From the attic to the wine cellar, their voices whispered my name, “Eliza. Eliza. Eliza.” I had come home for Christmas. I had returned to Straeon Manor.
The rocking horse wallpaper had been replaced by utilitarian white paint. The child’s bed gone, replaced by a single adult bed. The nightstand – where I kept my mother’s bible to comfort me during the long, dark nights – had been replaced by a small dresser where sat a small tray of food.
A rocking horse sat in the corner of the room. Had it been mine once upon a time? Perhaps I had left it behind when we moved. I couldn’t remember. This was no longer my bedroom, just as this was no longer our house.
Madge was not impressed with the pink, aluminum Christmas tree in the library. Stella seemed to think it was the height of fashion and that their employers had remarkable taste. Madge preferred real trees that grew from soil, not some factory in Wisconsin.
She plucked at the cold metal needles and tried to arrange them in some sort of natural arrangement. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. No matter what she did with it, the gaudy thing still looked like a mistake.
“Hand me the box of green balls, Stella,” she said.
It snowed again last night, and this morning I awoke to gardens dusted with a fine white powder. Hopefully the snow will not impede the travel of any of the party guests. Aunt Millie has assured me that it will not. I do wish that little Lizzie was in better spirits. I should dearly have liked to have you here for my first ball.
My first ball, Mama, can you imagine that? It seems just yesterday I was dashing about in pinafores with my hair in plaits sticking out from under my bonnet. My aunt promises me that I shall look every inch the lady tonight. I do so hope the evening goes well.
Has papa returned from France? I had hoped that, by now, all the soldiers would have returned home. Surely with Bonaparte’s defeat this past summer, they can have no reason to keep papa abroad. I am sure his return home would be just what Lizzie needs to cure her cough. My aunt agrees with my statement, though assures me that by the time you receive my letter, Lizzie’s health will be much improved.
I shall return to my letter momentarily, my aunt is calling me away. (more…)
Dan had felt pretty ambiguous about his family’s move into the manor house, but the discovery of the attic came as a pleasant surprise. It hadn’t been listed as one of the rooms of the house, and somehow they had missed the door. When they first moved in, nobody had noticed it, but one day he opened a door he thought was a closet and found stairs up to an attic instead.
It was a huge room, spacious, and windowed on three sides. It was kind the kind of place teenage boys had their room in movies and such.
He had to have it.
“Merry Christmas,” his mom said, halfway sarcastically. “If you clean it up and find a way to move all of your stuff up there, it’s yours.” (more…)
I lay in the empty bathtub, beside the bloody knife, the porcelain chilling my shivering skin. My hands cover my face, catching warm tears from one eye and hot blood from the other’s vacant socket. I wish that Santa Claus would stop singing.
You’d better watch out. You’d better not cry…
The blood on my skin congeals, sticky like a thin layer of strawberry jam. Mine? Mark’s? Probably both. I want to turn on the water, to retrieve the soap from the wire basket screwed into the wall. Why are the screws different? One Phillips head, one flat. One rounded, one smooth. One old, one new. Old, new, round, smooth…
It’s confabulating time at the Cafe. And this month, we have a real treat. We’re returning to Straeon Manor.
Straeon Manor is a different sort of house. And the people who live there experience strange and unusual things.
Every story is set in a different room and a different year in the history of the house. In our first round of stories, our writers gave us tales of murder, mystery, and the supernatural.
Now it’s Christmastime at Straeon Manor. Many of the stories in this second round are set around the holidays. Some are likely to be stories of family, others of loss. Regardless, we hope you enjoy each of these gifts from the Confabulator Cafe.
“It’s weird, right?” my older brother says as we watch the muscled men set up the tents over on the fairgrounds. “I mean, I don’t remember the last time I heard of a circus in a big city, let alone a little shithole like this.”
“Hush!” I snap, enthralled with the way they hitch the poles and raise the faded, striped fabric. Horses whinny from inside rusted trailers, and I would bet every quarter in my piggy bank that there was a lion around here somewhere. Someone may as well have pulled the circus from my dreams, from the faded photographs I copied with the library’s machine.
With my arms over the edge of our fence and my feet braced in a hole in the wood, I look around for Mama. She’s still inside, on the phone, with her back turned to us. I steel my resolve and say, “It’s not a — a shithole. It’s our home.”
Zane pats my shoulder and smirks like he always does when he thinks he’s right. “Give it two more years, squirt. You’ll be calling it worse when you realize how boring it is.”
“It’s not boring,” I say. “We have a circus.” (more…)
Disclaimer: I know I was supposed to write a flash fiction but once I got into the story, it took on a life of its own and grew into a true short story. Presented here is the first part of the two part tale. — Jason
The Ringmaster of the Circus of Crime from Marvel Comics. Owned and maintained by Marvel.
Sure clowns are scary – I’ve read that Stephen King book – but they’re not the ones trying to the end the world. Uh uh. It’s the twisted, evil ringmasters you’ve gotta worry about. That guy in the Marvel comics with the hypno-hat and all the circus ‘freaks’? He’s bush league compared to some of the ones I’ve taken down.
The wind was October chilly and whirled the brittle leaves up the block in a swirl of orange, red and yellow as I took my morning walk. I had my hands in the pockets of my jacket, jingling some change and my collar turned up. The rubes were probably still in bed that early, and I could smell the warmth of fires in fireplaces or stoves. It’s one of the things I love most about fall . Anyway.
It was the police cars halfway up the block that really had my attention. Three of them, none flashing their lights, with a couple of officers standing in the driveway. The neighborhood was pleasant and probably forty or fifty years old. I mean, it’s pretty obvious which houses were built in the ’70s if you pay attention.
“Excuse me, sir,” one of the officers said as he crossed the street toward me. I pulled out my earbuds and gave him a look that said I wasn’t expecting him to stop me. “Do you live in the neighborhood?” Leonard, his nametag said.
“No. I’m at the Barrow Square Hotel a couple blocks over.” I showed concern. “Something happen?” (more…)
By the time the McPhereson Carnival and Circus Cavalcade left the county, six children had disappeared with it. Each of the kids had been orphaned, and had no real family to speak of. They were county kids, the kids who lived outside of town. If not for the fact that one of them had been my best friend, Flick, I might never have noticed what was happening.
The carnival train arrived in the dead of night, its whistle piercing the veil of sleep and awakening every child. We listened as the clickity-clack, clickity-clack of its wheels gave way to a long screech of metal on the track as the brakes slowed the train’s progress.
The days leading up to the carnival were a wash at school. We did nothing but dream of the coming festivities. We bragged about who was brave enough to ride the most frightening rides, who was skilled enough to win the midway games, and how much of the carnival fare we were likely to eat. (more…)
Benny stood over the disemboweled body, his facial expression unchanged.
“Sonofabitch,” he said.
He backed up against the flimsy structure of the milk-bottle toss, making the booth shake.
“Hey,” Syd yelled from the other side. “Watch it!”
Benny peered around the corner at Syd and signaled him to come over.
“Problem?” Syd flipped his sign to “closed” and jumped over the counter. He followed Benny and looked down at the body. “Holy shit.” Syd’s face remained passive, but he hopped from foot to foot, and his eyes darted around the small space between game booths.
Benny nodded. “That’s the third one this week. We have a definite problem.” (more…)
From the attic to the wine cellar, their voices whispered my name, “Eliza. Eliza. Eliza.” I had come home for Christmas. I had returned to Straeon Manor.
It’s confabulating time at the Cafe. And this month, we have a real treat. We’re returning to 