The Driftwood Mermaid - part 2

   In the water, maybe ten feet away, was a piece of colored driftwood, waving a single branch at Tommy. Maybe a piece of wreckage from a painted sailboat, that washed ashore from so very far away. Somewhere mixed in with the salty ocean spray on his face, there were tears now. Soon, however, he wiped them aside with his hand, and returned to the soul-killing, fake-toughness that got him through his strange life.
   At home, Tommy’s mom was snoring loudly. Their little beach-house property had two rooms and a small kitchen, and a fenced-in lot about fifty feet square. He got himself ready for bed, and in the morning everything was the same, except his mother had stopped snoring. He made his own breakfast (peanut butter and jelly), and packed his own lunch (same). He remembered to lock the door so as not to get yelled at, and off he went, still feeling low about the “driftwood mermaid”.
   Tommy daydreamed his way through school, then went down to the beach. Maybe he’d tell mom about the mermaid, maybe not. She wouldn’t mock him, he knew that. No matter how drunk she got, she never made fun of him, and yelled at him only out of frustration, or in abortive attempts to be a nurturing and protective mother. Deep within, her intent was pure, and Tommy knew that. He knew she wasn’t mean, only in great pain. He remembered how they had once laughed, and played weird games with strange made-up names and rules. She had taught him about the world, his father, herself, and what he could expect. There was no way out for mom, and they both knew it. She still tried occasionally to make him laugh... on her way out. On her way down.
   He didn’t see his mom at her usual spot, so he sat down to wait for her. He stayed there until the sun sank behind him and the evening tide washed in. He wondered if there would be surf-lights tonight. “Or fake mermaids”, he added, with a sneer.
   Tommy’s mother had died the previous night of either a stroke or a heart attack. The coroner would tend toward the former, then spend quite some time finding out which it indeed was. Tommy found her when he went home. It was “lucky” he went to check on her, or she’d have laid there even longer, but he could see something was wrong. The blanket was on the floor, and she was all weird and twisted. There was no snoring, and when he got closer, no breathing either. And her eyes were wide open.
   He put the blanket back on her, and went to the little kitchen. He made himself another sandwich, put his little jacket on, then he went out, remembering to lock the door. Tommy headed for the beach, eating his sandwich as he walked. He went to the spot his mother had frequented, and sat down to watch the crashing waves. The tide was going out now, but it was still high. In the waves, he saw the surf-lights twinkling. He watched them for a very long time. In fact, he fell asleep right in that spot, and slept there until dawn.
   Sometime during the night, Tommy had a dream about a mermaid, who looked at him kindly as she was pulled out to sea by the receding tide. She never spoke, she just looked at him until she disappeared.
   But she never turned into driftwood either.

The End
copyright 1997-2004
Penrose (W.S.Rose)

Sheila and the Wolf - part 2

    Sheila woke that morning with a sense that something had changed. She had heard nothing from Tim, although the phone was working again. The radio was of course still dead, and there was no TV. There hadn’t been for two years, since William left. She hated TV, but she wished for it now. Not for herself... it was Tim she was nervous about. Although there were plenty of logical explanations, her heart told her that Tim should have made it back. And she somehow felt guilty, without knowing why. Sheila went out and braved the cold. The animals needed tending, and she was too upset to sit around any longer. It was still very cold, but the wind had lessened.

Epilogue:

    The heart is like a pond, it’s surface covered with fallen leaves. Push them aside, and there’s a world underneath. Yet most of us take the leaves for reality, and look no further.
    At nine PM, the county Sheriff called. They had found Tim about six-thirty, and had brought his body back to what passed for a town. Sheila sat in the wood-backed chair near the wooden table beside the wood-burning stove for the next two hours. She had not cried. She saw the clear-edged moon rise over the barn, and just before midnight she heard the sad howls of the pack returning.
    Without thought, Sheila went to the living room, and took Tim’s rifle from it’s wall mount. She walked across the room to his desk, and found the box of shells. Dry eyed, without fear or feeling, she unlocked and opened the door, and stepped into the cold, crisp moonlight. There, on the East hill, the pack stood in a group. They had stopped howling, as if on command. One dark, shadowy figure broke ranks and moved forward in the snow, down the hill toward her. The others remained behind.
    As the Grey Wolf approached, Sheila stood tall and silent, her rifle still low at her side. The wolf strode to within ten yards of her, then stopped. He stared deeply and intensely into Sheila’s eyes. For a long moment they stood thusly, some secret communication passing between them. Then, as if on cue, as if the bright moon was directing the drama, the wolf growled low and menacing, then leapt forward, fangs bared, his eyes wild. And Sheila raised Tim’s rifle and fired quickly, knowing she would not miss at this range. The wolf howled in pain and fell into the snow, not ten feet from her. He moved convulsively, still alive.
    Sheila walked over to him, and they looked at each other. The wolf stopped moving, and just looked into Sheila’s eyes. His expression was impossible to read, as was hers. Sheila raised the rifle and shot the wolf in the head. Then she turned and went back to the house.

    The rifle returned to it’s mounting, Sheila made some coffee, and brought it to the chair by the window. She opened the curtain, so as to watch the moon sink toward the western sky. She sipped her coffee, and then she began to cry... a little at first, then in heart-wrenching sobs. She cried for a long time, then sat up for an hour or so. Finally, Sheila took her cup to the kitchen, and herself to bed. She did not dream that night, nor for quite a while thereafter. She slept long and deeply, and in the morning, Sheila awoke to a clear and warmer day.


The End
copyright 1997-2004
Penrose (W.S.Rose)

Sheila and the Wolf - part 1

      It was snow... crested to the rafters again, and Sheila wanted no part of it. Her eyes darted angrily up at the bitter Montana sky. Small and fragile as they were, they shone in utter defiance of the pitiless and frozen heavens. The stars, impossibly beautiful, winked down at her mockingly, as she kicked the back of the old, stuck Ford pickup truck.
    “No way out,” she said to herself. The screen door banged itself shut in the bitter wind, but nary a cat nor a mouse nor anything else stirred. The cows were locked in the barn, as were the horses. No news came now, from anywhere, since the car battery, which powered the car radio, which was the only working radio at present, had died. The phone line was out as well, so she would hear no word from her husband Tim either.
    Tim was a trucker, interstate of course, and there was no tellin’ how he was farin’ in all this. Then again, truckers usually made out OK, if they had any sense at all. Still, that was small comfort, since Sheila was essentially cut off from any possible aid, should she need it.
    Back in the house, an ample supply of wood for the old stove was indeed comforting, for it was bad-assed weather to be choppin’ any. She kept the fire roaring, and sat down at the little wooden kitchen table, near the only window. Her eyes still flashed in anger at the limitless, limiting sky. She placed a quilt over her legs, and opened a book of photos, a scrapbook.
    There, before her dark eyes, was all the history she would ever need. Her first child, William, now halfway through Harvard, and hardly ever came back. And Sandy, Sandra Dee Cummings, much like her mother, a farm wife, but several hundred miles away, across the Rockies. With no phone working, and in this wild weather, there would be no word from her, either.
    There they were, baby pictures right on through school and marriage. Two cute kids grown big and independent. And Tim, well... his independence was a given. Don’t let any man fool you, she thought; driving a truck is for those who can’t settle down.
    This would have made Sheila a farm wife without a farmer, except it wasn’t really a farm. They didn’t grow anything, just kept a few head of livestock, and tried occasionally to grow wheat or corn to feed them, but there was never anyone around to harvest it, so the crop usually died, if it got planted at all.
    The wind was really howling now, and Sheila pulled back the thick curtains to peer out. Snow whipped up in banshee spirals, and everything that could move was in motion. Her eyes showed something other than defiance now, there was a hint of fear. She stared out for a long time, and occasionally it seemed like there was another howling, hidden within the wind.
    “Hore-shit!” she said aloud, “No wolves around here, not a one!” But she peered further out into the snow-covered landscape, scanning the horizon for something she knew was impossible. After a while, she closed the curtain and got up to brew some coffee, muttering to herself. Only in a God-forsaken place like this would a 37 year old woman be seen talking to herself.
    The leader of the wolf-pack was a solid grey color, with eyes intense and beautiful, fixed intently on the light in the window of the farmhouse a mile or so below. There were eight others, almost in formation upon the Eastern ridge overlooking the valley below. They had quit howling now, and instead sat quietly in the cold, watching the farmhouse, waiting for a sign from the Old Grey One.
    He moved casually forward and down the mild slope coming off the ridge. He never took his eyes off the light in the window, and he paid no heed whatsoever to the rest of the pack, yet they followed him, none daring to step out ahead.
    Sheila went to the radio with her coffee, and tried it futily, knowing full well it would not work. It didn’t. She went back to the chair and tried to read something she was not that fond of. Now the wind seemed to be reaching some kind of climax, the highest of pitches. Things rattled and shook, things that needed and should have had repairs. Thank God the house itself was secure, she thought.
    There was another sound now, a scraping and scuffling, a snuffling too. Just outside it was, barely audible, yet somehow she knew... she knew exactly what it was. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she stood up to face the only door. It wasn’t a dog, or a bear... it couldn’t possibly be wolves, but it was... it really was. And Sheila felt very much alone, and very very frightened. Yet it never occurred to her to get Jim’s gun from off the wall.
    She fell asleep with the gas lantern near the bed, fearing the dire wolves more than the danger of fire. In the night, she dreamt of a dark, dark man, with burning coals for eyes. He glared at her without pity, and in the end, he came for her, and she submitted, knowing full well there was no escape.
    The morning was clear and cold, the stars flickered and died like tinsel in a fire. The wolves had gone, but there was a single set of large canine tracks leading away from the door to the ridge. One had stayed all night, she realized, and all the other tracks had been covered by the blowing snow. Her mind moved forward like gears in a clock. The man in her dream, and the wolf, were one and the same. He had come for her, and he was no ordinary wolf. Now the fear she still felt was mixed with excitement, with fascination, and other things. That night she watched the moon rise crystal clear over the barn, and even dared to step outside. There was no sign of them. For three more nights she kept watch, almost yearning for the chilling howls she knew would bring them back, bring him back. But they did not return.
    The night’s wall crumbled inward as the talcum sky raced forward into another day. The bright lovely blue sky rained little wispy white clouds sideways across the Nebraska landscape. Tim was headin’ home. The storm had blown over, and the roads were plowed off pretty good. He had spent two nights in a motel waiting for it to clear up, ‘cause it just didn’t pay to drive in such weather. Stretches of the Interstate had shut down anyway, so he had no choice. Now, however, he was anxious to get back and check on Sheila. She was stranded, he knew, because he had tried to call her, and the News as well as the CB both had described Montana as an ice box, clamped down and cut off.
    Tim knew Sheila had plenty of supplies at the “farm”, but that didn’t set him much at ease. A woman cut off alone in a blizzard is not a good thing, as far as he was concerned. And he had a good eight hours of driving ahead, even pushing the limit most of the way, which he would, if the roads were clear enough. So Tim barreled the big semi back toward the Montana line as the afternoon sun glared across the snow-drifted country. It was quite a wonderland, all right. And a deadly one to get caught out in, thought Tim. It was still only ten degrees, that much hadn’t changed. Bone-chillin’ Midwest fuckin’ weather. The wind had eased off for now, bringing the chill factor possibly above zero. Tim tried not to feel nervous about Sheila, but he did anyway. He eased the truck up to eighty, the fastest he dared go with patches of ice and packed snow still on the highway. He pushed it hard all afternoon, even slidin’ a little a couple of times. You start slidin’ in a semi, an empty one at that, he thought, and oftentimes you kept on slidin’, until you hit sumthin’.
    Tim hit Montana about four PM, and the sun was already setting. Late November it was, and the first big storm of the season. There was more snow here; it blew across the highway and forced him to slow to seventy, and even that was high. It was an eerie, snowbound wilderness, but Tim had seen it like this many times. If you didn’t want this kinda stuff, you didn’t have to live up here, he always said. Actually, everyone says that in Montana, and in five or six neighboring states as well. It could be rough on a family, though. He was glad Sandy was out of the storm’s path, and William... he was settin’ in some brew-pub with his cronies, sippin’ expensive ales. Tim was proud of William.
    “Better than this fuckin’ life,” he muttered. Still... he liked the freedom.
    Tim was less than an hour from home now, and he felt an excitement. Sort of like nervous, but different. He threw her into a lower gear as the semi crested a little hill and the road veered to the right. Over this hill he’d be able to see the flat country where he and Sheila lived, although he wouldn’t see the farm for another twenty minutes or so.
    Something darted out into the road from the right. It looked like a large grey dog. Tim swerved and hit the brake at the same time. He was a dog-lover. The semi slid in the dry snow that blanketed the highway, and he knew he’d lost it. It’s not hard to know if you’ve been drivin’ a while, which he had. Damage control was the name of the game at this point. He tried to straighten the rig out, to aim it somewhere soft, but it went straight off the embankment, jack-knifing and then rolling over on it’s side. The cab was crushed against the road, and so was Tim. His last image, before he blacked out, was of a large grey animal, running off across the snow. Tim never woke up. He died quickly, and without much pain... alone.

part 2 available now - return to postings list
copyright 1997-2004
Penrose (W.S.Rose)

The Driftwood Mermaid - part 1

    Tommy’s mother hated the sunrise... the soul-killing, eye-stabbing light of day. She turned over in her too-small bed and pulled the curtains shut. She had no patience with the light... she was an alcoholic.
    Every day she rose as late as possible and bought a quart of Gin, as soon as possible. Then she would drag her fat old middle-aged arse down to the beach, and would hide the bottle in her little beach-basket.
    Tommy went to school in the morning. He knew what his Mom did all day, and he made his own breakfast. Tommy is ten years old. He is in the fifth grade. Some of the other kids know about Tommy’s mom, and sometimes they kid him in cruel fashion. He doesn’t feel too hurt when this happens; sometimes when a pain is that big, you may feel nothing at all.
    Tommy’s mom dug her lounge-chair into the hot New Jersey sand, and settled her unlovely body into it. She has a cup that fits in her purse, and from this she always drank, and always Gin, or nearly always. By late afternoon she was soused beyond reason, her hair mussed by the ocean wind, eyes fearful to behold. In this state she would spend the hot afternoons, neither reading, nor ever nearing the cool water, nor heeding nor mindful of passing hot-dog humanity. Her world was aloof from the one surrounding her. In God-knows what sordid space, she dwelt within.
    Tommy wished to be an Engineer. Not a train driver, silly... a Mechanical Engineer. He studied hard, and anxiously waited for High School, when he could start applying at the fine American colleges. MIT... Rensselaer... Cal Tech... names he had read about in the library. He would need a scholarship, because there would be no money. His mother would obviously not be of much help. His father... not much to say there. Gone, gone, forever gone, a long time ago. Called his mom a dirty whore and walked out on both of them. No reason to... she never did anything. He was a sorry asshole, and Tommy wished he could miss him, but he didn’t have it in him.
    Tommy saw a strange thing last night. He had walked down to the beach after making a sandwich for himself (mom was sleeping it off). He walked along in the sand, kicking anything that was in his path. He had felt angry all day. A young punk had mocked him again, saying something about his mom, and Tommy didn’t slug him because he was a gigantic sixth grader. So he felt ashamed, sad, and mad all at once.
    Tommy liked his mom. She wasn’t really like a mother; it’s a wonder they didn’t starve. The house was paid off, or they’d have been on the streets by now. She wasn’t very friendly anymore, either, yet she had been different once. Before his father left, that is. She used to be very funny, and even now sometimes she’d smile at him, in a way that said: “I love you, under all this crap.” Tommy knew she did, he felt it. But she was a lousy mom, no denying that!
    He looked up at the bright clear stars, and watched the waves crash in in curving lines along the beach. Tommy liked to walk right at the edge of the incoming surf, to watch the complex curving patterns. Water and sand. And he liked to look at the little lights he saw sometimes in the breaking wave faces. He called them “surf lights”. They were like little fairies in the water, maybe some trick of the moonlight. A glittering sparkle, little points of light that flickered briefly in the wave, then vanished as the wave crested. They weren’t always there, but they were there tonight.
    Tommy thought of them as little pixies, friends for him to play with. He was a lonely kid, and he knew it. He only spoke to his mom in the morning, briefly if at all. And her tone was rarely pleasant these days. He wasn’t very good at making friends at school, either. He was afraid to let anyone in close, because of his family situation, or lack thereof. And so, Tommy studied hard, and lived in fantasy as much as possible. And when he thought he saw something move in the water, he wasn’t really surprised at first. He saw lots of things in the “fantasy mode”, and tonight he was in it. But when it grew larger, and reappeared twice more, Tommy did a double-take and realized it was something real.
    It was a mermaid. She came almost to the water’s edge, and supporting herself somehow in the shallows, she stared at Tommy. The crashing waves kept him from getting closer than about twenty feet, but he edged right up to the surf, not feeling afraid. She had long black hair, and a lovely, child-like, exotic looking face. He felt her eyes were green, although he couldn’t see that. She moved very gracefully, even half out-of-water, and Tommy stood quietly, seeing the most wondrous thing in all his young life. Then, within his mind, he heard her speak, although her mouth did not open, and her lips did not move. Yet he could see her smiling as she spoke:

part 2 available now - return to postings list
copyright 1997 - 2004
Penrose (W.S.Rose)