MaeB

Microfiction & Poetry contest #14 - new beginnings (voting and feedback)

This was such fun! Congrats to everyone who participated! I was stuck between a couple here but…

My Vote

The Conflagration Tree

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

When the flutter of eyelashes becomes the scrape of a thumb over folded bills, when the melody of laughter is quantified in dollars, when “I love you” begins to sound a lot like “can I stick it in your ass this time?” … That’s when a woman’s idea of romance becomes as muddied as the soles of workmen boots at the foot of a bed. That’s when a little girl bottled in a woman’s body loses grip of her dreamy white wedding. Love turns slippery as eels, slipping and sliding through their fingertips, evading the hopeful palms that beg to be met with the warm clasp of another. Instead those palms are pressed with wrinkled cash tips and their lingering, loving gaze is met with a hungered leer. The women of Soirée couldn’t possibly pinpoint exactly when their idea of love was poisoned with the stinger of working in a whore house. But you could tell it had happened. You could see it in the way the embers of their irises were snuffed out, it was palpable with every theatrical moan of pretend pleasure, it oozed from their pores every time they tried to wash it away with suds and tepid water.

Reminded often of the Theodore-shaped scars on her heart, Pearly kept the promise to herself. The one where she swore she’d never let a John worm his way between her ribs again. But Sandy Collington wasn’t a John. He was a bartender. So it was different. Totally different, alright? He manned the bar of Soirée just a couple years before Moira Sackville bled out at her bureau desk. He’d worked behind the jump since he was knee-high. His daddy had him popping beer caps soon as he was old enough to hold a bottle opener. So he had experience. He had a silver-capped incisor and tattoos from his brief stint at sea. Sandy made a mean Manhattan. He could serve the bar 7 at a time and still keep it wiped clean and tidy. His bar-side banter with Johns was all well-placed pawns on the checkered board of manhood and his punchlines were never funnier than the drunken fool on the receiving end. He had a serpentine tongue, as silver as the cap on his tooth. Pearl fell ass over tit in love with him the moment he began an impromptu therapy session late one Tuesday night.

“Hey, Peaches-“ Sandy called out the side of his mouth, aiming a stream of bourbon at a shaker half-full of ice with a dash of agave like an archer may nock an arrow. The nickname’s origin story was foggy and formed some other drunken night. It was no longer important nor relevant. Pearly was Peaches to him. “You ever thought about doin’ somethin’ else?”

Pearl’s chin had merged with her neck as she recoiled.

“Somethin’ else, huh? Like what, Sandra?” the Madam’s daughter scoffed. “Like pourin’ liquor for leeches and lapdogs? Don’t think I’ve quite got the biceps for shakin’ cocktails. Much better at shakin’ ass. Better money too.”

Sandy seemed to wince at that, his hands clamping around either half of the cocktail shaker, smacking them then lifting them over his shoulder like a bag of swag. Like a salsa dancer with a couple of castanets, he rattled the ice and the liquor back and forth, a rhythm Pearly found herself breathing in time with. The bartender’s eyes were fixed on nothing in the distance, pointedly ignoring the whore’s gaze that adamantly clawed at his cheeks.

“So you never wanted nothin’ else, no?” he asked casually, breaking the shakers back in half and prying them open just enough to let a trickle of chilled bourbon ooze into the glass waiting patiently below. “Young Peaches never dreamed of nothin’ but shakin’ ass and big bills?”

Sandy’s questions hit her like a shot of neat vodka. White hot. Like drinking down a handful of nails. They scraped away at her oesophagus, digging deep at her inner walls. She was caught in a stalemate between telling him to get the fuck off and telling him to come the fuck on. She adjusted her bare ass cheeks on the barstool, peaking out from beneath her pleated skirt, the skin peeling off the sticky leather as she shifted her weight from one side to the other.

“I dreamed of bakin’ autumn apple pies and makin’ iced tea on hot days,” the confession fell from her lips before she had a chance to amputate it. “Dreamed of arrangin’ his ties all colour coded and shoe shinin’ his Italian leathers. I dreamed of knittin’ little Johnny and darling Diana matching christmas sweaters. I’d read ‘em bedtime stories each night and it wouldn’t matter if the writin’ was all small. I could still read it to ‘em even with just a nightlight. All their Christmas gifts would be wrapped perfect under the tree. A real tree, by the way. Big 6 footer with needles I’m sweepin’ up every mornin’… I dreamed of being a good lil’ wife, Sandra. Then I grew the fuck up. Then I realised he’d still be dippin’ his dick in some poor girls pussy down the whorehouse even if I gave him the whole fuckin’ world. So here I am. And here you are.”

Sandy had stopped serving drinks. His palms were flat on the bartop, inches from Pearl’s balled fists. A silence fell between them. It was thick as treacle. Molasses coating her teeth. She struggled to catch her breath, the confession of her juvenile dreams like a sullied gusset left face-up on the floor. Shame reddened the capillaries in her cheeks. Sandy didn’t notice. And if he did, he didn’t make her feel worse about it.

“Well, Peaches…” he finally said, voice soft as a duckdown pillow. “I don’t think you should give up your dreams so quick. There’s still sweetness left in you yet.”

It wasn’t the first time Sandy Collington had left her speechless. He often spared a sentence or two that could leave her stumped as a quiet kid called upon in class. No one seemed to see her the way he did from the other side of that damned bar. He didn’t look through her. She wasn’t some frosted pane with a promise on the other side. He admired her like abstract art. With narrowed eyes and a quizzical half-smile on his face. Those stolen conversations in the Soirée witching hours were some of Pearly’s happiest memories. They were moments she lived and relived when she closed her eyes. His were the hands she imagined all over her when she was with the Johns he’d gotten drunk all night. Nothing ever happened between them. Not officially. Not properly. But Sandy and Pearl had a chemistry that not even Moira could ignore. It took the Madam months to grow tired of the two of them stealing glances from across the room and whispering private jokes from across the bar. She didn’t warn Pearly before she sacked him. Didn’t so much as hint at the idea. One night, Sandy was there, polishing glassware and slingshotting jokes at gawking Johns. Then, he wasn’t. He wasn’t there the next night. Or the next. Sandy was quickly and silently replaced by some nameless, faceless girl. The new girl didn’t know how to make Pearly’s Old Fashioned just right. And she certainly didn’t know Pearly was actually Peaches. Sandy took all of that with him. The nicknames. The late night chats that left Pearly less alone. It hurt much more than Theodore Buxton. And it hurt more than Tony’s signet ringed fingers coiled tight around her throat.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜 & 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

Something’s wrong with Madam P. This Genovese debacle has spun her head way more than a wayward Babydoll usually would. She ain’t sleeping. She ain’t eating. That twiggy body ain’t seen nothin’ but blow and booze since Dixie pressed her thumbs too hard and too long into that boys jugular. Winnie & I had the scene and the stiff handled. All Madam had to do was keep her nerve, wipe the boy’s bills and scrub the CCTV. That shit only picks up the in and outs at the front doors anyway, fucks sake. Wouldn’t take two seconds just to get it scrubbed clean. For peace of mind, y’know? Saying that… I don’t reckon our Pearl Sackville has had any kind of peace, least of all in her mind, since she left her mother’s fuckin’ womb.

But I’ve been keepin’ an ear out for any whispers of Luca Genovese being missin’… To be honest, that family don’t really hang round our neck o’ the woods. Don’t get me wrong, Tony’s the real deal. Proper wop. But I ain’t heard nothin’. Not a squeak. We might just get lucky with this one, ya know. Maybe one of the Irish or the Serbs will catch the stray on that. She better fuckin’ pray for that. Anyway. So, P says to me she’s got Dixie handled, right? “I’ve got it handled, Roge” she said. Said it right before she went up to bed for the first night in days. Not without a shitty bottle of Jack though, aye. And I kept my nose out, like she so much as asked me to…
So tell me why I spotted Dixie’s signature peach duckin’ into a taxi cab in the early hours? Very much alive, by the fuckin’ way. Musta snuck out the back door. Didn’t think she had the minerals for it, but off she went, Ditsy Dixie. I would’ve done something, sure, if I didn’t already have my hands full. Beef fat as Angus over some John’s bill he decided he didn’t wanna pay… Obviously I changed his mind. But whilst I’m outside convincin’ him, Dixie’s poppin’ her seatbelt on in a taxi and dustin’ my ass. Yeah, she’s looooong gone now. And it’ll be down to me to track her down, no doubt. I bet you soon as I tell Ms P she’ll be askin’ why I didn’t chase her down. You seen the size of me? I don’t run for shit. Ain’t gonna start now. Winnie’s always complainin’ about how tired she is of cleaning up people’s messes… Funny how that cleaner don’t wanna clean. Try rearranging faces, Win. Try grabbin’ up 3 wasters at once and draggin’ them outside for a seein’ to, Win. Try tellin’ Pearl Sackville that her murderin’ whore is on the run to god-knows-where, Win. You got an ex-wife ridin’ yo ass for money every month? A son who can’t look you in the eye? A daughter who don’t wanna know ya? You just keep on fluffin’ pillows and waving your feather duster around. Goddamn.

______________________________

Pearl’s right hand cradled her chin like a wicker Moses basket, elbow melting into the bartop, eyelids fighting a losing battle with gravity. She was humming along with whatever Blues singer had taken the Soirée stage that night. She didn’t know the song. But that didn’t stop her from faking it. The dud notes and off-time ad libs slurred from her lips as if cotton wool was balled in her cheeks. Lloyd was eyeing her from a few steps away, stealing sideways glances at the Madam who was barely holding it together. Her sequinned dress was cracking with the pressure of containing all that was swelling within her, those metallic fish-like scales shimmering in the half-light. Pearl sighed as she brought the glass to her lips again. It had reached the point in the night where even lifting the liquor was effort she could barely muster.

She’d spent the earlier hours, before her drunken lover had welcomed her back into his warm embrace, balancing accounts and counting the safe in her office. She’d shuffled and reshuffled bills with tight coils of paranoia in her fingertips, filled out façade paperwork with shaken strikes of a pencil, watched and rewatched the CCTV on repeat… Even the VHS remote control seemed to tire of her delusion, the buttons lifting their eyes to the ceiling with every rabid jab at the rewind. The chaos within the Madam that usually had its face pressed up against a riot shield, threatening to burst through the barricades she’d built, was breaking free like a fever. Desperate to be freed, that chaos had seen a crack appear within her, one that started like one of her whitlows but peeled back to reveal raw, blushed flesh beneath. Like a wound, it wept. It pussed. It oozed. Pearl’s usually guarded and sullenly controlled demeanour had crumbled like eroding brickwork. It was as if she were parading Soirée with her skin unzipped, all of it falling away like browning petals, just bare muscle tissue and bones beneath. Though Pearl had attempted to wrap herself in sequinned pretence, a colourful Christmas cracker, Dixie’s hands had gripped both ends of her and twisted her open with a snap. Though unlike the festive staple, breaking Pearl open had revealed a whole lot of noise and a disappointing nothingness that resided inside. Suddenly, a hand that felt familiarly weighted clamped down on her shoulder. Like a puppet with the strings cut, the Madam seemed to fold at Roger’s touch. Her neck craned, Soirée swimming, blurry and fuzzy. He was looking down at her with his signature neutral expression, devoid of any real emotion, immune to her drunken sneer.

“Ms Pearl,” Roger said tersely, the only microexpression of a ticking vein in his thick neck was missed by the Madam. “Will you follow me? I have something that requires your attention.”

Somehow, Pearl managed to follow Roger across Soirées emptying dance floor. Her memory failed her when she attempted to recall exactly the series of events that lead to her being escorted to her bedroom like an inebriated adolescent. Ignoring her mumbled protests, Roger simply gestured patiently in the direction he wished Pearl to aim for. When she stumbled, a hard hand found its way to the small of her back. When her ankles zigzagged in heels she was too intoxicated for, there was a palm on her elbow holding her up. Eventually, Roger successfully delivered Pearl to her bedroom with a bed unmade and window wide open, circulating bitter cold air that only exasperated her drunken stumbling.

“Whadya want, Roge?” she said, tone accusatory.

Uncooperative hands attempted to extract the bag of cocaine that was nestled between her breasts. It danced teasingly between her fingers before falling to the ground. Roger’s boot was placed over the top of the baggie, his eyebrows raised slightly in challenge.

“Pearly,” he began gruffly. “I’ve got lock-up handled. Why don’t you get some rest, huh? We’ve got it covered downstairs. Clock out early.”

“Roge. Your boot’s on my drugs.

“I’m aware.”

“Gerrof it then, damn! Wos wrong with ya? Move your fat boot off my-”

“‘Fraid I can’t do that for you, Pearl.”

Her eyes, wild and outraged, were attempting to focus on him. But all Roger saw was the wayward woman he’d worked for, protected and served for years, barely holding it together. He rarely overstepped. Seldom crossed this boundary. Yet, here he was. Taking her to bed before she drank herself into a total stupor and made a mockery of herself in front of her patrons.

“I suggest you get out that dress ‘fore you get into bed. Don’t look the most comfortable thing to sleep in.”

“Not goin’ to bed now anyway, you idiot. I’m downstairs.”

“You’re not. That’s enough, Pearl. C’mon. Don’t make me….”

Pearly Sackville’s chin jutted indignantly, her torso bobbing like a wave-buffeted buoy on choppy waters.

“I’m not goin’ fuckin’ bed, Roge! I’m back downstairs. I dint even finish my drink, you fuck.”

The hint of a smile pinched at the corner of Roger’s mouth. That was what flicked the switch within him. As if some higher force had commanded it, the man scooped Little Pearly Girl up off her feet and took three lumbering steps towards her bed. She may have squealed in protest if she were more sober. But The Madam, in the privacy of her bedroom with the only man who’d ever stayed to know her, relented at Roger’s touch. She sagged like a sleeping toddler being tactically extracted from the backseat of a car. Her arms draped down his back, wrists flapping all rubbery. In one arm, Roger somewhat brashly held the Madam. With the other, he tossed back her crumpled duvet and gently yet rather officially lay her down on the squeaking mattress. He cleared his throat awkwardly, fingers hooked on his belt loops awaiting the next protest. But she didn’t attempt to get back up. Her head flopped on the pillow to face him.

“You’ll be alright, Pearl?”

A question? Or a statement?

She merely nodded. Drunken embarrassment pinched pinky blush on her cheeks. Unconvinced, Roger took a few steps back towards the wicker chair that faced the foot of the bed. It’s main purpose was to be home to a mountain of dirty laundry. But he lifted the pile and laid it to rest on the bedroom floor. Lowering himself into the chair, ignoring its creaks beneath his weight, he watched and waited. It took a few minutes for her to fall asleep. Her eyes rolled back, jaw sliding open, tongue lolling and snores heaving her chest. She didn’t look peaceful. She looked like sleep had forced itself upon her. Satisfied nonetheless, Roger left the bedroom. He moved quietly, avoiding the floorboards he knew would creak beneath his boots, and clicked the door shut softly behind him. Hand hovered over the doorhandle for a mere moment, Roger let out a small sigh, then disappeared back downstairs to the depths of Soirée.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚠𝚜𝚘𝚗 & 𝚃𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚎
44 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝙷𝚊𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

Maria Genovese was the kind of "good wife" men like Tony Genovese proudly proclaimed in a crowded room that they couldn't live without. The warm yellow glow of the porch light left on, a dinner plated and foiled untouched in the fridge, the scent of her moisturiser still lingering in their bedroom. She knew when to offer her insight. She knew when to press her lipsticked lips together in a hard line. She knew when to fuck her husband. She knew when to avert her gaze. Tony would often say "Behind every good man is an even better woman" - Maria was his home. It wasn't the hoover lines in the carpets nor the colour-coordinated place settings at the dining table. Nor was it the throw pillows, fluffed and chopped in the centre, perfectly arranged in size order like Russian dolls. Or the fact she'd fold his pyjamas on his side of the bed every morning. It was the soft cushion of her hips. The way she'd smile at him from the stove whilst wiping her hands on a tea towel. But ever since their beloved Luca had left his favourite meal getting cold on the kitchen table that night, Maria had become someone Tony barely recognised. This was a woman who would bake biscotti for the Family sat discussing gruesome business around her dining table, a woman who stoically watched her husband's fits of rage with merely a series of blinks and sighs. Maria was unflappable. Until Luca's bed was left empty for one too many nights. She quickly became jittery. Snappy. Overemotional. She wouldn't sleep, shuffling from room to room in her house slippers, lightbulb humming unblinkingly through the porch windows. Tony couldn't bare it. That's why he called Winnie's Wash. That's why he spoke to the Family, too. No pigs. No feds. These things were better handled "internally."

Tony hadn't expected to hear back from Winnie so quickly. After he'd slammed the receiver back into its cradle and finished his cigarette, he'd looked up to find Maria hovering like a child up past their bedtime. Her chipped nail polish gripped the wooden door frame and her body seemed to be shrinking into the folds of her dusky pink bathrobe.

"Get yourself to bed, for God's sake, Maria..." Tony mumbled, shifting his weight in the Chesterfield Sofa, the buttons on his shirt straining to contain his hairy torso. "I've got this handled, alright? We're gonna find him. The boy's no doubt partying somewhere, laying low with a skinful. He'll be home soon."

His words were like puffs of air. They barely reached her. She flexed her fingers on the doorframe, immune to her husband's words of comfort. Like Aspirin lodged in her throat; The Headache was still there and there's a horrible powdered taste in her mouth. Maria's slippers remained rooted in the carpet fibres, breeze blocks. Her pasty lips opened and shut uselessly, weary eyes drifting to the ground where they lingered stubbornly. Tony huffed as he unfolded from the studded leather sofa and rose to his feet. He took a few cautious steps across the room, palms open and extended as if approaching an injured animal by the roadside.

"Maria, do you think for one second I'm gonna let this slide? No. I'm not. That boy's in so much hot water when I find him," he placed two hands on either side of her, swallowing back the blow to his ego when she flinched at his touch. "But we are gonna find him, alright? We are."

Maria's eyes barely moved, locked into that absent stare she'd worn the last couple days. Tony felt like he'd been locked out of his home, knocking uselessly at her empty bones and calling her name into a vacant room. She wordlessly backed away from him and into the dimly lit corridor. All he heard was the sound of her slippered steps, retreating up the stairs to their bedroom where she'd no doubt lay staring at the ceiling, listening for the sound of Luca's return. Tony returned to the sofa after pouring himself a glass of the good cognac from the crystal decanter on the cabinet. He reached over to the lamp beside him and clicked the light out, plunging himself into darkness. He drank. He waited. What for? He wasn't entirely sure. But when the phone trilled to life a couple of hours later, a sickening stir in his stomach told him it wasn't good news. Call it a Father's instinct. And when Winnie's worn syllables and diluted breath crackled the speaker, that sick feeling concreted like cement in the pits of him.

"Winnie? Jesus Christ. You work fast. You tellin' me you've found my boy already?"

_____________________________________

Tony had given her his home address within the first few minutes of the phone call. She'd wasted no time after barrelling through her apartment door, cleaning supplies in an early grave in the back of her van. Duchess had padded happily to greet her, bell on her collar tinkering as she wound herself around Winnie's ankles, almost sending her flying face-first into the dining table. She tutted. Relaying the information to Tony Genovese was as if a newsreader was announcing the upcoming expectant showers and plummeting temperatures. She spoke of Pearl Sackville's phone call. Of the job. Of the inconsolable whore who'd she'd tucked in and who'd stuttered Luca Genovese's name between sobs. Tony listened. He didn't interject. He didn't interrupt. In fact, the only indication that he was still on the other end of the phone was the occasional whistle of his breaths. And when Winnie was finished, a silence fell. What she clung to was the promise that soon she'd leave this miserable apartment. She'd never have to clean up another mess that didn't belong to her. She pictured her granddaughter running to greet her at the bottom of the driveway. It was all waiting for her. And Tony was going to make it happen. But first? First he told her she'd have to come by the house.

"Now?" she'd asked incredulously.

"Now."

So after a 20 minute drive she parked the van on Silver Street in Hayward where the Genovese family operated out of. The cleaner clambered out of the drivers seat, knees knocking. She told herself, as her weary soles made their way up the paving slabs of the Genovese home, that this was just a transaction. She'd give the information to Tony. He'd pay her by granting her freedom. And the fate of the crying girl? That was the price that had to be paid. The backlash for Pearl Sackville was karmic, wasn't it? She was a woman who dealt in darkness, prayed on the vulnerable minds of twisted men, caged lost girls and gave them some sick idea of purpose, selling nightmares dressed as dreams. She treated those girls like commodities. Bodies for rent. And the worst of it was she convinced them it was a better life than the one they lived on the outside. Winnie had spent years struggling with the guilt that came with her job. She was sure that's what had deepened her wrinkles and what anchored her bones. But Pearly seemingly breezed through Soirée like a celebrity, unburdened by her own evil. Was she plagued by regret? Did she, too, dream of an alternate reality where this wasn't her life? Hardly likely. The Madam didn't even bother to address Winnie by her actual name. And that is why, when Tony opened his front door and invited her in with a somber expression on his face, Winnie stepped assuredly over the threshold. For the first time in a long time, the Cleaner felt light on her feet. She was doing the right thing. And when Mrs Genovese's shaky hands stirred the teaspoon, the metal clinking against the china, and when those same shaking palms handed Winnie the cup of tea, the Cleaner bowed her head in thanks. Tony Genovese cleared his throat.

"Maria, mia cara, why don't you go on upstairs and let me talk to Miss Winnie?"

"I'm staying right here, Tone."

"I told you I'd handle it, Maria. I told you I'd deal with it. Now let me deal with it."

Maria slammed her palms on the kitchen counter so hard that the cutlery drying in the dish rack rattled. Winnie jolted in her seat. She whirled to face Tony who stood deathly still, watching his wife with darkened eyes.

"I swear to God, Tony. If you say that one more time? I-If you say that? One? More? Time? I'm gonna lose it. I'm tellin' you I'm gonna lose it. I'm losing my goddamned mind, here. You think I'm stupid? You think I don't know the reason that Miss Winnie is sat at this table and not Luca? Goddamn it! Where is he, Tony? Where's our son?"

She snapped in half right there in the kitchen. Winnie watched as Tony tried to piece the shards of his wife back together, a wet pool of her spreading across the kitchen tiles like a leaking faucet. She suddenly felt the urge to up and leave, to give these people the privacy they deserved. But Tony hurriedly ushered Maria upstairs, whisperings of reassurance hushed into her ears, ignoring her flailing arms of protest. For a few minutes, all Winnie could hear was the drip of the tap and muffled voices overhead. She sighed. And when Tony reentered the room what felt like hours later, he appeared a few kilos heavier than when he left. The man made his apologies for the overtness of his wife's despair. Said of course she's struggling with all this. A Mother's heartbreak. He lowered himself into the chair across from Winnie at the dining table. There were wrinkles in his white shirt deeper than the ones that were carved into her own face. His slicked jet black hair was loosening itself from the grip of gel. He looked more human to her then than he ever had. A sigh rattled his ribcage. Tony Genovese interlaced his thick fingers and rested his elbows on the tabletop. He'd cuffed the shirt and rolled the sleeves halfway up his forearms. He looked upon Winnie with an intensity she struggled not to shy away from. Then, Tony asked her to tell him again. From the very beginning. He asked about Soirées layout. The entrances. The exits. The hours of operation. The types of people Winnie had seen there. Was it always busy? Did she see anything suspicious whilst she was there? What does this girl look like?

"Who works there?"

"Who lives there?"

"Tell me about Pearl. What's she like?"

"This girl say anything about what they'd done with him? Where they'd taken him?"

The barrage of questions flowed like a magician plucking a string of hanker-chiefs from his sleeve. Winnie answered them all. Well, the ones she was capable of answering. And what was indeed scarier than the prospect of Tony Genovese exploding across from her at the dining table? It was the cool, calm way he questioned her. The way he didn't seem to blink. The way his voice, monotonous and cold, hummed in sync with the whirr of the refrigerator. Tony didn't share in his wife's hysteria. The two of them were so polarised in their emotional responses in that way. She wept. He didn't shed a tear. Instead, Winnie watched the lace of revenge tie in a knot within the man's heart. And once he decided he'd had his fill, Tony showed her out. As if she'd simply popped round for a late night cup of tea. As the two of them said their awkward goodbyes at the door, Winnie hesitated on the front step. She turned slowly to face him, sheepish and coy in the dim light of the freshly mowed front lawn.

"... Am I... Am I out?" Winnie whispered. There was something hopeful and childlike about her wrinkled, furrowed brow.

Tony looked down upon the frail, hunched old woman. Something flashed across his face in the moonlight.

"Thank you again, Miss Winnie. I'll call you."

And then the door crashed shut in her face. The porch light was switched off. She waited a breath longer before floating down the cobbled footpath to her van. The engine choked as it crunched into gear. Winnie drove in a trance back to her apartment. Still, she clung to the lifejacket of her granddaughter's happy smile. Not even the tears of Mrs Genovese could erase that image. She wasn't sure when she decided to keep driving. Was it when she stopped at a red light and felt something cold and hard grip at her nerves? Was it when she circled one particular roundabout twice before slapping down the indicator? The only thing that made her turn around and drive back towards her grimy, saddened apartment was the idea of Duchess mewing at nothingness for her next tin of chum.

Intriguingly's

Intriguingly’s had something of a thick air within. As Miko moved carefully and quietly through the creaking, aching and groaning store of oddities, she found herself focusing on her breath. The scent of stale air laced with dust filled her nostrils and her inquisitive eyes slid over the cluttered shelves. It was as if this place were owned by a chronic hoarder that had lived several lifetimes, accumulating what seemed like, at first glance, worthless junk. Miko daren’t touch what sprawled drunkenly across the shop shelves. Fraying books, chipped trinkets, faded upholstery on weathered wood… This place harboured the memories of many. They were weaved into every inch of the place. Miko thought to herself that someone could surely spend hours upon hours exploring each of these wares.

"Do you need the restroom key, sir?"

A voice that sounded like gravel crunching beneath heavy tyres. Miko glanced both ways, searching for the creature that had spoken. Between the slivers of gaps between shelf upon shelf, Miko spotted who she could only assume was responsible for that rasping, chilling sound. A bowler hat licked with a dusting that was undoubtedly majority flaked skin. Skin that shamed the cracked, worn leather of the rickety armchairs in the window. Eyes that peered out from sunken sockets, hooded and beady if not for their widened gaze shooting across the shop floor. Miko moved quickly to conceal herself behind an overfilled bookshelf, obscuring herself from the man’s view. Surely he was in costume? A gimmick to match Intriguingly’s haunting atmosphere? That man dressed as if Halloween were all year round. She busied herself reading the book titles that were still legible on the bookshelf she was shielding herself with.

Suddenly, she felt the sensation of someone’s eyes on her. Miko tensed. She spotted a tall man earnestly examining some instruments that were pulled from a seemingly bottomless leather bag. It was an old-fashioned doctor’s bag at a quick glance. The openings framed by a tarnished gold metal piping, cavernous as a mouth. The man’s expression was that of piqued intrigue, his fingers running along the once-sharp edge of a bone saw and gripping rusted scalpels. Miko thought to herself that, if they were anywhere else but Intriguingly’s, she would think this were a strange scene indeed. A man fascinated by dangerous tools? Eyeing them as if allured like a moth to flame? She averted her gaze, focusing instead on a music box that sat dumped in a wooden crate packed with other miscellaneous antiques.

Her Mother had owned a music box just like this one. A vintage Disneyland memorabilia, covered in stains and a copper clasp that stuck stubbornly when open and closed. She had loved when her Mother had plucked it from her dressing table, crouching at the knees to be face-to-face with little Miko. That old music box, despite its decrepit appearance, still burst into song with every opening of its lid. The song had slowed with age and the mechanisms within clunked over the notes with the lack of an elegance it once possessed. Her Mother had smiled fondly with every play of that tune, humming along and enjoying the hypnosis it induced in her little daughter. Miko, now much older and less susceptible to seduction by antique music boxes without the hum of her wonderful late Mother, palmed Intriguingly’s music box curiously. She thumbed the worn wood, biting down pensively on her bottom lip, debating snapping that lid open. She wondered if this old thing could still hold a tune…

Miko’s phone buzzed in her pocket. A call from her manager at the office. Her eyes widened. How had her lunch break evaporated so quickly? She slid her thumb across the screen, answering the call and pressing her phone to her ear. Her voice was hushed, lowered to avoid the attention of the other customers of Intriguingly’s.

“Miko - Everything alright? You took your lunch break 32 minutes ago.”

Did they really notice when she left? When she was due to return? Miko was sure they barely noticed her at all.

“Oh, sorry. So sorry. Phil, I-“ Miko’s voice wavered, hesitating at what her mind had already decided she’d do. “I’m not feeling too well, actually. I’m in a restroom down the road right now… I hadn’t realised the time. I should’ve called…”

Miko was never late. She never called out. She clocked in and clocked out at that soulless office job religiously day after day, showing up even when others made the excuse of public transport issues or snow on the roads…

“That’s fine, Miko” Phil conceded. Miko released the breath she’d been holding. “Take the rest of the day. If you can’t make it in tomorrow, send me an email.”

Miko nodded. Then, realising Phil couldn’t see her nodding, she mumbled in agreement and said her goodbyes. She slid her phone back into her pocket and felt a rush of excitement. She’d skipped out on work! To spend more time in a creepy antique store down the street! This was unlike her. But there was something about this place that kept her bound by curiosity. She wasn’t ready to be shackled back at her desk, answering emails and staring at a phone that never rang.

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

Lovely post! Will work on a reply over the weekend. Just out of curiosity, we're free to interpret how our witches experience the new bond and how their magic may respond to it, right?

@Byte

Thanks my love! Appreciate you!

Can’t wait to read your reply, as always.

Absolutely this is down for interpretation. Whilst The Pull itself is a unified sensation, you’re welcome to do with that what you will.
Plus, for most of you if not all, this will be the first time you’ve experienced a spellbinding. So it would make sense for there to be variation in our responses! ^^

I’m looking forward to some upcoming action!… A nighttime intruder, some unwelcome guests, some fight scenes eventually…

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

“Uh… Juniper… we might have a situation.”

The Earth Witch had just about rallied the troops, most of whom had taken their place within the circle, and she was about ready to join them when Wren suddenly approached her looking burdened by something. June’s softened gaze, brow instantly furrowed with concern, was fixed on the Witch’s glazed eyes with concern. She placed a hand gently but assertively on Wren’s bicep and steered her from the conservatory entrance. Out of view, June’s eyes glided over one of her newest Coven member, searching for obvious signs of harm or danger. Neither of which were present. This relaxed her shoulders that had tensed with anticipation.

”Wren,” June said soothingly, her tone cautious yet placating. ”Our Binding Spell has been set to commence imminently…”

Her eyes flicked to the conservatory where Witches gathered within the circle of black sand.

”I don’t mean to be dismissive…” she said, biting her bottom lip hesitantly ”…But unless you’re in imminent danger, I’d like us to pick this right back up once the Binding Spell is complete?”

The sound of Aislinn’s flapping wings could be heard as the familiar exited the Kitchen, leaving her perch, and landing gracefully on June’s shoulder. The bird’s claws fastened, hooking her Master’s clavicle, and those beady eyes blinked at Wren. Aislinn’s voice spoke crisp and clear in Juniper’s mind.

”I think the Hedge Witch may have become acquainted with some of the spirits that reside at Corinthia,” the wise raven remarked ominously. ”Some of the souls anchored to this place can be quite… Invasive with their introductions. We should organise an Expelling Ritual with the Hedge Witches. Make things quieter for them…”

Juniper fixed her familiar with a thankful smile.

“Aislinn just made the astute suggestion that perhaps a spirit or 2 anchored to Corinthia may have been a little forceful with their introductions?” she gently rested a hand on Wren’s arm again. A brief acknowledgement of the burden these Witches bare with their thread to the other side. “For those that aren’t welcome, we’ll arrange an Expelling. The same goes for Noah. But for now? Would you care to join us? There’s a tea for you in the Kitchen.”

_______________________

Introductions ignited the circumference of the black sand circle. As the group of Witches stood shoulder to shoulder, each looking at one another as they shared their name and magic type, Juniper couldn’t help but notice the gentle buzz that began to crackle beneath her epidermis. It wasn’t as intense as it felt when channelling her power. No, it was more subtle than that. This feeling was one she’d come to only associate with being in the company of her Mother and the Sisterhood. It was known as “The Pull.” It was an electrifying feeling, one that indicated the presence and unity of great power. A Witch, one who is well-versed in recognising that feeling, may be able to tap into it when in the presence of as little as one fellow Witch. However, most only feel that tingle when in the company of many. Juniper smiled softly at the comforting familiarity of The Pull. She’d missed that. Finally, each of the arrivals had made their introductions which meant it was her turn. She placed both hands to her chest, an earnest and sincere expression.

“Thank you all for introducing yourselves, it really is such an honour to have you all here…” June inhaled quickly, then said “I’m Juniper Sage Hawthorne - I come from a very long line of Earth Witches. Mother Earth is my guide. Herbology is my specialty. And Aislinn here is my faithful familiar.”

The raven cawed approvingly. Juniper continued, undeterred by the small silence that had fallen.

“Preparations have been made for our introductory Binding Spell. This will officialise our union, the bond of the new Corinthia,” the Earth Witch held out both hands, palms upturned. “I’ll begin the spell with a simple incantation. If you’d be so kind as to repeat my final statement, as unified as you can, that’ll tie the thread. Then, it’ll be official.”

June fixed each of them with an enthused smile, making haste with the Binding Spell. Her eyelids fluttered shut briefly as she took a long, steady inhale. She reached within and focused on taking ahold of her inner power. In order to access her Magic, June had found various methods throughout her years. This time, she pictured her Magic as if it had a physical form within her. Often, she envisaged her power as a seedling in freshly trowelled dirt. This imaginary sapling is what she would speak to with her inner voice, it helped to give her power a physical form, somehow tapping into its energy. Her voice was clear and confident as she began the Binding Spell, her body instantly responding to the Magic. Hairs rose on her arms. A tingle skittered down her spine.

“Mother O’Mine, tis I, your kin -
I ask that you grant me your power within.

I do not wish to take, I merely wish to borrow,
You lead in glory and I forever follow.

We intend to unite, the souls that stand,
Side by side, heart to heart, mind to mind, hand in hand.

From now until then, may this Magic unite,
Bind us always in Nature’s light.

As the words flowed from June’s lips, her eyes ablaze with the green hue that illuminated her irises, the various potted foliage that framed the walls of the conservatory began to pulsate. Branches elongated, buds bloomed, leaves expanded and roots protruded from their pots. The plants, seemingly with minds of their own, sprung to new life. They grew, taller and more vibrant than before, stretching to form a leafy canopy overhead. The Pull thrummed with the power of the Corinthia Binding Spell, positively humming with the newly formed union. A spontaneous wind kicked up in the conservatory, the window panes trembling beneath the pressure of the gales that whipped through the air. The black sand circle broke, those dark grains of sand picked up by the breeze that wound through the glass room. Juniper’s hair danced to the winds, whipping across her face that remained focused and strained with the weight of the spell. But the change was immediate. Something had shifted between the Witches gathered in that circle. June felt something akin to an invisible thread, tying each of them together. She smiled. Mother Earth had answered her calls. Now? It was done. The Witches were bound. Corinthia was official.

And this was just the beginning…

Intriguingly's

@RickyG85 All good here! Hope you are too! I’ll get a post together this week for sure and move Miko along through the story in my own little way ^^

I’ve got a couple other games to maintain but I’ll get to it don’t worry!

Austin Is Dead

@LanaStorm

I’m still here ^^

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

The Madam awoke the following morning with a pastel painting of cigarette ash and mascara smudged across her pillowcase, smears of ruby-red lipstick swatches on the nicotine-stained bedding like blood spatter. She pressed her face back into the lumpy pillow, nose folding like plasticine, air whistling through squished nostrils like a boiling kettle begging to be taken off the stove. She wanted to fill the innards of that pillow with a guttural scream. Excavate last night's nightmares from every fibre of her being. Pearl's sleep-riddled mind still reeked of Theodore Buxton, his calloused hands skipping across her forearms like skimming stones, his unkempt beard hair scratching at her pointed chin, those storm-filled eyes staring out at her from behind the milk-bottle lenses he used to wear... Her naked limbs rustled beneath the duvet, tightened muscles and pounding headache plunging her in an ice-cold pool of sobriety. She squeezed her eyelids shut, skin puckering like sultanas, squeezing so hard that floaters began meandering across her line of vision. Soirée was quiet at this time of morning. The beams and the bricks remained haunted by the demons of corrupted souls who had trickled out of the front doors mere hours ago, the smell of stale smoke clung to the air, pigeons cooed on pylon wiring outside Pearl's bedroom window. But it was peaceful in the whore house between the hours of 8am and 10am. Pearl made it a house rule that any Johns paying night rates had to vacate the premises by 8am, giving the girls a couple hours of downtime before they clocked back in at 10. Daytimes were, of course, slower than evenings. But there remained daylight regulars that graced Soirée in their work attire: All pinstriped suits and briefcases and a belly full of breakfast cooked by their doting wives. The Madam slid her legs out from beneath the duvet and touched her soles to the sun-warmed wooden floorboards. She had the kind of hangover that felt like pinpricks beneath her skin and the kind of mind that sounded like a traffic-clogged freeway full of hot, frustrated drivers honking their horns and yelling through open windows.

Sobriety don't suit Pearly Sackville. Stretched and blue like a bruise. Crisp and cracking like a week-old scab. Sore like a whitlow, reddened and angry, protruding from a gnarled nail bed. She practically crawled, wincing through gritted teeth still furry from the late-night whiskey, to the en suite bathroom. The tiles were all tracked with black mould and peachy stale water sat swimming in the tub. When was the last time she'd showered?... The room soon filled with thick steam, puffing and pluming before her blood-shot eyes. Was that steam or Theodore's breath still lingering on her neck? She remembered how one day, all those years ago, he'd simply stopped calling by. Every time the Soirée doors had creaked open, her ears would prick like an eager hound, she'd bound through the corridors to greet the one person she'd been waiting so melancholic to see. Only to be shooed away by her Mother's dismissive wave and daggered sideways glance. Theodore Buxton never even said goodbye. No "It's not you - It's me." Not even a letter. He was simply there one minute and gone the next. Little Pearly Girl had cried so much her eyeballs may have drowned. She'd cried until her throat became raw, cried until saltwater shone across her lips, cried until her mum's babydolls had knocked on her bedroom door to tell her to keep it down. She'd wailed his name like a cat in heat, she'd clawed at the inside of her arms until her skin lobstered like sunburn. And when that shroud of inconsolable, unstoppable and impossible hysteria finally lifted, Pearl swore to herself she simply would never allow a John to have access to her the same way again. And like the final twist of a key in the lock, Moira's voice imprinted on that not-yet-formed brain of hers:

"Pearly, these Johns don't owe you nothin' 'cept a fistful of cash, alright?" her mother had said, the first and last time Pearl had sought comfort from Moira Sackville about Theodore Buxton. Or about anything, really. Desperate-flavoured advice. Words that tasted like stale bread and curdled milk. "He was fillin' your head with nonsense about love, weren't he? Said you were his favourite little girl? His pretty little Pearl? Buyin' you thangs? Takin' you places? Promisin' you a better life than this one, right? See? I weren't even there and I know damned well what that John had you fallin' for. Well, Pearly. Let this be a goddamn lesson to you. You are not here to be swept off your feet. You're not here to be loved. You are not here to be adored or doted on. That? That is a fairytale. It's not real. Sooner or later Johns get bored. And that's what happened with Theodore fuckin' Buxton. He got bored, mmkay? He's gone back to his wife and his life and his kids and his house. And you're still here. All that time you wasted with him for free? Not bein' paid? Not payin' your way round here? You ain't gettin' that back. Know what you can do, Pearly? Stop all that fuckin' racket and get yourself ready for work. And close the door on your way out."

Pearl had her towel wrapped round her back with one corner gripped in each fist, sliding it back and forth across her damp shoulder blades, the crisp material continually and relentlessly scraping at her dry skin. She sniffed and blinked and cleared her rasping throat. She avoided the eyes of that ghastly reflection above the sink, a misted mirror imitating her swallowed sadness, despite her shame she wiped away the condensation and forced herself to meet her own gaze. The crooked woman with blotched skin and soaked spaghetti hair was a stranger to her. A creature Pearl would look down her nose at in the street. Silver struck through her midnight sky curls like forks of lightning. Crows feet fanned out from the corners of her vacant, unblinking eyes. Flesh that once stretched so tight across her jaw and her neck had begun melting, textured like orange peel, seemingly flaking away like pith with a vascularity the red roadmap in her eyes envied. Pearl's upper lip curled. Her eyes lowered. She burst out of the bathroom as if leaving a gas chamber, breaths shallowed and sharp as paper cuts. The subject of Dixie seeped into her psyche, replacing the echoed words of her Mother from all those years ago, replacing Luca's slack jaw, replacing the resentment for her own reflection. She had to deal with her. Dixie. Today. Now.

The Madam opened one of her bedside drawers. Using the back of her hand, she knocked away an empty liquor bottle, rustled and riffled through miscellaneous wrappers and empty cigarette packets, tears still trailed down her cheeks. There, beneath the collateral, she found a likely clean G-String and a pair of tights. Dixie's pleading cries ring in her ears. Pearl's feet aim for the leg holes of her panties and miss. Twice. Dixie's widened eyes stare back at her. She looks like a deer in crosshairs. Acrylic nails scratch against her shins as she shimmies the lace up her legs. Dixie's bottom lip quivers. Her toe nails catch on the 15 denier as Pearl stomps into the hosiery with shaken determination. Dixie's doe eyes line up with the barrel of the Smithy and a desperate gargle bubbles in her throat. That sharpened pinky nail catches on the right and wrong thread. A ladder appears. It tears from Pearly's scarred knee all the way to the downy hair of her thigh. It's deathly silent as Dixie's body hits the carpet. The ladder, like a jagged staircase, creeps further and further up her leg as Pearly pries her finger between the material and pulls the tights up and up and up until the waistband sits beneath her bare breasts. The elastic pings comedically, slapping against her flesh as she lets it go. She looks down at the tear, blurry yet magnified through the looking glass of her tears. Dixie's lifeless eyes are fixed straight ahead, staring out into the abyss.

It's just a pair of tights, Pearl. For fucks sake. Nothing to cry about.