Bone War

War is brutal on everyone and no one more so than the family of those lost in battle. This war has gone on longer than most families with three generations of children can remember. It’s gone on for so long and tradition has taken such a hold on their daily lives that many have taken to calling it the Bone War. And the reason can be a bit unsettling.

The first bone I ever received is now a part of my fireplace. Insignificant to the untrained eye, but as I built this house, bone by bone, I know them all very well. It was given to me by an elderly widow. Her only son fought in the war and died. In those days there wasn’t any time to bury the dead so they were cremated. Then a strange thing happened. I know because I’m often called upon to collect the bodies and start the fires. There would always be one bone from all the rest that would not catch fire. Not one scorch mark would the flames leave. The widow stood beside me and watched her son’s body burn. When it was over and the shiny bone, possibly from the leg, I’ve never really been sure, was left on the ground, she picked it up and handed it to me.

“Keep it,” she said. “Remember my boy.” And then she was gone. I knew I would never see her again. But she must’ve told everyone of what happened because before too long I was having the bones of men who fought in the war left on my doorstep while I slept, or handed to me while I worked in my garden. Suffice it to say, I don’t work in my garden anymore. At least, I don’t grow flowers. Difficult to grow something so beautiful in a house made of death.

I live at the top of the highest mountain. I decided to live here, build a home here, when my son was killed in this endless war. I wanted to escape. Be alone. But this war had other plans for me. Instead I became the collector. Of stories. Of death. Of bones. Pretty soon I had more bones than I cared to count. What I did next was out of necessity. Also, I found myself caring for the lives that once came from these bones. I tore down my own house and built another. This one is much stronger and I am sure will last till the end of my days, which I’m sure are drawing near.

My home is made of bones. Each one unique and important. From the floor I stand on, to the roof the covers my head, and the walls that protect me from the howling winds at night. They are my children and it is their stories I’ve chosen to tell in this book I like to call my Bone War Diary.

Then a knock on my door, not unusual for me as I receive visitors at all hours of the night, changed my life forever. A child stood on my doorstep, no taller than me and I had begun to shrink several years ago. She was panting from the climb, out of breath and shaking. The bone stuck out from a nap sack she carried on her back. I could see its shine in the moonlight.

I ushered her inside so she could warm herself by the fire I had just started. She didn’t say a word, only watched me as I brought out two cups and a pot of hot water for some tea. We sat together in silence, watching the flames flicker.

“Are you alone?” she asked. Her voice so soft as if she’d never spoken before.

“I am, yes.”

“Are you sad, being alone?”

No one had ever asked me that before. Usually when I receive visitors wishing to leave the bone of a loved one in my possession they tell me their most fondest memory and then leave. I couldn’t recall ever being asked such a direct and personal question before. I found myself, for the first time, at a loss for words.

“I am alone now,” she continued, not waiting for my answer. “It was just us. Me and my younger brother. Now it’s just me.” She shifted her nap sack from her back and set it on the floor between her legs. A tear fell from her cheek as she looked down at the bone of her brother. She wiped what tears she had left, took a deep breath and looked around the house, noticing it for the first time.

“How old was he?” I asked. I find if I ask a simple question it makes it easier for them to open up and tell me what they need to get off their chest before leaving. It’s not that I didn’t want to hear her fondest memory of her brother, it was just that she unsettled me for some reason.

“My brother? He was only sixteen.” My expression gave me away and she continued, “The war has taken so many lives. It has become necessary for the younger ones to fight. At least, that’s what my brother and I were told when they came and took him away.” She turned her face away but I could see her wiping away tears.

“I hate the war,” I said. It was my first time expressing an honest opinion to another human being since I took on this profession I never asked for. “It’s the reason why I am alone.” She looked at me with her red swollen eyes and my heart broke for her. “My son, you see. I have a bad leg. Always have. So I couldn’t fight. But him? Oh, he couldn’t wait to get out there. He believed in it. But now, all these years later, I can’t say I remember what this war is all about.”

She nodded, agreeing with me. Then she slowly removed her brother’s bone from her sack and held it out to me. I took it, preparing myself for its weight but it seemed almost weightless. I examined it closely and hoped she didn’t find this odd, but I couldn’t help it.

“Where will you put him?” she asked. Another question no one had ever asked me before. She had a curiosity about her that reminded me a lot of myself when I was her age.

“I don’t know. I like to spend more time studying each one I’m given before I make my decision.” I could see her scanning the four corners of the room and I have to admit, her curiosity had gotten to me. “Where would you put him?” I asked her.

She stood up and walked over to the fireplace, admiring the mantel. She put her hand on the bone in the center and turned to me. “Your first?” she asked.

My jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

“It’s where I would put my first. Someplace where I can see it, admire it, from anywhere in the house.” And she was right. That was exactly why I placed it there. “If it’s alright with you, I think I’m going to stay. I want you to teach me.”

There was a long pause before I answered, “I don’t think I’d mind. Being alone together.”

Happy Last Day

Mrs. Johnson lived in a modest home complete with a backyard, dog and twin boys. Just inside the worn picket fence she was busy in the backyard, hanging the decorations in preparation for her sons’ birthdays the following afternoon. While she balanced precariously on a teetering chair, she could hear her sons laughing and running around inside. The dog, Russ, slept on the back porch, his eyes slowly closing as he soaked up what little sun was left to the day.

Through the back door, past the kitchen, and in the living room sat Bobby and Jimmy playing rock-paper-scissors. The best three out of five would determine which one’s turn it would be to hide while the other tried to find them. So far they were even, having each won two rounds. Bobby thought he knew his twin brother’s every move, so he was stunned when he left his balled fist in play, making it a rock and his brother opened his fist to cover his with his paper. Bobby hates hiding. He was never any good at it and his brother would always find him in record time, even if he counted to one hundred! But there was little Bobby could do. Rules were rules. And while Jimmy covered his face with his hands beginning to count out loud, Bobby rushed to his feet and ran from the living room. His mind raced with possibilities of where to hide. He skidded to a stop in the kitchen and looked out the window to see their mother nearly done with the decorations. He smiled with excitement at all his friends who would be coming over. More of them meant his odds of having to hide decreased. Then he heard it, a familiar sound that made him spin in place.

It was over two years ago when they had a walk-in freezer installed on the side of their kitchen. Mrs. Johnson was always buying things that she claimed would save them money in the long-run. This freezer was her most prized purchase. And anytime she had company over she would tell them of the miracles that freezer has created for her. All the money she saved and how when the “big one” hit, they would all be fed for months if not an entire year with all that freezer space. She also cautioned both of her son’s to stay clear when she wasn’t around. But Bobby was desperate to find a hiding place where his brother would never find him and straining his ears towards the living room he heard his brother getting dangerously close to twenty-Mississippi, when he would uncover his eyes and start his search.

Bobby slowly pulled open the freezer door, heavier than he expected. He looked over his shoulder out the kitchen window, happy to see his mother had her back turned. He slipped inside and let the door slam closed with a click behind him. He shuddered from the cold and wished he had thought to bring a sweater with him before walking into the freezer. He slid down against the door so that just in case if his brother should try to peek through the small window of the freezer he couldn’t see him.

When Jimmy was done counting he jumped to his feet and proclaimed to the entire house in a loud voice, “READY OR NOT, HERE I COME.” He quickly ran upstairs to begin his search. As the house was relatively small, there were few places for Bobby to hide and therefore it was easy for Jimmy to search them all in record time. He burst through the bedroom they shared together, the door swinging open so violently it nearly shook the house. Jimmy stood in the middle of their messy bedroom and listened for the sound of his brother giggling. Bobby could never contain his giggles whenever he was close to being caught. Sure that he couldn’t hear a thing he checked under the beds and the closets just to be safe. When they were cleared he made his way down the hall to their mother’s room. Risky to hide in there as she hated when they entered her room without her permission, but he knew how much his brother wanted to remain hidden, at least until their mother called them for dinner, which was going to be soon.

Jimmy opened the door slowly even though he knew his mother wasn’t inside and poked his head through a crack in the door. Her room was dark with just a hint of light coming through her thick black curtains. She only had two pieces of furniture in her room; a mattress in the corner and a vanity where she would sit to apply her make-up. Their mother only spent money on them or things around the house that would save them money. As she felt nothing that would go in her bedroom would be a money saver she felt a mattress was all she ever needed. This left her closet. Both Jimmy and Bobby had been in her closet before and a chill ran up his spine at the thought of going anywhere near it. While most mother’s would just have a closet full of clothes, their mother’s closet was only half full of clothes. The other half was a shrine to their dearly departed father, her husband, and a voodoo god she claimed was the reason he was taken from them so suddenly. The last time Jimmy could remember sneaking into her closet to hide during a game of hide-and-seek with his brother, the smell of blood made him give up his hiding place before he could be found as he ran from the closet screaming. Luckily, their mother was out doing the shopping, buying up as much meat as she could to store in her newly purchased freezer at the time.

Jimmy shook his head. He knew his brother was desperate to hide but he also hoped he wasn’t that stupid. He closed her bedroom door and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he reached the bottom he put his hands on his hips, resolved to find him quickly. The sun had set and he could hear his mother walking through the backdoor to start plating dinner. He ran out the front door to check the bushes; no luck. Then he sprinted around the house to the backyard. It was possible that Bobby decided to risk being seen by their mother and Russ in the hopes that they wouldn’t give his hiding place away. Jimmy bent down and gave Russ a scratch behind the ear. He surveyed the yard, watching closely as the wind blew the tablecloth on the two rows of folding tables their mother had already set up. He couldn’t detect a person hiding underneath them.

Jimmy started to panic. His brother never hid this well before. He got to his feet and did something he’d never done before, he called out his brother’s name.

“Hey, Bobby, come on now, I give up.” He craned his neck in the hopes he’d hear his brother running towards him from wherever he was hiding but all he could hear was the familiar sound of plates being placed on the dinner table in the kitchen.

“Jimmy. Bobby. Dinner time, boy’s. Time to cut out the play-time.”

Jimmy’s eyes went wide as he looked towards the backdoor and he gulped as he thought of what to say to her. He walked through the door and sat at the table, careful to avoid eye contact, then he heard the familiar sound of the freezer and a glimmer of hope shone on his face. But it was quickly dashed when he remembered their mother’s rule. Bobby would never break that rule.

“Where’s your brother?” she asked. “Where’s Bobby?”

Jimmy looked up, his eyes wide with fear as his bottom lip trembled. “I don’t know, ma. We was playin’ hide-n-seek like we always do an...an...I can’t find him,” he answered, bursting into tears. They were fake but he hoped his mother would feel sympathy enough for him not to blame him if Bobby did go running off somewhere.

She slammed her fist into the table as the thought of her son being in danger came over her. “What?” she blurted. “How long has he been missing? Are you sure you checked the whole house?”

“I don’t know, ma. I counted to twenty Mississippi’s like I always do when we play. I looked all over. Wherever he is, he ain’t here.”

“Come on,” she said, grabbing Jimmy by the ear and hoisting him to his feet. He yelped as she dragged him from the kitchen out the front door and to their car parked just out front. “You better hope he’s okay, boy. Now, get in.” Without another word she started the car and it screeched as it pulled out of the driveway in search of Bobby.

It was nearly four hours later when Jimmy and his mother returned home. The make-up on her face was smeared from crying her eyes out to the police. Her son was missing and she needed their help to find him. They promised they would do all they can and suggested she return home in case he should show up sooner or later. She couldn’t bear to look at Jimmy. After all, he was the splitting image of Bobby. Instead, she went right to bed and stayed there until the doorbell rang the next morning.

She rose with a start, remembering the party! She glanced at her clock and realized it was already well into the afternoon. She had overslept and Jimmy hadn’t bothered to wake her up. She stormed out of her room and banged on the door of her twin boy’s but there was no answer. Her heart sank as she thought the worst. Jimmy ran away because he blamed himself. But when she heard his voice downstairs greeting those who had just rung their doorbell. She ran her hands across her face to try and wake herself up and noticed streaks of black on her fingers. She had fallen asleep in her make-up from the night before. She didn’t want to alarm the guests who were invited for a birthday party, so she ran into the bathroom to freshen up as best she could.

When she got downstairs she found everyone that was invited had arrived. The adults were talking to each other and their children were playing. She caught the eye of Jimmy and he promptly excused himself, running towards his mother who stood in the door frame of the backdoor.

“Don’t worry, mom, I didn’t tell them. I just said he’s not feeling well and you don’t want him to get anyone else sick so he’s going to stay in bed today. They bought it,” he said, whispering the last part. She managed a slight nod that she understood what he had just said. “Everyone was asking about the cake. They remember the one you baked last time, and—”

“The cake!” she said, striking her forehead with the palm of her hand. She had forgotten it in the freezer! With everything that had happened she neglected to take it out the night before so it would be fresh. She rushed to the freezer and yanked the door open. She quickly put her hand over her mouth to cover her scream as her son, Bobby, fell back and hit the ground with a thud. Jimmy saw him too and knew instantly he was frozen to death. “Go out there and don’t let anyone in the house,” his mother said, trying to get him to stop staring at his dead twin brother. “Jimmy!” she shouted and he snapped out of it instantly. “Close the door, son.” He did as he was told, turning back to the guests, none of whom had bothered to look towards the backdoor. If they had, they would’ve seen the scene that Jimmy was having a hard time erasing from his memory.

The guests left soon after they arrived, disheartened that the cake was not properly thawed for consumption and wishing Bobby a speedy recovery. Jimmy could hardly say a word to them as he closed the front door on their exit. Once they were all gone he watched in silence as his mother proceeded to carry his twin brother’s body out of the freezer and into the backyard. She sat him in one of the lawn chairs and started digging a plot near the house. Jimmy didn’t speak a word when she placed a blanket into the hole she managed to dig several feet deep and then laid Bobby’s body down. As she started to shovel the dirt back in the hole, covering his brother’s body, he could stand no more and went to bed. There would be no dinner eaten that night.

The next morning Jimmy woke to the sound of his mother humming a song. The last time he heard his mother humming was the day their freezer was going to be installed. She said it was the second happiest day of her life. The first being the birth of her twin boys. As his mind raced with why she would be so happy he made his way downstairs.

“Bout time you joined us, Jimmy. Your brother’s already had two helpings of eggs,” his mother shouted up to him when she heard his familiar footsteps on the stairs. He stopped when he reached the bottom and gripped the railing in disbelief at what he heard her say.

“If he’s not coming to breakfast, can I have his eggs, mom?”

“Of course you can, son.”

Jimmy listened to the sound of his mother scraping eggs from the frying pan onto a plate. He gulped. Was that his brother’s voice? It had to be. But how? He wanted to burst into the kitchen but was afraid. All he could see was the way his brother looked when he was laying on the kitchen floor. His eyes frozen open, his lips purple.

“Where is that brother of yours? Jimmy, are you coming to breakfast? The cake is thawed now. You and your brother can each have a piece.” Jimmy shook his head, unable to speak. The last thing he wanted was cake! He heard her footsteps walk across the kitchen floor and his heartbeat raced. “There you are,” she said, her hands on her hips. “Why can’t you be more like your brother? Up early this morning with an appetite. I swear, sometimes I think he got the good genes between the two of ya.” Jimmy ran out the front door and spent the rest of the day as far away as he could from the house.

Once the sun set, Jimmy knew he had to go back home even though he regretted what he would find. The house was completely dark and he felt a bit of relief. He reasoned with himself that his mother was in denial of what really happened to Bobby and is not fast asleep. He hoped she would make more sense in the morning. He opened the front door and started to climb the stairs.

“Jimmy, would you come in here, please.” His mother’s familiar voice stopped him on the first step. She was sitting in the dark in the living room, waiting for him. He lowered his head and did as he was told, afraid to even look at her. She turned on the lamp beside the chair where she sat, illuminating her face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes. “You worried your brother and I half to death. Where have you been all day? Just because it’s the summer doesn’t mean you can just run off without telling me where you’re going. And you left your brother behind.”

“Mom—”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking. You are grounded. You will stay in your room till I tell you you can come out. Is that understood?” Jimmy nodded. “Now go to bed.”

Jimmy turned to leave but stopped. There was a question he just had to ask but was terrified of what her answer would be. He straightened himself up and with his back to his mother he asked, “ma, is Bobby in bed?”

She didn’t answer right away and it scared him. “Yes, but he’s in my bed. We didn’t know if you’d be home and he was tired. Didn’t want to sleep in your room by himself. I told him he could sleep with me tonight. I see no reason to wake him now that you’re back.”

Jimmy ran upstairs to his bedroom. Whatever was wrong with his mother would have to wait, he was just happy to be home. He also wanted to confirm for himself that his mother really was in denial. Their bedroom window overlooked the backyard. He slammed the bedroom door closed and slowly pulled back the window curtain. What he saw made his stomach twist in knots. The hole where he watched his mother bury their brother was dug up. The room began to swim and he thought he was going to throw up. Was it possible that he wasn’t really dead? But how? Why?

His mind stopped racing when he heard his mother’s footsteps outside his door. He rushed to it and turned the lock on the door slowly, hoping she didn’t hear it lock as she walked by to her bedroom. He listened as she walked into her room and heard her door close. He was more than confused, he was scared. What would it mean if his brother wasn’t really dead? He saw him with his own eyes. The fear soon turned into an exhaustion he could no longer fight and he laid down on his bed, leaving his clothes on.

The next morning Jimmy’s eyes opened wide, but he couldn’t move his body. He looked around and realized he wasn’t lying on his bed anymore. The ceiling was silver with a bright light shining in his eyes. He tried to breathe but struggled to take a breath. He wanted to sit up or even move his limbs but he couldn’t. His eyes moved to the left and focused on a large piece of roast before he lost consciousness.

Mrs. Johnson brushed dirt from her clothing and leaned the shovel against the house as she walked through the backdoor. Two months had passed since her twin boy’s eighth birthday and she felt like things were finally getting back to normal. She listened to the boys in the living room laughing as they watched a cartoon on the television.

The doorbell rang while she washed the dirt from her hands in the kitchen.

“Coming,” she shouted from the kitchen, wiping her wet hands on an apron hanging from a hook in the kitchen. When she passed the living room she said, “Now, you boys keep it down in there. I can hardly hear myself think with all that laughter.”

“Yes, mom,” she heard them say in unison before she opened the door to find a policeman standing on her doorstep.

“Yes, officer?”

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Sorry to disturb you, but there’s been a complaint from one of your neighbor’s and I’m afraid I’m going to have to check it out. Would you mind if I come inside?”

Mrs. Johnson’s eyes twinkled as she smiled sweetly to the officer. “Not at all, but mind you, don’t you go bothering my boys. They’re in the living room watchin’ some god-awful kids program.” The officer entered the house and was immediately met with the smell. He tried not to let it show as he walked towards the living room. He couldn’t hear the TV because as he soon discovered, there was none in the living room. Just a coffee table, and a couch. A couch on which sat the corpses of twin boys. Their body’s beyond the point of decay.

“Now, boys, what do we say to the nice policeman?”

The Invitation [TDP #01]

Elsie Sinclair: Last Living Dinner Party Guest

With a deeply saddened heart I must tell you that Elsie Sinclair passed away in her sleep. She is survived by no one as she lived her life for the film. Having never been given top billing, her work in front of and behind the camera will forever be remembered. Most notably she will be remembered as having spent time, that fateful day sixty years ago, at the Manor House. As the last known living guest of record she was sought after relentlessly for information. But what happened that night at Manor House has now died with her and the mystery will forever remain unsolved.
I slammed my fists down on the hardwood table, regretting my choice almost instantly. The Manor House had always been a story of legend. A night only a dozen got to experience and now, with Elsie dead, one that will never be shared. I had been following the lives of every single person who received an invitation to that house, everyone in the business of news and entertainment did. There was a time these few mediocre actors were the cream of the crop in Hollywood, just because they were invited to a party! And while everyone wanted to know about the party, I was after much more than that. The true story was about the man who owned the Manor House.

Simon Travers was not a college graduate. He had no wife or children to speak of and his parents were tragically killed in a plane crash when he was just a boy. These facts are all I have been able to find about Simon Travers. His birth certificate has eluded me still to this day, so I can’t speak to his age. There is only one photograph of the man I found from a former family friend. Just a boy in the picture, he definitely looks like someone destined to be great. And great is an understatement to what Simon Travers became. Through family channels I’ve yet to unravel, Simon was taken into the confidence of many in Hollywood. For a time he was seen as some sort of good luck charm. Whatever he told them to do, they followed, and without question his suggestions became the stuff of Hollywood dreams. He is credited with single-handled lifted Hollywood to the fame it reaps today.

And when a man like Simon Travers sends you an invitation to attend a small dinner party in his home you don’t question it. As far as anyone knew at the time, he had never had a dinner party at his home. He has been known to entertain the odd guest or two at his home, but for the most part, he conducted his meetings over the phone or through letters. When the invitations were first leaked all of Hollywood and the media were abuzz with questions: Whom did he invite?

And when we all slowly uncovered who were invited our next collective question was an obvious one: Why?

None of them were A-listers. Many argued they weren’t even B-listers in the acting community. All eyes turned to these dozen who at first were revered for being recognized at all. But that notoriety quickly turned to hatred and jealousy. Not just by the media but by their friends, family and colleagues. I wasn’t surprised when I continued to follow their lives and careers to discover many of them turned to alcohol, a few took their own lives, and then there was Elsie Sinclair.

She fully embodied just what a man like Simon Travers could do to help and hurt just about anyone. Elsie Sinclair tried her best to ignore the sneers and the constant questions thrown at her. She refused, for a time, to hide away like the others had. She was engaged to be married and was rumored to finally have a shot at a co-starring role in a movie that today is still the highest grossing. Instead, her fiance left her and the role was given to someone else. A woman, I’m not ashamed to say, was highly undeserving of the role. It was too much for anyone to endure and Elsie was no exception. But she was stronger than Simon Travers or anyone gave her credit for. She died of old age, as anyone should have the right to do. But I still have questions.

Why these people? Why did Simon Travers choose them? Did he know that in doing so it would ruin their lives? Is that why he was never seen again after the party. Perhaps the guilt was too much even for a great man such as himself.

I left the cursor blinking on this obituary I started writing about Elsie Sinclair and quickly deposited a cigarette to my lips. I could see the flame shake as my hand did but managed to sneak a drag before I was forced to extinguish the match with a half-hearted wave. I needed some air.

The window was already open, curtains hanging wistfully in the air. I needed more than air. I needed space to breath. Suddenly my studio apartment was feeling smaller than it already was. I grabbed my jacket and pulled open my front door. There it was. If not for my name written in gold on the envelope I probably wouldn’t have noticed it. A crisp black envelope taped to my black apartment door is hardly noticeable but I knew what it was.

I blew a puff of smoke in its direction, then looked around the hallway as if expecting to still catch whoever delivered it. But surely they were long gone by now. I reached up for it but my hand lingered just inches away. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket instead and carefully yanked the envelope from my front door, careful not to bend it as I carried it into my apartment and placed it on my coffee table. I must’ve sat there staring at the sealed envelope for a long time because eventually someone knocked on my apartment door which I had left wide open.

“Lou, are you in here?”

I can only imagine the fear that must’ve been in Sally’s mind when she found my door wide open. Her voice, as it always had a habit of doing, brought me back from my trance but all I could manage was a smirk as I pointed down to the envelope on my coffee table.

Her facial expression read elation and dread that came in waves. She knew what it was, what it contained. I watched her as she carefully closed my front door and sat beside me. I waited for her to say something. Anything. Until she did we were both in a dream. It had to be. There was no other explanation and we both knew that.

“Have you opened it?” she finally said. I still couldn’t find my voice as I shook my head. “Well,” she continued, rubbing her palms up and down her legs trying to rid herself of the heebie-jeebies that we were both feeling. “Until you do we can’t be sure it is what we think it is. I mean, it could be—”

“Yes?” I said, a hint of begging in my voice. Sally always presented me with common sense and reason when I needed it most. When it came to the Manor House, the Dinner Party and especially Simon Travers, I always needed reason. She looked at me. Expressionless but sad. “Yes?” I asked again.

“Open it, Lou.” I shook my head at her again. Stood up and walked two steps into my tiny kitchen, hardly big enough to fit a man of my size. I opened my refrigerator and extracted a can of beer, holding another up to Sally who waved it away. “Don’t you have something stronger and more fitting to the occasion?”

“That’s just it. Is it an occasion? Or is it a hoax? We’re both thinking it, aren’t we?”

“You have to open it, Lou.”

“You open it,” I said quickly, wondering if I should’ve. I might never get an opportunity again to receive or open such an envelope. But my palms were much too sweaty and my hands still shaky.

She lifted it with her long, slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Short and clear polish as always. It was why I hired her when she came to me five years ago. I could never abide the stereotypical female assistants with their long blonde hair, short skirts, and hell-fire red fingernails sharp enough to slit a man’s throat. Sally was perfect. Pretty, but not too pretty. And smart. Smarter than me at least. Plus, she shared a fascination for answers about Simon Travers that almost surpassed my own. We were made for each other.

She flipped the envelope over to reveal a small blue wax seal. I grabbed two lowball glasses and my half empty bottle of Johnnie Walker and returned to my seat beside her.

“Was there any mention of the envelopes being sealed this way?” I asked her, scanning my mind back to that time. I was a child at the time and it was my mother, her fascination with the stars, that made this story something we followed in all the papers. I credit her with my current newspaper man profession. If she were alive today she’d be just as surprised as I am now to find such an envelope in my possession. I could see her scrapbook across the room beside my laptop on the dining room table which doubled as my office desk but I didn’t want to get up just then. She started that scrapbook, filling it with all the clippings she could get her hands on about Simon Travers and his grand Dinner Party. While she was obsessed, living in a dream world, my father walked out on us both. I took a job as an errand boy with the local newspaper and the rest is history.

“Not that I remember. Should I get The Book?” she asked me. The Book was what she called my mother’s scrapbook. It served as our evidence log and what we referenced the most. While others claimed to be fanatics of the legend that is Simon Travers, they had to visit a library or search the internet for articles we possessed firsthand.

“Leave it for now. Open it,” I ordered. Enough time had passed and taking a sip of Johnnie I was ready. The slow burn down my throat relaxed my shaking hand enough to take a drag from my cigarette I left burning in my ashtray.

Sally carefully raised the seal and it came free easily. She turned the envelope over again and slowly pulled the crisp white stock card from inside. We both recognized the familiar lettering and black foil on the corners. She pulled it free completely and held it up between us to inspect closer.

Shortly after the original Dinner Party, at a secret auction my mother found out about, it was rumored that an authentic invitation from the Dinner Party would be up for bidding. For my mother this was the opportunity of a lifetime and one she would not miss. When she came home giddy with excitement, the card encased in a frame, it was to an empty apartment. I was at school and my father, fed up with her obsession, knowing she was about to spend what little money they had on what he considered a useless piece of history, packed his things and left. She died penniless, but she left me her scrapbook and the framed invitation, prominently displayed on the one bookshelf I own. As this was in arms reach from where I sat, I reached over and grabbed it from the shelf, holding it up beside the invitation Sally still held up.

Our eyes passed back and forth between the two, checking everything from the size of each to the letters and finally the wording. The one I received differed slightly from the original in only one area. Instead of stating their required presence as the original had, the one taped to my door read:

DON’T COME AS YOU ARE
COME AS YOUR FAVORITE
MOVIE STAR

“Clever,” I said, setting down the framed invitation on the coffee table. “What do you make of it?” I asked Sally. Her opinion was about the only one that ever mattered to me. If she gave it any credibility then it would be worth exploring.

“What do I make of it? That’s not the question I’d be wanting an answer for right now, Lou.” I downed the last of my drink, snuffed out my cigarette and folded my arms, waiting for her to continue. “I should think it would be obvious by now.”

“So, you think this is for real?”

“I think I much rather know who your favorite movie star is?” she asked, a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.

Happy Eater

Chef Kim entered the kitchen of his restaurant promptly at 3:45pm, like he always did, and the staff immediately stopped what they were doing, like they always did. He demanded perfection in his kitchen. From their attire down to the stone floors. He would fire anyone who dared enter his kitchen with dirty shoes or without their head completely covered by a hat or cap. Hands were to be washed immediately and often. And most of all, there should be no blood.

La Viande (The Meat) was known for serving up protein not easily found in other restaurants. His meat went beyond what game hunters could get. In fact, he’s been known to turn away excellent ostrich and alligator. If he didn’t catch, slice and dice it himself, he wanted nothing to do with it. This was common knowledge by the staff and even the customers. Everything was prepared by Chef Kim alone, at night, when the last customer has eaten his last bite and the staff have all gone home. This is when Chef Kim gets to work.

On the following day the staff arrive promptly at 3pm to nothing short of a crime scene. Blood, and only blood, is everywhere. Splattered on the walls, puddles along the floor. But there are never any bones. Nothing to suggest the animal that gave its life for the evening’s menu. It was up to the staff to get rid of the blood and they only had 45 minutes to do it, before Chef Kim would arrive to begin prep work.

He had gone through many members of staff. Some were squeamish and others asked too many questions about where exactly all the blood came from. Chef Kim wasn’t in the business of answering questions. And when a chef of his caliber could get customers willing to pay him hundreds of dollars without themselves asking questions, there was no wonder where his arrogance and his secrecy came from.

On this particular morning, he stood in the middle of the kitchen and took in a deep breath. Blood was a smell he could easily detect if not cleaned properly. He did this twice, sometimes even three times, until satisfied there was no blood, at least that he could smell. He would start his visual search in the walk-in freezer, accessible only to him and his assistant chef, Lydia. The freezer needed a four number passcode in order to get inside and he needed to entrust one member of staff to assist him whenever he needed more portions to be brought out for cooking. What amazed Lydia the most was his ability to know exactly how many portions they needed, so that the meat in the freezer would always be used to the last portion for his customers.

Chef Kim scanned the freezer and smiled to himself at the rows of plump pink and white meat waiting to be handled delicately and placed on a hot pan. His mouth watered with anticipation for the first throng of customers at 6pm. He quickly shut the freezer door, not wanting anyone else to get the same pleasures from his work that he did. He spun in place and maintained a smile for his staff, who waited patiently for his inspection to be complete. They stood with their hands folded behind their backs and their eyes facing forward. Their occasional blinking was all that proved they were still members of the living.

He walked around the kitchen, lifting plates and running his index finger along the tops of shelves as he moved. Then his eye caught sight of a bead of sweat holding steady upon the brow of his Chef de Partie. He lingered near their station and took another deep breath. Something wasn’t right and Chef Kim’s right eye twitched.

Lydia took a careful step towards the swinging doors that led to the seating area for customers. She knew what would happen next.

The Chef de Partie felt a bead of sweat slide down his forehead and drip off his eyebrow. He followed and watched it land on his shoe. Chef Kim watched as well and as he slowly scanned his Chef de Partie’s clothing his eyes widened. On the underside of the apron, wrapped tightly around his chef’s waist was a discoloration, hardly noticeable to the naked eye. Chef Kim tugged on the apron knot and it came loose easily. He quickly lifted it close to his eyes and examined it closely. Lydia took another step, this time catching the attention of the other members of staff, wondering what she was doing, but none of them willing to do or say anything.

Chef Kim checked and checked, but could find nothing of interest on the apron. Frustrated, he threw it on the counter beside his Chef de Partie who moved his arms from behind his back in anticipation of catching his apron, and there it was! Chef Kim saw it and his Chef de Partie remembered it was there, cringing at his mistake. He might’ve been able to get away with it if he hadn’t moved. But there, on the fingernail of his thumb, was a stain of blood.

“I’m sorry, chef. Time got away from me, and—”

“Shh. It’s fine. I understand,” Chef Kim said, his smile growing wider. From where Lydia stood, mere inches from the swinging doors, she swore his eyes danced under the fluorescent lights. “Lydia,” Chef Kim said, and she stopped in her tracks, her hand raised, about to push through the doors, “be a dear and hit the lights on your way out.”

She nodded and did as was asked. Turning off the lights in the kitchen. She walked briskly, yet calmly towards the front of the restaurant, glancing at her watch and counting on her other hand how many employees she would need to hire on short notice. It was 4pm and the hostess of the restaurant was right on time, smoking a cigarette outside, waiting for Lydia to let her in.

Lydia opened the door, letting out the sound of crashing plates and screams. The hostess handed her a cigarette and held up her lighter. Lydia took a drag and let out a puff of smoke, slow and smooth.

“You can call anyone who was on the waitlist for today and give them the good news,” Lydia said, taking another drag of her cigarette.

The hostess nodded. She understood all too well.

Wednesday Writing - Week 08

A snippet of a Work-in-Progress to be released in 2020.

Excerpt (River Run, Chapter 1)

Everyone in the Arche Tribe wakes when the cock crows at sunrise. To wake before the sun is believed to be a bad omen. I never believed in half the things my sister taught me over the years about our tribe and therefore every morning before the cock crowed and before the sun began to rise, I climbed the mountain that protected us from harm and waited and listened to the sound of morning. The birds chirping, the wind whistling through the trees, circling the mountain, and the sun warming my skin. Getting to bear witness to Zoldir’s creation the way I imagine the dragons must have when they roamed the earth, long before my tribe came into being, gave me the energy I needed to start the day.

I wonder now, as I find myself lost and alone, without my sister and without my tribe, if waking up so early, for all of those days, was worth it? Was my refusal to believe the omens and traditions of my tribe what killed my sister?

“Hold still,” Serene said, slapping me behind my head. Fidgeting was something I did best and only when it came time to paint my face. It wasn’t that I hated the paint or the tradition it carried, it was that I hated the color I would be forced to wear for another thousand days. My sister was lucky, she only had till sunset to wear yellow, the color of youth, before the ceremony when she would be smeared with blue, the color of maturity.

“Not everyone has the honor of wearing yellow, River,” I parroted along with her. This was a saying she repeated every time I acted like wearing the color was something I hated. She slapped me again behind my head and I sat still until she finished.

She was right, not everyone wore the colors. If your family passed on or you were born of another then you are not permitted to wear color. Only a family member by blood or by joining can apply the color. It is a tradition. And the Arche Tribe is built on tradition.

“Are you scared about tonight?” I asked her. She finished the last line of yellow above my eyebrow and turned my chin to one side checking that it was perfectly matched to the other. Serene always made sure my paint was as perfect as possible and I always made sure to end the day with one or all of my lines smeared or practically missing.

“Of what do I have to fear? It is just washing away my youth so that I may be seen as a woman. It is a tradition that has happened for centuries before me. There is nothing to fear. Mother was not afraid.”

Whenever Serene mentioned our mother her eyes would go still. They would no longer shine like they always did. Something deep inside her grew quiet and I could tell she wished she had not said anything at all. It is moments like these I wanted to reach out and comfort her. Tell her that it was okay to miss our mother. But women show no emotion. Emotions were reserved for children and my sister chose to cast aside her emotions when our mother died nearly three thousand days ago. She said it was practice for when she would come of age, but I knew better. I’d hear her crying softly every night into her pillow when the moon was high and the cock slumbered.

Wednesday Writings - Week 07

Every Wednesday I'll share a small portion of my writing. Hope you enjoy what you're reading!

Excerpt (Daxton, Chapter 7)

The further they walked along the dirt path trees surrounding them were denser. They could barely see in front of them and Spire kept walking into low hanging branches, which he found annoying but Nelle giggled every time. This went on for several minutes before Nelle picked up a thick branch from the ground and with her fingers splayed out, palm up, she called forth a ball of orange fire which hovered in the air above her hand. She touched it to the tip of the branch and it caught fire instantly.

“Perhaps this will help?” She shoved the branch into Spire’s hand and continued walking. She had walked this path plenty of times as she used to be a regular visitor to the Kings Castle. Her frequent visits to see the King were to remain a secret from everyone which is why she knew this path so well.

In the distance, Spire heard rustling. He grabbed Nelle and put a finger to his lips to keep her quiet. They remained perfectly still long enough for her to hear the same sound. She took the torch from his hand and before he could stop her, she marched in the direction of the sound. Spire worried it could be a wild animal out for a late-night feeding, but she knew exactly what she’d find when she pointed the torch towards thick bush.

A man had his arms wrapped around a young girl. They knelt side by side, hiding as best they could.

“It is quite alright, you do not need to be afraid of us. We won’t harm you. In fact, we’ve been looking for you. I am Nelle the—.”

“…one who has come to help you,” Spire interrupted, stopping her before she could reveal she was a witch. He saw the Royal Green vest the man wore and knew it meant he was a member of the Kings Army. He did not wish to find out what would happen should they be discovered to be a witch and a pirate.

She eyed Spire suspiciously, a frown on her face as she hated being cut off, especially by a mortal pirate. But perhaps keeping the fact that she was a witch a secret was not such a terrible idea. “We were wondering if we could be of some assistance to you.”

“I am Adelaide. you are pretty.” The little girl pried herself away from Traix who remained guarded as he watched both Spire and Nelle closely.

“What brings you two out here so late at night?” Traix asked, holding fast to Adelaide’s shoulders so she would not stray too far from him.

“What brings us out here? Why, we’re out here…” Spire started but couldn’t think of a good reason.

“We are lovers just out here trying to find a good place to lay upon the grass when we heard a sound. And now that we’ve found you and your daughter I am sure my companion will agree with me that we much rather be of service to you than to each other.” She smiled innocently at Traix, while Adelaide looked up at her confused by what she heard. Spire turned his face away and tried to suppress laughter.

“There is a child present, what is wrong with you? Are you one of those ladies who spends her evenings in that Serpent’s Head? If so, there is absolutely nothing you can do for us, thank you. We’ll just be on our way and leave you two—.”

Wednesday Writings - Week 06

A snippet of a Work-in-Progress to be released in 2019.

Excerpt (Daxton, Chapter 6)

Spire did not understand what she was saying. Whenever Nelle spoke like this no one understood her. He became concerned with the change in her countenance and her jumbled words. He had no clue what was going on and knew Nelle was not going to tell him. His best way to uncover the mystery was to bring her to the Captain and demand answers from her.

“We must hurry back to the ship. The men will be asleep now. It’s the best time for us to sneak on board. We won’t be seen.” He started walking backwards towards his boat which rocked and bumped into the dock from the waves, but she did not follow. “What stops you? We must make haste. The Captain seemed intent on my bringing you back as quickly as possible.”

“You do not understand. If I am to do what she wants we must first pick up a few things.”

“Pick up a few things? No. My orders are to bring you to her and that is all I intend to do. I have never seen her like this, Nelle. If the men see her this way there will be questions. None of which I can answer.”

The yellow moon in the sky, now full, shone upon his eyes and Nelle swore she could see tears in them.

“I know you love her, Spire. I promise you, what I need will not take long to get. We must find a man and a child journeying along a dirt road and bring them with us to meet the Compass Maker who lives in a small village in Ebonthorn.”

“Are you mad? You want to journey to Ebonthorn? We cannot go there now. That is a full day’s walk and I don’t think she has that kind of time. I must bring you to the Captain—.”

“Do what you must, but if you bring me to her and I do not have what I need, you will suffer the brunt of her wrath when she discovers you wasted time arguing with me.”

He hated to admit it but she was right. He also hated having to follow Nelle’s orders but he had no choice. He needed her to come with him but knew she would not come quietly. And a witch as powerful as her wouldn’t be easily forced against her will.

“Fine. Lead the way.”

“Excellent. you have made the right decision, Spire. You just might make a decent Pirate someday. Now, first we must locate the dirt road and if I am not mistaken we will find the man and child well before the moon sets and the sun rises on the morrow.” She nudged him in the shoulder and winked at him, much the same way he winked whenever he thought he was being clever. He rolled his eyes at her back as she walked on ahead of him, past the Serpent’s Head, and into the night with the yellow moon guiding their way.