Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to use three of five of the following words: leaned, adjusted, clustered, entitled, smirk. This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie, who used all five words.
Cathy’s latest children’s picture book, a Christmas book titled BAD, BAD GRANNY will be available very soon, in time for Christmas. She is working on Volume Four of her “Creepy Christmas” series of books, which should also be out before Christmas, with the tentative title, CREEPY CHEERFUL CHRISTMAS.
Visit Cathy’s website at www.writingwicket.wordpress.com
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Spinning Stories
by Cathy MacKenzie
Della leaned over and adjusted her skirt, but not before a tiny smirk washed over her face. What would Frank, the pastor at Evans Evangelical People’s Church, do if he caught a glimpse of her knees? The man acted so devout and proper he might lose control. Whether he did or didn’t, she’d enjoy upsetting him—freaking him out even—and if his declared words were true, which she highly doubted, it might do his body good if fiery adrenaline coursed through his veins. According to him, human flesh was weak, but he successfully controlled his emotions and sexual urges.
“Yeah, sure. Tell me another story,” she mumbled, envisioning his face, bright red while he gasped and tried to speak. He’d be speechless, for what would he say? She wasn’t sure. Wasn’t even positive he’d look all pink and sweaty, but she pictured him that way, and she was a good judge of character.
She giggled. He might faint dead of shock. As if his death played before her, she watched his body collapse a foot away. Twelve inches? No, a foot. Twelve inches, though more precise and sounding larger than one foot, was harder to imagine than a foot since everyone possessed feet (well, most people). She giggled again.
What was wrong with her? She shouldn’t laugh about stupidity and sordid thoughts. Who made fun of amputees and death?
“Bad, bad Della.”
Her hands shook. Had she spoken? She hadn’t remembered opening her mouth but heard the words. From somewhere. From someone.
She glanced around the room but was alone as she knew she was. My imagination, she thought. Clustered in one corner were webs that, for some reason, had multiplied. Though the room was musty and dust-bunnies attacked corners and had affixed themselves to the wall-to-wall carpeting, she didn’t see any more webs.
The voice spoke again. “Bad, bad Della.”
“My housekeeping skills are lacking, I must admit.” Slowly and carefully, Della mouthed the words, ensuring her top lip touched the bottom lip, so she would know she’d actually spoken. So she wouldn’t think she’d gone crazy with voices from nowhere.
She repeated the words in her mind before mouthing them again. She must not speak them aloud; one must never repeat words. “Repetition makes one appear aged,” Frank had admonished his congregation numerous times. Frank didn’t preach like other men of God. He spewed his beliefs and ordered people to follow them. “Humans are weak,” he’d also often said, “especially where flesh is concerned.”
Frank’s words would echo throughout the small hall, and the congregation would cower and bow their heads, often in shame. Della had seen them—numerous times—when she’d spied from slitted eyes while Frank bellowed his fearless voice, trying to impress upon everyone how godly he was, even almost as great as God. “None of you sinners here in Creighton can ever be as godly as God—or me. Several members of the congregation had twitched at that comment, but they’d never allow a gasp to escape, not even from parted lips.
Despite words proclaiming himself to be a notch under God, Della suspected Frank thought he was even greater than God. Frank thought he was so entitled.
She glanced again at the corner of the room. My. Housekeeping. Skills. Are. Lacking. I. Must. Admit. She made sure to enunciate each word though she still wouldn’t allow herself to vocalize them. Must not repeat words!
She sighed and smoothed her skirt over her legs. What would it feel like to show a bit of skin, to be completely naked in front of another individual? Clear, smooth flesh was daring but relished, right? Didn’t men enjoy sex and think it wholesome and healthy? What would it feel like for rough hands to caress her nakedness? And for her to return the favour?
But not with Frank—definitely not with Pastor Frank. But with someone. Perhaps she hadn’t met the individual yet; perhaps she never would.
A half hour previously, she had picked up the telephone. Seconds later, she had smiled into the receiver. “Pastor Frank, I feel the devil invading me, giving me unclean thoughts.” She twirled a lock of grey hair around her finger, waiting for his response. “Thank you. I’ll be waiting,” she said.
She sat patiently until the knock announced his presence. She rose to answer the door. And there he stood. His dark eyes bore into hers, and then he greeted her with a hearty, “Good evening, Miss Della,” his fleshy jowls flapping like gossiping old biddies at church teas.
She escorted him into the living room, hoping he’d not notice her lack of housekeeping skills. “Sit down while I fetch the tea.”
Della retreated to the kitchen where she stood in the centre of the room, her mind meandering as if she were one of those church tea clucking hens unable to focus. She rubbed her sweaty palms down her hips. Should she?
Yes!
Minutes later, she ambled into the living room. Frank, reading the days-old newspaper, had made himself comfortable in her favourite plush chair. Her bare feet had been silent on the carpet, so he hadn’t seen her return.
When she coughed, he glanced up. He dropped the paper before his face turned red and then bloodless. His eyes lowered from her face to ogle her breasts and then the dark, matted V. She stepped toward him, shivering while his lust-filled eyes examined her body. How far was she from him? Six inches? Twelve inches?
A thin stream of saliva leaked from the corner of his mouth when his lips parted. His lower lip quivered. His right index finger stretched and folded like a fist several times until the finger remained hidden in his palm, appearing as if he had an amputee digit. Della had never been able to keep four fingers straight while one finger bended and was amazed he could—and unconsciously, because he was too busy savouring her nakedness to concentrate on anything else.
She laughed, a cackle that boomed about the room like Frank’s voice through Evangelical Hall. Her ample breasts jiggled.
He clasped his ears. To deaden her voice? To keep his hands from straying where they shouldn’t?
He stood. When she backed up, he advanced. She raised her right arm and stepped forward. Her breasts heaved. His face had regained a healthy, pinkish tone. He attempted to near her, but each time he did, she alternately propelled him toward her and then away. One step. Two steps. Moving him to one side. Then the other. She’d stop. He’d stop. She turned; he turned. She stepped toward him; he stepped forward. She backed up; he backed up. Forward. Backward.
Another step. One or two more. He stepped forward. She vaguely wondered why he hadn’t put his hands on her, but that hadn’t been in her plan. Perhaps it hadn’t been in his. She couldn’t know what thoughts churned in a pastor’s brain.
She smiled. One step. She was close, less than an inch. His breath, warm upon her face, reeked of garlic and liquor.
One last step. He stepped backward.
And then he fell.
The spiders lollygagging in their corner home raced up numerous shimmering threads to welcome Pastor Frank into their lair.
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The Spot Writers—Our Members:
RC Bonitz: http://www.rcbonitz.com
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Tom Robson: website in progress
I’d always thought one day I’d be a hero. As many in our group squealed and ran up to the nearest porch to escape the van, I hid behind a thick oak tree and tried to peer at the license plate. I wanted to be the hero, the one brave enough to have seen and memorized the license plate. I imagined they would write a front-page story about me in the newspaper: Girl Dressed As Reaper Catches Kidnapper.
The theme is apparent in my spookiest of works. Adam Hollinger, fifth-grade protagonist in my kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers, often succumbs to his own fear—and beats himself up afterwards. Lorei, the tragic hero of my supernatural chiller Faulkner’s Apprentice, learns that the devil is nothing compared to her own destructive tendencies.
