Baby Makes Three—part three of three

Baby Makes Three–part one of three

Baby Makes Three—part two of three

Unbeknownst to Willis—and berating herself for doing so—she had returned to the hotel bar several times (after temporarily disabling her location app) looking for the man.  She had even asked the desk clerk about him, but he wouldn’t even look for the man in the hotel’s computer system, saying something about a guest’s privacy. After that, she had given up.

Her final month of pregnancy was a haze of sleepless nights, and hunger, both literal and figurative. But she remained rosy cheeked with health, so all her strange moods Willis chalked up to out-of-whack hormones, sure that everything would return to normal once she had the baby.


Willis was at work the morning the labor pains started, six weeks before her due date.

Meryl remembered the drill: call Willis immediately, who was only a short drive away, and he would come home and together they would count the contractions until they were five minutes apart, then he would whisk her off to the nearby hospital. Her husband had thought out everything months in advance. He had packed her bag and set it next to the front door when she was barely into her second trimester.

But a beguiling, husky voice inside her head urged her not to call, to lay down instead. So, she climbed the stairs, clutching her cramping stomach, stripped off her clothes, and curled on her side in the bed she shared with Willis, arms wrapped around her hard stomach. The contractions were strong, much stronger than she had been told to expect the early ones to be. And closer together. Soon, she felt as if an enormous fist was inside her pushing downward. Vaguely, she thought of calling Willis or an ambulance, but no sooner than the thought entered her head than it was gone on a wave of pain that left her whimpering and sweating.

Meryl’s vision swam in colors—yellow, orange, and red. The pain intensified. She felt a warm gush and knew her water had broken.

Then the man was there between her legs, spreading her knees and pushing them up. “You came….” she sighed.

He glanced up at her face, and smiled, his large canines gleaming. “I came to claim what is mine, what has been promised.”

“Wh…what…?” Another contraction gripped Meryl, causing her to wail.

“Push hard!” the man ordered, one clawed hand resting on her heaving stomach, massaging. “He is almost here.” She bore down, her face red-hot and wet with tears and sweat. And when she thought she couldn’t take another second of the squeezing, stretching, tearing agony, she felt her insides give way, and the lessening of pain. “His shoulders are through…just a little more.”

Meryl felt a slippery, sliding, wetness, then blessed relief. Her eyes slipped closed on a wave of exhaustion—so tired. Then the cry of an infant. Her eyes flew open. “My baby!” And she took in the man sitting on the foot of the bed holding her child. The man from the motel room. The SD. The fog that had enveloped her since the contractions started cleared, and she saw him as she had in snatches that night in the motel room: large, muscular, naked. Horns, hair that flickered with fire falling in cascading waves to his shoulders, predator teeth, and stunning, golden, snake eyes. Her—their—child was cradled on his lap, seemed to be resting contentedly on his hair-covered thighs. She knew she should be scared but wasn’t.

She pushed herself up with her elbows, rested her back against the headboard. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I am your husband.”

“No, Willis is my husband. You are…someone…something else.”

He shrugged. “Think of me as the father of your child if that suits you better. But make no mistake—you are mine, Meryl Blackthorn.”

“I don’t understand. I barely know you. How can I be yours?”

The baby whimpered. The man held him out to her. “Feed him.”

Meryl took the infant without question and brought him to her naked breast. He immediately latched onto a nipple, and she gritted her teeth against the pain she had anticipated. And again, her body surprised her: no discomfort and her milk flowed readily. The baby opened his eyes and looked up into hers. Yellow, like his father’s, and unlike what she had been told to expect, focused and alert.

“We have to go soon,” the man said.

Meryl’s gaze moved back to his. “Go where?’

“Home. You and our child will come to my home. You are mine.”

“Why do you keep saying that—that I belong to you?”

“Because you do. Before you were born, you were promised to me by your great-grandmother.”

Meryl laughed, the sound tiny and half-strangled. “My great-grandmother?”

“Alice Blackthorn. She promised you, my dear, the next female child born in the Blackthorn line, for services rendered.”

Alice…Alice…that name…. Yes, now she remembered. “The witch…er…rumored witch?”

The man—no, not a man…something else—smiled his pointy smile. “Yes, that one.”

“What were the services rendered?” Meryl asked, wondering why on earth this conversation sounded perfectly sane to her. The baby lost her nipple, fussed a little until she guided his rosebud mouth back to it.

“Power. What every human wants, some so badly they’ll do anything to have it.”

“And I am the first female Blackthorn since….” She thought back on what she knew of her paternal linage. Only sons were born to Alice and the proceeding women who married into the family. Until her.

“Yes, you are the first girl-child to be sired since Alice and I came to an understanding.” He stood, and hooves clicking on the hardwood floor, came around the bed to her side. He reached down and gently smoothed the flaming peach-fuzz on the baby’s head. His other clawed fingers found her free nipple, tweaked it. Meryl gasped.

Downstairs, there was a faint sound of a door closing, then a few seconds later, a raised voice shouted, “Meryl, you upstairs?”

The clawed hand moved to her shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. “It’s time to go.”

Meryl heard Willis’s footsteps on the stairs. “Meryl!”

She glanced up into the eyes of her possessor. “Please don’t hurt him…er….”

“Azazel. My name is Azazel.”

“Please don’t hurt him, Azazel.”

“Come with me now, Meryl Blackthorn, and it will be as if you never existed.”

She looked deeper into his mesmerizing eyes and knew she would follow him anywhere, even to hell—which, she supposed, was exactly what was going to happen.


Willis Lanford stepped into his bedroom, wondered why he had come up here without first fixing his customary dry martini. He didn’t remember needing anything here.

He looked about, trying to jog his memory. Bed crisply made like he did it every morning before going to work, everything in its place. What had he wanted?

“Hey, Siri, why the hell did I come up here?”

From his trouser pocket, a female voice answered, “I don’t know how to respond to that, Willis.”

With a shrug, Willis went back downstairs. He fixed a martini, clicked on CNN, and sat on the brown leather sofa of his empty house to watch the evening news.

The End

©2022 July Day

Image by Duc Quang Tran from Pixabay

Saturday Six Word Story Prompt #108

Luck holding, Mac raised the knife.

©2022 July Day

Written for: 6WSP, Week #108–11-26-2022-Luck

Featured image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay

Baby Makes Three—part two of three

Baby Makes Three–part one of three

Brandon’s fingers curled around her forearm, rested there for a moment, causing a rush of heat that shot straight to the juncture of her thighs. She squirmed.

The two men talked for a while about sports, politics, the weather, their respective jobs, with Meryl occasionally adding a comment. Her stomach fluttered, waves of warmth ebbed and flowed. And shame overlaid it all. She wanted this man she had just met with a ferocity that surprised her, wanted him to rip off her clothes and stake his claim on her. Never in her thirty-four years of life had she felt a sexual attraction this overpowering. She wished Willis gone so they could get on with it. And she had no doubt that as soon as her husband left the hotel bar, they would. She saw it coming in Brandon’s smoldering eyes every time they caught hers.

“Well, time to head for the airport,” Willis said as he stood, their prearranged code that he approved the liaison. Though he could have followed Meryl and the man by car—and her Find My iPhone app—it was convenient that he wouldn’t have to leave the hotel. And safer for her if something went wrong.

“Nice meeting you,” Brandon said, rising from the barstool. The two men shook hands.

“Same here,” Willis said. Then, he hugged Meryl, who stayed seated, an awkward thing that was over quickly. “Love you, Sis. See you soon.”

Meryl twisted her head, met his eyes, and in that look, said all she couldn’t say—don’t go…I don’t want to…this is wrong…hurry up…I want him inside me…now! “I love you too,” she said softly, meaning it with every fiber of her being.

And Willis was gone, disappearing from view shortly after entering the lobby.

Meryl sighed, then turned to Brandon, lifted her eyes to his hot gaze. His body between her and the rest of the bar, he placed his hand over her mound. She gasped, legs falling open beneath her scarlet dress. She couldn’t look away from the roiling amber, couldn’t move, like a bird mesmerized by a snake’s deadly stare.

“Come,” he said simply.

Meryl stood, took his hand, and he led her into the hotel lobby, into the elevator, then down a long corridor to room 457. He inserted his keycard, the lock snicked open.

Then things got surreal, fuzzy in her mind, though her body felt every exquisite touch. No words were spoken, just sighs, moans, and occasional muffled screams. The man—what was his name?—made love to her as if she were fine china that might break if handled too roughly. Meryl floated on a cloud of erotic sensations. The man’s face came into focus occasionally, his glowing yellow eyes riveted upon her, causing her body to quiver.

She slept, or slipped into unconsciousness, a few times, and when she resurfaced to the feel of his hands on her again…and again…she glimpsed a hairy, muscled leg ending in a hoof. Another time, horns peeking from a mass of flaming curls. Pointy teeth with oversized canines. Golden, elliptical eyes. Then, he would be inside her again, and the strange illusions faded away, washed away on a tide of pure feeling.

The last time she woke, his hands were rougher, the lovemaking so fierce that pain mixed with the pleasure. Meryl whimpered. The man gathered a fistful of her hair, and as he planted his seed deep inside her, growled, “You are mine, Meryl Blackthorn.”


Willis was miffed with Meryl for spending four hours with Brandon Tyler, but when she explained she had fallen asleep and woken alone, he was somewhat placated. Her husband grumbled a bit, though, wondering how the man could have passed through the lobby, where Willis had sat in a chair hidden from view of the front desk by a sprawling Ficus tree, and he hadn’t seen the SD. But after a little probing from Meryl, Willis admitted, that he may have drifted off a time or two.

Now, the waiting started—fourteen days until Meryl could use the home pregnancy test. During those two weeks, both she and Willis were on edge, though for different reasons. Willis wanted the shopping for a SD to be over with so he could have his wife back to himself. He hated her sleeping with other men and was always wondering in the back of his mind if she enjoyed it more with them than she did with him. He kept his insecurities to himself, though, because he wanted a child just as badly, maybe even more, than Meryl. He mentally gritted his teeth and bore it. And he prayed that this time, a child had been conceived.

Meryl was anxious to know if she were pregnant but there was another factor preying on her mind: the man with the amber eyes and her time with him. Though those hours in the hotel room bed were a blur and she couldn’t recall the details, her body remembered the exquisite pleasure. Willis was an excellent lover, but the man was more than a lover: he was a possessor. She could still hear his parting words—You are mine, Meryl Blackthorn. He had not used her fake name, or her married name; he had called her by her maiden name. How had he known it? Or was it just her imagination playing tricks on her? No, he had definitely said it. Some things about that night had been fuzzy, but his naming of her wasn’t. Nor her strangled acknowledgment, “Yes….”

What would have happened if the man (She never thought of him as Brandon Tyler; it was always “the man.”) had been there when she awoke? Would he have asked her to stay with him? Would she have begged to stay with him? No, that was utter nonsense. She loved Willis, didn’t want anyone but him.

But the man with the amber eyes continued to haunt her dreams and sneaked into her mind in her waking hours as well. She would often come out of a sort of fugue state where she had been reliving that night in the hotel room. Thank God Willis wasn’t around when it happened. Sometimes, an hour or more had gone by with her having no recollection of time passing…just of him.


Two weeks after the encounter, Meryl urinated on the stick, and in less than two minutes a plus sign showed in the little window. At long last it was over; she was pregnant. No more keeping track of her fertile times, she and Willis seeking out a suitable SD. Now, she could concentrate on impending motherhood.

As the months passed and her stomach grew and rounded out, Willis was like a man possessed. He insisted Meryl quit her paralegal job, went to every checkup with her, saw to it that she ate properly, followed the obstetrician’s orders about the proper amount of exercise, and saw to her every want and need. And the upcoming new member of their family wasn’t ignored. Willis painted the bedroom next to theirs—the walls a sunny yellow decorated with white-framed pictures of cuddly, cartoon animals, and the ceiling indigo blue on which he affixed a plethora of reflective star decals, turning it into a night sky of twinkling lights. He filled the room with all manner of upscale nursery furniture made of expensive walnut. And when he found out at the eighteen-week ultrasound that Meryl was carrying a boy, he started purchasing a layette, bringing home new items almost daily.

Willis didn’t seem to notice that Meryl didn’t share his enthusiasm; he had enough for them both.

The growing baby made Meryl uneasy. It—no, he—was so active that there were nights she didn’t sleep much. And the days were no better. He rolled and kicked and elbowed, as if he were anxious to escape her body. He was strong. The kicks to her ribs were particularly painful. She ate all the time, her appetite enormous, but she stayed the same size except for her stomach and breasts. Her doctor said this was normal, especially for a first pregnancy, and seemed to dismiss her claim that she ate enough for ten, not two. She wished she had a friend who had children to consult, or a mother; but hers had died giving birth to her, and her dad had passed away shortly after Meryl graduated college. She had no aunts—both her parents had been an only child. She had no evidence anything was amiss, only the feeling this was no ordinary pregnancy.

And every night she dreamed of the man….

To be continued…

©2022 July Day

Baby Makes Three—part three of three

Image by Duc Quang Tran from Pixabay

Baby Makes Three–part one of three

Meryl sat at the bar, gripping a whiskey on the rocks with both hands to stop their trembling. This was the third month in a row she had sat here, sipping a drink, and waiting for the right man to approach. If one didn’t materialize tonight, it would be another month before they could try again.
She glanced at the table in back where her husband sat. Their eyes made contact, and he gave a small smile of encouragement, raised three fingers above the rim of his glass. “This is the night, babe,” he had said before they left the house. “Three time’s a charm.” Meryl hoped so. She wanted this to be over.
But she wanted a baby even more. And so did Willis. And that old biological clock was winding down.
After they had been married about ten years, Willis had been promoted to a spot in the upper echelon of Bradford Investment Services that came with a seven-figure annual salary. Both had agreed they were now financially secure and could start the family they had always wanted. Three children at least. But after two years of charting, temperature taking, and almost always having sex when Meryl ovulated, there was no pregnancy to show for it. So, Meryl and Willis Lanford underwent the necessary tests to find out the problem, and it turned out to be a big one: Willis was sterile.
They debated artificial insemination using an anonymous donor, and adoption, but Willis wasn’t happy with either option, and Meryl wasn’t too keen on adoption either. She wanted to experience pregnancy and giving birth. Her husband understood but didn’t want to go the sperm donor route. “How can you pick a father from a profile and pictures?” he asked. “I want to see the man, talk to him, get a feel for him. And you’re an excellent judge of character, Meryl. You can spot a bad apple a mile away.” Willis was right about that—Meryl had an innate ability to have someone’s number after speaking with them for no more than five minutes, a gift passed on from her great-grandmother, who, when Meryl was a child, had been rumored to be a witch. She hadn’t told Willis that part, of course; it was too crazy.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” asked a deep voice to her right.
“Oh…” Startled, Meryl looked up from her drink into a smiling face so handsome it was almost pretty. “Not at all,” she answered, returning the smile, hers small and nervous.
The man slid onto the stool to her right and beckoned the bartender. “Scotch and soda, please.” Then turned to her. “You here by yourself?”
“Just waiting on my brother,” she said, using the line she and Willis had agreed on. “We’re having a quick drink before he flies out on business tonight.” Enough information to let the man know she wasn’t alone—a safety measure—but was available. She didn’t feel available, though, and was acutely aware of her bare ring finger.
“What a coincidence,” the man said. “I just flew in on business.”
“What kind of business?” she asked, but didn’t really listen as he talked about some legal matter that had brought him to the city. Instead, she took him in—hair and eyes the same shade of brown as Willis’s. About the same height. Similar features. In fact, they looked enough alike to be brothers, though this man was more handsome. And they dressed similarly: a tailored three-piece suit that fit like a glove.
“I’d ask if I could buy you a drink, but you’ve barely touched the one you have.”
“I’m not much of a drinker.” Meryl tucked a strand of sleek, shoulder-length black hair behind her ear, glanced down at the man’s hands. Looked like they were professionally manicured—elegant, but still strong. She liked his hands, liked that he took care of them. “Strictly social.” Her eyes flicked upward to meet his. She had been wrong about the color. They were brown, yes, but flecked with light amber. And the irises were ringed a darker amber. They were stunning, hard to look away from.
“I thought you looked out of your element,” he said. “Not the type of woman to frequent bars.”
She didn’t know quite how to take his somewhat patriarchal comment. “And just what type of man frequents bars?”
His smile widened, showing even white teeth. “The type that’s staying in the adjoining hotel and is winding down after a long flight because flying makes him…uncomfortable.”
So, he wasn’t quite perfect. Another plus.
Meryl’s great-grandmother had told her eyes were the mirror of the soul, that if one looked deep enough, and had the talent, one could ascertain character. Or the lack of it. And in this man’s eyes, which she couldn’t look away from, Meryl saw a good man.
He proffered his hand. “Brandon Tyler.”
Without breaking eye contact, Meryl held out her damp one. “Mer…” My God, she had almost screwed up! “Miranda Lewis.” The touch of his hand sent a shock wave through her body. Tingling all over, she sucked in a shaky breath, felt heat rise in her face. The man’s eyes darkened, widened. And when she pulled back her hand, he held on for a few moments before letting go. He had felt it too.
Meryl hadn’t expected that: sexual attraction to a potential SD (what she and Willis dubbed their prey…sounded less clinical than sperm doner) and was both elated and horrified. And filled with guilt. In all their years of marriage, she had been perfectly content with Willis, both in and out of the bedroom. And now here she was, eager to strip naked and crawl on top of this stranger. She wanted him.
The man—Brandon—laughed softly, ran a nervous hand through his thick, dark hair. “Well…didn’t see that coming.” He broke eye contact, took a gulp from his scotch and soda.
Meryl took the opportunity to glance at Willis, gave an almost imperceptible nod. Leaving his drink, along with cash, on the table, her husband circled the back of the dimly lit bar and approached them from the doorway that led into the hotel lobby. Meryl turned to Brandon. “How long will you be in town?”
“Just overnight. Have an early flight to—”
“Miranda.” Along with his voice, she felt the weight of Willis’s arm over her shoulder. “So good to see you.”
Meryl stood, was enveloped in her “brother’s” arms, felt a light kiss on her cheek. “You too, William, it’s been far too long.”
He slid onto the empty seat to her left. “Who’s you friend?” he asked, smiling around her at Brandon.
“Well, I just met him, so….”
Brandon’s right hand shot out in front of her. “Brandon Tyler.”
Her husband took the hand, shook it. “William Lewis, this beautiful lady’s brother. And in case you were wondering, I won’t be around long.” He smiled and winked.
He did everything but straight out say “she’s all yours” to let this guy know he has no claim on me, Meryl thought with a touch of irritation. Just going to hand me over like a piece of meat.

To be continued...

©2022 July Day

Baby Makes Three—part two of three

Baby Makes Three—part three of three

Image by Duc Quang Tran from Pixabay

Come Out, Come Out

A little tale for Halloween….😱😉

“There’s something in Mrs. Treadway’s root cellar,” I said to Mama’s back. “Something gruntin’ and groanin’ like an old hog.”

The paring knife stopped circling the tater in Mama’s hand. She turned around and stared at me, frown lines gouging furrows between her eyes. “April May Lollis, didn’t I tell you to stay away from there and not be bothering that poor woman?” She waved the shiny blade in my direction. “She’s got enough on her shoulders without you snooping around, asking silly questions. What with her husband up and dying and Jesse joining the Army right after, I don’t know how she runs that place by herself. Course, truth be told, Jesse wasn’t much help to begin with.”

“I ain’t said nothing to her.” I bit into the pear I’d picked from the scrawny tree out behind Mrs. Treadway’s outhouse. Juice ran down my chin, and I wiped it off with the back of my hand. “She didn’t even see me.”

Mama pointed the knife at the half-eaten pear in my hand. “Where’d you get that then?”

I sighed great big. “Off her tree, but she didn’t see me. I didn’t go nowhere near her house. But you know that old root cellar way out behind her garden…something’s in there. I heard it. And there’s a new lock on the door and—”

“April May, how many times have I got to tell you to quit making stuff up?”

“I ain’t making it up, Mama.”

“Or imagining it or telling stories, whatever you want to call it.”

I didn’t know why Mama just didn’t say I was lying—though I wasn’t, not this time. But she put stuff nicer than Daddy; he always said plain out that I was lying. And most of the time I guess I was ‘cause the things I thought, well, they wasn’t always so.

“Go play outside and let me finish supper,” Mama said. “And don’t you go telling your brother and sisters this foolishness when they get off the school bus.” She turned around to the sink. Another go-round of the knife on the tater. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t say anything to your daddy either.”

“Mama, there really was…I mean…”

“April May!”

I stomped across the green-and-blue speckled linoleum and pushed open the back-door screen, letting it bang shut behind me.

Sometimes I got so mad. Why wouldn’t she believe me? Jeeze…

I tromped around in the back yard, every once in a while kicking amongst the big piles of leaves Zack had raked up the evening before, scattering them all back out again. He’d be mad at me when he got home from school, but I didn’t care ‘cause I was mad too. Mama didn’t believe me, and this time I knew I’d heard something. And it didn’t matter if I told Daddy and Zack and Evie and Nora, none of them would go look in that root cellar and see I wasn’t telling no story.

What was in there? It had sounded kind of like a pig, but maybe it was a dog, and maybe it was starving. Maybe that was why it had sounded so funny. Yeah, it was a dog, alright. I just knew it was.

Continue reading “Come Out, Come Out”

The Turned Out

“Go on with ye, now,” Willow said, poking Dobie in the back with her spear point. “Yer pack’s ready. No use ye dawdling…day’s wasting.”

Dobie thought to kiss his wife goodbye, but she backed away, glared and raised her spear higher. She be giving no quarter, he thought. Eyes as mean and cold as ary grubber snake. He took in her rounded belly, barely noticeable beneath the thick, brown fur of her shift, wondered if he’d be back before the babe was borned—if he came back at all. “Well…I’ll be seeing ye when the yellow flowers come, then.”

She gave a jerk of her head toward the door.

Dobie pulled aside the door flap and stepped out into the cold, overcast day, joining the line of silent, stoop-shouldered men shuffling along the well-worn path between the huts.

Snow, soft and light, began drifting from the pearly sky, confirming what Old Turtle Woman had foreseen the day before, and by the time all the men had reached the gate, it was coming down hard, quickly covering the ground and their fur hats and capes. The north wind gusted, flinging the fat snowflakes into their bearded faces.

Lark and Mallow stood to either side of the open gate, hard eyes staring straight ahead. Neither woman met the mens’ gazes; until the cold time passed, they were faceless, useless, a burden to the village. They were now “The Turned Out,” and as such would be on their own in the Never-ending Forest until the snow retreated and warmth returned to the land. No home. No hearth. No wives.

Dobie glanced back when the creaking gate closed, heard the heavy log drop into its braces. And knew he nor the other men would be allowed back inside the walls for any reason—not for three or more moons.

But that was the way of it: at first snowfall, growed men became The Turned Out, leaving the safety of the village to live with Father Winter, while the women and young ones stayed inside behind the high walls, well provisioned.


Late in the day, three wolves took down Merdu, who had fallen behind, hindered by a crippled foot that hadn’t mended right after being broken five or six moons ago. Dobie and the other men chased off the attackers, though none of their spears found a target. Sly devils that they were, no wolf was injured or killed. Merdu wasn’t so lucky; both his throat and belly had been torn open.

Standing over the dead man, Kreek, the eldest of the men, said, “Be full dark soon. This be as good a place as any to make camp. Heath, take two with ye and gather wood for a fire. Fincher, ye set up the watch. Dobie, ye and Alreth tend to Merdu.”

Dobie and Alreth squatted to either side of Merdu, began stripping him of his furs and clothing, which would be divided up later. Then, with practiced ease, begin filleting meat from bone.

Alreath said, “We be eting good tonight.”

“That we will,” Dobie said. But what about the other frigid days and nights that stood between them and the return of the yellow flowers? How many more would go the way of Merdu? Would he go the way of Merdu, or worse, end up in a white bear’s belly?

Only the One Above knew.

©️2022 July Day

Image by Joonas Koutaniemi from Pixabay

Inspiration for this story came from my brother-in-law–a beekeeper. In a recent conversation, he told me how drones (which are males) are driven out of the hive each autumn to preserve resources. This bit of information tumbled around in my mind and came out as a story.

The Barn Cats

(A heads-up for people who prefer their fiction in small bites–this story is about 5,000 words.)

As far back as I can remember, I enjoyed going to my grandparents’ house. It was little more than a large shack, even older than the house I lived in with my parents, sister, and brother. It was the outside, though, that called to us—the valley falling off to the left and the branch that rambled along its bottom; the steep hill rising on its other side, topped by a stand of woods that went on forever; the hayfields at the bottom of a slope to the back, their waving grasses reaching to a canebrake that bordered a wide creek; the ancient barn perched on the valley’s edge where Brother, Sister, and I played many a rainy day. And the corncrib next to it.

But we weren’t allowed to play there.

Before they came to stay with us, the barn cats lived in that corncrib. We heard but never saw them. The farm animals avoided the corncrib as well. Maybe it was the strange noises the cats made, more growl than hiss, that kept everyone and everything away from it. Except Grandma, and Grandpa before he died two years ago. All Brother, Sister, and I knew was the cats killed rats, mice, and snakes, so were tolerated but were to be avoided. Grandma said they were feral, were familiar with only her and grandpa, and they could hurt people they didn’t know.

Grandma died less than two years after Grandpa. Daddy found her sitting in her rocker on the front porch, stone-cold dead, when he went to visit her late one afternoon. I recall it being hot summertime, and as he did every day, Daddy had gone to take her a plate of food covered with tinfoil from the supper Mama had made.

I didn’t remember the event well, being as I was only six at the time. My main memory of Grandma’s death was a long, black car showing up and taking her body away while we kids looked on. I peeked from behind Mama’s dress tail; Brother and Sister were older than me, eleven and nine respectively, and didn’t shy away. Maybe because they had seen more of death than I had. Though I didn’t, both remembered when Grampa had also been carted off in a different black car up the rocky, dirt road that eventually led to town.

While we were watching the long car jostle and bounce over the rocks, Daddy said to Mama, “I’ll have to come back and get the barn cats. They’re our responsibility now.”

Mama sighed, “I know.” Continue reading “The Barn Cats”

The Key

It was a small door, as far as doors go, no taller than three feet, and easy to miss. When I removed Granny’s dresses hanging in the closet, just the top of it was visible, the rest covered by three boxes stacked on top of each other. Curious as to why there was a door inside Granny’s closet—who wouldn’t be?—I twisted its knob, jiggled. Locked tight.

I put the mystery out of mind, but not completely; I would be keeping an eye out for keys as I went through Granny’s possessions.

The task of cleaning out Granny Sophie’s house after her death had fallen to me, since, as my mother had put it, “You have nothing better to do.” I had decided to stay home, hadn’t taken my mother up on her offer to accompany her on a six-week cruise the summer between my senior year of high school and beginning college. At the time, I hadn’t wanted to be away from Bradly that long, especially since we would be attending college thousands of miles apart come fall. But the main reason I had declined her offer was I couldn’t bear the thought of being cooped up in a small suite of rooms with her for six whole weeks. She was the type of woman one couldn’t take in large doses, a woman who was more concerned with money and social status than most anything else. And since she had about burned through the savings account and assets that after Daddy’s death a year ago had become solely hers (except for a fund he’d set up for my college education), she was on the lookout for a new husband. “While I still have my looks, you know,” she had said with a toss of her long, blonde mane.

Snaring a well-to-do gentleman was Mother’s sole purpose behind booking the cruise. I didn’t think she minded at all that I hadn’t gone with her. I wouldn’t be there to judge when she set her hooks in whomever she had picked to be my new father. And if the man were married, she would consider it only a minor obstacle in her path.

Less than two weeks into my mother’s cruise, Granny Sophie died, and I assumed Mother would fly back home, but I had underestimated her selfishness. “Sophie was not my mother, she was your father’s. And you know we were never close. You’re a big girl, Moira, you can handle things until I get back.” I’d had a feeling that if Granny Sophie had tons of money in the bank and an expensive home, Mother would have swum back if necessary to settle her mother-in-law’s estate. But Granny didn’t have much, just a small, going-to-seed house on the outskirts of town and barely enough money in her bank account to pay for her cremation.

I glanced at the urn holding her ashes that sat atop the dresser. Knowing Granny’s love of all things purple, I had picked it out myself—a deep royal color shot through with lightning streaks of silver. Its reflection glinted in the mirror, reminding me of the twinkle in her violet eyes.

When I was a child, I had seen that twinkle many times: when she taught me how to make faux gingerbread men using mud down by the small branch that meandered behind her house; how to cut off a piece of wild grapevine and smoke it like a cigarette; what weeds and flowers to pick in the woods across the branch, and the potions and things one could make with them. But her eyes always sparkled most when she told me about the place she had discovered when she was a child, a magical world full of fairies, dwarves, giants, and dragons you could ride.

Continue reading “The Key”

Cold, Cold Heart

“What should we do with the body?” Luna asks her twin. “We can’t just leave it here to rot.”

“Is that all you’re worried about—Mother rotting?” Fauna shot back. “You can be so cold-blooded at times.”

Luna’s blue, elliptical eyes move from the withered body on the gray boards to meet Fauna’s. “We are cold-blooded, Sister.”

“Not completely.” Fauna sniffs. “Just half.”

“Well, I didn’t see you turning away from feeding on her.”

“I was so hungry. And after I saw you taking her blood, I couldn’t stop myself. But we shouldn’t have….”

“We had to if we are to live,” Luna says. “Father hasn’t brought us anything to eat in weeks, and we’ve eaten all the rats and everything else around the house. Who knows, he may be dead.”

Fauna grabs her sister’s arm. “Don’t even think it! Surely, he will come any day now. It’s barely summer; it’s not time for him to go away for a while. How will we survive if—”

“We will do whatever we have to.” Luna pries the clawed, pale-green fingers from her arm. “Just like Father taught us.”

“I hate this!” Fauna wails.

“Hate it all you want, but do it on your own time. Right now, help me get Mother in the root cellar. Her meat will sustain us for a few weeks if we’re careful, and maybe Father will come before she’s gone.”


A month passes and Father doesn’t come, and Luna knows she and Fauna will have to leave their home to find food. She informs her sister they will leave in the morning, go out into the woods surrounding the old house, and make their own way in the world. On his last visit, Father said they would be ready soon, and soon had come, whether either she or her sister likes it.

Continue reading “Cold, Cold Heart”

Crossing Crows

The crows and their winged allies had overtaken the old barn.
About two weeks ago, the crows and several other species of largish birds—some Moses Parsons knew, some not—had started roosting inside the sway-sided structure’s rafters. At first, it was just a few, but day by day the numbers had grown until the birds now covered the overhead timbers, causing the termite-riddled rafters to bow beneath their combined weight. And the smell of their droppings, why, the mess stank to high heaven. They squawked day and night and had upset Dorothy the milk cow so badly that she began refusing to enter the barn. After seeing the bloody pecks peppering her back, Moses couldn’t really blame her, so left the old girl to roam the pasture and find shelter beneath the copse of hackberries near the pond.
And now there was more to worry about: last night Moses had heard them in the attic above his bed, hissing mixed in with the raucous cackles. He wondered how long it would be before they got to him.
It was his own damn fault; he never should have shot at the crows in the first place. He had meant to shoot over them with the scattergun, just scare ‘em out of the corn patch, but a pellet took out one crow. It dropped like a rock while the others flew off.
Moses tried to make amends, fetched the crow’s body and gave it a proper burial, cross and all, beside the pink rose bush crawling all over the garden fence that his late wife Bessy—God rest her soul—had planted shortly before she died of a heart attack last year. That didn’t make ‘em happy, though; the next morning he came out to gather a few early tomatoes for his dinner, and where he had buried the crow, as well as the pink rose bush, was covered in greenish white bird poop. And on top of that, the small cross he had made from twigs and twine was laying on its side, and the buried crow dug up and carted off.
They’re sure ‘nough pissed at me.
Moses was a kind soul by nature. Much to Bessy’s dismay—when she was still living—he wouldn’t even squash a bug or spider that wandered inside the house, nor set a mouse trap. He just put the critters back outdoors when he could catch ‘em. It was safer that way. From the time he had been a young sprout, some seventy-odd years ago, he had known that creepy-crawly things could sometimes be vindictive. But nothing like crows.
He had learned that from his own grandpappy, had heard horror stories while sitting on the old man’s lap many, many years ago, about what could happen to a body that crossed crows. And when Moses’ mama wasn’t looking, his grandpappy slid up the patch that covered his right eye to show Moses the mess of what had once been an eye. Before a crow had pecked it out. His mama told little Moses to ignore the old man, that he was just spinning tales. But Moses noticed his mama didn’t do anything to harm the birds, just put up a God-awful-looking scarecrow, set a fake owl on an old, metal birdbath smack-dab in the middle of the garden patch, and laid some strategically placed rubber snakes in amongst the vegetables. And for good measure, she hung some tinfoil pie plates over the plants from clothesline cord she strung between cedar posts.
I should’ve done all that, Moses thought. Or at the least put up some of them shiny plates to go with that damned, falling apart scarecrow that wasn’t scaring nothing and never had. But in the decades he and Bessy had been planting their own garden, the crows hadn’t been much of a problem. Until this year. When the tassels started turning brown, they moved in on him. Now, he didn’t mind them eating some of the corn—he had planted more than he needed for that purpose—but the black devils started taking more than their share, enough so that at the rate they were going, he wouldn’t have none left to put in the freezer.
So, he had taken Daddy’s old scattergun, loaded it with bird shot, and aiming well above the crows feasting on his corn, pulled the trigger. And one crow had fallen from the sky because of his foolishness; and that one dead crow was most likely going to be the death of him.
More crows showed up after that and other birds too. They ate from his garden like it was their own personal dinner table. Moses took to every time he went outside, he first scanned the sky, making sure no birds were about; but somehow, they knew when he was in the open, and in a few minutes would descend on him, driving him back inside. Several times, he had tried to make it to the barn where his old truck was parked, but before he could get anywhere near it, the murder was on him, pecking and shitting and herding him back into the house.
Moses was on his own. He and Bessy never had no kids, and the few kin he still had were scattered over hell-and-half-of-Georgia. And no phone to call a neighbor, the closest being the Lampros, whose farm lay five miles away. Moses had refused to pay for a line to be run the two miles from the main road down to his little house in the valley. He now realized that had been a big mistake.
Now, for the third night in a row, as he lays on his back in bed, covers pulled down to his waist because of July’s heat, listening to them fuss and squawk, he heard another, unfamiliar noise. Something new was happening up there. Moses felt a fine, dry mist falling on his face and arms. He reached over and flipped on the bedside lamp.
First thing he noticed was the brown grit on his arms, then, when the birds in the attic took to cackling like witches, he looked up. Tiny bits of what looked to be dirt filtered down, stinging his eyes. He blinked but didn’t look away. Then he saw it: a beak.
Aw, well, he thought as more beaks joined the first, and the hole got bigger and bigger. I’m more’n ready to see my Bessy again, anyway.


The following day, Jed and Marybeth Lampro dropped by to pay Moses a visit, see how he was getting on. The husband and wife had been Moses and Bessy’s good friends for almost forty years and knowing how lonesome Moses had been after Bessy passed, they did their best to get out and see him at least once a month.
It was Jed who saw Moses first, hanging crucified on the scarecrow post in the garden. And all he could think as Marybeth was screaming to high heaven was, How in hell did he manage to hang himself up there?
One of the many crows covering Moses’ bloody, half-skinned body plucked out his one remaining eye and flew away.

©2022 July Day

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