Mystery of the Hardy Boys and Sunburned Muse
Being the glacially slow writer that I am, my answer to challenges seldom meet the deadline (read: never). And so it really shouldn't surprise me that I'm only now posting a WIP of The Hardy Boys Title Challenge. Gah. So, anyone seen a ghosty mystery muse around here? Mine seems to still be in the Canary Islands. I hope it gets lots of uneven bikini tans. Yes, the nasty pale stripes that run down the front of your chest. The blasted thing deserves it.
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Footprints Under the Window
Beyond her prized rose bush, Emma Birten can hear the dead turning in the ground, rustling the leaves that blanket Smallville's lone graveyard now that fall is here. Emma remembers a time when her cottage had been separated from the cemetery by a hill instead of the few meager yards now between her rose bush and the first overrun tombstone; Smallville's dead had claimed the land over the years, and old Emma counts the days until they claim her as well. But when the murmuring voices blow past her window, rattling the glass, it is pity she feels, not fear, for ever since the meteors not even the dead can rest and always it is the children who are the loudest.
The only child Emma will ever have is her rose bush, its beautiful white and crimson flowers just brushing past her window sill. A long time ago the rose bush had been two separate bushes, with separate white and red roses, but the branches has long since intertwined, thorn locking thorn, beneath the kitchen window, until now not even Emma can tell where one begins and the other ends. At night the heavy flower heads nod to the passing of ghostly voices, and Emma on opening the door in the morning always finds her welcome mat strewn with white and red petals. No matter how carefully Emma sweeps, a few rose petals always elude her broom but she persists anyway because when trampled the petals remind her uncomfortably of bruised skin.
Emma's days are a comforting monotony; she tends her roses, bakes her pies, works on quilts and in between everything, she sweeps and sweeps and sweeps. She is sweeping the afternoon the Kents' son pulls up beside the road to deliver her produce.
"Hello Miss Birten," the boy calls out to her as he jumps out of the battered truck and onto the dirt road. The back of the truck is loaded with crates of produce, and the boy reaches in and easily hoists one from the top of the stack. His arms full of cabbage and potatoes, he asks sunnily, "How are your roses?"
Emma smiles at him, "Very well, young man, thank you for asking." She leans the broom against a shrub and goes to open the screen door as the boy comes up the path. She follows him as he walks into the kitchen and sets the crate on the tiny kitchen table, dropping a bag of apples beside it. "I didn't order these," Emma frowns, immediately noticing the apples.
The boy's smile is brilliantly white. "Mom says these apples are for your pie."
Emma peers into the bag, and takes out three apple cores. "For my pie, eh?" she says dryly, quirking an eyebrow at him.
He ducks his head. "I was a bit hungry," he replies sheepishly, offering Emma an earnest smile and leaf-green eyes from beneath tousled bangs.
Chuckling, Emma pats him on the shoulders. She reaches behind into her pants pocket and takes out two envelopes. "Here," she puts the envelopes in his hands, "this one is your month's fee. The other letter I'll need you to post for me in town."
The boy's good-natured smile disappears as he peers at the address on the envelope. "Norberts and Associates Corp?" he frowns.
Grimacing a bit wearily, she nods. "Don't worry. It'll take more than a couple lawyers to chase this bag of bones out of this house." A gentle thump comes from the window then and startled, the boy glances behind him. Emma follows his gaze, and immediately waves a hand at him. "Oh," she smiles reassuringly, "it's just the roses."
The boy blinks. "Miss Birten," he says, still looking past the kitchen window, "do you have a visitor?"
Emma watches him bemusedly. "Young man, whatever gave you that notion?"
"Oh," he shakes his head sharply. "Oh, nothing." The boy shoves his hands and the letters into his jacket pocket, his big shoulders hunching. "I...I guess I should do the rest of my rounds, Miss Birten. I'll see you next week."
"Sure, tell Martha I said thanks for the apples."
From the doorway she watches as the truck pull back onto the road, the dust rising from behind its wheels as it disappears around the hill.
Visitors. Emma laughs quietly to herself and goes back outside to pick up her broom. Except for the voices and the Lang girl who comes to the graveyard at night, she hasn't had a real visitor since the meteors struck. Lately, she doesn't even see the Lang girl that often. Good thing that. Emma was beginning to worry about that girl's sanity. At least when the dead talks to Emma, Emma doesn't talk back.
Beneath the windowsill, the roses nod to a passing breeze.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Footprints Under the Window
Beyond her prized rose bush, Emma Birten can hear the dead turning in the ground, rustling the leaves that blanket Smallville's lone graveyard now that fall is here. Emma remembers a time when her cottage had been separated from the cemetery by a hill instead of the few meager yards now between her rose bush and the first overrun tombstone; Smallville's dead had claimed the land over the years, and old Emma counts the days until they claim her as well. But when the murmuring voices blow past her window, rattling the glass, it is pity she feels, not fear, for ever since the meteors not even the dead can rest and always it is the children who are the loudest.
The only child Emma will ever have is her rose bush, its beautiful white and crimson flowers just brushing past her window sill. A long time ago the rose bush had been two separate bushes, with separate white and red roses, but the branches has long since intertwined, thorn locking thorn, beneath the kitchen window, until now not even Emma can tell where one begins and the other ends. At night the heavy flower heads nod to the passing of ghostly voices, and Emma on opening the door in the morning always finds her welcome mat strewn with white and red petals. No matter how carefully Emma sweeps, a few rose petals always elude her broom but she persists anyway because when trampled the petals remind her uncomfortably of bruised skin.
Emma's days are a comforting monotony; she tends her roses, bakes her pies, works on quilts and in between everything, she sweeps and sweeps and sweeps. She is sweeping the afternoon the Kents' son pulls up beside the road to deliver her produce.
"Hello Miss Birten," the boy calls out to her as he jumps out of the battered truck and onto the dirt road. The back of the truck is loaded with crates of produce, and the boy reaches in and easily hoists one from the top of the stack. His arms full of cabbage and potatoes, he asks sunnily, "How are your roses?"
Emma smiles at him, "Very well, young man, thank you for asking." She leans the broom against a shrub and goes to open the screen door as the boy comes up the path. She follows him as he walks into the kitchen and sets the crate on the tiny kitchen table, dropping a bag of apples beside it. "I didn't order these," Emma frowns, immediately noticing the apples.
The boy's smile is brilliantly white. "Mom says these apples are for your pie."
Emma peers into the bag, and takes out three apple cores. "For my pie, eh?" she says dryly, quirking an eyebrow at him.
He ducks his head. "I was a bit hungry," he replies sheepishly, offering Emma an earnest smile and leaf-green eyes from beneath tousled bangs.
Chuckling, Emma pats him on the shoulders. She reaches behind into her pants pocket and takes out two envelopes. "Here," she puts the envelopes in his hands, "this one is your month's fee. The other letter I'll need you to post for me in town."
The boy's good-natured smile disappears as he peers at the address on the envelope. "Norberts and Associates Corp?" he frowns.
Grimacing a bit wearily, she nods. "Don't worry. It'll take more than a couple lawyers to chase this bag of bones out of this house." A gentle thump comes from the window then and startled, the boy glances behind him. Emma follows his gaze, and immediately waves a hand at him. "Oh," she smiles reassuringly, "it's just the roses."
The boy blinks. "Miss Birten," he says, still looking past the kitchen window, "do you have a visitor?"
Emma watches him bemusedly. "Young man, whatever gave you that notion?"
"Oh," he shakes his head sharply. "Oh, nothing." The boy shoves his hands and the letters into his jacket pocket, his big shoulders hunching. "I...I guess I should do the rest of my rounds, Miss Birten. I'll see you next week."
"Sure, tell Martha I said thanks for the apples."
From the doorway she watches as the truck pull back onto the road, the dust rising from behind its wheels as it disappears around the hill.
Visitors. Emma laughs quietly to herself and goes back outside to pick up her broom. Except for the voices and the Lang girl who comes to the graveyard at night, she hasn't had a real visitor since the meteors struck. Lately, she doesn't even see the Lang girl that often. Good thing that. Emma was beginning to worry about that girl's sanity. At least when the dead talks to Emma, Emma doesn't talk back.
Beneath the windowsill, the roses nod to a passing breeze.