Payment Rendered

 This entry is a sequel, of sorts, to a #FridayFlash of many years ago: Payment Due. The original was a...different...take on the Cinderella story: 

"Take Cindy for example. You know the one," as the Fairy Godmother was heard to say.

The below is what happened some time later in the lives of the protagonists. I hope you enjoy.

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"I know it's my birthday," the young woman thought, "but they're acting weirder than usual. Even for them."

"They" were the Princess Cinderella and her husband, the Prince.

"And what are all these guards doing here?" the young woman continued. "Are we expecting an invasion in the throne room?"

"Aurora!"

"Oops," the young woman, Princess Aurora, said. "Spotted."

She stepped out of the shadow of one of the throne room columns.

"You called?"

"I specifically told you to stay in your room, did I not?" her mother, Princess Cinderella, said. "You don't know what's at stake here."

"Of course I don't," Aurora replied. "How could I? No one ever tells me anything around here."

"Now see here, young lady..." the Prince began, his voice suddenly stopping.

Aurora looked at her father to see what had happened. He was no longer looking at her. She turned to see what he was looking at. The great doors of the throne room had just opened. That was surprising. It normally took two burly guards per door to swing them open.

This time they seemed to just open by themselves.

"Huh," Aurora said quietly. "Curiouser and curiouser, I suppose."

"Guards!" the Prince called.

The guards ran forward and established a line across the room in front of the throne.

"Protect the Princess," Cinderella shouted.

Aurora looked at her mother.

"What?" she asked. "Protect me from what?"

The guards looked from the Prince, to Cinderella, to Aurora.

"Behind the guards," the Prince said. "Aurora, get behind the guards."

Aurora stood her ground.

"Aurora," Cinderella said, despair to be heard in her voice. "Why must you never do what you're told."

"Because you've never, ever, told her why she should do something," came a new voice.

Aurora looked towards the door.

A small silvered-haired woman stood there, looking for all the world like someone's grandmother--

"Godmother." The word sounded in her head.

--like someone's Godmother. She was dressed in flowing gossamer layers of pink and gold. Her face was unwrinkled but set with determination as she looked towards the pair on the thrones.

"You!"

Aurora started. She'd never heard her mother speak with such fury, no matter how hard she'd tried to provoke her over the years.

She looked back at the apparition by the doors. "Whatever did you do to her?" she wondered.

The old woman turned to her and smiled.

"Guards," the Prince shouted.

Aurora stepped back as the guards rushed by her and formed a line between her and the woman standing at the door. The woman did nothing other than smile broadly.

"You can't have her," Cinderella said. "You just can't."

"That's not for you to say," came the reply.

Aurora looked back and forth between the two women.

"What's going on here?" she asked.

Before anyone could answer, her father, the Prince, shouted "Guards!" again.

Aurora briefly heard a "Tsk, tsk" sound from the old woman before it was drowned out by the stamp of the guards' feet as they took a single step forward in perfect unison.

"That should please Dad," Aurora thought. "All those feet in perfect time. He's weird about feet."

She looked at the guards and stepped back, shocked. It seemed to her they'd been replaced by mice, all running this way and that. Aurora rubbed her eyes. If she squinted, she could almost see the guards, but they looked as confused as she. Did they see mice too?

She looked back at the woman by the door. She hadn't moved, but her smile had broadened considerably.

"Who are you?" Aurora asked.

Before the woman could reply, the Prince shouted again.

"You will not speak--croak!"

Aurora looked around at her father, wondering what had happened to his voice. She stepped back suddenly, a burst of laughter rising to her lips.

The Prince seemed transformed into an unusually large frog seated on a small royal purple velvet cushion. A crown balanced precariously on his head.

"Cro-o-o-oak?" said the frog.

Aurora looked to her mother and then back to the woman at the door. She was smiling beatifically.

"Now that all the noise has died down," she said, "shall we to business?"

"You can't have her," Cinderella said, her voice rising.

"What does that mean?" Aurora asked. She was trying to focus on what was being said, but the frog had jumped from the cushion to the small fountain fixed to the right wall of the throne room.

"Croak?" it said.

"Your mother promised you to me before you were even conceived," the woman said.

"Ew," Aurora said. "TMI."

The woman smiled and moved to the center of the room. The mice scattered.

"Croak!" the frog said angrily.

"As if a frog can croak angrily," Aurora thought.

"Not another step," Cinderella said.

"Or?" the woman replied.

"Stop! Everyone just stop," Aurora said. "What is going on here?"

"Your mother promised you to me before you..."

"Right. Right. I get it," Aurora said. "No need to repeat it."

Aurora turned to her mother,

"Why?" she asked. "Why would you do that?"

Princess Cinderella said nothing for a moment. Aurora stared at her.

Cinderella looked away. "She," she said, her voice quiet. "She helped me."

Aurora spun around to look at the older woman.

"Helped," she said. "Helped how?"

The older woman smiled. She gestured towards the frog prince.

"Ew," Aurora said again. "And the price was me?"

The older woman shrugged.

"If their first born was...available...by their 18th birthday," she said, "then they would hand him...or her...to me."

"No one's handing me to anyone," Aurora said.

"You've never done what you were told," Cinderella said. "You've always gone your own way!"

"The Godmothers like independent thinkers," the older woman said.

"Godmothers?" Aurora asked, turning to the older woman.

The woman smiled. "I was the Princess Cinderella's Fairy Godmother. Back before she was a princess, that is."

"That just sounds ridiculous," Aurora said.

She paused a moment, then spun around to face her mother again.

"Available? Available?" Aurora took a breath. "Is that why you've been trying to marry me off for the past two years?"

"Calm yourself, Aurora," her mother said, rising. "It was for your own good. We were trying to do what was best for you."

"You should have tried asking her what she thought was best," the older woman said, her voice dry.

"I don't need you to speak for..." Aurora said, turning to the woman.

She stopped. The clothing the woman had on seemed to have changed. The billowing pink and gold dress replaced by black leather adorned with silver chains. The previous 2-inch heels by black leather boots. Pink and gold were still evident, but only at the tips of her spiked black hair. The woman was smiling.

Aurora returned the smile.

"You think that will convince me to go with you?" she asked.

The woman's smile broadened.

"Worth a shot," she said, glancing down at her garments. "And it's a good look. For me, and you."

"Just because it matches mine doesn't mean I'll go off with you. What happens if I say 'No'?"

"No?" both the older woman and Cinderella asked at the same time.

"No," Aurora said.

"Then you say 'No'," the woman said.

"Anything happen to my sister and brother, or my parents?"

"Nothing," the woman said.

Aurora glanced over at the fountain.

"Can my dad not be a frog?"

The woman grinned. "In time," she said softly.

"So," Cinderella said. "Get out of my palace, and never come back."

Aurora turned to her mother.

"I think she means me," the woman said.

Aurora nodded.

"But I'm going too." And, turning to the older woman, she said, "By myself."

The woman nodded.

"Aurora," Cinderella called but Aurora strode through the throne room doorway to freedom.

Two years later Aurora was walking through the streets of a town far from the kingdom's capital. She'd been thinking a lot recently of frogs, and mice, and of the stories told of her parents' meeting at a fancy ball.

And of Fairy Godmothers dressed in black leather, chains, and boots.

"Do you think you're becoming available?" came a voice from behind her.

Aurora turned. The Godmother stood in the crowded street behind her, the flow of people parting as they reached her, joining again after passing Aurora. The woman had traded her leather in for the pink and gold dress again.

But pink and gold still adorned the tips of her spiked black hair.

Aurora smiled at the combination.

She nodded.

"Yes."

From the sea they came

"You'll be going, so," she'd said to him that day long ago.

Half-grown, as he was then, he still towered over the old woman, his mother. Not so old, he supposed now, not so old in the terms he now understood. But he was young then. Everyone was old.

He could still see her, there in his mind's eye. Graying hair tied back from her face, severe. Some strands had fought free and flew in the wind streaming off the ocean. She'd looked him in the eye, her gaze unwavering.

"Everyone gone now, and I alone."

It wasn't a complaint. He knew that now, had known it even then. She'd buried her husband, his father. Buried the wife of a neighbor also. The neighbor himself had gone away. His house burned down.

"Mind yourself on the road as you go." His mother's last advice to him. "There are those who'd take advantage of a young man making his way in the world."

He'd not said anything, just turned his face to the morning sun and the road that rose before him. He stopped, later, on the crest of the hill east of the huddle of houses that passed for the nearby village. He could just make out her small figure, standing on the beach, face to the ocean waves.

Chanting. He couldn't hear. But he didn't need to.

He'd made his way in the world. There had been those who had tried to take advantage, as she'd warned him. But she'd gifted him with more than milk when she'd nursed him. And so they'd failed.

He was grown now, and successful. And so he'd now returned. The huddle of houses had grown and then diminished. Few in number had any light showing and those lights turned out abruptly as he passed.

His own home was without light. No surprise. He had been away for a long time. But now...now he had returned. It was time for a new generation.

He made his way down to the beach. The waters were gray and restless in the fitful moonlight. He faced the ocean, the salt stinging his skin.

Faintly, carried on the wind, he heard it. Chanting. He was silent, for a moment, for a time, remembering. Then he opened his mouth, adding his voice to the chorus.

Not just one #FridayFlash - but a bunch of them!

Not mine, not mine, let me be the first to say.

The great Cathy Olliffe-Webster has taken many of her excellent #fridayflash stories and packaged them into a book.

Full details on Cathy's site. Not only that, the book's available at Amazon, et al, for free for the next while.

So, go for it. Therein you'll find tales to laugh and weep to.

Enjoy.

A Voice in the Wind

Ruth shivered as the wind swept through her light shift. She looked up. The moon was playing hide and seek, hiding more often, as dark clouds raced across its face.

She could almost hear words, her name, carried on the wind. She listened closely, but couldn't make sense of the sounds.

Ruth was lost. She knew this. She looked around, seeking anything that might look familiar. Nothing.

She made her way through the bare trees. The ground was covered with leaves that had fallen in the prior months. They made for unsure footing.

The wind roared through the bare branches, whipping them back and forth, a danger to all who entered this dead wood.

Ruth cried out as one slim branch, more supple than the others, slashed across her neck. It drew blood.

With a start Ruth sat upright in her bed, her hand pressed to her neck. Her skin was wet with sweat and when she looked at her palm she found a trace of blood there.

She felt the sweat drying on her skin, glueing her nightdress to her body. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, in time with her breathing.

"Ruth."

Ruth spun her head at the sound of her name. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling the scream rising there,

A pale figure stood off to the side of her bed. A woman, a white shift covering her body, dark hair flowing over her shoulders.

The figure moved closer and Ruth found herself staring at her own face. But pale. So very, very pale. The expression in the woman's eyes was immeasurably older than any Ruth had seen looking back at her from a mirror.

"Who...what are you?" Ruth asked.

"Look how you have grown," the woman said. "So full of life."

The sound of the woman's voice was as a wild wind through bare branched trees. Ruth pulled the blankets up around her, partly to cover herself, partly to stop shivering.

"I heard you calling me..." she said, "...in my dream. I heard you calling my name."

The woman nodded. "I have called you before," she said. "But it was too soon. You were too young to hear."

"Why are you here?" Ruth asked. She looked around the room. The windows were closed. The door to her loft apartment was closed. The streetlights threw patches of light across the floor, leaving other areas in deep darkness.

The woman stood in one of those inky patches.

"How are you here?" Ruth asked.

The woman smiled, a smile filled, it seemed to Ruth, with great sadness.

"I've never been far from you, Ruth," she said. "I was there when you were born. I saw them take you from your dying mother's body."

Ruth closed her eyes and trembled. When she opened them again the woman was still there.

"Yes," she said, "my mother died as she gave birth to me." Her voice hardened. "What of it?"

"So much blood," the woman said, her voice trailing off on the last word. "So much life in the little thing you were."

Ruth shook herself and let the blankets drop. She fixed her gaze steadily on the woman, her breathing calmer.

"Who are you?" she asked.

Some time passed before the woman's answer came. Ruth looked at her calmly, her face intent.

"I am...I was...Anna," the woman said.

Ruth nodded. "Why do you have my face?"

"We are of the one bloodline," Anna answered. "I am mother to your mother, though years, generations, separate us."

"A ghost?" Ruth asked.

The woman appeared closer now. Ruth felt the air around her chill. Closer now she could see the flawless skin of the woman's face, her bloodless lips, the dark eyes so like her own.

A scar on the woman's neck. A paler line against already pale skin. Ruth touched her own neck. She winced. The wound from her dream was still there.

"Did you do that to me?" she asked.

Though she was closer now the woman's voice still sounded like far-off wind through far-off trees.

"You dreamt it," she said. "Think back. Have you not always had this dream?"

The woman reached out to her, her fingers long, gaunt, the nails sharp, pointed.

Ruth drew back on the bed, away from her. She heard laughter, and then the woman was gone.

"We will meet again." The voice came, far away now. Wind through bare branches.

Ruth shivered. The room was still cold. She touched her hand to her neck and winced.

When she looked at her fingertips, she saw that they were coated bright red with blood.

When you gotta go...

Four years ago today—I died.

It wasn't a big deal. Before...before I died I mean...I read they'd discovered it's possible to bring someone back a long time after they're dead.

Something about cooling the body down. Hours later they can bring that person back.

The big question they had to answer then, of course, is where does that person's mind, consciousness, soul if you will, go?

I mean. No brain activity. No heartbeat. Where do they go?

Now I know. They come here.

I was hiking. Yeah, I know. Winter. Nothing had ever happened before so I thought...you know how it is. I fell. Felt like I broke my leg. After that, it wasn't so bad. Kind of like falling asleep.

Now I'm here. It's not much to look at, I know. I've walked all down that path there, along the cliff by the ocean. Haven't found a way down, not safe anyway, to the beach. I'm still figuring out the rules. I know some of them.

I'm guessing I died in the snow and so ended up here. My body is preserved by the cold.

Like that iceman they found in the Alps. The caveman, you know? He'd been dead a long, long time. He'd figured out the important rules.

I met him once. Then he died.

I haven't seen him since. That's one of the rules. You die here, you stay dead.

The other rule I'm certain about is that there's only room for one here. I've been everywhere and there's no one else. Well sometimes...from time to time. Like you.

You see, I'm hoping I can get back. That someone'll find me, my body I mean. Yeah, I know it's been a long time. But you gotta have hope, right?

I don't know what's beyond here, if anything. But I sure know where we came from. And I want to go back.

There's the problem. I have to stick around if there's a chance to get back.

And...well, you can feel it, can't you? A fading, right in your center. Then it's alright again.

It's not alright. When you stop fading, I start.

And that's a problem. I have to stay. And you...you have to go. I can't risk fading before they find me.

So, here's the cliff. At least you're going to get to the beach. I never did.

Dutiful Daughter

"I was afraid to have another daughter."

Ruth raised her eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

Anna Goldberg reached out, resting her hand on Ruth's arm. "It's not that I didn't want another daughter," she said, "it's just that...I was afraid."

Ruth's eyebrow went higher.

Anna nodded. "Yes, afraid. Boys are...different. You know?"

Ruth smiled.

"You expect them to get into trouble," Anna continued. "You can deal with that. But, your sister...she was always—"

"—perfect," Ruth completed for her mother.

Anna shrugged, her thin shoulders rising off the pale linen sheets for a moment.

"Yes," she said. "And I was afraid another daughter would be different."

Ruth laughed, resonant, self-deprecating.

"Well," she said, "you weren't wrong about that." Her face grew serious. "And yet," she said, "here I am and your perfect daughter, Myriam, is far away."

"She has her husband and children to care for," Anna said, growing animated.

Ruth held her hands up in front of her. "I don't disagree."

"If you had children," Anna said, "you would know."

"I have a mother," Ruth countered. "I know enough to be here when you need me."

They fell silent for a time, Ruth staring at the wall beside her mother's bed, Anna searching Ruth's face for the pain she knew was there.

"I'm sorry," she said finally. "Sorry for what I said. I know you can't..."

Ruth shook her head. "No, I can't have children. Not birth them anyway. Not even contribute to the process." Her voice wavered slightly. "But I knew that."

The only sound for a while was Anna's labored breathing. Then, "I knew you were different," Anna said, "not what I expected."

Ruth laughed again.

"I wasn't what I expected either, Mom," she said. "That took a lot of time and pain."

"But you're happy now?" Anna said.

Ruth shrugged. "I'm me now," she said. "Happy? Who's happy?"

Anna laughed and then convulsed from pain. Ruth gripped her hand until the spasm passed.

"Please," Anna said, her voice weak. "Please don't make me laugh. It hurts too much." She smiled.

Ruth smiled in answer. She looked around the room, little changed from the years when she was growing up. She looked at the large wardrobe that dominated the wall to the right of her mother's bed.

Anna saw her looking. "I used to find you in there almost every day when you were five years old," she said.

Ruth nodded. "Even younger," she said. "I loved the smell and feel of your clothes."

"You grew out of that," Anna said.

"I just switched to Myriam's," Ruth said. "She was closer to me in age."

Anna nodded and silence again fell in the room.

Ruth's gaze drifted to the photograph of her parents that stood on her mother's bedside table.

"Your father," Anna said, "he never understood—"

"My father," Ruth broke in, "understood perfectly well. It may have taken him time to deal with it, but he did. I was with him when he died."

"A dutiful daughter is a blessing," her mother said.

"Better than perfect?" Ruth asked with a smile.

Anna reached out and patted Ruth's arm. "Yes," she said. "Yes."

She looked at Ruth, searching her face. "I was afraid, as I said, of another daughter." She paused, and gripped Ruth's wrist tightly.

"But not now, not now. Even though it cost me a son, I'm happy I have my daughter Ruth here with me now."

Ruth placed her hand over her mother's. She frowned slightly at the reminder of who she had been, of the son Anna felt she had "lost".

"It's OK, Mom," she whispered. "I'm here. I've always been your daughter. I just didn't look like it for a while."

Anna nodded, saying nothing. She lay her head back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

Ruth sat, watching as her mother slept.

In a Distant Land

"We are far from our Home, far from our Father's house."

Ruth bowed her head as she listened to the words, words that echoed through the long years they'd lived here.

"We are home," she thought. "This is my father's house."

Her lips twitched slightly thinking what the others would say if they could hear her thoughts.

She looked up and caught her mother, Anna, watching her across the table. She schooled her face back into solemnity under her mother's gaze. Her obedience was rewarded by a slight nod.

"The sun that warmed our ancient land is a star that shines yet in our nights, the candle in the darkness calling to mind the light of the One who chose us."

Heads nodded around the table and a quiet murmur of assent arose here and there from the group.

The life within her moved and Ruth placed her hand on her belly. She smiled softly and caught her mother's matching smile. Ruth searched her mother's face. The fear that news of her pregnancy had awoken there had receded, subdued by the initial findings.

It was hard-won knowledge. The early histories told of heartache, of horror. Not enough had been known of the air here, the water here, the food they grew here. Enough to sustain life, yes.

But for new life to birth here, so far from where humans had first seen the light, much more needed to be learned.

That learning brought pain, brought death, brought an evil from within their hearts that burned away many of their number before it burned itself out.

They came together, held to who they were, learned what they needed to do to survive. Thus it had always been through the long years of their people.

Ruth looked again at her mother. The fear wasn't completely gone. That would not happen until the birth, until her child was examined and pronounced hale and whole.

Ruth smiled to herself as the celebration of life continued around her. Her mother would find other things to worry her then.

She, herself, was not afraid. Feeling the life move beneath her hand, Ruth knew her child would be found hale and whole.

This was their home now. Their long journey had led them here. Where they had come from was a distant place, only known in story, no longer in the memory of even the oldest of them.

Here was their home. Her child would be hale and whole, and human.

Human enough.

Look to your Legends

"This world was born in fire."

Diane stepped back from the waves of heat streaming from the other.

"And fire has purged it more than once. It belongs to us."

"We've shared this world for so long," Diane said, "but you've remained a secret. How've you managed that?"

The living flame before her spoke again.

"Look to your legends. The theft of fire; you know what happened to the thief. Or your visions of hell."

The flame deepened in color, growing colder for a moment. "You are ridiculously easy to manipulate."

"I've researched the legends," said Diane. "That's how I found you in the first place. But scary monsters and hellfire can't be the whole story. How have you kept yourselves hidden?"

The flame moved closer to the bank of computers Diane used for her research.

"All this," a flame licked out towards one of the computers, "will soon be no more than melted metal and plastic."

"That will do you no good," Diane answered. "I have everything backed up offsite."

"That will be taken care of, at the proper time."

"Why are you here?" Diane asked. "I haven't found any evidence of this kind of encounter. Hints, but nothing approaching proof."

The plastic casing of the computers began to melt in the heat.

"We are very careful how much information we allow survive." The flame moved closer to Diane. "Or who."

Diane moved, unhurriedly, behind her desk.

"You don't frighten me."

"You should be frightened," the flame countered. "People burn easily."

Diane smiled as she pulled a small breathing mask from her desk drawer.

"You have even more need of oxygen than we do," she said.

The flame increased to a blaze, shadows flickering across the walls. Diane slammed down the emergency release and the office was filled with a fire-suppressing, inert gas.

The flame roared and shot towards her. She backed up but a tiny tongue of fire singed the back of her hand before the flame guttered out.

Diane held the breathing mask to her face and, wincing from the pain of the burn, flushed the gas from the room.

She frowned. "That was easier than the research suggested." She shrugged. "Maybe it's just a question of today's technology."

She left her office, heading for her off-site backup.

Later she'd notice tiny flecks, flame-colored, in her irises. But, by then, her research would be gone.

A Storm Coming In

"...four miles, one thousand and one millibars, falling rapidly."

"A storm coming in," he said from his seat near the table. He reached over and switched off the radio, ending the shipping forecast.

I looked over at him, but kept my mouth shut. He stood, heaving himself out of the chair, and made his way to the single door, set into the stone of the walls. Even before he opened it I could hear the wind.

A blast of cold air swept in, damp with the sea, through the open door.

"Shut the door," I said, "you don't have to prove to me I can't go."

He remained at the door, his white hair blown back by the wind. He raised his face. I could see damp on his cheeks.

I swore and moved to the black telephone sitting alone on a corner table. There was dust on it. I picked it up. No dial tone.

Silence again descended on the room as he shut the door.

"No point trying that," he said, "it hasn't worked for the past couple of months."

"Why not," I asked. "They wouldn't have left the lines down that long. Not when it's needed." I stopped speaking and looked at him, the receiver still in my hand. "Have you not paid the bill?"

He shrugged and made his way to the sink, tidying away the cups we'd drunk tea from. "Why should I bother," he said. "All anyone ever gets is bad news from those things. Tell me, why should I bother?"

"So I can call Jeanette, let her know," I said. "Did you ever think of that?"

He waved his hand at me. "Jeanette's all right. She'll know." He turned to me. "She spent enough years here on the island. She understands."

"And I didn't? Spend enough years, is that it? So I don't understand. Is that what you're saying?"

He turned away again. "It's you who're saying it. Not me."

I slammed the receiver back in the cradle with a bang. He jumped. I moved away to stand looking out the window. It was dark now, clouds scudding across the sky, driven by a fierce Winter wind. I closed my eyes. "This is an old and worn road, Dad," I said. "Haven't we been down it often enough for you by now?"

I knew he shrugged. Even without looking at him, I knew.

"Say what you will," he said, "you always did. Do what you will. You always did that too, no matter what anyone else thought."

"You know why I left, Dad."

"I know you broke your mother's heart," he said, his voice rising. "I know that. And so should you."

I looked back to where he stood at the sink, his back towards me. "It wasn't my leaving broke her heart," I said. "It was losing two sons to the sea. I didn't want her to lose another one."

"The sea takes what it will. Your mother knew that."

I snorted. "Easy for you to say," I said, the heat rising in my own voice. "You weren't here. You never were. The sea didn't take you. You just went."

He looked back at me, his face not as hard as I'd expected, as hard as I'd grown used to. "There was food needed putting on the table." He nodded his head at me. "School fees to be paid, too."

"I know the cost of school," I said, turning back to the window. "I'm facing it myself, with my two."

"So you know," he said.

I nodded, still facing out the window, into the teeth of the storm that had now arrived. "I know, and yet I'm home with my family each day--" I turned, "--bar a night like this." I looked at him, unable to stop. "And my wife won't be alone in the house the night she dies because I didn't make it back from wherever I lay, sleeping it off."

There was a sharp click as he clamped his teeth around whatever he was going to say. We stared at one another a long moment then he looked away. As did I, back to the storm, ashamed of myself.

Time ticked away, measured in the harsh gusts of wind that battered the house. The windows wept from the rain driven hard against them.

I half-turned back to him. "What did you mean? The telephone. Bad news."

All I got was a grunt. I turned fully to him. "What did you mean?"

He shrugged. "Liver, lungs. Both shot. Nothing can be done."

I swayed and reached back to press my hand against the wall, steadying myself. "When?"

He looked at me, angry, proud, scared. "Two months, or so, ago. They gave me three, if I was lucky." He let out a short, harsh bark of a laugh.

I closed my eyes for a moment and then opened them again, looking at him. His face bore all the years he'd lived, and all that lay between us.

This would be a long night.

I: Irish Music

Well, I could hardly not now, could I?

For I am a fan of the music of Ireland, folk, trad, the blend of the above, and rock, punk and much else. I even, though I shudder every time I think of it, had the temerity to sing in front of Larry Mullen, the drummer in U2. He wasn't there in his official capacity.

Speaking of the "Music of Ireland"...

In the Midwest, one Christmas, I ran across a pair of CDs, with accompanying DVDs. The DVDs were Parts One and Two of a Public Television special (which I'd missed) on, well, the music of Ireland. The CDs contain the music played and sung during the hour (one per DVD) of the show.

Part One, in particular, delves into the roots of the revival of Irish music over the past 50 or so years. Marvelous interviews with those who played a huge part in that revival - some of whom now gone, but they'll never be forgotten.

I recall thinking, as I watched and listened, wishing I were able to capture the sense, the feeling, the flavor of their speech, of their ideas, of their way of being in my writing. Were I able to do that, they'rd be no telling what I could do.

H: Hammered Dulcimer

As I was going down...Grafton Street...

Not the title of the book by Oliver St. John Gogerty (he was going down Sackville Street, now O'Connell Street).

There's a song that goes "Grafton Street's a wonderland..." and so it is. A shopping street reserved for pedestrians in Dublin, Ireland and a street I've wandered down - and up - many a time. It's a favorite of buskers.

I've seen and heard several string quartets, in full recital dress, bagpipes and bagpipers, of the Scottish variety, a college student who would compose poetry on the spot, for a consideration, and, one day, I stopped by a young man as he sat in the sunshine playing an instrument I'd never seen, nor heard before.

I had to ask, curiosity getting the better of this particular cat. T'was, I was informed, a hammered dulcimer. The young man hailed from somewhere South in the US (it was a long time ago and my memory's not what it was once). I listened, and was enchanted.

While researching I've discovered that the hammered dulcimer is to be found across the world. Even so, it has remained for me, because of that fortuitous encounter in Dublin on a sunny morning, an American instrument.

So I was very pleased to run across a CD that contains music of Turlough O'Carolan (a blind, harpist and composer of the late 17th and early 18th century) transcribed for the hammered dulcimer. The performer is Joemy Wilson, who hails from New Haven, Connecticut.

The music moves very smoothly from the harp to the dulcimer.

Grafton runs from St. Stephen's Green down to Trinity College. At the end of the street there's a bronze statue, one of several works scattered about the city.

This one depicts Molly Malone. She's also known to Dubliners as "The Tart with the Cart." But, that's Dublin for you.

G: Give Up Yer Aul Sins

So there! Wha'?

Some years ago we were in Kansas City, MO, as we normally are for Christmas. And, as we do at Christmas, we were listening to the Christmas playlist on one of the iPods (an eclectic collection ranging from Medieval Christmas songs to A Winter Solstice - volumes I, II, III, IV, V and VI - we liked the first and...it happens).

I was listening, with half an ear, to a track on Loreena McKennitt's "Parallel Dreams" album, Dicken's Dublin. A sad tale of a young person, out on the streets on a cold Winter's eve. Interspersed with the lyrics is a recording of a young girl, clearly from Dublin given her accent, narrating the Christmas story.

My full attention was drawn when I heard her say "an' an angel disappeared to them..."

Dublin is a town of malapropisms - there's a history of them there, going back a long time. I went back over that part of the track time and time again. Sure enough, "...an angel disappeared to them..."

Some years later, my father sent us a DVD - "Give Up Yer Aul Sins". Recordings, with wonderful animation, of schoolchildren in the '60s in Ireland, narrating Bible stories. The recordings were made by a teacher, but had been lost. They were discovered in a rubbish bin. Two enterprising young men made an animation short - "Give Up Yer Aul Sins" (The story of John the Baptist) and this tiny film was nominated for an Academy Award.

The DVD contains seven of the stories and a documentary.

The funny thing was, my father hadn't heard the Loreena McKennitt song.

B: Beatles - Across the Universe

I'm continuing the music theme - and, apparently, the movie theme. Musicals are, for me, difficult to digest. I mean, I've seen "Help", "A Hard Day's Night" - and am even aware of the "Tragical History Tour" by the Rutles :-)

But why on earth should people be walking along, and then (with a full orchestra backing them) burst into song?

I recall watching an interview with Hugh Jackman wherein he mentioned the director of Oklahoma telling the cast that they weren't allowed repeat the lines of the song, unless they could convey a clear reason for doing so - "There's a bright golden haze on the meadow, there's a..."

Not an easy task.

In "Across the Universe" (which would have been a good A-day entry) Julie Taymor gets the cast to sing Beatles songs - and they FIT! By the way, the cast really does their own singing.

Imagine a movie where "Happiness is a warm gun" actually works as a piece of dialogue. And "So, you say you want a revolution..." and has a character, Prudence, who comes in through the bathroom window (well, why wouldn't she?) and sings of another young woman - "...let me be your man..."

Add in that the two main characters are named Jude and Lucy - a girl who came to stay - and you know where it's all going.

If you are any sort of a Beatles fan, this is a great movie. If you enjoy a good love story (isn't love all you need?) and some great music, songs and singers (did I mention Bono and Joe Cocker?) this is for you.

Enjoy!

Women Survive their Men

"Women survive their men."

Ruth raised her head. She'd been focused on some point, miles away, on the table in front of her, and looked sharply at her mother, Anna Goldberg.

"What?" she said. "What's that supposed to mean? Is that that I've to look forward to now? Years without him?"

Anna shrugged. "It's just something I read.”

The two of them sat, in almost-matching black clothes, in Ruth's home. Recently Ruth and Andrew's home. The kitchen table stretched between them, separating them by far more than its three foot width.

Anna shrugged again and moved her hand as if to pat her daughter's arm, but stopped and let it lie in the middle of the table. "But," she said, continuing, "I had you. Maybe it was easier…"

Ruth bristled and Anna stopped speaking. Her hand moved an inch nearer her daughter.

She sighed. "I didn't mean…" She stopped and then continued. "You know what I mean."

Across from her, Ruth closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them again. She nodded.  "I know. I know." Her voice held a lifetime of weariness.

She looked around. Many of the kitchen surfaces were covered with food containers. Leftovers, from the day, a day full of visitors.

"Leftovers," she said, her voice quiet. "A lifetime of leftovers." She looked at her mother. "Is that what I am now? A 'left over'."

Anna opened her mouth, closed it again and shook her head fiercely. "No," she said, "never that."

Ruth's gaze was level. "Then what, Momma? What?" She shrugged her shoulders, the gesture identical to that of her mother. "My career? Throw myself into my work?" Her voice took on a ragged edge. "Or the first bed I find?"

Anna bit back the retort that sprang to her lips, though the emotion flashed in her eyes. Their gazes clashed and held, Ruth's face stubborn. Then, after a short while, Ruth looked down at the table again. A strangled sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped her lips.

"I'm sorry, Momma," Ruth said and shrugged again. She looked up. "You know what I mean."

Anna nodded, pain evident in her face.

"You grieve," she said after a long while. "You grieve, as you are doing now, as I did for your father."

The silence grew long as the evening settled into the quiet rooms of the house.

"You grieve," Anna said again, "for as long as you need. Your Andrew was worth that."

Ruth nodded and and placed her hand flat on the table. They sat, mother and daughter, on opposite sides of the table, hands almost touching, and the darkness grew around them.

Duet - in the key of C

A Duet in the Key of C

~ By Absolutely*Kate and Kevin J. Mackey

"Steve. Steve." 

Steven Bradford turned in his chair at the sound of his name, and stood. Tony Callini was bearing down on him, but it was the woman with Tony that drew Steven from his seat. 

She was tall, would be even without heels. Her eyes, the clearest shade of blue Steven had ever seen, seemed to be dancing with some private amusement. The same amusement was playing on lips coated a very pale pink. 

An asymmetric gown, midnight blue and baring one shoulder, hugged her figure. It covered everything and hid little. 

"This is --" Tony began. 

"Carolina," she said. Smooth, open vowels and Steven caught just the hint of the "r" in her name. 

Carolina offered her hand, slim and warm in white elbow gloves. She offered it, fingers together, arching downwards. Steven had to fight the urge to touch his lips to them. He looked up and caught another hint of amusement. 

"So, that's it then," Tony said. "I've done my part, yes?" 

Carolina turned her head to him, her hand still in Steven's. He felt her fingers tighten a shade more, ensuring he still held her hand. 

"Yes," she said, "you're finished now, darling Tony." Carolina turned back to Steven. 

Steven blinked at the most complete dismissal he had ever heard, and then shook himself. 

"Forgive me," he said, "I've forgotten my manners. I'm Steven, Steven Bradford." 

Her smile flashed, a row of neat, white teeth on display for an instant.

"Carolina, as I said. Carolina Beatrice Templeton." She smiled again and shrugged slightly. Steven's eyes drifted over the light dusting of freckles on her bare right shoulder before being captured again by her eyes.

"An old family," she said, "fond of inflicting dignified names on wayward children."

Steven smiled in return. "Oh I am sure you are very dignified."

Her smile just broadened. 

"Steve?" Alice, Steve's date for the evening,  joined them. Steven released Carolina's hand, noticing as he did so a slight reluctance. He turned to Alice.

"Alice," he said, a shade too brightly. "This is Carolina, Carolina Templeton. A friend . . . of Tony's." 

It seemed to Steven, reflecting later, that the temperature around their little group dropped.

"Alice," Carolina said, "so pleased to make your acquaintance." 

  

"Likewise, I'm sure," Alice replied. 

Steven noticed neither woman moved to touch the other. 

Alice took Steven's arm in hers. 

"Steve," she said, "we really must go and say 'hello' to Sandra and her husband." 

Steven looked at Alice and then back to Carolina. 

"Steven," Carolina said, "you mustn't let me keep you from enjoying yourself." She paused a moment and then looked directly into his eyes. "I hope you will allow me to call on you sometime. Tony has told me so much about your work." 

"Certainly," Steven said, and felt Alice's fingers digging into his arm. "Call me anytime."

Carolina smiled. "I may call on you anytime?"

Steven kept his face straight even though Alice was beginning to leave marks on his arm. "Yes," he said, "please do." 

"Gift for gift," Carolina mused, her voice soft. She smiled again. "Well then, I will leave you two lovely people to enjoy yourselves." 

She smiled again at Steven and nodded to Alice. Then, turning on her heel, she made her way gracefully across the room. As she walked, Steven was captivated by the gentle swaying of her hips. 

"Steve," Alice said in a loud whisper, "stop staring at her. Who is she anyway?" 

Steven tore his gaze away from Carolina just as she left the room. He turned to Alice. 

"Just a friend of Tony's," he said, "like I told you." 

"A friend of Tony's," Alice said, her mouth drawn into a thin line. "So, where is he then, Tony?

Steven looked around the room. Tony was not to be seen. He smiled and guided Alice towards Sandra and her husband. "He stepped out shortly before you arrived. I'm sure Carolina's gone to find him." 

Alice's reply was unconvinced, but she allowed herself to be steered towards her friend, Sandra. It was, after all, in the opposite direction to the one Carolina had taken. 

 ~ ~ ~

There were actually many opposite directions steered into when folks first made the acquaintance of Carolina Beatrice Templeton. Something about a nature that daunts always veers it so. The Templetons of Montgomery came from old money, dusty money, the kind of money not to shake a stick at, though few ever considered that. The Templetons were seen to be held in the highest regard -- from their open doors on every side of the wide-planked veranda on Magnolia Lane which welcomed friend and stranger alike right on into an iced pitcher of mint juleps, to the family trait of dancing eyes. Oh how the Templeton's eyes danced, waltzed, even tangoed. Midst amusement never veiled and down right chortling guffaws, the Templetons' family tree rollicked all its branches with the good humour that glided them in good stead through conference rooms and dance floors.

  

Carolina Beatrice Templeton was a gliding light on the dance floor this night, changing partners left and right. 

Nodding in commiseration to Sandra's story about the gardener mistaking the potato patch for placement of the daylily bulbs, Alice's peripheral vision caught flash after flash of midnight blue. Much to her chagrin, Steven, who could care less about potato patches gone askew, was sporting a new level of intensity in his own regard for that vivid flash of midnight blue.

  

Bristling but a bit, Alice bolstered, rebuking herself to be a far better champ at holding her own. "Excuse us Sandra," she smiled. "Steven, I dare say this is our song. Shall we? Shall we dance?"

  

Strains of Some Enchanted Evening swirled the perfumed air, the evening's mood and the soft gliding collision of what dancers had on their minds in the New York minutes of a sultry Saturday night.

  

Carolina Beatrice Templeton had plenty on hers. And how convenient, she noticed, that the malice of Alice would bring her honey directly to the bait. The white gloved fingers of her right hand stroked tenderly the back of the neck of the broad suited shoulders who happened to be her current dance partner. Her throat arched back with a tinkling of musical laughter to something dashing or distinguished he'd just said. What was his name again? Tom? Dick? Harry?

 ~ ~ ~

There I was, with a great character, a great setup, and then...nothing. "Go," said I, "do something. I promise to record it faithfully."

Carolina glanced at me over one bare shoulder, sniffed and began tapping one delicate foot, all the while examining a spot two deliberate inches above my head.

Happily, the Universe reached out, tapped Absolutely*Kate on the shoulder and whispered, "I wouldn't ask usually, but he's stranded and seriously in need of help. A duet, perhaps?"

Mercifully, dropping as the gentle rain from Heaven, she consented. And Carolina and crew took to dancing while we chase madly after them, scribbling.

The above two stanzas of the duet are a sneak preview of whatever-this-is. The year is '76 (19, that is), the place New York (though Carolina's not from there). It's a messy political, financial world (is "messy" redundant there?).


We are hosting this preview on both of our blogs - here and at At The Bijou where *Kate features terrific writing (much of it hers), popcorn for all and wonderful call-outs from the Great American Songbook. Go there, and be wowed.

Also (there's more?), we wondered if you have ideas for the fun and games our characters might indulge in...

Enjoy - and thanks!