The Dark Side of the Mermaid

 



There's a darker side to mermaids, Virginia. Yes, there is! As I've found out since I started work on goal #3 for the Write-a-thon, creating a few new short stories. My romantic love story started out with the paramour of the main male character being a mermaid and he discovers this, after imagining what the woman attached to the beautiful singing voice looks like. But then, without warning, my darker side struck. And now I'm writing a mermaid murder noir! LOL It's very different from anything I've written thus far.

And yesterday, I was visited by my muse. She gave me the perfect names for the two female leads. As I woke up, I heard a female voice whisper, "Magda. Delphine." I rushed to look up the meaning of both, knowing the former is a religious name, but discovered it also meant: One who comes down from the tower. Now this is absolutely perfect symbolism for a succubus, but completely unplanned. As is Delphine, which means "dolphin" in French and is the name of the lovely murdered mermaid. Splendid! Thank you, my muse! Thank you!

As promised, I'll share with you my work in progress, unedited. Here's an excerpt from my untitled short:

“There’s a dead mermaid in the bathtub. N-not in my apartment, but in the one above mine. I didn’t even know there were such things as mermaids, until today. And I-I’m still not sure what I really saw, but I took a picture of it with my phone.”

He slid his phone to me across the desk, which is when I saw his perfectly manicured nails and that got me thinking about other things, but I didn’t have time for that now. I had a client to serve, not myself, though if I had my way, he’d end up in my bed before this investigation was over. I stared at the photo of the young mergirl curled up in a fetal position in a dirty white bathtub filled with water and what looked like sea salt, pounds of sea salt soaked in blood, but it wasn’t hers. There wasn’t a mark on her. Her dark brunette hair spun through with streaks of bright poppy, had been trimmed recently, it looked, from her blunt bangs. Though judging by how translucent her skin looked and the fact that I could see her veins and tendons and muscles, she’d been out of the sea for more than three days, so perhaps, her killer had cut her hair after abducting her.

 "You say you took this photo today?”                                                                                  

“Yes. She’s in the apartment above mine.”

I raised one arched eyebrow at him.

“I know what you’re thinking and I don’t normally go sneaking around my neighbors’ apartments, but she was special.”

“Special how?”

“She had this voice. This amazing singing voice. And I heard her singing.”

“And you fell in love.” Typical story. Guy hears a little mermaid sing and instantly she becomes his paramour. I nodded my head and pinched my lips together, trying very hard not to focus on the intoxicating heat rolling off his body and the sound of his heartbeat in my ears. I needed an energy boost and soon. I shifted in my chair, tucking my tail tighter beneath me. It was almost undetectable in the skirt I wore. I don’t even think this delicious human recognized me as a succubus, he was so shocked at discovering a mermaid in a bathtub. Better to not reveal myself to him. This poor whelp had seen all he could handle for today.

“She’s dead.”

“Yes, I can see that.” I set his phone down on my desk and took another sip from my mug. “I’d offer you some coffee, but as you can see, I can’t afford a secretary and there’s no coffee machine in my office. My apologies.” I flashed my best apologetic smile and uncrossed my legs. “Have you shown this photo to anyone else? Your friends? The police? Your girlfriend, perhaps?”

“No. No one. I live alone and I thought about going to the police, but I-I wasn’t sure they’d believe me. Since that mockumentary on television and everything …”

I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Tune in to see what happens. I'll be posting more excerpts as I continue. If you like what you've read here, please consider sponsoring me for the Clarion West fundraiser. It runs through August 1st. 100% of your donation goes to keeping these wonderful speculative fiction workshops by Clarion West going. Just to be clear, I am not participating in a workshop, this is just me plodding away at my keyboard and raising a little money for a foundation I believe in.

http://www.clarionwest.org/members/sekhautet/

As always, happy writing and happy reading!

A Tisket, a Tasket, a Nora in a Basket!

Well, not really, *grins* but hopefully, one of my short stories will be in an editor's inbox soon, after some market research. I've spent the better part of tonight working towards my second Write-a-thon goal, which is to submit works previously written. Soooo ... I dusted off my external hard drive. And I still haven't found the pencil that pesky demon stole from me, so it's a good thing my laptop is working again. The computer gremlins walloped it the other night and I ended up with a blinking purple screen. Pretty, but not conducive to writing. *chuckles*

I pulled out an oldie written a few years back. Ironically, this is before I was diagnosed with PTSD (Post-traumatic stress disorder), which Karen, the mother in my story, suffers from. I hadn't left my second husband or learned how PTSD can affect someone, so I used my good, old, reliable imagination, along with my previous experiences from my first marriage, and came up with a story called: I'll Always Be With You. PTSD flashbacks come on unexpectedly when you're first diagnosed, before you learn to identify what "triggers", as therapists call them, bring them on. For Karen, her trigger is her husband's cat, Paddington, an orange tabby, which her son, Henry, is very attached to after his father dies tragically.


Here's a teaser from the beginning of the short story:


What was he going to say to her? What if she’d catnapped Paddington? How would he get her back? He punched the rusty doorbell with a shaky finger. Beethoven’s Symphony #5 in C Minor rang out and Henry jumped. He should have expected something dark and dramatic, but he hadn’t. The door opened, revealing a late twenty-something woman, about five six with short black hair. Her smooth skin glowed in the loose, ivory gunnysack dress she wore, a pale pink ribbon tied in a bow around her fragile throat. She cradled an orange taxidermy cat in one arm, posed like a flamenco dancer with its front paws above its head. The cat wore a flamboyant red and black dress with layers upon layers of ruffles and lace.


If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic violence please call the National Domestic Violence Hotline. This link also offers more information about abuse and what to do about it.

I'm also providing a link about PTSD.

And if you'd like to read more about me on my Write-a-thon page or sponsor me, you may do so here: My Sponsor Page.

As always, happy writing and happy reading!

Serial Sunday, The Telling Place, Part II.

Read Part I.

Ms. Sinclair sensed Logan’s fears quivering in his stomach like green jelly. She pushed past the grinning, goofy image of the idiot dog not even fit to carry fleas and searched deeper into Logan’s mind. She saw a blue painted room with plaid clad bunk beds and a spaceship nightlight. Her tongue flicked over her lips and her fingertips itched with anticipation as she honed in on a secondhand desk strewn with tubes of colored paint, model glue, and assorted paintbrushes held in an old Jiffy peanut butter jar.

She grasped her bird whistle until Logan saw her knuckles turn gray and he closed his eyes, trying to hold onto Shep’s face. He wanted so bad to pull his hand away from hers, but something primordial told him it was better to remain still, not to wake whatever beast lay slumbering behind Ms. Sinclair’s eyes if he wanted to be eating mom’s meatloaf for dinner that night. Logan concentrated on fluffy garlic mashed potatoes and meatloaf while Ms. Sinclair talked. Her hand felt oddly uncorpselike, which puzzled him. Maybe, it was just nerves last time, as mom said.

Ms. Sinclair stroked the whistle, feeling the warm bone stir beneath her fingertips. She peered closer at the modeling table in Logan’s room. “Now, Logan, you know that you need good grades to get a good job someday, right?”

“Yes.”

She saw a tiny zombie miniature on the table, its face drawn back in snarled agony, a miniscule dagger in its fist. She smiled. “And you know you have to obey your parents and that your mom wants you to get good grades, right?"

“Yes.”

Ms. Sinclair focused on the graveyard model displayed on the desk, the undead locked in limbs with the living, creeping, sneaking from clawed graves, shuffling out of the rusty cemetery gate, staggering around toppled gravestones, their lips pulled back in menacing howls, blood feast in their eyes. And she stroked her whistle. “Then you’ll work harder to better at your homework, right? To do your homework before your models?”

“Yes.” Logan felt something viscous and slippery crawling up his arm into his mouth, probing with its wet tongue. He spat and opened his eyes, startled. Yanking away his hand, he noticed nothing was there, but tasted vile brine in his mouth. “Sorry.” He wiped the palms of his hands on the front of his Star Wars shirt. “I thought a bug flew into my mouth.” He blushed, realizing how foolish he sounded with the window closed.

“That’s quite alright, Logan.” Ms. Sinclair glanced out the window. “Your mother’s back.”

The red door opened and Logan heard the faint tinkle of the ice cream truck outside.

“Ready?”

“Yes.” He hugged his mom.

“Did everything go okay, Ms. Sinclair?”

“Yes, it did. I’ll see you at the same time next week.”

“Thank you, Ms. Sinclair.” Mrs. Martin winked at her.

“Goodbye, Logan.”

“Bye.”

Ms. Sinclair waited until their tomato red Toyota Camry turned the corner on Wabash at the light before she raised her whistle to her lips.

* * *

Mrs. Hammond, I assure you that hypnotism is a widely accepted form of therapy proven to show significant results almost overnight.” Clarice smiled at young Johnny who sat on the floor repeatedly crashing two Hot Wheels® on the braided rug.

“You’re going to die in a fiery pit of burning hell,” the eight year old screamed. “Burn, burn, and die!”

“See what I mean, Ms. Sinclair? It’s just not normal, the aggression he displays. And the fighting with his sister at home has escalated.” Mrs. Hammond rubbed her weary face. “I just don’t know what to do any more. And I’m working such long hours at the hospital now that I can’t even begin to think of putting him in an afterschool program with his behavior like this.”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to help you out, Mrs. Hammond. It’s a good idea you brought him in. If you’ll give me a half hour alone with Johnny, I promise you’ll see results before his next session.”

“Fine.” Mrs. Hammond was almost out the door already, needing no prodding to escape for a half hour from her son.

“Mrs. Hammond, if you don’t mind my asking, where did you hear about my services,” Clarice stopped her in the vestibule.  

“From Logan’s mother.”

“Oh.” Ms. Sinclair smiled. “Enjoy your time alone, now. Most mothers do.” She winked.

As Ms. Sinclair closed the door, Mrs. Hammond thought she saw the old woman’s small bird talisman squirm against her purple blouse. But no, it couldn’t have been. It was just her imagination.

“In a pit of fiery burning hell!”

“Yes, Johnny, some day we will all die in a fiery pit of burning hell. But in the mean time, why don’t you come over here and talk to me for a minute.” Clarice stared at the black boy on the rug, following his gaze to a brightly painted wooden chest on the opposite wall. Well, if he won’t listen to me, we’ll just get his attention, won’t we? The little maggot. Clarice glowered as her feeble fingers stroked the bone bird whistle hanging from her waddled neck.

Johnny sat mesmerized by the chest, his arms poised over the rug with his cars suspended in mid-cataclysmic crash. The chest boasted a jungle scene carved in base relief and painted in electric blues, hot magentas, neon greens, and psychedelic yellows. Lions, giraffes, moneys, and parrots and long serpents capered and danced with the dark African figures under leafy umbrella palms. The greens were so lush Johnny could almost drink the sweet, cool water from their stems. As he reveled in the details of the scene, the silhouetted figures began to shiver and quake as one tall, lean man raised a machete and decapitated a giraffe. Its shiny yellow wooden body ran bright red with rivulets of blood. Johnny hurried away from the gruesome pandemonium scene as animals fled shrieking and squealing into the jungle. He clambered for the warm safety of the couch by Ms. Sinclair’s rocking chair and wrapped the granny square afghan around his quivering shoulders, hiding his blue “The Dog Ate My Homework shirt”. 

“You w-wanted to talk to me, Ms. Sinclair?” Why couldn’t Johnny see her pupils? It almost seemed she didn’t have any. Strange, like a witch. He shivered, pulling the afghan tighter around his body.

“Yes, I wanted to talk with you, Johnny. Just a friendly talk. Nothing bad. Give me your hand,” Ms. Sinclair beckoned, sliding her rocking chair closer to the couch.

Johnny knew that voice. It was the lying voice, the kind of voice Dr. Martin used when he told him the shot wouldn’t hurt much or the voice his sister used when she promised to take him to the park if he left her alone for awhile and then didn’t. It was a dark, bruised voice, the lying voice. Johnny didn’t want to disappoint his mother again. He really didn’t, so he gave Ms. Sinclair his left hand, palm up, and squeezed his tongue tight against the roof of his mouth to keep from screaming.    

“Close your eyes, Johnny.”

He closed his eyes.

Clarice put her bird whistle to her wizened lips and blew once. A piercing squawk hurt his ears. He winced. “Tell me about your sister, Johnny.”

Johnny’s voice hung wasp nest thin on the air, his eyelids fluttering like insect wings. “I don’t like her. She threatens to cut the heads off my G.I. Joes and steals my candy. And she tells on me and gives me purple nurples and stuff."

“I see.” As Clarice held the boy’s soft, clammy hand, she saw a long-legged girl with a slender coltish neck and a delicious mischievous grin. “Is that why you beat her up?”

“No,” he blurted. “She beats me up first.”

“I see. And how does that make you feel?"

“Angry.”

“Keep talking.” Clarice pressed deeper into the boy’s nubile consciousness, searching, searching for … Ah yes, there it was. She wet her lips and stroked her bird talisman. It grew hot and malleable like the boy’s hand.

When Johnny was younger, two, maybe three, his mother had read him the story, Three Billy Goats Gruff. The long rickety bridge they had to cross didn’t frighten him and the troll with the nasty eyes didn’t frighten him, but for some reason he did not like the goats, even though they were the heroes of the story. Goats were vile and dirty. They stank at the petting zoo. They ate your nametags and slobbered slimy spit in your hand, leaving you all germy, while flies buzzed around them to bite their smelly legs. At night he’d gone to sleep and the goats plagued him with their malodorous odor and their red eyes like glowing pinpoints in the dark as they bared their brown stained teeth, their hooves tapping with anticipation. Click, click, click … Why was he thinking about this now?

The boy was strong -- almost too strong. He knew something was wrong. Clarice saw it written in his scrunched up face, his mouth tinier than a shriveled raisin. She tasted his fear in the air, alkaline and slippery. Continuing to stroke her bird whistle, she whispered, “Johnny, do you remember the goats?”

“Y-yes.” His grip on her hand could have crushed a drinking glass.

“When I say ‘hippopotamus’ and tell you to open your eyes you won’t remember me asking that question.”

“’Kay.” His lids fluttered and stilled. Johnny thought of the ballerina elephants in Fantasia now. It must be the mention of hippos. He grinned.

“Hippopotamus. Open your eyes, Johnny.” Clarice startled as her office door opened. Mrs. Hammond had a bag of Einstein Bros® bagels in her hand.

“Hi, Johnny. Did you have a good talk?”

“Y-yes, mom.” He really couldn’t remember. That was odd. He remembered something about a hippo or a dancing elephant. His tongue felt swollen and his head felt thick like he’d been sleeping.

“Well, Johnny, you’d best get out of here and make the most of what’s left of the daylight while you can. It’ll be dark before you know it.” Ms. Sinclair grinned.

“’Kay.”

“Johnny, why don’t you wait for me in the car? We’ll go get a Happy Meal after I finish talking with Ms. Sinclair.”

“’Kay.”

She waited until he safely rounded the corner. “Anything I should know about?”

End of Part Two

Serial Sunday, The Telling Place, Part I.

This is the first mask my husband and I bought together in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It's a reproduction, but a nice one. At one of the mask collector shops, we found a four foot tall antique diablo mask we dearly wanted to buy, but we thought $200 was a little pricey at the time. We should have gotten it; it sold within the year and we have always regretted not adding it to our collection.

People love to ask writers where we get our ideas. My husband and I spend a lot of time in bed talking before sleeping. One night he asked, "What if someone bought that giant devil mask or our other mask and it came to life and tormented naughty, misbehaving children. Hence, The Telling Place was born. The story won 2nd place and a whopping $50 in a monthly writing contest for Fantasy Gazetteer in 2008, but is sadly a dead online market now.

Author's Note: This story appears as originally submitted. Unfortunately, I don't have the actual final edited version that was published, but this way, you can see the evolution of my writing from then to now, which is something I love studying about my favorite authors. As writers, we are constantly growing and honing our craft with the help of some great editors and peer reading groups. We are all rough rocks, smoothed and perfected by the waters of time.

This short will be published in four parts, hence known as the Serial Sunday feature. I'm not sure it's going to be an ongoing theme every Sunday, but when I have a story to share, look for this new feature title.

And Enjoy!

The Telling Place
by Nora B. Peevy

“Clarice,” hissed the serpent coat rack. The snake heads addressed her with a chilly gaze. “Your next appointment is approaching.”  They flicked their slithery tongues over their scaly lips, their red eyes slit like splintered rubies.

“Be quiet or I’ll turn you four into a new pair of shoes. You’re supposed to be a coat rack, for Hecate’s sake.”

The four snake heads snickered, their dry scales rustling as they assumed the shape of four coat hooks, eyes dulling and becoming cloudy, bodies and tails entwining to form the stand.   

Ms. Sinclair peeked out the front window of her cozy reception room, absently rearranging a rumpled collection of Highlights and National Geographics on a cheery red table. If anyone had been in the room with her, they would have noticed that the shadows from the windowpane did not fall across the crook of her nose or her face at all; odd in itself, but not totally peculiar. What was more peculiar was the strange bone bird talisman around her neck blinking and shrieking an ear-piercing squawk that Ms. Sinclair’s dry, bony hand quickly stifled.

Mrs. Martin and her son, Logan, blew in on a spirited door slam typical of a wild windy summer day in Wisconsin, the kind you’re grateful for because as soon as you start to sweat from the cloying humidity, a big gust of wind messes your hair and ripples through your shirt, fooling you into thinking it’s not hotter than witches brew out there.

Mrs. Martin adjusted her pixie coif, alternately scrunching and patting her reflection in the mirror by the door. “Good afternoon, Ms. Sinclair.”

“Good afternoon.”  She nodded to Logan, noting his wariness as he placed his Red Sox cap on one of the coat hooks and ran a grimy paw through his curly mop of hair, his freckles infused with sunlight and fresh air.

Mrs. Martin loved coming to see Ms. Sinclair. She felt Logan was behaving so much better since he started coming here. Why, with just four visits he already said things like “yes mom” and “thank you” at home, and last Saturday he even cleaned his room without being asked. She really would have to remember to call and thank Trudy Jenkins for the referral. The Telling Place was a wonderful resource for parents who had almost passed the end of their rope and were only hanging on by two fingers. And it was so homey with all the knickknacks and mismatched furniture. It reminded her of Granny. 

“Logan, what are you staring at? Come have a seat dear.”

“But mom --”       

“I said come have a seat.”  Mrs. Martin patted the crazy quilt patterned couch, fingering a whimsical painted giraffe with her other hand. The wooden giraffe sneered at the unsuspecting mother while she watched her son.

Ms. Sinclair frowned at the giraffe, the tips of her fine silver brows being drawn together. They were one of her prettier features.   

“But mom,” Logan sputtered as his plump sweaty body plopped down on the couch, “I swear that one of those snake heads blinked at me.”

“Really, Logan.”  Logan recognized his mom’s tone from previous fights at home -- the “don’t push it further” tone.  Her denim eyes flushed with embarrassment.  “Do you see what I have to put up with, Ms. Sinclair?  Kids and their imaginations.”  She laughed an uncomfortable laugh like a piece of china breaking in a quiet shop, as she rumpled her son’s red curls.

Still frowning, Clarice risked a quick peek at her coat rack in the corner.  A pink snake tongue flicked the air.  Clarice crossed the room, the afghan from the back of her rocking chair in her grasp.  “We’ll just cover this so it doesn’t bother you, Logan,” she smiled at him through perfect straight teeth, pinching the nose of the offending serpent between two steely fingers.  As she draped the coat rack with her blanket she said in a firm, teeth-gritting voice, “Just you behave now or I’ll be frying you up for the cat’s supper later.”  A rotund marmalade cat poked her pink nose out from behind a collection of dusty tomes on the bookshelf, grinning with glee and licking her whiskers.  With her grandmother smile perched upon her lips, Clarice turned to reassure Logan.  “All better,” she announced as she sat in her rocking chair across from them.       

Logan studied her face, thinking he heard something slippery in her voice.  He didn’t like this place, The Telling Place.  It sounded like a place you went to tattletale on someone, and Logan knew other kids didn’t like tattletales.  It went against the kid code.  And he didn’t like Ms. Sinclair either.  As his mother would say, he couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew something wasn’t right.  Something wasn’t right at all.  He glanced again at the rack, swallowing his nervousness as he saw a slither of movement from beneath the colorful afghan.  His nervousness settled into a hot coiled pinball ready to spring in his stomach at any moment.       

“So, Mrs. Martin, how are things at home with Logan this week?”       

“They’re going better.”  She smiled at Logan.  “Why, I don’t know what you and Logan talked about, Ms. Sinclair, but Logan’s attitude has seemed to improve greatly almost overnight.  It’s like magic.”  Mrs. Martin beamed brighter than a lighthouse, gushing.      

“Anything new?”  Ms. Sinclair seemed to loom closer to Logan, a snaggle-toothed dragon eyeing its prey.

“Well …” Mrs. Martin glanced at Logan and patted his chubby hand.  “We have had one problem.”         

“Oh?” 

Logan watched the blood drenched dragon’s eyes perk up with the possibility of pain.

“Logan’s been spending a little too much time on his models and not enough time on his grades.  He got another failing grade in math this week.”

“Logan, is this true?”  Ms. Sinclair watched the boy flush a nice shade of red to match her coffee table.

“Yes.”  He hung his head, picking at a week old scab on his knee.

“Why do you think that is, Logan?”      

“I don’t know.”  He shrugged his shoulders, conscious of Ms. Sinclair’s crooked nose pointing in his direction.  He wondered if she had a husband.  Could a woman like Ms. Sinclair be married?  Could she have a family, a boy possibly like him at home?  No, he didn’t think so.  She wasn’t like his mom.  Something in Logan’s gut told him so.         

“Maybe, you’d feel more comfortable talking to Ms. Sinclair on your own, Logan?”  Without waiting to notice her son’s panicked stare, Mrs. Martin stood and adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder.  “I’ll just do some shopping and be back in half an hour.”

“Wait, mom.”  Logan’s voice sank like ice in his throat.  His heart jigged in his chest.         

“Bye, son.”  She winked at him and the red door closed with an ominous click.

Ms. Sinclair’s eyes gleamed with voracious delight.  “Now that we’re alone, Logan, we’re going to have a little chat about responsibility and doing one’s homework.  Give me your hand.”

Logan felt his stomach rising in hot acid waves as he touched Ms. Sinclair’s hand.  The last time he’d done so he’d felt the leathery coldness of a zombie’s curse and smelled something rank and rotting.  He’d also heard the sharp snap of a dried turkey wishbone and tasted musty, stale cinnamon.  This time he tried to focus on Shep’s happy smile, his pink dog tongue hanging lopsided out of his mouth.

End of Part One

Excerpt from Imaginology - A Short Story

This story has been an ongoing project for years, constantly evolving. I am finally happy with the finished product and getting ready to send it out for submissions again. This is the sixth version of Imaginology. This short has its origins in my childhood fascination with gory shark attack tales and pictures. Having been bullied myself as a child, I wanted to write about a  strong character who prevailed. The story took a darker turn than I intended, but I like it that way. This is the opening to Imaginology, a very normal day that quickly goes to hell.


Imaginology

by Nora B. Peevy


It was Saturday afternoon at the pool and Billy’s father toted a blue inner tube, flippers, and an orange beach bag crammed full of towels and sunscreen. Mike Chase, Billy’s classmate, stood poolside, tubby in his orange and brown swimsuit, his hair greasy and sweaty. Just looking at Mike made Billy want to scurry in the other direction, but George, Billy’s father, marched oblivious to any danger. His father’s comical bone-white knees jutted out from his too-short blue Hawaiian print shorts. Billy wished he could fade into one of the blue and white striped lounge chairs flanking both sides of the pool, as his father slathered sunscreen on his freckled shoulders. Billy’s red cowlick wavered like an alien antenna in the slight afternoon breeze.

"Go get 'em, tiger. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Billy shielded his eyes from the sun, watching Mike Chase. His stomach hurt with the reminder of the last time Mike beat him up at school this week; he’d taken a few blows to the stomach. Billy dipped his big toe in the water. The smell of chlorine burned his nostrils as he entered the shallow end, keeping one wary green eye on the bully. Mike stole a little boy's beach ball, flinging it into the deep end at a pretty girl in a pink bathing suit, gabbing with her friend.

The water wasn't too cold as Billy waded out to where he could barely stand and sank down like a crocodile, keeping only his eyes above the surface, hoping to remain unnoticed as Mike turned in his direction. He’d only come swimming at his parents’ urging. He’d rather be home in his room reading his comics.

Billy dove underwater and swam through a jungle of legs and feet, hoping Mike hadn’t spotted him. His lungs burned. He needed air soon. He kicked to the surface, sputtering to find Mike Chase looming in front of his face -- mean, ugly Mike Chase, water dripping from his flaring horse nostrils. 

"Hi Seal Boy! Wanna do a trick for me? It's called duck and dive!" Mike swung his fist, his face red with exertion from swimming to catch Billy.

Billy dove right under Mike’s fist and swam off towards the ladder in the deep end. Escaping into line for the high dive, he felt water dripping on his head. He looked up to see Mike towering over him.

"Bark, bark, bark! C’mon and bark, Seal Boy!" Mike jabbed Billy in the ribs with a fat finger before he hopped back in the pool to snap the strap of a girl’s bikini top.

The other kids in line laughed as Billy tried to ignore them, waiting his turn. Two kids stood in front of him and then he was next. He stared straight ahead. His ears burned red, wanting to shrivel up and fall off. He wouldn’t cry. He just wouldn’t because that would only make it worse. Billy continued to wait, shuffling his feet and staring at the wet cement. He climbed the twenty steps to the diving board with Mike Chase barking at all the way and plummeted into the pool, letting the water rush over his ears, drowning out the other kids’ laughter. For a moment, everything was blue and calm -- quiet and safe.

End of Excerpt

Excerpt from Into the White - A Short Story

I'm still searching for a home for this one. Inspiration struck when I researched mourning customs online one day and Victorian mourning jewelry. I discovered there's an entire profession dedicated to recording a loved one's likeness, as they are ill and crossing over into The Beyond (whatever that may be for you.) I wondered, "What would happen if I wrote story about this profession?" And Into the White came forth from the sea of my imagination.

Into the White
by Nora B. Peevy


“Death doesn’t scare me. Pain scares me. I wanted it to be quick -- a flash of lightning in the dark. I didn’t want to be a piece of fruit rotting on a vine.”

I nodded to Sean, quiet. My name’s Demetrius. I’m a memorial portraitist. It’s my job to record the likeness of the dying, to give them companionship and their families some closure. People often ask me where they go when they die, and my reply is always the same, “Where do you want to go? Because that’s where you’ll end up.”

 Truthfully, I don’t know what lies beyond death’s door, but I do know what lies before it, people who are suffering. What harm is there in easing their pain before they go? Most of them, like Sean, just want someone to listen. I squinted, erasing a line here, smoothing a line there, and shading in another shadow with my charcoal, the soft whisper of my pencil recording life passing on paper. Sean is dying of cancer, something I am trying not to focus on because of my own scare right now.

“I used to do what you do.” Sean’s lips, cracked with sores, bled. The nurses gave him some medicine, but it didn’t help much. Of course, that is not the way I drew him. He hired me, not his family. And he wanted his portrait done, minus the physical imperfections Death bestowed on him.

“Really?”

I sat up in my hospital chair; it’s one of those supposedly comfortable recliners, inevitably always broken and more uncomfortable than the nights I spent as a kid, camping on the hard ground in my backyard. It isn’t often I meet someone in my profession. It’s sad; a fellow artist lies before me, underneath a piece of generic hospital art with a plastic-lined pillow and a bland beige blanket tucked in around his shrinking frame. I wonder if I will have the same courage as Sean does when I go; I don’t know. I won’t sleep well on crunchy pillows, though.

I tried imagining Sean in his youth, picturing him as a grand character from The Great Gatsby with a quiet, regal aura about him. I find a sense of calm in his eyes, misty with cataracts, but once a bright blue. He’s suffering from dementia or so the nurses say. Frankly, I have no idea what they are talking about, but maybe, he’s having one of his good moments. Still, it is sobering to think it will be me lying in a similar bed one day. I shift in my chair, imagining the quiet tumor growing in my groin. I want to scream and run away and rip myself from my own skin.

Sean reached a shaking hand for the glass of water beside his bed and I noticed he wore a wedding band.

“What did your wife think of your profession?” I worked on perfecting his hands as he spoke.

“Oh, she didn’t mind it. She likened me to a spiritual counselor for the dying. She always loved my work -- said I had the eye of an eagle and the hand of a gentle shepherd. I drew her portrait for our first wedding anniversary.”

“That’s nice.”

“Do you see them leave?”

 “I’m sorry. I don’t understand -- see who leave?”

 “The people whose portraits you draw. Do you see them pass over?”

 “No. I’m usually not there when that happens.”

 “But you’re one of her helpers.”

 “One of whose helpers?”

 “Why, Death’s. You’re one of Death’s helpers, aren’t you?”

“I wasn’t aware that Death needed any helpers. I thought it was a one-person job.”


End of excerpt

More on My Snow Faery Short Story

I'm still on vacation in Milwaukee, Wisconsin where there's snow. It reminded me of the snow faery short story I am revising for submissions soon. A sister and brother find a small faery in the snow outside their house. He's been wounded by a cat. The sister, Nell, wants to help him, while her older brother, Natty, wants to hold him hostage until he grants him a pot of gold. Originally, the title of the story was The Snow Faery, but that seemed to lack punch. As the plot progressed, I realized that the snow faery was going to seek revenge for the abuse he suffers at Natty's hands. In order to do that, I had to make him more than just a faery. He had to be the biggest mythological character there is -- Jack Frost. Now the story is titled: Fool's Gold because of Natty's obsession with obtaining riches from the faery. Obviously, he's uneducated about faeries in the story or he would know not to piss them off! Of course, then I wouldn't have a very interesting story, would I? *winks*

I had some time this afternoon to walk around and take some photos outdoors, one of my favorite relaxing hobbies. These photos I snapped reminded me of Jack and the story I am completing, which will be up on Critters for critique as soon I can get it there! I will post when it's up for review and then you can all read my work in progress in its entirety. Here are my photos. Maybe, they'll inspire you to write something. If not, at least they're pretty.

You can read the opening scene from Fool's Gold in my previous blog entry:

http://norabpeevy.blogspot.com/2011/02/there-are-no-snow-days-in-writing.html

As always, happy writing and happy reading to all!