Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Blood Stitches by Erin Fanning



Blood Stitches

By Erin Fanning


Genre: Sci-Fi Rom, Paranormal Romance

Coming May 12, 2015 from Lyrical Press

Love and danger intertwine…




It’s called El Toque de la Luna—The Touch of the Moon. At least that’s how nineteen-year-old Gabby’s older sister, Esperanza, refers to the magical powers she inherited from their Mayan ancestors. Esperanza says women with El Toque weave magic into their knitting, creating tapestries capable of saving—or devastating—the world. Gabby thinks Esperanza is more like touched in the head—until a man dressed like a candy corn arrives at their Seattle home on Halloween. But “Mr. C” is far from sweet…

Soon, Gabby and her almost-more-than-friend, Frank, find themselves spirited away to a demon ball, complete with shape shifters—and on a mission to destroy Esperanza’s tapestries before they cause an apocalyptic disaster… And before it’s too late to confess their true feelings for each other.




 Wound
By Erin Fanning
First published in Wild Child Literary Magazine, 2006

The scariest things in life often live with us, or reside within us, as a girl discovers in this short story.


Will
“Why'd you do it?" Will asks. He can’t see Cara's eyes, smudges in the shade, but he doesn’t need to—he knows her expressions. Eyes narrow, and her mouth, a fist, coils to attack
Cara rests a freckled hand on a walnut tree, peeling in places, revealing an inner substance as white and fragile as an infant’s skin. Then she starts again: picking at the bark as if it were a scab.
Will frowns, irritated that she won't explain herself, reveal the mystery that everyone is talking about. He nods toward the tree. "Come on. Leave it alone."
"It’s just a tree," Cara says, looking up. It ripples above her in brown waves, its boughs arcing out, covering her in shadow. Rotting nuts rest at her feet. Bare branches taper to slender fingers, and like hands, they lift to the sky, beseeching, hopeful.
She wraps an arm around her body. The other holds a menthol cigarette; the smell marches toward him. She holds the cigarette up in the air, affected, something she’s seen in a movie. Then she thrusts her hand down and flicks the ash onto an exposed root.
Her hair glimmers as she steps into the sun. But the prism disappears when she folds back into the darkness of the tree, growing, it seems, as the sun slips lower in the sky. She sucks at the cigarette—just a nub now—one more time, sighs, and stomps it out on the yellowing grass, which grows in stubby patches around her house, a gray box, weathered by sorrow.
Will lies in the sun, enjoying the early-spring warmth. Winter had invaded in bursts of snow with a chill that had left him so cold he feels frost on his bones. He thinks that maybe that’s her excuse—a winter weariness, insanity caused by frigid wind. He spreads his arms across the lawn, reaching for the dirt road on one side and sagebrush, rolling hills, and hazy mountains on the other.
Something tiptoes across his cheek. Soles as soft as feathers. He waits, unsure of his senses. The crawling begins again, and he leaps to his feet, brushing at his face. A brown spider, bloated by an egg sac, lands nearby and freezes, hiding beneath crabgrass.
"Kill it," Cara says, her hand never leaving the tree, prying away the bark, picking, always picking.
He ignores her and the spider scurries away, weaving through the grass. He brushes at his clothes, feeling shy footprints everywhere. He leans over and bats at his jeans and slips his feet into flip-flops, which vanish beneath wide cuffs. He rubs his hands through his hair, stubby like the grass, and over his face, feeling the pimples dotting his forehead.
"Cut it out," he says, gesturing toward the tree.
She hesitates and glances in his direction. Her hand fumbles with something, and he hears the strike of a match and smells the stench of menthol.
"What do you want?" she asks. And there it is, scattered across the lawn, a question that has so many pieces he can’t answer it. He’s just the neighbor boy, younger, never really invited.
"Aw, nothing," he says, shuffling toward his house across the street.
A car, rust covering one side like a birthmark, rolls into the gravel drive. His mom’s home from work, and he’s drawn toward her, away from the menthol and wounded tree. He slouches, kicks at a rock and it spins through the air, landing in the road. When he’s halfway across the yard, he turns around.
He catches her watching him, a shadowy face pointed in his direction. Then she looks away, back at the tree, her hand a claw, scratching, ripping the bark. The white wound trembles; the tree shudders. An illusion, he decides, light flirting with dark.
"Why’d you do it?" he asks again
She still doesn’t respond. Not that he expects her to. She never explains herself, but at school she’d been forced into an explanation. She failed, of course, and earned a two-week vacation. He wonders if she’ll graduate.
That afternoon Cara and her friends—hair teased, eyes masked in swatches of blue, lilac, and green shadow-had harassed Tommy. Stupid Tommy, watching, always watching, studying their bodies as they moved in too-tight jeans, shirts pressing against skin. His hand would flutter over his groin, drool moistening his lips. If a teacher noticed, they hustled Tommy to his classroom at the end of the hall.
At lunch he often cried, upset if his carrots touched his hamburger or if someone took his regular seat, where he sat alone day after day. But everyone knew he couldn’t help it. During late spring, he sometimes wandered through the field of wild lupine behind the school, petting the silver-blue blossoms, a miniature ocean.
But Cara was either unaware of the wild-flower Tommy or didn’t care. She and her friends cornered him, luring him into his lupine field, still winter dead. Trusting, Tommy followed, walking pigeon-toed, head down, while Cara and her friends glided, lithe as wild animals. They continued across the field to a cluster of trees, skeletons rimming the outer corners of the school property. And there, sheltered from teachers, Tommy stripped.
The story Will heard, filtered through many ears, wasn’t clear on why Tommy had removed his clothes. But it wasn’t difficult to imagine the scene—a smile, a promise, a touch. Nude, Tommy was tied up and bound like a rodeo calf then shoved into an irrigation ditch, hidden behind the trees, dry except for a small pool of water covered with slime. He landed there, his underwear stuffed inside his mouth. Did he fight his attackers? Will doubted it.
A farmer, walking his fields, found Tommy a few hours later. The search party from the school gathered at the ditch as students stared out of classroom windows.
Tommy, after his underwear had been yanked from his mouth, remained quiet. With coaxing, he finally said one word, "Cara." He had held back her name, wanting to keep it forever, a souvenir.
And now Cara isn’t any more willing to explain herself to Will than she had been to the principal. She steps away from the tree and into the sunlight, staring at him. And, for a second, he sees her from years ago, his best friend, the girl who had climbed the same tree she now destroys. But the moment passes and Cara glares.
Behind him, Will hears his mother’s voice. "Hey there. Come on home. I’ve got lots of goodies from work."
He turns toward her. She stands on the stoop, still wearing her pink apron. Her hair is pulled into a pony tail that splashes over one shoulder. She looks scrubbed, fresh, and grins, as if a monologue of jokes plays in her head.
"You too, Cara," she yells.
Cara doesn’t respond but steps closer to the tree. Will shifts and looks over his shoulder.
"Cara?" he whispers.

Head here to read more  


About the author:

Erin Fanning spends her summers on a northern Michigan lake, where her imagination explores the water and dense forest for undiscovered creatures. In the winter, she migrates to central Idaho, exchanging mountain bikes and kayaks for skis and snowshoes. She’s the author of Mountain Biking Michigan, as well as numerous articles, essays, and short stories. 






Giveaway

No comments:

Post a Comment