In my email newsletter this month, I’m sharing a recent short story I wrote for a Punk Meets Fae mashup challenge. I’ll be offering the story in installments through December, and I’m including Part 1 here as well.
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Pixie Dust and Stud Collars
Part 1
It was happening—in that wavering haze that made Shannon think of a desert mirage—if the desert was packed full of people, had a roof, and was the size of a giant basement. A Mirage. Humidity. Maybe a special effect manufactured by the band.
Those were the preferred explanations in the beginning, but no more, not after witnessing the phenomenon three times. That didn’t mean she had an answer.
The effect was indiscernible until it hit you that something was off, and you looked harder, only to observe the eerie dust cloud coalesce over an unsuspecting pubgoer. More terrifying was when the target vanished, no one seemed to notice, no one but Shannon as she stood, dumbfounded, heart racing while the screaming, thrashing fans jostled her.
It had taken three Twisted Chords performances to believe what her eyes were seeing. And here she was, seeing it again. But tonight, at the RockSea GoGo, the all-grrrl band’s fourth venue, Shannon was ready for action. Action, but no plan, other than to yank the target out of harm’s way if she spotted him in time—her best strategy after too many sleepless nights agonizing over the reality and what to do about it. Shannon froze.
Yes! That towering man in front of the stage had to be the target.
The ones before had stuck out like that—taller than anyone around them, powerfully built, gorgeous.
She wiggled and shimmied in his direction, straining to keep her eye on the guy, the band, and the sparkling dust. It wasn’t easy. The surf-punk femme power chant had the crowd riled as the mini-skirted, go-go-booted singers shredded their instruments and emptied their lungs over the worshipping crowd… And the acrid air was beyond sultry, obscuring the glitter. Was it moving toward the giant dude wearing a spiked collar? She both hoped and dreaded that it was.
Shannon thrived on the overstimulating, dizzying clash of sensations from a packed pub. Soldering with sweaty bodies at these venues was her passion. It was also her job as a journalist. Aside from punk rock music’s raw strings, tribal-stomp beats, and off-kilter crescendos, the intimate fusion was what Shannon craved.
The bobbing bodies lost in art-defying noise were a thing of beauty, a single entity, greater than themselves, amplifying the music’s message, inspiring escape into a primal existence. The crowd’s pulse was the centerpiece of her reviews. This band’s scale between screaming rebellious dissonance and hypnotic siren calls added a thrilling dimension. She cringed, even as she made a mental note to use this in a piece later. Folklore imagery kept creeping into her ideas about the five hauntingly beautiful musicians.
What bothered Shannon about the mystical connotation was that it felt like truth. While the familiarity was disconcerting and prompted the need for answers, it was the disappearances that filled Shannon with urgency, bringing up buried memories of personal loss. If there was a chance she could prevent another one, she needed to take it. She stopped pushing and strained on her tiptoes for a clear view of the stage.
The dust cloud that had blossomed in the strobing lights was forming into a moving ribbon. She felt the connection again, which she’d denied up till now. The materializing phenomena resided somewhere in her memory like an elusive itch.
Reason told her she had nothing to do with these happenings so bizarre no one would believe a word out of her mouth—probably not even Becka who thrived on the bizarre. Scratch that. Her best friend would swallow the story whole and beg for more. But once spoken, denial was off the table. Shannon worried that acknowledging her awareness somehow made her responsible for the disappearances. Her jaw tightened.
If she’d let her brilliant, receptive friend in on things, she might have had a better plan.
The bodies pressed in, their collective heat rolling over her like bathwater while she twisted up once more to peek around a wide punk rocker wearing a crewcut and glasses. Her target was only feet away… and he was looking right at her!
He sent her a wink.
Shannon blinked rapidly in response as if the repetitive focus might wake her from a dream. A waif-like girl fell into her. Shannon caught the laughing leather-and-lace-clad fan and heaved her back to her friends. Okay, not a dream. She straightened her shoulders.
This was it. The moment thinking on her feet would be critical.
Part 2 coming September 9 to my newsletter only.
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Here is a recent Writing Battle short story that I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I did writing it! – My first Whodunit. Writing a mystery was one of those daunting dark tunnels in fiction that I never thought I would travel down but super glad I did thanks to a contest prompt. I had five days and 2000 words to work with, and that included research! Hopefully, I succeed in stumping you! But if not, have fun anyway.😊
Little Shop of Honeybees
By D. L. Lewellyn
Honeybees and a shop full of bright gladiolas, much too cheery a setting for such a dark tragedy unfolding in this twisty whodunit.
###
Detective Orin Denton knelt over the body of the florist and sniffed. Lemons. The smell was predominant despite the flowers filling this charming shop in Old Towne. The deceased, known as Audrey Seymour, a female, age twenty-eight, five-foot-two, one hundred twelve pounds, lay prone by the front door, phone in hand, and covered in angry welts. Her lips distended in a grotesque smile, her swollen tongue protruding beyond them.
It wasn’t hard to pinpoint her killers. Dead bees surrounded her, and more of the little honey beauties buzzed around the shop. He shook his head and glanced again at her ID. Their victim had been a beauty herself, and today was her birthday.
“Charlie, you got the pest guy coming?” he called out.
“Any minute, sir.”
“The one I suggested?”
“None other.”
“Thanks, Charlie. Will you let Mrs. Appleby know the honeybees will be rehomed along with the rest of the hive?”
“You bet, boss.”
Mrs. Appleby lived above the shop. Her balcony was loaded with flower boxes to attract her pets. She’d been the one to show him the large hive constructed by the bees inside the crumbling brick wall by the back door. Further deterioration on the inside of the shop seemed to be how the bees suddenly gained access to the banquet of floral delights.
Denton flipped his notebook while he knelt by the body and scanned the room. The decent-sized space was packed with buckets of flowers, shelves of plants, and a myriad of tasteful decorations. The shop was nestled between a bookstore and a restaurant. Main Street edged the front, an alley ran along the back, and generous windows graced both sides. A wall lined with refrigerated shelves had a vestibule on the other side, which the florist used for an office and where the backdoor and hive were located.
When the first responders arrived an hour earlier, the shop was locked. There were no signs of a break-in.
The elderly Mrs. Appleby had seen no one but the bee victim and her frequent visitor, the ex-boyfriend, the entire day. She’d heard nothing unusual except when Vincent Stubbs, in her words, “Pitched a fit because Audrey continued to resist his charms.” She was horrified to think her babies had done wrong. “I never thought for a minute they would invade her store. I don’t understand how they broke through. Still, the lemongrass should have kept them away.” Good questions, and why Denton’s sleuth senses vibrated.
“Do you know if she had any family?”
“She told me once she was all alone.”
Not quite, he thought. She had her flowers.
The alley-side windows were designed as a greenhouse because Audrey Seymour raised much of her own stock, including lemongrass, which she distilled into essential oils. A search on his phone pulled up a contradiction. Beekeepers touted lemongrass oil for attracting swarms to new locations, while other sites pointed to the home remedy benefits Mrs. Appleby mentioned. A repellent. The oil was also used to preserve cut flowers, especially gladiolas, which the shop had in profusion.
Denton’s gaze rested on the sunny boxes. Gladiola was his wife’s favorite. He pictured the sparkle in her eye if he were to bring home a mixed dozen and imagined all the creative ways she would thank him. He sighed. Thinking of his wife always centered him… letting him listen to the voice of his victim.
Audrey Seymour smelled citrusy. She wore a pretty new dress—new shoes. She’d tried to call for help… and died alone. There had to be more to this than a series of misfortunes.
“Charlie. Is the Coroner on the way?”
“I’m here, Denton,” said a florid, breathless man stepping through the jangling door.
The detective gave the medical official time to examine the body.
“Well?” Charlie prodded.
“The majority of the bites are around her neck. Note the colors of her dress. Bees attack dark colors because they signify a marauder, and necks are a favorite vulnerable target. Her heart gave out from anaphylactic shock.”
“Another reason to admire bees,” Charlie said under his breath. The doc’s eyebrows shot up. “Sorry, I was referring to their incredible defense arsenal. Her death was tragic,” Denton said with feeling. “Was she allergic?”
“Severely. Have you found her EpiPen? She had to have one.”
“Charlie?” Denton called over his shoulder.
“Desk drawer,” he called back. “Unused. I also found a torn-up gift box that might belong to the dress. It’s got a store label.”
“Good work, Charlie.”
###
The evidence binder was expanding pretty fast for accidental death, and Denton was flipping through it again as he sat at his scarred, coffee-stained desk—his home away from home.
His junior detective partner sat across from him and handed him one of the three donuts he had on a napkin before eating half a maple bar in one bite.
“Boss, I know that look,” Charlie said after swallowing his doughy breakfast with an impressive amount of coffee. “You’re convinced this wasn’t an accident. What’s spiking that uncanny crime radar off the charts?”
“Her EpiPen, for one, Charlie. We have a sharp business owner who’s deathly allergic to bees working in a shop full of plants that draw them.
“Let’s say lemongrass attracts, though she thinks it repels. Let’s say she had no idea about the beehive outside her door and was careful about inviting insects into her shop. Audrey Seymour had an EpiPen to rely on if the worst happened. People with EpiPens keep them on their person at all times, regardless of the care they take to limit the risks—not in a desk so far out of reach.
“I also think she was waiting for someone to meet her besides Stubbs. Have you tracked down the dress?”
“That’s why I’m here. You’re going to love this.” Denton raised a bushy eyebrow, and Charlie delivered his gift. “A person named Miriam Greene bought that outfit… and another exactly like it.”
“Two sets of identical clothes? What does that suggest to you?”
“Someone wanted to look like our victim.”
“Are the security tapes downloaded yet?”
“Just finished.”
“Let’s take a look, and then we need to track down Greene.”
Charlie cleared his throat.
“I was saving the best for last because I wasn’t sure where your head was at. Vincent Stubbs was picked up on a domestic disturbance six months ago. Audrey never pressed charges.”
###
Denton set a paper cup full of sludgy liquid in front of Vincent Stubbs. The handsome dentist had bags under his red-rimmed eyes that could float a boat.
The detective took his seat, sipped his coffee, and grimaced at the cup as he set it down and cleared his throat.
“According to Mrs. Appleby, you had a habit of showing up at the shop and campaigning loudly for Ms. Seymour to go on a date. Is that a fair assessment?”
“It’s fair,” Stubbs said as he raised his downcast eyes. “I loved Audrey, and she loved me, but I messed up. I’ve been trying to fix it for months. Audrey is… was independent, sassy, and stubborn. I craved every minute with her.” His brow furrowed. “Am I here because you think I killed her? Because I thought it was the bees.”
“No sign of honeybees when you helped her lock up before leaving?”
“Not a single bee buzzed around the shop that day or any other day I was there.”
“Why did you stay so long if you weren’t getting anywhere?”
“I believe I answered that. Being with Audrey was everything to me, even when she was preoccupied with her flowerbeds… She could grow anything. Audrey was the embodiment of life.”
“So, she gardened while you pitched dinner out?”
“Audrey’s hands were always busy with her plants.”
“Did you buy her that dress?”
“No. I asked her about it, though.” Stubbs let Denton see his resentment before adding, “I wanted to know if I should expect someone else to show up because there was something secretive about her that day, and she grew more insistent about me leaving when she closed up.”
“Why were you reported for causing a domestic disturbance?”
Stubbs winced, picked up his coffee, smelled it, and set it down.
“I worked myself up after a few too many when she went out with another guy. Our wires were crossed. I thought we were more committed.”
“Hmmm. It seems you still believe that. Does that shop always smell of lemons?”
“Lemons? She loved her lemongrass. But it was never overwhelming. I… I don’t… What does that signify?”
“Maybe nothing. Did you know it was her birthday that day?”
“Of course, I knew. That’s why I wanted to take her to dinner.” His eyes sank deeper. “Shit! Twenty-eight is too young!” He dropped his head into his hands.
###
“You’ll want to buy me at least two beers for this,” Charlie said as he barreled up to Denton’s desk and waved a thumb drive at him. Denton gave Charlie an expectant grin.
“Greene was messaging Audrey’s phone. They’re cryptic, but one mentions sending Audrey a gift on their special day. I’ve got more. Greene is an alias. She used a burner phone. She wasn’t so careful with the dress receipt. We’re tracking down her fake identities to get to the real name, but…” he paused and waggled his brows in his version of a drumroll, “under one name, she’s wanted for elder abuse… on a large scale. She’s a con artist, boss.”
“Well done, Charlie. We just need to put Greene inside that locked shop and prove she messed around with the hive, and we’ve got murder instead of an accident.” Denton cocked his head. “I’d say from the height of the bounce in your step, you have an address?”
“You ready to take a drive to New Towne?”
Denton glanced again at the enlarged image from the security camera he’d been examining and grabbed his jacket.
The car rolled to a stop in front of a grungy Seventies tract home. The blinds were closed, and the place looked lifeless. “It kills me that New Towne is rundown, and Old Towne is the lively side,” Denton mused. Charlie snorted and opened his door. They approached with caution. Dead places were the most dangerous. Denton knocked, and they waited.
“Ms. Greene?” He called out, using his best cop voice to penetrate the door. “I’m Detective Orin Denton. My partner and I would like to ask a few questions.”
Seconds ticked by. Then footsteps, followed by clicking deadbolts. The door cracked open on a chain. Denton flashed his badge, though he couldn’t see her face. The house was dark, and she hovered in the shadows. He watched for suspicious movements, then laid it on her.
“I’m sorry about the death of your sister, Ms. Greene. Can we talk?”
Charlie’s breath hitched, and his eyes bored into Denton, but Denton had eyes only for the woman who, to his relief, opened the door wider.
It was their victim come to life. Healing stings covered her face, neck, and arms.
“I’ll be damned,” Charlie breathed. “A twin.”
###
After sitting across from Janet Seymour, aka Miriam Greene, Denton spent a full minute staring at her. She stared back.
“So… you thought becoming Audrey would get you out of trouble?”
She shrugged. “I gambled on an opportunity.”
“You were a perfect match on the security cameras.”
“Took weeks of planning, but worth it to confront the sister who made our dying mother send me to Juvie.” Her eyes turned flat. “Once I discovered the beehive, the rest was easy. I dowsed her with a homemade lemongrass lure, pickpocketed her EpiPen, and pretended to need the toilet so I could use the heel of my shoe to open the hole in the brick the bees had started.
“But it all went wrong,” Denton concluded. “My sister didn’t want me to die. Go figure.” Janet snorted and sat back. “She shoved me out the door and locked it even as she succumbed. I used my EpiPen while I watched through the window.” Her eyes gleamed. “How did you know there was a twin? Was killing her on our birthday over the top? Because I wondered about that.”
If you would like to support an independent author who loves to share her stories, this story along with an eclectic anthology of more fun tales is available for 99 pennies at your favorite bookstore. Thank you!
A pioneering aeronaut takes on an unlikely passenger and reflects on life and loss as he floats above a gasworks to test his latest invention.
I floated a thousand feet over the Point Breeze Gas Works. From this vantage, one could imagine it was a Gothic cathedral, complete with crenelated turrets, sprawling majestically along the Schuylkill River.
The industry below, illustrated by billowing towers of black smoke, was muted in absolute silence from this height, adding to the impression of divine tranquility. Even the Monarch butterfly that stowed away when I fueled our ride with hydrogen appeared to appreciate the stillness as it fluttered in random arcs around the ropes, landing intermittently on the lip of the basket.
The slow beating of its wings seemed to speak to me in its need for companionship on our isolated journey among the clouds. Today’s flight was meant to test my invention, but I welcomed the opportunity to escape up here, relishing the freedom and solitude to mourn the life of an extraordinary woman that had ended too soon.
My wife would have been proud of my latest patent, which involved a water gas process that increased the production of hydrogen. She was always fascinated when my ideas resulted in record-breaking efficiencies and conveniences for modern living. The smile that would light her face when I shared my results was so clear in my mind that she could be standing in this basket with me.
A fluttering movement caught my eye.
The more I watched the hypnotic orange wings, the easier it was to believe we were the only beings existing on or above the Earth. Not even a bird disturbed us. The crowds bustling along the streets of Philadelphia might not even be imagined, let alone the 485 men directly below us engaged in shoveling coal relentlessly into hellish, hungry boilers, just one task among many equally laborious ones that resulted in lighting an entire city.
I had to admit that while my inventions might make life easier for the average city dweller, they only made it harder for these men. Still, each of them, called by a piercing whistle, had gathered for a break from their labors to watch me take flight today, and each grimy, sweaty face wore a look of pride as the gas they helped produce filled my balloon.
The absence of sound heightened the rhythms of life: the men shoveling, the butterfly’s wings beating, my wife at my side, celebrating each milestone of my career, and then my pumping heart emptying of all that gave life meaning when she took her last breath. I began to feel closer to my small, winged stowaway, having arrived myself at the end of a cycle of birth, growth, and metamorphosis.
Though the cycle now seemed too brief, I marveled that I might have ceased to exist well before this day of testing another achievement if not for the bravery of my life’s chosen companion during a dramatic period in our lives—the lives of the whole country, for that matter.
Absorbing the profound silence, I cast my mind back twenty years. The glimmering river, billowing gasworks, and even the surrounding clouds faded away, replaced by a vivid memory of the time I was stranded on the wrong side of enemy lines.
Two decades ago, President Lincoln appointed me Chief Aeronaut of the Union Army Balloon Corps, and I was proud to operate the first telegraph aerial station to report on the enemy’s position. My maiden assignment was the Battle of Bull Run under General Irvin McDowell. It went well, but balloons do not always cooperate when they come down.
I exited my basket in a hurry so I could finish stowing away what had become a beacon pointing to a spy in the rebels’ midst. I took a wrong step and sprained my ankle. Fortunately, I had landed the balloon near a thicket, which allowed me to stay out of sight while I hoped for rescue.
My fortune persisted when a Union troop came upon me, but I couldn’t walk with them owing to my injury, and they reluctantly left me behind. Still, my luck continued because they reported my position after arriving at Fort Corcoran.
It wasn’t the army that came for me.
The days and nights that followed, worrying over who might appear next in my little clearing, filled me with a case of nerves worse than anything I’d yet experienced when flying an object fueled by a volatile gas. Then, sounds I both dreaded and wished for made my heart thud as they drew closer to my hiding spot. I braved peeking over a fallen tree where I crouched in the shadows and took in the unlikely sight of an old woman driving a horse and buckboard stacked with canvas covers.
The traveler wore a pendant, and at its glint, a jolt shot straight to my heart. I knew that topaz butterfly, and I looked closer at the face set above shoulders hunched beneath a matronly shawl. The blue eyes peering out from the bonnet were those dearest to my soul. I stood and raised my arm in a greeting.
Familiar dulcet tones, sounding anything but old, whispered across the clearing. “Do you need a ride, brave aeronaut?”
“No one who has ever set foot on this battlefield is braver than you, my dear.”
Orange caught my eye, and my mind returned to the silent sky and a world devoid of the soul who had been my partner in every way.
It was time to descend.
Butterfly wings beat in time with the hiss of venting hydrogen, and the giant gasworks loomed closer, its booming, wheezing, and banging sounds displacing our peace.
I peered closer at the tiny creature, then at its topaz-encrusted likeness I had pulled from my vest pocket.
Maybe this lofty place was not so empty after all… And suddenly, neither was my heart.
If you would like to support an independent author who loves to share her stories, this story along with an eclectic anthology of more fun tales is available for 99 pennies at your favorite bookstore. Thank you!
She pelts him with bunchberries the first time they meet. The black wolf would suffer the sticky mess an entire day if it meant listening to her sweet laughter and the soothing sound of her wings, but he has a job to do.
A lonely man in a dying world seizes a chance at happiness with a mythical being. Grab a cup of tea and settle in with your favorite snuggly blanket for an eight minute story that feels like getting lost in a novel. While you’re there, I would love to know what you think.
Click on the photo above to go to my Vocal Media story and feel free to comment and like. I would greatly appreciate it.
Excerpt
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. The view from this high place included a blue sky interrupted by puffy white clouds tipped in pink from the rising sun, and their shadows moved swiftly over a patch of turbulent sea. That spot was the focus of her longing.
It was the vast land flowing away from the sea that comprised the unknown, the part of this world she had never experienced until now, the part that required a pair of feet to traverse it. She looked at her toes in wonder, curling them just to ensure it was her will operating the strange appendages.
Still, I managed it with fifteen minutes to spare! And I hadn’t even figured out the title yet. Yikes! My closest call yet. I had the deadline wrong. I’m typing away and thought I should check the submission requirements again. Due in Two Hours! What!! The story that resulted still has me reeling. I love it so much, I don’t even care if it doesn’t get a win. It is dear to my heart, and that is all that matters.
The prompt was to write a dystopian tale using the first sentence, “The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room.” I couldn’t resist this one! It’s short. Eight minutes to read. I’d love to know if it captures your imagination, too, only if you have a few minutes to spare, and need a dose of magic. If you do, click the photo.
A lonely man in a dying world seizes a chance at happiness with a mythical being.
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. The view from this high place included a blue sky interrupted by puffy white clouds tipped in pink from the rising sun, and their shadows moved swiftly over a patch of turbulent sea. That spot was the focus of her longing.
It was the vast land flowing away from the sea that comprised the unknown, the part of this world she had never experienced until now, the part that required a pair of feet to traverse it. She looked at her toes in wonder, curling them just to ensure it was her will operating the strange appendages.
