C. Lee McKenzie's Blog, page 2

House

Dear Reader,

While Halloween is still a little over three months away, A.C. Cargill has jumped into the spirit of the season with Summer Scare 5! There is an abundance of spooky stories already waiting for you. Go to her site, click on the links for stories that catch your interest, and read until your heart can’t take it anymore. Here’s my contribution. Maybe I’ll come up with more before October arrives.

Pixabay

The woman was dying. House knew that.

It wasn’t the change from the rapid click, click of her high-pointed-toed heels to the hushed sound of slippers that made her leaving apparent. It was the boring and constant narrative that spilled from her lips. What had once been a silent interior stream of thought was now audible—really annoying if House was to be frank. House much preferred silently absorbing the woman’s dull to-do lists and her indecisive ramblings.

Then there was the reluctant climb up the stairs, the ones she used to take with quick bounds. Now she had to grip the handrail to pull herself upward. The labored breath when she reached the top landing was another giveaway.

What irritated House most were the demeaning signs of neglect—the spider-webbed corners in each room, the grainy dust that flecked the sills. The wobbly steps down from the porch to the path. The broken windows that leaked on rainy days, leaving gray streaks down the walls. Paint peeled along the crown molding, and the interior grew musty because the woman didn’t “air the rooms” as she once had.

At one time, she’d been a stellar keeper of the keep. Everything was made spotless and with regularity. Those were the days when House was a home. Days of children and husband, and many guests who came to sit at the table. Days of roast beef with buttered potatoes and enticing wines. House wished for those times back, wished for those delicious smells to fill its kitchen again. Her reheated soup and takeout containers were abhorrent.

House had gone through all of this before. Built in the early 1900s, it had endured many human arrivals and many departures. It was only a matter of time before someone younger and filled with zest would step across the threshold. They’d have fresh ideas and fresh paint, and once again, House would sparkle.

The problem was that this tenant seemed to hold on much longer than the previous ones. For all her decrepitude, she was one tough old bag—even her grip on the bannister was impressive, but that aside, House wanted new life and quickly.

Laughing children again, instead of beleaguered breathing, sad re-told stories, and rheumy half-hearted eyes.

The only way to effect the change was to get rid of her. It shouldn’t be difficult, really. The stairs could be off a bit, and she’d trip. Quick death, that. A tumble down. Broken neck.

Or, the old lock on the basement door might freeze. No one would come for days. She’d simply die of whatever humans die of when deprived of food and water.

Of course, House didn’t want to be cruel, just to move ahead in a timely manner.

Okay, the stairs it would be. The next time she came down, House decided it would adjust the height of the riser at the top, and the rest would be left to gravity.

Now that the decision was made, House felt much better and settled into a calm expectation it hadn’t had in a decade. But later that day, House became alert. Something was wrong. It sniffed the air that seemed suddenly close, maybe smoky.

Something near the back porch felt warm, then hot—very hot. House searched for the cause of the rise in temperature and cringed when it discovered flames licking at its kitchen ceiling.

No!

But the flames had taken over that room and now lapped along the dining room walls.

The woman stood with the box of matches at the front entrance and tossed them into the fire. In a flash, hot tongues shot out of an open window and up the siding.

House writhed in pain. Why?

“You dare ask?” Her voice wasn’t that quivering eighty-year-old one House was used to hearing these days. It rang with the strength from when she was much younger. She picked up the suitcase at her feet and opened the front door. Before she closed it behind her, she looked over her shoulder. “Adjust the riser? Well, I don’t think so.”

The End

If you like my stories, all my books are available on Amazon. Rattlesnake is my ghostly novel.

One reviewer says, “Rattlesnake is a captivating blend of suspense, mystery, and forbidden love. Set in the Nevada desert in both modern times and the silver mining era of the 1800s, it weaves suspense, mystery, and supernatural intrigue into a compelling narrative.”

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The Last Jump

Dear Reader,

This story has been marinating in my brain for a very long time. What happened that day impacted me forever. It made me keenly aware of how one choice changes so many lives.

Part 1 is HERE if you want to read it, but briefly, Lia has asked Megan to take care of her kids for a few hours. Lia is joining her husband in one last parachute jump before they leave for the States.

I played with the ending and came up with a few, but decided on this version. I know what happened that day on the Mekong River, so my question is, are you dissatisfied by my ending, or do you like making your own inference based on the details? I’m curious.

The Last Jump, The End

Vietiane, Laos 1968

Along the Mekong

Even though Michael and Pam knew Megan and her two boys, even though they were used to staying and playing together, today, they didn’t want their mother to leave. Michael held on to Lia’s hand the way he’d done at age three. Pam must have picked up her brother’s anxiety because it wasn’t until Megan brought out the toy chest and the promise of ice cream that Pam slid from her mother’s lap.

“I’ll be back by one, and we’ll go for a swim.” Lia kissed them both and left while Megan served bowls of vanilla to the tribe of four expat kids. “Thanks,” Lia mouthed, slipping out the door.

“What took so long?” Nick asked as Lia climbed into the Jeep.

“Our kids needed a little extra reassurance. And some ice cream.” She kissed his cheek.

They drove to Wattay Airport—really only an airstrip with a tower. Murphy met them, his preflight already done.

“I’m not sure about today,” Murphy said, pointing overhead. “Those buildups are coming in early.”

Nick glanced at the sky. “Well, let’s get going, then. We can beat those clouds if we take off right now.” He took Lia’s arm. “Ready?”

Lia was hearing Megan’s voice from yesterday. If Murphy says it’s a no-go, listen to him. He knows this weather. “Nick, are you sure. I mean—” The disappointment on her husband’s face stopped her, and without saying more, she climbed into the plane.

Murphy took off into the soggy air. They circled and gained altitude above the city, and then turned north, following the brown ribbon of water. The Mekong slithered its way from China, through Laos, and into Cambodia like a great snake. From above, it looked benign, but it was swift and ruthless, taking with it anything not strong enough to escape the current. It wasn’t unusual to spot a hapless cow on its way to the South China Sea.

Murphy yelled over his shoulder, something Lia couldn’t make out. But then he pointed ahead. The clouds that had towered over the land had grown much larger, and there were more of them.

Lia leaned close to Nick and shouted, “ I think we should wait.”

“No, honey. The weather’s just a little ahead of schedule today. We’ll be fine.” He kissed her cheek. “It’s a great day for your last jump. And thanks for doing this. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing we’re doing. Then we’re going home.”

Home. Lia wondered how it would be without geckos popping out of the toaster or shoes turning green because she’d forgotten to put them in the sun. No more frozen milk or flour that squirmed with life when she added water. She closed her eyes and thought about her parents. They’d be so relieved to have her stateside.

Murphy shouted from the front. “We’re at altitude, Nick, but the wind’s shifting. I don’t like it.”

Nick waved him off. “We’re going right now. Plenty of time.”

Lia looked at Murphy, but he refused to meet her gaze. He swung south in a wide arc.

Nick leaned out the door, then tumbled forward.

Lia took his place. The wind tore at her and pushed its way into her lungs. She felt suddenly full and light at the same time. The last jump. I’m going home, and Nick is going with me. For a while, she’d been afraid she was going to lose him. She couldn’t do that.

Her stomach tightened for a moment, then she felt the real force of the wind and the rush of her body free-falling into space. Spreading her arms, she reached out and faced the earth rising to meet her.

Below, Nick’s chute billowed out. She pulled her cord. The harness cinched around her as the white canopy snapped overhead and dangled her like a puppet in the air. Now her breath came easily. The hardest part was over. She knew how to land.

The plane circled above and then headed back to the field as the wind turned and began to gust sharply from the north. Meg could see Nick to her right. He signaled her to maneuver herself as far in his direction as possible. He shouted something, but his words were carried into the dark clouds that began to shadow them.

She struggled with the lines. Her muscles strained with each pull. She wiped her palms one at a time on her pant legs. It was taking all of Nick’s strength to change his position, and despite her best effort, the wind had its way with her chute. She was still headed south. She signaled him to go on without her. God, Nick, we don’t have to land exactly together. He shook his head and pointed down.

She was headed toward the Mekong, not the cleared space they’d planned. Now she understood why Nick wanted her to pull herself against the wind. She tried again, tugging against the lines, but it was no use. The river grew larger. It rushed under her boots, carrying bits and pieces of China to the sea.

Now, the only thing she could see was water. The current in the middle surged on its way south. At the edges, muddy water swirled and eddied as it backed up against debris along the banks.

She twisted around to find Nick just to her left. They would land together after all. She felt the sting of tears as the water rose to meet her. She fumbled with the buckle of the harness. She had to get it off—had to gather her chute in and not get tangled in the lines. Her only hope was to be free once she hit the water.

Nick was yelling at her.

She couldn’t understand him.

The water washed away his words as she plunged into the belly of the snake.

This was a fictionalized version of what happened that day. The real ending? Well, here it is: A search party found their bodies together. They’d been caught in a snag along the Mekong and drowned. A few weeks later, their grandparents came to take the two children stateside.

If you like my work, all my books are on Amazon.

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The Last Jump

Dear Readers,

The most common question people ask me when they find out I’m an author is, “Where do you get your ideas?” That’s why I decided to start my Weekly Dose of Fiction with a short introduction to let readers know where these stories come from. What I find is that I’m surprised by the sources. I never used to think about that before.

The Last Jump comes from a personal experience in Laos many years ago. The character, Megan, is me, and Lia is someone I knew—not her real name, of course. Most of it is fiction, but the main event is not. Let me know what you think about this one.

The Last Jump (Part 1)

Vietiane, Laos 1968

Lia parked her Nissan Jeep in the driveway and hurried to the door. Before she could knock, it opened, and Megan pulled her inside.

“For heaven's sake,” Megan said, “Are you nuts? Why are you out this time of day?”

My first Lao compound and Nissan Jeep with my Laotian friend, ນ້ອງ (Nong), and my youngest son.

Everyone, especially the Laotians, knew to do everything outside before ten, then find shade until rain came at three and momentarily cooled the air. Night was when people returned to the dusty streets this time of year. Lia must have a compelling reason to drive from her compound to here midday. Megan had a bad feeling already.

“So sorry to arrive at your door like this, but Nick’s got this burr in his jeans.”

Anytime her husband had one of his daredevil ideas and Lia couldn’t talk him out of it, she wound up here.

“Okay, lay it on me,” Megan said. It was easier to take this news while seated under the slowly rotating fan that cooled her sweat and gave some relief.

“He’s going to jump one last time before we leave. He wants me to do it with him.” Lia knotted her hands together and stared at them. “Say goodbye to Laos together.” She stopped Megan from interrupting. “I know what you’re going to say, but I’ve told him no three times.”

Megan stifled a groan. These people were parents of two small children. They’d already moved into a country in the middle of a war, even if no one admitted it. Wasn’t that enough? She had no room to talk. She’d done the same—her two were napping, so she kept her objections to herself.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Lia reached out and took Megan’s hand. “I need to do this. For the marriage. But I can’t unless…well, I don’t trust anyone but you with my kids.”

Lia had confided a lot about her and Nick’s problems—the strain two children so close together had caused. When they’d been born, Lia had become more cautious. She’d stopped parachuting, Nick’s passion, and one he loved sharing with his wife.

“When?” Megan asked.

“Tomorrow. Early before the buildups*. It’s safest then.”

“Who’s taking you up?” There were a lot of pilots here, and Megan hoped her husband wasn’t the one who’d volunteered.

“Murphy. He’s not on the flight schedule tomorrow, so he’s free.”

“And he thinks it’s okay for you both to go?” Murphy was one of the seasoned Air America pilots. He’d survived here for two years, so Megan respected his judgment.

Lia nodded.

“I’ll take care of the kids, but if Murphy says it’s a no-go, listen to him. He knows this weather.”

They hugged, and as Lia walked to her jeep, Megan felt a chill—something she hadn’t felt since stepping off the plane in Vietiane a year ago.

*In this part of the world, those clouds (buildups) begin forming late morning. At three o’clock, as if set on a cosmic timer, they open up, and water cascades from the sky. That lasts about half an hour and then stops, and steam rises into the air to start the cycle again. These buildups can be dangerous for planes and parachutists because of the wind shears they create.

If you like my work, you can find my books on AMAZON.

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Twice On Saturdays

Dear Readers,

When I was trying to come up with a story for this Weekly Dose of Fiction, I was combing through a folder I call Fits and Starts. I found four lines that I’d written over ten years ago. They’ve been patiently awaiting a story for a long time, so I felt it was time to finish what I’d started and forgotten. Also, this is for Gabi and Liz. Enjoy your play together!

NOTE: The #IWSG question this month is interesting. I had to think a bit before answering.

Twice On Saturday

That Saturday, Clark strangled Riva better than any time before. Everybody said so, except Riva, who always found fault with him.

"Look at these bruises! What were you trying to do, kill me?”

He was. Every night and twice on Saturdays. Wasn't that the point?

Thank you Pixabay

He sat and faced the mirror, slathering on cold cream. Having something to do with his hands kept him from actually murdering his wife--had done for the last fifteen years.

While she stomped around their dressing room, with a steady stream of complaint, he swiped the Othello-tinted makeup from his face and removed the wig of dark curls. With a sigh, he carefully combed long strands of hair from left to right so they lay in thin lines across the top of his head. At one time, he didn’t need a wig for this role and had a standing appointment with a stylist to keep his thick black mop controlled.

Those were the days when fans thronged the stage door for his autograph. He glanced at the picture on his makeup table. 1980.

“Clark, did you hear me?”

How could he not? Riva had a bullhorn of a voice—one of her cultivated talents for the stage that she forgot to turn off when she wasn’t framed by the proscenium arch.

“Yes, Riva.”

She stepped from behind the folding screen, her gold-threaded kraftan floating around her as if caught in a Mesopotamian breeze.

Once, that long, gliding stride of hers was an enchantment.

He stood and pulled on his pants, a fresh turtleneck, and a jacket. They would have an early dinner, then go back to the apartment. Long gone were the post-performance gatherings with other noted actors and producers. And after two Othellos, he welcomed an early night. Also, he’d made a rather important decision, and a good sleep would help him put the final details into place.

He’d launched the first stage in this plan two years ago when he purchased the million-dollar life insurance policy. That was when audiences were giving Riva standing ovations for her role as Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolfe? How could she not be great? Albee wrote that play for her. He, Clark Manville, on the other hand, had actually acted, but the audience overlooked that fact.

The second part of his plan had been a bit more challenging, but he’d finally found the two items he needed. There was something to be said for the modern age of Google.

That next Saturday, his first performance had been uninspired. Riva’s pedestrian. He was preoccupied. She was irascible—a new stage hand had called her Mrs. Manville.

This second performance was going quite well, and now it was time for the big scene.

“And for God's sakes, don’t upstage me on that scene again. Seriously, Clark.” She shook her head at him, her chin tilted in contempt, before sweeping out the dressing room door to take her place on the set.

It was almost time. The curtain was going up. Act V, Scene ii. He adjusted the wig and checked his makeup. Then he slid the hypodermic needle inside his sash.

So that was fun, and now on to this month’s #IWSG Question

JOIN US TODAY!

The awesome co-hosts for the July 2 posting of the IWSG are Rebecca Douglass, Natalie Aguirre, Cathrina Constantine, and Louise Barbour!

Remember, the question is optional!

Is there a genre you haven't tried writing in yet that you really want to try? If so, do you plan on trying it?

Answer to Question #1…Yes. To Question #2…No. I’d love to be able to write a mystery, but I do not have the skills for doing that, and I’m too lazy to acquire them. Instead, I voraciously gobble them up as my reading relaxation, usually when I’m in the middle of a non-fiction book or something literary that requires thinking. A good mystery is like a mini cruise for me. I love them.

If you enjoy my fiction, all of my books are on Amazon

Five friends plan their futures. One obsessed loner plots escape. The collision between them will be fatal.

AMAZON

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Garden Lessons

Dear Readers,

Thanks for joining me here again for another Dose of Fiction.

Knowing change is inevitable doesn’t make it easy to adjust to. I still feel the clutch of anxiety when a long-time friend moves far away, or when my favorite store goes out of business, or when I find a new cobweb of wrinkles at the corners of my eyes.

However, I have a very patient teacher, and I rely on that teacher to help me with the constant adjustments I must make.

My garden.

It’s something that is never the same, day to day, month to month, or year to year.

This Weekly Dose of Fiction came from my morning of trimming and cultivating and thinking about how the last time I did the same chores, everything I was tending to was very different. Was that just last week? Perhaps.

Garden Lessons

The weather cranked up the heat before I could harvest the cilantro crop that I so looked forward to. It bolted to seed, desperate to propagate before shriveling under the sudden spike in temperature.

As I contemplate this sad droop of peppery greens, I remember other more reasonable years when the air warmed gently and steadily, when winter was clearly defined as was spring, and that long, lovely summer. Rain came in late October as if set on a timer, and if snow didn’t fall for Christmas, it was the world’s end, for sure.

Or did I imagine all of that predictability?

I move along with my tool bag in hand to the green beans that have spiraled their way up the poles, blossomed, and now promise that I will soon have one of my favorite vegetables all season. I will, that is, if the gopher I now see tunneling along the rock-lined edge doesn’t gobble their roots. The wind sighs past, and my sigh harmonizes with it.

Those deep exhales became more frequent after the accident, after my well-planned life was swept away, leaving me without a single signpost:

This Way.

Enter.

The dark days, I call them. There were no seasons. No garden. And the darkness lasted for over a year until one day, daffodils and tulips I’d planted and forgotten poked hopeful shoots from the dirt, then opened into a rainbow of color.

Come out.

See what we’ve changed into--bulbs no more. Flowers now.

This way.

Enter.

Five friends plan futures. One obsessed loner plots escape. The collision between them could be fatal.

Amazon

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Fugue on Aisle 9

Dear Reader,

It’s Wednesday again, and I so appreciate your taking the time to stop by for a weekly dose of fiction. This is another that I just wrote, and you’re the first to read it. Here’s what caused it to come to the page.

After my husband died, I thought loneliness would be the biggest challenge I’d experience. But I soon discovered living alone had many more surprises in store.

Cooking for one quickly rose to the top of the list of those challenges. Buying for one, a corollary.

At first, I kept the routine I’d had throughout our marriage—weekly supermarket visits, occasional COSTCO safaris. Since I worked at the university for most of my adult life, I planned meals on the semester schedule, freezing containers of spaghetti gravy and chili, and at least three lasagnas by the end of summer—all intended for future meals that I could have on those nights I dragged home after a day and didn’t want to cook.

You’re already ahead of me by now. How in the world could one person need all of that? Well, I didn’t, but it took one year before the shock of singlehood dissipated, before grief loosened its grip, and common sense emerged.

It was remembering that year that prompted this dose of fiction.

Fugue On Aisle Nine

Kat made the grocery list before pulling out of the university parking lot. Getting through the store was always so much smoother if she knew exactly what she’d need to assemble dinner. And she was tired. Midterms did that to her as well as her students.

The route between campus and her favorite market took exactly twelve minutes and thirty seconds to navigate. The car must have gone there on its own, because on the way she worked to solve the problems of the day, the week, the year—well, at least the one that nagged for her attention at the moment.

Jude had been gone four weeks now, and she still hadn’t decided how to celebrate his life. He’d asked for a party with friends and family. Something with good food and music—jazz, his favorite. She had some ideas, but she hadn’t done anything to put them into action.

At the store, she made her usual perimeter sweep for fresh vegetables, fruit, then on to dairy and meat. Chicken… maybe a couple. That would save her a trip back next week when she’d be grading papers. But she still had over half of that lasagna to eat, so maybe not two chickens, even though she was sick of lasagna.

That had been one of Jude’s favorite dinners—her lasagna. An 8 x 8 baking dish lasted exactly one meal and two of his mid-day weekend snacks. He’d forgive her if she didn’t serve that at his party and let a caterer take over the “good food department” this one time.

“Are you being helped?” The butcher’s voice brought her attention back from thinking about that future event, the one that would put a declarative period to a lifetime.

“Uh, yes. Chicken. One. Can you quarter it, please?” That way, she could freeze most of it. Good idea. The freezing.

She lifted the neatly wrapped bundle from the counter, glad that she’d finished the list. Making her way down a center aisle to the checkout, she stopped to admire the neatly organized rows of cans. All the label images in line. The Split Pea. The Minestrone. Jude loved her homemade minestrone. Another of his favorite meals, especially in the cold months.

Thank you, Pixabay, for the Image

She should buy a few cans of soup. No cooking. No freezing. Easy cleanup. She wouldn’t have to be in the kitchen long at all. Instead, she could spend the time in the evening…in the evening…

Blinking through a sudden mist, she stared down at the two cans, one clutched in each hand. She didn’t remember picking those up. Then the cart. It was filled with far too many items. She wouldn’t be able to eat half of it. She glanced up at the sign overhead, Aisle 9 Soup. How had she wound up here?

AMAZON

Another 5 Star Review: “Inspired by real events, it’s a story of resilience, courage and determination. The story talks about finding internal courage in the face of adversity. I recommend this book to all readers.”

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Alone

Dear Readers,

Today’s Weekly Dose of Fiction required a preamble. Or maybe I just wanted to write one for myself. Also, I have a bit of business: I only send one message each Wednesday. If you receive any other messages about my Substack, those do not come from me.

Thank you for the image: Pheladiii

Preamble

On October 17, 1989, I’d just parked downtown when my car started to jump sideways. My first instinct was to put on the brakes. Nonsense, of course, but I could think of no other way to stop my Honda leaping away from the curb into oncoming traffic.

I remember the silence when my car settled onto the pavement again. It was as if, after shaking itself off its axis, Earth was holding its breath. The air didn’t stir. Stunned drivers sat gripping the wheels of their stalled cars. Pedestrians froze, leaning against storefronts.

I knew no one I was surrounded by in that moment. No one I could share the fear or the relief with.

A cat, full-furred in terror, broke the collective trance when it flew over car hoods. People slowly steered cars out of their helter-skelter positions and began a sedate exit. Pedestrians picked up dropped bags and walked on. Home was on everyone’s mind. But getting there would be different that day—longer and more shocking upon arrival.

That 6.9 earthquake is still in my head, so when I sat at my computer to come up with a short piece of fiction for today, this is what appeared on my screen.

Alone

When the earth stopped shaking, Pia didn’t. She clung to the door jamb--the only way she could keep her legs from buckling. Her ears rang with silence until sirens and shrieks for help cut through.

Slowly, she peeled her fingers free and stared at the kitchen. It was hard to recognize—the refrigerator face planted on the floor, the cupboards gaping, and shards of dishes and glassware scattered across the tiles.

Her door, flying open and banging against the wall, brought her around to face a burly man in a high-visibility yellow slicker and black helmet. He reached where she stood and took her by the arm.

“Are you hurt, Miss?”

She shook her head. She didn’t think so.

“Come with me.” His voice didn’t allow for anything but compliance, so she did, but her first step was unsuccessful, and she stumbled. His arms were around her before she dropped to the floor.

When she opened her eyes, she was outside her apartment house, seated alongside 4B and 2C. She didn’t know these people’s names, only their apartment numbers. That suddenly didn’t seem right. And who was the man in the high-visibility slicker with strong arms? A stranger she’d never be able to thank.

She stared at a parade of stretchers, some with people calling out in pain, some with still forms covered by sheets. Since moving to California five years ago, she’d lived within a few feet of them, but knew nothing about their lives. Now they were injured or dead.

The gentle feel of a blanket being draped around her shoulders. A hot coffee she held but forgot to sip. The fire that lashed from the apartment windows into the sky, with her life’s possessions turning to billows of black smoke.

The tears that traced down her cheeks had nothing to do with the burned laptop or the new duvet or even her mother’s pearls. They were about something else--being

Alone.

One of these days, I’ll write a longer piece that features an earthquake. They do so much more than shake the ground underfoot. Like all things that frighten or threaten, they bring your life into sharper focus.

AMAZON

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Heartless

Dear Readers,

Well, this is the end of Heartless. I’d love your feedback. I write in different genres, and so I’m not always going to provide a steady dose of one kind of story. While A Weekly Dose of Fiction will have a variety, there is one thing that will be constant—whatever appears here will be something I write. I sometimes download some images from Pixabay, so thank you, Pixabay.

Today is also The Insecure Writers’ Support Group First Wednesday post, so shall we move on?

Heartless, Part 7 (the end)

The Kent House

Giselle was still unconscious when Mrs. Kent returned and carefully laid out her knife. Peeling back the bodice of Giselle’s dress and slicing open her corset, she laid thick towels along her sides and set a bucket at the head of the table to hold the organs.

Removing a clean apron from the chest, she covered her own dress and smoothed back her hair, shivering with anticipation. Soon she’d see a heart in its pulsing last seconds. Symbolic, yes. But soothing to her own heart that still ached two years after his betrayal. She closed her eyes, remembering her husband’s parting words. I can’t love you when another has stolen my heart.

The image of the young girl waiting for him in his carriage remained seared in her mind. Mrs. Kent pressed her hand to her chest. The miserable memory of that day. Her heart battering to escape the confines of her bosom. So much pain. So much humiliation. His handsome face turned away from her entreaties.

“Beast,” she murmured.

She grasped the knife. Opening the skin was not her favorite part of the preparation, but it was necessary. All she needed was the exterior to submerge in the wax. A beautiful sculpture.

Placing the knife just below the sternum, she made a small cut. She wanted to be sure Giselle was still in a deep sleep. The girl moaned, but then became quiet.

Mrs. Kent took a steadying breath and positioned the knife at the cut.

The loud pounding at her front door stopped her hand.

“Not now,” she hissed and slammed the knife onto the table.

The pounding persisted. It must be the police, and she couldn’t risk making them suspicious. She tore off her apron and, locking the door, prepared to give them her story. As she reached the first floor, the strong scent of smoke caught in her throat.

When she opened the door, two men pushed their way inside.

The taller of the two spoke urgently. “Mrs. Elizabeth Kent?”

“Yes.” Her voice matched his in intensity.

“I’m Detective Scofield. There’s a fire. You must leave here at once.” He squinted, peering into the dim and smoky room. “Is Miss Glenford with you?”

“No.” Then, alarmed, she said, “Fire? Where?”

The shorter man coughed and covered his nose with a handkerchief. “Just about everywhere, from the looks of it.”

“Is anyone else in the house?” Detective Scofield scanned the room, noting the tea and untouched biscuits.

She looked up at the second floor. “Oh no!” She ran up the steps. They’d be destroyed. All her work. Her girls gone in flames. That couldn’t happen.

“Mrs. Kent!” Detective Scofield vaulted after her. “Stop! We must leave at once.”

Without a backward glance, she shoved open the door to the green bedroom. Alexandra. She’d save her. But what of the others? She held her arm across her face, choking on each breath.

“Oh my God.” The deep voice of Detective Scofield came from behind her.

Mrs. Kent held the wax figure in her arms. “I must save her. Please help me.”

Detective Scofield bolted from the room and shouted down to where his sergeant paced, coughing. “Hawkins! Search this place. Now.” He turned on Mrs. Kent, who stood gripping the figure. “Where is Giselle Glenford?”

Her lips quivered, but she didn’t answer.

“Tell me at once or I’ll throw that,” he pointed to the wax figure, “into the fire this moment.”

Mrs. Kent bit back tears. “The workroom. Basement.” she said in barely a whisper.

The detective ran from the room and bounded down the stairs. Acrid smoke rose to the ceiling, and an orange glow filtered through the shuttered windows. Then the roar of consuming flames became unmistakable. The firestorm was on them.

He gasped for air, but holding his cloak to his face, he found the stairs down. He pushed on the door. It didn’t open. He turned at the sound of footsteps. “Hawkins. Thank God. Give me a shoulder here.”

Together they hurled themselves at the door. It didn’t give way. Again, they rammed it. This time, the jamb cracked a bit. On the third try, it splintered, and they stumbled into the basement room, the dark stench billowing from inside.

Detective Scofield regained his balance and hurried to place his fingers on Giselle’s throat.

“Is she alive?” Hawkins gasped.

“Yes. Help me free her.”

Fumbling with the knots, they untied Giselle’s wrists and ankles, releasing her from the table. Detective Scott wrapped her in his cloak and lifted her from the table.

“Sir, you must see this.” Hawkins had opened the door of the large ice storage cabinet.

On the floor lay the body of a young girl. Above her on a shelf were four human hearts, frozen.

Detective Scofield blanched, then, coughing to clear the smoke from his lungs, said, “There’s nothing we can do for her. Come.”

By the time they reached the first floor, the house was in flames. Hawkins yanked open the front door at the same moment the ceiling collapsed onto the floor behind them. In the rubble lay Mrs. Kent. In her arms, she held the melting body of a young girl dressed in a green silk gown.

The End

So that’s a wrap on this story. Next Wednesday I’ll have something new—really new, since I’m still editing it. And now for #IWSG’s First Wednesday.

Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time - and return comments. This group is all about connecting! Be sure to link to this page and display the badge in your post. And please be sure your avatar links back to your blog! Otherwise, when you leave a comment, people can't find you to comment back.

JOIN US AND TOGETHER…Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!

Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.

The awesome co-hosts for the June 4 posting of the IWSG are PJ Colando, Pat Garcia, Kim Lajevardi, Melisa Maygrove, and Jean Davis!

Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.

Remember, the question is optional!

June 4 question - What were some books that impacted you as a child or young adult?

I’m skipping this month’s question since I’ve answered this one several times. However, I’m adding it to my Notes, so others on Substack can participate if they want to.

5.0 out of 5 stars Wonderful

This is a story that‘s too often in the headlines, and I was worried that it would be hard to read. But it wasn't. I loved the characters and the way the story unfolded. It was heart-wrenching and heart-warming all at the same time. No wonder it is an editor's pick.

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Heartless

Dear Readers,

We’re coming to the end of this Victorian piece. If you’re interested in reading the previous parts, here are the links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 and Part 5.

I like writing about this time period because it’s interesting to explore the social restrictions on men and women.

Men should wear well-fitting but never tight clothing and never ride in a closed carriage with a lady not his wife unless accompanied by a chaperone.

Women shouldn’t read novels, heaven forbid they write any. They should keep their hands “properly placed.” Folded in their laps? And they should avoid loud laughter.

There’s so much more that if I didn’t want to stand out, I’d have to carry a do-not-do list with me while I time-traveled.

The other reason I like to write about this era is that I’m fascinated with the development of fire departments, and during these years, they’d transitioned from hand pumpers to steam engines. This was a huge leap forward in firefighting, but that engine was fraught with its own dangers. I hint at that in Part 6.

And now for…almost the end.

Heartless, Part 6

October 8, 1871

The Kent House

This was not as she’d planned it. She still hadn’t finished Alexandra, and now Giselle was waiting.

She hurried to fasten Giselle’s wrists and ankles to the table, careful not to cause her more pain. She never liked the girls to suffer. The tea and biscuits always put them to sleep, so when she began her work, they felt nothing. She checked for damage to Giselle’s head, but she’d aimed where to bring the pipe down. There was only the slightest bit of blood.

Again, she’d have to work faster than she liked.

“I’m going to finish the remodeling for you, Alexandra, then I’ll put on your gown and see that you are comfortable in the green bedroom,” Mrs. Kent whispered. If only her girls could listen and respond. She missed their voices. Longed to hear their laughter.

Kneeling before the figure, she gently ran the heated rod along Alexandra’s side until the wax smoothed over the ribcage. She examined the repairs she’d made to the girl’s back and nodded. “Well, done.”

When the church bell tolled, she halted, surprised that it was already eight. By now, Mrs. Glenford-Leigh had alerted the authorities.

She must be ready to meet the police at the door with shock and dismay when they told her Giselle was missing.

She had her story memorized.

The last I saw of Miss Glenford was at the Palmer Hotel when Mr. Grayson insisted that he take her home at her mother’s request. Of course, I was horrified, but he had been a guest at the dinner party, and Miss Glenford seemed so very pleased to accompany him. Also, he had engaged an open carriage, so he was most proper. What could I do?

All of that sounded very convincing.

On the table, Giselle moaned and tried to lift her hand. “Mrs. Kent,” she cried. “Help me.”

Mrs. Kent sprinkled chloroform on a cloth and held it to Giselle’s nose. “Sleep, dear. I’ll be back very quickly.”

Alexandra weighed slightly less than she had before evisceration, but still, carrying her upstairs required energy and took time. If she’d been sculpted from clay and then waxed as in Madame Tussaud’s, carrying her or any of the others would have been impossible.

Perspiration moistened Mrs. Kent’s forehead as she settled Alexandra onto the settee.

She stepped back, her hands clasped at her bosom. “Lovely.”

On her way back, she looked into the rose room where Daphne waited. At the next door, she gazed fondly at Catherine. “Lavender suits you so. I knew you’d be perfect here.”

She hurried down to her workroom. And now Giselle.

#

Police Headquarters

A lame horse delayed the detective and Hawkins. By the time they’d hitched another to the carriage, Detective Scofield’s temper had flared twice. Finally, they raced away from headquarters, careened onto the main street, and, urging the horse to a fast trot, made straight to the Kent house. Gaslights flickered along their route. Feral cats scurried down alleys.

They’d come to a cross street when Hawkins reined the horse to a halt.

“What in—” The detective turned on the sergeant. This was not the time to stop.

Hawkins said nothing, but pointed at the horizon. Ahead, an eerie glow brightened the night sky, and black smoke billowed upward. The air was suddenly filled with ash and the heat of unbridled fire. From behind them came the loud clatter of hooves and the clang of bells. Hawkins drove the carriage to the side as two steam engines, belching smoke and scattering hot embers, roared past.

“Good, God!” Detective Scofield shouted. “Chicago’s burning.”

“It’s coming our direction, sir.” Hawkins swiped his hand across his forehead.

“Get to the Kent house. Now!”

Hawkins flicked the reins over the horse’s neck, and they raced toward the flames.

Uh, oh. Not only is the clock ticking for poor Giselle at the hands of the deranged Mrs. Kent, but the detectives are heading straight into one of the most catastrophic fires of the ninetheenth century. What kind of crazed writer comes up with stuff like this? Well, a lot of us. I like a story that makes me edgy. I hope this one does that for you.

I also like to put my characters into life-changing situations that must overcome. I think this is my way of challenging myself to meet and deal with major problems. If my characters can do it, then so can I—well, sometimes.

AMAZON

*****Reviewer: “At first, I believed that this would simply be another surface level high school drama akin to Mean Girls, but I was pleasantly surprised to see how wrong I was.”

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Heartless

Dear Readers,

I’m heading into the final stretch of this story. Here’s a summary for those who might like the Cliff Notes before reading Part 5. It’s Chicago, 1871 and…

Young girls are missing( Part 1)

Another young girl might become the next victim (Part 2)

A young man with a bad rep makes advances There’s a planned outing with the girl, her mother, and a new friend, Mrs. Kent. In the meantime, the police have their first clue. (Part 3)

Mrs. Glenford has been duped, but by whom? And the police are off to find Mrs. Kent since she took each of them to the same dressmaker. Now, that seems odd. (Part 4)

And now…

Heartless, Part 5

October 8, 1871

The Glenford-Leigh Estate

Mrs. Glenford took another sip of sherry, then paced in front of the mantle clock. “Unacceptable. Already after six.” At the same moment, the doorbell chimed, and she hurried into the foyer to greet her daughter. She would certainly scold both Giselle and Mrs. Kent for not returning at a reasonable time.

When Miller opened the door, a messenger stood there instead, holding a small envelope in his outstretched hand.

Across the front, her name was written in the precise characters she recognized as her solicitor’s. She quickly unsealed it. My dear Mrs. Grayson, I am perplexed by your message. I have not requested any meeting with you. I hope all is well. Yours, Hector Bromley, Esq.

He’d never sent that message. She steadied herself with one hand against the wall. All of her instincts alerted her that something was very wrong. Two women alone in the city after dark. She reached for her handkerchief and patted her forehead, then grasped the framed portrait of Giselle on a side table.

“Miller! Fetch a constable at once. Inform him that my daughter is missing. ” She thrust the picture at him. “Take this with you, and hurry.”

Once Miller left, Mrs. Glenford found no relief except by pacing. Her only child was her greatest treasure. She’d never be upset with her again, no matter how tardy the girl was. Never. And she’d give serious consideration to Mr. Grayson’s courtship. It was time for Giselle to have more protection than only a mother could give. Oh, Mr. Glenford-Leigh, what I wouldn’t give to have you at my side this very moment.

#

The Kent House

Scofield sat next to Hawkins inside the police carriage as it dipped and rocked through the streets. The detective’s mind churned with possibilities. Was it possible they’d find the link to the missing girls at this society house? He prayed that this connection between the girls, the dressmaker, and Mrs. Kent wasn’t a distraction that would lead him away from solving this mystery. If so, would it make him too late to save even the last abducted girl?

At Mrs. Kent’s house, the detective rapped the heavy iron knocker against the door, then listened. Nothing stirred inside.

Hawkins made his way around the front, peering in the first-floor windows. He returned to the porch. “All shuttered, sir.”

“We’ll come back later, then.” Detective Scofield came down the steps, and the men returned to their carriage. “I want one of our constables to watch the house. Put someone on duty here as soon as we return to the precinct.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was almost seven by the time they arrived back at headquarters, and the desk sergeant stopped the detective on his way in. “A Mr. Miller’s in your office, sir. He says it’s urgent.”

The detective pushed open his office door, and Miller hurriedly relayed Mrs. Glenford-Leigh’s concern.

Miller fingered his hat brim as he said, “The ladies were to lunch at the Palmer House after visiting a seamstress. Madam is distressed that something has happened to them.”

Ordinarily, Detective Scofield would have turned this matter over to Hawkins to take the report, but the name Mrs. Kent and the word seamstress stopped him.

“Did you bring a picture of the missing girl?” he asked.

Miller held out the framed image of Giselle.

Young society girl. Gowns. Slightly different in design, but there were too many similarities to ignore.

He wrenched open his door. “Hawkins!” The detective raised his voice, silencing the office noise. “Come with me.” He was already outside by the time Hawkins caught up with him. “

And there you have it. Part 6 next Wednesday.

Shattered was my attempt at writing about a crippling injury. I was terrified I wouldn’t get the medical and psychological aspects right, so I found two wonderful experts in paraplegia. They made the book accurate. Here’s one review:

5.0 out of 5 stars A realistic look at paraplegia..........

Reviewed in the United States on February 18, 2022

Verified Purchase

The story was very compelling! I thought Ms.McKenzie was right on describing what Libby was thinking and feeling. As a RN working in a hospital, I was often sent to the neuro floor where I took care of several paraplegics. Ms Mckenzie's description of Libby brought back many memories of what the patients expressed to me both in anger and tears.
I found Harley a delight and of course, a friend we would all like to have. She certainly brought some humor and fun to Libby.
All in all, a great read .......a triumph for Libby!

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.