Wood, Wire & Bonnie

By Joe Moe

“Not many like you round these parts.” The elderly couple waited eagerly for a reaction.

Ivy Blossom expected “the issue” to come up. The issue was always up in 1955 America. Why should rural Pennsylvania be any different? Ivy smiled and hugged her precious bundle closer, “Yes, sir. I know it’s unusual for a colored girl and child to be looking to make a home with strangers in the middle of nowhere.”

On cue, baby poked its head out of dense cotton swaddling to get a look at “the middle of nowhere.” It cooed and chirped the sounds of a supremely happy baby. The infectious sweet murmurs worked their magic. The old couple bubbled as if downy chicks were tickling their butts while cherubs fed them cotton candy. “Oh, she’s so precious!”, the old woman proclaimed, tip-toeing to get a look. Her husband held her sleeve like the string of a wiley kite, “Honey, you’ll scare her...sorry, Miss Blossom…’

“Please, call me Ivy.”

“Ivy, I’m Gibby. Short for Gilbert. And the missus is Lettie…”

“...Short for Letitia.” Lettie smiled, not taking her eyes off the brown peak of baby’s head.

Gibby released Lettie’s sleeve, “Ivy, we have no problem that you and your sweet potato are cocoa while we’re vanilla. We’ve travelled the world performing for every color and creed you could want to imagine.”

Ivy let out a sigh of relief followed by a little bounce of excitement that caused baby to giggle, “You’re showbiz folk? How exciting! What is it you do? I mean, what’s your act?”

Gibby and Lettie gave simultaneous, “you don’t have to ask us twice” grins. Lettie practically ran into the house. Gibby’s eyes glinted, “Just wait right here for a sec, Ivy.” and he followed Lettie into the house.

Alone, Ivy took the liberty of sitting on the porch swing. A cool breeze blew the summer heat off of her as she swung gently, heels dragging across floorboards. The baby fell still as Ivy looked out at the surrounding land. No visible neighbors. A dusty dirt road a few hundred feet off the front yard. A cloud of Sparrows shifted shape in the sky just as a miniature cloud of gnats whirled past Ivy’s face. The world was silent but for an occasional distant chicken bawk. Ivy took a deep breath and held it. In the moments she’d spent alone on the porch, she’d become desperate to live here. Baby was as still as Ivy’s buff leather suitcase set at the bottom of the porch stairs. She turned and regarded the rather ominous house with its bleached and scarred wooden siding and dingy windows...

The door swung open too fast, banging against the wall, causing both Ivy and baby to jump as one. Gibby and Lettie appeared with an unspoken, “Tah-dah!” A gesture that would likely be accompanied by a drummer’s rim-shot, if they’d been on a vaudeville stage with full band. Unable to applaud with her arms full, Ivy gave an earnest, “Whoo-hoo!” causing the spritely old couple to bow deeply.

“Thank you, darlin’! We’re the Wood-words!” Gibby announced with vocal flourish. Ivy realized the old couple were both holding ventriloquist dummies. Gibby held a female puppet that could only be described as a caricature of a painted hussy. Over-rouged cheeks, stiff blonde hair in ringlets, and a trollop’s petticoats, “Hi, ya-a-a-ll! Ah’m Myrtle Mae! How you?” the puppet drawled in a voice much too high for a grown man to manufacture, wooden lips clicking - “tok-tok,” while Gibby’s lips remained stock still. Ivy gasped, “Wow!” Myrtle Mae batted clunky eyelashes, “Thup, thup, thup...”

Lettie stepped forward with her puppet, a dapper boy with straw hat, striped jacket and crisply pleated black slacks, “Hey there, Chik-a-dee!  Name’s Florence - but you can call me Flo!” Lettie’s thrown voice was deep, rich and thick as a baritone lounge singer’s.

“Hi, Flo, Myrtle!”, Ivy hollered. Baby bleated, “Ah-goo!”

Gibby turned suddenly serious and Lettie darkened. Ivy’s eyes flitted between the stoic couple until Gibby finally spoke, “Now, down to business, Ivy. If you move into ‘Casa de Wood-word’ we’ll be in close quarters, so we have to be serious for a moment. Need to make sure we’re compatible.”

Ivy nodded, “I’ll answer any questions you and Lettie…”

Gibby smiled knowingly, “Oh, hon, not us.” Lettie and Gibby did a little dance. Lettie nodded at the dummies, “Them!” Ivy smiled, until she realized the couple was serious. “Sure. I’m all ears.” Ivy bounced the baby.

Gibby nodded his head slowly, “We’re already convinced. You have to convince...Myrtle Mae and Flo.” Gibby and Lettie held their puppets out like ritual offerings.

Ivy bobbed her chin, getting the point, “I see. OK.”

Myrtle Mae sprung to life at the end of Gibby’s arm, “So, little praline! You a homebody or do ya’ll like to cut a rug at night?

Ivy giggled, “Well, with a baby, I can’t get out much, even if I wanted to.”

Now Lettie animated Flo, “Any kin gonna come poking around looking for a place to flop?”

Ivy saddened a bit, “I am all alone in this world,” dipping eyes to her bundle, “Except for...her.”

Myrtle Mae’s head spun comically, “Hey! Ya’ll haven’t even told us baby’s name!”

Ivy covered her mouth with her free hand and laughed, “I’m so sorry! How embarrassing.”

Flo’s wooden eyebrows danced noisily, “kuh-tuk, kuh-tuk,” “So, what’s her name?”

Ivy unfurled the baby’s swaddling, “Ask her yourself…”

Gibby and Lettie Woodword’s expressions collapsed like souffles in a slammed oven as Ivy revealed a puppet of her own. It appeared to be made of tanned flesh and bone. It seemed to grow from Ivy’s hand like some tumescent head of flesh-cauliflower with visibly pulsing veins and the blush of blood coursing through them. Tiny lips parted, “I’m...Bonnie,” came the voice, like a miniature wood chipper gurgling lard.

The Woodwords fell to their knees with Myrtle Mae and Flo strewn, laying prostrate beside their puppeteers, ”Welcome, Bonnie! Welcome…welcome...”

Road Rage and the Average Girl

By Jennifer Nikolaus

I sat there in the shade of a fairly large tree holding an old photograph. It was a picture of some long ago time, forgotten I’m sure, of a young woman holding her child. She’s not looking at the camera, but she wears an expression of defiance, worry and fear, all at once. My bloodstained hands have left a few smudges on the photo’s edges, but other than that, it seems to be in pretty good shape for its age. A light breeze blows a stray hair across my face and I absently brush it away, leaving yet another streak of blood across my face. I must look a mess after the day I’ve had, but right now I’m okay...right here is good. It didn’t start this way…

The day started ho-hum and quickly progressed into the day from the ninth level of hell. Everything that could go wrong did, and I barely made it through with my sanity.

Had I known what the drive home had in store for me, I might have paused a bit before leaving. I saw him coming through the traffic behind me, weaving in and out, all shiny black and chrome. He pulled up next to me at the light before the freeway onramp – me in the turn lane, he in the next. As soon as the light turned, he peeled out and swerved dangerously close to my front bumper. Slamming on my brakes, my rage, which had been bubbling just a few inches under the surface, erupted in a horn and yelling tirade at the driver. He stopped, blocking any further progress onto the freeway, then just as suddenly, took off and turned onto the freeway, barely escaping oncoming traffic. I sat there at the light, adrenaline pumping, fuming. Trying to calm myself, I thought, “Well, at least I’ll never have to see that dbag again…” Wrong. Due to an accident, the traffic was backed up and there was no hope of getting onto the freeway, so I stayed on the ramp to get right back off. Guess who was right there to cut in front of me, clipping my front bumper in the process? Our friend in the shiny black car. “You filthy bastard!”

Looking back, I probably should have turned the other cheek and drove away...it would have been the sensible thing to do. Sense had jumped out of the passenger seat at that point, and I sped up and followed him. He could have outrun me, I’m sure, but I think he was relishing the game now, so he pulled into the first empty parking lot and stopped. I followed suit, turned off my engine, and got out. He got out of his car and walked toward the front of it, bending down to examine the front passenger side. You know how you get a picture of how someone is going to look based on their actions or voice, well, he looked exactly as I imagined: early 30s, white male, good shape from regular gym hours, a young urbanite.

He walked towards me. You scratched my car, and you are gonna pay for it?

I was speechless for a moment. I had scratched his car? There was a horrible scratch on my front bumper. “Screw that! You caused that when you cut me off, twice! I’m not paying for shit.”

“What did you say, you fat bitch?” He started toward me.

I gripped the tire iron I held at my side tighter. “Look, I've had a reeeally bad day, so just back off, alright? You fix yours, I’ll fix mine...we leave it at that.” This was the rational part of my brain speaking. The part that knew he could easily beat me if he wanted to.

“Fuck you! You are going to pay for the damage to my car!” Each word was emphasized with a finger point and step closer.

“I’m only gonna ask one more time, man. Back. Off.”

A sly grin crossed his face. “What are you gonna do? What would an ugly cunt like you do?”

Woah. I did not see that name coming. I guess I should have. Just like he should have seen the tire iron coming at his face.

Thwack!

I’m not the strongest woman, but I am big, and I threw everything I had into that first swing. He went down with a thud. I could have stopped right there, I had essentially won, but the rage and frustration of the day and years of being bullied by this kind of guy burst out of me like an alien from my chest. I slammed the tire iron down over and over until his head was more bloody mess than pretty boy. When I stopped, I was covered in blood and assorted pieces of goo. I took a deep breath and stepped back. Geez, what a mess. I looked around and noticed for the first time that we were actually at a park. I had been so keyed up, I hadn’t noticed where we stopped. I slowly walked toward the closest tree, dragging my weapon behind me. Wearily, I plopped onto the ground and leaned back against the tree.

There was a nice breeze starting up, which took turns drying the sweat and gore I was no doubt covered in. A gust of wind brought a paper right up to my leg, so I reached for it. It was a picture of some long ago time, forgotten I’m sure, of a young woman holding her child. She’s not looking at the camera, but she wears an expression of defiance, worry and fear, all at once. My bloodstained hands have left a few smudges on the photo’s edges, but other than that, it seems to be in pretty good shape for its age...

The Bargain
by Valentina Abate

A good place to start over.

A roof over her head, a bed and food. All in exchange for some cleaning.

It was the best arrangement she came across. The best for her and Oliver.

At least, that was what Stella thought.

*

"May I have your attention please?" Agatha's nasal voice broke the chattering in the living room. "Henry, He-n-n-ry! Why aren't you assisting me?" She smiled at the audience and beckoned to her husband who answered, "Yes, dear. Coming, dear." Some guests chuckled. "Now, if my husband will allow me..." Agatha glared at Henry as he opened the trunk, "I am going to introduce you to a few of my closest friends." Reaching into the trunk, Agatha pulled out an old, creepy puppet in a white dress with blonde braided hair, "Say hello, Annie." She gave the doll a nudge and suddenly it appeared to come to life. "Oh, my! Hel-lo, everyone. I’m Annie!" Henry held up another male puppet, and asked, "George? D-do you want to say hello too?" George gave a deep, “Hello!”. The voice sounded too low to Agatha and she glared at her husband again, disappointed. Stella didn't like how Agatha treated Henry. He was such a kind man.

Henry’s puppet, George, didn't seem as cheery as Agatha’s Annie puppet. Then George exclaimed hysterically, “Fools! All of you! Run away from the Millers!" Henry grew pale as Agatha laughed out loud and used Annie’s puppet hand to slap George’s puppet face. "Silly George. Always forgetting to take his pills!" Annie spoke in a belittling tone, then turned toward the guests. "Don't tell me you didn't know he’s a little cuckoo?" The guests laughed, Stella cracked a smiled and sat tight as the show had only just begun.

*

Dust fell down from the cracks in the wooden ceiling with each and every step from upstairs. Stella could hear her own heart beating furiously. She hugged her baby to her chest, hushing him gently. As the footsteps descended and entered the basement, a high-pitched laugh filled the room, "Stella?" Stella tried to hide behind something when she heard her name being called. Her eyes searching for a way to escape, but Agatha was standing at the bottom of the staircase, blocking her path. "Come on out, darling. What are you afraid of? I am not going to hurt you, I just want baby Oliver to join my collection." Stella kissed her baby and lowered him into a basket. She couldn't run with the baby but she might have a chance to fight off Agatha if she wasn't holding him.

"You are not touching my baby." She faced the woman, clenching her fists. Agatha smiled, revealed a sharp kitchen knife and leaped at Stella. "I always get what I want!" Her voice sounded like a squeal as she levelled her weapon at the young woman. Stella hit Agatha’s arm with a rusty bed warmer she grabbed. Agatha lost her balance falling aside while Stella rushed to grab Oliver and run toward the stairs. The older woman was quickly back on her feet and lunged! Her knife went right through Stella's shoulder, causing her to scream in pain and stumble into the kitchen. "Get away from us, you hag!" She ran into the foyer, but the front door was locked. Henry appeared from the top of the stairs with a worried face. He gestured for Stella to follow him. She thought about it for a second, then trusted her instincts and followed him. The man led her inside a room and locked the door behind them.

On shelves and on the walls, sat several dozen puppets, wide-eyed and scared. "Run!" yelled one. "Get away from here!" said another. Stella was terrified and tears ran down her face. "The baby is hurt!" Henry pointed at Oliver, who was bleeding from his neck and wasn't breathing anymore. Stella looked down with panic, "No, no, no!!" She cried out, shaking him gently. Agatha's knife had gone right through his delicate neck. That was her target, all along. "No!" She fell to her knees, as Agatha screeched for Henry to, “Open the door!”

"W-wait! There is still a way." Henry stuttered and opened a box on top of a vanity table. He began reciting what sounded like a summoning spell. "My mother owned a Haitian slave. I watched her do this many times. Agatha forced me to teach her the spells I learned as a kid." In a few minutes thick smoke filled the room, the dolls screamed and the spirit of Bawon Sanmdi appeared before their eyes. "Look at this! What do we have here?" The “Loa” of death spoke in a deep tone, moving closer to look at Oliver. "That is some bad mojo right there." He shook his head. Henry swallowed hard. "Loa of death, grant me your blessing, return this infant to his mother." The Loa laughed, "I could do that... but what would my payment be? A soul for a soul?" Stella rocked the dead body of her son. Agatha screamed from outside, “The baby's soul is mine to keep!” Henry shouted, "Take me!" and picked up a ritual sword. "Take me and Agatha in exchange for Oliver."

Bawon Sanmdi clapped his hands together, "Then, so be it!"

Henry opened the door and let Agatha fall onto him. Skewering her to himself with the sword. She screamed. Henry smiled, "It is over, I am free..."

*

"It's gonna be okay." Stella whispered to baby Oliver, who giggled at her. "We’re gonna be okay." She turned only once more to look at the Miller’s house. Wiping a tear from her cheek and remembering Henry's brave sacrifice, she whispered a prayer before making her way toward town.

She had done the right thing to quickly gather her things and leave. If she had returned to “the room,” she would've found two creepy new dolls, laying exactly where the Millers' bodies had found their deaths.