For Grimaulkin Rising:
She went into the hospital unconscious and never woke up. On February 14, Adam called my mother to tell her Jane had passed. The funeral was expected to be on the 19th, the Monday after.
Here’s the geneology. My father’s mother died when I was still a baby. Evie remembered her. His father’s father died before my father even got married. In those days, widows never remarried.
This left my dad, the youngest; my other two uncles Frederick in the Navy and James in California; and another sister Patricia. I hated Patricia, the opposite of Jane. She was always prim and proper spinster, wore thick and heavy make up, constantly told us of all the socieites and clubs she was involved with, and between that gosspied about people we didn’t know or care about. We kids were totally ignored. I didn’t remember the other two.
Jim LeBonte came to the house first. He came alone. He was tall and very thin, wearing a jacket that was totally inappropriate for Connecticuit weather. My father disgustedly gave him one of his old wool coats but he looked like a scarecrow wearing it.
Jim looked at us kids with wide, watery eyes. I swear his face was like a skull, and his eyes looked ready to fall out of his head. He creeped me and Evie out and we tried to stay away. Louie was fascinated and called him Uncle Zombie behind his back.
Frederick – do not ever call him Fred – came with a stunning wife and two equally stunning children. They looked like someone had bought them out of a catalog – perfect blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryans. The girl, Genevieve was younger than Evie but they got along great. The boy, Arthur, was older than us and looked down at us. I felt stupid, but Louie put up his dukes and threatened to fight him. Often.
Arthur caught me reading The Chocolate War while everyone else was in the other room. He asked what I thought about it, and we fell into what I thought was a pretty good conversation. However once someone came into the room, he got up and left.
The wakes were on Saturday and Sunday. I had never been to a wake before, so had no idea what to expect. The building looked like a white and gold fancy mansion, with huge front double doors and carpeting on the outside stairs leading into the building. I was dressed up in church clothes – not that we went to church anymore, but mom called them that anyway.
A couple of people directed us to a room, and mom put an arm in front of us to stop us from going in, while dad signed a book. Then we all walked in.
I was forced to look at the coffin. The coffin was white, inside and out, without any kind of decoration. She wore her robes, the hood pulled over her head. Her hands were crossed, and between them was a knive, what I knew was an athame. A brass cup was next to her, a censer in a metal box also to the side of her was smoking frankenscence, and a crown of candles instead of roses was on the lower section of the coffin. The hood came down to about her nose, but her mouth was twisted up slightly – she looked happy.
I could hear my uncle Frederick storming at Adam. “She was born a Catholic and should die a Catholic.”
First, the man who he was yelling at didn’t look like Adam. He was stone-cold sober. He was dressed in a crisp dark suit. He exuded confidence, strength, and some sort of aura that said, “Don’t mess with me.” I’d never seen this from him before. People had stepped away from the confrontation, including my father. My mother shooed us toward the back, but I wanted to watch.
Adam was saying nothing. “I’m doing what she wished. This is her funeral, not yours.”
“Frederick,” said James in a quiet voice, “Let it be.”
“This is disgusting. I am leaving.”
“There’s the door.” Adam turned from him, walked over to the row of chairs beside the coffin. There was an empty seat between him and the rest of the family. Frederick did walk out.
Three woman came in, wearing flowing white robes. They smiled and nodded to Adam, then got three chairs. One was young, another middle aged, and another was older, wearing her hood up. The young woman manned the censer, making sure it was constantly burning, replacing candles as needed. The middle woman pulled out a harp and played gentle music. The older woman, sometimes, would begin to sing or chant, and the three of them would join in with her.
Eventually, other witches came in. Some were dressed in robes. Most were casual. They were definitely outnumbered by family and friends of the family, but they didn’t care. Sometimes the songs were loud, sung by many throats. I felt tears, and I also felt the power in the room. I kept moving my seat closer and closer to where they had congregated.
Some of the witches were men and women. One woman, in dark spikey hair happened to see me and she smiled and patted the chair next to her. She leaned over to me, “How do you know Branwen?”
“Branwen?”
“She who we are celebrating the release of her soul.”
“Oh, she’s my aunt. Aunt Jane.”
“One of the blood.”
Said an older woman, “You’re Mike?”
“Yeah?” I looked at her.
“He’s one of her apprentices.”
“Oh, good! I was too.”, said the spikey haired one. “It’s harder to teach family.”
“What’s going to happen to her?” I asked. “She doesn’t go to heaven?”
“No, her spirit will join our brothers and sisters to help us all.”
“Mikey!” His father was yelling at me from across the room. He forced me to sit next to him. Snother song started from the front of the room, a dirge, a lament. I cried again.
The next day, I got ready to go, but my father was sitting in the living room, drinking a beer. He said, “We’re not going to some Satanic ritual. I paid my respects.”
“But dad, I want to say goodbye!”
“You did. Go upstairs.”
Furious, I stomped upstairs. Then I stopped for a minute. I ducked into the kitchen and found a box of matches and a package of birthday candles. I went into the room I shared with Louie. I locked the door and put a chair in front of it. I lit a birthday candle and sang the songs I remembered, and when that went out, I lit another until they were all gone.
There was a smoky haze in the room, and it smelled of burnt candle wax and sulfur from the matches. I looked around the room, and thought I could see a gray form – no, I knew it was a gray form. It looked like one of those wraiths you see in movies, all flowy with holes for eyes and an a mouth. It twisted in the haze, and then faded away.
Was that Aunt Jane? Or my imagination? It didn’t matter – I did the right thing. Someone tried the door. “Open the door!”
I shoved the matches and candlewax under my bed, and then pulled the chair away from the door.
“Whatcha doin? Got dirty pictures or somethin’?”
“What? No!”
“Uh huh.” He walked through the haze as if it wasn’t even there. I couldn’t believe he couldn’t at least smell the matches. He got some toys and went back out. “If you do that, hair grows on your palms.”
“Do what?”
He laughed and walked out saying, “Stupid kid.”
The haze faded. No one commented on the burnt scent, or the smoke in the hallway. I retrieved my stuff and went back into the kitchen, putting it into two plastic bags before shoving it into the kitchen trash can. Then I took out the trash for good measure.
Outside, in the cold February air, I could have sworn I heard the witches singing.
Words: 1354
Inspiration: Needed filler for the Grimaulkin Rising novel.
Morgan shoved the spikes in his hair up. They were like a crown around his head, and he was damn proud of them.
He glanced over at Kaf. Almost two hours with the boss. Lucky bastard, he probably got more than the Sweet Stuff. Everyone, from supes on down, knew Jacmes was a maniac and would give you more than the drug, but the best ride of your life. But Jacmes was gone, and now this guy – a biker stuffed into a fuckin’ suit – supposedly had the same mutated chemicals to generate this stuff in his body. Most of the Bittens espoused on how strong, virile, but gentle he was.
He finished coming out of the bathroom and came face-to-face with the boss. “Hey,” he said. “Sorry I took so long with Kaf.”
“Eh, it’s okay. He’s a good kid.”
He nodded. “Let me make it up to you.”
His eyes widened. Yes! Score!
“Come upstairs.”
He was visibily shaking. Finally. Finally he’d get a score after all these months. Just a little hit of the Sweet Stuff, he wasn’t looking to get laid or anything, though Jacmes sometimes had a Bitten give him a blow job while Jacmes gave him the drug.
Up the stairs they went, through his office to his own personal bar. The boss looked at him for a minute, and Morgan did what he had done to Jacmes, tilted his head to the side. The man chuckled. “He trained you all well, didn’t he?”
“I…uh…guess.”
“Are you gay? Bi? Neither?”
“Neither,” he said.
“Oh, then sit down in one of the chairs.”
He sat down, watching him. His breathing accelerated. The boss watched him. “Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know, man,” he said quietly. He sat back and closed his eyes. All he felt was a pinch, and then ecstacy that went on forever. He heard the techno get louder, the crowd below roar in appreciation, and he smiled. Damn, that kid was a damn good DJ.
“Rest,” the boss said, and patted his shoulder. “Go back when you’re ready.”
Morgan sat and enjoyed the music, letting it carry him, just like the Sweet Stuff.
Words: 365
Inspiration: RP Wednesday night
Music: Switchback – Cellidweller