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.
YouTube: https://youtu.be/SOFgFjDdOVo
Website: www.erinfanning.com
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