No Horror

I wrote this story for Halloween last year,
but have now been told by many
that it is not a horror story at all –
though a sense of terror is present.
WordPress will mangle the poems, but here goes.

papa
……………………………………………………………

BURNT

I lay on the silent carpet,
not yet captured by the pattern
of the Persian maze of horror
thought beautiful at a distance.

My clenched fist held trembling chin
confronts the terror of the stove,
ever cold by right — never a friend
at night or shared pleasant meal.

Dread forged blackened iron soul –
snarling nickel grated bulging teeth –
rotating, silver irised eyes –
dead, dangling ferns in want of hair.

When the house burned down no one really knew if Aunt Tillie was in it or not. After all, she had hidden herself away after Fred was killed in the war and never appeared again. Milk bottles cycled full and empty. Delivery boys piled bags on the back porch. Contract work on the yard and outside of the semi-Victorian home was handled by her attorney, Amber Wilkes. It was rumored that a steady stream of indigents ‘camped out’ there — or worse. Leastwise, lights came on at strange hours behind un-drawn curtains. No one cared much either, as she hadn’t been very nice even when sociable. Karen only remembered her through little girl eyes. And now because of the will. Everything in the house had been left to her. The old biddy’s money went to her cousins — karma.

Trouble is — ‘everything’ meant ‘nothing’, as not a single smoking board remained standing — except for the strange miracle. It seems the old claw-foot tub, somehow full of water, fell through the burning floor and came to rest over an ancient coal stove. Both were saved. The tub now served as a huge planter on Karen’s sun porch. The stove sat proudly in her living room, just as it had in Tillie’s — a display stand for her collections of turtles, except for Tillie it had been salt and pepper shakers. The stove didn’t work — never had! Besides, there was no way to put a chimney in her flat. Karen remembered the stove. It scared her to death!

The hinged mouth looked tight-lip hungry
but the polished snaggle-tooth handle
did not turn or budge at all –
a brass rivet through its knee.

The double ring atop its skull
was welded roundly and forlorn,
and the damper wing pinned tight
with a bar of hammered steel.

Karen wondered why she kept the thing, a source of remembered punishment, and thereby fear. “Sitting in the corner” was ready punishment for fractious infractions of adult power and distain for the energy of youth. “An’tillie” was the worst. With no children of her own bitterness, she was expert on how to raise them. “Sit in the corner until you learn respect!” This meant silence and unquestioned obedience and servility. The stove already owned the corner. The five year old Karen had churned inside. The aging woman Karen felt only rage, and stared at the stove with clenched teeth and senses sealed against compassion or understanding. Unknowingly she blamed this small stove, no bigger than a two-drawer file cabinet, for the fire. Then she rejoiced that the evil old house was gone. Then she was ashamed. Of such is terror made.

“Somehow this is your fault,” she screamed. A flower pot shattered against the unrepentant stove — again! It was well-built. Such endured abuse showed no sights of dent, not tarnish, not rust nor age. So had it been in An’tillie’s house — so it was again. Karen screamed again at the insolence of the gleaming nickeled skirt, mouth and condemning eyes. “If only you could be lit, damn you, I would stuff you with garbage and let you burn up from the inside out.” She knelt before the terrible image — and icon more stolidly cold than any in church. Even her dripping tears failed to mar the stove’s virgin soul.

The affixed brass plate still remained,
set low where genitals should be –
and should have read with pride secure,
“Beldon Stove # ___, 1893″

Instead it proclaimed, yet still bold,
“DEFECTIVE — do not use — WARNING,”
and set aside for window display,
still-born but denied a burial.

Karen felt trapped — nay, consumed by the stove’s vile countenance. Yet she did not know how to rid herself of its memories, for she dreaded even more the derision of her siblings and in-laws. So she hid her smoldering coals of pain and hatred, and made the decorated stove a center piece of deceit for others to see. She even learned to crochet doilies for its top, forgetting that An’tillie had done that too. Only when she was alone — fearfully always, did she strip the stove bare and reveal its true nature. “Why didn’t you love me?” she shouted. “At least now, leave me alone!” The stove only grinned menacingly, reflecting in its shinning fixtures images of unkempt hair and bloodshot, vacant eyes.

She had a plan! Somehow she would get the stove open and destroy its pristine superior pride. She surreptitiously acquired a single-jack, cold chisel and hacksaw at several flee-markets. Some discarded metal dryer vent was found on a trash pile. Fiberglass insulation was torn from the closet ceiling. A pry-bar was stolen from a construction site. She was ready. Its terror would die!

First she managed to bend the steel bar enough to wedge the flue baffle open a tad. The came the vent hose, packed ’round with insulation and secured with duct-tape, leading to the range-hood in the kitchen. Her windows did not open — built that way, while An’tillie’s had been nailed shut. Then, pin by pin, rivet by rivet, she beat the restricting locks apart. In her passion she even struck off one of those holding the brass plate, before realizing her error. She could not free the top ring-plates but found no need. At each side stood saved kitty-litter containers of trash and unread newspapers and lamp oil. The handle turned with squealing protest — resisting perhaps in knowledge of impending death. The loosened name plate swung free on its damaged pin. Karen stopped and stared …

Beneath was another gleaming plate:

“Beldon Stove # 1, 1891″
“May it ever be a symbol
of family pride”

Now the door swung open of its own accord, no longer bound by the sorrow of Tellacia Beldon Stein. The pins had been added in 1943 — the year Karen had been born. The firebox was not empty. Each stack of love letters were bound with a silk ribbon and a date scripted in careful lavender ink. All were from Fredrick Roberts to “Dearest Tillie.” Karen read through the night — up to the last letter written just before getting on the ship for home. The last spoke of their daughter and the impending wedding.

With the first glimmer of ghostly dawn Karen opened the shoebox that remained. Inside were hundreds of savings bonds …

And a note:

“When all who know are dead,
I will come to you.”

Tillie

There is no fire like that of love,
and no terror like that of fear,
fueled by bigotry and false pride,
in what others may think or do.

Burn up all your needless secrets
in a convenient ancient stove,
and warm your soul in gleeful dance
‘neath glowing smile and laughing eyes.

Forced Restriction

While aflush with plans for frequent poting here,
Emmie badly cut her finger yesterday and required stitches –
no tendons cut and it will not affect her harping;
but it does rstrict her keyboarding.

She isa fast typist, but ‘hunt and peck’ requires her
to see the keyboard — which she cannot do –
so I will be entering some things for her,
but her spontaneity may suffer a bit.

While searching in a thrift store (50% off), a ceramic pitcher
broke in her hands and she instictively attempted to catch it.

The real mystery is why it takes three hours at the emergency ward
to get back on with your life.

papa

A Special Invite For You!

BERNADINE SANTISTEVAN, DIRECTOR OF "The Cry" was kind enough to make a
trip to my blog "Owl Creek Bridge" in order to share some stories
about making her Supernatural Thriller Based on the Legend of La
Llorona.  

I am very excited to be able to bring you her story because
Bernadine is a great example of taking hold of your creative dream and
making it live.  

Please stop by and check it out here:

http://anita64.wordpress.com/2006/10/27/the-cry/

Happy Halloween!
Anita Marie

Space Between the Notes

FALLOW

The old farmer stood tall n’ brown,
with feet planted firm in Mother Earth,
and said to me as if by right,

“There’s a time for plowing
and a time to plant –
one to harvest and one to rest;
but never forget to lie fallow –
both you and the land must lie fallow.”

and I prepared myself in turn
with education from life, kin and books,
and applied the lessons as I might.

I fathered children and business built,
and designed a house and wrote a book
as seeds of self and dreams of Light.

I gathered wisdom ‘long the way,
and mem’ries stored of awe and strife
such that I’m filled with joy’s delight.

So I think of peace and quiet rest
but don’t much know how to slow the pace
as the final rule fell from sight.

I never tilled the easy furrows,
nor nurtured the gentle slow;
and failed to gather the simple
to set mind in twain with soul –

because I forgot, you see …

“both you and the land must lie fallow.”

papa

Halloween Hill

Feeling Brave?

Stop by the Soul Food Cafe’s Party at Halloween Hill and see what we’ve dug up…we’re at  http://chahil.blogspot.com/ 

And it’s not to late to ask for an invitation! We’re still asking for your Tales, Poetry and Art of the Odd and Macabre to entertain our guests.

Contact Anita : anitacurioustales@yahoo.com and join the fun!

A Quiet Place

Take me to a quiet place

A lonely place

A calming place

And leave me there a day or two

To walk along the beach.

Let me listen to the waves

Make seashell bracelets for mermaids

Or stumble on loose shingle shaves

Find rock-pools and fossils to save

But take me to a quiet place

Where I can find myself.

Give me the gift of solitude

No people day, in my own way

Gain fortitude to face the world

That mad house of cacophony

Where Babel conquers all.

Allow me this short precious time

I beg of goddesses divine

To soothe my soul and drink the wine

Of blissful loitering on some shore

So near yet far away.

Jan

To Be Home

I may have posted this before …
can’t keep track anymore, but with so many
coming ‘home’ is seems appropriate.

Written about the Manor House at Sakin’el,
but fits here weel, methinks

papa
…………………………………………………………
COME HOME

There is a special magick when a house becomes a home, when treasures are installed in a special spot instead of being buried in a memoried box; when each glimpse through a stacking of doorways provides a framed tableau that transcends the planned simple arrangement of chair, basket and vase. Of course, when one has the opportunity to see for another, and to describe the joy of play of light and darting shadows, then the sharing takes on a life of its own. She has shown me so much — yet artistry you will never behold for a new magick will be found when you are here, my friends. Come and let me know what you see.

From outside one can only see a house, and whether entering as guest or uninvited, you may capture a little of my sense of awe — and this is surely grand, unless you sadly feel that one embrace tells you very much of me, or life, or why I placed the broken pot just so. Yes, it would simplify our connection if we tumbled love’s artifacts together in some ‘ticky-tacky’ way, or covered any sense of ‘work’ in piles of unfinished projects. But then, why would you return? It is my chosen task that you may return to Sakin’el again and again to capture a magick moment, an entwining of your fine passion and yearning, to which Em and I might add a stroke of enduring dream. By this we will be known — not as a brief firefly in the dark.

So, please do not just peek through a window or come only on a stormy night. This place is entranced to have a life of its own with rooms like children whose laughter in more enthralling than sight or name. Perhaps more can be perceived of Sakin’el in silent contemplation that in a hurried dash in which some judgment must apply. I am reminded of an ancient English custom of building houses in a hamlet. Each had but two windows; one looking onto the market square teeming with human life and folly. The other looked out and away — to other worlds and dreams. The front room was always neatly kept with flowers and hand made shawls and children’s crafts. The other view was hardly ever so well kept, filled with life’s disarray and even pain. Possibly any order here came from loneliness or avoidance of life’s joys — doubt there were many mirrors there either. Yet, all was safe, for no-one would ever peek through that window out of respect, and possible shame over what their own back room contained. Did a citizen there then present a false view of self, or dream, or touch of love? Or in their simplicity did they recognized that every person has many facets of self, some more polished than others? Which then is the ‘real’ person; or should it not be enough to recognize that here is a gem in the making.

I am now blessed with another spirit close bound that will be an endless mystery — a thousand petaled lotus to unfold. What a joyful dance! And this sojourn together will cause me only a small sadness for those who know another but a little and would make any judgment or guess as to who they really are.

faucon

life’s goal may be profound and illusive
but today’s call is simple.
hear a song,
read a poem
speak some reasonable words.

the scrolls of Eskiyalı

Comfort

It feels good to pop in here again

Sink into my big comfy chair

Put my feet up onto the stool that was molded for my particular feet

The bookcases lining two of the walls make me feel safe and content

I’ve been travelling and still have far to go

But this is my haven and my den

And it’s good to know I can always come back here for a respite

I like the cool calmn peacefullness of the Abbey

And the exciting, scary adventures with Enchanteur

But here, I can truly  wrap up in warmth

Sleep late

Spend a leisurely day reading

And soaking in the bath

Heaven in a Room

by Soultide

homecoming

dusk is here and falling  fast

glow of blue and peach to the west

velvet black soft rolling in

weary feet trudge on

soon the little light appears,

and one’s own sweet door

 home, we’re home and all my fears

melt, fade forevermore

-        MotherBear

On Jan’s Riverbank

a Fitz for you — from papa

SEED: “Of sunlight glancing water”

Father Sun can spare
no more that a morning glance
at my reflected visage in the rippling stream –
but at night the Mistress
can draw silent silver threads
from my spirit’s shimmer surfing there –

and together they spin and weave
the vibrant texture of my soul,
but a glance of Light
and softly echoed prayer.