#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge XV.

Wrenge (15)
by
Louise Dragon

In the big city, in the quiet nouveau district of Chelsea Street, Alec Nietupski sat sideways on his lighted front porch steps. His bulging yellowish eyes gazed intently at the mysterious winged portal above his front door.
I hope you know what you're doing, friend, he was thinking.
~~~

"You got bullets in that thing, don't you," Monks was asking Brad. "Won't matter how good a shot you are if . . . Angie? Angie?"


Brad looked up to see Monks' face drained of color. The big man, mouth wide, was gazing off over Brad's shoulder. Brad heard a sucking-pop and spun around to see a heavy set, naked woman walking toward them in the forty-degree night air. Like a sleep-walker, she slowly raised an arm toward Monks and mouthed theword "blood."


"Monks, what's going on?"


The big man was rooted, eyes wide and unseeing, like a coma patient.


"Monks!" Brad shouted, reaching up and shaking him by the shoulders. "Ernie. Who is that."


Monks shook his head and focused on Brad's face. "That's Angie," he muttered. "That's my girlfriend, Angie."


"Monks, you shithead, you told me that you killed your girlfriend."


"I did kill her. It can't be Angie, but it is. Oh, shit, it's the Memphis-Mangler. Angie's dead. It has to be the Memphis-Mangler fixed up to look like her. Kill it. Shoot it."


Brad turned toward the advancing woman. "Who are you?"


She ignored him. Did not show that she even knew Brad was there but kept advancing on Monks, who by now had retreated until his back was up against Brad's car.


Brad reached out a hand to grab her arm. The flesh was ice cold, slimy, and unyielding, like clutching a dead python. The girl kept walking, knocking Brad on his ass by the base of the big tree. This was when Brad saw the black murky shadow. A shadow so thick and viscid that it blocked out the sight of the leaves that should have been beneath it.


(Cast your shadow in his wake.)


Brad, swallowing his fear, looked up.


In a dim corner of the Morelli roof crouched an oval, purple figure, faintly glimmering against the night ski.


(Beware of watchers as you sleep, or to the eyrie your soul will creep.)


"I'm sorry Angie, so sorry. I didn't mean to do it You know I love you. I'm sorry." Monks blubbered as the Angie-thing moved in.


Brad saw her pointed finger slide into Monks' cheek like a stalk of celery into a Bloody Mary.


Monks screamed.


Brad stood and fired a shot above the thing on the roof. "I see you, bitch. I'm watching. Go to back to hell!"


A wild gust of stinking wind from the junkyard blew grit into Brad's eyes. A sobbing shriek rang out, deafening him momentarily.


Furiously rubbing his stinging eyes, with one hand, Brad lifted his gun to take a shot. This time he'd shoot the Wrenge.


It was gone.


Monks lay half under Brad's car, blood streamed from a hole in his face but he was still breathing.
~~~
Continued . . .

Link to Wrenge (1)

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge XV.

Dragon Chronicles XXXVI

XXXVI. Very near the Tiber Death threatens
In the path along the hollow Tibetans
Two great rocks will be at war
While wails of agony pitch the shore

Dragon Chronicles XXXVI

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge V

Wrenge (5)
By

Louise Dragon



Wayne paced, stopped, opened the window, snapped on the television, lounged briefly in his recliner, and then jumped up and paced some more.


Glancing at his watch every five minutes, Wayne's restlessness carried him past the six o'clock news and into the old sitcoms. Murphy Brown's escapades did little to lighten Wayne's mood. But, by the time Roseanne told her third one-liner, about the same time as the sun slid behind Mount Moriah, Wayne lay nodding in his recliner. Thirty minutes later, while his soft snores and rigorously grinding teeth punctuated the quick responses of Rescue 911, a huge dark shadow filled the softly lit living room and then floated away.


Wayne mumbled in his precarious slumber. The shadow swooped again as the Wrenge soared closer in the indigo sky looking for a landing site.


The porch roof next door, with rough shingles for good footing, gave the Wrenge a perfectly unobstructed position.


Stationing herself where her shadow cast a visible stain on the Michael's living room carpet, the Wrenge folded her great wings protectively around herself and dozed peacefully in the cool autumn air.


Twisting and moaning in his uneasy slumber, Wayne suddenly bolted into consciousness. He sensed, rather than saw, the shadowy mark by the window. Shivering from the cold, rancid night air wafting through the open window Wayne felt his testicles tightening and the little hairs on the back of his neck stiffening. An incredible rush of aloneness swept him and a dull ache in his chest reminded him to breathe. Eery music wafted softly from the television. The remote lay three yards in front of him, on the coffee table. He longed to reach over and switch off that dreadful music but his limbs ached – they were also numb with inexplicable fear and refused to cooperate.


His jaw felt like he had been kicked in the face by a horse.


The room was dark.


Bluish light from the television did little to dispel the suffocating blackness that swelled with each cautious breath.


As his eyes grew accustomed to the murk they were drawn to the grayish patch of carpet just ahead. It looked more like a deep hole than a shadow. The oval shape yawned and stretched like a giant mouth ready to take a bite.


As Wayne worked to steady his breathing and try to rationalize his fear --


(just your guilty conscience at work)


-- the ever darkening shadow began to boil and twitch. Its edges rolled inward, like a waterfall of ink, while the center bubbled and frothed like liquid tar.


(Just a dream -- the music, the stench -- just my guilty conscience at work. I'll wake up soon.)


From the center of the churning darkness a delicate form rose. Faintly iridescent, it sucked in light as it glowed dark blue, violet, finally pale pink. Wayne heard a sucking-pop as the pink shape moved out of its inky pool.


The features stabilized into Elizabeth's face.


(Now I know this is a dream.)


Daintily, Elizabeth's pink, naked body stepped forward. Her smiling face was beautiful, unlined and glowing -- her body soft and round.


She looks just as she did on our honeymoon, Wayne thought.


His limbs felt heavy and his jaw throbbed. The television fell silent but he sensed it watching him with its single blue eye.


Elizabeth's rosebud lips parted.


"Blood," she whispered raising a graceful arm and pointing to Wayne.


Electrified by the sudden sound, Wayne's teeth involuntarily clamped shut: biting down hard on his tongue. The salty taste of blood gagged him as his eyes filled with tears and blurred his vision. Inert limbs suddenly reanimated -- flinging him out of the chair.


He was face to face with his dead wife's wraith.


Elizabeth's pointing finger dabbed briefly at the trickle of blood on Wayne's lip. Her touch was icy and damp like a slug inching across his mouth.


Sweat seeped from Wayne's pores.


A mottled purple tongue flicked from her mouth as the Elizabeth-thing licked his blood from her finger.


Wayne felt her fetid breath on his neck -- smelled the stink of decay, and, although he caught only a brief glimpse, he was sure he had seen festering worm holes and maggots on her dank purple tongue.


He could feel his gorge rising and clamped his teeth together. Fresh pain throbbed in his torn tongue and aching jaw.


The salty taste of his own blood and the pain in his mouth brought anger.


This was when the reality of Wayne's situation blossomed in his brain.


(Who in the hell does she think she is . . .)


Wayne's arm came up. Hand clenched into a fist. "Listen you . . ."


"Bone," the Elizabeth-thing whispered as she reached out a small pink hand and tore off Wayne's upraised arm at the shoulder.


For a dream this pain is awfully fierce, Wayne thought.


The cauliflower knob of bone on the end of the severed arm that Elizabeth clutched looked dreadfully real. So did the bloody empty socket on his right shoulder.


In a swooning haze, Wayne heard the raucous grating of his own teeth -- smelled the sickening odor of his blood and felt the sting of tears in his eyes.


With primal fear he watched Elizabeth peel back the flesh from his severed arm and tear out the bone -- it gleamed with a pink hue as Elizabeth's small hands stripped flesh away. Again his neck and chin were washed in the revolting stink of her breath as her rosebud mouth yawned exceptionally wide and chomped blackened teeth onto the nub of bone. The bone

broke with a distinct cracking sound leaving a sharp-looking, splintered fragment in Elizabeth's hands: hands spattered with droplets of maroon blood and orange bits of flesh and broken blood vessels.


"Tears," it whispered, touching Wayne's cheeks and lapping gory fingers with that worm-riddled tongue.


Fear mushroomed from Wayne's broken body when he saw that rosebud mouth moving toward him.


(She's going to kiss me.)


His scream was swallowed by her cavernous mouth clamping over his lips. A jolt, like electricity, coursed through his body as the bone splinter pierced his heart. With the last of his comprehension, Wayne felt his soul, or his essence – perhaps it was his tumultuous fear, sucked from his body like a modified abortion.


"Fears," the Elizabeth-metamorphosis whispered as she stepped back from the dead husk of Wayne Michaels and reentered the roiling shadow.


Rejuvenated, the Wrenge drifted silently through the indigo skies over Memphis.
~~~
Continued . . .

Link to Wrenge (1)
Link to Wrenge (2)

Link to Wrenge (3)
Link to Wrenge (4)

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge V

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge I

Author’s note: On Friday, April 30, 2010, I wrote a #fridayflash story called “Wrenge.” Since that day the Wrenge has been begging to become a longer story . . . she swears that she has more business to take care of . . . I’ve decided to turn her lose. I hope you enjoy my first #TuesdaySerial:

Wrenge (I)

By

Louise Dragon


During twilight hours on the day Elizabeth Michaels was laid to rest -- one more statistic in the journals of domestic abuse -- a small Memphis cemetery spawned the Wrenge.


Born from the persistent cries of abused women, the Wrenge tentatively extended leathery wings. Equipped with wings, she'd rise above the suffering and pain of her creators. Her leathery skin carried the blue and purple bruises of countless abused women -- giving her a dark, mottled image. A silvery sheen of tears, shed by thousands, gave the Wrenge an iridescent glow against the darkening night sky. Her face, shadowed by the twenty-foot wingspan, carried the hollowed anguish of many faces. A spark of determination glittered in her deep-set black eyes: determination, which had often arrived too late to help its couriers. These crumbs of resolve, pooled together, gave the Wrenge colossal strength and almost weightless stability as she lifted her powerful wings and soared high above Memphis. Owls and bats shrank from the huge dark shadow whose breath carried the stench of death.

Continued . . .

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge I

#fridayflash: The Red Velvet Dress

“Mother, look what I found.” Ellen bounced through the bushes, an old fashioned round hatbox the color of dry mustard swinging from her hand on a length of gold braid.

“It’s a hatbox, Honey, older women, like Grandma Kelly, used to keep their good hats in them so they wouldn’t get crushed in closets."

“There’s a dress in it.” Ellen jumped back and forth a bit impatiently. “A beautiful dress. Can I get it? Huh? Please, Mother . . . It’s so beautiful. It’s the beautiful-est dress I ever saw.”

“Most beautiful, Honey” I corrected absently inspecting an antique brass cricket on a picnic table covered with aged bric-a-brac.

“Moth – er . . . will you look, please?”

I reluctantly tore my gaze from the antiques on the table. Ellen carefully set the dusty round box on the picnic table’s bench seat -- at my knee -- and rocked off the tight fitting lid. A pleasant lavender aroma wafted up to my nostrils. Smoothing back layers of creamy yellowed tissue paper, I pulled out a pretty, old-fashioned red velvet dress from another era. Cream colored lace as dainty as spun silk graced the collar and cuffs, while a jaunty red velvet ruffle encircled the hem like a boa.

Knowing the pitfalls of neighborhood yard sales, I carefully inspected every inch of that dress looking for flaws, moth holes, tears, stains, etc. The dress seemed to be in great shape for a garment of such obvious age. I held it up against Ellen’s front, and it looked like a good fit.

“Is there a price on it,” I asked, suspecting the cost would be beyond our current yard sale budget. “It probably belonged to Miss Sara, or Miss Amy -- years ago. It looks like it was never worn.”

Ellen searched the box for a price and found a little $1.00 sticker stamped on the bottom of the hatbox.

“Well, the price is right,” I smiled and peeled a dollar bill from my yard sale wad; usually Ellen didn’t placate this easily at yard sales. She grinned back and scampered off with the money to pay for her treasure.

The pretty dress in its mustard colored hatbox received an honored spot in Ellen’s room. Many times over the next several weeks, I noticed her stroking the soft folds of the dress, murmuring to it like it was a doll or a puppy.

My mother stopped by for tea on the day when Ellen first wore the dress. I watched the color drain from Mom’s face when Ellen approached her wearing the red dress. I heard her tea cup smash to the floor and witnessed Grandma Kelly retreating into a corner of the kitchen whispering, “Polly? Polly? It can’t be!”

“Mom,” I shouted. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

Ellen stood before my mother with a little smirk on her face . . . for a moment, in that dress, it didn’t even look like my Ellen. Her hair looked darker, curlier, her eyes seemed larger, wider.

“Ellen?”

“Yes, Mother.” She turned toward me and I saw that of course it was my Ellen . . . The light must have been playing tricks.

“Go play in your room, Honey, Grandma Kelly’s a little upset. Maybe you should put the new dress back in its pretty box so you don’t get it dirty.”

Grandma Kelly clutched at her bosom and watched the child leave the room. “That dress,” she whispered. “Where’d you get that dress?”

“After the two old Chase sisters, Miss Sara, and Miss Amy died this summer, the town held a huge yard sale to pay up the taxes on their old house. Ellen found that dress in the Chase house . . . she really loves it.”

“Get rid of it,” my mother hissed. “They buried Polly in that dress.”

“Polly?”

“Polly Chase was Miss Sara and Miss Amy’s younger sister. Polly was born wrong . . . she liked to hurt people. They said whenever she stamped her little feet -- people were apt to get hurt . . . or even die. The townsfolk said she killed her own mother. I’ve always thought that was why Miss Sara and Miss Amy never got married. Never wanted to have children. I think they were afraid after Polly. Such a pretty little thing . . . no one would have ever known . . .”

My mother told the story and my mind watched the pretty little girl in the red velvet dress shove an attractive dark-haired woman into the broken boards of an old well behind the Chase house.
Unable to tear my mind away, I watched as the little girl picked up her skipping rope and bounced down the garden path singing a little jingle:

“Polly, Polly Red Dress, she’s so sweet
Polly, Polly Red Dress stamps her feet
Polly pushed her mother and knocked her down the well.
Polly knows a secret but no one’s gonna tell!”

I’d forgotten that jingle. Throughout my childhood we sang that little tune while skipping rope, playing hopscotch, and countless other childhood pastimes. I’d never even thought about it. It was just one of those old jingles . . .

“What happened to Polly?” I whispered.

“Auto accident,” Mom said. “Polly and her father both died. Whole town turned out for the funeral. She had that dress on in the casket . . . I SAW her. Creepy little smirk on her face even after she was dead.”

I reached out and grasped my mother’s cold shaking hand. “You’re upset, I said. Let me make you a fresh cup of tea.”

As I plugged my old teapot into the outlet, I didn’t notice the worn electrical cord. Death enveloped me almost painlessly as the current surged through my body. Death took my mother, also – still clutching my hand. Death turned us into two lifeless husks on the cold kitchen linoleum.

From her room, my daughter skipped rope and sang a silly little jingle:

“Ellen, Ellen Red Dress, she’s so sweet
Ellen, Ellen Red Dress, stamps her feet
Ellen cut the wires and watched her mother fry.
Ellen knows a secret, more are gonna die.”

End

The Jump Rope Book

#fridayflash: The Red Velvet Dress