M.M. Schreier's Blog, page 11

Wistwick 75 Miles

Alistera swallowed down the bile that scorched the back of her throat.

“Do you mind if I open the window?”

Geoff raised an eyebrow, but didn’t take his eyes off the road. Alistera took it as assent, flicking thumb and index finger in a complicated gesture. The glass resisted for a moment, as if sensing her weakness, then melted away. She gulped, hoping the fresh air would stave off the nausea.

“Really, Ali? This is my cousin’s car.” Geoff shook his head. “How am I supposed to explain that?”

She wrinkled her nose. “It reeks in here.”

A tree-shaped air freshener dangled from the rear view mirror. Pine fresh. Alistera wondered if the person who’d made it had ever stepped foot in a pine forest. It smelled more like chemical depression than the great outdoors. A flash of memory swept over her.

Twilight painted amethyst shadows on the thick carpet of pine needles. Alistera slipped between the trees––distant cousins, barely sentient. She’d avoided the older, eldritch wood where the oaks and ash had judgmental eyes.

A rustle sounded from the thicket, then the heavy thump of a footstep silenced the forest in unnatural paradox. An invited intruder. A will-o’-the-wisp shot out from behind a thatch of wild rose and zipped up to circle around her head. It whispered in her ear––the human comes. A shiver of anticipation tiptoed up the dryad’s spine.

Geoff grumbled as he pushed through the undergrowth, a prickly vine tugging at his sweater. Robin’s egg eyes searched the clearing. Alistera stifled a giggle as his fingers brushed against her trunk. Bark softened to flesh, and Geoff grinned and wrapped his arms around her waist.

The car lurched as Geoff braked, pulling her back to the present. She groaned and clutched her stomach.

“Sorry.” He glanced over to her. “Feeling any better?”

Alistera focused on the upcoming road sign.

Wistwick 50 Miles.

With deliberate casualness, she changed the subject. “What’s Wistwick like?”

Geoff shrugged. “It’s just a normal city, I guess.”

“I hear it’s amazing. Full of enchanted lights and cafes on every corner. Towers of glass built to dizzying heights. Metal birds, screaming across the sky.” Her voice tangled, wistful and awed.

“High rises and airplanes.” He shook his head. “And the lights are just electricity––it isn’t magic.”

“It is to me.” A dreamy smile drifted across her face. “The things you humans think of…”

Geoff’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

A pang shot through Alistera. Was it? If she went through with this, she’d be banned from the forest. Her kinship with the trees would fade, away from the mystic wood. She’d never shift again or feel the rich earth around her roots. Never again would songbirds nestle in her hair or fairy lights caper between her branches. The feel of her mother’s thoughts echoed in her head.

The great oak’s canopy rustled in disapproval. The matriarch had chosen long ago to give up her two-legged form and merge fully with her tree. Root bound, she couldn’t speak, but thoughts passed mind-to-mind, not in words, but in images and feelings. Alistera bowed under the weight of her mother’s disdain. To cavort with a human brought shame upon them all.

The matriarch shot a stream of images at Alistera. Fire. Steel. Blood. Cold-eyed men tearing down the forest, spreading violence. Broken branches. Trampled flowers. An overturned nest, lying in the dirt––tiny eggs cracked on the ground.

No! Alistera reflected beauty back to her mother. Geoff’s work-roughened hands cupping a sparrow, his eyes bright. His laughter as the will-o’-the-wisps dotted the night like waltzing stars. Music and dancing. A gentle kiss, his lips like the flutter of butterfly wings upon her skin.

The matriarch changed tactics. More images twirled around Alistera. Silvery moonlight dappling the ground, feet rooted in dark, cool soil. Summer breezes ruffling her leaves. Sprites snuggled in the crook of her branches. Ash, oak, and thorn: wise and gnarled elders, emanating a sense of peace and family.

Your home or your human. You cannot have both.

“Ali?” Geoff cleared his throat. “Can you really live in a city with no magic?”

Vision wavering, she blinked hard. “You’re wrong, Geoff.” She laid a protective hand across her stomach. “It’s the one place the three of us can be together. That’s truly a magical city.”

She smiled as she read the next road sign.

Wistwick 25 Miles.

Publication Alert: “Cake”

Happy Mothers’ Day!

Today, my creep loving friends at Tales From the Moonlit Path aren’t serving up mimosas for brunch. However, there is a bit of “Cake” — a sweet and slightly eerie taste of flash fiction by yours truly.

Feel free to drop me a note and tell me what you thought. And while you are there, take some time to savor the other stories in their Demented Mothers’ Day edition. It’s a pleasure to once again be included on the Moonlit Path!

Happy reading!

Writer’s Games

Very exciting to announce that I managed to nab second place in the first 2019 session of  The Writer’s Workout’s Writer’s Games. This competition consists of 5 weeks of intense writing challenges. Each week (plus one practice event) the participants have 72 hours to harness an idea, write, edit/polish, and submit a piece of short fiction inspired by the provided prompt.

Two of my five submissions will be published in the Games’ anthology. Stay tuned later in the year to find out how you can get a copy!

Not So Nosy Neighbors

So there I was, minding my own business, not bothering anyone. The front door and all the porch windows were flung wide, being one of those rare autumn days where New England had forgotten that Old Man Winter was lurking ‘round the corner.

The cat lounged on the welcome mat, waiting to take a swipe at the mailman. A maddening, ceaseless thumping of a basketball on pavement, accompanied by shrieking children filled the air. Across the street, a middle-aged couple engaged in a verbal joust over whose turn it was to mow the lawn. In the next driveway over, a whistling neighbor hosed down his car, hairy beer gut sagging above his shorts.

The mediocrity of the ‘burbs at its finest.

In a fit of domestic bliss, I’d decided to ignore the beautiful weather and spend the day canning. Slaving over a hot stove, like a dutiful Stepford wife, in effort to impress. Dozens of jars filled with wild grape jelly and spicy dilly beans cooled on the counter. I lined up my jewel toned soldiers, drunk on the accomplishment―the epitome of trendy suburban homesteading. Bonus: when the apocalypse arrived, we’d keep our privileged, rotund figures, thanks to my preservation skills.

Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. ―Proverbs 16:18

Next on the docket―pumpkin butter. Cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar rose in a fragrant cloud. I sneezed into my elbow, as taught by the demanding Husband-Chef, to avoid contaminating the silky orange puree that bubbled on the stovetop.

Unlike the salsas and pacadillies, this recipe required a bit more culinary panache. For the first time that season, I dragged out our trusty cast aluminum pressure canner. It had been a hand-me-down from my monster-in-law, who no longer had the wrist strength to wrestle the 16-quart behemoth.

Thunking it down on the counter, I eyed the old contraption. The co-op extension service recommended an annual professional check-up, but the seals looked ok to me. What would it hurt to forego the trouble? Just this once.

A learned fool is more a fool than an ignorant fool. ―Moliere

Jars loaded, lid clamped down, I settled in to wait for the tell-tale rattle of steam before I started the timer.

Ten minutes later, the damn thing exploded.

Plates clattered in the cupboard. Heart thudding, I flung a hand in front of my face. Tinkling shrapnel and orange lava rained down. The cat yowled and disappeared under the rosebush, not to reappear until suppertime. The next day.

It took a sliver of eternity to catch my breath and assess the damages.

Shiny red burns peppered my forearms. A gouge marred the plaster where the canner’s lid had ricochet off the vaulted ceiling, then shot out the front door. Out on the porch it slowly revolved like a spun penny. Sparkling glass sequins embedded themselves in the walls and shards crunched underfoot. Superheated pumpkin butter dripped everywhere, making the wallpaper peel.

Stunned, I looked around. The laughing children in the street had disappeared. The car washing neighbor had stepped inside, oblivious to the excitement. Ears ringing from the concussion, I expected sirens. At the very least, the clomp of frantic feet as passersby flocked to investigate. Nothing. In the aftermath, the silence felt surreal.

The worst cruelty that can be inflicted on a human being is isolation. ―Sukarno

A lead ball dropped in my stomach. Suddenly suburbia didn’t feel that safe anymore. No one had noticed I’d set a bomb off in my kitchen.

I wondered if anyone would come running if I screamed.

In the Cottage by the Sea

Ligeia watched as Calliope rummaged through the old sea chest, filled with forgotten remnants of other people’s lives. In the beginning, the pair had spent decades poring through its contents. More bored than curious, they’d made up wordless ghost stories about the misadventures of those who’d lived in the cottage before.

It had been centuries since the women had touched the odds-n-ends memories the trunk held. Ligeia frowned.

Why today, of all days?

Calliope set aside a threadbare quilt, an age-yellowed journal––the ink faded to illegible smudges. Her spine stiffened as she rubbed the tarnish from a silver baby rattle. Ligeia couldn’t see Calli’s hazel eyes, but knew they sparkled with tears.

Stop torturing yourself with what cannot be, love.

As if sensing the thought, Calliope glanced over her shoulder, flashing the taller woman a watery, apologetic grin. Ligeia dipped her chin, but couldn’t bring herself to return the smile. Instead, she turned and paced the tiny room. Her bare feet slid across a floor polished silken by a hundred thousand footsteps. Three to the stove, seven to the straw pallet in the corner, thirteen more to the window.

Ligeia twitched aside the salt-crusted, sunbleached curtain. Perched on a wind buffeted cliff, the cottage overlooked a stretch of rocky beach. Below, a pair of hippocamps frolicked in the waves, manes flowing over their scaled backs. Her stomach clenched, as the rising tide inched across the sand. Longing warred with guilt.

Gentle fingers stroked her hair. Catlike, Ligeia leaned into the caress. She turned and drank in Calli’s familiar features. Smooth, tan skin; straight nose. Thick dark waves––untouched by the silver strands of time––spilled over her shoulders. Ligeia reached out to trace the other woman’s thin lips, mouth too wide for her face, as if stretched from incessant smiling.

Calliope responded with butterfly kisses to fingertips. Not once, in a thousand years, had she spoken. Silence was Ligeia’s curse, but her love shared it by choice.

Ligeia shrank back.

I stole your future. Your chance to live a normal life. To have a family.

Calli’s eyes flashed defiant. They offered a forgiveness that Ligeia didn’t deserve. Leaning forward, their foreheads touched, arms wrapped in a desperate embrace. A millennium wasn’t long enough to say goodbye.

Calliope pulled back and opened her palm. A golden chain dangled from her fingers.

So that’s what you were looking for. You were wearing it when I found you, half-drowned, washed up on the shore.

The metal felt cool as the necklace pressed into Ligeia’s palm. Her eyes widened.

I don’t need this to remember you.

Calli’s smile insisted Ligeia take it anyway. She slipped it over her head and settled the delicate charm––Eros’ bow––in the hollow of her throat.

Without words, they knew it was time. As one, they left the cottage and picked their way down to the shore, hand in hand. Two sets of bare feet burrowed in the sand, toes marking the high tide line. Out beyond the breakers, the hippocamps watched with dark, liquid eyes.

The sea tugged at Ligeia and she yearned to dive into the surf, but Calliope’s warm hand kept her grounded. As the waves crept closer, they clung to each other. Foam licked at their toes and the sun dipped below the horizon.

Warmth blossomed in Ligeia’s throat as the curse broke. Like a brush with an eel, sparks shot through her. A thrill tickled her spine. As she turned to Calliope, the elation turned to horror.

Wrinkles creased the once smooth skin, raven locks turned brittle white. The strong hand, enfolded in her own, grew slack and bony. Calliope’s desiccated lips twisted––smile or grimace, it was impossible to tell. The light went out in her eyes, and she crumbled to dust, swept away by a salty breeze.

Collapsing to her knees, Ligeia sang. For the first time in a thousand years, she poured heartache and guilt into her lament. Her throat burned raw. Darkness fell; the tide turned. Still she sang on. When the final melancholy notes faded away, the hippocamps reared, hooves pawing the air.

Numb, Ligeia stood, stumbling into the surf. As seawater rose from ankle to thigh, she glanced back at the deserted cottage on the bluff. The true weight of the curse settled into her frozen heart. She turned and dove into the waves.

By the light of the moon, the siren who dared to love a human, returned to the sea.

Publication Alert!

Are you already tired of the lovey-dovey, saccharine sweet today? Well you’re in luck. Hop over to Tales from the Moonlit Path and check out their Bloody Valentine edition. You’ll find a little paranormal flash from yours truly in the fiction section: Return to Sable Basin.

Get your chills and thrills on! Happy reading.

Leaving

“We need to talk.”

David’s voice sounded like a stranger’s––subdued and hesitant.

Celeste’s stomach clenched, but she didn’t turn around. The dinner plate in her hand was dry, but she kept the dishrag moving in mindless, persistent circles. She could barely make out his reflection in the window above the sink, see-through and indistinct.

“It’s just…” David swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and shifted in his seat at the kitchen table. “Things are different.” He hesitated.  “You’re different.”

Celeste stiffened. She narrowed her eyes and focused, not on his ghost-reflection or the tiny cactus that he’d given her for Christmas perched on the windowsill, but through the glass out into the yard.

In the dying light, a drab brown finch huddled in the crook of the apple tree. The bird looked lonely with her beak tucked to her chest and an icy autumn wind ruffling her feathers. She clung to bare branch as it dipped and swayed, scraping against the kitchen siding. The sound set Celeste’s teeth on edge.

“Cici? Are you even listening to me?”

Celeste jumped as David placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t heard him get up from the table. A shadow flickered across his face.

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’re jumpy. I can’t even touch you anymore.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. She used to find the habit endearing.

“You just startled me, that’s all.” Celeste didn’t meet his eye.

“It’s always something.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You tune me out.”

Celeste threw the dishrag on the counter and turned on him, face flushed.

“Exactly what are you saying, David?”

He took a step back.

“I get it, I really do.”

She opened her mouth, a tirade brewing––how could he possibly understand what she was going through?

David didn’t give her a chance to speak.

“This is all just too much for me.” He glanced around, eyes landing on the leather bomber  jacket on the back of his chair. “I didn’t sign up for screaming night terrors. Or the anger. The shouting and breaking things.”

As if to make his point, the plate clattered to the floor. He shifted direction.

“Maybe a relationship is too…complicated right now. You should focus on yourself for a while.”

Celeste snapped her jaws closed, teeth snagging on her tongue. The spike of pain distracted her from the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. She squared her shoulders and turned back to the window. Her own translucent reflection stared back at her, eyes flat and expressionless, like buttons on a doll.

“Fine then. Go.” She forced the words through numb lips.

“Cici.” He clenched his fists at his side. “Celeste, maybe when you’re better–”

“Just go.”

David sighed and reached for the scuffed leather jacket.

“Really?” Her voice dripped venom. “How dare you?”

“He gave it to me.” David’s grey eyes pleaded for understanding. “He was my friend. My best friend.”

Her heart lurched, then froze over.

“He was my brother.”

David cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“I love you, Cici.” Leaving the jacket, he spun on his heel and left.

The door clicked shut, like a gunshot in the silence. Celeste snatched up the cactus and whipped it after him. The miniature clay pot shattered against cheap aluminum.

“Fuck you!”

Gathering the jacket to her chest, she inhaled: supple cowhide, spiced cologne, a musky maleness. She could no longer distinguish between David’s scent and her brother’s. She hated them both for leaving.

A trickle of blood stained the soft leather, oozing from a finger punctured from the cactus spines. Through the window, Celeste stared past her washed out reflection, eyes fixed on the desolate finch in the apple tree until the shadows devoured the little bird whole.

She wished the darkness would take her too.

The Cyclone

There’s a crazy lady in my living room.

She’s a runaway train, hijacked by an inner demon. Her lips curl as she spits bitter vulgarities. She paces, face flushed with rage. Heels strike angry staccato on hardwood,  like a heartbeat.

Before her, husband and friend, exchange private, amused glances. Who smiles at a time like this? She pleads, accuses. They’re unmoved, sitting too close together on the ugly floral couch she paid for. Their smugness fuels her thunder.

Get out, she screams.

A purse, two jackets, are pitched into the driveway. The drizzling rain is anticlimactic – for she’s a hurricane. The weather should be sympathetic, an unrestrained tempest.

They look at her, stunned expressions on their faces. She’s no longer cowed, and it seems to surprise them.

Gathering their sodden belongings, they leave without apology. It matters not; she’s no longer capable of listening to trite excuses.

As they drive away, headlights spotlight her through the window. She sinks to the floor, too exhausted to cry.

There’s a broken lady in my living room. I’m beginning to suspect she’s me.

Sneaky Little Treat!

Hello lovely readers & Happy New Year!

I have a sneaky little treat for you in this Writer’s Workout Anthology – “72 Hours of Insanity Volume 5.”

While you won’t see the MM Schreier byline, like you did in Volume 4, but you will find four more of my stories in there, under the pseudonym CE Snow. “Sins of the Father” is one of my favorite pieces from 2018 – hope you enjoy!

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72 Hours of Insanity: IV

Folks, you can now get a kindle copy (print coming shortly) of the Writers Workout anthology: 72 Hours of Insanity: Volume IV.  This book features all the placing entries for the Writers Games – a 2 month long, prompted short story competition.

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You can find four (yes, I said four) MM Schreier stories in this compilation. So hop over to Amazon and get yourself a copy today!

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