Jeremiah's Wall

Jeremiah shuffled along the rock path through the garden. Clutching Ms. Reed’s arm, he listened to the crunch of the gravel beneath his feet and the call of a chickadee overhead. Chick-a-dee-dee-dee! Chick-a-dee-dee-dee! He smiled, enjoying the caress of the sunshine as it peeked through the overgrown trees to scatter its warmth.

“Watch your step, Mr. Perete. Those workers made a horrible mess yesterday.”

Jeremiah patted his nurse’s arm. “Never mind. Thank you for helping me to make my way out to the bench.”

“Of course, Mr. Perete. Here we are and I brought a blanket for you to sit on. I fear that bench would chill you to the bone. Do you need anything else, Sir?”

He shook his head and settled his tired frame onto the ancient marble bench. “Thank you, Ms. Reed. I’ll call for you when I’m ready to come back in.” Even with the wool blanket beneath him, Jeremiah could feel the cold seeping into his bones. He recalled that when the garden had been designed, his mother had requested the bench to be situated against the wall and away from the towering trees. Now, many years later, he was grateful for his mother’s wisdom which allowed for the sun to shine down upon him, wrapping him in a warm embrace.  Left in the silence of the overgrown garden, it wasn’t long before Jeremiah was awash in powerful memories.

Jeremiah remembered that first afternoon. He had wreaked havoc in the house all morning

resulting in the nanny, Miss Copeland, shooing him out of the house with a broom,

sending him to the walled garden in order to, as she shouted, 

“Run amok and stay out from under foot!”

He had kicked a ball over the wall and, knowing that his father would be furious,

he had climbed up on the old marble bench against the cold rock wall with the

hopes of scaling the ivy-clad barrier and retrieving his toy. Before he was able to peek

over the stones, however, he’d heard a giggle and watched as his blue ball had sailed back

over into his own garden. The voice that called to him was sweet and delicate.

“I almost tripped on that, silly boy. My name’s Lillian. What’s yours?”

They had sat on either side of their wall for the rest of the afternoon, 

telling stories and sharing secrets with one another.

As Miss Copeland called Jeremiah in for dinner, they had promised 

to meet at the wall the next day. 

And the next and the next.

Jeremiah stirred from the memory, clutching his cane in his gnarled hand. He shifted on the bench, feeling the ache of years in his body and the familiar ache in his heart. Even after all these years, the memory of his seventeenth birthday still haunted him, leaving his heart raw with fresh grief. Try as he might to push away the ancient voices, he could still hear the shouting and feel the sting of his father’s words.

“How dare you sneak around behind my back and associate with someone like that!”

“Father, I never snuck around. We met in our own backyard. Or, should I say,

in each of our own backyards. I’ve never even met her face to face. We’ve only ever talked.”

“She is from a working family, Jeremiah. Her father is a newspaper reporter, of all things.

He spreads gossip and the like, about people like us. People he extorts for profit.”

“Father, be reasonable. He writes for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, 

a respectable newspaper you subscribe to. 

It’s not like he’s sent Lillian to spy on us. We’ve no secrets worth discovering, anyhow,

unless you thing he’s concerned with what Mrs. Scott  is serving for dinner this evening.”

“You know your mother and I would never approve of a marriage with someone who has

so very little to offer!”

“Beyond companionship and happiness, you mean.”

“Don’t be a fool, boy. I refuse to allow you to throw your future away over something

as ridiculous as your book-induced delusions about love.”

“Father...”

“Enough! I forbid you to see her or speak to her again.

This conversation is finished.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, Jeremiah retrieved the lace handkerchief he still kept, secreted away in an inner pocket, close to his heart. The delicate cotton slipped beneath his fingertips as he traced the ornate “B” stitched into the fine fabric. A sapphire “B” that she claimed matched the color of her eyes. Draping the threadbare kerchief over his bony knee, he smoothed it out, feeling the crisp folds and remembering the last time they had spoken, hiding in the dark and whispering to one another through the cold stone boundary that stood between them.

“I’m getting married, Jeremiah. Father has chosen a Mr. Elkington for me.” 

Her voice caught in her throat, forcing her to be silent. The agony of being unable

to comfort her was excruciating. He clawed at the ivy-clad wall, but the tearing of his skin

was no comparison to the pain of his heart being rent in two.

“My Lillian, I am devastated. If only I was in possession of my inheritance, I would be free to 

choose you. To choose a life with you. But, I am powerless, my love. Powerless.”

“Perhaps in another life, we could have been happy together. Don’t forget me, Jeremiah...”

“Forget you? How could I? How could I forget listening to your music, 

Goedicke’s Symphony No. 1, pouring out of your library  

and filling the night air with magic?

Or the sound of your laughter and knowing the world is a brighter 

and better place because you are in it? My sweet, Lily...”

Jeremiah’s own throat tightened with emotion. He couldn’t bear to hear her weeping.

He stood helpless, pressing his forehead against the icy wall, tears blurring his own vision. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something white fluttering

to the ground. As he stooped to pick it up, Lillian’s final words floated up and over the wall.

“Goodbye, Jeremiah. Farewell.”

Lillian was married the following month and whisked away to Philadelphia, where her new husband was assigned a position at the Philadelphia Record, an appointment her father had arranged for his new son-in-law. Unable to bear the emptiness of the garden next door, Jeremiah finally yielded to his father’s demands and left home to attend university overseas, attending his father’s alma mater, Eton, and following in his footsteps. Those were the loneliest years of Jeremiah’s life. 

While living at home, Jeremiah had enjoyed the company of old school friends during the day and his nightly visits to the garden to talk to Lillian. Now, wandering the streets of London, he found himself alone, his heart cold as stone. Without intending to, he built a new wall, a wall of icy granite around himself. Brick by brick, severed relationship by severed friendship, he encircled himself with work, duty, obligations and responsibility, pressing away any memories tied to Lillian and pressing into his studies. By the end of his schooling, Jeremiah had disappeared behind a wall of bitterness.

“After graduation, will you be traveling home with me?”

“I’m sorry, Mother. I’m not coming home. I’ve take a position here.”

“Please, Jeremiah...”

“I can’t. Please don’t ask that of me.”

He refused his father’s invitation to work alongside him, his ancient anger still fresh. He would not give his father the satisfaction of showing off his son, the recipient of the prestigious “King’s Scholar” award. Jeremiah shuddered at the thought of his father parading him around before his old cronies, and turning a blind eye to the obvious suffering he had caused with his own cold heartedness.

He ignored his mother’s pleading, for fear of opening old wounds or causing new ones. At the first of each month, he sent a letter home to his mother, responding to her inquiries about his health and his daily activities, while concealing his pain. Jeremiah became adept at constructing intricate lies behind which he hid the truth of his heart’s despair, weaving stories for his mother to dispel her anxiety and add color to his dismal life.

Years passed. He heard nothing of Lillian or her life with her husband. She had disappeared into obscurity and if it weren’t for the threadbare handkerchief he gripped in his hand upon retiring each night, he just might have forgotten about their magical evenings spent under the stars, each of them leaning against that cold stone wall, seeking warmth and solace in one another’s words. Clutching that cotton square with the intricate “B” embroidered in blue thread was the only thing that kept her close to him, even with miles of ocean stretching between them.

Jeremiah tenderly folded the handkerchief again, taking care with the delicate lace edge that had begun to fray along one side. Tucking it back inside his coat pocket with care, his fingers brushed the corner of the yellowed envelope. He paused, fingering the stamp. It was postmarked thirty years, eight weeks and two days after he had left for university, after the last time he had seen his father. He knew the letter by heart.

Dearest Jeremiah,

Your father passed away this evening quite suddenly, an apparent heart attack. 

The doctor said there was nothing that could have been done.

My dear son, he was very, very sorry for his harshness. 

I so wish you could have made amends.

Please come home.

Love,

Mother

That very day, Jeremiah booked passage on an ocean steamer, the Mauretania. With great care he made certain that his arrival would fall a few days following his father’s funeral; he was coming home for his mother and wanted no pretense that he was in some way returning to honor his father. Upon arriving at the Perete House, Jeremiah was surprised to find that the garden, though more mature and lush, looked very much the same as he had remembered. Strolling through the garden with his mother on his arm, she remarked that the walled space had become something of an obsession for his father. She was convinced that his passion for preserving the garden was his attempt at protecting the memories he had of Jeremiah, before the chasm that drove them apart. Out of respect of his mother, Jeremiah kept quiet, but in his heart he was convinced that his father’s mania for maintaining the garden was his way of convincing himself that the decision he had made, the crushing judgement he had made over Lillian and Jeremiah, was justified. That he had been right. 

His first night home, Jeremiah’s dreams were haunted by a winding labyrinth. Somewhere in the middle of the maze, he knew Lillian waited for him, he could hear her calling to him, but at every turn he encountered his father’s scowl. As he clawed his way desperately down each corridor, Lillian’s voice was drowned out by the mocking laughter of his father. He awoke the next morning, clutching the white handkerchief and drenched in sweat.

It fell to Jeremiah, as the heir of his father’s estate, to take on the responsibilities of the house. Without intending to, he soon found himself filling this father’s role at the club and making decisions regarding the upkeep of the family home. Before he knew it, he had fallen into a familiar routine, one his father had faithfully modeled for him when he was a boy. Strangely, Jeremiah found this development to be a comfort. For the first time in many years, Jeremiah felt a sense of peace.

One afternoon, several years following the death of his father, he was strolling down the street, cane in hand, when he happened to look up at Lillian’s old home and noticed a light on in an upstairs room. After studying the curious glow for a moment, he hurried home and inquired of his mother as to whether she was aware of another family having taken possession of the deserted house. 

“I don’t think so, dear,” she warbled. “I believe the estate was left to the daughter.”

“Lillian?” Jeremiah inquired.

His mother’s memory was not what it had once been. “Was that her name? Yes...yes, Lillian.

A lovely girl, if I remember. Something of a pianist.”

His mother’s words burned his heart. He had not allowed himself to say her name

since coming home.

“So it’s not been sold, then, Mother?”

“Hmm, dear? What were you saying?”

Jeremiah patted his mother’s hand with tenderness and changed the subject, 

offering to read to her instead.

Following the death of his mother, Jeremiah had considered selling the Perete House and moving back to London, but he soon realized that while most of his life had been spent in Britain, his heart was still at home here, in the midst of the garden, close to the ivy-clad wall and woven together amidst memories of Lillian. 

Years passed and the garden transformed into a jungle of over-grown brambles and tangled, ancient trees, but Jeremiah did not notice the change, as his eye-sight had begun to dim. Soon, he was left with merely shadows:  a glow from the noon-day sun or the grey haze from the shadow of an old oak tree. Upon hearing of Jeremiah’s decline in health, Ms. Reed, his mother’s former nurse, remembered Mrs. Perete’s last request of her, a mother’s final gift for her son. “Please remember my Jeremiah. He is such a sad boy, a bit of a recluse, I fear. His heart was broken years ago and I’m worried that he won’t take care of himself. Promise me, Elizabeth, promise me you’ll tend to him the way you have for me.” True to her word, Ms. Reed came to reside at the Perete House, meeting the simple needs of Jeremiah, who tottered around the house, reliving his childhood and reminiscing about the mysterious girl who had once lived on the other side of the wall.

It was Ms. Reed, then, who answered the door on that cool morning in September and found a young messenger boy, clutching an envelope with Jeremiah’s name scrawled across the ivory stationary. She delivered it to Jeremiah on a tray with his tea and toast, and offered to read it for him. He nodded and began to spread jam on his toast. As she read the first lines of the letter, she heard the knife clatter to the floor and looking up, found Jeremiah trembling.

My Dearest Jeremiah,

It has been almost fifty years since I last heard your voice and 

not a day goes by that I don’t think of you.

During my years of traveling for my piano performances, I often thought I would search you out, 

but I always found an excuse.

My husband died just a few years after we married, but even in my loneliness,

I was too afraid that you would reject me for having accepted another man in marriage.

I know it was foolish, but I didn’t believe my heart could stand to be broken again. 

Please forgive me for not contacting your sooner, but I had convinced myself

that those precious years in our gardens were lost forever...or had perhaps been only a dream.

I am coming home.

My heart hopes that you will receive me.

Your dearest love,

Lillian

P.S. Your father came to hear me play once. He wept. 

For the music, and for us, I think.

Days crept by and Jeremiah waited. He strained his ears, listening for a knock at the door or the sound of a carriage coming up the street. Ms. Reed teased that he was as eager as a school boy, but she secretly loved to see her patient glowing with such expectation and hope. Finally after a week of anticipation, a telegram arrived.

I arrive Saturday. I will be at the wall.

Jeremiah patted his coat pocket, assuring himself that both the handkerchief and letter were safely tucked within. He had no idea how much of the day had passed, but he knew that he would wait forever if it meant hearing her voice again. He listened to the chickadee calling to its mate somewhere up in the tangle of branches. A gentle breeze blew, stirring the leaves around his feet, each creating a scratching sound as they skittered across the rock path. Somewhere he heard a door close, and he knew.

Sitting up straighter, he adjusted his coat and ran his hands over his thinning white hair. A murmuring of voices floated through the hole in the wall, the portion of wall that he had requested to be torn down the day before. A smile stole across his lips. 

“Careful, my dear. Watch your step along here. This garden is a bit of a mess.”

“Thank you, dear Miss Worton. And thank you for escorting me. Now, if I’ve counted my steps correctly, the wall should be about here...” Her quavering voice trailed off as she reached a blind hand out toward the familiar wall and found only air. “Oh, my.” She raised her trembling fingertips to her lips. Jeremiah stood slowly and reached a quivering hand toward the source of that sweet voice, the voice that for decades he had heard only in his dreams. Gently, Lillian’s nurse directed her charge’s hand into his grasp and took a step back.

“My Beloved.” Jeremiah’s voice cracked as he tenderly escorted her one step back toward the marble bench. Feeling for the wool blanket, he guided her to sit beside him, never letting go of her hand. “How I’ve missed you, your voice, your presence.”

“I’ve missed you, too, sweet Jeremiah. To think, this is the first time we’ve ever touched.” He could tell from her voice that she was smiling.

“And now, my Lily, with nothing standing between us, I never intend to let you go.”

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I've written this as a submission to the 3rd edition of Precipice. This year's theme is "Boundaries". I would appreciate any feedback (flow, clarity, resolution).  Thank you, in advance!

Sights and Sounds

Brooke shrugged out of her coat as Mark slid it from her shoulders. Draping it over his arm, he turned to the attendant at the coat check. As he accepted their ticket from the attendant, Brooke spoke up, "What is this exhibit again?"

"It's a collection of photographs." Brooke turned toward Mark with a frown, her eyebrows knitted together. "But, it's a special collection. Trust me."

Guiding his date toward the line of other guests, Mark slipped Brooke's hand over the crook of his arm and read from the printed program. "It says here that this display is the collaborative result of six years worth of work by Benjamin Meer and Charlotte Kalmen. Benjamin Meer has a twin brother, William, who lost his sight as a result of Stargardt's Disease. Benjamin compiled this collection of photographs for William in order to capture favorite moments of their childhood, a scrapbook of sorts."

Brooke shook her head. "A lot of good that would do his brother. A bit thoughtless, don't you think?"

"But that's where Charlotte Kalmen comes in. Charlotte is a composer and pianist and it's her contribution to the project that I think you'll appreciate. Studying Benjamin's photographs, Charlotte wrote original songs to accompany each image, telling the story of each memory through music."

As the couple approached the first photograph, Mark handed Brooke a small device. "What's this? A remote control?"

"Very funny. This first image is titled, "Morning Breaks". It's the view out the kitchen window of the Meer family home. Now if I type in #124, we'll hear Charlotte's interpretation of this early morning moment."  Pressing the keys on the control, Mark held it up near Brooke's ear.

The first few notes seemed to be calling up the sun, beckoning its tentative rise over the crest of the hill. As the song continued, Brooke could make out the notes of birds calling out greetings to one another and the long sighs of the earth awaking. She smiled as the last notes evaporated. "That was lovely," she smiled. "It gave me goosebumps." Rubbing her arms, Mark directed them to the next photograph.

"This one is #135 and it's titled, "Old Porch Swing". According to the program, the boys spent hours on this porch swing, telling stories and listening to the world around them."

Brooke grasped the control to her ear, each note painting a picture of pure joy. Transported to the edge of that swing, she clung to the armrest and listened to the laughter of the boys, felt the summer breeze blow her curls back from her face. She rocked back and forth, hearing the creak of the old wood.

Mark's gaze drifted away from the photograph, landing on Brooke's upturned face. His own eyes glistened as he watched a single tear slip down her cheek. And then another. As she turned her sightless eyes toward him, his felt his throat tighten. In the silence that followed the final strain, Brooke whispered, "I could see the sunshine."

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

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A 500-word piece inspired by the image above. 

Eight O'Clock

Aurora yawned and stretched her hands overhead, feeling a familiar ache in her lower back. She winced and rubbed at the sore muscles, wondering what she'd done to tweak it this time. Shuffling to the kitchen in her slippers, she set the kettle on the burner and popped a tea bag into her favorite emerald green mug, the one Abend had chosen for her during his trip home to Germany last year.  Cupping the mug in her hands, she felt the smooth depressions in the stoneware and smiled at how perfectly it fit in her grip. Abend said it was made just for her. Peeking at the clock, she yawned again. "He said he'd call at eight." Propping herself against the counter, she waited for the water to boil.

Abend scratched at his chin, feeling the stubble, and grinned. He could hear Aurora's teasing voice, "If you want a kiss, you'll need to shave first."  He flicked off the bathroom light and sighed.  There would be no kiss, just a phone call to his favorite girl.  Abend pulled on a sweatshirt to guard against the chill and wandered to his hotel room's kitchenette, searching for something hot to drink. A nondescript ivory mug sat in the sink. He rinsed it and filled it with water before putting it in the mini-microwave and pressing the button marked, "beverage". Running his hand through his hair, he checked his watch, the Rolex Aurora had surprised him with before he left for this trip. "So you won't lose track of time and forget to call me," she'd said, winking.

The timepiece read seven forty-five. Just then the microwave beeped and Abend carefully lifted the steaming mug and dropped in a tea bag from the hotel stash.  Blowing across the surface of the mug, he settled into the armchair near the window and pulled out his notes from his most recent interviews. The next fifteen minutes crawled toward eight o'clock.

Pouring the boiling water into her emerald mug, Aurora smiled as her phone rang.  Abend's ring tone filled the quiet kitchen and she slipped into a chair at the kitchen table.

"Hello, Love."

"Hey there, my girl. Did I wake you?"

"No. I've been waiting for your call. How are you?"

"Busy, as you'd expect. I covered the ski jump events, even interviewing the gold medalist from China."

"Wonderful! I'll look for you at the bottom of the hill."

"Sure, I'll be the one in the blue hat amidst the sea of reporters. Are you staying busy?"

"I have a meeting across the bay in Sausalito in a bit."

A few seconds ticked by in silence.

"I miss you."

"I miss you, too. Just five more days."

"I made reservations at Cupola."

"I can taste the pizza."

"I'm sorry, I have to go."

"Have a great day, Aurora."

"I will. And you sleep well."

"Good morning."

"Good night."

As the phone went silent, Aurora sighed. "Time is the longest distance between two places."

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

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A 500-word piece inspired by The Glass Menagerie quote, "Time is the longest distance between two places." and the image above. A little fun with language: Aurora is Latin for "goddess of the dawn" while Abend is German for "evening".

It Takes Two...

"You're sure you don't mind running out?"

Maggie was already pulling on her grey peacoat and wrapping a long turquoise scarf around her neck.  "Of course not. I'll just pop down to the corner market. You can't very well have cinnamon rolls without cinnamon!" She laughed and tugged an old felt hat over her unruly curls and then, tucking the cuffs of her pajama bottoms into her boots, she peered up at her sister and grinned. "Is there anything else we need? You do have coffee, right?"

Elsa nodded and silenced the timer on the stove. Pulling on oven mitts, she reached into the oven to pull out her grandmother's ceramic bowl; the warm yeasty bread rising up above the surface and pressing against the blue-checked tea towel she had draped over the top.  "I went to the store after my tiff with Rob and I guess my mind was elsewhere. He just made me so mad..." Her voice trailed off prompting a sympathetic squeeze from her sister. Elsa shrugged and let out a long sigh. "It's really not a big deal. Listen, if you hurry, I'll have the dough rolled out and ready for the good stuff when you get back. I have a couple dollars in my purse, if you need it."

"Don't be silly. I got paid yesterday and after paying the rent, I think I have just enough money leftover for a jar of cinnamon," Maggie teased. "I'll be back in a jiffy!"

As the apartment door slammed shut, Elsa opened the cupboard door and gathered the other ingredients she needed in order to make their mother's famous cinnamon rolls.  Lining up the brown sugar, butter and raisins, she flipped on the radio before dipping her hands into the dented canister and sprinkling the countertop with a generous dusting of flour. Singing along with Ella Fitzgerald, she dumped out the warm dough onto the floured surface and kneaded out the air bubbles, the familiar yeasty fragrance filling her nostrils.

For a moment, Elsa was transported back to her childhood kitchen, covered in flour up to her elbows and helping her mother roll out the dough for their Saturday morning breakfast.  Cartoons blared from the living room and her mom hummed, "I Can't Stop Lovin' You," while she worked the dough.

"You know, Love," she murmured to her oldest daughter. "Bread is the perfect food to prepare when you're working through a problem. Bread dough loves to be pounded on and pushed around. Work out your frustrations on a lump of dough and you'll feel better."

Elsa smiled at the memory. Knowing her dad, the girls' mother had plenty of frustrations to work out. That's probably why Mom made cinnamon rolls every Saturday. To push around and pound on the dough instead of Dad. In spite of his faults, her mother had stood by him through all those years, even with his conspiracy theories and irrational fears making work hard to find and even harder to keep. Unbidden, her thoughts floated back to her argument with Rob, stirring up a familiar dialogue. So, he forgot our date. He said he was sorry, right? Yes. But this wasn't the first time he'd missed an engagement. Well, last time you gave him the wrong restaurant. But he didn't have to be so rude about it yesterday. Flouring her rolling pin, Elsa pummeled the sweet dough and was surprised to find that with each roll, she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders.  He did text this morning with new reservations. Proof, I suppose, that he wanted to make it right. Once the dough was pressed into a thin rectangle, Elsa slathered butter over the smooth surface, turning the spatula back and forth. I guess it was all just a messy misunderstanding. I should let it go, but...

She was shaken from her thoughts by the rattling of Maggie's keys in the door. "I'm back! Did you miss me?" she hollered. Thumping the jar of seasoning on the counter, she unwrapped her warm layers and grinned, her nose and cheeks pink from the frosty morning air. "It smells good," she quipped as she pinched off a piece of dough and popped it in her mouth. Elsa playfully slapped her sister's hand away, scolding her with a look learned from their mother. Maggie laughed and tucked her legs up under herself, perching on the kitchen stool to watch her sister work.

After a generous layer of brown sugar, a sprinkling of raisins and a heavy dusting of the recently fetched seasoning, Elsa rolled up the dough, sliced it into hearty rolls and popped them into the oven. "Do you want a cup of coffee while we wait? It'll be a spell for them to rise and bake." At a nod from her sister, Elsa filled a mug with fresh coffee and slid it across the countertop, picking up the new jar of seasoning to put away. She paused. "Uh, oh. This isn't cinnamon, Maggie." Her younger sister snatched it from her hand and squinted at the label.

"Chicken jerk? Oops. Well, uh, they'll be spicy!"

Elsa clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. "You really need to wear your glasses when you shop!"

"You could have read the label, too. Where are your glasses?"

"Shush. Can you pass me the phone."

"Who are you calling at this hour?"

"Rob. You just reminded me that it takes two to make an accident."

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A flash-fiction piece inspired by The Great Gatsby quote, "It takes two to make an accident." And also inspired my very own kitchen-catastrophe when I really did mistake chicken jerk for cinnamon in a batch of cinnamon rolls. That spicy accident ended up in the trash, but not without teaching me a lesson about reading labels carefully!

The Bells

The bells of St. Brigit's are calling tonight. 

The glow of a hundred tapers fills the nave; the air is heady with incense. Organ music swells to the rafters and every head turns. Feet shuffle and the pews creak as those gathered rise and catch a glimpse of the beauty behind the veil, prompting the appearance of lace handkerchiefs to dab at teary eyes. The belle trembles, clinging to the arm of her escort, her eyes focused on the altar awash in orchids and ivy. Her glistening eyes flicker to the loving smile of the gentleman standing at the end of the aisle.

And finally she can breathe.

image courtesy of gammablog

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100 words to add to that first line. May they live happily ever after.

Traveling Through the Mist

"Stay near me, Penny. This summer mist will get heavier as we descend into the valley. I don't want to lose my girl."

"Yes, Papa." Penny chose her steps carefully, treading over the moss-covered stones. She trotted along, nearly running in a effort to keep up with her father's long stride. Penny paused here and there to inspect a delicate flower or swath of new green moss and then jogged ahead, falling into the wake of her father's steps.

Listening to the chatter of the boys behind her, she smiled to herself. They're always talking about wild beasts and curious creatures, about how brave they would be in a hunt. But I would bet my grandma's opal pendant that they would turn tail and run at the first sight of a Daonna. Then we'd know who it is that carries true courage in their hearts. Penny was stirred from her thoughts by a rustling in the brush somewhere along the path and she froze, clutching her father's hand.

"It's just a rabbit, Penny. See there, it's headed back into the bushes. Perhaps back to her babies." Papa smiled and squeezed her hand before continuing down the trail. Penny peered into the darkness under the verdant bush and was startled by two glowing orbs staring back at her. The eyes blinked causing Penny to stumble back and land in the dirt. Jumping to her feet, she dusted off her backside and, with a final look at the rabbit's warren, ran to catch up with the group as they passed around a bend.

The mist closed in around Penny as she scurried along. The trees loomed high over her head, disappearing into the low-lying clouds that hung heavy in the air, blocking out the faltering rays of the summer sun. Shivering, Penny climbed up on a mossy log and squinted, trying to make out the silhouettes of her traveling partners. They had disappeared.

Penny blinked, tears burning her eyes. They're just up ahead. If you stay to the path, you will find them. Jumping off the log, she darted along the trail, straining her ears for her father's voice but she heard only her pounding heart. Suddenly she skidded to a stop and turned around.

Coming through the mist a giant shadow towered over her. A Daonna trod along the path, his boots thudding on the dirt path, twigs snapping under his heavy tread. Dashing out of his way, Penny took refuge under a leaf of a trailing ivy plant that had taken root in a boulder's fissure. Her pixie wings quivered and then, chancing discovery, she took flight, zipping between the trees, searching for her father and brothers.

"Daonna! Daonna!" she squeaked as she tumbled at their feet, pointing behind them. The traveling party ducked into the safety of a hollow log just as the giant lumbered past.

"My courageous, lucky Penny," her father whispered, smoothing her tussled hair. "Those humans can be dangerous."

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

“Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?”
― Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle

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500 words inspired by the above picture and the words "summer mist" from the quote above. I was also inspired by a hike we took last spring along a similar path. As we stopped for a water break, my eyes caught sight of miniature pixie homes hidden among the mossy logs, delicate flowers and tall grasses. No pixies, though...they're excellent hiders.

Neighborhood Watch

Well now, Officer, I don't know. Let me think. You don't mind if I have a seat do you? These old bones don't hold me up like they used to. Just shove that stack of magazines off to the side and rest yourself. Ahh...that's much better. 

I pride myself on knowing my folks and I don't imagine that anyone living here would've done such a thing as that. My husband and I started overseeing this building forty years ago. After he passed, my grand boy came to live with me and help keep the place up, but I still mind the people.

Let's see now, there are "The Bobbsey Twins" up on the seventh floor. Of course, that's just what I call 'em. They're a mischievous pair. They think they've fooled these old eyes by pretending there's just one of 'em living in that studio apartment, but I know there's two of 'em sharing the space. They might think their matching freckles and ponytails have fooled me, but one hums and the other chews her nails to the quick. However, I don't think they'd do such a thing. They don't cause any trouble, they're just poor.

Then there's Mr. Faraz. He was a professor for years. He's very private; I don't know that we've spoken more than a handful of words, but he's always polite, bowing and smiling. He's up on the fifth floor. You'll know his place by the smell of curry wafting out into the hall.

I know it couldn't be Mr. Pelko on the fourth floor. He hasn't been out of his apartment since he moved in. He has a terrible disease. What's that called? Agora-something-or-other. Poor soul. He hired Danny to shop for him and run errands. Best thing that could have happened to that sweet boy. Seeing as his father doesn't seem to much care about what happens to him, at least Mr. Pelko looks after him. They're good for each other.

There's that young couple up on the second floor, but they have their hands full with that new little girl. Oh, they longed for a baby for years and years. It broke my heart to watch them pine away for a little one, knowing they would be such good parents. Finally they adopted sweet Kotahi. I once heard another tenant remark that she was "damaged goods", what with her limp. Made me so angry, I refused to renew their lease. She's their little princess, she is.

Of course, Old Lady Robel wouldn't have done it. She's too busy with her birds in the courtyard. She shuffles down to her bench every morning with her pockets full of birdseed. I can always tell where she's been, following the little trail of seeds she leaves behind. She's lonely, but for the company of her little feathered friends.

Then there's...what's that? Well, if you've gotta go, I'll keep your card here. And I'll keep my eyes open for any curious characters.

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

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500 words inspired by the above picture and the cozy-noseiness of neighbors. I was struck by the thousands of stories tucked away behind those windows and how they might be woven together.

Rite of Passage

Orman heard the twig snap under his boot and froze. The sudden sound startled a family of starwings in a nearby tree, sending them to flight. Orman grimaced. Heart thudding, he slowly exhaled and took another tentative step. Orman listened for a moment, but the Boska Forest was silent again. Relieved, he tightened the strap on his pack and resumed his cautious trek between the towering copac, skirting their roots that threatened to entangle his steps.

To his left, briefly illuminated amidst the shifting shadows, Orman spotted the silver vine, partially buried under fallen leaves. Approaching the clearing, he slowed his steps and carefully surveyed the surrounding landscape. Convinced he was still alone, he knelt by the mysterious cord and removed his glove. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand on the vine and then abruptly pulled away, stumbling backward. The vine pulsed. It was alive.

The hoarse cry of a tulang from somewhere overhead startled Orman again and he sprang to his feet. As the massive bird took flight, Orman chided himself. Too many tales about the terrors of the Boska Forest have made you soft. The stories told around the evening fire are only that. Stories. You're no longer a boy. Or at least you won't be after today. Orman peered into the gloom and allowed his eyes to trace the vine as it disappeared into the forest. He knew he was close now that he had found the salapi vine. All he had to do was follow it to the heart of the forest and claim his prize. And then return to the village, of course. With one last look over his shoulder, Orman set off to complete his task, following the silver cord deep into the forest.

Jogging through the trees, Orman leapt back and forth over the salapi vine as it wandered over the path through the copac trees. As he stopped to catch his breath, he marveled at the silver vine. What sort of creature awaited him at the end? Images filled his mind, frightening creatures brought to life around the crackling evening fire, woven together by the village storyteller: the borgue, the vulturan, the kalaman. But, what about Styrga the Bold or Mirmark the Strong? Orman reminded himself. They conquered their fears and the creatures of forest. Their blood courses through your veins.

A shout from somewhere ahead stirred him from his thoughts. He recognized the voice as belonging to Remere, his boyhood friend. Unable to discern if the cry was one of victory or fear, Orman broke into a run, his pack thumping on his back, stumbling over the salapi vine as he navigated the last few yards to the heart of the forest.  Breaking through the wall of copac, Orman was stunned by the sight. His veins turned to ice as he realized the fireside stories were true.

Clenching his jaw, the young hunter drew his dagger and charged the beast. And joined the legends of the evening fire.

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

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500 words inspired by the above picture. This is my first attempt at something akin to fantasy. It was a challenge, but fun to write outside my comfort zone.