ANCIENT BLESSING
by Christina Persaud
Autumn rain pelted the young boy who had just found his mother’s dead body in their backyard shed. From her cold lips trickled something sticky and blue. Oliver, who had just turned eight, knew better than to touch her, or it. From his own mouth came a loud whimper. His little chest thumped and threatened to burst. She appeared so alive, yet her once bright eyes had gone pale. A strange thing, like she’d been sucked right out of her body. Her pupils pointed at him, but her stare went right through – as if to say, See? I told you. Our blood runs blue.
Oliver ran from the raging storm and into the house seeking comfort and shouting for his nanna, but the old lady did not respond. Her purse was gone, meaning so was she. Tears spilled from his eyes, making a note on the fridge hard to read, yet he had to try.
Gone to get milk. Be back soon.
Oliver trembled as he stood in the kitchen, not sure what to do. His body screamed from the inside, and his young mind melted with rushing thoughts of panic and fear.
“Mama,” he whispered, as if someone could hear him. As if there was still time to save her.
“Your mama is dead.”
Oliver spun toward the voice, one which he did not recognize.
Crouching on the kitchen stove was a strange creature. Its body was that of a man, tall and slender, but its head was marred by a long beak and two black dots for eyes. It was bald and had no hair or feathers except on its folded wings, no indication of emotion, much less sympathetic feelings towards the child that shuddered in its daunting presence.
“No,” Oliver said in a weak voice. “She might still be breathing.”
The thing on the stove opened its beak, and from inside its mouth a worm of a tongue slithered and wiggled about. “You put your face next to hers, didn’t you? Did you feel her breath against your cheek? No. I thought not. I squeezed her lungs dry myself.”
Oliver screamed. He ran to his momma, as children in fear or in need of love always do.
Behind him, the winged thing gave chase. Oliver could hear it, sounding louder than any bird of this world. With the help of wings, its long legs moved faster than the young boy’s, and soon he was overtaken, just steps from his mother and the shed.
“She’s dead. She’s dead!” The beaked creature taunted. Reaching with its talons, it lifted its head high and was about to strike the child when a woman’s silhouette appeared.
“Nanna!” Oliver ran to hide in his grandmother’s skirt. The old woman glared at the creature. She held out a scroll and began to chant in a tongue Oliver had heard before, during the full moon ceremonies and at his own birth, which he vaguely remembered.
As Oliver’s grandmother spoke, the creature screamed, as if the words sliced into it like carving knives. It tore its own feathers with its mouth. The agony made it bleed from its ears. Unable to listen to the wisdom of the ancient blessing bestowed on the family of witches, the winged beast took off and flew into the tumultuous clouds.
“Come here, my sweet boy.”
Oliver’s momma stood in the doorway of the shed. Rain doused her from above. The blue that had been spilled was almost washed away. She beckoned and he ran into her arms. “It’s gone now,” she said, hugging him tight. “It’ll never come back.” Oliver felt his nanna’s strong hands on his shoulders as the women wrapped him in safety once more.
“And if it does,” Oliver’s nanna said, “we’ll be ready.”
He watched his nanna roll the precious parchment and secure it with twine, and the droplets of rain that had settled on its surface fell to the ground like flecks of gold.
Fiction © Copyright Christina Persaud
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
THE CHASE
by Christina Persaud
I run through the woods, fearing for my life.
Legs that are pumping,
Propelled by my strife.
I dip below branches, dirt meeting boots.
I jib and I jab,
Dodging pesky tree roots.
I hear them coming,
Those hollers and those whoops.
My blood is red boiling,
Lost track of the loops.
In this vast forest,
I cannot quite see,
Why they are coming,
So hungry for me?
Then, I trip and fall,
Down a ravine so deep.
Jagged rocks send me,
Push onward, I keep,
My life ever-going,
My hope never sleep.
I see you, my Alma,
My love and my dream.
They are still coming,
From beyond the wild stream.
I smell lies and cunning,
I fear this high beam.
What am I doing?
From heights I dare leap.
Down, at the bottom,
The dogs have found sheep.
I beg and I bleat,
But no one will hear.
Blood on their tongues,
Death misting air.
STICKY NOTES
by Christina Persaud
“Dammit!”
“What’s wrong?”
“My clothes! They’re ruined!” I fished a red piece of paper out of the washing machine. Be it a ticket or flyer, it was now wet, crumpled, and shredded.
Solange came to my side. Her perfume, a blend of sandalwood and something I could not put my nose on, overwhelmed even the smell of laundry detergent. She stunk up the whole apartment with it, just like her strange foods.
“Lucky for you, you look fabulous in pink.” Solange offered me a bright smile, showing me a perfect set of white teeth. I hid a grimace.
“Gee, thanks.”
Solange’s smile fell. “No! I didn’t mean it like that. Just trying to make you feel better, Samantha. Maybe we can go shopping, get you some new clothes? We can make a day of it.”
I told her maybe. She slithered back to the couch like a snake, and I escaped to my bedroom, shutting my blinds to keep the sun out. I called my mom.
“Sweetheart, we’ll send some extra spending cash this month. But these things happen. It was just an accident. Remember that time your sister –”
“Mom, I think she did it on purpose!”
The woman paused on the other end. “Do you have any proof? Any reason to think your roommate sabotaged your laundry?”
I thought hard, digging, searching. “No. But I was out all morning. She was the only one here. And-and she’s still putting those annoying sticky notes on everything!”
I heard another sigh. “Sam, you’ve got to get along with Solange. She’s a good tenant. She doesn’t cause any trouble other than those stupid sticky notes you’ve been obsessing about. Have you been getting enough sleep, honey? Are you having bad dreams again? You know you can talk to me about anything.”
Our conversation died shortly after.
Outside my bedroom, Solange was still on the couch. I cleared my throat.
“I was wondering if I could talk to you about—”
“My notes,” she said, already aware.
“Maybe you can try to learn French another way? Instead of labeling everything in the house?” I went to the fridge where a bright orange sticky note displayed a word I could not read. “What’s this say? It doesn’t look French.”
Solange didn’t respond. She watched me with those big brown eyes, studying my twitching fingers. Fingers that itched to toss her dozens of notes into the trash.
“This place looks like a kindergarten classroom,” I said. “It totally clashes with my decor.”
“I understand. Just let me leave them up until my next exam?” Solange chuckled, “You can’t have color without light. And honestly, they brighten up my mood and help keep the bad guys away.”
I could have cared less about her mood. However, I waited a week or two. In the meanwhile, I was growing impatient, and it was affecting me in the worst ways. I began snapping at everyone, including my friends and even Gary. One night, after our date, he came over, although I didn’t want him to. By that point, I hated spending time in my own apartment.
“Where’s your roommate?” Gary asked.
I shrugged.
Suddenly, he cracked open her bedroom door. “Whoa,” he said and disappeared.
“Gary!”
Gary didn’t listen. I followed him into Solange’s room. My mouth fell open. If I thought there were a lot of sticky notes throughout my apartment, the bedroom was a hive. Small, square pieces of colored paper clung to everything from the ceiling to the floorboards. Written in her scribbled handwriting were words I could not read. But they weren’t meant to be deciphered that way. It was only when I stood back that the words formed larger images. The many drawings began to shapeshift and come to life. A barking dog. A man’s smirking face. A begging woman. A butcher slicing meat.
“What is this?” I heard Gary ask. Suddenly, he began to tear them down. One by one, he pulled the notes off of the walls, off of surfaces, off of furniture like Solange’s headboard and office chair. And I helped.
I reveled in removing the colors dotting the rest of the house. It felt good. I felt lighter and safer, too. When I was done, I shuttered the window blinds. Before he left, Gary and I made love, and I showered and changed, feeling a shift in the air.
That night, Solange did not return home.
But my nightmares did.
The barking dog bared its teeth demonically. The smirking man chased me. Monsters jeered at me in my sleep. And then, I began to see them while awake.
In desperation, I found one of Solange’s notepads. I could hear them laughing as I stuck colored paper to the walls while writing words like “Get out” and “Leave.” But the monsters had escaped the realm of my nightmares; the evil Solange had so painstakingly kept at bay.
Fiction © Copyright Christina Persaud
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com