Excerpts from Marilyn Peake's Short Stories in the Twisted Tails Anthology
All of these excerpts are from the beginnings of Marilyn's three short stories ...
Witches’ Season
by Marilyn Peake
Flames threw pools of light onto the darkened emerald grass. Bursts of sun before a gathering storm. Black clouds billowed, thickened, pulled tightly together, an angry mob of condensed, cold liquid sky.
John leaned over and whispered furtively into Jacob’s ear, “She doesn’t cry out. That should ease your soul.”
Jacob turned his head slightly in the direction of John, startled by the intrusion. Without looking at the other man, continuing to gaze intently at the fire, he responded, “Yes. Yes, it does. Witches often do not cry out or complain in any way. They don’t suffer as we do.”
Jacob heard John’s soft footsteps as he turned and walked away.
Jacob continued to study the woman burning within the wooden pyre. Her red hair lit, singed, burned rapidly. The face he knew so well - with its silky skin, its pure white cheeks holding always a hint of red rose blush, her blue eyes as wildly innocent and startling as robin eggs - became engulfed in flame. The face melted and twisted oddly; Jacob saw white light shoot out from inside the moist blue eyes before fire consumed them. Anna had condemned him! She knew his secret! The witch had cursed him, now in this final moment!
Tiger in the Plum Blossoms
by Marilyn Peake
Japanese Heian Period
Early 11th
Century
Kyuzo traveled by night through the vast countryside. Hoping to surprise the Lady of the Plum Blossoms, he rode on horseback without a large retinue. His two best friends, Kamatari and Ajari, accompanied him on their own horses, black and gleaming under the pearlized luster of a full moon.
Stars twinkled against the black silk sky. Clouds played like dragon’s breath across its surface. The horses’ hooves pounded into the dusty earth, as the men pursued their goal. The sweet scent of spring flowers danced upon the wind.
Kyuzo’s breath quickened with the heat of anticipation. He had heard many stories about the Lady. The daughter of a military officer, she was reputed to write poetry with talent and elegance. Her hair had been described to him as long, dark, and twinkling with the light of fireflies. Ajari had heard from one of his sisters that the Lady was shy, but not so shy as to avoid conversation.
The men followed the dirt road through forests and shadows until it approached the ocean. Then they turned to the left, onto another road that skirted the ocean like a ribbon. The air smelled faintly of seaweed and salt; the crashing waves whispered of watery depths.
* * *
The Lady of the Plum Blossoms, confident that no one was outside, stepped onto her porch to view the silvery moon. Its effect on her garden was magnificent. The plum blossoms glowed white against the darkness. Flowers and trees sprouted mysterious shapes and sprinkled perfume on the honeyed breeze. The Lady took a deep breath, then went back inside.
Hidden behind her blinds, the Lady played a game of Go with her women. Quiet and well trained, she played seriously, but wasn’t prone to outbursts or mean competitiveness against her women. After winning at Go, she decided to play the koto. Several of her women joined in with accompanying instruments. The music floated out past her porch, providing counterpoint to cricket song.
* * *
Kyuzo waved his arms in the air, as a signal to his men, and pulled on the reins of his horse. All three men stopped below a gnarled, weathered tree with thick, wide branches and a solid trunk. The horses snorted and pawed at the ground after the men hopped off their backs.
Ajari cupped his hand around his right ear. “Ah, what is that I hear upon the gentle breeze? The heavenly sound of women’s music? Ah, what did I tell you? We find these women entertaining the gods.”
Strikingly handsome with his intense dark eyes, black hair, and tall stature, Kyuzo smiled. “And are the gods not tired? Perhaps these women will play for us.”
Kamatari’s eyes twinkled, as he ran his hand through his thick dark hair. “Compose a poem for the Lady of the house, and I will find a servant to deliver it.”
Ajari, with his deep brown eyes, dark brown hair and muscular build, also stood out among men. He tethered his horse as he laughed quietly. “And I will rest.” True to his word, Ajari sat at the base of the tree and closed his eyes. “This music is like a baby’s lullaby. Quite soothing.”
Kyuzo laughed. “You could write your own poem, you know. It sounds like there are several talented ladies within the house this night.”
Without opening his eyes, Ajari answered, “I’m not interested in wasted work. If you are admitted to the house, I will write a poem to delight even a princess.”
Once again, Kyuzo chuckled. “A practical man, I see.” Then, looking toward the house, he sought inspiration for his poem in the soft golden light that filtered through the blinds, illuminating the soft white blossoms of the plum tree. Kyuzo pulled out a textured sheet of lavender paper into which the scent of plum and spice had been burned. In deep blue ink, he wrote the following poem:
“Streams of
golden sunlight pour through bamboo, quenching garden flowers.
Ice
crystals grow colder upon my sleeves, but do not freeze my
heart.”
Kyuzo studied his work. He was pleased by the gentle curve of his handwriting, in that it suggested education and refinement. He debated about mentioning ice crystals on his sleeves. Was it too much to suggest shedding tears for a woman he had not yet met? Finally, he decided that it was nothing more than a perfect allusion suggesting a contrast to the warm golden sunlight pouring into the garden. He folded the paper and secured it with deep purple ribbon and a sprig of flowering plum. He chose a flawless white flower, as bright as the glistening moon, with a bright yellow center.
Return to Roswell
by Marilyn Peake
What if all of the stories were true?
Roswell, New
Mexico
August
Layla tossed her shiny black hair over her shoulder as she rummaged through her makeup drawer for eye shadow and mascara. Today she and her best friend, Janie, were finally going to visit the alien in Roswell, New Mexico. Layla’s family had lived in Roswell for two years now, and she had yet to see the alien. Janie had lived in town all her life, but had not been interested in seeing it. Layla insisted that they should not pass up the opportunity.
Finding the objects she had been hunting for, Layla stirred up blue dust from a small square container and brushed it over her eyelids. Then she pulled out the wand coated in black tarry goop and painted her long lashes thicker. Admiring herself in the mirror, Layla turned slowly to study the tattoo on her upper right arm: a tiny thing, a bright green scarab beetle. Having settled firmly into an Egyptian period in her life and personal accessories, Layla looped earrings through her ears from which dangled half-inch ankh symbols: the ancient Egyptian hieroglyph for life, the shape of a cross topped with a loop. Layla’s ankhs were made from sterling silver and had to be polished regularly to keep from tarnishing.
* * *
A senior in high school, Layla borrowed one of her parents’ cars, a large blue car with enormous tail fins. She hopped in, then hopped out again. She ran back inside the house and returned with a lime green beach towel. The tan vinyl seat was hot! Throwing the beach towel across the front seat, Layla backed into the car, then carefully pulled her long legs, barely clothed in white short shorts, over the velour-covered seat. She slammed the door closed, rolled down the window, and gingerly touched the steering wheel.
Careful not to grab the steering wheel too tightly until the breeze from the moving vehicle cooled it off, Layla backed the car down her driveway and headed for the International UFO Museum and Reporting Center.
* * *
Copyright (c) 2008 Marilyn Peake