Frater

You can only refuse to believe in something until you see it with your own eyes. Henry now believed in ghosts.

While waiting for the fraternity brothers to come downstairs for dinner, he walked into the lounge and saw a young man blowing chilled breath onto three of the mullioned window panes and tracing letters in the condensation.

“Who are you?” Henry asked. “You must know there's an investigation. We're closed.”

The young man stilled his movements and turned.

“You!” Henry said, heart thumping.

Thomas smirked, tilting his head to one side. “Me,” he agreed.

“You're supposed to be dead.”

“How very interesting,” Thomas rolled his eyes. “Anyone would think I was unaware of this.”

Several days ago, “Two Die During Rush Week” was one of the many headlines in the local newspapers. Pictures revealed handsome young men with athletic builds and rakish smiles. When it happened, it was Hell Night, and Thomas stood with Henry and another freshman awaiting further instructions.

They endured several harsh antics and pranks, and only one thing needed to be done before these pledges discovered if the fraternity brothers extended a hand in bonding and unity or goodbye. The last test involved drinking lots of water quickly. The ones who drank the most within the half hour were assured a place in the house.

The autopsy report concluded death from water intoxication and its complications. Doctors were called too late and could not reverse the cellular damage from severe brain tissue swelling.

“What do you want?” Henry asked.

Thomas walked to the sofa and tapped his fingers along the frayed armrest where his head had rested that evening as he lay dying.

“It's you who needs to remember something,” he said.

“Me? You're crazy. Or I am, if I'm standing here talking to you.”

Thomas shook his head and returned to the window. He touched the last pane.

“I'll see you later, Henry.”

“What? No! Why would you haunt me? Didn't I try to call the police, when the others wanted to wait until morning to see if things got better?”

Thomas laughed. “You could not do very much.”

“I tried to help!” Henry insisted. "But no one would listen to me." He took a calming breath, trying to relax his features, trying to look less like a frightened boy. Thomas pointed to the window, then looked at him over his shoulder.

“Just returning the favor,” he said, then winked and dispersed into curling grey wisp that fogged the fourth pane and outlined a last word.

You Are Dead Too



[Edited to add few lines to clear up confusion for several readers]

Traditions

This is how Tasha died: pinioned by the arms of her grandfather as her father struck her chest with her mother's favorite kitchen knife.  She expected her mother to scream, or rush at her husband, or call the police. She did not expect her Ammi would stand at the top of the stairs and nod her head in support.

Tasha has a sister, her mother thought as she watched, her eyes rimmed with dampened kohl.

Earlier, Tasha had returned home from an afternoon of studying at her best friend's house. She was introduced to an older cousin who was visiting for the weekend. He helped them with their studies and, several hours later, they walked Tasha home after stopping for a drink at the coffee shop. She waved goodbye and turned to see her parents and grandfather standing in the hall. “I'm late, I know, sorry but---”

“You were out all day with a boy?” Her father's spittle landed on her face and she stepped back.

“Not like that. We were studying!”

Her grandfather spoke. “You were told you will marry the young man we chose for you, with ties to our village. His relatives here saw you.”

Tasha did not want to talk about this. She was born in this suburban house 16 years ago, not a dusty village.  Yes, her mother and father were very strict, overly protective, and infuriating at times, but is that not the way of all parents?

“You know I don't want to get married,” she said. “Especially to some guy I don't even know. I want to study and get a job and not be tied down to your old-fashioned...”

Her mother's slap to her face sent Tasha running upstairs to her room. She sat on her bed and held her old stuffed bunny to her chest. It was her comfort in the night since she was four years old. A few minutes later she heard someone walk up the wooden steps to her room. Her father came in without knocking. He carried a cup of tea.

“You acted in a way that has brought shame to our family!” he said and closed the door. He held out the hot drink. “Your grandfather and I will give you the chance to do what you must to preserve the honor of our family members.”

He pointed to the cup in his hand. “It has rat poison.”

 “Abba?” Tasha pushed one of Bunny's ears into her mouth to stifle the scream and bile and moved closer to the window.

“No one will marry your sister until our name is pure again.” Her father placed the cup on her desk and left without another word.

Tasha's tears obscured the familiar. What was her father talking about? Those traditions had no place here. Oh, she grew up hearing about these honor killings, but they were stories - they belonged to the old country, to the villages, to the old ways. This is the United States, for goodness sake. Her father could not mean this. He was just trying to scare her. She needed to find her mother.

She knocked the cup to the floor and left her room, running down the stairs. Her grandfather stepped from the study and stood before her.

“Oh, Dada, Dada!” she wept as he held out his arms.

Tasha expected them to take away her phone, or ground her for a month, or any other loss of privileges as punishment. She did not imagine this.

“I am justified,” her father whispered as he pulled out the knife. “Allah Haafiz.”

Bald Lying

I've been tapped by Carol Kilgore at Under the Tiki Hut to receive the Lesa's Bald Faced Liar "Creative Writer" Blogger Award. I'm honored! Thank you, Carol.

As with the best things in life, this is not free. There are some things I must do before I can relax and stare at my lovely award.





Here are the rules:
1. Thank the person who gave this to you.
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you.
4. Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth.
5. Nominate seven "Creative Writers" who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies.
6. Post links to the seven blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them.

That's it. Now, of course I must tell six outrageous lies about myself. Hmmm. Dunno why Carol thought I knew how to lie, but never mind.  Will have words with her later. Oh. And one outrageous truth. Well, there's nothing outrageous about the truth. It can only set one free.

So, here goes:

1. I gave a drunken lap dance to a 21-year-old stranger at a transvestite club.
2. My father was the mayor of his New Jersey town.
3. I never went to college because I was kicked out of high school.
4. I gave up a rock star life because the sex and drugs became same-old, same-old.
5. I am now a happy little homemaker and cook, clean, bake every day.
6. My mother spoke French to me until I went to first grade.
7. I never learned to drive.

Now, I must torture nominate seven "Creative Writers" and warn them about it.

I'm tapping the side of my nose with my index finger as I think. All right. Here are the seven bloggers I'm passing this award to:

1. Deanna Schrayer at The Other Side of Deanna
2. Anne Tyler Lord at Don't Fence Me In
3. G.P. Ching at So, Write
4. P.J. Kaiser at Inspired by Real Life 
5. Karen Schindler at Miscellaneous Yammerings
6. Tony Noland at Landless 
7. Alex Carrick at Alex Carrick's Blog

That was a lot of work, Carol.

But it was an entertaining way to spend my snowbound day! Thanks again.

Ache

The school yard fell silent as the two boys stood toe-to-toe at the center of the growing crowd.  The bigger of the boys, whom everyone called Buster, kept his hostile brown-eyed stare pointed at his opponent. His beefy arms dangled loosely at his sides, but his fists were clenched and ready.

Teddy was new to the school. Earlier, while he ate lunch at a table by himself, Buster and four other boys approached and pushed his tray to the floor.

“You think you be so smart, laughing cuz I got the wrong answer in class?” Buster asked.

He looked around at the nearby students, who stopped chewing in order to hear what was happening. “Let's see him laugh when I break his face outside.”

He turned to Teddy and sneered. No one said a word until Buster and his cronies left the room.

Now, all the spectators waited in excited chatter for it to begin. When Buster spat on the ground, a signal that he was ready, the crowd stepped back to give him room. Teddy started to tell this bully he did not want to fight, but had hardly spoken when Buster struck and hit him in the head.

Fight! Fight!" came from those looking on, and this was taken up on all sides.

Though a cut in his temple was bleeding into his right eye, Teddy ducked the next blow and ran at Buster. They tumbled to the ground. Teddy, being leaner and quicker, rolled away and stood. He  kicked at Buster's ankles and shins, but fell over when he lost his balance.

"Boys! boys! Stop this now!” It was the school principal. He forced his way through the crowd to where Buster and Teddy lay, still pummeling each other, and, reaching down, caught each by the collar and dragged him to his feet.

As they were led away to the front door of the school, Teddy thought about his grandmother getting the phone call. He lived with her now, after his mother had left him on her doorstep a week ago with a small suitcase and run off with another deadbeat boyfriend who promised her everything but stability.

His grandmother sighed when she answered his knock that day but knew Teddy could not live alone and had no other place to go. “Don't want trouble with you, hear?” she warned after explaining the rules of the house. He promised.

This is trouble, he thought as he and Buster reached their fourth grade classroom to collect their books while the principal spoke to their teacher.

Later, as he sat waiting in the hallway for his grandmother to come and sign him out of school, Teddy remembered his mother once told him, “Baby, dreams don't cost nuthin' but the time it takes to have 'em.”  

So he will dream of a transformed life ahead. But, the world he inhabits will not make it easy.

He feared he will always have to fight to make his way.


NOTE:

I have Clifford Fryman to thank for the first sentence. I found it at #storystarters, his brainchild, a place to go if writers need a prompt to “kick start their creativity when their muse is a no show.” You can find him at Twitter here.

The Woods

Billy Parker is famous tonight. And not just because his shots at the state police helicopter ruptured the fuel tank and forced an emergency landing, though that feat makes him mighty proud. His daddy tried to teach him to hunt deer, but it was always Billy's four brothers who brought down the bucks at the end of the day.  

Lookie now, daddy, he thought as he stopped to rest against a tree in the Virginia woods, hands gripping the high powered rifle, listening intently. I finally bagged me something big.

What brings Billy notoriety this cold winter evening are the five bodies back at the house.

It was Wade from the gas station who found them earlier when he came by for their weekly cards and booze. He ran out to the yard, crying and spewing his dinner, before he drove to the neighboring farm for help. When Sheriff Walker arrived, Wade grabbed his arm and told him the Parkers are dead except Billy because “his body ain't lying in there.” The Sheriff nodded.

The other teenagers down at the Piggly Wiggly once told him, “Billy's not been right in the head since his mama passed.” Since then he always thought something awful would happen. There were too many nights he was called in to stop the drunken beatings. Yes, he worried about the boy.

The manhunt tracked Billy to his present location, a rural area thick with trees that gave way to large clearings. He knew he had a final decision to make since he could hear the hounds and see flashes of light. It was harder before, when the jumbled voices in his head cajoled too fast and too loud, and were of no help. But a few minutes ago, they ceased their shouts and whispered their goodbyes.

They'll come back, dammit, he said out loud. They always do.

His pursuers arrived. Billy stood up and walked away from the tree in calm and unavoidable surrender.

An Uncle

A car horn jolted Nick out of his reverie. He sat in a favorite leather bound chair by the window in Uncle's study and looked at his wife with bleary eyes. Her peevish expression faded when she finally had his attention. “Yes?” he said with a slight inclination of his head, and put down his drink.

“You're being rude, you know. Go handle those people out there.”

“Forgive me but I'm going to need some more time alone.” He refilled the glass.

“Oh really? Well, sure. Of course.” She left without another word and slammed the door shut.

Nick looked out the window and saw three people striding up the short drive to the house. He gulped more of his drink, needing the alcohol to burn away the bile clogging his throat.

Many years ago Nick became Uncle's ward.  His mother, a much beloved housemaid to the family, left the infant boy with Uncle and his late wife, and returned to her husband and children in their Central American village. Nick's biological father was never found. While never usually overtly affectionate, Uncle raised him in a dutiful and kind manner.

Just yesterday, the elderly man died in his bed.

Uncle once made an offer he thought would set his ward on a path of redemption. “I'll pay all the fees and living expenses if you go to law school.” But Nick refused. By then, he operated a successful business he enjoyed. Many times over the years, the money he made was more than he could have hoped, even as a lawyer.

Unfortunately, those lucrative times were gone.

Of course, I counted on Uncle's damn millions taking care of the rest of it,  he thought as he swallowed the last of the scotch.

Earlier, after he greeted and comforted all who came over with their black clothes, their potlucks, and their memories, Nick stepped into the study for private time with Uncle's lawyer. 

“I don't know why you thought you and your wife were in Mr. Stanford's will,” were the lawyer's last words before he left Nick shaken and nursing his drink.

He wished he knew that particular truth sooner.

The sharp knock at the door of the study jolted Nick out of his reverie. “Yes, yes, come the hell in.” He stood up and flung the glass at the fireplace, and waited for the detective to walk over to him and recite him his rights, while two policemen clicked handcuffs around his wrists, then guided him to the door.

As they walked past the people gathered and silent in the hallway, Nick looked up and saw his wife's ashen face and stopped. She reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt. “You know how to fix this don't you, Nicky?”

The police pulled her away and pushed him out the door. When they reached the car, and before a strong hand held his head down and helped him slide into the back seat, Nick turned for a last look at Uncle's house.

There were many things he knew how to do, how to fix. He was certain he had been careful one more time.

Yes, Nick was a killer. But I'm no lawyer, he thought as he was driven from the only home he never had.

Gasp!

I awakened on this grey gloom of a Sunday with no idea that this second lovely award awaited me!

Corra McFeydon at from the desk of a writer has offered me a Creative Writer Award. I am so grateful and honored.

She created this new award and intended it  "... as a gesture to further the premise 'writer' within 'blogger.' I'd love to see more writers acknowledged for the craft! Because we all are writers."

Yes, Corra, we all are writers and I am so happy to read, learn, and be inspired by all of you.

Thank you for the award and the sentiment.

Speech!

 To acknowledge those that have a blog and spend endless hours ensuring that other bloggers get feedback on their blogs by leaving comments, adding themselves as a follower or dropping by just to let you know there are people out there.

My very first award! It has been bestowed to me by the lovely Michelle Dennis Evans, my fellow writer from the friday flash community.

I thank her very much for the honor! You can find her at Twitter as @MichelleDEvans and please visit her blog http://michelledevans.blogspot.com/

Blue Ribbon

Before he left for good that morning, Norman made a large pot of soup for the family while they slept. Grannie Sperr's award winning Country Baked Potato Chowder was a crowd pleaser, and he always added it to the dinner menu as comfort food during many bleak winter nights.

He rushed through final preparations. He normally took the local train to work, but today he wanted to meet the 6:10 Express, and he needed time to walk to the station. Usually he drove whenever he went out, but he was sure his wife would need the car today. He arrived with 15 minutes to spare and, despite the cold, sat alone on the bench outside to wait.

Moving to a gated community in a picturesque town a mere 45 minutes from the city was the best decision he made all those early years ago. He read the paper and drank coffee on the train to his job and his six-figured salary; his wife stayed home with the children. They were comfortable and did not worry about the price of anything. House needs a new roof? Done. Car needs work? Write a check.

Investing most of their money with a respected Wall Street guru was the worst decision he made all those years later. He called it financial planning. The legal authorities called it a greedy scam of such magnitude, no one could hope to recuperate losses.

The train's approaching whistle startled him away from his thoughts. He stood and walked to the edge of the platform. The train would not stop, of course, but he did not need that. He inhaled deeply.

“Hey!”

The shout from the stranger made him turn.

“Be careful! What are you doing? This train doesn't stop here, it's express all the way!”

Norman blinked and moved back a few steps. The stranger grabbed his arm and pulled him further away.

“Jeesh, Don't understand you people. You like to stand so close to the end. Could get hurt or worse.”

* * *

“You're home early, hon. Slow day at the office?” Ada said as her husband came in through the back kitchen door.

Norman placed the grocery bag on the table, took out a package, and leaned over to kiss her smile.

“Yep...I figured I could get a head start on crisping the bacon. Forgot to do it before.”

Ada stood and walked over to the pots and pans hanging on the wall next to the stove. “Oh, is it soup night, then?” She handed him the cast iron skillet.

“I thought it was. For you.”

She laughed. “You mean for us, or aren't you having some?”

Norman nodded and turned to the stove. “Who could turn down Grannie's Sperr's chowder on such a night.”

As he crumbled the bacon, he thought about tomorrow.  He hoped he would find another good reason to come home then too.

Offspring

Later, when Harold thought about his reaction when first he learned of his mother's death, he remembered being annoyed by the sounds of the television in the background.

"Doug, turn down that noise!"

His brother looked at him but did not move from the couch.

"Lost the remote. Don't feel like getting up." he said.

Harold sighed. "There's better ways to do things, you know."

It was his Aunt Gigi who called with the news. The last time that Harold and Doug saw her, they were eleven and eight years old, respectively. She sat with them at the train station to wait for the people who would take them away from their mother, and to their new safe life. When two women arrived, both dressed in black and faces arranged in similar business-like expressions, the boys went with them without a fuss. They were obedient children and if their Aunt Gigi told them they had to do something, they did. They trusted her. Their mother, not surprisingly, never argued with her sister over this turn of events. She wanted many things but none included her children.

Over the years, Aunt Gigi kept in touch with them but thought it best not to speak too much about their mother's life. Harold now listened to the details of her death.

"She died in a storm?"

* * * * *

After Doug was asleep for several hours, Harold stood at the doorway of the bedroom and stared at him. The light from the full moon was bright enough to cast softened illumination on Doug's green complexion. It was not unlike his own, Harold thought as he touched his face.

They resembled their mother.

Even though they lived an early life unnourished by an affection that never filled their mother's heart or their souls, he was saddened by her loss. But he vowed he would never tell Doug about the absurdity of her death. A house! A house had fallen on her and killed her.

Then, the locals cheered and danced and sang.

"Ding dong the witch is dead!"

He knew his brother would laugh himself sick at the story, and rightly so. But a dead mother deserved respect, he thought.

Harold left Doug's room and sat by the fire in the study. He allowed himself final thoughts on the matter. They were happy and settled in this place where magic was also known and accepted, though Doug refused to learn how to harness his gift. No matter. As always, Harold would take good care of things.

He stood, ready for bed,  and pointed a finger at the fireplace. Its flames hissed away instantly.

There was nothing wicked about him.