Anne's Featured Poems

Previously Featured Short Stories

You open the box labeled Previously Featured Poems and there are three folders. November 1998 No Short Story this month

October 1998 The Archery Master by John Mail

April 1998 Over the Edge by Antoinette Swanson

December 1997 The Edge of Midnight by Antoinette Swanson Close the box and return to the Archive Room

The Archery Master by John Mail

       Near my parent's home there is a glade in which the sheep pasture regularly. Their habitual grazing keeps the grass and shrubs in the area trimmed to a manicured perfection. Myself, I enjoy sitting in the open areas between the trees around the glade and allowing the sun to warm my body and my mind. During my last visit I noticed that there had been some changes to the glade. An archery target had been placed at the north end of the open area and a small tarp and blanket were placed, what looked like 60 yards, to the south end of the glade.
      As the area was deserted, and to the best of my knowledge on my parent's property, I walked, for the first time, into the glade to investigate. First, to the target to see how my mystery archer had done. When I got to the target, I found a hole, just large enough for one arrow, to the right of the center of the target. It had not missed the exact center by more than half an arrows width. What kind of archer would go through the trouble of setting up a range and then only shoot one arrow? Or perhaps, all the other arrows missed the target completely and the archer got extremely lucky, once.
       As I walked over to the blanket, I noticed that the area just before the blanket was trimmed and flattened into what must be the archer's shooting line. The blanket itself was immaculate and the tarp tied and lined up perfectly, it's edges parallel to the target. I had no idea what was going on but the curiosity was becoming enough to ensure I would get to the bottom of the puzzle.
       Packing a lunch and a water bottle I returned the next day to the glade.After several hours my mystery archer arrived. I sat in the shadows, silent waiting to have my questions answered.    The archer, an old man, stood no more than 5.5 feet. His weight looked like 140 pounds and I was sure that there was no bulk of muscle hiding under his loose slacks and snug sweater. After gently placing his equipment on the edge of his blanket, he paced slowly up to the target. After a slow inspection of the target, to ensure its security and placement he began walking backwards, his mouth moving slowly as he counting the paces. Although his body was in motion his eyes remained focused on the target as he walked backwards the 60 paces.
     Once at the shooting line he crouched low and patted the grass with his hands to flatten out any rough spots. Then he stood at the line and began a series of stretching exercises which took approximately 10 minutes. (I couldn't believe it, 20 minutes and his equipment was still in its bag.) After stretching, he crouched down on the blanket and took his equipment out of its carrying bag. Once everything was out and laid neatly in front of him he meticulously inspected each piece. Another 10 minutes had passed and finally he was left with one arrow, his bow, bracer, and finger tab. Walking back to the shooting line with his one arrow and his bow, he smoothly strung the bow and again went through a 10 minute warm-up. This time including the bow in all the exercises. After the 10 minutes both he and the bow were ready. I knew that this was the moment I had been waiting for. He brought the bow up, aimed, released and relaxed. But, he had neither touched the string nor the arrow. Again, he went through this practice shot, and then again until something told him he was ready. Finally he picked up the arrow, nocked it, aimed and let fly.
        I was unsure of what his next actions would be, so I sat silent and waited, my breath rasping out of my mouth. I wanted to get up and scream. I watched as the archer unstrung the bow, placed it on the blanket, and returned the equipment to its carry bag. He picked up everything and turning to the target, bowing slightly. Then he just walked away. After about 2 minutes I had to run to the target and see where the arrow had hit. Once at the target it was not the arrow that drew my attention but the letter tacked to the corner.

Quickly opening the letter, I read:

Dear Spectator,

When you participate in any act in your lifetime, ensure what you carry out
that act to the best of your ability. Prepare yourself and do not settle
for the idea that you can make up for imperfect work later. Attempt to
achieve the best all the time.

PS Return tomorrow and we can begin your lessons. The arrow is yours whether you come or not.

Over The Edge by Antoinette Swanson

                The cold water on Rita’s face was refreshing. Rita smiled at the reflection in the mirror, remembering what she did a few hours ago. She dried her face and returned to her bedroom where she began to change. After putting on a clean pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt, Rita gathered her soiled clothing and walked downstairs. She stacked several pieces of wood in the fireplace, then the clothes, wanting to be sure there wasn’t any evidence on them. Her hands shook as she tried lighting a match. “Damn,” she muttered when the match died quickly and threw it into the fireplace. A moment later a second match was lit and Rita watched as the flames quickly engulfed the clothes.
Sitting back, she folded her arms and watched the clothes burn. The orange-red embers seemed to dance joyfully. “Finally,” Rita thought to herself. “Single again.” The heat from the fire warmed her face. Rita stood and walked to the couch where it would be a bit cooler.
             “It wasn’t the insurance money,” she assured herself. “Although,” Rita smiled and added with a chuckle. “It is a lovely bonus.”
             “Ah,” she sighed in disgust. “He was so predictable, never once spontaneous. No, no. I was wrong.” Rita corrected herself. “He came home early yesterday morning from that fishing trip. He was boring. It’s no wonder his buddies canceled on him last minute.” Rita sat there until the fire died then went to the kitchen to make dinner.
             A week later she called the police station to get things started. Rita leaned against the door after the police officers left and congratulated herself on a job well done. She told them that her husband had gone on a camping and fishing trip with a few associates of his and they were due back days ago. Then she began to cry. Rita chuckled. They actually believed her. “Not long now,” she muttered to herself. “He was in plain view. They should find him soon. I wonder if he will be identifiable when they finally find him.”
Another week passed and Rita began to wonder why she still hadn’t heard anything from the police. As she pulled into the bank parking lot she made a mental note to call the police station when she got home.
             “Next please.”
             “I’d like to make a withdrawal,” Rita said placing the withdrawal slip on the counter.
             The teller entered the information in the computer. “I’m sorry, but there’s not enough funds in this account.”
             “That’s impossible. You must have entered the wrong number.”
             The teller hesitated for a moment before entering the information in the computer again.        “No, it’s the correct information.”
             “Great,” Rita mumbled, walking out of the bank. That bastard, she thought. Rita drove home wondering what he had spent the money on. He certainly didn’t pay any of the bills. Earlier that morning she noticed the mortgage bill still on his desk.

             “Oh,” she sighed, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. “I can’t think about him right now.” A quick glance at her watch confirmed that she would be late if she didn’t start getting ready. She sat down at her vanity table and began putting her make-up on. Fifteen minutes later, Rita was almost finished. Rita was putting the finishing touches on her lipstick when a reflection in the mirror caught her eye.
             “No, it’s impossible. He’s dead,” Rita muttered and closed her eyes. To her relief, when she opened her eyes again the figure in the mirror was gone. Was she hallucinating? Maybe it was just a shadow, she thought. Yes, that’s it. A shadow. She placed the lid on the lipstick and took the rubber band out of her auburn hair. Yes, it was a shadow. He was wearing a blue T-shirt. He never did like blue. In a mocking voice she continued. “It clashes with my green eyes.” She stifled a giggle, suddenly thinking it wasn’t nice to laugh at the dead. Wrong time to develop a conscious, Rita, honey, she told herself as she quickly undressed.
             Rita stopped looking for the black dress in her closet when something out of the corner of her eye got her attention. Her heart beat quickened as she turned around, but there was nothing, or no one, behind her. She returned her attention to her closet and found the dress. She had to get out of the house, quickly.
             She stepped into the black velvet dress and smiled at the reflection in the mirror. “Beautiful,” she said and reached for the diamond tennis bracelet. She had always loved the way dark colors accented her creamy complexion. Her smile faded to a smirk.
             He never liked her to wear dark colors. He said they made her look pale and sickly. She slipped the simple gold wedding band off her finger and the tennis bracelet caught the light just right and sparkled. Jeff mentioned he had another gift for her tonight and Rita couldn’t help but wonder if it was a matching necklace.
             Remembering her dinner with Jeff, Rita looked at the clock on the wall. “Damn,” she muttered as she fished in her closet for her other shoe. When she finally found a pair of black shoes, that matched, she grabbed her purse and car keys and ran from the house.

             Rita turned off the main highway, to a road that wasn’t used often, positive that there wouldn’t be much traffic. The road wasn’t used much because it curved frequently and became dangerous as winter drew close. It was a two lane road, one lane for southbound, the other for northbound. However next to the northbound, there weren’t guardrails, just a steep cliff overlooking the ocean. Rita shook her head. She hated the dark, winding road, but what she hated most was being late and she didn’t want to make Jeff wait.
             Odd, Rita thought looking into her rearview mirror. There was a car behind her, she could see the headlights. As often as she had driven this road in the last six months she had always been the only person on the road. She kept looking in her rearview mirror still wondering where the person was headed.   Rita’s heart pounded in her chestwhen she realized the car behind her was a Jaguar. My husband drives a Jaguar. Late-husband, she corrected herself. “Besides,” she said out loud trying to calm herself. “I took his keys out of his pocket and left the car parked at the campground.”
             Satisfied that everything had been taken care, Rita turned the radio on and tapped the beat of the music on the steering wheel.
             Coming out of the last curve before her turn, someone in the road caught Rita’s attention and she lowered the radio wondering what happened. There aren’t any houses around, do they had car trouble? She put her foot on the break and slowed down.
             But Rita didn’t see a car ahead, at least if there was, they didn’t have their blinkers on. A quick look in her rearview mirror confirmed that the Jaguar was still behind her.   “Good,” she said.   “They could stop and help. I don’t have time.” But as she got closer, the person remained in the middle of the road.
             Little beads of weat began to form on her forehead when she realized the person in the road was wearing a blue T-shirt and he resembled her late-husband. Am I crazy? Rita wondered. Was this karma in action? She was finally free of him, but his ghost haunted her. Was it his ghost?
             She sped up, positive he was dead and the vision before her was just her mind playing tricks on her. But he was still there, she got closer and then she saw him blink. He blinked!
Was he really out of town all those nights on business? What if he had known about Jeff? Rita’s head spinned and her body began to shake. Was he dead? What if..... Rita slammed on the breaks causing her to lose control. The car skidded and went over the cliff.
             The jaguar pulled up and stopped where Rita’s car had gone off the cliff. She walked to the edge of the cliff and stood beside him. He looked up at the full moon then at the woman who stood next to him. “You were great, dear,” she murmured, her voice sweet.
             “Thanks,” he replied, embracing her. “Although, I didn’t Rita would go over the edge so soon,” he laughed realizing what he had just said. “You know what I mean. I didn’t intend to kill her, only loosen a few bolts,” he said thoughtfully and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “But I couldn’t have done it without you. You saved my life. Thanks, Doc.”
             “It was nothing. I told you before, there wasn’t enough poison in your system.” She kissed him gently, then traced the outline of his lips with her forefinger. “The celebration dinner’s on me.” She grabbed him by the belt trying to pull him toward the car. She added seductively, “But tonight, desert’s on you.”

The Edge of Midnight by Antoinette Swanson

        You impatiently drum your fingers on the counter, waiting for a price check. Tension builds in your limbs until it seems to seep from every pore, as puss oozes from an infected wound.
      “Hurry up,” the man behind you says, his voice a low monotone and nasal. “Something’s wrong,” he whines, sounding worried and annoyed. You turn around, apologizing for being the cause of the delay.   The sight of the pet in his arms brings new meaning to the sign posted on the door. The thick black lettering on bright white paper reads, “Pets are welcome.” He puts the alligator on the counter and everyone stands around, speechless, staring at the exotic pet.
     Your vision blurs as the counter sinks into nothingness. The alligator floats downward, like a feather gliding in the wind beyond the linoleum tiling. An eerie silence falls over the store. A hot desert replaces the green and white tiles and a vulture screeches in the distance, waiting for death.
     The man walks forward to where the counter once was, allowing the quicksand to swallow him up. As the man’s head disappears beneath the scorching sand, the floor changes again. A cool breeze replaces the barren desert.
     You lick your parched lips, tasting the bitterness of salt and sand as you focus on the changing ground. Waves crash against the remaining bit of linoleum where you stand, sending ocean spray over the tops of your shoes. You stumble backward, frightened, unsure of the changing ground, concerned that it will also swallow you up. Soon the ocean waves dissipate: tranquillity settles over the water.
     The man emerges from the ocean, riding a horse, its coat so dark it absorbs the light, consuming the store with darkness. A flash of lightning strikes, filling the store briefly. Thunder rattles the window panes. You turn quickly and run, not wanting to see more.
You fumble with your car keys, eager to be inside, secure in its confines. You start the ignition and find the gentle purr of the engine soothing. Turning, you emerge onto the main road, realizing there’s no traffic. But things quickly change.
     You’re on an old country road, no longer paved, only a packed redish dirt beneath the rubber of your tires. Wildflowers in every color fill the lush, green meadows that surround you on both sides. You sigh, noticing a small church further down the road, enclosed in a white decorative fence. You turn onto the side road that leads to the church, a bell hangs under the porch. It’s also used a schoolhouse. Seeing the dead grass and unkept grounds that the fence holds prisoner, you hope the church hasn’t been abandoned.
     Thunder cries out as dark, cumulus clouds race the sky, claiming every inch. Opening the church door, the hinges squeak loudly. You step inside, allowing your eyes to adjust to the darkness. Occupied beds line every wall. A small animal, no doubt a rat, chews something to your left. Your eyes look in the direction of the noise. A sigh escapes your lips, seeing the crucifix and remembering the beds, you realize you’re in a hospital and know you’ll find help.
     You step forward and hear a scraping sound, the unmistakable sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. An eerie chill runs up your spine, little hairs on your neck stand up. Like a video in slow motion, you see the crucifix rotate, scraping against the wall, until it is upside down
     Lightning strikes, thunder echoes throughout the skies. You get a glimpse of the withered, frail bodies in their beds. A woman sits up, startled, her eyelids quickly flutter open, iridescent green eyes piercing through you like a knife. You turn and run from the hospital. Cold rain stings your arms.
     You awake suddenly, finding yourself in the security of your home, your bed. You put your hand on your chest, trying to calm your pulsating heart, saying it was only a dream. As you stumble out of bed, drenched in sweat, hot sand burns your feet. Slowly the walls seem to melt and for miles the only sight you see is sand. Copyright 1997 Antoinette Swanson all rights reserved Top Top of this Section Close the box and return to the Archive Room