01 March 2009

Wishing Well, Kiss and Tell

I submitted this story to this years 'Big Write' at the library. Last year I gave a hard copy, but this year I subbed by email. I hope it got there. *crosses fingers* I actually forgot all about that until I was trying to find something to post here. Baby is sleeping right now, but I usually spend free moments washing dishes or messing around on the internet. Bad girl!


As she walks down the dirt road, she scuffs her bare feet, sending clouds of dirt into the air. Occasionally she steps on a pebble, which makes her curse, but doesn’t make her wish for shoes. Shoes are a luxury she doesn’t have, or want. She doesn’t have a lot of things that most people consider important. She has one dress—a blue cotton dress that’s been washed so many times it’s nearly white. There’s a hole along the hem that she intends to fix, when she gets around to it. The neckline is missing a button, so a triangle of porcelain skin is visible, unless she forgets and bends over, and then more than just a triangle shows.

She has one vanity: her long, buttery hair. It falls to her waist in a shiny wave, the cleanest part of her. Each morning she painstakingly washes it in the creek, no matter the weather. Most women have long hair, but keep theirs confined in a bun. Not her. It would be sacrilege to bind that hair. At least that’s what Frank told her once.She lives alone in a one-room shack, which is more than adequate for her means. There is a table with two rickety chairs, a sooty fireplace, and a goose down bed, legacy of her parents. For a moment her thoughts touch on them, but only for a moment. They are the past, and don’t matter anymore.

By the time she reaches town, her feet and ankles are filthy. But her hair, her gorgeous blonde hair blows around her face, drawing all eyes. She keeps her smile inside, where it is most satisfying.

The wooden boardwalk is smooth and cool under her feet, a nice change from the dirt road. She glances at the saloon, wondering if Frank is there, dealing the cards in his striped shirt and bushy mustache. What would he say if she went inside? Would he smile and kiss her, run his fingers through her hair like he does when he comes to her in the goose down bed? Or would his dark eyes pass over her, his lip curling in disgust like the townspeople?

Shrugging, she steps past a cowboy in dusty chaps, turning her head a bit so that her hair will shimmer in the noon time heat. A moment later she hears boots thump on the boardwalk behind her and hides a smile.

“Hey, uh, excuse me, Miss?”

He’s young, with big ears and a shy smile. His greasy hair is plastered to his head, his battered hat clutched in oversized hands.

“I was wondering…Can I buy you a sarsaparilla?”

She considers his offer, combing her hair with her fingers, noting the way his eyes follow every stroke. When she nods slowly, his sky blue eyes light up, transforming a homely face to one nearly handsome.

She likes blue eyes. Frank’s are brown as the dirt after rain.



The saloon is cool and dark, sawdust on the floor sticking to her feet. Pappy, the bartender, scowls at her while he wipes a dirty glass with a dirtier rag. Behind him bottles line splintered shelves on either side of the mirror.

“Two sarsaparillas, please,” the young cowboy says. Pappy’s eyebrows rise, two bushy caterpillars, but he reaches beneath the bar and sets two down two brown bottles.

“Let’s see your money, cowboy.” The bartender folds his arms across his stained apron, deliberately not looking at her. She doesn’t mind; she’s used to it. While her young admirer digs in his pockets, becoming increasingly frustrated, she leans against the bar and gazes around the saloon.

The afternoon sun slants in through the swinging doors, dust motes dancing on a sunbeam. She can hear the jingle of harnesses, the muted voices of passersby. And all the while she feels Frank’s eyes on her. His muddy brown eyes.

Fuzzy the piano player staggers up to the bar, a moth-eaten bowler crooked on his bald head.

“Hey, Pappy,” he says, spraying spittle. “I gets mighty thirsty in that corner. How about a beer for your favorite piana player?” He hiccups, notices her and smiles, displaying a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Why, hello there Lydia. You’re looking esp—espeshully lovely today.”

“Get back to the piano before I throw your skinny arse out,” Pappy says, shaking his fist not two inches from Fuzzy’s pimply nose.

“Here you go,” the cowboy says, inserting himself between the cursing piano player and Lydia. Relief makes his smile appealing. He hands her a brown bottle and raises his own to his lips. Watching his throat as he swallows, she wonders what it would be like to lie beneath him in the goose down bed.

“So your name is Lydia. I’m Jedediah,” he stammers, smooth cheeks turning red.

“Mmm—hmmm,” she says, running her fingers through her hair again. Frank is still watching, still frowning, still trying to deal the cards and not doing a very good job, judging by the grumbling going on at the table.

“Say, I hope I’m not being presumptuous, Miss Lydia, but I was wondering if you’d care to take a walk this evening?”

Slowly, she turns her head and looks directly into his face for the first time. “Why, Jedediah, I’d be right pleased.”

He flushes again, which she finds purely delightful. Even Josiah when he first met her hadn’t called her ‘Miss Lydia’, and he certainly hadn’t blushed like this big-eared boy.

Jedediah ducks his head, takes another drink. “I can meet you here, if you like.”

“Meet me at the wishing well out behind the old church. You know the place?”

He swallows. “Sure do, Miss Lydia.” He looks as if he wants to say more, but she sets her untouched sarsaparilla down on the bar and glides across the floor, flipping her shiny hair back over her shoulders.

Frank’s eyes burn a hole in her back.

*****



It is not quite twilight as she walks unhurriedly down the dusty trail, little puffs of dirt following her like puppies. In the pocket of her faded dress is a single coin for the wishing well.

Cicadas hum in the leaning oak trees, falling silent as she passes beneath. The long grass makes her legs itch and she pauses beside the church to scratch, her fingernails drawing lines through the dirt on her ankles.

The brick church is crumbling from the top down. The spire fell long ago, leaving a dark mouth with jagged teeth open to the sky. The sun continues to sink, casting the churchyard into shadows.

Lydia walks through the graveyard, touching headstones here and there. She can’t help stopping to read the inscription on one stone on the edge of the graveyard. She runs her fingers over the smooth coolness, traces the fading words carved there.

Daddy’s little angel
Rest in peace

A branch cracks somewhere behind her and she straightens quickly, swipes her hand across her stinging eyes. Probably just a rabbit but she hurries to the wishing well, bare feet squashing sticks and toadstools and black beetles that try to scurry out of her way.

It’s only a cistern surrounded by granite rocks, but to Lydia it has always seemed mysterious and magical and forbidden. The locals consider it cursed because the priest disappeared one dark night and his robes were later found lying beside the well, torn and bloody. Or so they say.

Her fingers find the coin in her pocket, close around it. She sits on the rocks sideways so that one long white leg dangles in to the deep black while the other rests in the tickly grass.

A dreamy smile appears on her face. It matches the dreamy thoughts drifting through her mind.

Jedediah crosses the graveyard and sees her sitting on the cistern. A huge smile spreads across his big-eared face. . He is carrying flowers in one hand, his hat in another, because he won’t wear his hat in the presence of a lady, it’s disrespectful. The sinking sun glints off his blue eyes, eyes dark as the sky. She rises to greet him, takes the flowers shyly offered. He stammers, blushes, tries to get words past his uncooperative tongue. Finally, taking pity on him, she raises her hand to his face, touches the smooth skin of his cheek.

“I love you, Miss Lydia,” he says, and then—

“What in the hell are you doing?”

The rough voice startles her, brings her out of the wishful dream. It’s Frank, of course, hands on his slim hips, moustache quivering. She rises, smoothing her dress.

She says nothing, holds out the coin. A sneer curls his lip and she slips the coin back into her pocket, saying nothing. When he grabs her arm, fingers pinching her skin, she doesn’t resist.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice harsh. “I thought you knew that.”

He says other things, but all she can think of are blue eyes and a sweet smile, the coin in her pocket, the wish that will go unsaid. Unfulfilled.

(c)2008 WS Ribelin







27 February 2009

2009

Thing are beginning to slow down a bit. I have a short story I am working on, not steadily, but it's constantly in my mind. Hopefully I will be able to work on it today. I know I have to make time to write, because if I wait for it to happen it never will.

Working title: "Dear Betsy"

or "Parasitic"


It's about conjoined/parasitic twins. I know they aren't the same thing, but I hope to put those two types together somehow and come out with something disturbing. Not necessarily horror, but disturbing. Yeah, disturbing would be good.