Patricia A. Guthrie
Author romantic suspense
Short Stories (various genres)
Author romantic suspense
Short Stories (various genres)
Short Stories by Patricia A. Guthrie
Published in Skyline Literary Magazine
Published in Skyline Literary Magazine
SARPATI
Patricia A. Guthrie
“So, Sarpati. What do you have for me
today?”
Lucifer sat with his back against a highly
polished rosewood desk with his clawed feet
on a credenza, gazing out the window. He
didn’t bother to look at the newest addition to
his growing staff. He was more interested in
the newest species of dock workers hauling
cargo from passing freighters.
They were a colorful variety; some still
evolving from the old Neanderthal pedigrees,
using the smaller versions of brontosaurs
who’d managed to survive the ice-age
disaster to haul cargo for them. And some
who’d just appeared one day in a practical
application -— small and wiry for speed,
large head capacity for brain power and eyes
as large as saucers for better night vision.
He was interested in all of God’s
creatures. Some had already joined his
organization; others were still working for the
enemy. He had to figure a way to win them
over. He glanced over the piers to the
Pishone River which fed into the Gulf, and
beyond to the heavens.
“Hey, Luce . . . er, Mr. Lucifer, Sir. How do
you like your new office?” The snake replied,
with a question of his own, looking and
hissing approval at his boss’ new digs.
“Well, it ain’t paradise, but, it’s home. It’s
nice being an entrepreneur. No one can tell
me what to do anymore.” He yelled through
the open French-style windows and into the
clouds. “Did you hear that God?”
A distant blast of thunder seemed to
answer his question.
In reply, Mr. Lucifer snatched his name
plate, which read, ‘Mephistopheles S. Lucifer,
President Local 666,' and threw it out the
window. It boomeranged from a sudden wind
surge and crashed back down on his desk
scattering a stack of union applications.
“Damn,” he said. “Just because I tried to
organize his obstinate angels for him, he
fires me. Throws me out like yesterday’s
news.” His booming voice knocked Sarpati
onto the floor. “Fine way to treat a dedicated
employee.”
For the short time Sarpati had been in
the employ of God’s one and only fallen
angel, the constant bantering back and forth
never ceased to amaze him. It provided him
-- who’d never been in the good graces of the
man upstairs anyhow -- with constant
entertainment. Here, he had an opportunity
for success beyond his wildest imagination
and he wasn’t about to let it slip through his
fingers. So, he would cheer on his employer
with a, “Go get him, Mr. Luce.” and a “Right
on, boss.” Then, they’d sip on some
elderberry wine and smoke cigars. This time;
however, was different.
Lucifer slowly turned in his swivel chair
with a sardonic smile and said, “Got a job for
you.”
The serpent crawled back onto his chair
and faced the gaunt mask with high-
cheekbones and dark, pooled eyes. Sarpati’s
tongue slid -- in and out -- in and out, as he
leered, eyes narrowing down to little slits.
“What’s the job, boss?” His small front
legs rubbed against each other, and his
lean, long green body squirmed in
anticipation.
“You know the new couple in Eden?”
“You mean the ones with two legs? The
ones called ‘humans?’”
“Yeee–es.”
“The ones with more hair on their heads
than on the rest of ‘em?”
“Grrrr–-yessssss.”
Sarpati liked to play and he hardly
noticed the waning patience of Lucifer.
“What, Adam and Eve?” He was on a roll.
Lucifer cut through him like a knife
slicing a piece of choice Grade-A meat.
“I want them.”
“Hey, man. I don’t know.” Sarpati whined.
“The Head Honcho made them. They’re
pretty happy where they are.”
“The who?” Lucifer glared. “The head . . .
who?” A smoked-filled flame blew from his
nostrils, threatening to burn the snake to a
wrinkled crisp.
Sarpati hadn’t anticipated the wrath of
Hell on his head. His rubbery textured skin
felt prickly, like it did when one of those dumb
angels was close. He had a bad feeling
about interfering with God’s newest
creations, but felt a more immediate threat --
even foreboding -- if he crossed his boss.
“All the better. I want you . . .” Lucifer said,
losing all pretense of composure, “to get
them for me.” He grabbed Sarpati by his long
winding neck, and threatened to throttle him.
“How?” The snake hissed trying to catch
his breath.
“That, my dear employee, is up to you.
You have exactly two days.”
With a demonic roar, Lucifer picked up
Sarpati by his tail and hurled him out of his
office. He bounced off the wall and
onto the floor, gathered himself together, and
scurried as quickly as he could down the
stairs and onto the wharf.
The snake rested by the river, nursing
his wounds and shedding some skin,
waiting to catch a passing freighter on its way
to Eden. As he basked in the beautiful sun
created by his employer’s main business
rival, he saw giant tentacles forming from
Lucifer’s head, reaching out from the third
story window into the sky, momentarily
blocking the solar warmth. The demonic roar
served as a reminder about his task, but he
wondered just what his boss was up to, now.
Continuing to sun himself, he looked
over the blue-green water at the approaching
vessel. So, Sarpi, he thought, pleased with
the nickname he’d coined for himself, how
do I get them to work for the Boss? They have
a beautiful garden, plenty of food, and
shelter. What don’t they have? He scratched
a particularly itchy spot on his back by rolling
over and sliding up and down and continued
pondering the question.
The freighter pulled into dock and cargos
of supplies appeared as if by magic.
“Sending more trees out to Eden Island,”
one of God’s crewmen said. He had a broad
head, pin-pointy eye, wide nostrils and a ‘I’d
rather be drinking’ attitude.
“What’s the route?” his mate asked,
anxious to get the details out of the way, so
he could join his supervisor in a beer.
His superior scowled. “Down the
Pishone River past Havilah. Then, we catch
the Gihon up to the Tigress and reach Eden
in three hours.”
“What’s on Eden?”
“A garden paradise for a new species
called ‘humans’ the boss just created. We’re
delivering a shipment of a special variety of
apple tree which God’s using as a learning
tool for these new creatures. It’s still in the
experimental stage so –- hands off. We don’t
touch the tree. Orders.”
“Experimental . . . eh?” His mate asked.
“What does this one do?” He pointed to a
tree being hauled on the deck.
“Oh, that’s the Tree of Mathematics.”
“Math . . . e . . . what?” he shook his furry
face and shrugged bony shoulders that
connected arms nearly the length of his
entire body.
“Don’t ask me. I don’t know. I just know
we don’t touch the apple trees.”
“Okay, okay. They’re probably wormy
apples anyway,” the other man replied.
“Yeah, yeah,” his supervisor said.
“Maybe on the way back we can stop in
Havilah. You’ll love the city. Paved with gold.
We can catch the ‘Neanderthal Ladies’ act, at
the Midas Touch Cabaret. Their voices drifted
off as they dragged the trees down into the
cargo hold.
Sarpati picked up his scaly head and
suddenly knew what he had to do. Aha . . .
that’s the key. Knowledge. . . the tree.
I’ll bet they’ll want to know stuff. With that,
Sarpati slithered into a crate of oranges and
feeling smug, coiled himself up into a ball
and took a nap. He didn’t even wake up when
the crate was carried onto the ship.
Four hours later, while supplies were
being unloaded onto the docks in Eden,
Sarpati made his own exit from the freighter.
* * *
There were trees of all varieties
scattered throughout Paradise Gardens, but
the fruit trees were the most outstanding.
One stood apart from all the rest; its apples,
big, red and luscious looking, hanging off its
branches like trophies of achievement. It was
the cornerstone of the garden -- the
granddaddy of them all.
Each apple was labeled with a skill;
‘literature by up-and-coming authors of the
next few centuries,’ ‘writing techniques
throughout the coming ages,’ ‘religious
doctrines of the future,’ ‘good and evil -– now
and always.’ And, it was under this tree which
offered its cool shade from the brilliant, but
hot sunshine, where Sarpati found the
woman resting, eating a piece of fruit.
Sarpati utilized his small reptilian legs
to crawl through the luxurious blades of
grass, feeling a cool dampness on his skin.
This wasn’t such a bad assignment, after all.
He couldn’t think of another job that would
provide him with the time and means to
travel. He wondered if the woman had ever
seen a snake before. He assumed she didn’
t know anything -- about anything.
The two-legged creature named Eve
was different than any creature he’d ever
seen. Her skin was not as hard or callous,
nor flaky as his, but smoother. Unlike his
brownish-gray color, her’s was more a light
beige hue. And, although her hair didn’t grow
over her body like the other creatures, it
flowed from her head, coming down in waves
of a flaxen gold color. It hung longer than any
he’d ever seen, covering her entire body with
its silky texture. He wondered if so much hair
coming from so little space might be
uncomfortable.
Unusual, he thought -- definitely different.
He decided to use the direct approach.
“Thought you weren’t supposed to eat
from any of the trees,” he said.
“Oh. . . .” The woman looked startled. Her
eyes darted around, first up at the trees, then
down at the ground, until they finally arrived
on the snake hiding in the grass.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Sarpati’s the name, and fruit tree’s my
game. Please to meet you,” he replied,
entwining himself around the woman’s right
leg and peering up into her face.
“Who . . . what are you?” she asked
again. “I’ve never seen anything quite like you
before.”
“Madam, I,” he levitated up so his head
stood flat and parallel to her face, “. . . am a
snake,” he finished, proudly. “And you?” He
was curious.
“I am a person,” she said. “And, I’m
waiting for my husband to come back.”
“Your what?”
“Husband. His name is Adam, and I’m
Eve.”
“What strange names,” Sarpati said,
trying to keep the conversation going.
“Yes, God made us last week. We’re
here to live a good life. We are supposed to
keep out of trouble and we get to live in this
beautiful place where there is an abundance
of food to eat. All we have to do is reach out
for it.” She smiled.
Piece of cake, Sarpati thought. Dumb as
a box of rocks.
“We can eat from any of these trees
except this one,” she said, pointing to the
great apple tree above her. “God said that if
we ate from it, we’d die.”
“Not true,” said the serpent, with a
wicked gleam in his yellow eyes. “You won’t
die. You’ll learn what God knows. He’s used
to controlling everything. He couldn’t stand it
if you knew as much as he does.”
“Have you really met God?” Eve asked.
“Sure, met him hundreds of times,” the
snake lied. “What’s more, my boss used to
work for him.”
“Your boss. . . . Who’s he?”
“Not important. He just feels that
everyone is entitled to an education.”
Eve seemed fascinated, as Sarpati
waved his head back and forth in front of her
face, mesmerizing her. She didn’t move.
“Now,” he said. “Does that tree look evil
to you?”
Eve sprang back to life, looking up at its
towering branches. “No.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know the difference
between good and evil?” he asked, slowly
seducing her again with his hypnotic stare.
“Yes,” she responded. “Er . . . no.” She
pulled back pushing him off her leg with her
other foot.
“Do you know how good these apples
are?” he asked, challenging her as he
crawled up her other leg.
“No.”
“Wouldn’t you like to?” he questioned.
“I don’t think . . .” Her eyes rested on his
tiny front foot as it moved back and forth in an
even, steady, mesmerizing manner. “Yee . . .
es,” she said.
Like a flash, he slithered up the tree and
shook a large branch until the most beautiful
and juiciest specimen fell at her feet.
“Hello, pretty. What do you have there?”
The man walked up the path carrying fruit of
all varieties. He appeared to be favoring his
left side.
“Adam, what’s wrong with your side?”
Eve asked.
“Just my ribs. They still hurt where he
took . . . well, you know.” Adam stared at the
apple Eve had just picked off the ground.
“Hell . . . o. Let me introduce myself,”
Sarpati said.
Startled, Adam spun around to face the
voice.
“Sarpati’s the name, and fruit tree’s my
game. And, let me say, there isn’t a finer fruit
in this whole garden than the one your wife is
holding.”
“Uh, . . . we’re not supposed to eat
those,” Adam said with a puzzled expression
on his face.
“No? Oh, perhaps you weren’t, in the
beginning.”
“Beginning?”
“Yeah. They used to be poison. At least,
that was the rhetoric.”
“Rhetor . . . who?”
“Nonsense. Nothing but nonsense. My
employer realized the error of his ways and
asked me to come and tell you that eating
from this tree is ju . . sst fine. In fact, he wants
you to.” Sarpati laughed to himself as
Adam and Eve looked perplexed. He
continued, “And, he wants you to know that
you can get a first-rate education by just
taking one teeny bite.”
“An ed . . .u . . . what?” Adam asked.
“Education. Knowledge. You’ll get to
know stuff. Almost as much as me.”
“Well, if he said so,” Eve said, fondling
the apple and smelling it.
“Eve?” Adam looked doubtful.
“Go on . . . what’s the matter?” The
snake taunted her. “Afraid?”
“No,” Eve said. “I’m not afraid.” She
stood for a moment as though waiting to see
what would happen, then she bit into the
apple.
“Good?” The snake crooned and his
tongue slid out of his mouth and circled his
lips.
Eve bit down again and handed the
apple to her husband, her voice took on a
strange tone.
“Adam . . . eat it.”
The snake giggled with glee.
“No . . . Eve . . . I don’t think . . . .”
“Eat it,” Eve commanded and Adam
obeyed.
Sarpati rested on the grass and watched
the two interact. Their eyes growing wide with
astonishment and wonder at the world
around them.
Suddenly, from somewhere out of the
east, a loud booming laugh charged over the
land. “They’re mine,” it seemed to repeat --
over and over, again.
Without losing a beat, another sound,
louder and more compelling, was heard
coming from the sky, shattering the
complacent garden. Adam and Eve ran for
cover. Sarpati hid in the tree.
“Adam! . . . Eve!” The voice became
louder and more focused and seemed to
swirl into a physical manifestation -- a
presence.
Two small, cowering voices whimpered
from behind a clump of trees. “Uh-oh.”
God’s presence materialized in the form
of a very large and muscular human, more
intimidating than Lucifer, even on his worst
days. Sarpati began to think that maybe he’d
formed the wrong alliance.
“All right you two. . . . Out,” God
demanded.
Adam and Eve surfaced, wearing an
attempt at aprons strung together by fig
leaves. Even Sarpati raised an eyebrow and
tried not to snicker.
God was not amused. “What’s that?”
“Uh . . . ,” Adam said, trying to formulate
his newly acquired thoughts.
“We’re naked,” Eve said. “We’re not
supposed to be.”
“What the . . . ?” God responded. Then
he saw the apple.
“So that’s why Lucifer was laughing so
hard. You ate the apple. How many times
have I told you . . . don’t go near the
apple tree?”
“Uh . . . about forty,” Adam said.
“And you did it anyway?” God asked in a
tone of total disbelief.
“She made me do it,” Adam said.
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Stop that this instant,” God said. “Who
did it first?”
“She did.”
“Did you?”
“Er . . . he made me do it,” Eve replied,
pouting and pointing to Sarpati who was
hanging on a tree limb waiting to see who
would come out on top.
“You . . . a snake?”
God finally focused on Sarpati and
without touching him, sent him crashing to
the ground.
“Ou . . . ch.”
“Of all the ungrateful children, this takes
the cake. I work my fingers to the bone, trying
to provide a nice, easy life for you . . . no
worry, no cares and this is how you repay
me?” God paused and paced for
several moments. “Okay. So it’s going to be
like this. You don’t seem to have any respect
for
authority, so you’ll have to work for a living
just like all the rest of us.
And you Eve, you want knowledge? Well,
you’ve got it. You’re going to learn just how
hard it is to be a parent. You’re going to have
ungrateful kids and raise them all by
yourselves.
Adam. You’re going to have to provide for
these thankless brats. See how you like it.
And, if it doesn’t work out, don’t come crying
to me.”
God stopped his tirade just long enough
to glance at Sarpati, who had hidden behind
the tree.
“You . . . you slithering piece of slimy
deceit. . . . You’re not off the hook either. You’
re not going to tread all over my creatures
again. Do you hear?” God pointed one
massive finger and an electrical current flew
through the air aimed directly at the
unfortunate serpent. “No longer will you be
able to walk like everyone else. Now you’ll
see how it feels to be trampled . . . stomped
on . . . kicked around.”
The reptilian legs seemed to just
disappear -- vanished into thin air. Sarpati,
clinging to the tree, suddenly fell off, bounced
onto the ground and landed just behind Eve’
s feet. Startled, she jumped back, landing
firmly on what once had been his tail.
“Ouch, watch that,” he shouted. No one
heard. His voice
had disappeared along with his legs. As he
slithered out of sight and out of his trusted
position as Lucifer’s first assistant, he heard
God giving his offspring final instructions.
“Okay, back to your education. Eve, you’
re going to learn to cook and clean and make
clothes. Adam, I’m giving you a nice choice
piece of desert land for you to settle on and
learn how to manage. With a little work,
maybe in . . . oh, three . . . four hundred years
and some yet to be invented technology, you
can make something out of it.”
* * *
Back where the River Pishone meets the
Gulf, Mephistopheles S. Lucifer, President of
Local 666, met with his newest applicant
applying for the recently opened position of
top henchman.
Patricia A. Guthrie
“So, Sarpati. What do you have for me
today?”
Lucifer sat with his back against a highly
polished rosewood desk with his clawed feet
on a credenza, gazing out the window. He
didn’t bother to look at the newest addition to
his growing staff. He was more interested in
the newest species of dock workers hauling
cargo from passing freighters.
They were a colorful variety; some still
evolving from the old Neanderthal pedigrees,
using the smaller versions of brontosaurs
who’d managed to survive the ice-age
disaster to haul cargo for them. And some
who’d just appeared one day in a practical
application -— small and wiry for speed,
large head capacity for brain power and eyes
as large as saucers for better night vision.
He was interested in all of God’s
creatures. Some had already joined his
organization; others were still working for the
enemy. He had to figure a way to win them
over. He glanced over the piers to the
Pishone River which fed into the Gulf, and
beyond to the heavens.
“Hey, Luce . . . er, Mr. Lucifer, Sir. How do
you like your new office?” The snake replied,
with a question of his own, looking and
hissing approval at his boss’ new digs.
“Well, it ain’t paradise, but, it’s home. It’s
nice being an entrepreneur. No one can tell
me what to do anymore.” He yelled through
the open French-style windows and into the
clouds. “Did you hear that God?”
A distant blast of thunder seemed to
answer his question.
In reply, Mr. Lucifer snatched his name
plate, which read, ‘Mephistopheles S. Lucifer,
President Local 666,' and threw it out the
window. It boomeranged from a sudden wind
surge and crashed back down on his desk
scattering a stack of union applications.
“Damn,” he said. “Just because I tried to
organize his obstinate angels for him, he
fires me. Throws me out like yesterday’s
news.” His booming voice knocked Sarpati
onto the floor. “Fine way to treat a dedicated
employee.”
For the short time Sarpati had been in
the employ of God’s one and only fallen
angel, the constant bantering back and forth
never ceased to amaze him. It provided him
-- who’d never been in the good graces of the
man upstairs anyhow -- with constant
entertainment. Here, he had an opportunity
for success beyond his wildest imagination
and he wasn’t about to let it slip through his
fingers. So, he would cheer on his employer
with a, “Go get him, Mr. Luce.” and a “Right
on, boss.” Then, they’d sip on some
elderberry wine and smoke cigars. This time;
however, was different.
Lucifer slowly turned in his swivel chair
with a sardonic smile and said, “Got a job for
you.”
The serpent crawled back onto his chair
and faced the gaunt mask with high-
cheekbones and dark, pooled eyes. Sarpati’s
tongue slid -- in and out -- in and out, as he
leered, eyes narrowing down to little slits.
“What’s the job, boss?” His small front
legs rubbed against each other, and his
lean, long green body squirmed in
anticipation.
“You know the new couple in Eden?”
“You mean the ones with two legs? The
ones called ‘humans?’”
“Yeee–es.”
“The ones with more hair on their heads
than on the rest of ‘em?”
“Grrrr–-yessssss.”
Sarpati liked to play and he hardly
noticed the waning patience of Lucifer.
“What, Adam and Eve?” He was on a roll.
Lucifer cut through him like a knife
slicing a piece of choice Grade-A meat.
“I want them.”
“Hey, man. I don’t know.” Sarpati whined.
“The Head Honcho made them. They’re
pretty happy where they are.”
“The who?” Lucifer glared. “The head . . .
who?” A smoked-filled flame blew from his
nostrils, threatening to burn the snake to a
wrinkled crisp.
Sarpati hadn’t anticipated the wrath of
Hell on his head. His rubbery textured skin
felt prickly, like it did when one of those dumb
angels was close. He had a bad feeling
about interfering with God’s newest
creations, but felt a more immediate threat --
even foreboding -- if he crossed his boss.
“All the better. I want you . . .” Lucifer said,
losing all pretense of composure, “to get
them for me.” He grabbed Sarpati by his long
winding neck, and threatened to throttle him.
“How?” The snake hissed trying to catch
his breath.
“That, my dear employee, is up to you.
You have exactly two days.”
With a demonic roar, Lucifer picked up
Sarpati by his tail and hurled him out of his
office. He bounced off the wall and
onto the floor, gathered himself together, and
scurried as quickly as he could down the
stairs and onto the wharf.
The snake rested by the river, nursing
his wounds and shedding some skin,
waiting to catch a passing freighter on its way
to Eden. As he basked in the beautiful sun
created by his employer’s main business
rival, he saw giant tentacles forming from
Lucifer’s head, reaching out from the third
story window into the sky, momentarily
blocking the solar warmth. The demonic roar
served as a reminder about his task, but he
wondered just what his boss was up to, now.
Continuing to sun himself, he looked
over the blue-green water at the approaching
vessel. So, Sarpi, he thought, pleased with
the nickname he’d coined for himself, how
do I get them to work for the Boss? They have
a beautiful garden, plenty of food, and
shelter. What don’t they have? He scratched
a particularly itchy spot on his back by rolling
over and sliding up and down and continued
pondering the question.
The freighter pulled into dock and cargos
of supplies appeared as if by magic.
“Sending more trees out to Eden Island,”
one of God’s crewmen said. He had a broad
head, pin-pointy eye, wide nostrils and a ‘I’d
rather be drinking’ attitude.
“What’s the route?” his mate asked,
anxious to get the details out of the way, so
he could join his supervisor in a beer.
His superior scowled. “Down the
Pishone River past Havilah. Then, we catch
the Gihon up to the Tigress and reach Eden
in three hours.”
“What’s on Eden?”
“A garden paradise for a new species
called ‘humans’ the boss just created. We’re
delivering a shipment of a special variety of
apple tree which God’s using as a learning
tool for these new creatures. It’s still in the
experimental stage so –- hands off. We don’t
touch the tree. Orders.”
“Experimental . . . eh?” His mate asked.
“What does this one do?” He pointed to a
tree being hauled on the deck.
“Oh, that’s the Tree of Mathematics.”
“Math . . . e . . . what?” he shook his furry
face and shrugged bony shoulders that
connected arms nearly the length of his
entire body.
“Don’t ask me. I don’t know. I just know
we don’t touch the apple trees.”
“Okay, okay. They’re probably wormy
apples anyway,” the other man replied.
“Yeah, yeah,” his supervisor said.
“Maybe on the way back we can stop in
Havilah. You’ll love the city. Paved with gold.
We can catch the ‘Neanderthal Ladies’ act, at
the Midas Touch Cabaret. Their voices drifted
off as they dragged the trees down into the
cargo hold.
Sarpati picked up his scaly head and
suddenly knew what he had to do. Aha . . .
that’s the key. Knowledge. . . the tree.
I’ll bet they’ll want to know stuff. With that,
Sarpati slithered into a crate of oranges and
feeling smug, coiled himself up into a ball
and took a nap. He didn’t even wake up when
the crate was carried onto the ship.
Four hours later, while supplies were
being unloaded onto the docks in Eden,
Sarpati made his own exit from the freighter.
* * *
There were trees of all varieties
scattered throughout Paradise Gardens, but
the fruit trees were the most outstanding.
One stood apart from all the rest; its apples,
big, red and luscious looking, hanging off its
branches like trophies of achievement. It was
the cornerstone of the garden -- the
granddaddy of them all.
Each apple was labeled with a skill;
‘literature by up-and-coming authors of the
next few centuries,’ ‘writing techniques
throughout the coming ages,’ ‘religious
doctrines of the future,’ ‘good and evil -– now
and always.’ And, it was under this tree which
offered its cool shade from the brilliant, but
hot sunshine, where Sarpati found the
woman resting, eating a piece of fruit.
Sarpati utilized his small reptilian legs
to crawl through the luxurious blades of
grass, feeling a cool dampness on his skin.
This wasn’t such a bad assignment, after all.
He couldn’t think of another job that would
provide him with the time and means to
travel. He wondered if the woman had ever
seen a snake before. He assumed she didn’
t know anything -- about anything.
The two-legged creature named Eve
was different than any creature he’d ever
seen. Her skin was not as hard or callous,
nor flaky as his, but smoother. Unlike his
brownish-gray color, her’s was more a light
beige hue. And, although her hair didn’t grow
over her body like the other creatures, it
flowed from her head, coming down in waves
of a flaxen gold color. It hung longer than any
he’d ever seen, covering her entire body with
its silky texture. He wondered if so much hair
coming from so little space might be
uncomfortable.
Unusual, he thought -- definitely different.
He decided to use the direct approach.
“Thought you weren’t supposed to eat
from any of the trees,” he said.
“Oh. . . .” The woman looked startled. Her
eyes darted around, first up at the trees, then
down at the ground, until they finally arrived
on the snake hiding in the grass.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Sarpati’s the name, and fruit tree’s my
game. Please to meet you,” he replied,
entwining himself around the woman’s right
leg and peering up into her face.
“Who . . . what are you?” she asked
again. “I’ve never seen anything quite like you
before.”
“Madam, I,” he levitated up so his head
stood flat and parallel to her face, “. . . am a
snake,” he finished, proudly. “And you?” He
was curious.
“I am a person,” she said. “And, I’m
waiting for my husband to come back.”
“Your what?”
“Husband. His name is Adam, and I’m
Eve.”
“What strange names,” Sarpati said,
trying to keep the conversation going.
“Yes, God made us last week. We’re
here to live a good life. We are supposed to
keep out of trouble and we get to live in this
beautiful place where there is an abundance
of food to eat. All we have to do is reach out
for it.” She smiled.
Piece of cake, Sarpati thought. Dumb as
a box of rocks.
“We can eat from any of these trees
except this one,” she said, pointing to the
great apple tree above her. “God said that if
we ate from it, we’d die.”
“Not true,” said the serpent, with a
wicked gleam in his yellow eyes. “You won’t
die. You’ll learn what God knows. He’s used
to controlling everything. He couldn’t stand it
if you knew as much as he does.”
“Have you really met God?” Eve asked.
“Sure, met him hundreds of times,” the
snake lied. “What’s more, my boss used to
work for him.”
“Your boss. . . . Who’s he?”
“Not important. He just feels that
everyone is entitled to an education.”
Eve seemed fascinated, as Sarpati
waved his head back and forth in front of her
face, mesmerizing her. She didn’t move.
“Now,” he said. “Does that tree look evil
to you?”
Eve sprang back to life, looking up at its
towering branches. “No.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know the difference
between good and evil?” he asked, slowly
seducing her again with his hypnotic stare.
“Yes,” she responded. “Er . . . no.” She
pulled back pushing him off her leg with her
other foot.
“Do you know how good these apples
are?” he asked, challenging her as he
crawled up her other leg.
“No.”
“Wouldn’t you like to?” he questioned.
“I don’t think . . .” Her eyes rested on his
tiny front foot as it moved back and forth in an
even, steady, mesmerizing manner. “Yee . . .
es,” she said.
Like a flash, he slithered up the tree and
shook a large branch until the most beautiful
and juiciest specimen fell at her feet.
“Hello, pretty. What do you have there?”
The man walked up the path carrying fruit of
all varieties. He appeared to be favoring his
left side.
“Adam, what’s wrong with your side?”
Eve asked.
“Just my ribs. They still hurt where he
took . . . well, you know.” Adam stared at the
apple Eve had just picked off the ground.
“Hell . . . o. Let me introduce myself,”
Sarpati said.
Startled, Adam spun around to face the
voice.
“Sarpati’s the name, and fruit tree’s my
game. And, let me say, there isn’t a finer fruit
in this whole garden than the one your wife is
holding.”
“Uh, . . . we’re not supposed to eat
those,” Adam said with a puzzled expression
on his face.
“No? Oh, perhaps you weren’t, in the
beginning.”
“Beginning?”
“Yeah. They used to be poison. At least,
that was the rhetoric.”
“Rhetor . . . who?”
“Nonsense. Nothing but nonsense. My
employer realized the error of his ways and
asked me to come and tell you that eating
from this tree is ju . . sst fine. In fact, he wants
you to.” Sarpati laughed to himself as
Adam and Eve looked perplexed. He
continued, “And, he wants you to know that
you can get a first-rate education by just
taking one teeny bite.”
“An ed . . .u . . . what?” Adam asked.
“Education. Knowledge. You’ll get to
know stuff. Almost as much as me.”
“Well, if he said so,” Eve said, fondling
the apple and smelling it.
“Eve?” Adam looked doubtful.
“Go on . . . what’s the matter?” The
snake taunted her. “Afraid?”
“No,” Eve said. “I’m not afraid.” She
stood for a moment as though waiting to see
what would happen, then she bit into the
apple.
“Good?” The snake crooned and his
tongue slid out of his mouth and circled his
lips.
Eve bit down again and handed the
apple to her husband, her voice took on a
strange tone.
“Adam . . . eat it.”
The snake giggled with glee.
“No . . . Eve . . . I don’t think . . . .”
“Eat it,” Eve commanded and Adam
obeyed.
Sarpati rested on the grass and watched
the two interact. Their eyes growing wide with
astonishment and wonder at the world
around them.
Suddenly, from somewhere out of the
east, a loud booming laugh charged over the
land. “They’re mine,” it seemed to repeat --
over and over, again.
Without losing a beat, another sound,
louder and more compelling, was heard
coming from the sky, shattering the
complacent garden. Adam and Eve ran for
cover. Sarpati hid in the tree.
“Adam! . . . Eve!” The voice became
louder and more focused and seemed to
swirl into a physical manifestation -- a
presence.
Two small, cowering voices whimpered
from behind a clump of trees. “Uh-oh.”
God’s presence materialized in the form
of a very large and muscular human, more
intimidating than Lucifer, even on his worst
days. Sarpati began to think that maybe he’d
formed the wrong alliance.
“All right you two. . . . Out,” God
demanded.
Adam and Eve surfaced, wearing an
attempt at aprons strung together by fig
leaves. Even Sarpati raised an eyebrow and
tried not to snicker.
God was not amused. “What’s that?”
“Uh . . . ,” Adam said, trying to formulate
his newly acquired thoughts.
“We’re naked,” Eve said. “We’re not
supposed to be.”
“What the . . . ?” God responded. Then
he saw the apple.
“So that’s why Lucifer was laughing so
hard. You ate the apple. How many times
have I told you . . . don’t go near the
apple tree?”
“Uh . . . about forty,” Adam said.
“And you did it anyway?” God asked in a
tone of total disbelief.
“She made me do it,” Adam said.
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Stop that this instant,” God said. “Who
did it first?”
“She did.”
“Did you?”
“Er . . . he made me do it,” Eve replied,
pouting and pointing to Sarpati who was
hanging on a tree limb waiting to see who
would come out on top.
“You . . . a snake?”
God finally focused on Sarpati and
without touching him, sent him crashing to
the ground.
“Ou . . . ch.”
“Of all the ungrateful children, this takes
the cake. I work my fingers to the bone, trying
to provide a nice, easy life for you . . . no
worry, no cares and this is how you repay
me?” God paused and paced for
several moments. “Okay. So it’s going to be
like this. You don’t seem to have any respect
for
authority, so you’ll have to work for a living
just like all the rest of us.
And you Eve, you want knowledge? Well,
you’ve got it. You’re going to learn just how
hard it is to be a parent. You’re going to have
ungrateful kids and raise them all by
yourselves.
Adam. You’re going to have to provide for
these thankless brats. See how you like it.
And, if it doesn’t work out, don’t come crying
to me.”
God stopped his tirade just long enough
to glance at Sarpati, who had hidden behind
the tree.
“You . . . you slithering piece of slimy
deceit. . . . You’re not off the hook either. You’
re not going to tread all over my creatures
again. Do you hear?” God pointed one
massive finger and an electrical current flew
through the air aimed directly at the
unfortunate serpent. “No longer will you be
able to walk like everyone else. Now you’ll
see how it feels to be trampled . . . stomped
on . . . kicked around.”
The reptilian legs seemed to just
disappear -- vanished into thin air. Sarpati,
clinging to the tree, suddenly fell off, bounced
onto the ground and landed just behind Eve’
s feet. Startled, she jumped back, landing
firmly on what once had been his tail.
“Ouch, watch that,” he shouted. No one
heard. His voice
had disappeared along with his legs. As he
slithered out of sight and out of his trusted
position as Lucifer’s first assistant, he heard
God giving his offspring final instructions.
“Okay, back to your education. Eve, you’
re going to learn to cook and clean and make
clothes. Adam, I’m giving you a nice choice
piece of desert land for you to settle on and
learn how to manage. With a little work,
maybe in . . . oh, three . . . four hundred years
and some yet to be invented technology, you
can make something out of it.”
* * *
Back where the River Pishone meets the
Gulf, Mephistopheles S. Lucifer, President of
Local 666, met with his newest applicant
applying for the recently opened position of
top henchman.
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THE ATTIC
By Patricia Ann Guthrie
"Ma . . . mm . . .eee." The voice that echoed
throughout the house, sounded more like an
angry hyena than a little girl of six. Melissa
sat in the middle of her bed, staring at
favorite toys formally displayed on
bookcases, rocking chairs, toy boxes and a
corner hutch. She didn't feel like playing with
any of them. Old Neddie, the rocking horse,
once the pride and joy of the nursery, now
had a shattered front leg. Pooh Bear, a well
beloved antique, had one missing glass eye,
and of course Sir Scottie, the stuffed black
Scottie dog, had the stuffing torn out and
sewn back more times than her mother
could count. None of them would do today.
They were boring. She bounced off the old
fashioned sleigh bed defaced from temper-
tantrums, and walked out of her room toward
the stairs.
"Mommy?" No answer. Now, her voice
demanded, “Ma . . . mm . . . ee.”
"Melissa, what is it? I'm busy.” Her mother
came to the foot of the stairs, carrying an
infant in her arms and pushing a laundry
basket with her foot. Strands of dark hair
dangled over her face, while dark circles
under her eyes emphasized strain. She
looked frazzled.
"Mommy, I'm bored."
"Your toys, Melissa. Play with your toys."
"But, Mommy, I've played with them." Melissa
was getting impatient. She wanted to play
with her Mommy, but her mother was always
preoccupied with the baby. She hated her
little brother. "Mommy, why don’t you ever play
with me anymore?"
"Oh, honey, I can't right now."
"Mommy,” Melissa screamed. She pitched
herself forward onto the landing and threw
one of the world's greatest temper tantrums.
"Melissa Anne Greenwood, if you don't stop
that this instant, I will really give you
something to scream about.” Stepping
around the plastic basket and readjusting the
baby, she took two steps up the stairs. Even
through the thick carpet, her feet made an
adequate stomp.
Melissa decided she'd probably better stop--
knowing her mother meant it this time. "Okay,
Mommy.” She forced sobs that didn't quite
work, and then manipulated her voice almost
down to a whisper. "I'm finished now."
"Good. Now go find something to play with . .
. and, don't go near the attic." "Okay, Mommy."
Melissa went back into her room and, flinging
Pooh Bear on the floor, plunked herself down
on Pooh's small rocking chair. The chair was
too small and cracked under her weight. She
slipped onto the floor.
She looked over her many games, books,
toys and stuffed animals, her friends until
recently. After all, they had always talked to
her. They shared secrets about what Mommy
did when she came up to her room to clean
the things she looked at, and the things she
looked behind. Melissa had learned to write
certain words like ‘I luv u mummy,' and put
them where she thought her mommy would
look. It worked perfectly. She got hugs and
new toys. And the old toys? She’d discarded
her old friends when the new ones arrived
and relegated them to the attic--yesterday's
news.
Lately however, even her new toys bored her
-- ever since that baby arrived. Before her
brother was born, Old Ned had as strong a
front leg as had ever been carved. Pooh Bear
was brand new, straight from Toys ‘R’ Us
and, Old Scottie; well, Old Scottie had been
her mother’s favorite toy from childhood. All
were victims of Melissa's displeasure. She
delighted in every tear shed each time
Mommy had to sew Old Scottie back together.
Melissa felt hateful. "Now, it's your turn.” A
vicious grin replaced the pout. "Next week, I'll
have my daddy put you into the attic, too. I'll
get new toys . . . toys batter’s you . . . way
better. Maybe, I’ll even throw you in the
garbage.” She looked at each toy with
contempt, turned on her heels and started to
leave her betrayed favorites.
Suddenly, something in the corner of her eye
caught her attention and she turned She
couldn't be sure. Did Old Ned actually seem
to rock a little--back and forth-- back and
forth? Was Old Scottie attempting to make a
sound that said, "no?” And, did Pooh Bear's
one good eye appear to widen, just a little?
As soon as she turned, all stuffed animal
activity ceased. No, she decided, it was only
her imagination.
The forbidden attic was the only room that
still intrigued Melissa, the only room not
explored. It was the place where they put
things they no longer wanted. It was where
Mommy's stuff was and where they put
Nanny's things when she went away. Of
course, she knew Nanny hadn't really gone
anywhere. She’d just died.
A set of steep, wooden stairs led from the
end of the hall to the attic. Melissa climbed
cautiously, careful not to make any creaking
noises her mother might hear. The door
stood on a small landing at the head of the
stairs. Small but determined fingers and
arms tugged at a knob that wouldn’t give.
Locked. She jerked again and succeeded in
hurting her arm.
Frustrated, she was about ready to turn and
go back downstairs, when she spotted a
silver key on an antique gold ring, hanging to
the right of the door. It was just beyond her
reach. She stood on her tiptoes--no luck. She
leaped into the air and landed on her rear,
crinkling the back of her blue and white play
dress. "Ouch!” She nearly cried, but decided
to get back up, instead. She brushed herself
off and started all over again. One, two, three
leaps later, Melissa was finally able to jingle
the key hard enough so that the object of her
frustration flipped off the hook and landed
onto the floor. She punished the recalcitrant
key by viciously thrusting it into the keyhole.
Then, smug with the self-satisfaction of a
thief who’d broken into an uncrackable safe,
she turned the key and finally the knob. She
was in.
As soon as she entered, Melissa noticed the
darkness. At the far end of the room, a lone
triangular stained glass window had become
so dirty throughout the years only a glimmer
of outside light could pass through its
windowpane. A light bulb hung from the
ceiling, but the string was too short for her to
reach, and the only other available light
poured in from the open door behind her.
Picture frames, suitcases, furniture pieces
and a bunch of boxes containing many old
musty books filled the room. A wooden
rocking chair held all varieties of stuffed
animals, some of which Melissa recognized
as playmates from her baby days. She set
out to investigate every nook and cranny,
touching first this and then that--old clothes,
figurines, baby dolls, a stuffed gorilla, an old
play cash register, and toy soldiers from her
father's day.
Melissa was so absorbed in the objects that
she backed into a figure dressed in a long
black dress with a mink stole. It wore a wide
brim hat and had a triple strand of pearls
irregularly wound around its neck. The face
was a pasty sort of chalk color with cheeks
that might have come from a crayon box and
lips that were a deep cherry red. A cavernous
hole for a mouth showed marked protruding
teeth locked in a welcoming, yet ghastly,
smile.
Melissa gaped in horror at the apparition of
what appeared to be--Granny.
Suddenly, the light was gone. The attic door
had swung shut with such force it knocked
something over which crashed against her.
She screamed.
Melissa tried to adjust her eyes, but it was
pitch black except for small pinpricks of red
and green lights emanating from the stained
glass. A macabre sense of movement
coming from all directions seemed to twirl
around her, moving faster and faster until
she felt dizzy and disoriented. She felt a cold
stream of air blast through her, and
something wound around her arm, holding
her fast.
She screamed with all her might. "Mommy!”
Her voice seemed to resound throughout the
room. "Mommy," she cried out again.
Then, the other voices started to join in, one
right after the other. They started as a
whisper, "Melissa . . . . Oh, Melissa. We know
you're here, Melissa." "We know . . . we know
. . . ." "You don't love us anymore, Melissa."
"Who are you?” She choked out the words--
just barely. Then another voice called –
cajoling, beckoning. "Melissa, dear Melissa."
"Nanny?” Melissa murmured, taking in
shallow gasps of air.
"Did you come to play with Nanny?" A voice
whispered.with apparent glee.
"Nanny . . . . Na . . .na . . . na . . . Nanny. . . . "
The voices chimed in as a chorus. "Did you
come to play with Nanny?" the first voice
bellowed.
Struggling to break free, she felt her restraint
shatter into a thousand tiny fragments, which
attacked her from all sides. Terrified, she
tried to escape, but tripped over something
and fell to her knees. It’s all my toys, she
thought, coming to get me. '
Getting up in blind panic, she tried to run
again, but fingers grabbed her from behind
catching her like a rabbit in a snare. Now,
voices came from every side. They seemed
to originate from forgotten toys and forgotten
relatives, their memories trapped in the attic--
no differently than her. Melissa screamed in
terror, and they laughed in response.
"You'll never get out of here," one said.
"This is where they dump you when they don't
want you anymore," another said.
"Like us. Like us. Like us.” Voices echoed.
"You don't want us anymore, Melissa, but we
want you."
Melissa let out another shriek. "Mommy!” She
suddenly felt sorry for every bad thing she'd
ever done.
"They don't want you anymore; they don't want
bad little girls,” another voice said.
"Melissa . . . Melissa.” The voices started
chanting--fingers reaching to stroke her face
and her arms. "Melissa, Melissa . . . ." She
struggled to break free, screaming and
struggling, as they also struggled to reach
her--laughing, mimicking and taunting.
"Mommy. . . . Mommy. . . . Mommy."
The whirlwind of apparitional activity
escalated. The penetrating cold in the room
created frigid chills of pain, as a rush of air
blinded her to such an extent she had to
keep her eyes closed tight. She thought she
felt the clammy fingers of old dolls and the
furry paws of stuffed animals choking her,
while Nanny's ever present voice uttered,
"Let's play . . . Let's play," followed by an eerie
cackle."We want to play," the voice who
sounded like Nanny, uttered. "We want to
play with the baby, Melissa. Bring us the
baby."
"Nanny?” She shook all over--shook from the
cold and from her fear.
Just when Melissa became convinced that
life as she knew it was over, the attic door
sprung open and all activity ceased. She
turned in terror and apprehension.
"My God, Melissa . . . baby. Didn't I tell you
never to go into the attic?"
As the light poured in, Melissa saw only the
old treasures locked in the attic.
Grandmother returned to a dressmaker's
mannequin, clad in the mink stole, and old-
fashioned black silk dress, its high-collared
neckline propping up a Styrofoam head
adorned with wig and hat. The pearls,
however, were no longer around its neck, but
scattered over the floor. There were no
apparitions; not one thing appeared sinister.
Melissa felt a tug at her skirt. She jerked her
head around and found nothing -- nothing but
a faint echo repeating over and over, "The
baby, Melissa. Don't forget the baby. Bring
me the baby. . . ."
“Mommy, did you hear that?” Melissa
whispered.
“Hear what, baby?” her mother replied,
scooping her into her arms. “Shh. There’s
nothing here.”
Melissa wasn’t convinced. As her mother
carried her downstairs, Melissa thought she
could hear the choral voices of the past,
faintly laughing and mimicking.
"Didn't I tell you never to go into the attic?
Didn't I tell you never to go into the attic?
Didn't I tell . . . ?"
Later that evening, little Melissa Ann
Greenwood wondered how she could drag
that stupid baby all the way up those stairs.
By Patricia Ann Guthrie
"Ma . . . mm . . .eee." The voice that echoed
throughout the house, sounded more like an
angry hyena than a little girl of six. Melissa
sat in the middle of her bed, staring at
favorite toys formally displayed on
bookcases, rocking chairs, toy boxes and a
corner hutch. She didn't feel like playing with
any of them. Old Neddie, the rocking horse,
once the pride and joy of the nursery, now
had a shattered front leg. Pooh Bear, a well
beloved antique, had one missing glass eye,
and of course Sir Scottie, the stuffed black
Scottie dog, had the stuffing torn out and
sewn back more times than her mother
could count. None of them would do today.
They were boring. She bounced off the old
fashioned sleigh bed defaced from temper-
tantrums, and walked out of her room toward
the stairs.
"Mommy?" No answer. Now, her voice
demanded, “Ma . . . mm . . . ee.”
"Melissa, what is it? I'm busy.” Her mother
came to the foot of the stairs, carrying an
infant in her arms and pushing a laundry
basket with her foot. Strands of dark hair
dangled over her face, while dark circles
under her eyes emphasized strain. She
looked frazzled.
"Mommy, I'm bored."
"Your toys, Melissa. Play with your toys."
"But, Mommy, I've played with them." Melissa
was getting impatient. She wanted to play
with her Mommy, but her mother was always
preoccupied with the baby. She hated her
little brother. "Mommy, why don’t you ever play
with me anymore?"
"Oh, honey, I can't right now."
"Mommy,” Melissa screamed. She pitched
herself forward onto the landing and threw
one of the world's greatest temper tantrums.
"Melissa Anne Greenwood, if you don't stop
that this instant, I will really give you
something to scream about.” Stepping
around the plastic basket and readjusting the
baby, she took two steps up the stairs. Even
through the thick carpet, her feet made an
adequate stomp.
Melissa decided she'd probably better stop--
knowing her mother meant it this time. "Okay,
Mommy.” She forced sobs that didn't quite
work, and then manipulated her voice almost
down to a whisper. "I'm finished now."
"Good. Now go find something to play with . .
. and, don't go near the attic." "Okay, Mommy."
Melissa went back into her room and, flinging
Pooh Bear on the floor, plunked herself down
on Pooh's small rocking chair. The chair was
too small and cracked under her weight. She
slipped onto the floor.
She looked over her many games, books,
toys and stuffed animals, her friends until
recently. After all, they had always talked to
her. They shared secrets about what Mommy
did when she came up to her room to clean
the things she looked at, and the things she
looked behind. Melissa had learned to write
certain words like ‘I luv u mummy,' and put
them where she thought her mommy would
look. It worked perfectly. She got hugs and
new toys. And the old toys? She’d discarded
her old friends when the new ones arrived
and relegated them to the attic--yesterday's
news.
Lately however, even her new toys bored her
-- ever since that baby arrived. Before her
brother was born, Old Ned had as strong a
front leg as had ever been carved. Pooh Bear
was brand new, straight from Toys ‘R’ Us
and, Old Scottie; well, Old Scottie had been
her mother’s favorite toy from childhood. All
were victims of Melissa's displeasure. She
delighted in every tear shed each time
Mommy had to sew Old Scottie back together.
Melissa felt hateful. "Now, it's your turn.” A
vicious grin replaced the pout. "Next week, I'll
have my daddy put you into the attic, too. I'll
get new toys . . . toys batter’s you . . . way
better. Maybe, I’ll even throw you in the
garbage.” She looked at each toy with
contempt, turned on her heels and started to
leave her betrayed favorites.
Suddenly, something in the corner of her eye
caught her attention and she turned She
couldn't be sure. Did Old Ned actually seem
to rock a little--back and forth-- back and
forth? Was Old Scottie attempting to make a
sound that said, "no?” And, did Pooh Bear's
one good eye appear to widen, just a little?
As soon as she turned, all stuffed animal
activity ceased. No, she decided, it was only
her imagination.
The forbidden attic was the only room that
still intrigued Melissa, the only room not
explored. It was the place where they put
things they no longer wanted. It was where
Mommy's stuff was and where they put
Nanny's things when she went away. Of
course, she knew Nanny hadn't really gone
anywhere. She’d just died.
A set of steep, wooden stairs led from the
end of the hall to the attic. Melissa climbed
cautiously, careful not to make any creaking
noises her mother might hear. The door
stood on a small landing at the head of the
stairs. Small but determined fingers and
arms tugged at a knob that wouldn’t give.
Locked. She jerked again and succeeded in
hurting her arm.
Frustrated, she was about ready to turn and
go back downstairs, when she spotted a
silver key on an antique gold ring, hanging to
the right of the door. It was just beyond her
reach. She stood on her tiptoes--no luck. She
leaped into the air and landed on her rear,
crinkling the back of her blue and white play
dress. "Ouch!” She nearly cried, but decided
to get back up, instead. She brushed herself
off and started all over again. One, two, three
leaps later, Melissa was finally able to jingle
the key hard enough so that the object of her
frustration flipped off the hook and landed
onto the floor. She punished the recalcitrant
key by viciously thrusting it into the keyhole.
Then, smug with the self-satisfaction of a
thief who’d broken into an uncrackable safe,
she turned the key and finally the knob. She
was in.
As soon as she entered, Melissa noticed the
darkness. At the far end of the room, a lone
triangular stained glass window had become
so dirty throughout the years only a glimmer
of outside light could pass through its
windowpane. A light bulb hung from the
ceiling, but the string was too short for her to
reach, and the only other available light
poured in from the open door behind her.
Picture frames, suitcases, furniture pieces
and a bunch of boxes containing many old
musty books filled the room. A wooden
rocking chair held all varieties of stuffed
animals, some of which Melissa recognized
as playmates from her baby days. She set
out to investigate every nook and cranny,
touching first this and then that--old clothes,
figurines, baby dolls, a stuffed gorilla, an old
play cash register, and toy soldiers from her
father's day.
Melissa was so absorbed in the objects that
she backed into a figure dressed in a long
black dress with a mink stole. It wore a wide
brim hat and had a triple strand of pearls
irregularly wound around its neck. The face
was a pasty sort of chalk color with cheeks
that might have come from a crayon box and
lips that were a deep cherry red. A cavernous
hole for a mouth showed marked protruding
teeth locked in a welcoming, yet ghastly,
smile.
Melissa gaped in horror at the apparition of
what appeared to be--Granny.
Suddenly, the light was gone. The attic door
had swung shut with such force it knocked
something over which crashed against her.
She screamed.
Melissa tried to adjust her eyes, but it was
pitch black except for small pinpricks of red
and green lights emanating from the stained
glass. A macabre sense of movement
coming from all directions seemed to twirl
around her, moving faster and faster until
she felt dizzy and disoriented. She felt a cold
stream of air blast through her, and
something wound around her arm, holding
her fast.
She screamed with all her might. "Mommy!”
Her voice seemed to resound throughout the
room. "Mommy," she cried out again.
Then, the other voices started to join in, one
right after the other. They started as a
whisper, "Melissa . . . . Oh, Melissa. We know
you're here, Melissa." "We know . . . we know
. . . ." "You don't love us anymore, Melissa."
"Who are you?” She choked out the words--
just barely. Then another voice called –
cajoling, beckoning. "Melissa, dear Melissa."
"Nanny?” Melissa murmured, taking in
shallow gasps of air.
"Did you come to play with Nanny?" A voice
whispered.with apparent glee.
"Nanny . . . . Na . . .na . . . na . . . Nanny. . . . "
The voices chimed in as a chorus. "Did you
come to play with Nanny?" the first voice
bellowed.
Struggling to break free, she felt her restraint
shatter into a thousand tiny fragments, which
attacked her from all sides. Terrified, she
tried to escape, but tripped over something
and fell to her knees. It’s all my toys, she
thought, coming to get me. '
Getting up in blind panic, she tried to run
again, but fingers grabbed her from behind
catching her like a rabbit in a snare. Now,
voices came from every side. They seemed
to originate from forgotten toys and forgotten
relatives, their memories trapped in the attic--
no differently than her. Melissa screamed in
terror, and they laughed in response.
"You'll never get out of here," one said.
"This is where they dump you when they don't
want you anymore," another said.
"Like us. Like us. Like us.” Voices echoed.
"You don't want us anymore, Melissa, but we
want you."
Melissa let out another shriek. "Mommy!” She
suddenly felt sorry for every bad thing she'd
ever done.
"They don't want you anymore; they don't want
bad little girls,” another voice said.
"Melissa . . . Melissa.” The voices started
chanting--fingers reaching to stroke her face
and her arms. "Melissa, Melissa . . . ." She
struggled to break free, screaming and
struggling, as they also struggled to reach
her--laughing, mimicking and taunting.
"Mommy. . . . Mommy. . . . Mommy."
The whirlwind of apparitional activity
escalated. The penetrating cold in the room
created frigid chills of pain, as a rush of air
blinded her to such an extent she had to
keep her eyes closed tight. She thought she
felt the clammy fingers of old dolls and the
furry paws of stuffed animals choking her,
while Nanny's ever present voice uttered,
"Let's play . . . Let's play," followed by an eerie
cackle."We want to play," the voice who
sounded like Nanny, uttered. "We want to
play with the baby, Melissa. Bring us the
baby."
"Nanny?” She shook all over--shook from the
cold and from her fear.
Just when Melissa became convinced that
life as she knew it was over, the attic door
sprung open and all activity ceased. She
turned in terror and apprehension.
"My God, Melissa . . . baby. Didn't I tell you
never to go into the attic?"
As the light poured in, Melissa saw only the
old treasures locked in the attic.
Grandmother returned to a dressmaker's
mannequin, clad in the mink stole, and old-
fashioned black silk dress, its high-collared
neckline propping up a Styrofoam head
adorned with wig and hat. The pearls,
however, were no longer around its neck, but
scattered over the floor. There were no
apparitions; not one thing appeared sinister.
Melissa felt a tug at her skirt. She jerked her
head around and found nothing -- nothing but
a faint echo repeating over and over, "The
baby, Melissa. Don't forget the baby. Bring
me the baby. . . ."
“Mommy, did you hear that?” Melissa
whispered.
“Hear what, baby?” her mother replied,
scooping her into her arms. “Shh. There’s
nothing here.”
Melissa wasn’t convinced. As her mother
carried her downstairs, Melissa thought she
could hear the choral voices of the past,
faintly laughing and mimicking.
"Didn't I tell you never to go into the attic?
Didn't I tell you never to go into the attic?
Didn't I tell . . . ?"
Later that evening, little Melissa Ann
Greenwood wondered how she could drag
that stupid baby all the way up those stairs.
THE MYSTERY CLUB SCANDAL
By Patricia A. Guthrie
Jonathan Kellerman brought an opened
bottle of Port into his mansion’s library, bent
over and rested it on the cocktail table. He
stood, rubbed his hands together and smiled
to the local mystery writers’ club. “Gentlemen,
tonight we discuss local scandals.”
Maurice Whitestone’s mouth turned upward
into a grin of one who’d smoked too many
cigars. “Well, well, well. No Dame Agatha
tonight? Very interesting development. I say
then friend Jonathan. You can be first. We
know you have skeletons in your closet.”
“Hear, hear.” Two men rested back on their
well-developed derrieres, eyes lit with the
anticipation of juicy local gossip.
And so it always was with this group,
Jonathan thought.
Jonathan bent over again and poured the
wine into long-stemmed ruby glasses. He
rose with the aches of one who experienced
age and arthritis. But, as usual, he masked
his pain behind the plastered debonair smile
he’d carried off for years. A smile he’d never
allowed to enter his heart, or, he guessed, his
eyes. No matter.
He passed the glasses around, then settled
on the overstuffed leather chair placed at one
end of the chairs facing a stone fireplace--the
perfect ambiance for their usual mystery hour
chats.
He raised his glass in acknowledgement.
Then, his gaze settled on the crackling fire that
spit burning embers up the chimney.
"Gentlemen. Do you remember your local
history? The story about Maude Parker and
Clyde Griffin?”
“I remember Maudie Parker,” Alistair Griffin
said, the leather swooshing as he shifted in
his seat.
“Yes, my mother kept pictures of her tucked
away in a scrapbook,” Maurice said. “Her
fiancé killed her, didn’t he?”
“Shook the very foundation of the community,”
Alistair mumbled, taking a long sip from his
glass.
“Maude was the belle of the town,” Jonathan
continued. “She was engaged to Clyde Griffin,
but loved to flirt. One night at a party, young
Maudie decided to make Clyde jealous by
paying too much attention to Harry Brady. Way
too much attention. Furious, Clyde left in a
huff.”
“Yes sir,” Maurice replied. “That story made
the papers. Clyde caught her kissing young
Harry in the library. My mother, God rest her
soul, saved the clippings.”
“Oh, yes.” William Seacrest came alive. “I
think the story goes . . . Clyde came back with
wine and offered it around. Everything
seemed okay, until some of the guests got
deathly ill. Maude and Harry both died. Clyde
was arrested.”
The men uttered ‘tsks’ that sounded like the
faint hissing of a roomful of snakes.
Jonathan raised his glass to his lips,
changed his mind and put it back down.
"Your uncle, wasn't he?” Alistair asked. If he’d
sat any farther forward in his chair, he would
have slid off onto the hardwood floor.
The fire sputtered. Everyone hushed. An
anticipatory stillness filled the room.
"Yes."
"I can’t remember, exactly what happened.
What was the eventual outcome?” William
asked. “Did he . . .”
“Clyde never went to trial, Jonathan said
softly. “ They remanded him to the state
institution for the criminally insane. That was
back in the days when they had such
institutions.” He paused, for effect. “I believe
each one of you had a family member
involved?”
Jonathan stood, went to the fireplace and
turned to three partially glowing faces.
“Maurice, didn’t your grandfather preside over
Clyde’s trial?”
Maurice nodded, “Why yes, I think he did.”
“And Alistair, wasn’t your father responsible
for committing him?”
Alistair raised his shoulders and nodded,
raising one questioning eyebrow.
“And William, your uncle, the sheriff, took him
away.”
Suddenly, Maurice gasped. "What the hell?"
Alistair and William clutched their throats and
gagged as their glasses smashed onto the
floor splattering wine onto an oriental carpet.
The three gentlemen registered surprised
terror, then crashed to the floor.
"Gentlemen, Clyde Griffin died today and we
come full circle. May you and your loved ones
rest in hell!"
Jonathan raised his glass, and in one final
toast, drank up. Every last drop.
By Patricia A. Guthrie
Jonathan Kellerman brought an opened
bottle of Port into his mansion’s library, bent
over and rested it on the cocktail table. He
stood, rubbed his hands together and smiled
to the local mystery writers’ club. “Gentlemen,
tonight we discuss local scandals.”
Maurice Whitestone’s mouth turned upward
into a grin of one who’d smoked too many
cigars. “Well, well, well. No Dame Agatha
tonight? Very interesting development. I say
then friend Jonathan. You can be first. We
know you have skeletons in your closet.”
“Hear, hear.” Two men rested back on their
well-developed derrieres, eyes lit with the
anticipation of juicy local gossip.
And so it always was with this group,
Jonathan thought.
Jonathan bent over again and poured the
wine into long-stemmed ruby glasses. He
rose with the aches of one who experienced
age and arthritis. But, as usual, he masked
his pain behind the plastered debonair smile
he’d carried off for years. A smile he’d never
allowed to enter his heart, or, he guessed, his
eyes. No matter.
He passed the glasses around, then settled
on the overstuffed leather chair placed at one
end of the chairs facing a stone fireplace--the
perfect ambiance for their usual mystery hour
chats.
He raised his glass in acknowledgement.
Then, his gaze settled on the crackling fire that
spit burning embers up the chimney.
"Gentlemen. Do you remember your local
history? The story about Maude Parker and
Clyde Griffin?”
“I remember Maudie Parker,” Alistair Griffin
said, the leather swooshing as he shifted in
his seat.
“Yes, my mother kept pictures of her tucked
away in a scrapbook,” Maurice said. “Her
fiancé killed her, didn’t he?”
“Shook the very foundation of the community,”
Alistair mumbled, taking a long sip from his
glass.
“Maude was the belle of the town,” Jonathan
continued. “She was engaged to Clyde Griffin,
but loved to flirt. One night at a party, young
Maudie decided to make Clyde jealous by
paying too much attention to Harry Brady. Way
too much attention. Furious, Clyde left in a
huff.”
“Yes sir,” Maurice replied. “That story made
the papers. Clyde caught her kissing young
Harry in the library. My mother, God rest her
soul, saved the clippings.”
“Oh, yes.” William Seacrest came alive. “I
think the story goes . . . Clyde came back with
wine and offered it around. Everything
seemed okay, until some of the guests got
deathly ill. Maude and Harry both died. Clyde
was arrested.”
The men uttered ‘tsks’ that sounded like the
faint hissing of a roomful of snakes.
Jonathan raised his glass to his lips,
changed his mind and put it back down.
"Your uncle, wasn't he?” Alistair asked. If he’d
sat any farther forward in his chair, he would
have slid off onto the hardwood floor.
The fire sputtered. Everyone hushed. An
anticipatory stillness filled the room.
"Yes."
"I can’t remember, exactly what happened.
What was the eventual outcome?” William
asked. “Did he . . .”
“Clyde never went to trial, Jonathan said
softly. “ They remanded him to the state
institution for the criminally insane. That was
back in the days when they had such
institutions.” He paused, for effect. “I believe
each one of you had a family member
involved?”
Jonathan stood, went to the fireplace and
turned to three partially glowing faces.
“Maurice, didn’t your grandfather preside over
Clyde’s trial?”
Maurice nodded, “Why yes, I think he did.”
“And Alistair, wasn’t your father responsible
for committing him?”
Alistair raised his shoulders and nodded,
raising one questioning eyebrow.
“And William, your uncle, the sheriff, took him
away.”
Suddenly, Maurice gasped. "What the hell?"
Alistair and William clutched their throats and
gagged as their glasses smashed onto the
floor splattering wine onto an oriental carpet.
The three gentlemen registered surprised
terror, then crashed to the floor.
"Gentlemen, Clyde Griffin died today and we
come full circle. May you and your loved ones
rest in hell!"
Jonathan raised his glass, and in one final
toast, drank up. Every last drop.
The Fair Lady
Patricia A. Guthrie
“. . . The couple’s Mercedes broke through
the guardrail of the Warren Street Bridge and
plunged into the river. One witness claimed
he saw a horse running across the road, but,
the police have found no evidence.”
Allison McKinley, owner of The Fair Lady Bed
and Breakfast, clicked off the television. So
that’s why the Monroe’s hadn’t checked in.
Not only had a couple lost their lives, but The
Fair Lady lost another client. She sighed.
Last week, an elderly guest from Hungary,
passed during the night from a heart attack.
She settled into hanging ornaments onto the
seven-foot Christmas tree that centered the
bay window. Sadness welled into a lump in
her throat.
More negative publicity. So far none of the
guests cancelled, but it would only be a
matter of time until those ominous calls
began with “We’ve made other plans . . .”
What more could go wrong? Allison
shivered. Death comes in threes.
She shook off the apprehension and picked
an ornament from the box. She stood on a
chair and still had to tip the top branch.
As she cleaned up the ornament boxes and
turned on the tree lights, the village church
clock chimed six. The silver tinsel sparkled.
The ornaments turned into a colorful
kaleidoscope of drummer boys, rocking
horses and candy canes.
Headlights lit up the room as a car pulled
into the driveway. Tom. Thank God.
Christmas brought too many depressed
patients to her psychiatrist husband.
The back door slammed and footsteps
stamped into the kitchen.
“Allie, I’m home . . .”
Tom McKinley entered the room wearing a
somber expression. When he looked around
the room, a smile slowly spread across his
face. He put his arm around her.
“Sad news about the Monroe’s,” Tom said.
“Second time in a month a guest has died.”
Allison let out a hesitant chuckle. “They
check into The Fair Lady and never check
out.”
“Hey, babe. It’s going to be all right. He
pulled her into him. “We can’t get a reputation
because of an accident. And Mr. Kalman was
elderly. He had a weak heart.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Allie,” Tom whispered. “Let’s sit.” He took
her hand and pulled her down beside him on
the couch.
“The sheriff dropped by my office.”
“And?”
“Their car went out of control.”
“I’d imagine. Spinning on the ice . . . ”
“Honey, there wasn’t any ice on the bridge.
The plows came through and salted. The
sheriff said they looked as though they’d
seen something terrible.”
Allison shuddered and pulled back from her
husband. Something in his tone frightened
her. “Like what?”
Like the expression on the man who’d died
upstairs?
Tom’s face clouded. “Someone saw a horse
running loose, before the car went over.”
Her mouth dropped open. “A loose horse?”
“Nobody else saw the horse or found hoof
prints.”
“But--It was snowing. The tracks could have
been covered.”
“There’s more.”
“More?”
“Somebody spotted a white horse this
afternoon, trotting for our barn.”
Allison stood up. “Nonsense. We have no
horses in our barn.”
“I checked to see if one might have made
himself at home, but there wasn’t anything.
Not even a track.”
Allison started to respond when the doorbell
rang.
Tom shrugged and got up. “I wish they’d
come through the side entrance.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. This afternoon, a
woman called and made a reservation.”
A woman stood on the porch dressed in
white from her woolen fur-lined coat to knee-
high boots. Her pale face might have
blended into her coat, if it hadn’t been for the
black hair that flowed down her shoulders.
Allison made one quick analysis. Ethereal.
Allison’s glance at Tom wasn’t entirely
voluntary.
A muscle quivered in the woman’s jaw as
she glanced from Tom back to Allison. Her
eyes sparkled with amusement.
She knows she worries me. That pleases
her.
“I have a reservation.”
“We’ve been expecting you,” Allison said. But
instead of her usual handshake, she took a
step back.
Tom looked at her and raised his eyebrows,
then coughed. He turned to their guest. “I
assume your bags are in your car.”
The woman laughed. “I took a taxi, and have
only what I carry.” She held up a carpet-bag
from another era.
“Well then, welcome to The Fair Lady,” Tom
said. “We’re Allison and Tom McKinley.” He
offered his hand. “I’m afraid I don’t remember
your name.”
The woman declined the handshake. “My
name is Tunder-Liona Szepasszony.
Hungarian. I am afraid it is hard to
pronounce. You may call me Liona.”
“Hungarian?” Allison’s eyebrows raised.
“We had a Hungarian guest. He passed
away recently.”
Liona removed her coat and handed it to
Tom. “My uncle, Frederick Kalman. I came to
the United States to visit him. Now I only
collect his things.”
“That’s a relief,” Allison said. “They’re under
the eaves in his bedroom. The room’s
vacant, I don’t suppose--”
“I would be happy to have his room,” Liona
replied. “I will look into his possessions.
Were there many?”
“Mostly clothes. I packed them away in a box.”
“I would be most grateful if you would show
me to my room. Tonight, I am tired.”
~
Allison woke to a voice coming from the hall.
“Where is it?” Soft sobbing accompanied the
words. “Where is it?”
Allison grabbed her robe and opened the
door. Nobody. Except for the creaking’s of an
old house, nothing stirred. Shaking her
head, she retreated and crawled back into
bed.
~
“Anything else?” Allison was halfway out the
door and still checking her last-minute list for
tonight’s Christmas Eve party.
Tom shook his head and waved. “Babe, that
about covers it.”
Allison turned back to her husband and put
her arms around his neck. “What will you do
while I’m gone?”
Tom grinned. “Tackle the bookcase attacked
by poltergeist last night.”
Allison frowned. “It was fine yesterday.
Wonder what happened.” She kiss her
husband and hurried out the door.
Tom studied the bookcase, trying to learn
how the books could have been in such a
mess and still stayed on the shelves.
Hungarian Folk Tales fell into his hand. He
replaced the book.
“Mr. McKinley.” The voice came out of
nowhere.
Tom spun around, dislodging another book.
He held it in place with his back.
Liona.
“I cannot find a book belonging to my uncle.
Maybe you know?”
He stared. Liona wore a white dress that
appeared almost orange reflected in the late
afternoon sun.
Tom averted his eyes. “I wouldn’t have a
clue. Maybe my wife can help you.”
Liona peered at the bookcase. “A book of
Hungarian folk tales. It is important to me--of
sentimental value. A family treasure, you see.”
Tom raised his eyebrows. He didn’t know
what to say. The folk tales had been a gift
from Frederick Kalman, and his wife loved
the book. The name of their bed and
breakfast was named in one of the tales. She’
d been intrigued.
He explained.
Behind her mask of smiles, Liona’s eyes
glowed with orange rage that almost
matched the fiery sky.
A cold chill ran up his spine.
She said quietly, “I simply must have that
book Mr. McKinley. I’m willing to pay for it.”
Tom stood his ground. “You’ll have to ask
my wife. I can’t speak for her.” The book
against his back fell to the floor with a thud.
The family Bible.
Liona moved closer, looked at the floor,
frowned and turned her head.
“I will.” She left the room.
Tom stared after her, trying to figure out her
sudden departure. He shook his head and
put the Bible back next to Hungarian Folk
Tales.
~
Christmas Eve. The traditional McKinley
party--turning on the Christmas tree, eggnog
spiked with rum, appetizers, dinner and grab
bag presents, finishing with Christmas
carols.
But, as Allison sat to play Silent Night, Liona
closed the hymnal.
“I sing you a song from my country.”
Instead of carols, she sang a Hungarian
Czardas and told fairy tales.
“You named your house after a fairy tale, did
you not?” Liona asked Allison.
“No. The Fair Lady was already named.”
“Do you know what a Fair Lady is?”
“A malevolent fairy,” Allison replied. “A shape
shifter who can take animal and human form.
A being tied to a household object. She can
never leave it.”
“Something like that,” Liona replied softly.
“The object is called her ‘platter.’ When the
platter is taken from her, she will follow it to
the ends of the earth. It’s danger for anyone
keeping her from her home.”
“Good one,” replied a guest, who’d entered
the room with eggnog and a mistletoe
around his neck. He made for Liona.
A mask descended over the lady. As the
man waved the mistletoe in her face, Liona
ducked under his outstretched arm, and ran
upstairs. .
“Jushh havin’ bit o fun,” the man slushed.
“I think you’ve had too much fun, dear,” his
wife replied.
But Tom was watching the retreating Liona.
His wife was watching him. Suddenly, he felt
a shadow covering his home. Something
was very wrong.
~
A noise woke Tom. He peered at Allison.
Snow blew against the window, then fluttered
away.
Again the noise. Creaking on the stairs.
Tom tiptoed halfway down and nearly fell the
rest of the way. Liona lay naked on the floor,
her black hair spilling onto the carpet. She
held the book of fairy tales under the
Christmas tree lights.
A gasp escaped him. “What the hell do you
think you’re doing?” he whispered.
“I found it,” she said holding her book. “My
platter, it is here. Now . . .” She chanted, “You
may come to me--”
“No,” he said.
“I command,” she said.
Tom moved like a man possessed, but
when he knelt and touched her skin, he felt
air.
Suddenly, without moving, she was
standing. “Dance with me.”
“No.”
Hungarian music swept the air coming from
nowhere and everywhere. Then he was in
her arms, either maneuvered by physical
force or enchantment. He wasn’t sure which.
“You take my home. Now you follow me into
my world. Dance with me—come away with
me.”
They suddenly slipped through closed
doors, onto the porch and into the night.
Her mind caught hold of his and whirled him
onto the pathway through the snow.
The silver slips of moonlight guided their
steps. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t
have stopped the frantic momentum built up
by his phantom partner. Her shimmering
body whirled him around and down the hill
toward the river. And, he gladly allowed
himself to be caught up in her body, her
movement, the music and the mad side of
his psyche.
On they whirled until they spun onto the ice
on the river.
Church bells pealed. Christmas Day. He
came to his senses as the ice cracked
around him.
“Angels we have heard on high . . .” The
recessional of Midnight Mass.
He was going down. He reached for
disappearing hands, as the freezing waters
closed around him. Voices called out “Merry
Christmas.”
This woman was leading Tom to his death.
What was she? A witch from the depths of
hell? Damn her. He wasn’t giving up without
a fight.
“God help me!” He wasn’t sure he was
screaming or thinking. He went under and
knocked his head on the ice, trying to come
up for air. One last ditch effort to catch those
hands. He succeeded. They held on and
pulled. But they did not belong to Liona. They
belonged to Allison.
They say tragedies run in threes. But love
averted the third tragedy scheduled by the
dislodged Fair Lady.
“Let’s get you inside,” Allison said softly. She
slipped on something in the snow. The
Hungarian Folk Tales with its pages open to
Fair Lady, folk tale of Hungary.
The book went into the things owned by the
Hungarian and stashed under the eves in the
attic--in the church.
The End
Patricia A. Guthrie
“. . . The couple’s Mercedes broke through
the guardrail of the Warren Street Bridge and
plunged into the river. One witness claimed
he saw a horse running across the road, but,
the police have found no evidence.”
Allison McKinley, owner of The Fair Lady Bed
and Breakfast, clicked off the television. So
that’s why the Monroe’s hadn’t checked in.
Not only had a couple lost their lives, but The
Fair Lady lost another client. She sighed.
Last week, an elderly guest from Hungary,
passed during the night from a heart attack.
She settled into hanging ornaments onto the
seven-foot Christmas tree that centered the
bay window. Sadness welled into a lump in
her throat.
More negative publicity. So far none of the
guests cancelled, but it would only be a
matter of time until those ominous calls
began with “We’ve made other plans . . .”
What more could go wrong? Allison
shivered. Death comes in threes.
She shook off the apprehension and picked
an ornament from the box. She stood on a
chair and still had to tip the top branch.
As she cleaned up the ornament boxes and
turned on the tree lights, the village church
clock chimed six. The silver tinsel sparkled.
The ornaments turned into a colorful
kaleidoscope of drummer boys, rocking
horses and candy canes.
Headlights lit up the room as a car pulled
into the driveway. Tom. Thank God.
Christmas brought too many depressed
patients to her psychiatrist husband.
The back door slammed and footsteps
stamped into the kitchen.
“Allie, I’m home . . .”
Tom McKinley entered the room wearing a
somber expression. When he looked around
the room, a smile slowly spread across his
face. He put his arm around her.
“Sad news about the Monroe’s,” Tom said.
“Second time in a month a guest has died.”
Allison let out a hesitant chuckle. “They
check into The Fair Lady and never check
out.”
“Hey, babe. It’s going to be all right. He
pulled her into him. “We can’t get a reputation
because of an accident. And Mr. Kalman was
elderly. He had a weak heart.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Allie,” Tom whispered. “Let’s sit.” He took
her hand and pulled her down beside him on
the couch.
“The sheriff dropped by my office.”
“And?”
“Their car went out of control.”
“I’d imagine. Spinning on the ice . . . ”
“Honey, there wasn’t any ice on the bridge.
The plows came through and salted. The
sheriff said they looked as though they’d
seen something terrible.”
Allison shuddered and pulled back from her
husband. Something in his tone frightened
her. “Like what?”
Like the expression on the man who’d died
upstairs?
Tom’s face clouded. “Someone saw a horse
running loose, before the car went over.”
Her mouth dropped open. “A loose horse?”
“Nobody else saw the horse or found hoof
prints.”
“But--It was snowing. The tracks could have
been covered.”
“There’s more.”
“More?”
“Somebody spotted a white horse this
afternoon, trotting for our barn.”
Allison stood up. “Nonsense. We have no
horses in our barn.”
“I checked to see if one might have made
himself at home, but there wasn’t anything.
Not even a track.”
Allison started to respond when the doorbell
rang.
Tom shrugged and got up. “I wish they’d
come through the side entrance.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. This afternoon, a
woman called and made a reservation.”
A woman stood on the porch dressed in
white from her woolen fur-lined coat to knee-
high boots. Her pale face might have
blended into her coat, if it hadn’t been for the
black hair that flowed down her shoulders.
Allison made one quick analysis. Ethereal.
Allison’s glance at Tom wasn’t entirely
voluntary.
A muscle quivered in the woman’s jaw as
she glanced from Tom back to Allison. Her
eyes sparkled with amusement.
She knows she worries me. That pleases
her.
“I have a reservation.”
“We’ve been expecting you,” Allison said. But
instead of her usual handshake, she took a
step back.
Tom looked at her and raised his eyebrows,
then coughed. He turned to their guest. “I
assume your bags are in your car.”
The woman laughed. “I took a taxi, and have
only what I carry.” She held up a carpet-bag
from another era.
“Well then, welcome to The Fair Lady,” Tom
said. “We’re Allison and Tom McKinley.” He
offered his hand. “I’m afraid I don’t remember
your name.”
The woman declined the handshake. “My
name is Tunder-Liona Szepasszony.
Hungarian. I am afraid it is hard to
pronounce. You may call me Liona.”
“Hungarian?” Allison’s eyebrows raised.
“We had a Hungarian guest. He passed
away recently.”
Liona removed her coat and handed it to
Tom. “My uncle, Frederick Kalman. I came to
the United States to visit him. Now I only
collect his things.”
“That’s a relief,” Allison said. “They’re under
the eaves in his bedroom. The room’s
vacant, I don’t suppose--”
“I would be happy to have his room,” Liona
replied. “I will look into his possessions.
Were there many?”
“Mostly clothes. I packed them away in a box.”
“I would be most grateful if you would show
me to my room. Tonight, I am tired.”
~
Allison woke to a voice coming from the hall.
“Where is it?” Soft sobbing accompanied the
words. “Where is it?”
Allison grabbed her robe and opened the
door. Nobody. Except for the creaking’s of an
old house, nothing stirred. Shaking her
head, she retreated and crawled back into
bed.
~
“Anything else?” Allison was halfway out the
door and still checking her last-minute list for
tonight’s Christmas Eve party.
Tom shook his head and waved. “Babe, that
about covers it.”
Allison turned back to her husband and put
her arms around his neck. “What will you do
while I’m gone?”
Tom grinned. “Tackle the bookcase attacked
by poltergeist last night.”
Allison frowned. “It was fine yesterday.
Wonder what happened.” She kiss her
husband and hurried out the door.
Tom studied the bookcase, trying to learn
how the books could have been in such a
mess and still stayed on the shelves.
Hungarian Folk Tales fell into his hand. He
replaced the book.
“Mr. McKinley.” The voice came out of
nowhere.
Tom spun around, dislodging another book.
He held it in place with his back.
Liona.
“I cannot find a book belonging to my uncle.
Maybe you know?”
He stared. Liona wore a white dress that
appeared almost orange reflected in the late
afternoon sun.
Tom averted his eyes. “I wouldn’t have a
clue. Maybe my wife can help you.”
Liona peered at the bookcase. “A book of
Hungarian folk tales. It is important to me--of
sentimental value. A family treasure, you see.”
Tom raised his eyebrows. He didn’t know
what to say. The folk tales had been a gift
from Frederick Kalman, and his wife loved
the book. The name of their bed and
breakfast was named in one of the tales. She’
d been intrigued.
He explained.
Behind her mask of smiles, Liona’s eyes
glowed with orange rage that almost
matched the fiery sky.
A cold chill ran up his spine.
She said quietly, “I simply must have that
book Mr. McKinley. I’m willing to pay for it.”
Tom stood his ground. “You’ll have to ask
my wife. I can’t speak for her.” The book
against his back fell to the floor with a thud.
The family Bible.
Liona moved closer, looked at the floor,
frowned and turned her head.
“I will.” She left the room.
Tom stared after her, trying to figure out her
sudden departure. He shook his head and
put the Bible back next to Hungarian Folk
Tales.
~
Christmas Eve. The traditional McKinley
party--turning on the Christmas tree, eggnog
spiked with rum, appetizers, dinner and grab
bag presents, finishing with Christmas
carols.
But, as Allison sat to play Silent Night, Liona
closed the hymnal.
“I sing you a song from my country.”
Instead of carols, she sang a Hungarian
Czardas and told fairy tales.
“You named your house after a fairy tale, did
you not?” Liona asked Allison.
“No. The Fair Lady was already named.”
“Do you know what a Fair Lady is?”
“A malevolent fairy,” Allison replied. “A shape
shifter who can take animal and human form.
A being tied to a household object. She can
never leave it.”
“Something like that,” Liona replied softly.
“The object is called her ‘platter.’ When the
platter is taken from her, she will follow it to
the ends of the earth. It’s danger for anyone
keeping her from her home.”
“Good one,” replied a guest, who’d entered
the room with eggnog and a mistletoe
around his neck. He made for Liona.
A mask descended over the lady. As the
man waved the mistletoe in her face, Liona
ducked under his outstretched arm, and ran
upstairs. .
“Jushh havin’ bit o fun,” the man slushed.
“I think you’ve had too much fun, dear,” his
wife replied.
But Tom was watching the retreating Liona.
His wife was watching him. Suddenly, he felt
a shadow covering his home. Something
was very wrong.
~
A noise woke Tom. He peered at Allison.
Snow blew against the window, then fluttered
away.
Again the noise. Creaking on the stairs.
Tom tiptoed halfway down and nearly fell the
rest of the way. Liona lay naked on the floor,
her black hair spilling onto the carpet. She
held the book of fairy tales under the
Christmas tree lights.
A gasp escaped him. “What the hell do you
think you’re doing?” he whispered.
“I found it,” she said holding her book. “My
platter, it is here. Now . . .” She chanted, “You
may come to me--”
“No,” he said.
“I command,” she said.
Tom moved like a man possessed, but
when he knelt and touched her skin, he felt
air.
Suddenly, without moving, she was
standing. “Dance with me.”
“No.”
Hungarian music swept the air coming from
nowhere and everywhere. Then he was in
her arms, either maneuvered by physical
force or enchantment. He wasn’t sure which.
“You take my home. Now you follow me into
my world. Dance with me—come away with
me.”
They suddenly slipped through closed
doors, onto the porch and into the night.
Her mind caught hold of his and whirled him
onto the pathway through the snow.
The silver slips of moonlight guided their
steps. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t
have stopped the frantic momentum built up
by his phantom partner. Her shimmering
body whirled him around and down the hill
toward the river. And, he gladly allowed
himself to be caught up in her body, her
movement, the music and the mad side of
his psyche.
On they whirled until they spun onto the ice
on the river.
Church bells pealed. Christmas Day. He
came to his senses as the ice cracked
around him.
“Angels we have heard on high . . .” The
recessional of Midnight Mass.
He was going down. He reached for
disappearing hands, as the freezing waters
closed around him. Voices called out “Merry
Christmas.”
This woman was leading Tom to his death.
What was she? A witch from the depths of
hell? Damn her. He wasn’t giving up without
a fight.
“God help me!” He wasn’t sure he was
screaming or thinking. He went under and
knocked his head on the ice, trying to come
up for air. One last ditch effort to catch those
hands. He succeeded. They held on and
pulled. But they did not belong to Liona. They
belonged to Allison.
They say tragedies run in threes. But love
averted the third tragedy scheduled by the
dislodged Fair Lady.
“Let’s get you inside,” Allison said softly. She
slipped on something in the snow. The
Hungarian Folk Tales with its pages open to
Fair Lady, folk tale of Hungary.
The book went into the things owned by the
Hungarian and stashed under the eves in the
attic--in the church.
The End
The Slot Machine
Patricia A. Guthrie
Welcome to my house.
I'm a slot machine and my name is Midas. I’
m not just an ordinary slot machine, mind
you, but a high-class slot machine with bells
and whistles. I whirl, ding, and play tunes.
Why, just the games on me alone would
make the most avid slot player tingle with
anticipation.
If you've never been to my place, let me give
you a brief tour. When you enter my vast
room, bright, glittering lights and bells
assault your senses. You see rows and
rows of my brothers and sisters, all lined up,
one after another. Some distant cousins
take the big bucks, but we don't generally
speak. They like to think they're better than
we are, but of course, they're wrong. I’ve
heard tales of smaller, neighboring rooms
having big tables where they play for really
high stakes, but I've never seen them in
person, so I can only guess.
Attached to the ceiling, are constant lights
that flicker on and off, like little stars. Colorful
disco lights are flashing and the air has a
pungent smell of smoke and sweat all the
time. I never know whether it’s day or night
because there are no windows. The patrons
don’t need to know the time, because they’re
too busy being lulled by the constant dings of
the winning machines. Ooh, that does my
heart good. I'm not a mean machine, you
know. You can win with me.
I must admit, I have my favorites. I’ve
become quite attached to a young lady
named Maureen Goldstein. Now, I consider
myself a very fair slot machine, but when she
comes by, if there's anyone else playing, I
immediately tighten up and they start to lose.
Disgusted, theyusually move on, leaving her
free to play me.
Maureen Goldstein. I know her name
because she told me. She’s told me many
other things. I've learned all about her being
a widow, left alone with three small children.
Machines aren't supposed to have feelings,
but give me a break I'm not completely
heartless. Nor am I totally indifferent to the
other souls who come to play. You'd be
surprised at the stories I hear. Some tell me
their whole life history. Some just put their
money in, touch the card pictures and stare,
blankly. One guy, the idiot, tried to beat me
up. He received bruised knuckles for his
effort.
Maureen was the only one who actually gave
me a name. She calls me “Midas,” in her
kind, sweet voice, and it’s enough to loosen
my inner-workings. Loose enough to give
her a great poker hand.
This afternoon, the bosses came ‘round and
tightened me--really hard. The constant
crowd flow came and went. Most were
disappointed in their efforts and moved on to
seek their fortunes at other machines.
Maureen came along just as this guy, sitting
in my seat, got up and moved. She sat down
and suddenly, my screws came loose. I felt
them pop and whir.
“Hello, Midas.”
I tried to purr out my usual greeting, and
when she slid her twenty-dollar bill into my
slot; she always brought a twenty--I went
berserk. She could do no wrong. Her hands
played me like a finely tuned fiddle. I dealt a
four-of-a-kind. Bingo. Two- hundred-credits.
Next, I gave her a full house and another one
hundred fifty credits.
Maureen screamed in delight. A three of a
kind and pairs soon followed. Maureen
jumped up and down on my seat. Her gentle
touch on my faceplate as she placed her bet
was more than I could bear. Now, she was
playing Double-Up. I mentally nudged her
mind toward the correct card and each time
she won. It was now definitely time to pull
out all the stops.
Down came her hand, and an Ace, King,
Queen, Jack, and ten of hearts all flashed on
my screen. Whistles blew, sirens wailed,
lights flashed, and a version of the Hallelujah
Chorus played from of my machine.
Everyone was standing and applauding
Maureen’s good fortune. Tokens gushed out
of my innards. An attendant appeared,
followed closely by two security guards.
“Congratulations, young lady.”
All good things must come to an end. With
one last pat she said, “Oh, Midas, you’ve just
paid off my mortgage. Thank you.”
I could have told her that just her caresses
were enough thanks. I dreaded her leaving.
I had good reason. Two men with watchful
eyes and perpetual frowns were hovering in
the area, watching the proceedings. They
sauntered over, pulled some levers, took off
my back, pulled some wires and slammed
me a couple of times. They shook their
heads.
Later came the ultimate humiliation. Some
men with “Maintenance” written on their
spanking white polo shirts came and hauled
me away. They took out my back, they took
apart my faceplate, and worst of all, they
pulled off my glorious top. My crowning glory
to my everlasting shame. They shook their
heads and gave me one last kick for good
measure. Then they left me apart, some of
me scattered all over the room, some even
adorning the tops of other sad looking
machines.
Oh dear. It seems like months since the
door has been last open. I stand now, lonely
and forlorn, in the repair shop, waiting to get
‘fixed.’
Come visit me at my blog: : www.
pguthrie@blogspot.com
Patricia A. Guthrie
Welcome to my house.
I'm a slot machine and my name is Midas. I’
m not just an ordinary slot machine, mind
you, but a high-class slot machine with bells
and whistles. I whirl, ding, and play tunes.
Why, just the games on me alone would
make the most avid slot player tingle with
anticipation.
If you've never been to my place, let me give
you a brief tour. When you enter my vast
room, bright, glittering lights and bells
assault your senses. You see rows and
rows of my brothers and sisters, all lined up,
one after another. Some distant cousins
take the big bucks, but we don't generally
speak. They like to think they're better than
we are, but of course, they're wrong. I’ve
heard tales of smaller, neighboring rooms
having big tables where they play for really
high stakes, but I've never seen them in
person, so I can only guess.
Attached to the ceiling, are constant lights
that flicker on and off, like little stars. Colorful
disco lights are flashing and the air has a
pungent smell of smoke and sweat all the
time. I never know whether it’s day or night
because there are no windows. The patrons
don’t need to know the time, because they’re
too busy being lulled by the constant dings of
the winning machines. Ooh, that does my
heart good. I'm not a mean machine, you
know. You can win with me.
I must admit, I have my favorites. I’ve
become quite attached to a young lady
named Maureen Goldstein. Now, I consider
myself a very fair slot machine, but when she
comes by, if there's anyone else playing, I
immediately tighten up and they start to lose.
Disgusted, theyusually move on, leaving her
free to play me.
Maureen Goldstein. I know her name
because she told me. She’s told me many
other things. I've learned all about her being
a widow, left alone with three small children.
Machines aren't supposed to have feelings,
but give me a break I'm not completely
heartless. Nor am I totally indifferent to the
other souls who come to play. You'd be
surprised at the stories I hear. Some tell me
their whole life history. Some just put their
money in, touch the card pictures and stare,
blankly. One guy, the idiot, tried to beat me
up. He received bruised knuckles for his
effort.
Maureen was the only one who actually gave
me a name. She calls me “Midas,” in her
kind, sweet voice, and it’s enough to loosen
my inner-workings. Loose enough to give
her a great poker hand.
This afternoon, the bosses came ‘round and
tightened me--really hard. The constant
crowd flow came and went. Most were
disappointed in their efforts and moved on to
seek their fortunes at other machines.
Maureen came along just as this guy, sitting
in my seat, got up and moved. She sat down
and suddenly, my screws came loose. I felt
them pop and whir.
“Hello, Midas.”
I tried to purr out my usual greeting, and
when she slid her twenty-dollar bill into my
slot; she always brought a twenty--I went
berserk. She could do no wrong. Her hands
played me like a finely tuned fiddle. I dealt a
four-of-a-kind. Bingo. Two- hundred-credits.
Next, I gave her a full house and another one
hundred fifty credits.
Maureen screamed in delight. A three of a
kind and pairs soon followed. Maureen
jumped up and down on my seat. Her gentle
touch on my faceplate as she placed her bet
was more than I could bear. Now, she was
playing Double-Up. I mentally nudged her
mind toward the correct card and each time
she won. It was now definitely time to pull
out all the stops.
Down came her hand, and an Ace, King,
Queen, Jack, and ten of hearts all flashed on
my screen. Whistles blew, sirens wailed,
lights flashed, and a version of the Hallelujah
Chorus played from of my machine.
Everyone was standing and applauding
Maureen’s good fortune. Tokens gushed out
of my innards. An attendant appeared,
followed closely by two security guards.
“Congratulations, young lady.”
All good things must come to an end. With
one last pat she said, “Oh, Midas, you’ve just
paid off my mortgage. Thank you.”
I could have told her that just her caresses
were enough thanks. I dreaded her leaving.
I had good reason. Two men with watchful
eyes and perpetual frowns were hovering in
the area, watching the proceedings. They
sauntered over, pulled some levers, took off
my back, pulled some wires and slammed
me a couple of times. They shook their
heads.
Later came the ultimate humiliation. Some
men with “Maintenance” written on their
spanking white polo shirts came and hauled
me away. They took out my back, they took
apart my faceplate, and worst of all, they
pulled off my glorious top. My crowning glory
to my everlasting shame. They shook their
heads and gave me one last kick for good
measure. Then they left me apart, some of
me scattered all over the room, some even
adorning the tops of other sad looking
machines.
Oh dear. It seems like months since the
door has been last open. I stand now, lonely
and forlorn, in the repair shop, waiting to get
‘fixed.’
Come visit me at my blog: : www.
pguthrie@blogspot.com
The Balance of Life (Priorities
Patricia A. Guthrie
Dr. Melvin Bernstein swiveled in his office
chair with hands folded against the back of
his neck.
This was the fifth client that he’d seen this
morning, and this afternoon he had four
more, all whiners. He hated whiners. After all,
he didn’t whine, did he?
He’d endured four years of undergrad work,
then another two earning his Masters of
Psychology. God knows how many years he’
d snoozed in classes before finally receiving
his doctorate. And then there was his final
two years interning at New York Medical
Center. . . . He’d earned his place in society.
Why couldn’t they?
“I think I really need help. I don’t think I can
go on much longer.” The voice came from
somewhere in his spatial universe.
Internally, he sighed, trying to keep his
expression deadpan. He picked up the gold
pen and leather-bound pad and pretended to
write. In actuality, he doodled.
“Lucille, tell me when this all started.” His
open-ended questions always got his clients
started. Then, he focused back on his golf
game. His last score had been a ninety-five.
Trouble was -- he had too much going in his
life. He couldn’t concentrate. He was thinking
too much about his clients when he was on
the golf course.
“I can’t seem to accomplish anything. I’m
going to school, trying to get my Bachelor’s
Degree, which I need for a promo . . .”
Lucille’s conversation floated into the
background of the doctor’s predominant
thought process.
There was his wife. He was sure Melinda
was having an affair. He didn’t know with
whom, but he suspected it might be the new
tennis instructor down at the Scarsdale
Country Club. She had become so distant
lately. He realized that he hadn’t had much
time to spend with her. In fact, he hadn’t
noticed her at all. She had gained all that
weight after their last son was born five years
ago, and she had let her hair go to a mousy
brown. This morning, he’d detected a
decided change. The brown was suddenly
auburn and she’d lost weight. Why hadn’t he
noticed?
“Dr. Bernstein, I think my husband is having
an affair.” “Why do you suspect your husband
is having an affair, Lucille?”
“I haven’t spent much time with him, trying to
juggle my job, school, and carting the kids
around. The house is always a mess. I can’t
seem to find time for that, either. I guess I
couldn’t really blame him if he was. He’s so .
. .” Her voice droned on with suspicions of
infidelity.
Why did he suspect that Melinda was having
an affair – because of her new hair color?
Perhaps she suspected that he was having
an affair. Did she suspect about Colleen?
Pretty Colleen, with her red flowing hair,
green eyes and smile that sent rockets of
sensations careening in and out of his mind.
He had to work those extra hours, but her
little Central Park West apartment was worth
the rent.
As Lucille spilled her guts about her
husband, Dr. Bernstein discreetly checked
the time. Perhaps, if he could cut Lucille’s
appointment just a little, he’d see Colleen
during lunch.
“I know, if I didn’t have to work so much, if I
could spend more time with him, he wouldn’t
be seeing this other woman.”
He looked at Lucille’s mousy brown hair. It
looked very similar to Melinda’s hair color,
before she had -- what, dyed it? Should he
suggest to Lucille that she dye her hair?
Something in Lucille’s tone had triggered a
reaction, but he wasn’t sure what. He
wondered if her husband was a tennis
instructor. He knew very little about this
woman.
“Lucille, tell me about yourself. I mean, what
do you want out of life?”
“Doctor Bernstein?”
He noticed that Lucille’s dark eyes
penetrated into his face and deeper. He saw
the look of a deeply troubled woman sitting in
front of him, and realized that she must have
already told him her story several times. He
hadn’t been listening. Frantically, he
searched for a cover. He found one and gave
her the “priority” antidote.
“You see, Lucille, you’ve got to prioritize. You’
ve got to balance your life and decide what’s
most important.” That was a stupid remark.
He hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He could
have been talking about himself.
Which of his obsessions was most
important -- Melinda, his job, his teaching
assignment, Colleen or his golf game? And,
what about his wife? Sadly, he realized he
totally ignored whatever he happened to be
doing in favor of that which he was not.
Priorities.
“Doctor, my most important priority is my
husband and my children. In order for us to
survive, I have to work. My husband is an
artist and doesn’t make much money. He
doesn’t have to juggle. I’ve taken that burden
off of him.” She stopped for air.
“I need to earn more money, so I’m taking
classes at school. I’m failing, because I don’t
have time to study. I came close to having a
nervous . . . ,” she stopped and started to cry.
Dr. Bernstein handed her the box of tissues
that he always kept handy on his desk.
“Breakdown. . ., that’s why I came to you,.
The school is paying for it.
I hardly see my husband anymore, and his
assistant is gorgeous. She has fiery red hair
and deep green eyes. I met her at a gallery
opening this September. I can’t compete with
her. She has money . . . and can afford to
look glamorous . . . and she lives in an
elegant Central Park Apartment.” Sobs
disjointed her conversation. “I’m losing him
and I don’t know what to do.”
Bernstein sat up and took notice. He
suddenly wondered what Colleen did for a
living. Wasn’t she an artist? Why didn’t he
know? “I’ve been too damned concerned with
my own life,” he thought. Lucille was
sobbing. The tissues were rapidly
disappearing from the box.
He needed more time with her, but his desk
alarm started playing its forest and bird calls.
Next week, he’d pay more attention to her.
Now, he had to find out what his fiery
redhead did in her spare time.
Life and priorities hit Dr. Melvin Bernstein
right between the eyes as he raced out of his
office building and into a nearby cab. He’d
catch the witch off guard.
“Central Park West and 86th Street, quick!”
He held out a twenty.
The driver, who appeared eager for Dr.
Bernstein’s bill apparently didn’t see the
dazed, sad young woman with the mousy
brown hair, walking out of the office building.
When Dr. Bernstein noticed, she’d stepped
out from between the parked cars into the
accelerating taxi.
She never had a chance.
Patricia A. Guthrie
Dr. Melvin Bernstein swiveled in his office
chair with hands folded against the back of
his neck.
This was the fifth client that he’d seen this
morning, and this afternoon he had four
more, all whiners. He hated whiners. After all,
he didn’t whine, did he?
He’d endured four years of undergrad work,
then another two earning his Masters of
Psychology. God knows how many years he’
d snoozed in classes before finally receiving
his doctorate. And then there was his final
two years interning at New York Medical
Center. . . . He’d earned his place in society.
Why couldn’t they?
“I think I really need help. I don’t think I can
go on much longer.” The voice came from
somewhere in his spatial universe.
Internally, he sighed, trying to keep his
expression deadpan. He picked up the gold
pen and leather-bound pad and pretended to
write. In actuality, he doodled.
“Lucille, tell me when this all started.” His
open-ended questions always got his clients
started. Then, he focused back on his golf
game. His last score had been a ninety-five.
Trouble was -- he had too much going in his
life. He couldn’t concentrate. He was thinking
too much about his clients when he was on
the golf course.
“I can’t seem to accomplish anything. I’m
going to school, trying to get my Bachelor’s
Degree, which I need for a promo . . .”
Lucille’s conversation floated into the
background of the doctor’s predominant
thought process.
There was his wife. He was sure Melinda
was having an affair. He didn’t know with
whom, but he suspected it might be the new
tennis instructor down at the Scarsdale
Country Club. She had become so distant
lately. He realized that he hadn’t had much
time to spend with her. In fact, he hadn’t
noticed her at all. She had gained all that
weight after their last son was born five years
ago, and she had let her hair go to a mousy
brown. This morning, he’d detected a
decided change. The brown was suddenly
auburn and she’d lost weight. Why hadn’t he
noticed?
“Dr. Bernstein, I think my husband is having
an affair.” “Why do you suspect your husband
is having an affair, Lucille?”
“I haven’t spent much time with him, trying to
juggle my job, school, and carting the kids
around. The house is always a mess. I can’t
seem to find time for that, either. I guess I
couldn’t really blame him if he was. He’s so .
. .” Her voice droned on with suspicions of
infidelity.
Why did he suspect that Melinda was having
an affair – because of her new hair color?
Perhaps she suspected that he was having
an affair. Did she suspect about Colleen?
Pretty Colleen, with her red flowing hair,
green eyes and smile that sent rockets of
sensations careening in and out of his mind.
He had to work those extra hours, but her
little Central Park West apartment was worth
the rent.
As Lucille spilled her guts about her
husband, Dr. Bernstein discreetly checked
the time. Perhaps, if he could cut Lucille’s
appointment just a little, he’d see Colleen
during lunch.
“I know, if I didn’t have to work so much, if I
could spend more time with him, he wouldn’t
be seeing this other woman.”
He looked at Lucille’s mousy brown hair. It
looked very similar to Melinda’s hair color,
before she had -- what, dyed it? Should he
suggest to Lucille that she dye her hair?
Something in Lucille’s tone had triggered a
reaction, but he wasn’t sure what. He
wondered if her husband was a tennis
instructor. He knew very little about this
woman.
“Lucille, tell me about yourself. I mean, what
do you want out of life?”
“Doctor Bernstein?”
He noticed that Lucille’s dark eyes
penetrated into his face and deeper. He saw
the look of a deeply troubled woman sitting in
front of him, and realized that she must have
already told him her story several times. He
hadn’t been listening. Frantically, he
searched for a cover. He found one and gave
her the “priority” antidote.
“You see, Lucille, you’ve got to prioritize. You’
ve got to balance your life and decide what’s
most important.” That was a stupid remark.
He hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He could
have been talking about himself.
Which of his obsessions was most
important -- Melinda, his job, his teaching
assignment, Colleen or his golf game? And,
what about his wife? Sadly, he realized he
totally ignored whatever he happened to be
doing in favor of that which he was not.
Priorities.
“Doctor, my most important priority is my
husband and my children. In order for us to
survive, I have to work. My husband is an
artist and doesn’t make much money. He
doesn’t have to juggle. I’ve taken that burden
off of him.” She stopped for air.
“I need to earn more money, so I’m taking
classes at school. I’m failing, because I don’t
have time to study. I came close to having a
nervous . . . ,” she stopped and started to cry.
Dr. Bernstein handed her the box of tissues
that he always kept handy on his desk.
“Breakdown. . ., that’s why I came to you,.
The school is paying for it.
I hardly see my husband anymore, and his
assistant is gorgeous. She has fiery red hair
and deep green eyes. I met her at a gallery
opening this September. I can’t compete with
her. She has money . . . and can afford to
look glamorous . . . and she lives in an
elegant Central Park Apartment.” Sobs
disjointed her conversation. “I’m losing him
and I don’t know what to do.”
Bernstein sat up and took notice. He
suddenly wondered what Colleen did for a
living. Wasn’t she an artist? Why didn’t he
know? “I’ve been too damned concerned with
my own life,” he thought. Lucille was
sobbing. The tissues were rapidly
disappearing from the box.
He needed more time with her, but his desk
alarm started playing its forest and bird calls.
Next week, he’d pay more attention to her.
Now, he had to find out what his fiery
redhead did in her spare time.
Life and priorities hit Dr. Melvin Bernstein
right between the eyes as he raced out of his
office building and into a nearby cab. He’d
catch the witch off guard.
“Central Park West and 86th Street, quick!”
He held out a twenty.
The driver, who appeared eager for Dr.
Bernstein’s bill apparently didn’t see the
dazed, sad young woman with the mousy
brown hair, walking out of the office building.
When Dr. Bernstein noticed, she’d stepped
out from between the parked cars into the
accelerating taxi.
She never had a chance.
NO WAY OUT
Patricia A. Guthrie
“It says, ‘No Way Out’, Michael.” Carrie
pointed to the sign at the main entrance to
Fairway-Union Station.
“But, honey, there has to be.”
“Why?” Carrie’s eyes still sparked with
light of a newlywed. She flashed a crooked
smile. This had been one heck of a
honeymoon. She couldn’t wait to get into their
new house. With the large bedroom and
whirlpool tub.
Michael narrowed his eyes, then
smirked.
He’s had way too good of a time. And he
wants more of a good time. And, so do I. Still,
they couldn’t continue honeymooning until
they got out of there.
“Wait.” Michael looked at the entrance
sign and back to what he thought should
have been the exit sign. “Maybe it’s ‘round
back.”
He picked up the larger of the two
suitcases and started to walk down the large
aisle moving around the milling crowds,
newspaper vendors and Starbucks, who
made up the center of the station. They
followed a group who made their way onto
the train platforms.
“That’s what happened. The exits are
probably at the other end of the platform.”
“Why should they have entrances at one
side and exits at the other?” But Michael was
already two strides ahead.
“Mike, wait.” Carrie trotted trying to keep
up with her husband’s long legs and
enthusiastic stride. She nearly fell into his
back when he stopped.
A man in a grey flannel suit towered over
the pair. His lips curved down into a frown
and his gray eyes--well, there was
something murky hidden behind them.
Michael didn’t seem to notice the man’s
demeanor. “We can’t seem to find the exits.
We just went to the main entrance, but the
exits must be blocked off.”
“You want the exit?” The man’s
eyebrows narrowed and his frown went
deeper, if that were possible. Carrie caught a
sharp queasiness in the pit of her stomach.
He made her shiver. His slim, bony fingers
pointed down a long, dark hall flooded with a
mass of humanity.
“Uh, thanks,” Michael said.
They started down the aisle dodging
people who seemed to move in slow motion.
Carrie glanced back. The man in the gray suit
stood watching them.
“God! Don’t these people have
anywhere to go?” Michael’s enthusiasm
seemed to get shorter and shorter as the
aisle got longer and longer.
“Mike!” Carrie stopped in her tracks as
she pointed to the sign by door.
“No Exit”
“Jeez! Now what?” Michael looked at
Carrie, then glanced around at the long end
of the station. He shook his head a
shrugged. “Now what?” he repeated a little
louder.
“Can’t we just exit anyway? Go out the
entrance?” They watched as a couple of
people entered the large doors which
separated the station from the outside world.
Carrie walked over to the entrance and nearly
got run down as a river of people poured in.
When Michael tried the door again, the door
locked from the inside. People could get in,
but not out.
“Locked!”
Goosebumps gathered. Carrie grabbed
Michael’s arm and pushed against him.
“This is too spooky.”
A skeleton of a woman and two small
children approached. The woman’s pallid
skin seemed to encase a too small frame,
whereas, her eyes were so huge they made
her face look out of proportion. The kids were
skin and bones, as Carrie’s mother had
warned her when she was little, when she
didn’t finish her dinner. This familhy could
have stepped out of a Nazi concentration
camp.
“Spooky,” Michael repeated. He stood as
the family passed. “Who are these people?”
“I don’t know, but I think we should ask
them if they know how to get out.”
“I have my doubts,” but Michael walked
over to the woman anyway.
When he stopped her, she shrunk back.
“Can you tell me how we get out of here?”
“There’s no way out of here, sir,” she
said. She gave a small sorrowful glance
toward Carrie and continued on her way.
“Wait a minute. Please!”
The woman glanced back, but kept
going. “No way out.”
“Michael. She looked like death!” Carrie
shivered. “What is this place?”
“Now don’t you start. This is a train
station, Carrie. Just a plain train station.
That’s all. Come on. There’s probably an
exit on the other side of the platforms.”
“Okay.” Carrie hurried along, not wanting
Michael to see how scared she actually was
“This was just bad management,”
Michael said. “Bad planning on the city’s
part. Typical. I’m writing the mayor. Calling
the Governor’s office. If we ever get out of
here.”
They passed the train on which they’d
arrived. The dent on the front of the engine
where it had rammed into the side of an
empty box car gleamed in the sunlight. The
Accident. A frightening experience. Luckily no
one had been injured. Michael watched the
conductor change the destination signs. He
hurried passed somehow feeling sorry for
the emptiness of the train. He didn’t know
why.
Another conductor put up another
destination sign. This time Michael stopped
and stared. There was no writing on the
sign. It just had a simple arrow--pointing
down. He tried to get the conductor’s
attention but the man just stared passed him.
“Michael, let’s go.” Then Carrie stopped
and stared at the conductors--at their signs.
Only arrows. No letters. Carrie tugged at his
sleeve.
“What does that mean?”
Michael shook his head. “I don’t know. I
can’t get anyone to answer my questions.”
They saw a swarm of people loading
onto the train. The conductor seemed to be
checking off a list. Some people he turned
away and pointed in another direction. They
seemed relieved. A group of people
unloaded from another train and moved in
their direction. Some were pleading, some
were crying.
“There’s no escape,” one said shaking
his head at Michael as he walked by.
“No escape from what?” No answer.
“Sir?” Michael walked up to the
conductor.
“Son. You’re not on my list.”
“What list? How do you know who we
are?” He stopped and stared at the man’s
face. Almost translucent. “Uh,” Michael said,
“Where is this train going?”
“You haven’t figured it out yet?”
“Figured what out?” In spite of himself,
Michael started to sweat. He felt a numbing,
tingling sensation in his feet. His head
started to swirl with surreal thoughts.
“Son, move away. You go to that train
over there.”
“But, I’m coming from Southport. I’m
trying to find the exit to the street.”
“There is no exit onto the street, son.”
What do you mean?” Michael was nearly
screaming now. Carried stood by watching
in alarm.
“Son. You remember that accident you
had on the train?”
“Yeah, so?”
The conductor pointed to a paper in a
nearby newspaper rack. The headlines read:
“Train Crashes in Southport. All
passengers killed”
Slowly, Michael and Carrie let
themselves be carried in the direction of the
train on the opposite platform. The one with
the dent. The destination pointed up.