The Wraith Poses Question  Zoe’s Cue:  QUESTION

When the rain and thunder subsided on the day she found the small brass key, Zinnia, exhausted from her inner emotional storm, fell into a hard sleep on her lumpy sofa—only to be wakened at periwinkle dawn as the tap-tapping returned, along with strains of melody from the antique music box.

Weary to her marrow, she refused to open her eyes; perhaps if she learned to ignore the insanity which made up the ambiance of her new home, it might eventually disperse…slip out a partially opened window on the freshening April breeze.

But the tap-tapping increased in tempo, volume, and the music box tune began to sound familiar—could it really be “Recuerda Me” (Remember Me)?

The beautifully haunting love song’s plea—too recent to have been crafted with the antique box—played in stark contrast to the exigent tap-tapping; and yet, pondering the context, she perceived a possible…dizzying…connection.

Rising from the couch, walking toward the kitchen, she bumped her hip painfully against the bookcase—which caused the tap-tapping and music to cease abruptly.

Stifling a curse in the blessed silence, she realized her hip action had caused a bottom drawer to come unstuck, revealing a peek of folded onionskin stationery…Zinnia cautiously reached for it, smoothed it open, and read a single bold-typed question:  WHAT DO YOU SEEK?

© R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.

Image ~ Pixabay

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Nobody’s Fault


…When she took her rent check to the manager, Zinnia allowed her curiosity out of the cage—“What did the man die of, the guy before me, B-9?”

“Oh,” the woman shrugged, clearly not personally involved with tenants whatsoever, “heart or liver, something—it was nobody’s fault.”

To Zinnia, that closing phrase seemed 6 blocks past ‘odd’, and lacked any semblance of reassurance, if that was intended; since nothing further was forthcoming, she took her raised eyebrows and backed out the door, smiling awkwardly.

Dead-bolting herself within this strange little world, her apartment, she made a tuna sandwich and turned on the Weather Channel.

Her coveted wind chimes played lightly, a kindly sound to encourage the heart as she pondered bus-ing to the library or thrift shop…but the TV meteorologist confirmed rain, now beginning (as if on cue) and quickly gathering vehement force; decision made—she’d stay indoors.

Again the music box silently beckoned…hefting it carefully, she viewed the underside…and read aloud the words printed with indelible black marker:  “nobody’s fault, not your fault.”

© R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.

Image ~ Pixabay

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