Thanksgiving

Entry #4

Thanksgiving

by Paul Freeman

 

“Whore! Harlot! Look! see there! Look at the fallen woman, see how she parades her shame in the face of God and all honest folk,” the old preacher screamed his tirade from a plinth set up in the town square so that he could preach to the God fearin’ folk of the frontier town. 

“Don’t listen to him, Abigail, you know he only hates you because you spurned his advances and refused to marry him.” 

“I know, but his barbs find their mark all the same,” Abigail said to her sister, tears glistening in her eyes. The two girls hurried, arms linked, from the square with the hems of their dresses dragging in the mud and the preacher’s taunts ringing in their ears, unable to avoid the scornful eyes of the townsfolk on their backs. 

“Let he… or she who has forsaken God feel the heat of Hell’s fiery flames. Let her burn. See, see how she turns from the words of our Saviour. See how she scurries when I brandish the good book.” He held aloft a tattered, leather covered bible.  “I name thee Satan’s child, witch! She has cursed us and damned her own soul.” Spittle flew from his mouth as he worked himself into a frenzy, jabbing a finger at the girls retreating backs.  

“Our Father, who art in heaven hallowed be thy name…” he roared the words after them. 

“He’s gone too far this time, don’t listen to his lies, Abigail. We’ll have father speak with him. He can’t do that to you, not on this day of all days, a day of celebration, a day to give thanks….” Abigail suddenly felt the absence of her sister’s arm as her words were cut short. 

“Catherine! Catherine, what is it?” she cried, staring in shock at her sister who was lying on her back in the mud. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the rock beside her and a crimson pool swelling by her head. Catherine groaned but didn’t move. 

“Witch! I live in the farm next to her and all the milk turned sour over night,” a hard faced woman shouted. 

“She cursed my Timmy and the poor lad has been abed sick these past three weeks,” another accused.

Abigail was crying openly now, shaking her head at the madness of it all, she was no witch. She bent down to her sister, wondering how they were going to explain Catherine’s ruined dress to their mother. How can people be so cruel – so vicious? She looked to the gathering crowd, seeking help and mercy in their cold, hard stares. 

“Grab her! Hold her!” Rough hands manhandled her away from her stricken sister.  

“Burn her!”  The cry was taken up by the entire mob. 

Abigail sobbed as she was taken to the centre of the town and tied to a stake. She pleaded and screamed to no avail. “I’m not a witch, I’m not a witch.”  

Through the flames she could see the preacher, watching with his dark malevolent eyes, a barely concealed smirk twitched at the side of his mouth.

The Magic of Stories

Entry #3

The Magic of Stories

by Sharon Van Orman

People always complain about Thanksgiving being forgotten between Halloween and Christmas. They grumble and post silly memes on social media for a bit but they always move on. They don’t remember, we made sure of that. It was the only way to keep everyone from going mad. But there are only seven of us left and the spell is weakening. If this continues they will remember soon, God help us.

23 November 1823

Boston Massachusetts, USA

“Moore!,” the man yelled, shaking his friend. “You’ve got to pull it together! This will take all of our strength.”

“How are we do to do this, Livingston?’ Moore asked, taking his wire rimmed glasses from his face. He wiped them on his shirt front without thinking. The moment he popped them back on his face the scarlet smear of blood on the white linen was so shocking that once again, all he could do was stand there and blink in confusion.

“I thought you said your friend was powerful, Livingston,” Martha said, as she entered the room with candles .

“He is,” Henry Livingston Jr, lately of Poughkeepsie New York, insisted. Though he had to admit that after the events of the day, he couldn’t attest to being certain about anything. Livingston reached out to pat his friend Clement Clark Moore on the shoulder. He noticed absently that his hand trembled like dry leaves in the wind. He had wiped the blood away, but it was still there. It would always be there.

“The other’s will be here soon.” A large women known as Ramona walked though the front door. She had a bag thrown over her shoulder which was filled to the brim. There was a pitiful cry when she dropped the sack to the ground.

Livingston took a step back from her out of instinct. She was smiling around the pipe clutched between her teeth, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. Within her dark eyes a deep malevolence swirled. She knew he was afraid and it pleased her.

“Time has been stopped but that won’t last long;” She loosened the rope from around the sack and quickly set about her work. A bundle of dry herbs went into the fire. The flames erupted, not red like normal, or even blue like fire’s heart. But white and then a sickly green. Eventually the fire settled down into a deep black.

“Black,” Moore whispered. “How can that be?”

“The half hour before midnight is the time of good magic, Ramona said, the pipe bobbing as she spoke. “But the half hour after, well that’s another thing entirely.”

“We are not meant to do black magic,” Livingston protested. “We just banished…”

“Do not say their names!” Martha shouted quickly slapping her hand over his mouth. “The portal is only newly closed. If you speak their names it will give them strength and all our work will have been for naught. Too many have died this night. I’ll not have it undone by your foolishness.  

He nodded and sat down on a nearby barrel. Moore continued to stare into the flames as the rest of the coven filtered into the room.

“We have enough strength in this room alone to twist the spell,” said one of the women. She was so old that her face was lined with wrinkles. All the smiles and heartbreaks were laid bare on her face. Once upon a time her hair would have been a vibrant red. Now it had faded to a buttery yellow though no hint of silver touched it. “If the spell is to last, it has to be given a life of its own. Under no circumstances can the events of this night be allowed to be revealed. That will give the things on the other side of the portal strength. The most powerful among us have died in the effort to close the portal. You’ve seen evil take form and walk the earth and yet you live. We’ll not get a second chance.”

She moved before the window, the moonlight shone in, glinting of the silver buckle of her shoe and giving it back a thousand times. The fresh snow reflected the same light. It seemed as though the darkest hour was given the luster of midday. A herd of deer paused at the edge of the woods, frozen mid-step. Time had indeed stopped, even the snow was suspended mid fall, twinkling like tiny diamonds.

“I don’t understand my role in this,” Livingston asked. “My friend Moore is a biblical scholar and I but a poet. What would you have from us?”

“There is much strength in you,” the old woman replied. “I felt it while were fighting…” she paused unwilling to name their opponent. “But this night your skill with words will serve us well.”

“I write poetry, not spells.” He stuttered. “I have no magic.”

“That is not true at all,” she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “All stories are magic. When they are read, be that aloud or silently, they take on life. That is truly the strongest magic of all.”

Livingston had no words to argue and clearly the old woman felt that she made her point. They set to work, building the fire, setting oils to boil until the room was heavily steeped in the dueling aromas of incense and myrrh. He made himself comfortable on the barrel and began to write. They needed to make sure that the time between Samham and the Winter Solstice were cloaked in forgetfulness. Yet the spell needed to be something that would be repeated year after year. As the woman said, the more it was believed the stronger it would be.

You’re done then,” the old woman asked as she took the parchment from him. “Oh this will do just fine.” She said, smiling as she read “Twas the Night before Christmas…”

Extracts from the diary of James Cooper, 1816.

Entry #2

Extracts from the diary of James Cooper, 1816.

by Scott Butcher

Being the 1^st of June, 1816

It be that I have heard news that the Lieutenant Governor of Upper Canada, Major Francis Gore, has declared a Thanksgiving to be the date of Our Lord the 6^th day of this June. The celebration is for the termination of the war that had raged hereabouts.

This event has injured me. I feel so that I am compelled to write these diary words, not having done so before.

I press the rose, as proof herein. For instead of Thanksgiving, which no man greater than I should wont, I feel an illness, a trepidation approach. I write these words as witness, for I should be thankful. Did not I stand by my brothers, both heathen and militia, to fight back the invaders in bloody skirmishes most awful in the region of Niagara?

This ball that I carry, that had pierced my chest – I should give Thanksgiving of that. On that day as we fought against others most foul, who invaded our lands, pillaging and burning, my blood did roughly boil as we shouted our cries ‘Remember York’ and beat against them we did, till the pain ripped through my chest and my neutered body fell. Left I was as the battle in woodland was pressed against us. I am told that day ended well. Having sent the offenders crying for home, my own militia came back in search of we wounded.

They found me there, already roughly tended.  My bloodied chest was unnaturally bared to heaven, and sewn was the hole where the musket bolt should have seen my end.

On me they found lying the leaden ball, and… a single, small, black rose. A native one, no bigger be the bud than my finger width. I have pressed it here. It is not aged to blackness as one may think. It was fresh and black when they found it on me. With the ball it was kept for me during my recovery.

Being the 3^rd of June, 1816.

And on this day, should I be most thankful. For I walk through streets of York rebuilt where buildings had once been burned. I will shortly see my sweetheart, Emily, who is promised me this summer and on the morrow I will visit her.

Then as I stand overcome on a corner there, wondering that such rebuilding be glorious in the sunshine, a small thing is pressed in my hand, I barely notice by whom, though a figure a good foot shorter than I did scurry through the crowd. Of native extract, I saw braided black tresses on her back, but only through a fleeting glimpse. Most strange.

In my hand did prick my palm for there did I find… a single, small, black rose.

Being the 4^th of Jun 1816.

Oh calamity, dismay! For what have I done? On seeing my Emily, she did turn me away. For thinking it a thing of beauty, and so unique a thing as ever I did see, I gave my Emily… a single, small, black rose, the one most recently pressed in my hand.

Her eyes were so hollow, hurt to her core was she. I see her still, the rose in her hand, and the tears that they did bring. What had I done?

Being the 5^th of June 1816.

The soldiers did come, and roughly handle me, but knowing the officer, I recalled to him my militia days and my lowly once title of Sergeant, and the officer recognising me ordered me unhanded. They took me so, for sorrow has befallen York as my sweetheart Emily was found dead in her father’s house. Her bones were pitifully splintered, and bloody marks did cover her, and on her broken body… a single, small, black rose.

I protested my time, being as it was at the tavern, where the owner and many others besides had seen me take my kit and sleep beneath the benches where the other travellers did! It was not I that did this thing.

Though… could I have done so? For having drunk so much, I have no memory of things of that night.

My poor Emily. They left me there for my innocence, but I felt no tears. For my Emily, I feel naught.

Being of the 18^th of August, 1817.

I had not been convinced of myself for writing for over this year, but have drifted afar from my previous abode.

I am here, of all places, in Fort William, where the Northwest Trading Company does ply the richness of beaver fur – for hats, I am told, in Europe. I have come this far to forget my unthankfulness, and so that the stillness of my heart is not an insult to God. For I am assured that God does not roam here, though when I walk these forests I cannot help but think that God is only here, and that I offend him still.

I write this with wonder in my eyes, as I hold a freshly sprout sister of the petals once I pressed here. From where it came, I do not know. But found it on my person on my waking. So curious am I that I will show the serving girl whose bed I sometimes keep, for somewhere hereabouts must bloom others of these, small, black rose.

Being of the 21^st of August, 1817.

I cannot assume myself for what I am. I stand here, my heart is still, no blood rushes my veins, nor pounds my pulse. It has been so since the ball of shot was taken from me. I fear my secret is known, for a native man hissed a new name for me… Wendigo.

The serving girl at Boucher’s house and canteen was found. On her blood soaked body… a single, small, black rose.

I am finished this, I know not what my curse… but must end myself, I will do so.

Death Cap - A Thanksgiving Horror Story

 Flash Fiction 11-10-17

Entry #1 

 Death Cap - A Thanksgiving Horror Story

 By Dean Sault

“Daddy. Is this a good one?” “Hang on Elsie, I’ll be right there. Don’t touch it. It might be poison.” The young father arrived at his daughter’s side to examine her mushroom. “Oh, Elsie, that one looks great. Good eyes. You can add it to your sack.” The child slid a small spatula-like knife under the base of the mushroom, just as she had been taught, and delivered it to the canvas bag in her wicker basket. After a morning of hunting wild mushrooms in the wilderness of Northwest California, the family of four returned to their remote cabin to take stock of their good fortune. They each dumped their mushrooms into a large bowl at the center of the table. “Good job, kids. Wash up while mom and I select some for dinner.” As soon as the children were out of earshot, their mother began her familiar complaints. “Jacob, this is a waste of time. You know as well as I do, I’m not going to change my mind. I want the divorce, and that’s final.” “You’re right, Cara, I don’t want a divorce. I was hoping this trip might give you reason to reconsider. When we spent our honeymoon here, you said this place was magical.” “That was back when we were two immature kids," she snapped. "We had no business getting married so young, much less, starting a family right away.” Jacob tapped his index finger on the table without commenting. The children ran back into the kitchen, hands still dripping wet. “Who got the most, daddy?” Elsie asked, always competing with her little brother who did not even seem to realize they were in a competition. “It doesn’t matter,” Cara said, ignoring her daughter’s question. “There’s something your father and I need to tell you kids.” “Cara, please! Not now,” Jacob pleaded, “Let the kids enjoy this vacation. We can discuss it on the trip home.” His wife reluctantly agreed. Cara and the kids entered the living room while Jacob washed mushrooms and prepared salads for dinner. “What kind of salad dressing do you guys want?” he called into the other room. “I want Caesar, Daddy.” Elsie was first to answer, as always. “Me too!” Charlie, her little brother chimed in. “Do we have any dried tomato and spices?” Cara asked politely. “Yep,” Jacob answered. “You want it on your salad, or separate?” “Separate, please.” Jacob reached into the pocket of his coat, hanging on a wall hook by the mudroom. He retrieved a small plastic bag containing two off-white mushrooms. He cut them into four halves. Three of those pieces, he then chopped up and added to his wife’s salad while placing the forth section into the community basket. Jacob’s teriyaki chicken meal was delicious featuring fresh salad with mushrooms found by the kids. This was their traditional Thanksgiving meal, enjoyed every fall since their first child was born. After the kids grew old enough to pass judgment on varieties of fungi, Cara and Jacob encouraged them to participate in the mushroom hunts but checked every one for edibility. Later in the evening, Cara complained of stomach cramps, soon followed by violent diarrhea and vomiting. She spent the evening in the bathroom while her husband dutifully attended to her needs, holding her long black hair back as she retched into the toilet. “Oh my God, I feel terrible.” Cara spoke between breaths. “You’ll be okay in the morning, honey. There’s a twenty-four flu going around at the university.” Jacob offered false hope, well aware of the symptoms of death cap mushroom poisoning. After a few hours, her initial illness would pass, but the toxins would silently destroy her major organs. As Jacob promised, Cara felt much better in the morning. “I wonder what that was.” She pondered her sudden onset illness. “Maybe I got a bad mushroom.” “I doubt it. I inspected every one the kids picked. Did you pick any that you weren’t sure about?” “No...,” Cara suddenly became suspicious. “Jacob, you wouldn’t?” “Are you accusing me of what I think you are?” Her husband acted offended. “I’m sorry, Jacob. You may be a lousy husband, but you would never do anything to hurt the children. Maybe you’re right. It felt like a twenty-four-hour flu.” During the next two days, the family played as if there was nothing wrong. Both parents attempted to make the last-ever family vacation pleasant. Cara began to grow tired and weak on day three. Her skin showed slight jaundice of early liver failure. Soon, she lay in bed shivering from a sense of cold that only became worse despite ample blankets. Jacob watched with myriad emotional conflicts as his wife slipped into the end stages of death cap poisoning. When the children expressed concern about their sick mother, he assured them she would be okay after the flu passed. “Jacob! Jacob, where are you?” Cara called out weakly from the bedroom. He excused himself from eating popcorn with the children in front of the fire, promising to be right back. “What Cara?” “You did it! Didn’t you?” She struggled to push up on one elbow but fell back. “You son-of-a-bitch, you did it!” Jacob leaned close to her face. “I told you Cara. You will never take my children from me.” He left the room, closing the door so he could enjoy the kids in peace while she passed into inevitable coma. The next morning, Cara was unresponsive. Jacob acted upset as he loaded his children and limp wife into the car for the long drive to the nearest hospital. After two hours, he pulled into the Emergency Room parking lot and ran through the ambulance entrance, calling desperately for help. Cara's passing became just another statistic of Death Cap mushroom poisoning.