Words & Music

Fiction: His First Duchess, Part One, Chapter 3a

noreply@blogger.com (WillowJewell) — Tue, 22 Oct 2013 06:42:00 +0000

Previous: His First Duchess, Chapter 2
Chapter 3a

Colly dubbed Ammy's bedroom boho-luxe. It was done up in plade green, gold and purple; complete with fainting couch and an Art Deco vanity Ammy discovered at the local antique/jumble store. She particularly loved her bed, with it's high thread count sheets and blankets. And her headboard! It was some kind of microfiber ultra-suede that begged to be touched, but looked like an escapee from the glamourous boudoir of a 1930's film.

This room was Ammy's bulwark; the place to which she retreated when the world was too much with her. It was no sanctuary during those times like now, when she was too much with herself.

It was the middle of the night.

Among wreckage of rumpled bedclothes and pillows she felt...she felt...she felt. Oh God, too much. Somehow she’d managed to leave the restaurant and get rid of her friends soon after her conversation with...that guy. She wasn’t sure what excuse she’d used to get away, that horrible, shaky out of control feeling rising in her chest. A sudden headache, or something. Anything to get away.

Ammy managed to quash quash the crazy rising within her as she talked Colly out of trying to give her a ride home. Didn't Colly and Hosh realize how agonizing it was; their combined concern reaching for her? Yes, Ammy wanted to scream. And scream and scream; she'd kept her lips over her teeth lest the words 'good night' sound more like Jamie Lee Curtis screen test for Halloween. Instead, Amelie offered her friends a sweet smile under wild eyes, got into her car and drove away.

The drive had been a dangerous ordeal; trembling and nearly blinded by the stabbing pains in her head. Ammy was dimly aware that she should be worried about causing an accident. Mostly, she was focused on keeping her grandfather's voice and the memories which rode in on it, at bay. Ammy managed wit enough to take less trafficked side streets the half mile or so to her home, but that was all.

Stumbling through the door; Ammy ignored Maven twining about her ankles and mewing pitifully. She made a header for the medicine cabinet; fumbling open bottles of prescription sleeping and pain pills and then to the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine with trembling fingers. Ammy didn’t care about warning labels or drug interactions, she was reaching for oblivion. Sweet oblivion.

She woke around two a.m. Amelie gathered her knees into her arms holding on as best she could, a shadowy figure veiled by the soft draping of the canopy bathed in filtered moonlight. Coiled. Coiled around inside herself; she was taught amid the luxurious softness of jewel-toned and velvet pillows and bedclothes Maven curled around her feet.

Ammy hated her intuition. She kept it tamped down, the beast in the cellar. A powerful, unreliable beast. She kept it trapped inside her; the animal in a frenzy, worked to escape; attempting to tear working her mind apart brick by brick. And so Ammy coiled, coiled the chains around its prison; desperate to keep the beast locked in her subconscious. But it was beyond her control. Elemental. Wind and sky keening. Shadows and dark and glass shattering. Things that go bump in the night. And the smell; blood, fear...pain.

'Mad witchling', Grandpere whispered.

Stop.

Breathe.

Stop. Stop.

Ammy sucked long breaths tearing her mind from the edge of the precipice on which it teetered. Strength of will babe, strength of will; Amelie Isabelle Harris had plenty of will. By and by the muscles relaxed, by and by the breathing slowed, by and by sleep overtook her overtook her once again.

The next day, the Fams invaded in force.

Fiction: His First Duchess, Chapter 2

noreply@blogger.com (WillowJewell) — Tue, 22 Oct 2013 06:41:00 +0000

Previous: His First Duchess, Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Leather Jacket intended to be the death of Pretty Eyes. Like. Now.

The sharp pain, which, only seconds before threatened to bisect her skull, receded to a more manageable throbbing at its base. A familiar sense of distance overcame her, a 'there' but 'not there-ness'. She was viewing the entire restaurant from a long way off and in minute detail. She fell to earth with a thud and the absolute certainty Leather Jacket planned to kill Pretty Eyes

'Evil child, demon spawn.', her grandfather's voice whispered.

Not now Granpere, I'm busy.

'Witch, the Devil will drag you back down to hell where you belong.', filled with her grandfather's voice, her headache intensified.

In which case Grandpere, I'll see you when he does.

She made a supreme effort to wrench her focus back to the men at the table.

But not today.

The world shrank to the size of the table ten feet from where Amelie sat. Though neither was hard on the eyes; Amelie kept hers mostly to herself, letting her 'Spidey senses' (as Hosh and Colly called them) do the walkin'. There was something indefinable in the atmosphere surrounding them which teased the at the edges of her subconscious. She resisted the temptation make this a rational process analyzing the incoming stimuli. This always went more smoothly when she shifted intellect into 'standby' and allowed her subconscious take precedence.

Leather Jacket and Birkenstock's. Body language. Birkenstock's angled toward ratty office. Leather Jacket, angle of repose. Pretty Eyes, Gideon's three hundred men. Her head. Her head!

Ammy leaned forward and bit down on a soft moan. Collette and Hosh paused in their enjoyment of their wine, excellent garlic fries and juicier subjects of who had done what to whom among their acquaintances. She was staring across the table at her friend Colette, who appeared to be speaking to her. But Amelie was powerless to disengage from her interior world to re-enter the exterior one. Finally Colette rolled her eyes and turned back to Hoshi.

Murder shrieks out.

Even as subconscious and conscious mind engaged in the familiar battle of wills the conclusion was foregone. The certainty of Pretty Eyes peril rested within her like a stone. Ammy didn't want this, didn't want to involve herself. But she knew. With knowledge came responsibility. This man was in danger of losing his life, she could not sit by and do nothing simply to serve her own peace of mind

A glance told her Pretty Eyes could handle himself. A word to the wise should be sufficient. But how to get that word? How to convince him if she did? Too late. She watched as Pretty Eyes readied himself to leave. Relief followed quickly on the heels of horror as she realized Leather Jacket made no move to leave the table.

Ammy scribbled her number on a scrap of paper and rose to follow the man ignoring the questioning glances of her friends. He stood in the alcove next to the pay phones. She caught his eye and smiled, aware that they could still be observed by their dinner companions through the glass doors. He winked saucily at her. Encouraged, she approached and whispered urgently, “Act like we're flirting."

“Aren’t we?”, he whispered in return.

“No, not really.”

“Oh.”, he said, chuckling ruefully, “I must be losing my touch.”, and aimed a dimpled grin at her.

“Okay, dude, seriously? a) lame, and b) we haven’t got time for that now.” Continuing to smile at him-- through her teeth; she laid her hand on his arm. “This is going to sound completely insane. But I’m gonna ask you to believe me, to trust I know what I’m talking about.” He shrugged, still giving her the come-hither grin that was really beginning to grate on her nerves.

“Your friend.”, she took a deep breath and plunged. “He means to kill you. I’m pretty sure he's got a shooter waiting for you to leave here.” She gazed earnestly up at him. The icy eyes went positively glacial for an instant before returning to amorous. She should have realized; would have, but for the distraction of being completely freaked out.

He knew.

The shock of sudden knowledge, snapped her out of her own head, even silencing Granpere for the moment. "Crap."

That indefinable something that clung to both men, suddenly appeared in Ammy's dictionary. Danger. She began to draw away. Pretty Eye's smile broadened as he trapped her hand on his arm beneath one of his own. “Not so fast sweetheart. Who are you?” As he spoke, his fingers began to apply uncomfortable pressure to a small bone in her wrist. She winced a little. “My name is Amelie.”

Impatience flashed in his eyes. “Who are you working for?”

“Lumina Gourmet Foods.”

That surprised him. He loosened his grip for an instant and she slid her hand away. He smiled down at her indulgently. A false, false smile. And brushed her lips gently with his own in a kiss. A cold, cold kiss. She stepped away from him smiling. Playing out the scene for the benefit of their audience on the other side of the glass.

She turned away and moved back through the doors. She was aware of the scrutiny of the man sitting at the table as she passed.

Amelie sat smiling smugly, abandoning thought, intuition and shock; falling back on her actor's training. She played the part of 'Amelie who has met an interesting man'.

"Well?", asked Hosh.

Ammy took a sip of wine, "Well, what?"

Hoshi rolled her eyes and Colly took up the questioning. "What happened? You kissed him!"

Ammy shook her head, "He kissed me." She had the sense to play the farce out to its conclusion. On auto pilot, her act must have been good enough for Colly and Hosh because they weren’t looking at her as if she’d completely lost her mind.

Peripherally, Ammy watched Pretty Eyes return to his table She watched from the corner of her eye, flashing the scrap of paper at his companion. He winked over at her and she smiled and turned away, practically wilting relief as she heard the distinctly masculine tone the conversation had taken.

The relief was short-lived. Her demons rose within, threatening to break her down right there the restaurant.

Devil child.

Hello Grandpere.
Next: His First Duchess, Chapter 3a

noreply@blogger.com (WillowJewell) — Fri, 06 Sep 2013 00:37:00 +0000

NDK45FMX2CEE

Fiction: His First Duchess, Chapter One

noreply@blogger.com (WillowJewell) — Tue, 02 Jul 2013 10:50:00 +0000

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Chapter 1

Blame Napa's Friday commute. She did.

Amelie Harris looked down from the overpass at the jammed freeway. She hummed a little and took a peek in the rear view at the traffic crowded in behind her; winding its way like a funky metal serpent up Jamison Canyon and all the way back into Napa. Hah. Well, she was a terrible person of course, but there was some consolation in knowing she wasn’t alone in going nowhere fast.

She gazed hungrily at the off ramp a couple hundred yards ahead. If she could just get there she would be able to take the back roads through Rockville and Fairfield and sail into Vacaville with the wind in her hair. Finally! Jamming Queen into the CD player Amelie gave a whoop of freedom, rolled down the windows and cranked open the little Volkswagen Rabbit's sunroof.

As she raced over and around the rolling hills and shops and farm houses that ranged from shabby chic to just shabby, she thought about how much she loved California. Northern Cal was the best part and she dared anyone to say otherwise. Living in Vacaville was good too. Her tiny, tree-embowered bungalow infused her entire life with a sense of home and security. The girls and The Fams were nearby, but not too close. 'Let's meet at your place in fifteen and walk to Gazpacho's for lunch'? Awesome. 'Knock. Knock. 'Can I borrow some coffee'? Not so good.

She lived alone, slept alone and helped her friends take care of their lives. Her own life consisted of her cat, her car, her job whichever kind of classes struck her fancy (these days, the mambo) and no complications. She didn’t ask her self whether she was settling for safety in lieu of something richer...often. She had peace and no intention of fiddling with it. One other thing she had. Friday evenings on the patio of Merchant and Main for some of the best California cuisine around.

   As visions of garlic fries danced in her head, a flick of her wrist sent the Rabbit sweeping into the parking lot. Amelie cut the engine but her hand stalled on the door handle, stopped by a tickling at the back of her brain.

Two men stood talking in front of the slightly seedy office building which stood catty corner to the restaurant. Just a few offices leased space in that building; a Red Cross and a couple of real estate and insurance types.  All had been there at least a million years and neither man belonged to any of them. The tall one was all expensively styled hair and a leather coat which screamed, 'I'm cool and you're not'. Leather Coat was certainly not a resident real estate agent. Agents ran more to paunchiness and grey edges than fit bodies and salon styled hair.

The other guy, shorter, in cargo shorts, Birks and buttoned-down shirt. Preppie Guy was no lifeguard. They seemed innocuous but . . .Ammy looked away before they felt her gaze; the tickle taking on a new rhythm. . .the a light throb at the back of her head. She sat for second working over a couple of--okay, well inventing possible scenarios.

The tinny tunes of Brave Scotland rent the air. “Yes,” she said into her phone. It was Hosh. “What are you doing? Get your butt over here.”

Ammy grinned and disconnected the call, left the car and waved to her friends. Hoshi stood on the right tall, thin and riotously gorgeous; her brown-black hair cascading down her back, in curl after wild curl. She had honey brown skin and a deadly beautiful mouth; with the wit to match. Ammy never saw Hoshi without feeling compelled to stamp her with a seal reading, 'Made In California'. She was black, Mexican and Japanese. Her dad Fletcher was black, her mother, Cora was half Mexican and half Japanese. Family dinners were a riot, with people fighting for control of the kitchen in English, Japanese and Spanish.

Next to Hoshi, stood Colette; shorter, rounder and paler. She had the milk white complexion you read about in books, waist-length wavy auburn hair and green eyes. Ammy’s lips quirked in a smile, there wasn’t a man alive who could walk by without doing a double take for that hair and those eyes. As they were shown their favorite patio table, she could see that even with Hosh’s presence, Colly did not go unnoticed.

Their corner table afforded them great views of both the patio and the restaurant's entrance; along with a smidge of privacy for piquancy. Collette and Ammy exchanged glances. People-watching nirvana would not have distracted either of them from the tale written across Hosh's face; the shadowed eyes, the tightness around her mouth,were distressingly familiar.

Clearly, Hosh's husband Michael (or as Ammy preferred to think of him, The Hound Dog) was again sniffing around places his promiscuous snout had no business. Ammy took a sip from the Pinot set before her and kept her mouth shut. She wanted to start screaming, or crying or something. Hoshi was beautiful, smart, cultured. And in love with a liar that she wouldn’t leave.

Why wouldn’t Hoshi just...her mind backed away; refusing to take a spin on the same carousel she and Hosh had been riding for the past three years. Ammy thought with some shame that she hadn’t been a very good friend. Colly was far better at providing tea and sympathy, but then Colly had the patience of Job and a way of loving without judgement. A trick Ammy knew she herself had yet to learn. She smiled lightly as she looked at the two women and continued to drift.

Oh my, oh my,” Hosh breathed wickedly, “what I wouldn’t give for some of that.” Colly pretended to be shocked and peeked, Ammy turned in her chair to regard the two men openly. Ammy recognized the older one as Leather Jacket from the parking lot. In his early forties, he felt Eastern European to her; a beautiful face though. If you liked the rocky crag type, all planes and angles.

Colly whispered, “Amelie,” she said, “They’ll see you looking.”

“Well I wouldn’t mind if they did,” she laughed, “especially the younger one.”

Especially the younger one. He was tall broad shouldered with a wealth of rich dark hair. And eyes, she heard Colly suck in a breath, they were amazing, she noticed them as he ran his eyes over the occupants of the patio, lingering on the trio, they were clear blue, like ice water. He caught them looking and raised two fingers to his brow in mock salute. Amelie smiled impishly at him, rolled her eyes and turned back to her friends. She and Hosh exchanged arched brows as his rich chuckle drifted toward them on the summer breeze. “Well?”, Hosh said.

“He was looking at you Hoshi.”

“Tut, tut, darling. He was looking at all of us. It was a non-specific leer. Our Mr. Pretty-Eyes likes girls”. She smiled wickedly. “Either of you could have him at the bat of a lash.”

“Whatever,” said Colly.

“You know I’m right. It’s like I always say--” Colly started, "'A woman can have just about any man she wants'"

Ammy finished, "'and all of the ones she doesn't.'", Amelie groaned, "We know Hosh."

“It's not my fault men are easy!” Hoshi protested as her friends laughed at her, and murmured. “It’s loving them that’s hard.”

Yes, Amelie thought as she looked at Hosh. Loving them was hard. In the days before her marriage Amelie often joked that Hoshi could get and keep just about any man alive. Her devotion to this one man who refused to be kept...what did it do to her?

Ammy wanted to say that Hosh’s reasons for staying with Michael mystified her. But they didn’t. She wanted to say that they enraged her, but she loved Hosh too well and had seen her suffer too long to harbor anger toward her. Fear. That was it. That bold, brash, ruthlessly sensible Hoshi could be rendered vulnerable, and to such a man, terrified Ammy. 'No. I want no part of love.' But Hosh wasn’t through trying to make a match, not by a long shot.

Why was it that married women; happily or no, felt a compulsion to see their sistern coupled up, no matter how strenuous the resistance?

“Agh, you don’t mean to tell me this one isn’t your style either. I could practically hear your heart skip a beat.”

“Shut up Hosh,”Ammy said good-naturedly.

“I think I like the older one better.”

“Of course Colly darling, but then you would. After all, you know the old saying, ‘Better an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.’”

“That is not what I meant, I’m just saying–“

She broke off at Hoshi’s knowing smile, her cheeks flushing. Hosh could be a perfect cat sometimes; and was preparing to sharpen her claws on Colette. Poor Colly, she sighed, she took everything so literally.

She half-listened to her friends as Hoshi picked at Colette and generally tied her into knots, until the poor girl wasn’t clear on what it was she was “just saying”. Witchy, witchy Hosh was in one of her moods, Amelie would need step in before any real damage was done. Colette, a bit prudish, had never felt an inappropriate emotion. It was a little personality quirk that annoyed them both. Nevertheless, tonight with a glass of Beringer’s Pinot in her hand and a couple of handsome men to please the eye, she felt determined to be mellow. At that moment, Leather Jacket's eyes met her own.

'Murder shrieks out.'

The thin slash of pain left Ammy blind and breathless.

His First Duchess, Chapter 2

My Midomi Obsession: Witchcraft

noreply@blogger.com (WillowJewell) — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 05:02:00 +0000

*sigh* Yesterday was a midomi day. One of my favorite songs is Witchcraft. It's weird it took me so long to midomize it for posterity.I'm no singer, though I do love to sing and I love, love, lovED giving this one a go.

Tags: midomi, singing, music, words