Aside from Laz the cat dozing on my lap, I was left alone with my thoughts. The twinkle lights on the Christmas tree felt homey, and traditional holiday music played softly, recalling gilded icons and stained glass. Lovely to have some time off from waitressing and my work as a shaman. I settled deeper into the couch, and at some point, I slept.
Laz pawed at my face, GET UP GET UP GET UP! I woke to a creaking and groaning of wood. The walls moved and the vase of flowers in the hallway slipped off its table and crashed. My world tilted. It must be an earthquake. Laz’s claws dug into my thighs. Stupidly, I gripped my throw blanket in clenched fists as the couch slid across the slick bamboo floor. Then everything tilted the opposite direction and the couch slid back. A corner of my brain asked if this weren’t unusual activity for an earthquake, but then, I’d never been in one before. It’s walking! Laz’s fur stood straight up, and she bared her teeth. I extricated myself from her grip, and she clung to the couch. The house moved forward, swaying right and left like a girl in a swing skirt. We moved along at a good pace, over the neighbor’s lawn and out to the main road. I overcame my terror to crawl out on the porch. Maybe this is how it felt to travel by ostrich, because the house had grown legs and yes, chicken feet, which strode along stepping over cars and hedges. How was this possible? It’s those bloody magic dolls, Laz grumped from her place on the oscillating couch. Maybe so. I pictured them standing on the mantle where I’d displayed them, fabulous Russian nesting dolls my grandmother had left me in her will. But as I crawled into the living room, of course I found them with the rest of the decorations sloshing around my house. Snatching up the littlest one, the size of a peanut in a shell, I crawled back outside onto the porch. Where were we going? We’d reached the beach and, therefore, had run out of island in that direction, so we turned and followed the coast. Docile waves lapped in the moonlight. We got to the inlet, where the house clucked and flapped its doors like wings. Maybe this would be a good time to turn around. On hands and knees, I scrambled to the kitchen to find anything a house might eat. Cracker Jacks were basically popped corn, right? I jumped to the ground and sprinkled the kernels out behind us, the way we came. The house turned and scratched the sand and, oh no, pitched forward to peck the ground! I leapt aside just in time before it smashed its front porch against the ground, and being top-heavy, it fell over. Its useless chicken legs were struggling in mid-air. What a shame, it had been a lovely cottage, there on the cove with the others. Should I call the fire department? Clenching my teeth to control my shaking, I climbed back into the kitchen to dial 911. After I described what had happened, the dispatcher forwarded my call to the Fish and Wildlife Service. Agonizing minutes later, sirens and the sound of large trucks rumbled toward me. Fish and Wildlife had come out with a crane and flatbed. “Are you Baba Yaga?” a man with a badge asked. Babushka, my grandmother had been called that. Now I’d inherited both the name and the gifts, apparently. “I guess I am. News to me.” He gave me a strange look and a form to sign. “Well, can you fly in a mortar and pestle?” I shrugged. “Never tried it. Don’t know.” Meanwhile, others in uniform had inspected my struggling abode and decided it was possible to replace the house on its pad. Mr. In Charge motioned to the crane operator, who worked his levers, picking up the house and setting it on the flatbed. I considered calling my friend Drigo, but didn’t want to wake him. Our cottage walked away, I messaged. He was awake and replied. With you in it? Yeah, but I’m on the ground now. Are you hurt? he asked. No, I’m fine. A flower vase broke. I think a railing is damaged. Did you put it back? he asked. The railing? The house, he answered. Oh. Yes, we’re doing it now. Okay, good. I’ll be there as soon as I can. He sent a little heart. I sent one back. “You want to ride in the house?” the officer asked me. “That might keep it calmer. Maybe play some music.” I doubted it, but did as he suggested, taking Laz along with me. I turned on the stereo, which by some miracle, still worked. The classical station played The Nutcracker, a Christmas favorite, as we rumbled down the road on top of the flat bed, a merry holiday parade behind the mobile crane. Our procession had just reached the naked foundation where our home should be, when the Russian Dance came on the radio. Apparently, the house loved this music as much I did. It stood up and jumped off the truck, while Laz and I tumbled to the ground. My house leapt forward in a Cossack-style dance—down to a crouch and springing up and kicking, down to the ground and up again, its chicken toes extended into the air, doors flapping wide. My heart raced with the notes of the Tchaikovsky classic and the house’s running steps. Suddenly, I knew what to do. Gripping the tiniest Babushka doll tightly in my left hand, I ran back into my yard to find kayak and paddle. Was I really Baba Yaga? Time to find out. I jumped into the boat with Laz right behind me. She had barely settled in my lap when the kayak rose into the air. I followed my cottage, its quick-quick, chicken steps carrying it forward. Now it stopped to scratch the ground and attempted to peck at a worm with its roof. “House!” I called out. But the music swelled, and it executed a series of straddle jumps—splits high in air, toes reaching the height of its internal ears. Five, six, seven, eight! I couldn’t help being impressed by its athleticism. “Bravo!” I cheered and waved my paddle. Don’t encourage it, Laz warned. Perhaps she was right. In any case, as the song reached its crescendo, the cottage performed a number of turns on one leg, notoriously difficult, sending it crashing through a row of hedges into the next yard. Steering the kayak after it, I searched my mind and came up with the Russian word for house—it rhymed with “home.” “Dom!” I called to it, and it paused, along with the music. I landed my kayak near it. How to make eye contact? Peering into its windows, I slipped inside its brain, such as it was, in the crawl space full of pink insulation. At last I felt on more familiar territory, since my duties as shaman often called for communing with untamed creatures. I praised the house for its performance and made soothing noises, willing it cluck-cluck back to its foundation. It complied, perhaps worn out from its exertion, and there it settled, as if on a nest. Drigo’s taxi pulled up and before it stopped rolling, he sprang out, eyes wide with wonder. “Everything okay?” he called out. I smiled. “Sure, nothing I couldn’t handle.” “How did this happen?” I opened my palm to reveal the littlest Babushka doll. “A little Christmas magic, I guess.” Drigo shook his head. “This is why I’m a Buddhist.”
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This is the month where 500,000 people commit to writing 50,000 words. Writing a novel in the month of November has been my form of insanity for the last 3 years. Here are a few of my words:
--From my work in progress about Candice, a young shaman newly arrived in False Key, Florida-- I consulted the map from the Tourist Office. Good news, the doctor of alternative medicine was located in right down the street from the youth hostel. According to the Visitor’s Guide, Spare Change, the magic shop recommended by the bartender in Anchorage, was directly next door. It had been an apothecary in a previous incarnation, now being run as a tea shop. I expected an intimate encounter in a dusky room filled to the ceiling with shelves of dusty bottles and jars. But the moment I walked into the brightly tea shop, I hated it. The place was brimming with hundreds of chattering people, many of whom waited in the long line leading to the hostess stand. A dozen staff members flitted around tables like fish through a coral reef—many of them male, all of whom were dressed as women. Dozens of tiny, round two-top tables topped in slate filled the cavernous, circular room. Each table had some kind of partitioning device separating it from its neighbors. Around the near edge of the room, patrons huddled over boiling cauldrons billowing steam to the vaulted ceiling. “My tea is cold,” complained a woman sitting at table with a gauzy mosquito netting draping over it attached to the ceiling. A waiter adjusted her bunsen burner. The resulting flames leaping up at the netting were put out by a bikini-clad waitress with a fire extinguisher, who did his work with a yawn and moved on, as if he did this every day several times and had more important matters to attend to. “Hey, Beakface!” Someone called out and waved. Across the room, someone else waved back. “Hey, Tony!” People at Beakface’s table nodded at the acknowledgement. In a section beyond this, the tables had dark curtains stitched with fantastical creatures shielding the occupants from view. The corner booths had rice paper screens constructed around them. And the far wall was a row of swinging doors with an endless stream of waitstaff hustling tea trays to tables. Where the table curtains were parted, the occupied ones had chalk markings on their blackboard tabletops, some runes or hieroglyphs, Cyrillic lettering I recognized from the Russian Orthodox churches in my village, others with more familiar words like Darjeeling, but many more I had never seen. People were playing checkers, board games, dominoes, or cards. Finally, it was my turn for the harried young nurse making his way down the line from the check-in desk to query me. He wore a white lab coat over a black bustier, which he filled admirably. Ten-inch, electric blue platform boots and European style frameless glasses completed his ensemble. His hair, poking out from a paper white nurse’s hat, shone in tousled, raven curls on his head. He kept his eyes fixed on his clipboard it as he spoke. “Name and occupation?” I hesitated before saying, “Snow. Unemployed.” He made a note and I could read his writing upside down--Candice, shaman. “Malady?” I leaned forward and spoke quietly, not wanting the people behind me to hear. “I keep slipping into other creatures’ points of view. By accident.” He wrote the letters “ADD,” which I interpreted to mean Attention Deficit Disorder. “Cup or intravenous?” “Um, cup, definitely.” “Sign this waiver.” Read more on Wattpad. Trick or Treating False Key by Serena Schreiber We younger children, I gripping my plastic samurai sword and Bella tripping on her too-long kimono hem, crept closer to the dark house while our older siblings lit cigarettes and loitered outside the garden wall. Lumbering after us in a masked turtle costume, Nick complained, "Wait up, Tyler!" Bella and I both shushed him. I heard my brother Xander laugh from the sidewalk. "Later, losers." Already bored, he and his friends would move on to their teenager party, leaving us to our fate. It was a dare, the annual one, to trick-or-treat the Rockefeller house, and we were the dumb fish who had taken the bait. Proof we'd been inside the decaying mansion could buy us entry to the older kids' party and games like Spin-the-Bottle. Reaching the front door was our first challenge, so we made our way over the coquina pavers, slick with moss, past the sculptures lining the pathway--nightmare figures screaming, cowering, and kneeling. I checked my back jeans pocket to be sure my penny whistle was there. At the first rustle in the underbrush, Nick cried out. "Oh!" "It's just a cat," Bella said calmly. "The witch's cat!" His cape fluttered out as he ran for it. "What a baby," Bella muttered, shaking her head. Privately, I agreed with Nick. Several freakish cats emerged, meowing in strangled harmony. So, the stories were true. Three, four, five cats--all had six toes on their forepaws. What other stories were true about the old lady? I shuddered. "Come on," I said. "Let's get this over with." We climbed the porch steps. A plastic jack o'lantern flickered in the window. Next to the door, the shell-shaped name plate read "Rockefeller." With a jolt, I remembered the family from class--something to do with oil? Supposed to be stinking rich, weren't they? Couldn't be. The place was a dump. I knocked. "She's not a witch, you know," Bella said. "Of course not." I said, my voice edgy. "Don't believe everything you hear." "She's a mermaid," she whispered. I laughed. "Don't be stupid." I knocked again, louder this time, and rang the bell, but heard no sound. "No, really. Trapped on land. She sings and carves people." She hugged her bulging candy bag to her chest. I liked the freckles that danced across her nose from one cheek to the other and the shiny, red ponytail which bounced when she talked. I grinned. "You mean with a great, big knife?" I held up my make-believe sword. "No, like an artist. With a hammer and chisel." I stared at her, uncomprehending. Impatiently, she huffed. "We just walked past her artwork." "Whatever." I shrugged. "She's not home." "Maybe she's in her workshop. Let's go see." I shook my head. "No way." I'd seen plenty of scary movies, and I knew this was the deciding moment. "Let's go the party." Maybe play Truth or Dare. Bella smirked. "Baby." Apparently, Truth or Dare was happening now. Fine. "Where's the workshop?" "Around back." "How do you know?" "I've been here before." Admiration battled unease as we followed the wraparound porch to the back of the house. Maybe this would turn out okay. We'd get some candy and have an excellent story to tell. "Okay. And then we go to the party." I'd attempted a devil-may-care attitude, but her words nagged at me as we picked our way around the house. "What do you mean, trapped?" "Crimes against her kind. Using her powers for evil." The property appeared small from the front, but in fact, stretched way back into the distance. Between us and the far end, a vast expanse of underbrush flowed around dozens more weathered, pearlescent sculptures glinting dully in the moon wash. Beyond these, a long, low shed crouched under live oak trees. Light streamed from an open door. "So she is a witch!" "She's an artist. You know, misunderstood." She stepped off the back porch and waded through ferns, avoiding the crowns-of-thorn on her way to the shed. As we neared, I heard silvery singing over a rhythmic tap-tap like metal on stone--tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap. A cat pushed past me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I'd never hated cats before, but I kicked out at it. It hissed. Bella whirled around, her pretty face pale against her pink lipstick. "Tyler, no! Don't touch the cats!" From afar her came an elderly voice. "Bella, is that you?" A lady stood outside the shed--white-haired and squinting behind owlish glasses. She held a mallet and a sharp tool, reminding me of blunt force and stabbing. Clearly, I play too much GTA. "What are you doing here so late?" she called out. "Who's your friend?" "Hi, Granny. It's Halloween. Did you forget?" I whispered, "She's your grandmother?" The woman smiled. "Everyone calls me that. Pleased to meet you, Tyler. Come on in." Granny retreated into the shed and I followed her and a couple of the creepy cats inside. Granny gestured at open bags of candy on a stool near the door. "Take plenty, I don't get many trick-or-treaters." Bella said, "Well, maybe you would, if you'd answer the door." I helped myself to gummy spiders. "Too much work to do." Granny set to work again, resuming that rhythmic tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap. Her tools moved in millimeter increments between each pair of taps, chipping along a charcoal line drawn on the vaguely human-shaped hunk of stone which rested on the ground before her. I plopped into a lawn chair near the door to watch, working my way through the bag of candy. The gummies were the best I'd ever had--soft and fruity. I couldn't stop eating them. Bella peered into the eyes of a seated sculpture. "Is that the pizza guy?" she asked. Granny nodded. "Jeffrey. The cats got overambitious. He'll need a fair amount of work." "So, Clara is finished?" "Completely roughed out. Should be ready for Christmas." I felt a drowsy and content, watching Bella and the old lady moving around the shop, discussing the artwork in varying stages of readiness, and which tools would be used next. Granny returned to her chiseling, and the tapping sound filled the shop like a gentle rain. My eyes felt heavy, each blink longer than the previous one. When I opened my eyes, Bella stood at the sculpture called Clara, running her hands over it. Its arms extended over head as if reaching. The entire figure leaned forward, as if taking a step toward me. Bella murmured something--another language? I saw tears welling in the statue's haunted eyes and running in pearly streams down her face. The statue met my gaze, and I swear she was begging forgiveness. I blinked, Clara blinked, and the eyes went blank again. Bella whirled around and caught me staring. She looked as shocked as if I'd watched her undress through an open window. I think she'd forgotten I was there, and she glared at me. "What are you looking at?" "Nothing." "Have some more gummy worms," she said, but not at all friendly. She gave me the half-eaten bag, which had slipped from my fingers. Granny had stopped chipping. "Maybe he's had enough." Bella wheeled around. "He saw. He knows!" Granny put down her tools and turned to me. "Tyler, do you play music?" She had taken off the owl-glasses and fixed me with her bright blue eyes. A single word arose in my mind, Run. "A bit," I said, trying to stand up. "I think I'll head out now." But the cats encircled my legs, rubbing against me and licking ferociously at the bare skin between my knees and sneakers. I felt bound to the chair. "But, Granny," Bella whined. "No," said Granny. "Off you go." I took the hand she offered, and with a surprising amount of strength, she pulled me out of my seat. "And you too," she said, pushing away the cats with her foot. "Away with you. Gluttons!" I chanced a glance at Bella, whose face had darkened like a storm cloud. The air around her fizzled. "Granny," she began again, but the old woman cut her off. "We don't do children!" I swear blue sparks flew from her eyes, and the steel in her voice made me flinch, but Bella seemed unfazed. "Except for the ones you choose, you mean," Bella muttered. Granny opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then spoke in a gentle voice. "Lagom är bäst." "I'll get my own. I don't need you." Granny said, "Weren't you going to a party tonight? Let's fix your hair." I lingered, expecting Bella to protest but she perched on a stool and produced a hairbrush from her tiny purse. Granny pulled out the chopsticks wedged Japanese style in Bella's ponytail and brushed her auburn hair smooth until it shone, humming a strange tune as she did so. Bella closed her eyes and relaxed while Granny did her thing. "Don't be in such a hurry to grow up." The old woman had redone Bella's hair. "Plenty of time to learn all you need. And we don't practice on friends." The piercing blue eyes turned to me. "You are a friend, aren't you, Tyler." I didn't think it wise to contradict. She fished something out of her pocket. "This is for you. Happy Halloween." In her slim, fair, outstretched hand she displayed a small, irregular pearl. I took it and left the shed--how did it get so late? Clouds scudded past the bright moon, and shadows crossed the vast yard. Cat tails moved through the long ferns, bits of movement at the corners of my vision. Granny started singing the strange melody again, and Bella joined in. I pulled the tin whistle out of my pocket and matched the notes. The seated and kneeling figures hummed a deep rumble and swayed with the grasses. Opening their pearly eyes, they stood. Like marionettes rising they cast herky-jerky shadows around the yard. Bella came out to see. "Granny, look!" By now I had the melody and the magic in my flute. I marched through the yard. Clara, quicker than the others, fell into place behind me, then Jeffrey and the other figures trudged into our Conga line, humming a bass harmony to my piccolo melody. I played, the figures shuffled forward, and our clumsy procession filed around the house. Outside the front gate, I turned right toward the party--I couldn't wait to see the look on Xander's face. Alas, alas, Clara could not pass. Her pearly eyes implored me. I remembered Granny's gift and slipped the pearl into Clara's open mouth. A vertical, hairline crack formed between her eyes, which shone with hope as the gap lengthened down her face. When it reached her chest and widened to an inch, Clara's real face, exposed behind the mask, nodded. I jammed my plastic sword into the split. She gasped. Using my sword like a crow bar, and praying it wouldn't snap, I levered the crack wider. It extended the length of her stony torso, splitting her shell in two. I heaved and opened her up like an oyster. Once the main pieces fell away and crashed to the ground, Clara stepped out of her prison. With her dusty ballerina costume and dazed expression, she looked like an earthquake survivor. "What did you do?" Bella loomed like a storm. Jeffrey and the others retreated when Granny appeared at her side. "You can't take her." Bella hissed. But Granny said, "Back by midnight." "C'mon," I said to Clara. A pack of zombie kids was lurching down the street to the Roosevelt house, shaving cream cans at the ready. I grabbed Clara's hand and dragged her away. Behind me I heard, "Trick-or-Treat." THE END If you enjoyed this story, you might like "Oyster," the prequel. Read it and more in our latest anthology, Somewhere South of Normal. |
AuthorSerena Schreiber Archives
May 2016
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