Joined: 07 Jan 2007
Posts: 1062
Location: Iowa City, IA
The Things that Haunt Us ~Teaser~ (F)
Deep richness of ancient oak trees, the scent of pine cones against the dying green grass and all the beauty that goes forgotten; this is what Violetwitch, Massachusetts looks like at this time of year. Pine cones are stamped further into the ground as young kids run around in their costumes that emulate idols and heroes of the Halloween age, but every so often a little five or six year old child picks up a pine cone, enjoys its scent; and then notices a full half green and half bright orange leaf and tucks it into her plastic Jack-O-Lantern candy basket. Once her mother inspects her candy collection, as such in this postmodern age of paranoia, these beautiful objects are thrown away and replaced with plastic imitations because of soil and bacteria on the precious candy. But it won’t stop every year as another oblivious young child picks up a pine cone and leaf in fascination; believing and feeling in their childlike minds the wisdom and essence of autumn. Especially one in this particular town.
The scent of burnt leaves brings out the magic that is an Old England autumn as everyone runs around in their busy daily lives oblivious to the natural Celtic feelings autumn brings to those who have sensitive pre-modern souls. It is not just the Celtic feelings, but Violetwitch itself was like a Celtic fairy land this time of year. It could be perhaps that when early settlers first came over from France in 1742, they found a particularly large clearing in the middle of large forest, almost perfectly in the shape of a circle, cryptically so but no one ever paid any mind to any supernaturalism attached to the land. Since then a lot of the trees were taken down either for sport, for being close to dying, or just to create more space for the town that was to come.
But every year one of the biggest problems were the thicket that was west of town that had been remained erected ever since the settlement first started, simply out of respect for the nature that once was there. People talked of tearing it down and replacing it with condos or mock shops of witch-like memorabilia with a tongue in cheek intent for the town’s name. Truthfully it had been nick-named after a woman named Violet Bonnet who was thought to be a witch back in those times; when out of the ignorant layer of townspeople, she had lived in the woods and devoted her life to making medicine out of natural herbs and plants from the forest. But as time passed and the maid Bonnet passed away, everyone still believed she was a witch and the town’s name officially changed from Prideux to Violetwitch. But perhaps it was out of the superstition that came this feeling; or perhaps the naturalism of Miss Violet Bonnet that brought them out but as time goes in Violetwitch, more and more characteristics began to add to it. But thus far it has been said it smells like those smashed pine cones, pumpkin cinnamon pies from Whitby’s diner, the scent of the oak tree, and all the golden mums and mauve asters that are planted with care in the small grassy hedges in between the sidewalks of downtown.
Downtown, on the other hand, had been dressed with proud buildings whose core architecture had remained standing since the mid eighteenth century in alcove windows on corner buildings. But as years continue, wear falls onto the foundations but the second stories of the architecture remains as large one bedroom apartments. While not as true to the naturist intentions of the rest of the town, the indescribable feeling was transported into the look of some new buildings made entirely of burnt red and ash brick, with the occasional white shutter to look especially country style. Around this time of year though, the downtown was complete with haystacks, of course with as many golden mums surrounding pumpkins and gourds. Of course the downtown area smelled fantastic even more around this time, second to the Christmas holidays, with the smells of cinnamon, the hazel coffee that perfumed its way out from the downtown café, and the apple cider that was home made from local orchards that exuded from Whitby’s.
One of those second-story abodes on Halloween night had finally been moved into after weeks of being prepared and decorated by unknown people no one in the town knew of. Above the diner of the said popular pumpkin cinnamon pies and apple cider, one particular eyewitness said they saw a casket, one that looked like a movie prop. That was not true but rather something in the autumn wind that creates a false front that all things involving death becomes immediately negative. No one knew for many days whom would move in and if it would affect the business below it, but the suspicion eventually evaporated over time throughout the month of late September. And at the convenient time of Halloween Day, she came. By train, which was odd transport since she had came overseas; Europe some people say. Particularly France, as she did look very French as she got out of her classy hybrid car which was parked in the tenant parking spot. Down the road where the main street dispersed into neighborhoods someone was burning a large pile of leaves, the scent of it added to the strength of the spiritual feeling.
It had been about seven o’clock about the time when the trick or treaters were running back to their homes for their due curfew and the teenagers were either heading for the coffee house or out of town to grab a movie or party at a much larger city. She noticed this and smiled at the simplicity of it and as she grabbed her purse, carry-on bag and a gigantic suitcase from the trunk, she made her way up to the small door way as a woman, shouting at some kids running down the street, holding a plastic cauldron full of candy, noticed the struggling. She had light chestnut brown hair, cut especially short for the convenience of working the diner for many years as her green eyes noticed the foreign woman. She had the Violetwitch eyes, which were said to be slightly cat-like, the pupils shaped in almost perfect ovals but changed as soon as the other person could blink and surrounding those pupils was a brilliant shade of green. She put down her cauldron, played with her gold chain in debate and then….
“Here let me help you with that,” the co-owner of Whitby’s and the building itself, Marlo Whitby said helpfully as she lifted the large roller suit case over the curb, “So you’re the one who is moving in up there, huh?”
The other woman’s eyes looked up at her and smiled a smile that was comprised of perfect white teeth surrounded by full lips, through the red paint on them it looked like crushed red velvet against her pale European complexion. “Yes I am thank you so much.” She looked at the door that wedged in between the diner and a gift shop, “Well this is going to be a chore,” she said rather dryly but laughed it off.
“There’s a closed off space back in the kitchen that goes up that way, may I?” and the nameless woman allowed Mrs. Whitby to take her through the semi populated diner. The obvious occasional shift of the patrons’ eyes to her had been done, and something about her seemed to make a few souls in the room writhe a bit in the chairs, as if there was something wrong with her. She looked at the perfect wooden country style tables and chairs, the violet gingham table covers, the glass counters on the right side of the room with merchandise that had labels of “Whitby” on it.
Of course the pies, in a perfect row, inside a glass counter had been closer to the kitchens which they had walked through. It was a quiet evening in there but the bursting smell of apples and the wooden smell of nuts perfumed the new resident of Violetwitch’s nostrils. She smiled and her mouth suddenly watered at the thought of an apple as the two women came upon another room off of the kitchen which seemed older than the altered diner part of the building. There was the back door. To the right was a much larger stairwell up to her new apartment stood as Marlo still was helping her with her suitcase until the nameless woman took out the keys and unlocked it at the very top. The walls immediately flooded in with burgundy painted walls surrounded by mahogany wooden floors, floor panels, and window panels. Everything was done in perfect European taste, the golden divan with the deep mahogany wooden frame, painting imitations of Burne-Jones’s “The Beguiling of Merlin,” Hughes’s “April Love” and other paintings that seemed to have a dark or eerie personality to them decorated the walls alongside large iron sconces and candle chandeliers which hung from the ceiling.
After a minute silence, Mrs. Whitby couldn’t help but comment; “Wow, it is beautiful in here, really vintage;” to which the nameless woman agreed silently as she rolled her suitcases into the apartment, feeling almost slightly like she didn’t belong in some place that seemed so detached from the modern world. Looking back at the thirty year old woman, she thanked her. “It’s no problem, miss, I’m glad to help; before we close tonight you should come on down and have some coffee and pie, on me.”
“That would sound lovely, Mrs. Whitby,” the smooth French accent floated out which stopped the woman dead in her tracks and before she had even said anything to wonder how this woman knew her name when introductions were never made, “I heard the trick or treaters call you that so I only assumed,” she added with a smile, showing her perfect white teeth within the good humor of her words.
“Which reminds me; I never got your name.”
“Carolyne, Carolyne Badeau. But you can call me Caro; all of my friends do,” _________________ “It would be a pity of lesbians and gay men retreated into the same kind of cultural separatism. " - Jeanette Winterson
www[dot]bdecauntetonspoetry[dot]webs[dot]com
Sat Jan 16, 2010 9:05 pm
MysteryGirl Moderators
Joined: 02 Jun 2007
Posts: 3358
Location: I come from a land downunder
Fascinating beginning B, very descriptive. Im intrigued and looking forward to more.
HugZ, MG _________________ Be yourself.............everybody else is taken!
Sun Jan 17, 2010 1:09 am
BdeCaunteton
Joined: 07 Jan 2007
Posts: 1062
Location: Iowa City, IA
quote:Originally posted by MysteryGirl:
Fascinating beginning B, very descriptive. Im intrigued and looking forward to more.
HugZ, MG
Awww, thank you Myssie my dear... but um... I kind of was hoping for a more thorough critique... you know me and my prose. _________________ “It would be a pity of lesbians and gay men retreated into the same kind of cultural separatism. " - Jeanette Winterson
www[dot]bdecauntetonspoetry[dot]webs[dot]com
Sun Jan 17, 2010 3:39 am
Allison
Joined: 12 Oct 2005
Posts: 4212
Location: Florida
Very good beginning B. I felt like I could step riht into the scene with the way you described it. I am very intrigued by where you will take us in this story. Good opening cacth. It shows that you have put a lot of thought into the beginning. Please continue.
Alli _________________ Alli
Tue Jan 19, 2010 12:02 pm
BdeCaunteton
Joined: 07 Jan 2007
Posts: 1062
Location: Iowa City, IA
quote:Originally posted by Allison:
Very good beginning B. I felt like I could step riht into the scene with the way you described it. I am very intrigued by where you will take us in this story. Good opening cacth. It shows that you have put a lot of thought into the beginning. Please continue.
Alli
thank you alli, your opinion means a lot to me. _________________ “It would be a pity of lesbians and gay men retreated into the same kind of cultural separatism. " - Jeanette Winterson
www[dot]bdecauntetonspoetry[dot]webs[dot]com
Tue Jan 19, 2010 7:31 pm
Allison
Joined: 12 Oct 2005
Posts: 4212
Location: Florida
Most welcome B now add more, I know you have it LOL. Great job!
Alli _________________ Alli
Tue Jan 19, 2010 10:36 pm
april22
Joined: 26 Dec 2009
Posts: 11
i like it b. is like watching a movie in my head. _________________ _April
Wed Feb 10, 2010 6:17 am
BdeCaunteton
Joined: 07 Jan 2007
Posts: 1062
Location: Iowa City, IA
quote:Originally posted by april22:
i like it b. is like watching a movie in my head.
Thank you, sweets! =) _________________ “It would be a pity of lesbians and gay men retreated into the same kind of cultural separatism. " - Jeanette Winterson
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