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December 13, 2007

Thursday

Bell, book or candle?

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The familiar chime rang out as the door to the small shop opened, and a customer walked inside. He looked behind the counter to see an elderly man dusting around the shelves.

"Did your power go out?"

The old man shook his head, "No. I prefer reading by the candle light. Most of these books are quite old, and deserve to be read today as they were written years ago."

The customer reached for a yellowing hard cover and blew the dust off. The shop owner just smiled as the customer sat in a candle lit chair and began reading.

Posted by: Nick at December 13, 2007 10:18 AM · Permalink

Putting down her book, Sharon went to search for candles. In her closet, she spied some votives and a long-forgotten box of clothing. Smiling, she showered, dressed, and lit the candles, waiting for her hubby to arrive.

Seeing the candles, her husband whispered, “Oh my!”, but then caught a glimpse of his wife and burst out laughing.

“What?” she demanded, stomping her foot; little bells jingled. “’The Morons’ Guide to Spicy Sex’ suggests dressing up in costumes to entice your lover.”

“Yeah,” he choked out, “but I’m sure he didn’t have your elf outfit from ‘Breakfast with Santa’ in mind!”

Posted by: Ree at December 13, 2007 3:48 PM · Permalink

GETAWAY

The evidence against Goody Hutchinson was irrefutable. Goody Thompson nearly died of fright when she looked out her door one autumn night and saw a broomstick flying over the cursed woman's house. Edward Stewart's little boys spied on her in the woods chanting from a large book. She lit candles, uttered words they'd never heard before, and the Devil rose out of the ground to greet her.
The entire town, ready and eager to burn the heretic, surrounded Goody Hutchinson's house . A chime of bells deafened the mob. Cackling rent the night. Some gasped, others shrieked. The witch flew.

Posted by: Jarrett at December 13, 2007 4:08 PM · Permalink

Wearily closing the Bible, twelfth bell fading in the distance, shuffling down the dark hallway, telling himself that what was to come gave no pleasure.

His traitorous body gave the lie to that.

Pressing forehead to the basement door, muttering, “Too late…too late for me…but not for them.” Taking the stairs cautiously, pausing at the bottom, listening to the soft clink of chains.

Lost in the darkness, all but their eyes…wide, luminous, as if they devoured the meagre candlelight.

Shrugging the robe off, skin prickling in the cold, repeatedly whispering, “Suffer the children…”

He moved deeper into the darkness.

Crying.

Posted by: Ken at December 13, 2007 11:20 PM · Permalink