Speaking to the Shadow, Key

https://unchartedblogdotorg.wordpress.com/2017/04/12/welcome-to-six-senfence-stories/  Zoe’s Cue is KEY


After removing the books and more fragile-looking objects, Zinnia dragged the cumbersome dark bookcase down the hallway from the bedroom, into the living area—and all the while, rain poured and pounded thunderously against the windows.

“Sheesh”, she said, breathlessly, “is this storm part of the deal, have you been holding it captive inside your bookcase?”

She grabbed a cold diet Coke from the fridge, pressed it to her cheek, and fell backward onto the lumpy couch she’d covered with a laundered 50’s-era-turquoise chenille bedspread.

Her eyes pricked with tears as she studied the looming shadow of the bookcase—“you’re not exactly a comforting ghost, if that’s what this scene’s about; making me feel I’m losing track of my last vestige of wandering sanity, while I haul your furniture around.”

She brushed roughly at her eyes, struggling to contain her emotions—“maybe you had a hard life of troubles and an uneasy death, but my life’s been no summer bar-b-q, just so you know.”

Shaking her head, she felt anxiety’s stallions galloping in the back-forty of her mind—then she heard a soft yet distinct sound, something fallen from a nook in the bookcase…there, on the flat gray carpet, lay a tiny brass key.

© R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.

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Entrance to the Stranger’s Mystery

https://unchartedblogdotorg.wordpress.com/2017/04/05/its-six-sentence-stories-2/  Zoe’s Cue:  ENTRANCE

In recurring dreams was an entrance to a cave—or old stone tomb; whose, Zinnia wondered, and why draw her repeatedly as she slept?—not an augur malevolent…more a sensed disaffection, alienation.

She woke parched, fatigued from too much pondering the stranger who’d exited Life in these small rooms she was trying to spin—like Rumpelstiltskin’s straw—into a gilded semblance of home; though it felt like brass cage, and she the unhinged bird amidst wraith’s tap-tapping…

Popping her wake-up diet Coke, she surveyed the bedroom mess—her paltry wardrobe, few possessions, spilled from torn boxes and Glad garbage bags—time to make order of chaotic transition.

Sliding open the closet door, she found another legacy of the late tenant—on moving in she’d paid no notice to what appeared as merely rear wall, or a wood plank door, stored and forgotten; now she saw it was the backside of a bookcase, pushed in tight to accommodate hanging clothes.

Pulling and pushing, Zinnia managed to turn the heavy piece toward her, carefully urging it from the closet; gauzy with dusted cobwebs, it held books and peculiar objects, surely meaningful to ‘he-who’d-succumbed’…if he’d placed it back there, still-life secreted, there was a reason, however obscure.

Sharpening Intuition whispered…this shadow-stained weighty bookcase would likely contain something specific she was meant to discover; perhaps another enigmatic message revealed, like that beneath music box:  “Nobody’s Fault”…sweat prickling above her lip and at temples, she shivered, entranced.

© R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.

Image ~ Pixabay

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