-present ball of weight settled like a warm lump of coal in her midsection. At seven months, the waddle her friends had promised would affect her every movement had set in with a vengeance. At eight months, Kate felt she had the awkward duck walking perfected, but there was no such thing as perfection when navigating the treacherous feet of ground between her and the car only days away from her due date. Especially considering she was feeling as big as a house.

She let out a sigh when she reached the vehicle without slipping, congratulating herself silently. The baby she carried was precious. He would've been precious no matter what twists and turns life had in store, but the fact he was all she had left of her husband Tom, made him infinitely more so.

Kate allowed herself a second of sadness as she opened the car door, then pushed the emotion away. Bending carefully, she grabbed the ice-scraper and moved to attack the thin layer of frost on her windshield. Baby Thomas stirred and delivered a solid little kick to her ribs, as if to say hurry up, mom. It made her smile even as she winced.

She was on the road only moments later, driving with caution, the memory of Tom's voice in her mind reminding her to go easy with the brakes in the slippery conditions. She wished he was here, the pain of his loss still sharp, yet found herself smiling past the emptiness solely because of her destination.

It was time to choose a puppy from the litter of adorable babies born to her friend Joan's Golden Lab, Molly. Something her and Tom had decided to do after learning they were expecting their first child. In the weeks since his death, Kate's determination to carry through with the idea never waned. Tom had been right. Every child should have a dog. The idea this puppy would grow and flourish alongside her son, be his companion and guardian, felt more important than ever with Tom gone. Her son would grow up without a father, but she was determined he wouldn't go through it without every ounce of love and happiness she could provide.

As she parked the car and carefully made her way to the front door of Joan's house, the sound of whimpering and tiny barks squeaked through the door. She took a moment to take a deep breath, then cradled her baby bump through her thick coat. Tears prickled behind her closed eyelids as she whispered to her son. "Do you hear that, Thomas? Daddy can't be here with us, but right behind this door, is his present to you so you won't alone."

As if he heard and understood, her little boy stirred within her once more, gentler this time, and Kate wiped away her tears and raised her hand to knock.

Life goes on, she thought, and little joys were the most amazing things.

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Aleea lives in her imagination most of the time. It's an interesting place to be... Occasionally she can be coaxed out to chat on Twitter, though she finds it akin to torture to stick to that absurd 140 character limit. (@Aleeab4u)

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Aleea Davidson Week 139: Wither Part 18

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Wither Part 18

Glen shifted his stance, adjusting his balance as he twisted his torso so he could poke his head around the corner and peer down the dark hallway in the interior of yet another house. The glow from his half-dead flashlight revealed walls decorated with framed photographs, the weak beam bouncing off their dusty glass coverings and distorting the images behind into caricatures that seemed to wear mocking grins.

He could feel Mac close behind him, the man’s body heat almost welcome in the freezing cold. The air in the house was fetid; a combination of rotting garbage and the sickening cloy of decomposition coming from the carcases of two small dogs they’d found in the kitchen. The abandoned animals were curled up next to empty food bowls, waiting for meals that never came. Thankfully, the cold temperature kept the smells from overpowering the house. Glen couldn’t imagine what the stench would be like come spring.

Mac leaned in, his chest nearly hitting Glen’s back as he attempted to see around the corner himself. Glen had to resist the urge to jam his elbow into the man’s sternum. Body heat be damned—the guy stank of sour sweat, and his breath could knock over a cow.

“What are you waiting for, Glen? An invitation? Come on. Let’s get this over with. This dump is giving me the creeps.”

Gritting his teeth to keep from giving a sarcastic reply, Glen skirted the corner slowly. At this point he was sure the house was empty, but past experience made him cautious, and Mac could damn well stay behind him and follow his lead. He wasn’t about to get himself hurt or worse because the other man couldn’t control his impulsivity and nerves.

Mac should know better anyway. One of the first houses they’d searched tonight had likewise ‘seemed’ deserted. As Glen had mounted the stairs to reach the second floor, an elderly man appeared out of nowhere and rammed the barrel of a shotgun straight at Glen’s abdomen. The experience wasn’t something Glen was in a hurry to repeat. The next person might not be as inclined as that gentleman had been to save his bullets.

Working in grudging tandem with Mac, they gave the three bedrooms a fast onceover and poked their heads into the two bathrooms. Assured the house was indeed uninhabited, Glen whistled softly, his signal to Mara waiting downstairs at the front entrance that it was safe to join them. He listened as her footsteps hit the stairs and smiled when she joined them in the hall.

That’s what he’d done every time they’d repeated this pattern. Grinned at her. Like an idiot. The desperation of their situation didn’t matter to his lovesick, whipped heart. Wisps of her hair, imbibed with static electricity, escaped her thick knit hat, sticking out in crazy spikes. Her nose was red and runny from the cold, the coat she wore two sizes too big swallowing her small frame, and still she was gorgeous.

He reached up to cup her face, his ungloved hand finding the icy slope of her cheekbone and cradling it briefly.

“Everything still quiet on the street?”

She nodded, turning her head slightly to kiss his palm. Her lips were as cold as her cheek but her breath was warm. He hoped she hadn’t seen the dead dogs in the kitchen. More than a few of the houses they’d already searched contained deceased house pets. She had a tender heart, the animals former suffering affecting her on a visceral level. Hell, he’d wanted to cry a time or two himself. Luckily, they hadn’t stumbled on any human remains...yet. Glen knew that couldn’t last.

She stepped back, breaking contact with his hand, though she gave him a small smile as consolation. A sudden image from two nights before swam to the forefront of his mind.

Firelight flickering and creating a warm glow across Mara’s lovely goose-bump covered skin as she gave herself a hasty sponge bath from a bucket of tepid water. He’d laid on the bed, watching, waiting, wanting.

He turned to focus on his surroundings, trying to avoid the memory of events following her makeshift bath when she’d joined him on the bed, shivering and sweet and every bit as greedy for him as he’d been for her.

He needed to get his head out of his ass. The last thing he needed was a hard-on. Right then, what he needed was a fucking miracle.

Three hours, nearly half a dozen houses, and not one damn bottle of antibiotics found. Glen had always known people to be veritable packrats, especially with pills of any kind. Readily available, prescriptions tended to be filled, consumed by half, then tucked into a medicine cabinet or cupboard, forgotten about the second symptoms disappeared.

He guessed in the months following the first outbreaks of UV Intolerance, people latched onto those forgotten medicines, hoping in vain that the illness could be stopped with some version of the ever-magical antibiotic.

Mara moved past him and into the first bedroom, breaking his chain of speculation. She instantly began to rummage through the bedside tables and dressers. She paused for a minute, staring down at a row of paper dolls, cut perfectly into a chain and leaning against a lamp. Glen took true notice of the room’s contents for the first time and saw it would’ve belonged to a young girl. Perhaps one close to Teddy’s age. Riots of pinks and pastels bloomed under the weak wash of the flashlight, chasing away the illusion of non-distinct grays the heavy dark lent to every object. Rows of stuffed animals rested on a shelf, their black plastic eyes gazing at them flatly. He wasn’t inclined to agree with Mac about much, but the man was right. This house was creepy.

He watched Mara gently touch the paper dolls. A superstitious part of him he never knew existed, wanted to storm into the room and snatch the things away, like they might be some kind of portent, full of bad energy. When her brief touch caused them to slip away from their resting spot to lay flat against the painted wood of the nightstand, he nearly breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t pick them back up, and he was doubly grateful, even as he called himself an ass for letting nonsense churn up his head. If ever there was a time he needed to be practical and sane, this was it.

His thoughts returned to reality and he studied Mara. No longer looking at her through a cloud of love-lust, he took note of the pinched tightness in her expression and the paleness of her skin. She kept biting her lower lip, anxiety rife in the action, worrying the flesh until it looked raw. She sighed once then resumed her search, her efforts a little more frantic, a little less careful.

Glen understood how she felt. Time kept ticking away, growing the apprehension until it felt like a physical weight resting on his tired shoulders. Teddy being sick and not having access to medical help was only half of it. The state of this house and the others they’d searched tonight drove home the fact that this town wasn’t going to be a good place to be come spring.

Food was scarce, cupboards picked clean. The supplies he and Mara had stored would see them through winter, but then what? The grocery stores and pharmacies were barren wastelands. There was no sign any of that would change. No trace of the military, and more alarming, no sign of the government men and their black vans. As much as Glen feared being found by them, of being dragged unwilling to some warehouse for UV Tolerant guinea pigs, there’d been something reassuring at knowing some level of government remained. Since the warning from Ben that had sent Glen into hiding with Mara, he hadn’t spotted even one.

It shouldn’t be surprising. People were dying at an alarming rate every day; of course government people would fall sick as well. Less than one percent of the world’s population were suspected to have any level of immunity. True immunity? Well, who knew? Less than half of the one percent? A quarter?

And deaths were going to increase as the winter sank its teeth deeper. The bone-deep cold would take its own toll on anyone who lacked the ability to provide for themselves. Public services and support from outside sources appeared to be gone for good. People were banding together, creating zones out of neighbourhoods, trying to survive all while growing hostile to anyone outside their zone. It was only going to get worse.

Glen left Mara to her search and followed Mac into the master bath. Worries continued to crowd his thoughts, not the least of which was the fact he didn’t trust Mac not to pocket something they could use in order to keep it for himself. He was trying to keep a close eye on the man. The added pressure increased the growing feeling that he was being stretched too thin.

Glen hadn’t wanted Mac with them in the first place. Conniving bastard had seen them walking down the road and invited himself along. He hadn’t even bothered to try and pretend true concern for his nephew, merely shrugging when Mara told him what they needed and hoped to find.

Keeping Mac close, Glen hurried his search through the remaining rooms, and ten minutes later they left the house empty-handed. Glen took Mara’s hand. She looked in the direction of her house, her feelings clear.

“Do you want to go back?” Glen offered. “I know you’re worried. You can stay with the boys. Mac and I will keep searching.” The truth was he wanted her to agree, but not for the boys. He was a selfish prick, and he wanted her warm and safe behind closed and locked doors. He didn’t want her out here, in the unknown and the pitch dark, surrounded by the dead and dying.

Mara turned to face him and he saw the way her shoulders came up, chin lifting as well. He knew she wasn’t going to agree.

“No,” she shook her stubborn head. Glen didn’t understand how her bravery and determination could drive him mad and fill him with admiration at the same time.

“We can get through houses faster with all three of us searching,” she told him. “The boys will be okay for a little while longer.”

Mac grinned. “That-a-girl. You tell him. No niece of mine is going to act like a wilting flower in the face of adversary. Time is wasting. Let’s go.” He sounded chipper. Glen wanted to punch him. Instead, he tightened his grip on Mara’s hand and they headed down the street in search of another viable house to search.

If someone had told him this would be his life a year ago, he would’ve laughed.

He wasn’t laughing now.

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Aleea Davidson Week 137: Wither Part 17

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Wither Part 17

A draft worked its way around the room. The flames on the candles bobbed and danced, and Mara shivered. She wound the heavy knit shawl that once belonged to her mother across her shoulders. For a moment, she swore the scent of her mom’s favourite perfume still lingered in the intricate weave.

Mara brought a corner of the fabric to her nose and inhaled, but all she could smell was a mixture of wood smoke and the faintest tinge of soap from the hasty scrub she’d given herself this morning.

Mara shivered again, still feeling the lingering chill from those early ablutions, hastily done with a bowl of cold water and a washcloth. God, she missed steamy hot showers and long soaks in luxuriously warm bubble baths.

She missed a lot of things, if she was being honest. Her parents were number one on that list. A life with possibility, potential, and a future that didn’t terrify her, was a close second.

Was it really only a year ago she’d indulged in long walks in the park with her mom, a canopy of trees over their heads, the dirt path beneath their feet packed down and dry, sending little clouds of gray-brown dust up around their ankles with each step? It felt longer; a lifetime perhaps. Back then, their biggest worries with the sun had been wrinkles and the vague fear of melanoma. Mara could still remember her mother ordering her to slather on sunscreen. If only they’d known then what they truly needed to fear.

Pushing the melancholy that threatened to swamp her back down, Mara focused on her reflection, dim as it was. The weak lighting emphasized the shadows under her eyes and the hollowness beneath her cheekbones. Her hair was limp and needed a good washing. She’d have to warm water for a proper scrub down tomorrow. The boys and Glen probably needed one as well.

Mara sighed. She didn’t look forward to the task. Glen had dug an outdoor fire pit and scavenged several metal grates and bricks, creating a place to boil water and cook food. It was crude yet effective, and she was grateful to have it. Still, lugging water in and out of the house in heavy cast iron pots was hard, back-breaking work. She’d never realized how much water it took to fill a bathtub. Yet one more thing about pre-UV Intolerant days she’d taken for granted...

Maybe she and Glen could share the tub, lessening the amount of water they’d need to heat.

Warmth flushed her cheeks at the thought, part desire and part embarrassment. Intimacy was still new between them. It’d been a week since the night he’d finally taken their relationship to the next level. She guessed that’s what you’d call it. They hadn’t discussed it, nor had they defined what was between them with words.

Only touch.

And, oh, such lovely touch...

Mara pressed her hands to the sudden hot flush on her face, simultaneously warming her icy fingers and cooling the skin stretched a bit tighter than she was used to across her bones. Her eyes fell closed, remembering the night he’d led her to the bedroom.

He’d been so careful, maybe even nervous. His hands, big and solid, rough from endless chopping and stacking of wood, had trembled a bit as he’d undressed her.

It hadn’t been like the romance books she loved to read. She wasn’t sure if she’d expected it to be or not. It was better in some ways, she supposed. He’d made her feel cherished, important, desired. She hadn’t expected him to be so gentle and careful.

In between the glossy covers of her paperbacks, sex tended to be rushed and frantic, a little rough and crazy. The hero and the heroine desperately fired up and racing paragraph by descriptive paragraph toward a shattering mutual fulfillment.

Glen had showed her something quite different. Desire could be slow and crafted, nervous and fumbling, with giggles and awkward moments punctuated by the most delicious sensations. Smiles and caresses and yes, there, there, there...

Mara smiled, eyes still closed. She was much warmer with the memories playing out behind her eyelids, the chill of the air welcome as her body eagerly remembered each second.

There’d been a little pain, though not much. No fireworks, just the sweet closeness of holding him as he shuddered and groaned her name. Such an incredible feeling to give another human being that kind of pleasure—it hadn’t mattered to her that the sensations he felt had escaped her.

Fortunately for her, it had mattered to Glen. He’d held her for a little while afterwards, and that had been wonderfully nice, too. Then, with a determined look on his face, he set about to—in his words—“do better.”

And, oh, he had done better. Way better.

She opened her eyes in time to see the sly smile tugging her lips up at their corners. She bit down on her bottom one, remembering that those romance books hadn’t gotten it all wrong. There was sweet and tender and lovely, and then there was the shed in the backyard where they’d stacked extra firewood. Cold air and hot breath that fogged the one tiny window. Clothing shoved aside in only necessary places to save skin from freezing. A door that rattled in its frame as Glen pressed her to the wall and showed her that there was a time and place for desperate, fired up, and shattering mutual fulfillment.

Mara exhaled a breath she barely realized she was holding and shook her head at her reflection. She really shouldn’t be sitting here, indulging in memory. The boys were up. She needed to get them fed and doing something productive, like working on their math or reading. They’d want to help Glen instead, which meant she’d have to bribe them somehow.

She closed her eyes again, only this time for a different reason. From the other room, she heard the sound of Teddy coughing. A deep wracking, chest rattling sound that created a tight knot in her stomach, pinching off any desire she might have had for breakfast.

He sounded worse as she rose and hurried out into the living room. She found Glen, kneeling in front of Teddy, holding a cup of water and encouraging him to take small sips. Teddy was pale except for two unnaturally bright spots of pink on either side of his nose.

Smiling for his benefit, though she felt sick herself, she sat beside him on the sofa. She could feel the rolling heat radiating off his small body as he huddled deeper into the blanket draped across his shoulders. Glen had built up the fire so the room was toasty in comparison to her bedroom. The downside, unfortunately, was no matter how efficient the flu on the chimney, tendrils of smoke still managed to seep into the room, tainting the air that Teddy desperately needed to be clear.

Her gaze met Glen’s, and they shared the concern etching lines around his mouth as his jaw muscles clenched. He turned and forced a smile for Teddy as well. Jeremy hovered, looking equally small and concerned.

“There you go,” Glen urged, forcing the same fake smile as Teddy took a few more swallows without coughing. “Good job.”

Teddy grimaced slightly then turned to Mara. A genuine grin lit his face, his voice slightly rasped as he spoke. “Guess I’m too sick for math today, huh?”

Mara managed a laugh, hoping it didn’t sound as fake as it felt. “Well...” She pretended to think, and Teddy’s hopeful smile fell.

Part because she desperately wanted the smile to come back, she said, “Yes, I think we can take a break from lessons today.” At the resurgence of his smile, she quickly added, “Only till you feel better, though, okay?”

He nodded happily, then, as if the small interaction had sucked the energy out of him, he slumped back against the cushions and picked up the comic book at his side.

Mara rose and headed into the kitchen, telling them she’d get breakfast started. Glen followed. As soon as they were out of earshot of the boys, she leaned against the counter giving Glen a panicked look.

“He’s getting worse,” she stated. The cough had come on suddenly two days ago. She’d thought he seemed a little better yesterday. Apparently not.

“I think you’re right.”

“It’s pneumonia, isn’t it?”

Glen shrugged, but his expression gave away his worry. “We can’t know that for sure.”

“It’s something that can happen because of never getting out in the sunlight, Glen, you know it as well as I do. The vitamin D supplements aren’t enough. No sunlight. No fresh fruits or vegetables. No red meat. They’re getting weaker. More susceptible to illness.” She tried to keep her voice steady and failed. She swallowed hard, trying to resist an urge to bawl.

“Do you know...is there...a doctor out there, somewhere? The medical facility they set up when UV Intolerance first broke out had dozens of doctors. Surely someone, somewhere around here is left. They can’t all be dead, can they?”

Glenn stepped close and took her by the upper arms, squeezing gently. “Mara, shhh.” He glanced over his shoulder. As she took a grounding breath, reaching out to put her hands against his chest, she could hear the boys arguing amicably about their favourite comic book heroes.

“Listen to me,” he continued when he was sure the boys weren’t eavesdropping. “Finding a doctor is going to be nearly impossible. Maybe there are a few around, I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t know where to start looking now that there are no medical facilities running. You know how it was. The medical professionals and rescue workers took the biggest hit in the early days. They weren’t always careful enough. They fell sick in droves.”

She nodded. “I know.” She felt hopeless and fought against hysteria. “He needs antibiotics,” she said. Stating what was obvious made her feel better. It was a goal and she’d always been the type of person who needed goals. She refused to consider his illness might be viral and therefore beyond the help of medicine.

Glen drew her close, and she fell into him, relishing his warmth and the solid, grounding feel of him holding her tight. She was so glad not to be alone in this anymore.

“What do we do?” she asked

“We do what we have been doing,” he answered quietly. “We go out. We scavenge. There has to be some antibiotics somewhere in this town.”

She nodded, her head pressed to his shoulder.

“I’ll go now.”

Mara pulled back. “I’m going with you.”

Glen started to refuse, but she cut him off. “I know what you’re going to say. I should stay here and keep an eye on Teddy. And I’d agree, except I know this part of town better than you. Which houses are empty or most likely to have supplies. Where people might be alive or...gone.”

“You’re not going to do this without me, Mara. It’s nearly full dark. Survivors will be out soon, doing exactly what we are. You know what it’s like. Remember the town square.” Glen’s tone was firm, his grip on her getting tighter to the point of almost being painful.

“I know,” she said, smiling slightly when he looked surprised at her easy acceptance. “We can cover more ground together anyway.”

She glanced at the doorway to the living room. She hated the idea of leaving Teddy and Jeremy alone, especially right now. The choice, however, wasn’t acceptable. The sooner they left, the sooner they’d get back.

“We should ask Mac to help.”

Glen grit his teeth, clearly not liking that idea at all.

“I know you don’t trust him, Glen. Neither do I to be honest. But he’s been doing a lot of scavenging himself. Maybe he knows where we might find what we need.”

“Fine. We ask him.”

Mara nodded. “Okay. I’ll get the boys something to eat. Make sure they’re settled and then we’ll go.”

Glen stepped back and let her do what she needed. She instantly missed his body heat and the way he made her feel secure.

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed some bowls and the powdered milk, all the while praying they’d find what they needed, fast. The sound of Teddy having another coughing fit filled her with determination.

As long as there was breath in her body, she wasn’t going to stand around and let another member of her family slip out of her grasp.

She just...wasn’t.

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Aleea Davidson Week 135: Wither Part 16

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice:

Title: Wither Part 16

Glen was right. Mac was going to be a problem.

He added another log of wood to the fire blazing in the living room fireplace, singing a finger in the process, though it wasn’t pain that had his jaw clenched so damn tight he thought his back molars might crack under the pressure.

He jammed the poker into the center of the burning stack, shifting a few pieces so the new addition caught its fair share of the flames, and tried to think objectively.

Mac was out of the house. That was a good thing. Twenty-four hours in the man’s presence was enough. The guy was an abrasive, opinionated loudmouth with a sly demeanour. Glen had quickly discerned Mac saw Mara and the boys—and more specifically the house and its stockpile of essentials—as something he had a right to.

Snatches of his conversation with Mac the night before skipped through his head, the accusations the man had hurled making his temper flare hotter than the air puffing out of the chimney flue.

“Mara’s my niece. As her uncle, I have a responsibility to look out for her. I show up, find you here, all moved in, nice and cosy, taking advantage of a girl barely even a woman. You got what? Ten years or more on her? And you somehow think you can tell me how long I can stay? This ain’t your house. This is my brother’s house!”

It had taken every ounce of willpower Glen had not to punch the man in the throat. It didn’t help that Mac’s words pricked at a sensitive spot, making him wonder if there wasn’t some truth to them. He was a lot older than Mara. He had taken refuge here after finding out Government men were staking out the place he’d been living. By invite, yes, but still...

His plans originally had been to stay a few days, wait for whatever trail he’d inadvertently laid to grow cold. He’d seen less and less of the Government men in their black vans in the last year. Their numbers, like the rapidly declining general population, seemed to be depleting. It was unlikely they’d stick around for long. Their resources—gasoline, food, medical supplies to run their clinics—had to be running as low as their manpower. They couldn’t afford to spend weeks looking for one UV Tolerant man, no matter how few there were left in the world.

Whatever plans Glen had to move on once he felt it was safe were derailed by his growing feelings for Mara and the boys, the sense of responsibility he felt for them, the desire to help in any way he could.

He wanted to think his decision to stay was based purely on those altruistic motives, the truth, however, was he’d been lonely a long time...

So no, he couldn’t say there wasn’t a selfish side to his choice, but it wasn’t about taking hold of a house on the safer outskirts of town. It also wasn’t about the cache of food and supplies he’d personally helped scavenge to create the decent stockpile that would see them through the winter.

It was about Mara and the boys. Three people he’d grown to care deeply for...hell, he loved them, and no way was he going to allow Mac to take a single thing beyond the few essentials Mara felt beholden to give him before showing him the door.

Glen laid the poker down and stood. His knee joints popped in protest, making him feel every one of his thirty-two years. He splayed his hands out to the welcome heat from the built up fire, half listening to Mara as she read quietly to the boys on the sofa behind him. His thoughts were turbulent; a riotous mixture that wouldn’t settle.

Mac had left grudgingly after sunset, but he hadn’t gone far. He’d come back an hour after he left to inform them he’d decided to stick around, at least for the rest of the winter, and that he’d claimed squatter’s rights to an empty house a block away.

The Grant’s house.

Glen bit down a slew of curse words. Remembering Mara’s face turning a shade of white better suited to a corpse when she’d realized where Mac planned to stay, made his blood boil all over again.

He knew Mara continued to struggle with discovering the Grant’s and their young son dead in their backyard. A macabre picnic taken in the full light of day had purposely ended their lives, the scene leaving a scar on Mara’s heart that still hadn’t healed. Coming on the heels of witnessing a butcher in the town square put a bullet in his brain, Glen doubted it ever would.

He’d helped Mara bury the family at the sight of their final moments, the checkered blanket laid over their forms, the little boy’s toy action figures at his side, before they covered them with dirt. They’d said no words, offered no eulogy. It all seemed hopeless and sad, and so they’d simply returned home and tried to bury themselves in the day to day task of survival.

Mac hadn’t cared one iota when Mara told him about the family. He’d callously shrugged then let out a harsh bark of a laugh that made him sound like the ass he clearly was. “Well, that’s a good thing. No one is going to be showing up trying to kick me out, right?”

Glen’s fists curled, the memory of those cold words making him itch to commit violence. He didn’t like the feeling and tried to tamp it down. Funny. He used to consider himself a peaceful man. A professor. A scholar. Sure, in his younger years he’d been in a physical altercation or two...but that had been testosterone and reckless youth, not a true facet of his personality, or so he’d thought...

Day by day, the old him was slowly eroding away. He felt a coldness growing within that was disconcerting yet oddly welcome at the same time. He was beginning to realize to survive in this new world, he might just need it.

Closing the glass doors on the fireplace front, Glen turned and watched Mara settling the boys for bed. In their upside down world, dawn lurked right around the corner, signalling a backward end to the dark hours that made up their ‘days.’

Teddy and Jeremy had spent hours building a fort with blankets and towels around the couch, and they planned to sleep there tonight. With temperatures plummeting as winter looked to take a stronger hold, it made sense to transition them from their bedroom down the hall to this room. The usable living space in the house would shrink as the weeks got colder. There was only so much space a fireplace could heat.

Glen watched as the boys scurried inside, smiling slightly, feeling some of the anger dissipate as he listened to them squabble over who got to sleep on the “better” side of the fort. It hurt him to see the way Teddy’s bowed legs and stiff joints made the action clumsy and uncoordinated, but it also cemented the protective feelings he harboured. Mac—relative be damned—wasn’t going to get his hooks into this family. Glen’s family. It was just that simple.

He joined Mara, helping her fold a few of the discarded, unused blankets as the boy’s resolved their argument with a game of paper, rock, scissors and quieted quickly. She looked up at him when he took the last one from her hands and tossed it on the couch unfolded.

All night a weight of expectation had hung over them, Mac’s intrusion and subsequent behaviour further cementing Glen’s desire...no need...to take things with Mara to the next level. As if she’d sensed this, she’d been quieter than normal, watching him, waiting.

Glen was through waiting. He was certain she was too.

She looked at the blanket fort, biting her lip, a light pink tint to her cheeks as Glen took her hand and gave a gentle tug to bring her closer. He dropped his head and found her mouth, her taste a sweet explosion to his senses. She smelled like wood smoke and vanilla mixed with the faintest hint of female sweat. He wanted to touch her, make love to her, more than he wanted his next breath of air.

“They’re fine,” he told her when she darted another glance at the fort. He smiled. “Come to bed, beautiful nymph.”

As Glen led her to the bedroom, he didn’t miss the flash of nervousness that briefly showed in her expression. She wasn’t alone in the feeling, though he didn’t allow it to show. Her innocence was a gulf between them he’d have to cross with care.

Ignoring his nerves, and the worry that he didn’t have the sexual skills required to make her first time as close to perfect as physically possible, Glen let go of Mara’s hand long enough to light a few candles. A brief image of his wife momentarily threatened to break into the forefront of his thoughts. He pushed it away, ruthless in his resolve.

He’d loved Jen. He still loved her. A part of him would always love her. But she was gone, and he was here, and if the fucked up present time had taught him anything, it was this - happiness of any kind could not be squandered. He had to grab what he could and hold tight. Time wasn’t guaranteed to any of them, and the uncertainty of tomorrow only made the moment they lived in all the more precious.

Glen took Mara to bed, and he did his level best to make the world and its problems go away for a little while.

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Aleea Davidson Week 133: Wither Part 15

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Wither Part 15

Glen leaned against the house, giving the vinyl siding his weight as he crossed his feet at the ankles. His heavy boots thunked together as they connected. The sound seemed overly loud in the otherwise quiet of the backyard.

He drew in a deep lungful of the cold night air, his exhale a puff of white vapour, and he watched Mac light a cigarette. The crackle of tobacco igniting was familiar, reminding him of the way his father used to spark up his customary 'coffin-nail' after every meal. The memory created a wave of nostalgia and longing, triggering a lump in his throat.

Swallowing to ease the sudden constriction, he stared at Mac who was watching him with a shrewd, searching expression.

Mac exhaled a long stream of smoke, winced, spat, then glared at the glowing amber end. "Damn, that's stale." He shrugged and jammed the filter back between his lips, sucking hard. "Beggar's can't be choosers, I guess," he said, one side of his mouth kicking up in a lopsided grin that highlighted his swollen cheek and eye, the bruised flesh looking purple in the limited light from a crescent moon.

Glen stayed quiet. Mac wasn't growing on him any. Something about the man felt...off. As far as Glen was concerned, the sooner he moved on the better.

Mac looked around, inspecting the large stacks of cut firewood. "You got a pretty good set up here. Looks like you could ride out the winter easily enough."

Glen remained silent.

"You got water put away? No telling how much longer you'll have water. Systems probably automated, but now that the power's out, that won't last. Back up generators will fail soon. Seen it happen in a bunch of towns already."

He waited a minute, like he expected a reply. When none came, he sucked more smoke, hunching his shoulders against a sudden cold breeze twisting around the house.

"Well. If you haven't, you probably should, just sayin'."

He laughed a little, quietly amused by Glen's reply that came in the form of an arched brow. "Guess you don't need the advice, right? Anyway, it looks like you'll be okay. At least as far as food and shelter go. The rest...well...I'd say you've got some tough choices to make."

Glen shifted his weight as Mac drew on his cigarette, blowing out smoke rings and superiority. It was clear Mac had a point he wanted to make, but he was taking the long route to get to it.

He switched topics, though Glen wasn't sure if they were getting closer or farther away from the Mac's reason for asking Glen to join him outside.

"Noticed there's been some recent fires around midtown. Guess you got lucky the weather stayed wet, kept them from spreading this way." He flicked ash to the ground near Glen's boots, then jammed his free hand into his pants pocket, shivering slightly.

An awkward silence stretched out, like Mac was trying to goad Glen into a reply by matching his silence.

It didn't work, so Mac cleared his throat and scuffed the sole of his right shoe across the damp grass he stood on, looking like a scorned little kid. That is if kids had jaws like bulls and fake dispositions.

Glen felt a wave of impatience hit. "All right, Mac. Let's get to it. What do you want?"

"Who said I want anything?"

Glen ignored that. "You want to stay for a day or two? I'll talk to Mara, see if she's agreeable. Beyond that, we can give you a few essentials, some water, food to last a week or so to take with you. Other than that..." Glen purposely left the sentence open-ended, holding his hands out to the sides to convey there was nothing else.

He was grossly conscious of the cold weight of his gun tucked into his waistband, nestled tight against the small of his back as he waited for Mac's reaction to the limited offers. His gut was tight, and his mouth tasted sour. That he felt the need to have it on him around someone who should've automatically been welcomed and respected, didn't sit right at all. Didn't help he kept thinking of his limited supply of bullets and how it'd be a waste to have to use any on someone like Mac.

Once upon a time the idea of using a gun to threaten or show force would have been unthinkable. Those days were in the past. Glen just hoped to hell he never had to pull the trigger...

Mac's eyes narrowed. "Appreciate the offer to stay. Been on the road a long time."

"A night or two," Glen reiterated, keeping eye contact, loathe to offer even that much.

Mac finished his cigarette then dropped the butt, grinding it out on the ground. Glen grit his teeth when it looked like Mac intended to leave the smashed end where it landed.

"Guess a few nights is better than nothing." His tone clearly revealed he thought otherwise.

Glen nodded and then decided he was done conversing. "I'll talk to Mara, make sure she's okay with it." He turned to head in, but Mac stopped him.

"Before you do that, we should probably discuss what exactly you think you're doing with my niece, and why exactly you think you have any say or authority when you're basically a squatter in my brother's house."

Glen stopped in his tracks. The uneasy feeling he'd harboured for Mac since the man picked himself up off the floor, and Mara had realized who he was, ballooned. He'd hoped it was wrong, that he was just being paranoid, but when he turned back around to face Mac again, the man's set jaw and rigid stance, hands balled at his sides, told Glen everything he needed to know.

Mac was going to be a problem.

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Aleea Davidson Week 129: Music Man

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Music Man

(A/N - Wither will return next time around.)

.....

You say you're beat down tired, right straight through your bones. Lost in the rhythm of a life gone wrong, chasing a high that burned you out. Wanna lay your weary body in the long cool grass and hold something pure. Something just like her.


Your soul is a wasteland, weeds choking everything fresh and new. Your garden is a desolate space, parched for something clean and right. Think you can drink her on down and find yourself a little peace.
You're searching for release.

You hear her sing a cappella, and you itch to find her melody. Stroke it out on the chords of your six-string, let her sing-song take you away. Wanna tangle up in her lyrics and kiss, rub, taste every word, shiny new.
Make her croon sweet for you.

But she marches to the beat of a different drummer, death metal playing in her head. You see her sway to your homespun groove, thinking you hear angels sing. It's only hellfire packaged sweet; that girl's burning up inside.
Got her own kinda healing to find.

So pack it up, pack it in. Nothing here for you.
Pack it up, close it tight. Take that higher road.
Pack it up, pack it in. Move on music man.
Go on, take the long way home, again.

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Aleea lives in her imagination most of the time. It's an interesting place to be... Occasionally she can be coaxed out to chat on Twitter, though she finds it akin to torture to stick to that absurd 140 character limit. (@Aleeab4u)

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Aleea Davidson Week 127: Wither Part 14

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: One

Title: Wither Part 14

Glen sat with his arms resting on the table, watching the man Mara claimed was her Uncle Mac hold a partially frozen bag of peas to his face. He suspected they’d be eating those same peas later at dinner, though the thought was a little nauseating considering the state of the man’s cheek. It was swelled to twice its normal size and beginning to sport multiple hues of black and blues that reminded Glen of abstract paintings. The kind where artists smeared an array of watercolours across a canvas in haphazard ways that when done right were oddly hypnotic and evocative. Done wrong, they looked like what was growing on the puffed up face in front of him.

Glen wasn’t much of a fan of abstract art, and so far, he wasn’t much of a fan of Mac. Something about the man...

Mac moved the bagged peas higher, whistling a whiny breath through his gritted teeth as he did so. The plastic had begun to sprout little beads of condensation, and Glen was pretty sure the moisture and the bumpy little vegetables inside couldn’t have felt all that great, despite their numbing temperature. As far as Glen was concerned though, he was lucky they had anything even partially frozen to offer with the power out. Luckier still, they hadn’t thrown him out on his ass.

The jury was still out on that one, however, at least as far as Glen was concerned.

He blinked tiredly and fought back a yawn, reminded of how he’d only gotten an hours sleep before he was rudely awoken. The darkened room didn’t help his level of alertness, either. At Mara’s insistence, Glen had replaced the board over the window in case one of the boys woke up and decided to get curious. According to his watch, it was half past noon, and though Mara had several of the oil lamps lit, the light they provided was dim in comparison to the former brilliance of what had looked to be a spectacular late fall day.

Christ, he missed daylight.

Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, he shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had fallen when Mara left the room to get the first aid kit.

“So,” Glen said, picking the thread of conversation back up where it had left off. “You came here from Stenton, Mac?” There was a skeptical tone in his voice he couldn’t quite repress. He wasn’t sure he bought Mac’s song and dance about his arrival, and it showed. “Long way to come on foot.”

“Well, I didn’t solely come on foot. I hitched a ride a few times with some of those so-called military folks. Most of them seem to be just prowling around these days. Probably not a lot of higher ups around to tell them what to do anymore. It wasn’t hard to barter a few canned goods for the privilege of parking my ass for a bit.”

Glen nodded, though he wasn’t necessarily buying the story. In his experience, what was left of the military wasn’t comprised of men and women who were prone to be overly friendly or helpful. He also doubted they’d be randomly driving around out there, not with gasoline being harder and harder to come by.

“The small base they had set up here cleared out a few weeks ago. No warning, no word. They all just packed up and left. Can’t quite figure out why or how.” Glen chose to leave his suspicions unvoiced, but it was clear Mac picked up on something by the way he blew out a breath and took a long minute to answer.

“The why’s probably easy enough to figure,” Mac said finally. “Nothing here to stick around for. No supplies coming in. As for the how...well...travels a bitch for the UV Intolerant, but not impossible.” The eye not covered by the packet of Green Giant peas narrowed slightly as he stared back at Glen, conveying his own suspicion. “They move at night, and they either find shelter in whatever city they move through or hunker down in their jeeps and trucks, keeping them covered with these huge black tarps. Most of their windows are painted out, except the windshield.”

Glen nodded again, tapping his fingers against the table, restless, still slightly claustrophobic. “You said you got an email from Mara’s dad?”

“That’s right. Joe, my brother,” he added with pointed emphasis. “He sent it right when things started to come about with all this sickness, back when you could still count on the internet. Told me the boys and their mother had it, but he and Mara were up to that point immune.” He scratched at his neck, grubby nails scraping over a little blood from his wound and a whole lot of dirt. Judging from the smell of him, Glen suspected it had been awhile since he’d been anywhere near a shower.

“Why would my father email you?” Mara stepped back into the kitchen. She dropped the medical kit on the table and frowned at Mac. “I mean no offence, Uncle Mac, but I know you and Dad weren’t exactly close. I haven’t seen you since I was a kid, younger than Jeremy and Teddy are now.”

Mac pulled the frozen peas away with a slight hiss and set them on the table with a soggy thud. Glen had to fight not to grimace at the mess Mara’s bat had made. Mac’s eye was starting to swell and would probably be sporting the shiner of all shiners by tomorrow.

“Guess when the world is falling apart and everyone is dying around you, you start seeing old grievances in a new light.” He tried to give her a smile, flinched, and settled for a head shake. “Look. I know my visit is a surprise, and I shouldn’t have broken in, but in my defense, no one is where they’re supposed to be anymore.”

He glanced at Glen then back at Mara. “I hit dozens of places on my way here, looking up friends, acquaintances, anyone I thought might still be around. Damn near every time I thought I’d found people I knew, I learned they were dead or moved on. Hell some of the houses and apartments where they’d lived were taken over by total strangers who didn’t react kindly to me poking around.” He pointed at his cheek. “This isn’t my first go around with getting my lights knocked out.” A half grin formed then quickly fell away to be replaced by another wince.

“So you broke in here why?” Glen asked.

Mac settled back in his chair. The light of the oil lamps picked up a few gray hairs at his temples, but otherwise it was clear to Glen he had to be a younger brother. The black sheep of the family, obviously.

“I got into town late last night. Saw you,” he answered, motioning to Glen, “outside cutting wood. Didn’t see anyone else. Suspected maybe my brother had taken Mara away. From what I’ve seen of this town, there isn’t many resources left here. It just made sense, especially since he’d said they were the only two who hadn’t gotten sick. I figured the boys and your mom were de...gone, Mara. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “It seemed logical.”

Glen reached out and took Mara’s hand without thinking about it, simply wanting to offer comfort when he saw the flash of pain alter her expression at Mac’s words. “Why not move on then?” he asked, giving a slight tug to bring her closer to his side and looping one arm around her waist. She leaned against him, seemingly grateful for the contact, and Glen watched Mac’s one good eye narrow again, mentally digesting their new close-fit position.

Mac’s gaze settled on the arm Glen had around Mara, his lips pinching in under his scruffy beard. “Looked like you got a decent set up here. Supplies are hard to come by right now. In this day and age, you can’t blame a guy for looking to help himself, can you?” He switched from staring at Glen’s arm to his face. Before either Glen or Mara could react to the fact Mac had just declared himself a thief, he continued. “You should have better security going on. Just saying.” This time his lopsided smile had a decidedly cocky, gloating edge to it.

Glen heard the audible click of Mara’s jaw snap shut. For a long minute no one spoke. There was a challenge in Mac’s expression as he continued to stare directly Glen. It wasn’t easy to take. Glen could feel himself getting pissed off, even as he had to take the implied insult to heart. He had clearly failed to properly protect Mara and the boys, and that was a bitter pill to swallow. He wanted to flatten the gloating bastard as guilt left an ugly taste in his mouth. Only the fact Mac was a relative of Mara’s kept him in his seat.

“You know what, Uncle Mac?” Mara said, breaking the tense silence, an unusually syrupy inflection in her voice.

Mac turned his head to her. He seemed to puff up a little at the implied warmth of her tone. “What, darling.”

She smiled, leaned forward slightly, and said with quiet seriousness, all the saccharine sweetness vanishing. “I should’ve hit you harder.”

Glen couldn’t help himself. As Mac’s mouth fell open, he gave Mara’s waist a squeeze and grinned like an ass. His little nymph was a spitfire. A surge of heat hit him, and inappropriate as it was, the thought occurred to him that the moment he got rid of this uncle, he was taking Mara back to bed.

And even though he was tired, he didn’t plan on either of them sleeping.

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Aleea Davidson Week 125: Wither Part 13

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: One

Title: Wither Part 13

The second Mara opened her eyes, she knew something was wrong. The fog of sleep normally present when she woke up was oddly absent. She’d been dreaming about the library she used to visit as a young girl with her mother. The stacks of book had seemed so high to her back then. She used to daydream about climbing them. Mountains of words to be conquered like Everest.

Her limbs tingled with a rush of confused awareness, and she sat up, trying to use sight to discern what had her suddenly alert and failing. The bedroom was pitch-black, something she never seemed to get used to despite living nearly a year with boarded up windows. She fumbled for the lamp on her bedside table, her fingers uselessly flipping a switch that drew no power.

The electricity had shut off a week ago, intermittent outages giving way to seven straight days without so much as a flicker. Reaching for the lamp was more muscle memory than actual hope the power was back on. Mara muttered a curse under her breath, changing the course of her fumbling fingers in search of the long-handed lighter so she could light a candle. She found it just as a hand splayed across her lower back, and barely muffled a loud squeak of shock as her mind caught up with reality. Glen’s presence was new enough she’d nearly forgotten he was sleeping in her bed.

Sleeping being the operative word. He was insistent they take things slow, despite her inadequate attempts to convince him otherwise. If she wasn’t on high alert, still trying to figure out what had woke her, she might blush at how inept she’d been so far with seduction. There’d been sweet, hot kisses and touching—lots and lots of teasing, frustrating touching—but no sex. In his mind, he seemed to think they had all the time in the world...which was ridiculous. Considering everything he’d lost, he should be the last person to believe time was on their side.

“Don’t light the candle,” Glen said, interrupting her thoughts, reminding her there was far more important things happening that didn’t relate to her frustrated libido. His voice was pitched low, the caution in his tone sending a shiver down her back. Whatever had her awake had obviously woken him, too. Her thumb slid off the button that would’ve ignited the lighter’s tiny flame, and she half turned toward him.

“What...?”

Glen made the universal sound for shut-up directly in her ear, and slid out of the bed on his side. The sound of denim sliding up his legs reminded her that the infuriating man chose to torture her by wearing nothing but boxer shorts to bed, despite the cold that permeated the room. November had settled in with a chilly bite, winter right around the corner. Only fear of running out of firewood before spring kept Mara from keeping flames blazing in the fireplaces while they slept. She lamented that even more right then, since it would’ve been nice to have the flickering light.

Something in another room banged, and she jolted to her feet, grateful she’d lost her nerve last night and put the slinky nightie she’d considered wearing back in the drawer. Her baggy sweatpants and thick, long-sleeved t-shirt hadn’t helped any in her effort to convince Glen to put aside his annoying morals, but at least she didn’t need to stumble around trying to find clothes in the dark.

Plus, if she was about to be murdered by intruders, better she wasn’t wearing something that might give them other...ideas.

Her heart plummeted into her stomach as another thump came on the heels of a scuffling noise, like something heavy was being dragged over the floor.

Logic told her it could be Jeremy or Teddy. Though they both generally slept like logs through the brightest of the daylight hours, it was possible either of them could be up.

Something else told her it wasn’t likely, and that something else had her reaching for the baseball bat she kept beside the bed. Its solid weight in her hands offered a little comfort, and she worked to even out her breathing as she heard Glen come around the bed, feeling him rather than seeing him when he stopped at her side.

He pressed something into her side. “Take this.” He spoke even quieter than before, telling her he was thinking the same thing about it not being the boys out there. She took what he offered, the fingers of the hand that didn’t have a death grip on the bat sliding over the shape, trying to figure out what it was.

A switch knife, still encased in its holder. One-handed she flipped it open, her thumb testing the length and sharpness of the blade even as her stomach gave a sickening twist at the idea of using it on anyone.

The feeling lasted only a second. If it came down to it, she’d do whatever was necessary to protect her boys. When Glen gave her waist a brief squeeze, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that went for him, too. He leaned close, his breath in her face a little sour yet warm and reassuring. She wasn’t alone.

“Stay behind me, Mara. Right behind me, got it?”

Mara nodded, then remembered he probably couldn’t see her any better than she could see him, and breathed a quiet yes.

She snapped the switchblade shut and jammed it into her pocket, deciding it wasn’t much use unless fighting got up close and personal. Until she knew what she was dealing with, the bat seemed the best bet...

Glen moved, and she did her best in the dark to fall in behind him as he cracked the door slowly open.

. . . . . .

The glow of a flashlight created an arc of light that swept past the doorway leading into the living room. The air was chilly in Glen’s nostrils as he forced himself to take slow silent breaths. Each inhale brought the smell and taste of cold ash from the fireplace.

His grip on the gun he held was too tight, and he purposely relaxed it. He didn’t need to accidentally shoot Jeremy or Teddy, though he damn well knew it wasn’t them creeping around. The flashlight created a new arc, this time leading into the kitchen. Something made an odd thud, like someone bumped into a piece of furniture maybe?

Mara nearly collided with his back when he stopped, his head swivelling to take in the dark hallway. He could just make out the door to the boys bedroom, hopeful the fact it was closed tight meant they were both fine. He shifted and reached behind him, holding Mara where she was, listening for any more sounds so hard he thought his ears might pop from the effort.

Another scuff, like booted feet trying to move stealthily across hardwood floors. Heart in his throat, something akin to the feeling of anger starting to curl his guts, Glen turned toward the kitchen and moved fast, hoping surprise would be on his side.

He nearly slammed into a chair that had been moved when he rounded the corner, gun at the ready. The intruder, someone he could now see was definitely not Jeremy or Teddy, spun at the noise Glen inadvertently made.

“Stop right there and don’t move,” Glen barked, raising the gun. He felt his entire body settle, all his jitters vanishing, the adrenaline in his system slowing to a crawl. In that moment there was no question what he’d do to keep his family safe, and in that moment it was likewise clear that’s exactly what Mara and Jeremy and Teddy were to him. Family. A second chance. One he’d hold onto with every fiber of his being no matter the atrocities he might have to commit to do so.

The flashlight in the man’s hand hit the floor, and his hands came up fast, like he understood exactly what was in Glen’s mind.

“Don’t shoot. For God’s sake, don’t...”

Mara stepped out from behind Glen, swung the bat, and levelled the man where he stood. He hit the floor with a dull thump and a deep groan before going still.

The flashlight rolled across the floor, creating weird shadows as the spinning light refracted off all the shiny appliance surfaces. It came to a stop when it encountered one of the legs from the chair Glen nearly tripped over, it’s beam pointed at Mara.

She looked at the shadowed hump of a man she’d just whacked over the head, then over at Glen. A sheepish shrug and a slight grin answered the quirked eyebrow he raised at her in incredulous question.

Mara turned to retrieve the flashlight, and as she passed he grabbed the bat from her hand, unsure what she might do if he left it in her clearly capable hands. He knelt by the intruder as she spotlighted him in the bright white beam from the safety of the far end of the kitchen, confirming with certainty what Glen had noticed just before she’d knocked the guy flat. He wasn’t armed. No gun, no knife, not even a bat of his own. Just the flashlight with batteries that seemed low on juice.

Glen looked the man over. He wouldn’t be surprised if his jaw or cheekbone had gotten cracked. There was a nasty split in his cheek, blood trickling from the rapidly swelling flesh in a thin current, making a gory little pool as it collected in his ear. His eyes were rolled in the back of his head, but he groaned again, letting them know he wasn’t completely unconscious.

Mara started to squat beside Glen, but he stopped her. “Check on the boys,” he said, and she was off like a shot as he’d known she would be. “Keep them in their room. If they’re awake, don’t let them out here” he added, quickly rising and going to the window. He felt around the thick board until he found a groove he could get his fingers into, then jerked, putting his back into it. The wood came free, taking skin from Glen’s fingers with it. He recognized it shouldn’t have let go so easily. Apparently it was true what they said about a person becoming stronger than normal in times of peril. Either that or the damn board wasn’t as secure as it should have been. Regardless, Glen got what he was after as brilliant UV light flooded the room.

He looked back at the man still slumped on the floor, his eyelids fluttering like he was trying to get them all the way open and finding the muscle function needed wasn’t inclined to be cooperative.

Mara came back into the room. She looked pale but her lips were set in a steady straight line. “The boys are fine. Still asleep, thank goodness...” Her eyes widened when she noticed the window and all the light.

“Glen! He could be UV Intolerant. You’ll kill him!”

Glen almost laughed. That she’d be worried about sunlight getting to someone she’d brained with a baseball bat only a few minutes ago was funny, but he also knew he was in the middle of dumping a serious amount of built up adrenaline. His mental state probably wasn’t too stable. He cleared his throat instead, using the sight of her, unharmed and beautiful despite the pinched mouth and white complexion, to ground him and steady his nerves.

“If he’s skulking around breaking into houses in the middle of the day, I doubt he’s Intolerant, nymph.”

She blinked at him, then nodded before moving closer to the guy to perform her own inspection. The second she got close, a frown began to pucker her forehead. She stopped in her tracks, and her hands flew up to her mouth as the man turned his head, slowly coming back to the land of the conscious.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “I know him, Glen. I know him. He’s my uncle!”

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Aleea lives in her imagination most of the time. It's an interesting place to be... Occasionally she can be coaxed out to chat on Twitter, though she finds it akin to torture to stick to that absurd 140 character limit. (@Aleeab4u)

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Aleea Davidson Week 123 Posts: Premonition

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: One

Title: Premonition

A/N In celebration of Halloween yesterday - and the deliciously creepy photo prompts - I’ve chosen to step away from Wither. Mara and Glen will return next time around, and we’ll see if the new beginnings of love can survive in a dying world. Thank you to those who are reading. I hope you all had a spooktacular Halloween.

Aleea

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I stare at the dated and faded picture often. Four girls, best of friends, ready for Halloween fun. Me, decked out in my native girl costume complete with bow and arrow. Suzy and Betty with their hilarious interpretations of Mickey and Minnie mouse, happy and laughing. And of course, beautiful Jeanine, stunning as a sexy witch, outshining us all as usual.

We were barely out of high school, just into our freshmen year of University, high on ourselves and our perceived infallibility, full of unsuppressed energy and high on life. We started our night with drinks in our dorm as we donned our costumes, taking turns primping in front of our one full length mirror.

It was Suzy who got the crazy idea to drag out a Ouija board she swore belonged to her grandmother, though we all thought it looked cheap and plastic, like she bought it from the local five and dime. Suzy was always full of tall tales, amusing us even though we often rolled our eyes with scepticism. She ran around lighting candles, convincing us a séance would be a great idea, asking the dead to tell our futures.

The flimsy plastic planchette had a warp in it, making it lean to the left side of the board. Drunkenly, we asked whatever spirits might be around to answer the standard questions. Would we graduate? Would we be rich? Would we fall in love with handsome doctors who would adore us and shower us with gifts?

Jeanine grew bored. Typical for her. She lay on her side on the floor in a sex kitten pose she didn’t have to work at. She sat up, put her fingers on the planchette, and dared to ask the unthinkable.

“When will I die?”

“Oh my God. I can’t believe you asked that,” I said, endlessly shocked by Jeanine’s devil-may-care attitude. I was equally impressed and repulsed by her audacity on a regular basis in those days.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby.” The planchette twitched, and her eyes widened as it squeaked across the board, slowly spelling out a date. That days very date.

We all accused her of doing it on purpose. She wouldn’t confirm if she did or didn’t, but her features seemed pinched with tension, her complexion pale. Later, I’d think about that and wonder if things would’ve been different if any of us had really pushed her for the truth. Would it have changed anything?

Our big plans for the night were to visit a haunted house set up on the outskirts of town, but I tell you now, I wasn't keen to go. Newspapers had been spouting headlines about three missing girls from a neighboring city. They'd only found one of them. Well, pieces of her… I didn’t think it was a great idea for four girls to be out and about, all alone on Halloween night of all times.

It was out of my comfort zone for sure, but I think I ended up agreeing because I was mad Jeanine flirted with a boy I liked the day before, even though she knew I was interested in him. Out of all of us, despite her bravado, she tended to be easiest to scare. Sneak up on her and she’d be the first to squeal and jump out of her skin. The thought of her possibly peeing herself of fright felt like a little deserved retribution. I can admit I could be a bitch in those days, full of jealousy and insecurities.

We made it there just before midnight, the setting eerie - all shadows and bare tree branches extending like claws to rake at the night sky.

I went in first with Jeanine. I still remember how hard she held my hand, the clamminess of her palm against mine, but my memory becomes fuzzy after that. There were flashing lights and creepy displays. Fake sheet ghosts that howled and shook cheap plastic chains. We screamed, giggled, and rounded a corner, our hearts in our throats despite the cheesiness.

I can't describe him perfectly, but I know there was a man waiting there, standing in the shadows. He was tall and big, dressed in black with a hood covering his face. He scared the bejesus out of me. Terrified, I let go of Jeanine and ran back the way we came, sure she was right behind me. I mean, why would she linger?

I found Suzy and Jennifer, but...Jeanine never came out. Later, the police told us the people who ran the haunted house swore they didn’t hire anyone to play the part of a black-hooded man lurking in the corner. He was never found. Neither was Jeanine, though we know the police had their suspicions, all surrounding the other missing girls.

I’ve learned to accept I’ll probably never know what happened to Jeanine, but right up to this day, I wonder what might have happened if I kept holding her hand instead of letting her go. Would she have found her way out with me, or would we both be in pieces somewhere, waiting to be found.

I think it’s better I don’t know.

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Aleea lives in her imagination most of the time. It's an interesting place to be... Occasionally she can be coaxed out to chat on Twitter, though she finds it akin to torture to stick to that absurd 140 character limit. (@Aleeab4u)

#DailyPicspiration

Aleea Davidson Week 121: Wither Part 12

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Wither Part 12

Glen stood at the kitchen sink watching a thin trickle of water sluice away the dirt from his hands. A little blood from a nick at the base of his thumb added a rust coloured hue to the swirl of liquid being sucked down into the drain’s slurping maw. His shoulders and arms ached, muscles unused to swinging an axe already protesting the abuse. He flexed them gently, testing for sensitivity, wondering just how sore he’d be tomorrow. He decided he’d do; no real harm done.

A good thing, too, considering the other worries taking precedent in his thoughts. He added a touch of soap to his ministrations, ignoring the burn it ignited in his cut, and focused on the concern most present in his mind. Water. Right now the toilets still flushed. Turn the taps on and a healthy gush of the stuff readily flowed. It was clear and clean, but he knew, like the electricity that grew more sporadic and unreliable by the day, that couldn’t last.

He glanced around the tidy kitchen with its homely collection of mismatched oven mitts and a tea-pot comically shaped like a rooster, and mentally ran through everything he knew about the town’s water treatment plant. It didn’t take long. His knowledge was sadly basic; not that it mattered. It wasn’t as if he could drive out and run the filtration systems all by himself…

“Are you okay?”

Glen looked up, startled from his thoughts. Mara had a tendency to move silently, and it wasn’t the first time she’d caught him unaware. She stood in the doorway, a vivid red apron covering her gray sweater and faded jeans. Her hair was twisted up into a messy ponytail, flyaway tendrils skimming her high cheekbones and gracing the arch of her elegant neck. An animalistic, all-too-male urge to dig his fingers under the elastic, yank it free and inhale the scent of her shampoo while he laid her down on the linoleum, hit him like a sucker punch.

He cleared his throat unnecessarily and averted his gaze to the kettle, taking note of the absurd way a small puff of steam escaped the beak.

“We should start boiling all the water we use for cooking and drinking,” he said, tipping his chin in the direction of the rooster. “I think it’s free from contaminants right now, but who knows if anyone is still working at the treatment plant? Or how long the system will hold up...”

“Glen, you’re bleeding.” Mara came to him, reaching for the hand he was drying with the dish towel she’d left out. He looked down, surprised to see splotches nearly the same colour as her apron soaking the striped cotton.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling the towel away and inspecting the slice in the meaty pad of his thumb. The process of washing had evidently opened the wound. “I wrecked your towel, Mara, sorry.”

She made a fizzing, snorting kind of noise, oddly delicate and endearing considering the emotion of impatience and disdain it clearly meant to convey. “It’s only an old cloth, Glen. Here.” She picked the towel back up and took his hand in hers. Her fingers were too cool and smooth to account for the warmth he felt where her skin touched his. Pressing the fabric tightly to the wound, she looked up at him, pretty eyes tired in appearance.

“I’ve been boiling the water for a while now,” she admitted, jerking her chin toward the large plastic jug with the side spigot she filled daily and kept on the counter within easy reach for the boys. She shrugged. “I figured better safe than sorry, you know?”

Glen nodded, not surprised by her admission, only surprised by the lack of attention on his part that caused him to miss the fact. In the six weeks he’d been here, he’d learned Mara was resilient and smart. And when it came to her brothers, she was protective and determined. It made sense she’d err on the side of caution.

The electricity flickered, went out, then came back on. They both stared at the overhead light fixture, as if they could keep it on by sheer force of will. Daylight was only an hour away, but with the windows covered in thick sheets of plywood, the interior of the house became oppressive and claustrophobic. Sparse candlelight and the weak glow of oil lamps turned low did little to push back darkness that thick.

When it appeared they were going to be granted a temporary respite, Glen gently pulled his hand away. He thought he caught a flicker of longing in Mara’s expression as she watched him tend to the cut on his own, as if she liked touching him as much as he liked it.

“I have some Band-Aids and a first aid kit upstairs,” she said.

“It’s fine. It’s stopped bleeding.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a hero. I might even have a few superman ones left.” Her lips quirked in a smile that made his chest hurt. The humour was forced, but the way it lit her somber expression crept right under his diaphragm and made it difficult to breathe. When she turned, he caught her arm.

“Stay. We need to talk.”

She went still, yet didn’t turn around to face him. Her sweater was soft, her arm and back stiff.

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“What?”

She spun, whirling on him, apron flaring, eyes seeming to spark. Paler than before, he realized she seemed angry.

“Leaving,” she reiterated sharply. “Are you leaving?”

He frowned. “Who said anything about leaving?”

“It’s been six weeks. No one has come looking for you. Neither of us have seen anything suspicious during our trips out. If the government men were looking for you, they’ve probably given up by now. Nothing is holding you here.” She waved a hand around, agitated. He noticed a smattering of dried black and orange paint on her wrist, cracking and flaking off with every jerk.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked. Between her sudden mood change and disconcerting question, he was having a hard time grasping the thread of her meaning. It didn’t help that he was suddenly wondering what the hell she could’ve been painting with orange and black paint.

“Of course not!” she snapped. “I’m not going to stop you though. If you want to go, go.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. Breasts he tried valiantly not to notice and failed.

“Mara...”

“You don’t owe us anything. We’ll be just fine without you. I can take care of myself and the boys just fine, in case you haven’t noticed. I was doing it before you came into the picture. I’ll keep doing it after you leave, too.”

Frowning, Glen felt a sudden jolt of irrational irritation because everything she said was true. Since he’d been here, he’d witnessed how strong she was. The shelves crammed with non-perishable food and necessities she’d scavenged for and stockpiled were proof if he needed. Not to mention the blankets, and firewood, and even a small supply of medicines—antibiotics, pain-killers, first aid supplies.

In truth, he felt nearly useless in the face of her self sufficiency, resorting to acting out the position of handyman in order to feel like he was earning his keep.

“I don’t get where this is coming from,” he said, and it was the truth. “I’m not here because I think I owe you anything, Mara. I’m here as your friend, and because you asked me to stay. I don’t think the government men are still looking for me, at least not actively, there aren’t enough of them left to hang around for long, but I’m not exactly eager to go back to where I was staying before and possibly put myself back on their radar, either.”

Mara dropped her arms and rubbed at her face.

Aware of Jeremy and Teddy in the other room arguing amicably over a board game, Glen lowered his voice and took a step closer to her. “Hey,” he said gently. “If you want me to go, I will. But I don’t think that’s what this is about. Talk to me.” He dared to reach out and pry her hands away from her face. He half expected tears, instead, she stared at him crossly.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said with a sigh. “I’m scared. The fires. I’ve been trying to think all day about what I can do, where I can take the boys if those fires burn this way. How I cant take them. It’s made me realize that I’ve invested all this time believing we could...I don’t know...hunker down here. Wait this out. Like a cure is around the corner. Only, I’m beginning to realize how naive and stupid that is.”

“There’s nothing stupid about you, Mara.”

She shook her head. “The Grant’s are all dead.” At his blank expression, she explained. “Remember? I told you about them when you first came here with me. They live one block over. I grew up with their daughters.”

“The white house with the big porch.”

She nodded, relaxing a bit, like the fact he remembered mattered to her on some fundamental level he hadn’t yet grasped.

“You said the daughter’s were gone, but they still had a son,” he prompted.

“Yes.”

He noticed her hands felt colder. He let go of them and turned to grab the rooster kettle, grateful the water inside remained hot, though he felt kind of silly holding it. She had a mug on the counter with a tea bag inside. He doubted there was much tea left in the soggy little satchel of leaves, but he poured water over it anyway, then lead her to the table, urging her to sit. She wrapped her fingers around the cup, thanking him.

The way her shoulders hunched in made him feel helpless. If Mara was his wife, he would have filled her head with platitudes and outright lies that everything would be fine. She wasn’t though. She didn’t want or need him to sugar coat the situation they found themselves in. It didn’t hurt him to admit Mara was stronger than Jen, a whole different breed of woman.

He watched Mara suck in a deep breath, girding herself perhaps. “I went there yesterday. When you were sleeping.” She took a sip of her tea, no hint of apology in her tone or demeanour. She was independent to a fault. He scowled, prepared to point out the error of her actions. She didn’t let him. “Let me finish, then you can tell me I shouldn’t have.”

He didn’t want to find her cute, so he bit his tongue to stave off a smile and nodded.

“They have several apple trees in their yard. I thought maybe they wouldn’t mind if I took some, if there were any left. They don’t know I’m UV Tolerant so I was being careful.” She closed her eyes momentarily and swallowed. He thought she appeared paler.

“I walked around the house, and when I got to the back I found them in the garden, under one of the trees. All three of them.” She picked up her mug, and her hands shook, sloshing weak tea over the rim. “They’d set out a blanket and a picnic basket. A bottle of wine and a bottle of Pepsi. There were G.I. Joe action figures and a package of Hostess cupcakes.” She set the mug down and covered her mouth. She didn’t cry, but he could see the horror and sadness she was trying to repress.

“They did it on purpose,” he said for her, knowing the truth of it before she nodded weakly. “They went outside, set up a picnic, and let the sun poison them.”

Mara stood up, shoving back her chair, and carried her mug to the sink to dump the tea she couldn’t stomach. Glen watched her lean against the counter, like her knees were weak. His didn’t feel any better, and he was grateful for the chair under his ass.

“I’m sorry you saw that,” he said, hating that was the best he could think to say. He’d seen it himself more times than he wanted to think about. A lot of people were giving up.

“I’ve thought about it,” she said, her voice pitched so low he barely heard her. He rose from the table and moved behind her, reaching out for to take her shoulders, torn between shaking her and holding her.

“Don’t do that.”

“I can’t help it. I’ve thought about it, even before I saw them. How easy it would be to give up. To take the boys outside and let them play and how it might be better, easier than this. I thought about it again today. I was painting pictures of jack-o-lanterns with the boys because they probably won’t have pumpkins to carve this Halloween, and I thought about it!” She turned around and stared at him. “I’m terrified, Glen. I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said.

She shook her head.

Something in Glen gave in at that moment. He allowed himself to cup her face. “Look at me,” he told her. “You’re not alone in this, Mara. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She blinked, and he could see the weariness she fought, the loneliness.

“Why?” she asked.

He grinned and dropped his forehead to hers. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?” he asked. She shook her head. “I have a thing for brave, strong women with ridiculous rooster kettles.”

Then he kissed her. For real this time.

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Aleea lives in her imagination most of the time. It's an interesting place to be... Occasionally she can be coaxed out to chat on Twitter, though she finds it akin to torture to stick to that absurd 140 character limit. (@Aleeab4u)

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