'The
Entity' by June
Stromberg
The house appeared unoccupied as she slid quietly
through the door, pocketing the key. Although she knew
the house was full of period furniture. the room felt
empty as her stomach. It was a place of mystery and
she shuddered. Feeling as if someone had touched her
skin, she quickly brushed her hand across her arm,
while frightened eyes darted around trying to
penetrate the darkness. Nervously twisting the ring on
her finger, the one he had placed there, she
cautiously moved forward but stumbled when she hit her
toe on the wheel of the tea cart. Strange that it was
in the middle of the room, she thought. Perhaps
someone had just had tea, but the pot felt cold. Her
mouth felt dry as she moved silently through the dark,
her mind alert, trying to sense any motion. Surely he
would not be here now, but she couldn't be sure of
anything anymore. The wire bird cage began to emerge
like a ship coming through a mist. She slipped past
ilt and then froze. "Get out! Get out!" The parrot
jumped onto the floor and she tensed, waiting. No
sound came from the house. Her heart pounded in her
ears. "Quiet!" she whispered to the bird, "be quiet."
Her ears strained, listening to the silence. She
inched forward. Something unknown alerted her and she
whirled half around. Faint light from the moon spread
across the floor. Squinting, she could see the
brocaded couch. As her eyes focused she began to see a
dark form appear as if coming out of a storm. She
stood still. The figure rose, slowly unwinding long
legs and arms. 'It's him,' the thought raced through
her head. She remained silent. His presence was
overwhelming, consuming her entire being. Possessed by
the force, she felt him drawing closer and she closed
her eyes, trying to break the spell. It only
intensified. "I must be strong," her voice echoed in
her mind. "Don't let him do this." But the words
melted away like butter while an eerie peacefulness
spread through her body as she and the ghostly figure
merged.
The
dark night moved on.
The moon set.
The empty house remained silent.
'The
Comb.' by Jaye
O'Neil
It arrived, parcel post, in a cardboard box. Tortoise
shell, ornate and symmetrical, radiating a row of
long, thin, wishbone-shaped teeth, sharp and barely
flexible. I fished it out from the rubble of polyester
pantsuits and back-of-the-close dresses, once stylish,
long faded. I supposed it was easier for my father to
pack it all into a box and send it away than to drop
everything off at St. Vincent's.
The
dresses were unfamiliar to me, but the comb I
recognized. I remembered how she wore it to secure her
swooped-up hair, leaving errant curls teasing at the
nape of her neck. She loved to look good.
My mother would drive the big green Packard all the
way to Los Angeles just to buy her dresses, the likes
of which were never seen at the local J.C.Penney's.
Her shoes, too, were city-bought, expensive, the
highest heels, purchased during long contemplative
sessions, the salesman straddling a narrow footstool
at knee-level, eyeing the curves of her Betty Grable
calves.
My mother's breasts were enclosed in a perfection of
pointed Playtex cups. Mother considered her "bosoms"
her most beautiful assets. And in the small community
that was her social orbit, she was, in spite of her
tight lips and hard jaw, considered a fashionable and
attractive woman. A "lady," with white gloves and
little hankies., When mother was dressed for an
evening out, replete with her pearls and her diamond
rings, and the comb, accenting her hair, she was not
to be left unnoticed.
Mother's hair was a reddish tone, a cluster of
determined curls. What pleased her especially was the
fact, by pure chance, that I, her only child, related
only by adoption, was also a redhead. In my mother's
opinion; there were only two kinds of hair: red hair
and "hair-colored hair." This made her proud. It made
me embarrassed. I didn't care about hair color. I
would just as soon have had "hair-colored hair." I
dreaded being noticed, and would do anything to avoid
being the center of attention. But for my mother it
was crucial that I, too, look good. The chief focus of
her energy toward that end was my red hair.
The way she wanted my hair done was in flawless,
absolutely uniform, non-slip French braids. She
braided my hair once a day. I wore braids all day, and
all nlight. She did not allow me ever to wear my hair
loose, even when I slept. In the morning, every
morning, she summoned me into the pink and
maroon-tiled bathroom, and unbound the braids,
momentarily loosening their taut grip on mny sore
scalp. Then the inevitable black rubber rat-tail comb
appeared in her hand. My hair was thick and coarse,
the kind of hair that begs for the bristles of a
generous brush, not the countless biting teeth of a
rat-tail comb.
Every morning, after I dressed myself and before I was
permitted to do anything else, my mother would apply
the rat-tail comb to my head, digging it in at the
scalp, yanking and jerking hard through my stubborn
hair, leaning her whole arm into it. I screamed, but
my mother, intent on her purpose, just yelled "Stand
still! Stand Still!"
- At
night, with my braids still pullling tight, I would
lie alone in my room wanting nothing more than tender
fingers to loosen the painful tension. I would look
out the window, out all the way through the night,
farther than the reach of my eyes, and I was not
afraid of the dark.
In
my dreams, I was not afraid to move through it, to get
beyond it. I'd see myself stand up on the bed, and
quietly approach the window. I'd step out barefoot
onto the flat bricks on top of the wall, and walk
along it, until I'd come to the place where the wall
met the garage, and with hardly having to try, I'd be
lifted up, not onto, but over the roof. I flew free
through lights and sounds I'd never heard or seen,
into warm night air, my hair flying loose, like a cape
in the wind.
'September
In Lectoure.' by Sue
Meislahn
The nearby Gers River slowly swishes in a loop around
the tiny village, carrying the scent of slightly
decaying vegetation, the rinds of Melons de Lectoure
tossed by the local gypsies.
There are sounds in the background from the crunch of
gravel and short bleeps of the daily mail delivery
truck, in the distance an occasional clank of the men
playing their horseshoe game; a Renault horn blasts as
its driver rounds a blind corner on the winding road
above the town.
To the southwest horizon, the view from the terrace
begins with the snow-capped Pyrenees beckoning to
Spain. Mid-range are the lush poplar forests and
grapevines of wineries; field upon field of
sunflowers, their brown faces edged with yellow petals
swaying in the breeze.
In Maria's garden is the smell of sun drenched
strawberries, where the coreopsis dance to the music
of Sonic Bloom - the modern French way to serenade the
garden.
Inside Maria's house is the scent of garlic fried in
butter as guests sip homemade aperitif and wait
expectantly for the cuisine of the evening, walking
barefoot over wood floors. Jugs of bottled water
stored in every room, and books on homeopathy and
flower essences.
At the end of evening, guests toss back the itchy
woolen blankets and crawl between sheets made rough
from hard water, and listen to the ancient church
bells chime.
POETRY
& PROSE ANNUAL is an annual literary journal
publishing poetry,
prose, fiction, non-fiction and creative non-fiction,
graphics, and photographs
by new and established writers and artists.
©
Copyright by POETRY & PROSE ANNUAL All rights
reserved.
All original material published in this journal remains
under the copyright protection
as titled by the authors. Poetry & Prose Annual
retains reprint rights and material
may be published in the Poetry & Prose Annual
website.
Published in the United States of America by GOLDEN MEAN,
Publishers.
Printed in the USA. ISSN: 1091-4625
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