Dance, Old Bones

“Humans are mad. I like that about them. My best friend finds that fact about our companions somewhat worrying. But no wise soul could expect any less from a dog who was named after his severe separation anxiety. I, on the other paw—”

“Cobweb, would you please stop mewing to yourself and come with me to our Mistress’ studio?”

If my dear friend, YoBoy (which, by the way, means I’m going in Spanish) had one imagination bone in his body, I would tell him that I’m narrating for you. But every one of his bones is made of dread and of need to please, so I won’t waste my spit. “I was not mewing to myself, dog.”

“Sure you weren’t,” YoBoy barked. “But we’ve no time to discuss your feline weirds right now. Our Mistress and her friends are writing and painting and singing and sculpting and sniffing… and, as always, they are doing it separately. We need to show them that if they are to rescue the others from the killing man, they must craft as one. Our human needs our help, lady cat.”

“We can’t go—” I began to say.

“We must. Everything depends on it. If we don’t, everything will stop being. We would never be able to come back. Don’t you know what that would mean, cat? Our home won’t exist! Our…”

I stopped the neurotic dog’s yapping right before he choked on his own desperation. “We can’t go before we pick up Old Bones. Our influence hasn’t been enough. We need her help, YoBoy.”

The dog was panting too hard for words, but he followed my steps to our Mistress’ bedroom.

dance-old-bonesOld Bones sat on our Mistress’ mantel surrounded by candles, flowers, stones, and old photos of long gone humans. Her perpetual grin looked… peculiar. But I couldn’t figure out why. “YoBoy, do you noticed something different about Old Bones?”

“The flowers,” YoBoy said, in a shaky voice that turned him into a puppy. “Look at the flowers.”

“I saw the flowers, and they stink to high hells,” I hissed. Fresh flowers always made me sneeze. “I don’t care about the damn…” Fresh flowers? I finished in my head. “That is not possible,” I said. “Those flowers have been dead since—”

“The flowers died on the same day your Mistress stopped dancing,” Old Bones said. “With the stillness of human feet, came the rotting of rivers, the shriveling of unripe fruit, the slowing of flesh, of blood, of hearts.”

“You can’t be talking,” YoBoy said to Old Bones. “You’ve got no lips,”

I glared at the dog, and said, “We come back from the dead every All Hallows’ Eve, and you are shocked by a talking skull?”

“I…” He began to whine. “Old Bones never talked before. I just thought—”

“No you didn’t,” I said. And pretended I wasn’t feeling as perplexed as he was. “Help me with Old Bones. We need to take her and some of the flowers to the studio. If this doesn’t give our Mistress the push she needs to get started, then nothing will.”

I held my breath and gently closed my jaws around the stems of three daisies.

YoBoy, his expression haunted, tried to grab Old Bones with a shaky paw. When that didn’t work, he bit the side of Old Bones’ left eye socket and followed me out of the room, whining.

dance-old-bonesA cat, a dog, and a talking skull walked into a tiny room and no human found that strange. They smiled at us, before returning their gazes to the cauldron bubbling in the middle of the studio.

YoBoy and I placed the flowers and Old Bones at our Mistress’ feet. She arranged them by the cauldron, next to a camera, books, a spoon, knitting needles, and a puppet that smirked creepily.

I smiled, and said to YoBoy, “Maybe they can come up with a spell that will make the others better, and get them away from the killing man.”

Old Bones spoke through nearly transparent lips. “They are working together, my girl-child and her friends. The healing has already begun.” Three daisies multiplied around Old Bones’ skull, to form a crown that encircled a brow, which wrinkled with a smile that was a longer-lived version of my mistress’ grin. All Hallows’ Eve magic gave Old Bones arms, legs, feet… and she danced.

the wee notes…
– YoBoy was my brother’s dog. My brother failed to name his dog. And since the dog followed my brother everywhere, and my brother was always crying “Yo boy!” (I’m going in Spanish”) whenever my mother left the house, the dog started answering to YoBoy. The name stuck.
– Cobweb was my sweet friend Yvonne’s cat. Cobweb is no longer in the world of the living, but I know that her feline soul (and her memory) will always live… to boss others around.
– This is my contribution to Witches in Fiction 2016: Spelling Healing into a Rotting World.
– Linked to Prompt Nights – A Million Years Howl When Voices Whisper Among The Trees – Halloween Special

spelling-healing-into-a-rotting-world“Spelling Healing into a Rotting World”, by SunshineShelle


The wisewoman grimaced at the sight of the gore covered little thing. It was bald like an egg. Her shifty dark eyes open wide, as if she had figured out the meaning of existence.

“A perky one,” the wisewoman said, handing the babe to the tight-lipped father.

The mother studied the babe and smirked at the father. No words passed between the couple, but the silence spoke the father’s feelings into the wisewoman’s head: You’ve spawned another of your kind, witch. There are seven of you now, and only one of me.

The wisewoman didn’t like the look on the father’s face. The shine in his eyes could have been the dawning of tears, but his kind didn’t cry much—it was probably dammed viciousness. She stood in front of the trio, extending her arms for the babe. “I’ll wash her off for ye,” she said.

The witch’s spawn snarled at the wisewoman, and let out a howl.

The father pulled the little beast closer to his chest, faced the moonlight that beamed through the window, and accompanied his blood in a midnight Spring howl.

How does a village get ready for a moonchild? the wisewoman thought, leaving the room.

the wee notes…

First published in 2011. Slightly edited because, well… it has been a few years since then. 😉
– Linked to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights: “Let us walk together in the Moonlight”.

Moonlight through the Window“Moonlight through the Window”

My Reading of “The Wee Memoirs of a Victorian Mourning Doll”

I’m linking this wee audio-tale to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights: Sûrement vous plaisantez – Surely you jest (which might explain why so many people think that I’m not funny… just a tad creepy). 😀

Friends are a delicious blessing. No, my Wicked Luvs, I’m not advising you to go and devour all your friends. I’m just saying that good friends are the best at the gentle art of nudging us towards doing things we were not planning to do. And sometimes, that can be a wonderful thing. Other times, you can go to jail. But that’s a different post…

Earlier today, a good friend of mine said, “All I want for my birthday is a recording of you reading some of my favorites of your poems, nothing else.” When I offered to leave the poems on her phone, as a voicemail, she said that she wanted an MP3.

It’s her birthday. I can’t gently kick her in the teeth, and shout, “Stop being such a brat!” Instead, I called Rommy and begged for help—I had never used any of my computer’s voice recording software… Besides, Rommy is a great reader… I am not… so I was hoping some of her greatness would rub off on me. If you haven’t had the pleasure of hearing Rommy’s reading voice, stop by her blog and listen to “Fangs, Sheathed”. Delicious!

After I finished recording my friend’s birthday present, I went ahead and read “The Wee Memoirs of a Victorian Mourning Doll” to share with you. I hope you like it:

– inspired by Long Gone Dolls’ delightfully creepy “Victorian Mourning Dolls”
– read the text HERE

I am adding the original image (I dislike that it gets cut off in the audio preview)
Victorian Mourning Dolls, by Long Gone Dolls