Heidi Slowinski

Coming Soon: Ruth Long, Age 88, A New Novel by Heidi Slowinski

Posted on October 13, 2020     Leave a Comment

You read that headline correctly! I have a new novel coming in early 2021, official release date to be announced soon. Ruth Long, Age 88 is a humorous first-person narrative as Ruth reflects on her life. We also meet Ruth’s friends and family as they remember her. Did I mention the whole thing takes place during the hour-long visitation on the day of her funeral? Over the next few weeks, I’ll be releasing more details, including an excerpt, maybe a character interview, and other highlights. Today, I’m highlighting the short story that inspired the novel.

And don’t forget to check out my debut novel, The House on Maple Street, currently available on Amazon.

Ruth Long, Age 88

By: Heidi Slowinski

         

Carnations, seriously?! So much for honoring your mother! What is this, a 1970s high school prompt?! Come to think of it, even my prom date sprung for a rose corsage. I battled cancer for heaven sake and look at the cheap ass flowers my kids picked. I bet that Melissa picked these out. Never liked her. My David could have done so much better. Whatever happened to that Lisa he dated in college? She was such a nice girl.

I forgot how itchy this suit is. I should have donated it when I got sick, just to be sure they wouldn’t bury me in it. I never even liked this suit. I think I wore it to my nephew’s wedding. His wife, now she was a piece of work. Divorced twice, three kids. All illegitimate. Still not clear on how that works but whatever. And then she ran off with her boss. Such a shame but he kind of had that one coming. And his new boyfriend is such a sweetheart.

They could have picked out a nicer box. How did I get stuck with such cheapskate kids?! John set up that funeral trust for our tenth anniversary. I nearly killed him. But there was enough money to cover a nicer box than this. Polyester lining; I never. Not like they had to spend a lot on embalming. I’m practically back to my birth weight after all the chemo. I’m surprised they chose to have me buried in my most expensive wig. Would have thought that Melissa would have tried to sell it online already. Put me in some headscarf, but not one of my good ones. She sure as hell wouldn’t let good silk go down with me. This thing is real hair. Bet that weirdo funeral director takes it off of me before they close the box.

Speaking of that Melissa, here she comes now. Oh, look at those tears. I bet she put eye drops in before they got out of the car. Gosh they almost look real. You’re not fooling anyone sweetie. Give it a rest. No need to make such an exhibition of yourself dear. She asked me if I wanted to end it about three months after I started treatment. Offered to slip me the morphine. I never told David. What a bitch my son married. But look at him. So handsome in his blue suit. Just like his father the day I married him. Thank God they never had kids. That woman as a mother; ugh.

And there’s my sweet Carolyn. Oh my love, please don’t cry. You did your best for your mother. At my bedside every day. Such a shame she’s a spinster and will probably end up with fifty cats. So smart and so beautiful yet so completely inept with men. What was the name of that last moron she brought home? Brandon, no. Aaron, no. Brian, that was it. God, what a moron! Someone should check that guy’s basement. I bet he murders his pets. That creep had the nerve to dictate her wardrobe, hair style. Wouldn’t let her drive to work. Yelled at her when she mowed her own lawn. I’m going to put in a bad word for him when I get where I’m going. Or you, know. Maybe a good word; depending.

Wow, now there’s a face I never thought I see here. My sister Gina. When was the last time I saw her?! Five years ago. Or was it six? She couldn’t remember my number when I was alive. Couldn’t be bothered to show up even after I left her that message about my diagnosis. David even tried to call her last week, when the doctor said my day was coming up. But here she is. She always could be counted on to show up for a free meal. Oh my neighbor Jim is here. I don’t even have a pulse and he still makes it race. Look at those blue eyes. After John died, he was so kind. Took care of the lawn and cleaned the gutters. I wonder how he stays in such amazing shape at 72. And still has that thick, raven hair. I really should have invited him over for

dinner. Maybe light a few candles. What’s that Jim, the lamb is the best you’ve ever tasted. Why thank you; I just threw this meal together. Would you care for more wine? What’s that, you like my dress. Oh gosh, I just pulled this out of the back of the closet. Haven’t worn it in ages. And look at my hair, such a mess. You’re too kind. Oh, and there’s his wife, Carol. What a frump.

Here come the women from the ladies’ society from church. Really Liz; I look just the way I did before I got sick?! Time to have those cataracts done, dear. She always was blind as a bat. But I will miss Jenny. Such a gentle soul. So quiet and considerate. She visited me every week when I was going through treatment. She brought those wonderful cookies from that bakery on Main Street. Those were so good. I hope they have those where I’m going. Be a shame if they didn’t. Look at her, hugging my David. She’ll keep an eye on him for me. I know she will.

Wait, who on earth is that?! That’s at least the fifth person I’ve seen come through this receiving line to pay respects that I’ve never seen before in my life. Who does that?! Who honestly thinks some woman I’ve never met died. Gosh, I think I’ll take time out of my life to show up to her funeral and pay my respects. And look at this guy. Hey buddy, move it along before that sweat on your forehead drips on me and messes up my makeup. That poor artist had quite a time getting me to look like this. She really had to cake it on. I was waiting for her to pull out a pallet knife or a trowel or something. My face feels an extra three inches thick right now. Would it be rude to ask them to wash this crap off before they close the box?! I hate to think of spending eternity with this much whore paint on my face.

Must be getting close to service time. I think I hear the organ starting to play. I hope they got Edie to play this thing. I never liked Sandra. Nice woman but she plays everything at one speed and one volume. Slow and loud.

I wonder what they picked out for a menu for the lunch when this thing is over. I told David I wanted the lunch to be held at that nice bistro near the cemetery. We held John’s luncheon there. They do such a nice job and the food is wonderful. If that Melissa had her way, I bet I would get cold cut sandwiches and salads in the basement. God, can you imagine?! Those big ugly coffee urns. People eating on disposable plates. And bars as far as the eye can see. I would be mortified. I’m sure my David selected the plated menu and not that ridiculous family style nonsense. So tacky. My niece did that at Ted’s funeral. But then my brother-in-law never met a plate of food too big. Never understood what Lois saw in him. She always was the eccentric one in the family. I thought my mother was going to have a stroke when she announced she was going on that mission trip to South America. Didn’t speak a word of Spanish. Those people usually help build things or teach people something. She had no skills whatsoever. But she did it. Two years later she came home madly in love with that Jose. No, Juan. Wasn’t that his name?! Roberto. His name was Roberto. She sent him the money to travel to our hometown and never heard from him again. She was devastated. Until she met that Polish foreign exchange student a few weeks later, when she started college. Always loved that about Lois; she was a free spirit.

Here comes the Reverend. Oh come on! They got Reverend Tom?! The man has a speech impediment and a lazy eye. I specifically requested Reverend Mark. What is Reverend Tom even wearing?! Are those chinos?! Did he decide to phone this one in? Nope, that’s fine Reverend. Not a big deal today. Just sending me off to meet my maker here. No reason to dress for the occasion. Wait. Hold on. Oh he’s just here to pay his respects. Thank goodness! Hey, watch the spitting on the blessing there guy!

It’s getting quiet in here. Here come the last goodbyes. My sweet David. My first born. I love you my dear boy. The cards you made me on Mother’s Day out of construction paper. Misspelled words scribbled in crayon. Oh give it a rest Melissa! With the fake sniffles and the dabbing with the hankie. Where did she even find a hankie?! Seriously, how flipping pretentious. And my darling girl. Carolyn. Courage now, honey. I will miss your beautiful smile and hearing your wonderful laugh. I am so proud of the remarkable woman you have become. Remember me well, my love.  

Here it comes, the part I’ve truly been dreading. They’re going to close the lid on this hideous cheap box now. Which means I get to spend the next hour, laying here. In the dark. They could at least leave the lid open through the eulogy. How in the world am I supposed to hear it with the lid closed? And all this cheap polyester lining is going to muffle the sound. Because I’m sure dear Melissa wouldn’t hear of springing for the more expensive lining. Was she wearing my grandmother’s broach when she came through here?! She better not have been. That was supposed to be Carolyn’s. Ach! Wow, that funeral director isn’t exactly shy about throwing that extra bit of lining right in my face. Nope, can’t hear a thing in here. Gosh, this is going to be boring. I guess I should probably try to get comfortable. That’s going to be difficult in this scratchy suit. At least I can hear the hymns. They definitely got Sandra. Bet they’d all freak out if I started singing along.

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Coming Soon: The Package, a Novella by Heidi Slowinski

Posted on October 13, 2020     Leave a Comment

You read that headline correctly! I have a new novella coming before the end of 2020, official release date to be announced soon. The Package is a short thriller following Noa, a travel blogger who finds herself working for an international spy agency. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be releasing more details, including an excerpt, character interviews, and, of course, the unveiling of the cover art. Today, I’m highlighting the short story that inspired the novella.

And don’t forget to check out my debut novel, The House on Maple Street, currently available on Amazon.

The Package

By: Heidi Slowinski

         

It happened just after takeoff. This thing that would change my life forever. I was getting settled in for a three-hour flight to Vancouver, celebrating to myself at my luck of getting upgraded to first class. I didn’t even ask. The gate agent just called me to the desk and handed me a new boarding pass.

“Looks like you’ve been upgraded,” she said brightly. “Enjoy your trip.” Things like that never happened.

My phone and earbuds were tucked into the pocket of my jacket. It was a vintage velvet blazer, in a deep plum, I found at a thrift store. They don’t make clothes like that anymore, I thought when I picked it up off the rack. I slipped it on and ran my hands over the sumptuous fabric. It fit perfectly, like it was made for me. Best twelve dollars I ever spent. As I reached into my pocket to retrieve my phone, my fingers caught something else. A piece of paper. I assumed it was my rumpled boarding pass but I pulled it out to have a look. It was not my boarding pass.

I turned the piece of paper over in my hands, trying to remember if I had tucked something into my pocket earlier in the day. Carefully, I unfolded the tattered edges. In very neat, precise script was an address, in Vancouver. Then a date, tomorrow’s date, I noted. And finally, 2:30pm. Nothing else. I shrugged lightly, refolded the note, and replaced it back in my pocket. The flight was unremarkable and we arrived early in Vancouver.

Later that evening, back at my hotel, after enjoying an incredible meal at a Yaletown hot spot, I remembered the note, still in my jacket. I retrieved it again, studying it a little more closely this time. The handwriting was unfamiliar. While I’d been to Vancouver several times, the West Hastings Street address meant nothing . I flicked through my phone and searched it. It was a restaurant. One with really good reviews. I bookmarked it. Then I tucked the note back into my pocket and went to bed.

I started my morning early, with a trip to the Granville Market for breakfast. It was my favorite spot in the city. I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. The ferry took me back across to the city where I strolled, soaking in my happy place. I took lunch from a food truck near Gastown before doing some window shopping. Around mid-afternoon, I checked the time to find it was 2:00pm. I wasn’t far from the address on the note. My curiosity rose. Why not go? I thought. It wouldn’t do any harm. I shook off the notion and went on window shopping. It was silly, I told myself. But what a strange coincidence to find a note with an address in Vancouver, at a date and time, while I was in Vancouver. I finally convinced myself to go and headed off.

Only a few tables were occupied when I arrived. I waited a few moments at the hostess station when a bubbly young woman appeared. She didn’t ask how many in my party or if I preferred indoor or outdoor seating. She simply pulled out a menu and said, “right this way.”

I followed her to a table near the window. She set the menu down for me at a place setting across from a man, wearing dark glasses. I protested to the hostess but she sped away without another word.

“Sit down,” said the man. “We don’t have much time.”

“I’m sorry?” I stammered, “I think there’s been a mistake.”

“No, there’s no mistake,” he responded briskly. “Sit.” I quickly sat.

“You don’t understand,” I started again. “I found a note in the pocket of a blazer I bought at a thrift store.”

“Right,” he responded abruptly. “And we don’t have much time. So if you’re done explaining things I already know, I’ll explain the plan.” I stared at him. “Good. So the drop point has been moved to a hotel on Davie Street. You’ll take this to the bathroom, near the lobby bar. Tuck it behind the toilet. Make sure no one sees you. Got it?” I didn’t respond. “Got it?” he asked again impatiently.

“I think you were expecting someone else,” I responded. “I bought a jacket in a thrift store, in the States. The note with the address of this restaurant and the date and time were in the pocket. I only turned up because I was curious. I’m not the person you’re waiting for.” His annoyance was written all over his face.

“Okay, here’s the package,” he said, sliding a small packet across the table toward me. “It has to be there by 10:00pm so don’t be late.” With that, he stood and left.

I was struck dumb. What was I supposed to do? It was like something out a movie. Did I pick up the packet and take it to the hotel? Leave it there on the table and walk away? I was only in town for a few days, after all. Then, my phone rang.

“Are you still at the restaurant?” It was the man again. How did he have my number? “You really need to get out of there. They could be watching you.” I glanced around the restaurant. The place was empty now. I ended the call, snatched up the packet, and left the restaurant.

I spent the rest of afternoon, wandering around the city. But I couldn’t relax. I kept turning the events of the afternoon over in my head. Why, why did I go to that restaurant? I wanted to go back to my hotel but decided it might be too risky, now that I was caught up in this mess. Finally, as evening was setting in and the light was beginning to fade, I gathered my courage and headed off toward the designated hotel. My heart was racing. It was too early for much of a crowd in the lobby bar. I wasn’t sure what to do. Did I just go straight for the bathroom? Should I order a drink first? I certainly needed a drink about then. I decided ordering a drink and hanging around was a stupid move. The guy said to make sure no one saw me. Plenty of people would see me if I sat down and ordered something. I walked toward the bathroom, trying to be casual. My palms were sweating so hard the knob slipped out of my hand when I tried to open the door. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me, then tried again. Once inside, I tried to calm myself down, pressing my back against the door. All I had to do was tuck the packet behind the toilet and leave. And all of this would be over.

As I was pulling the packet from my bag to tuck it away, the bathroom door flew open. In stalked a woman with long auburn hair, wearing high-heeled boots that came up over her knees.

“Hand that over and no one gets hurt,” she demanded. I didn’t see a weapon but I was sure she had one. Or maybe she didn’t need one, judging by the boots she was wearing. I froze. I didn’t know what to do. She stepped closer.

“Look, this is all a mistake,” I rambled. “I found this random piece of paper in a jacket I bought at a thrift store. The next thing I know, I’m making drops in hotel bathrooms. I didn’t ask for any of this.” She didn’t respond. Her heels clacked on the tile floor as she slowly moved closer.

“I said, hand it over and no one gets hurt.” Her words were deliberate and measured.

“You know what, fine,” I responded impatiently. “I didn’t want anything to do with this anyway. Here, take whatever this is and leave me alone.” I held out the packet. She stopped.

“Seriously?” she shot back in amazement. “You’re just going to hand it over? Just like that.”

“You said to hand it over and no one would get hurt,” I retorted. “So here, take it. I don’t care anyway.”

“Oh, okay,” she said, taking the packet from me. “Thanks.” She studied it for a moment, shrugged, and then turned, leaving the bathroom. I stood there, breathing deeply, trying to come down from the adrenaline rush. But something told me this wasn’t over. I was checking myself in the mirror before exiting when the door burst open again. This time it was the man from the restaurant.

“What are you still doing here?” he demanded. He didn’t wait for my answer but rushed over to the toilet, checking behind. “Where’s the packet?” he demanded hastily when he didn’t find it.

“It was picked up,” I told him matter-of-factly.

“What do you mean it was picked up? It wasn’t supposed to be picked up yet. Who picked it up?” I was surprised he was so flustered.

“I don’t know,” I responded. “We didn’t exactly introduce ourselves.”

“Don’t get cute with me,” he hissed. “Who picked up the packet?”

“I told you. I don’t know. She came in here and said ‘hand it over’. So I handed it over.”

“You have no idea what you’ve just done,” he responded before rushing out of the bathroom.

I let out a slow breathe of relief when the door closed again. I waited a little longer before exiting. I left the hotel. It was dark out by then. Music poured out into the street from the handful of bars I passed as I wound my way through the city, taking an indirect route back to my hotel. When I came upon a dumpster, I slipped off the velvet jacket and stuffed it inside. The note was still in the pocket. As I walked away, my phone rang. Another unknown number.

“Is it done?” the female voice asked.

“Affirmative,” I responded. “The package has been delivered.”

“You did well for your first mission,” she said. “There’s a dress in a shop window on Robson Street. Go and buy it at 10:00am tomorrow morning.”

“Go it,” I responded before ending the call. I tucked my phone into my bag and headed back to my hotel.

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Guest Post: Rough Waters, a Short Story by J. Trevor Robinson

Posted on October 12, 2020     Leave a Comment

This month, I’m featuring a second work from the submissions in the September short story contest. The second feature is:

Rough Waters by J. Trevor Robinson

When J Trevor was young, he received a well-worn stack of mystery and horror novels from his older brother, and it instilled in him a lifelong desire to be an author. Heavily influenced by Stephen King’s scares, Jim Butcher’s action scenes, and the larger-than-life characters in Ayn Rand’s books, he blended those influences with classic literature and pulp horror to write his Immortal Works debut THE MUMMY OF MONTE CRISTO.

He has also self-published a young-adult horror novel THE GOOD FIGHT, and was published in the Amazon #1 bestselling horror anthology SECRET STAIRS as the sole romance story in the collection.

J Trevor’s entry was based on this writing prompt:

Please Enjoy

Rough Waters         

“Watch out, ma’am,” the ferry employee said. “We’ve had some more flood warnings on the Island lately.”

“Thank you,” Vivian replied with a smile, tucking her windswept brown hair behind one ear. The aroma of the lake, of fresh air and muddy water and green shore plants, hit her like a comfortable memory.

Clouds were rolling in as she stepped onto the Ward’s Island ferry dock. The island – actually a group of islands in Lake Ontario, collectively called Toronto Island – was a popular tourist destination and also the site of progressively worse flooding over the past several summers. Naturally, that made an overcast August day the perfect time for Vivian to visit and take notes for her next story.

While the Island had popular attractions and beaches for tourists, the eastern end of Ward’s Island was primarily residential. Walls of sandbags stood near the water’s edge and surrounded the few houses Vivian could see from the main road. Even in the open grassy areas, water pooled in low patches and fostered clouds of buzzing mosquitoes. Still, the threat of flooding didn’t prevent others from following Vivian’s lead and visiting the island. A group of laughing women in a four-seat pedal cab passed on her left.

It took her just over half an hour to reach the Centre Island pier on the southernmost tip of the island as she took photos and spoke to people on the road. The trees looming to either side opened up to make way for manicured gardens, fast-food stands, and finally a sandy beach to either side of the pier. More sandbags were piled at the high-tide line, but some people were brave or foolish enough to put on their swimsuits and climb the wall to enjoy the water.

A film crew at the pier was preparing to interview a man who looked to be in his sixties. Vivian immediately recognized the tall, broad-shouldered man setting up a boxy grey camera, even with his back to her. Smiling to herself, she stepped quickly up behind him and nudged him in the ribs with her elbow.

“Ah! What was that?” the man said, in a voice Vivian certainly did not recognize.

Mortified, Vivian realized he wasn’t who she thought he had been. The two men would have looked a lot alike if they had been standing next to each other, and had the exact same green eyes, but this man’s jaw was narrower and his hair was much lighter. Meanwhile, the man she’d intended to hit approached them both, shaking his head and laughing.

“Thatch, I see you’ve met Vivian Bacall,” he said. Mason Shaw put his arm around her shoulders. “Viv is Toronto’s leading freelance holistic reporter. If it’s weird, she’ll write about it.”

“You’re Vivian? It’s about time I met you, my brother talks about you often enough. Thatcher Shaw, pleased to meet you,” the fair-haired man said, extending a hand. “I’ve read some of your pieces, actually. The article about the stairs in the woods, I got chills. Don’t let Mason rag you too much, he’s always been too hard-headed for his own good.”

“What, this old softie?” Vivian said, grinning as she patted Mason’s chest. “Look at you, telling your family about me. If you’re not careful, people will think we’re serious.”

“Shut up,” Mason said, leaning down to give her a kiss.

“I’m surprised to find you here, don’t you have a big story to scoop?” Vivian asked. Mason was a celebrated reporter for the Cross-Canada Observer, one of the largest independent news outlets in the country. Two years earlier he had exposed a major scandal of bribery and kickbacks in the West Coast public school boards.

“My little brother is making a movie, so I’m lending him my technical expertise as a favour,” Mason said. “Be careful with that camera by the way, that level of waterproofing isn’t cheap.”

“It’s not just a movie, it’s a documentary about the past few years of extreme flooding,” Thatcher said. “I want to show people how this is affecting the community who live here. Vivian, hang around if you can. We’re about to continue Mr McTavish’s interview, but the three of us can get something to eat later.”

Thatcher called orders to the crew while Mason took up position behind the camera, and Vivian found a place out of the way to stand. The interviewer sat down opposite the elderly Mr McTavish to resume a conversation they must have begun earlier.

“In all my many years living on this island,” McTavish said, his Irish accent giving a musical tone to the words, “I’ve never seen flooding this bad. Even when Mayor Lastman called in the army for that snowstorm in ‘99, it wasn’t as bad here on the island as with the floods these past few years.”

Vivian listened with interest to McTavish’s account of how island life’s challenges, like getting groceries when a trip to the nearest store requires boarding the hourly ferry, became even more complicated by the inclement weather and high water levels. As McTavish’s interview continued, she noticed a thin woman smoking a cigarette and jittering her foot nearby. It was difficult to guess her age, but she had certainly had work done, and her grey hair was cut in a pixie cut which did nothing to flatter the shape of her face. Vivian recognized her as Susan Beaucaire, a long-serving city councillor from the 1990s.

“Taking forever with that old geezer,” Beaucaire muttered just loud enough for Vivian to hear. “I’m liable to drop dead of old age before they get to my interview. And perfect, now it’s raining. Why did I even bother putting my face on?”

The documentary crew scrambled to cover their equipment with bags and tarps, with Vivian pitching in. Only Mason continued filming with his waterproof camera.

“Y’see, this is what I meant,” McTavish said. “No rain in the forecast, but here we are. The weather on this island makes no sense anymore.”

Waves on the lake surged past the rocky breakwater and up to the sandbags, scattering the beachgoers. One man lost his footing as he tried to get over the sandbags and fell back into the tide. For just a moment Vivian thought she saw the water clinging to his foot like a fist, but before she could shout he was pulled into the breakwater. His head rebounded against the rocks and then hung limp as his body floated there. Meanwhile the rain intensified and the waves continued to roll in, the crests rising two and three metres and getting higher with each swell.

“Everybody run! Get away from the shore!” Vivian shouted. She’d written a piece on surfing enthusiasts, and knew from her research that waves that size shouldn’t be possible in Lake Ontario, certainly not without far more wind.

The massive waves soon overwhelmed the sandbags and began to toss them around with the tide. The water caught up to a group of tourists and pulled them off their feet, only to rear back and hurl them through the air at the covered food court. Vivian saw one of the floating sandbags picked up by a wall of water moving in ways that defied nature, and thrown like a catapult to knock over a clump of trees. It was impossible to tell through the tangle of sodden branches if anyone had been caught underneath.

Vivian looked around for Mason, who had his camera hanging on a shoulder strap and was helping McTavish to get away from the waves. The film crew were on the run already, and she saw Thatcher help a woman to her feet to run further inland.

“Viv, the cart!” Mason shouted, pointing at a motorized four-seat golf cart. Tripods and camera bags were piled on the back.

“You can’t leave me here!” Beaucaire yelled, grabbing Vivian’s arm.

“Nobody said we would!” Vivian yelled back. “But we need to move, now!”

Mason helped McTavish into the front seat of the cart and started the engine, leaving the rear-facing back seats for Vivian and Beaucaire. The little vehicle wasn’t meant for off-roading, but it handled the wet grass well enough.

“We had to get a permit for this to haul the camera gear, but now I’m glad we’ve got it,” Mason said as he dodged a knot of people running in panic.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” McTavish asked, holding on to the cart with one hand and his flat cap with the other.

“Believe it or not, this is not our first time running for our lives,” Mason said. “We need high ground. You live here. What’s the safest place on the island?”

“This whole island used to be safe!” McTavish said. “But I guess the highest point would be the lighthouse, go left here and then straight on.”

The beach behind them was in shambles. The waves continued to creep higher onto shore and chase people down, dragging them into the lake or throwing them against trees and buildings. Another sandbag flew past their cart, forcing Mason to swerve again. Briefly, Vivian thought she saw a shape in the waves turn and look their direction.

“Mason, I need your camera!” she shouted, wrestling the strap from him and triggering the zoom lens.

Buried drain pipes burst around them as their cart crossed the picnic grounds. Fountains of water arced through the air towards them, chasing the cart. Beaucaire shrieked.

“Water shouldn’t do that!” she said. “Driver, go faster!”

“Lady, I’m not exactly dawdling!” Mason growled back.

“You’re not helping matters, you old -” McTavish began to say as he turned in his seat, but cut himself short when he saw what had caught Vivian’s attention.

A woman had crawled out of one of the drainpipes to float in a water spout. Tall and shapely with long hair that drifted in the flow, her skin was the blue-green of a deep, calm lake. Her face was entirely featureless aside from two glowing motes in place of her eyes. She moved her arm as if dancing, and the water followed the motion to surge towards them as Vivian yelled for Mason to swerve again.

“Right, turn right here!” McTavish said, sending the cart down a short dirt road.

The Gibraltar Point lighthouse loomed ahead of them, a tall hexagonal spire of grey limestone with a single red door in the base and a balcony around the light. Mason leaped out of the cart to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He took a step back and braced his left foot before driving his right into the door just next to the lock plate as the water crept up behind them. It took three solid kicks to get the door open, by which time Vivian had caught up with McTavish and Beaucaire. The space within was cramped, but a welcome respite from the rain.

“This is your fault Susan, I know it is!” McTavish said to Beaucaire as they climbed the winding steps inside. “You’re as rotten a neighbour as you ever were a councillor!”

“Why are you yelling at me?” Beaucaire asked. “I nearly died back there!”

“That thing, that woman, it looked an awful lot like your old water feature,” McTavish said. “The pretty one that you had in the front yard, it had a wee moving figure in a glass ball just like her.”

Vivian paused on the steps with Beaucaire behind her and McTavish in the rear. She heard Mason trying to barricade the door with bags and tripods from the cart.

“Ms Beaucaire, do you know anything about what’s happening?” she asked.

“No! Of course I don’t! I’m insulted that you would even ask, after all I’ve done for this city!” Beaucaire said, looking for a way to get past Vivian on the narrow steps.

“I did what I could with the door, but we’ve got water trickling in!” Mason called from the bottom. “We’ve got to move!”

“Ms Beaucaire?” Vivian said again, locking eyes with her.

“Well, I mean, yes I did have a similar water feature in my garden,” Beaucaire said. “And yes, it looked a lot like that thing that was chasing us. But I don’t see how they could be connected, my morgen could never do anything like that.”

“Your what? Did you say a morgen?” McTavish asked, his lined face turning pale.

“I did so much for supporting the arts when I was on Council, it was only right that I have a beautiful garden when I retired to the Island,” Beaucaire explained. “So I reached out to a gentleman who was known for procuring unusual things, and not long after he sold me the morgen. It was tiny at first, a little blue thing in a glass globe, and it made the most remarkable effects in my little rock pool.”

“And you never thought to ask what a morgen was, you daft cow?” McTavish said. “It’s a Celtic water spirit, you madwoman! They’re infamous for flooding villages and taking young men away to drown, and you stuck one in your bloody garden because she was pretty!”

“I would hardly expect a brute like you to understand art,” Beaucaire sniffed. “Besides, I got rid of my morgen a couple of years ago just before the flooding began. It got too big and broke out of the globe, so I chased it into the lake with a broom. But surely it can’t be the same one.”

McTavish took off his hat and threw it onto the steps. “That’s it, she’s killed us. We’re doomed,” he said.

“This thing’s name is Morgan, you said?” Mason asked, typing search terms into his phone. “I’ll look up how to kill it.”

“Morgen, with an E. And you don’t kill a morgen, lad,” McTavish said. “You just hope she doesn’t kill you. The only way I’ve ever heard to even calm one down is an old folk song, Fill Iu O, but it only soothes her for as long as the song’s playing.”

“It’s the only shot we have,” Vivian said. “Mason, can you find a recording of it?”

“I can try, but you’re definitely going to have to spell that one,” Mason said.

The four of them emerged onto the roof platform, where the rain had grown to a deluge. Water coursed up the path they’d driven on like a river and crashed around the lighthouse in waves, defying gravity to creep higher along the walls each time.

Vivian took McTavish’s hat, recovered from the stairs, and held it over Mason’s phone to block it from the rain. With the volume as high as it would go, she hit play on the video Mason had found while he continued filming with his waterproof camera.

“Fill-iu o ro hu o, bu tu mo chruinneag bhóidheach, fill-u oro hu o…” came out of the tinny speaker, accompanied by a strumming guitar, barely audible over the roar of the water. Vivian couldn’t make sense of even the few words she could hear.

Nevertheless, the waves assaulting the lighthouse stopped and held still in positions that should by all rights have collapsed. The only movement came from the new river below, where the graceful blue form of the morgen reared up and rose on a pillar of water to be level with the platform. She stood rigid among her enchanted surf as it circled them like a predator, combing through her lustrous hair with her fingers. Something about the morgen’s glowing eyes suggested to Vivian that she was staring at Beaucaire with a hatred as deep as the lake itself. “I know you’ve been hurt!” Vivian said, not having a clear plan of what to say but trusting the right words to come. “You were treated like furniture, and then chased away like some kind of pest. Now I can’t tell you I know what that’s like, but I’ve

been mistreated before, and I know how it feels to want to lash out.”

When the morgen circled around in front of her again, Vivian looked to gauge if she was getting through, but it was like trying to read an ice sculpture.

“Viv, that song won’t play forever,” Mason muttered.

“Look around at what you’ve done!” Vivian continued. Her and the others followed the morgen around the lighthouse railing while the song continued to lilt from the phone speaker. “You’ve hurt so many people, but you’re only angry with one! I’m sure if we all just take a moment and talk this out, we can think of a better way to resolve this. Nobody else has to die. Do you really want to attack people who never did anything to you?”

To Vivian’s surprise, the morgen shook her head. Vivian smiled.

“Thank God, that’s good,” she said. “Can you speak? Can we talk this over?”

The driving rain eased, and the waves clinging to the side of the lighthouse drained away. Only a narrow river on the dirt road remained, connected to the column of water in which the morgen sat. Even that stopped circling, and the light in the morgen’s eyes seemed to soften as she continued combing her hair and listening to the music. Relieved that the ordeal was over, Vivian took a deep breath. The last verse of the song rose to a crescendo and stopped.

The moment that the song ended, the morgen’s eyes flared. She surged forward, soaking everybody on the platform with the fish and mineral smell of a jet of cold lake water. The spray knocked Vivian off her feet.

“Mason!” she shouted as soon as she had coughed up enough water to speak. “Mason, are you okay?”

“I’m alright!” he replied, closer to the light’s housing. “Whacked my head, but I’m alright. McTavish?”

“Still here, lad,” McTavish said. “Beaucaire?”

There was no answer. The three of them rushed to the railing to see if the morgen had knocked Beaucaire off the platform, but there was no sign of her on the ground either. It wasn’t until Vivian looked to the southwest that they found her.

A wave carried the morgen back out across the grass and beaches, and her blue fingers were locked into Susan Beaucaire’s hair. Beaucaire screamed and struggled to get free and swim away, but she was helpless against the forces dragging her out into the lake. When the morgen had pulled her further out than anyone could see, the rain on the island stopped entirely.

Their golf cart had been overturned in the flooding, forcing them to walk back to the pier in hopes of finding the rest of the film crew. They found Thatcher there administering first aid to a small child with a cut on her head, and as soon as he finished he ran over to pound Mason on the back with an exuberant hug.

“You made it! Man, what a relief,” Thatcher said. “That was insane, I’ve never seen waves like that before. I thought I was dead for sure, and then it all just stopped.”

“You know I’m too stubborn to die,” Mason said. He held up the camera. “You’re not going to believe the footage I got. Your movie is going to be a smash.”

While the Shaw brothers reviewed Mason’s recording of the unnatural waterspouts and the morgen’s haunting movements, Vivian recalled what she’d said to the morgen on top of the lighthouse. She hadn’t meant to push the morgen into killing Beaucaire, she had been trying to resolve the situation without anyone else getting hurt. She thought she could still hear Beaucaire’s screams faintly in the distance.

“Miss Bacall, I suspect she didn’t take the meaning you hoped for from your pep talk,” McTavish said, seeing the dark look on Vivian’s face and patting her on the shoulder. “But if there’s one common theme in those old monster folk tales, it’s that they’re not exactly keen on forgiveness. That might be the best we could have hoped for.”

“I’ll be fine, it’s just… It’s a lot to take in,” Vivian said, trying a smile. “Do you think she’ll be satisfied, now that she’s got Beaucaire?”

“Who can say? She’s not exactly like you or me,” McTavish replied. “But if I had to guess, I’d say that there morgen has as much capacity to feel embarrassed as she does to feel hurt and angry. I think once you pointed out that she was harming people who had nothing to do with her troubles, she was proper ashamed of how she acted. So in my limited opinion, no, I don’t think we’ll be seeing her again.”

Vivian squeezed McTavish’s hand for a moment, got Mason’s attention, and together the two of them headed for the ferry dock to go back to the mainland. Vivian had had quite enough of the smell of the lake for one day.

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Guest Post: The Fire Within, a Short Story by John Ethier

Posted on October 5, 2020     Leave a Comment

Thank you to everyone who submitted work for the September Short Story Feature Contest. The featured entry is:

The Fire Within by John Ethier

John Ethier has been writing fiction off and on for the better part of twenty years. What started out as a collection of short fiction, essays and narrative non-fiction eventually resulted in a debut novel called The Little Red Boat, a second book – a novella – which is nearing completion, and outlines for future novels. Also in the works is a children’s book inspired by his first ever work of fiction, a fourth-grade writing assignment. John’s early writing inspirations include Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King. Today, his favorite writer is David Sedaris.

Website: johnethier.com

Instagram: @writer.at.large

Twitter: @johnethier2

John’s entry was based on this writing prompt:

Please Enjoy

The Fire Within

         

“I have rights, y’know!” Henry protested.

“Tell it to the judge,” the jailor replied.

“It’s not fair. You can’t put a man in jail for writing a story. It’s just not right. We have laws against that sort of thing.”

“It ain’t gonna do ya any good to complain to me––”

“It’s just not right. They’re barkin’ up the wrong tree if they think––”

“Look … if you got so much to say, why didn’t you say it to the lieutenant?”

Lieutenant? Henry thought. Bully, is more like it. He could still hear his accusing voice ringing in his head:

“Why’d you do it? Huh? Why did you burn that building?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Henry insisted.

“D’ya get some sorta thrill outta lightin’ fires? Is that it?” the lieutenant continued, prodding Henry, trying to browbeat him into giving him the answer he wanted. “Are you one of those sickos that gets a kick outta watchin’ stuff burn? You’re a sick bastard. Didn’t your mom ever tell you not to play with matches?”

“Look … I didn’t do anything. I wrote a story … that’s all. I’m a school teacher for Christ’s sake. Do I look like an arsonist to you?”

“I dunno, what’s an arsonist supposed to look like?”

“I don’t have to answer these questions––”

“Look, Henry … you can make this a whole lot easier on all of us if ya just come clean.”

“I’m not gonna answer any more questions until I see a lawyer.”

He thought there might be a risk in publishing the story, but for a very different reason. He never expected this. Not in a million years. The story was so real, so alive. Whoever read it would feel like they were right there lighting the match, almost able to feel the warmth of the flames caressing their skin.

That’s what Henry loved about the story. It was the kind of story he used to write. The kind of story he used to be lauded for.

“Make your characters real,” Henry always preached to his students. “If your characters aren’t real, the reader won’t believe in them. If the reader doesn’t believe in them, then he won’t join you in your journey. If the reader isn’t right there with you, then he can’t hear the things you hear, he can’t see the things you see, and he certainly won’t feel the things you feel. If you want your characters to come alive, they need to be real.”

The man in the story was quite real. He was a real man with real problems and real emotions. He was a troubled young man with a thirst for lighting fires. “Heroes have shortcomings,” Henry always insisted. “Villains have redeeming qualities. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be real. Nobody is all good or all bad.”

Henry always got a kick out of the different reactions his students would have; the looks on their faces when he would preach to them.

The spoiled rich girl who thought she would be the next Emily Dickinson; she thought it was all a bunch of crap, naturally.

The brooding girl in the third row who always dressed in black, the one who thought an artist needed to suffer in order to be a true artist; she thought the idea seemed rather intriguing.

The troubled young man who always sat by himself in the back of the room; he thought it seemed like an awful lot of work. Henry always tried to impress upon the young man that if you just let it happen, it’s not really all that hard. “It shouldn’t be difficult,” he’d tell him. “If it’s difficult, that means your forcing it. You need to dig down and find that truth somewhere inside yourself. Once you do that, the rest is easy. Then all you need to do is get out of the way and let the story happen.”

Henry considered not publishing the story, but it was so much like the stories he used to write. It was going to be the story to catapult him back into a career that he sorely missed.

He liked teaching, but it was always a compromise. What he really wanted to do was write. He wanted to write, and he wanted people to like his work again. He missed rubbing elbows with all the important people. He missed New York. He missed the respect and adulation of his peers. The adoration was like a drug to Henry. There were times when he didn’t think he could live without it. But there was no twelve-step program for this particular drug.

It wasn’t as though the past eight years had been without opportunity. He’d had offers to write for newspapers, he even had an offer to ghost-write a book. But Henry was a proud man; too proud, some would say.

He thought long and hard before sending the story to an old friend, someone he knew from his successful writing days. His friend was now chief editor for a well-regarded literary magazine, the sort of publication Henry’s stories used to appear in on a regular basis.

No one could have foreseen a retired fire marshal from Dover reading the story while waiting for a root canal, but it just so happened to be his dentist’s favorite magazine. The details of the case were etched in that marshal’s memory forever. When he read the story in the magazine, he felt a pit in his stomach. He was certain he was reading a confession.

It happened years ago, back when he was driving a hook-and-ladder in Newark … but in many ways it was like it had happened yesterday. It would have been long forgotten by now if not for those four children who had been playing in that abandoned warehouse.

The fire in the magazine wasn’t at a warehouse in New Jersey, it was an apartment building in Ohio. But he knew it was the same man. Most of the particulars were actually quite different, except for one thing: there was something written on one of the walls inside that warehouse back in Jersey. He was certain the arsonist had written it. It was five little words, spray-painted on one of the brick walls inside the building, right near where the fire had been started:

The flame burns inside me.

Five little words. He had seen it himself. There was a lot of soot, but you could still make it out. He was quite certain he had never said anything about it to any newspaper or television reporters. It seemed immaterial.

In the story in the magazine, a young man obsessed with fire stands outside a burning building and mutters those exact words to himself as he watches the blaze.

The retired marshal thought it was too coincidental. The district attorney agreed. Now, Henry was sitting in a county jail, wondering how all of this could be happening.

He’d given up trying to plead his case to the jailor; that effort was futile. He let his mind wander … back to his time as a teacher. He thought about that troubled young man from his class, the one for whom everything was such hard work. He never thought the young man showed much promise. But there was something that made Henry want to try; his own ego, perhaps. He wanted to think he could save every student. The boy’s stories were always very shallow. The good guys were very, very good and the bad guys were very, very bad. In all of his stories, the bad guy won all the battles. “Try to find a way to make your characters more real,” Henry pleaded with him. “Give them real thoughts and real emotions. Think of people you’ve known in your life …

people you’ve loved … people you’ve hated. Think of your own thoughts and feelings … what makes you happy, what makes you sad, what makes you angry, what makes you cry. Those are the things that make you who you are. Give those things to the people in your stories and they will become real.”

Henry figured he must have gotten through. The boy wrote a wonderful story with characters so full of life that they jumped right off the page. His story was about a young man with genuine struggles and believable emotions; a desperate man who finally finds solace in his dark obsession with fire. His lust for the destructive power of the flames was symbolic of his own self-destruction. Henry was impressed. It reminded him of the way he used to write.

He praised the boy’s story, but the young man remained withdrawn. He seemed glad that his teacher liked his work, but it didn’t seem to cure the young man of his troubles. Somehow, Henry knew it wouldn’t.

“Hey, Shakespeare,” the jailor said, interrupting Henry’s journey down memory lane. “Your lawyer’s here to see you.”

Henry sat up and straightened his clothes a bit, trying to iron them out with his hands. He knew he could end all of this right now if he just swallowed his pride and told the truth. But he didn’t think he could do that. He just didn’t think he could admit to what he had done. He knew if he did, he’d never work again. He knew if anyone found out what he did, he’d never be able to sell another story as long as he lived.

He thought he would try instead to fight the charges. It was only one little sentence written on a wall in some warehouse; not much for a district attorney to hang his hat on. He could have heard that sentence anywhere. He could have heard it from some firefighter for all anybody knew. But he didn’t.

He knew they couldn’t prove anything. How could they? He wasn’t there and he didn’t light that fire. A good lawyer could get it thrown out.

No matter how much Henry thought about the charges he faced, he couldn’t stop thinking about that boy from his class. He wondered how the young man was doing these days. That was some time ago; he would be almost thirty years old by now. He wondered if he was still troubled. He wondered if he’d gotten any better at his writing. More than anything, though, he wondered if he was still lighting fires.

This page contains affiliate links. This means for any purchase you make, I receive a small commission at no additional cost to you.

Previous Winning Stories:

Enter The Monthly Contest

Each month the site hosts a short story contest. It’s a unique contest because each month, participants are challenged to craft a short story based on a visual writing prompt. Up to two selected entries receive a feature guest post here on the site. There is no fee for entry. For full contest details and to see the writing prompt, visit the Contests page.

More From The Blog