Red Lipstick

I smooth the red color along my lips and with it offer a simple prayer, “Change me. Change me into something else.”

“Do you like it?” The makeup lady asks. I look at her, Miss Perfect. She is wearing a perfectly white coat, her hair coiffed in generous curls, skin glowing (with the help of translucent powder, of course), and a smile enhanced with a complimentary shade of pink.

“Yes, I’ll buy it,” I answer. This is the exact color I saw on Mark’s collar.

The makeup lady rings up my purchase, and I stare into the mirror. The color is quite stunning, but my clothes don’t match it. A woman with this color of lipstick saunters through her day in clothes much classier than mine. I collect my fancy shopping bag with my red lipstick tucked inside and head over to the clothing department.

I look at myself in the fitting room mirror. “Yes,” I think. This is similar to the clothes she wore. It matches the lipstick. I recall seeing Mark seated in our favorite restaurant next to a beautiful woman. She was dressed in an elegant white silk blouse with a classic black skirt and red heels. Not a hair dared to be out of place on her pretty little head, I remember. Her nails had a French manicure, perfect for holding Mark’s hand as he leaned in close enough to smell her expensive perfume.Yes, this is the outfit I will buy today. All I need now are the red heels.

At home, I take one last look at myself in the mirror before heading out to the coffee house to write. I look like a different person with my silky white blouse, stylish black skirt, and stunning red heels.

In my closet, I see my old wardrobe. I have the heart of a Bohemian. My side of the closet is brimming with colorful skirts of all shapes and patterns. My blouses are treasures excavated from vintage shops. My closet reflects my writing life, nothing is color coordinated or organized. Mark’s side of the closet is empty. He gathered the last of his belongings last night.

I grab my new handbag (black to match my skirt, of course) and laptop. My writing notebook looks at me like a dog expecting to go on his daily walk.

“Not today, my friend,” I tell my notebook. Today, I will write on my computer. That is what sophisticated writers do, they don’t waste time on handwritten rough drafts scribbled haphazardly on white pages. I feel a twinge of guilt as I close the door behind me. My notebook knows I share my thoughts with it first before launching the words into the digital world. I am leaving my best friend behind.

I sip my coffee as I stare at my computer. I had to order a regular coffee. Would a woman wearing this outfit order a Venti Chai Tea Latte with almond milk and three pumps of raspberry? I think not.

Several men have noticed me. My handsome barista even winked at me before refusing to take my money. There is one man in particular that keeps glancing my way. He’s around my age with blonde hair and blue eyes. I’ve never had a man that good-looking stare at me before. What an upgrade from Mark! It must be my new outfit.

Everything would be perfect if I wasn’t suffering from a horrible case of writer’s block. No one would guess the terrible distress I am under. I have only written one sentence in the past half hour, “I can’t think of anything to write.”

My journal back home smiles. Yes, I am helpless without it. My colorful clothes would love to offer their inspiration, but I owe them an apology first. Trying to be someone else, I’ve blocked off access to the true source of my creativity, my self expression.

“May I join you?” The blonde hair, blue-eyed man asks.

“Sure,” I smile and gesture to the open seat.

“My name is Trevor,” he introduces himself and extends a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Trevor. I’m Sylvia,” I reach out, shake his hand, and smile.

“Are you a writer?” He asks.

“Usually, but not so much today,” I laugh. “Do you write?”

“No, but I love to read,” Trevor answers.

Wow! I think to myself. The outfit works like magic! Look at the men it attracts, handsome and smart!

We spend the next hour sharing our favorite books. We seem to like the same authors. I love hearing his thoughts and reactions to the storylines. He doesn’t just read books. He considers them on a deeper level. They haunt him just like they haunt me. Mark never bothered with reading. It’s nice to have someone to really talk to, especially someone this handsome.

“Can I take you out to dinner tonight?” Trevor asks.

I feel butterflies flit in my stomach. I’d love to say yes. He’s so handsome! Plus, I’d love to talk to him some more. But I have only one outfit like this, sooner or later, he’d see the real me. I’m not eager to set myself up for another heartbreak.

“I’d love to, but I’m not sure it would be a good idea. I’m going to be honest. I never dress like this. In fact, I’m kind of allergic to these clothes. I haven’t been able to write a single word while wearing this outfit, and I’m sure you wouldn’t much care for how I normally dress,” I smile back at him awkwardly. I’m already regretting my honesty. It would have been nice to have one last conversation with him.

“How do you normally dress?” He laughs.

“Oh, I am pretty much a mess of different colors and vintage clothes which I put together randomly based on how I feel that day,” I shrug my shoulders and just let my words be what they are.

“I have a confession,” Trevor replies. “I’ve read all your books. I almost didn’t approach you, because you look nothing like your picture. I saw you were trying to write, so I took a chance. I can’t tell you how happy I am that I guessed right,” he smiles. “Please join me for dinner. Wear whatever you want.”

I accept his offer. I have the perfect clothes in mind. I’ll pass this lovely outfit on to the thrift store. I’m sure they will be a good fit for someone else.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe to the blog to see all of my latest stories. My debut novel, Dancing The Salsa, is available at Amazon.com. I have another novel that will be released within the next few months! I’ll be sharing more details in the near future. Be sure to visit my website raeshellrozet.com to see more short stories and videos!

A Junkyard Horror Story–Narrated by Me

I love all forms of storytelling. I have an insatiable appetite for books and movies. But it isn’t often that I have a story read to me, like a story told to a child before bedtime.

Here is a tale that I wrote a few months back. It has four parts. It was inspired by my daily life working at the Junkyard, which I believe to be the perfect setting for a murderous “lunatic on the loose” story. I hope you enjoy it.

Part I A Junk Yard Horror Story: Another Day, Another Dollar

Part II A Junkyard Horror Story: Benjie Harris

Part III A Junkyard Horror Story: Batter Up!

Part IV A Junkyard Horror Story: Sammy vs. Benjie

Bonus Videos! Here are some videos I made while writing this story. It shows the inspiration behind the tale. I recorded it at the actual Junkyard that Sammy (and I) both work at!

Thank you for watching! If you’d like to watch more of these stories in the future, please subscribe to the blog. You can also visit my website at raeshellrozet.com. I’ve just release by first book, Dancing The Salsa! You can find it at amazon.com/author/raeshellrozet. See you soon!

A Junkyard Horror Story Part IV Sammy vs. Benjie

Special Note:  This is the final section of a four-part series. If you haven’t read Part I, Part II, and Part III, please scroll to the bottom of the page so you can start the tale from the beginning.

I resist the urge to run straight out back where the cars are neatly stacked in tidy rows. Instead, I cut to the right and go behind the office into the oldest part of the yard where the cars are crowded together, and there are more places to hide.

I move quietly and quickly, trying not to disturb anything that might make a loud noise. I listen for everything, but hear nothing. No footsteps behind me.

Did he follow me out? Or is he still waiting for me in the office? Sitting on my chair, fiddling with his knife, biding his time until I do something dumb like make a run for the door.

A thought strikes my mind that chills me. What if Ernesto comes back? What if Benjie gets to him first?

The awful scenario plays before my eyes. Ernesto walking through the door unaware, and Benjie plunging his knife into him over and over.

I shudder. That horrible knife! I wince at the possibility of it cutting into my skin, going deep, of what it can do to me.

Don’t go there! I warn myself.

Instead, I focus on the bat in my hands. I recall feeling the thunk as it struck his body. This is not impossible! If I hit him once, then I can hit my again!

I have to stay hidden. I crouch low behind a grey Chevrolet Venture van. I don’t want to go any further into the yard. If I hear Ernesto call out for me. I want to be close enough to warn him.

The cars above me give some cover. I consider hiding in the van, but nix the idea. If I stay in one spot, Benjie will find me. I don’t want to be trapped. No, I have to stay mobile.

I feel my hands shaking, so I grip the bat tighter. No matter what, I will whack him as many times as I can I vow to myself.

He’s a giant! My fear talks back. Look at Dave and Bob, they’re both dead! Strong guys, mechanics who worked on cars for years. What can you do?

The weight of the bat gives me an answer. So help me, I will take out his legs and cut him down to my size.

I see Miss Kitty sitting in the row next to me. I’m crouched close to the passenger side fender and she’s just a few feet away. Her back is to me. She doesn’t look in my direction. I don’t dare call out to her. She keeps looking straight ahead.

I hear footsteps coming up on the other side of the van, heavy steps. I see his plaid flannel shirt through the car window and smell his stench. That nasty smell of not bathing for days. He’s heading towards Miss Kitty.

Why doesn’t she run? She must know he’s behind her! He’s almost close enough to grab her. She’s not moving! I see him start to lift his knife.

He’s not hurting Miss Kitty! The thought burns through me as I swing hard and I swing low. I hear the crack of the bat as it hits the shin.

“Aagh!” He cries as he doubles over to grab his leg.

“Keep hitting!” I yell at myself as I strike again whacking his upper arm and watch as his body wrenches in pain.

It’s not enough. He starts to get to his feet.  He’s not staying down.

I hit him again as he starts to rise. This time he stumbles back into a car.

The car is missing its door, so I’m expecting him to fall into the front seat, but that’s not what happens.

He’s sucked into the vehicle. That’s the only word for it. The car sucks him in with such force that his back slams into the passenger side door, and I hear the thump of his head against the glass.

We look at each other dumbfounded.

He tries to lift himself up, but he can’t. He’s stuck. Superglued. Banging his arms in panic, pulling on the headrest, trying anything to free himself, but nothing works.

He looks at me again. Hateful eyes, as if I am to blame. I shake my head as if to say no, it’s not me. His lips curl into a half smile as he throws his knife at me. I see the blade, but before the tip crosses the threshold of the car it disappears into thin air.

Benjie’s eyes grow wild. He starts screaming, but the sound is drowned out by a dozen car alarms. The yard is alive with the obnoxious alarms coming from all directions.

I watch Benjie scream in terror with his mouth open and eyes wide. His fists pounding the car, but I can’t hear him.

He melts into the front seat and the passenger side door. Any part of him touching the vehicle dissolves into it.  Quickly going away, even down to his head resting on the front seat. His hateful eyes still looking at me. Blaming me. Until that too is gone, and there is not a single trace of him left. The car looks as it did before.

The car alarms stop. All is quiet.

Should I be afraid? Benjie is gone, right? I didn’t imagine it, but then again I can’t exactly believe it, either. Whatever it was, it saved me, didn’t it?

Miss Kitty breaks my thoughts. She hops onto the front seat of the car and looks at me with her green eyes.  She wants me to come to her.

I’m scared, but I trust her. I lean inside and nestle my fingertips into her soft fur. I feel her love, and I feel safe. Gratitude. Miss Kitty reminds me to be grateful.

“Thank you,” I whisper inside the car. Miss Kitty purrs. Satisfied, she rises and hops out of the car. I follow her to the office.

“Sammy! Sammy!” Ernesto’s voice fills the yard.

“Over here!” I yell back.

I watch him run towards me. His eyes scanning all around. His hand clutching the crescent wrench.

“Sammy, the police think he’s here. They found a hole in the fence between our yard and Steve’s place. There’s footsteps leading onto the yard. They’re searching the place. I’m so glad you’re safe. I’m sorry, Sammy. I never would have left you if I’d known!” Ernesto’s voice has a slight shake to it. He holds me close, but his eyes keep scanning around us.

I see several police officers enter the yard, guns drawn, looking into the cars.

“Did you see him?” Ernesto asks.

“Nope,” I answer. Yep, I’m lying. The guys here never listen to me. They never take me seriously. Even Ernesto, who I love dearly, would never believe my story.

“Is Steve okay?” I ask.

“He’s messed up really bad, but there’s a good chance he’s going to make it. Sammy, I’m going to close the yard until they find Benjie. It’s too dangerous,” Ernesto announces as he pulls me closer to him.

“No way!” I look up at him and smile. “Listen to me, I don’t think we have to worry about Benjie Harris anymore. I’m sure he’s long gone. Let the police search the yard and then it’s back to business.”

“Really, Sammy? You’re not scared?” Ernesto laughs.

“Of course, not. I don’t think the Junkyard will let anything bad happen to us. We belong here,” I laugh and snuggle up to him.

“You’re sure?” He asks one more time.

“Yes, my love. Another day, another dollar!” I place the bat on my shoulder and walk hand and hand with Ernesto back to the office.

The Junkyard is open.

Thank you for reading! I’ve posted a video on my Facebook fan page, Raeshell Rozet, the Dancing Writer, sharing my thoughts about the story. Please subscribe to my blog and like the fan page, so you can stay up to date on all my latest stories.

A Junkyard Horror Story Part III Batter Up

Special Note:  This is Part III of a four-part series. If you haven’t read Part I and Part II, please scroll to the bottom of the blog and click on the previous links to read “A Junkyard Horror Story” from the beginning.

“Sammy, are you seriously bringing that to work?” Ernesto grins at me as I walk into the office.

“Another day, another dollar,” I answer back. I like feeling the weight of the bat as it rests on my shoulder.

I’m not a baseball player, but I am good at swinging things. My Grandpa, a sports connoisseur, taught me to play tennis.

I remember Grandpa’s words, “The power doesn’t come from the shoulder. It comes from the shift in the weight of the legs, the turn of the hips. The whole body, the power comes from the entire body and drives through the arm.” Grandpa would tell me this again and again. Then, I would practice for hours.

“Just don’t whack me by mistake!” Ernesto shakes his head and smiles. I’m a sucker for that smile, even after being together for ten years. It gets me every time. “At least, you’re here. Bill and John aren’t coming in,” Ernesto’s smile disappears after breaking the bad news.

“Really? Why?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.

“They called in sick, but I think they’re just chicken shit scared. Most of our neighbors are closed for the day. Steve, next door, has the only shop open on the block,” Ernesto tries to smile again, but his eyes tell me that he’s worried.

“Paulo and Lorenzo aren’t here. That’s unusual,” I say out loud as I realize how quiet the office is with just the two of us.

“Nope, looks like you’re the only brave one,” Ernesto says as he takes my hand and pulls me close to him.

“I want you to go home,” he tells me as I settle into his arms.

“Are you closing the shop?” I ask. I know money is tight. We’re struggling to make the rent by the end of this week.

“Yes, we’re not going to get many customers today, and it’s not safe. Not with everyone gone. I don’t want you in the office alone. In fact, I don’t want you here at all.”

“Are we going to make the rent?” I see the worry cross his face before he can hide it.

“I’m closing the shop, but I’m staying to take off the engine for Francisco. That will cover the rent for this month,” Ernesto answers.

“Alone?”

“Yes, I’ll lock up the place. I’ll be fine. When I’m done, I’ll head home,” he kisses my cheek to reassure me.

“I have a better plan. We lock the doors. You take off the engine, while I stand guard with my bat. Then we head home together,” I take a step back, stand tall, and place the bat back on my shoulder. 

I’ve watched Ernesto work seven days a week for the past two years. He loves this place. No lunatic is going to take away his dream, not when I have a bat in my hands.

Ernesto smiles back at me. He knows how stubborn I am. He shrugs his shoulders and starts to gather his tools.

I might sound brave, but I’m terrified. Still, I’m not letting him stay here by himself. So, the two of us head out into the yard. He gets to work on the engine, and I keep a watchful eye out for any movement. So help me, I will spot Benjie if he takes one step in my yard.

Hours go by without so much as a sound. Ernesto and I barely talk to one another. It’s a silent agreement that we want to get this over quickly and head home. I try to stay alert as possible, because with Ernesto focused on his work I’m the only one watching out for us.

“Help me! Somebody please help me!” A gut wrenching scream cuts through the quiet. A man in pain calls out. It’s not just pain in his voice, but terror. You can feel it.

“That has to be Steve!” Ernesto jumps up from under the car. We run towards the office.

“Sammy, I want you to stay here,” he tells me.

“No! I’m coming with you. I’m not having you go over there alone,” I can feel tears ready to spill out, because I already know what he’s going to say.

“Not this time. I might have to fight, and I can’t be worried about protecting you. Listen to me. I want you to lock this door behind me and don’t open it for anyone! You hear me! No one! You are safe in here,” Ernesto gives me the look that tells me arguing is not an option.

“I’ll call the cops,” I tell him trying to think of anything I can do to help.

“Not yet. We don’t know what’s happened. He could have just had an accident. I have a cell phone. I can call them. If I don’t call you in five minutes, then go ahead and call the cops, okay?” He grabs our largest crescent wrench and heads next door.

With my hands shaking, I try to lock the door behind him. Damn it! I forgot it’s hard to lock the door with my keys. I’ve been meaning to get new ones. I have to jiggle it for a while to get it to work. By the time I have myself safely locked in, tears are already running down my cheeks.

I try to breathe and calm myself. I still have my bat. It hasn’t left my hands all day. But what can I do to help Ernesto? He’s over there without me. What is he walking into?

I look up to see Miss Kitty standing just outside the door leading into the yard. We always prop it open so she can come and go as she pleases. She’s a few feet away. She must have heard me crying.

“Miss Kitty,” I call to her as I start to walk towards her. I see her look beyond me and hiss. In the reflection of the window I see a figure and without thinking my body reacts.

As I turn, I use the power of my legs, hips, and everything I have within me to swing. I hit him full force in the chest. I feel a thunk and remember to carry my swing all the way through just like my Grandpa always told me.

I only watch for a second as Benjie stumbles and falls. His hand with that wretched black 1915 Ford Model T tattoo gripping a long bladed knife.

I have no chance of unlocking the front door in time, so I race into the yard. My right-hand clutching my bat.

I don’t dare call out to Ernesto, because I don’t want to get him killed. Besides, if I scream I’ll give away my location.

I’ve locked Benjie in here with me. Neither one of us can leave.

And I’m thinking, he must be extra pissed off at me. I did just crank him with my bat.

Stay tuned! Part IV (the conclusion) will be coming soon!

Visit my Facebook fan page, Raeshell Rozet, The Dancing Writer. I’ve posted a video on my page talking about this part of the story.

Please subscribe to the blog and like my Facebook fan page to see more stories in the future. Thank you for reading!

A Junkyard Horror Story Part II Benjie Harris

Special Note:  This is Part II of a four-part series. If you haven’t read Part I, please scroll down to the bottom of the page and click on the link “A Junkyard Horror Story” to start the tale from the beginning.

“Another day, another dollar,” I mutter to myself as I pick up the empty Mc Donald’s cup and toss it into the trash bag. Every day, I walk the yard picking up garbage. Why can’t these guys throw away their own trash?

I feel uneasy after yesterday’s news about Dave’s murder. Ernesto checked the yard this morning and reassured me that it’s safe, but I don’t really believe him. All I see are hundreds of places a killer can hide. The chicken skin on my arms whispers that I am right.

There are so many freakin’ cars! They are stacked in pairs, one on top of the other, forming corridors throughout the yard. The cars are constantly being shuffled around, so a clear passageway in the morning can become a dead end by afternoon. It’s an acre of ever-changing twists and turns.

A person can get lost in this labyrinth. I can’t count how many times I’ve searched for Ernesto out here, shouting his name into the wind, only to eventually give up and wait for him to resurface on his own.  

As I approach the office, I hear Paulo’s voice bellowing out. Bill and John, our workers, are standing next to Paulo, hanging on his every word. Bill, dressed in a blue plaid shirt and jeans, is a foot taller than the rest of the guys in the room. The kid is only twenty and never talks much.  John is shorter, wider, in his mid-fifties, and always smells of cigarettes. Ernesto is center stage behind the counter. Lorenzo is in his usual spot holding up the wall. I see Old Man Conroy in the mix. Conroy is in his late sixties and has been a mechanic for over forty years.

“Benjie did it again! That bastard got Bob. Stabbed him to death in his own shop! The cops still haven’t caught him,” Paulo shakes his head and stretches out his arms to show his disbelief. He continues on, “Benjie better hope that the cops catch him before I do. If I get my hands on him there’ll be nothing left for the police!”

Although none of us think Benjie has anything to fear from Paulo, we share his anger. I can’t believe it. Bob was one of our regulars. He called me every day asking for parts.

I feel shaky and lightheaded as I understand what this means. The police search didn’t scare Benjie away. He’s still here.

“You do realize that Bob’s place is on the corner, that’s only half a block away,” John points out as he looks at Ernesto.

I feel my heart in my throat. I didn’t know that Bob’s place was so close to ours. That’s too close. An uneasy silence takes over the room as we think about what that implies.

“I knew Benjie about ten years back before he went nuts,” Old Man Conroy breaks the silence. “We worked together at Jose’s Auto Repair shop, before Benjie bought his own place.” He pauses waiting to see if anyone wants to say anything, but we are silent as children listening to a ghost story. Old Man Conroy clears his throat and continues on.

“Quiet guy, real quiet. Kept to himself. But he got the work done and didn’t bother anyone. He had a real liking for the Snap-on tools. You know, the real expensive ones?” Conroy laughs as if remembering an image from the past, “Benjie’d be wearing torn up jeans and shoes with holes, but he had himself a nice set of tools.”

“Yeah, those are nice. I don’t keep any at the Junkyard. Tools are lost and stolen too easy here,” Ernesto jumps in.

Conroy nods in agreement and starts up again, “I remember when Big Fred tried to steal himself one of those beauties. Benjie caught him. Didn’t say a word. Just walked over and broke the big guy’s nose. Blood was sprouting everywhere. Maybe even broke a couple of teeth, I think. All it took was one punch,” Conroy shakes his head obviously still impressed even after all these years.

“I thought Fred would sue, but something about the crazy look in Benjie’s eyes made him think otherwise. A week later, Benjie quit the shop and bought himself his own place. I didn’t see him much after that, but shortly after the killing started,” Conroy pauses to look around the room catching our eyes. As if to say to us, it’s starting again, watch out.

“Who did he kill?” Paulo’s loud voice snaps us out of the story.

Conroy smirks and looks at Paulo, “Well, you’d think he’d kill the loud fat ones. You know the ones always interrupting and running their mouths off. But no, the scary thing about Benjie is that he’d kill anyone. Customers would stop by his shop and then never be heard of again. A fellow mechanic might get an unexpected visit from Benjie and be found dead the next day. Cops found one grandma stuffed in the trunk of her car, dead for three days and stinking, but the car was in good repair and washed clean.”

I watch the men in the room. I can see the guys shifting the weight of their feet, fidgeting, like most men do when their scared but afraid to show it.

“None of us felt safe until they caught him. No one suspected that quiet old Benjie was doing the killing. Never heard of a motive. It’s like he just woke up one day and decided to start killing,” Old Man Conroy finishes the story and starts to walk towards the door.

“Well, I’ll be heading out now. You won’t be seeing me for a few weeks. I have some vacation time saved up, and I’m thinking now is as good of a time as any to use it. Best of luck to you guys. Watch out for one another,” and with that Old Man Conroy walks out the door leaving us to chew on his words.

His words haunt me for most of the day. The guys are all in the yard. Bill and John are outside chatting and possibly working. Ernesto is showing off his 1950 Ford Deluxe to Paulo and Lorenzo.

The office is too quiet. There is nothing to distract me from Conroy’s story. I feel ready to jump out of my skin. I imagine Benjie sneaking up behind me ready to strike.

Even Miss Kitty is missing today. She usually hangs out in the office with me, but I haven’t seen her since breakfast. That’s it. I decide to go looking for her. I’ll drag her back in here with me to keep me company.

I try to feel for her location and only one thought comes to mind. The black van. It’s silly, but I decide to try my luck.

Spooky as ever, I find her sitting in on the hood of the van looking at me. She doesn’t hop down and run towards me like she normally would. No. She waits for me.

I’m scared. Even though I know that Officer Frank checked the yard yesterday and Ernesto looked around this morning, I have a bad feeling about the van. It feels wrong. But looking at Miss Kitty sitting on the hood, it’s almost as if she wants me to come to her.

 I swallow my fear and decide to look inside the van myself. I’m not a wuss. Maybe seeing that there is no boogeyman hiding in there will settle my nerves.

My hands tremble as I grip the sliding door handle. I take a deep breath and ready myself to run if I see anyone. I slide the door open. Thank God, there is no one there. I breathe easier. I look around me instinctively to make sure there is no killer behind me like in the movies. But no, it’s just me and Miss Kitty.

As I’m ready to close the van door, a red and black object catches my eye. It’s a screw driver lying on the backseat. I recognize the signature handle. The red handle with two black stripes on the sides, a Snap-on screwdriver. My right-hand shakes as I pick it up. Miss Kitty meows and rubs up against my boots reminding me where I’m at.

“Let’s go, Miss Kitty,” I tell her, hoping she will understand. I walk quickly to where the guys are. I watch to make sure Miss Kitty is following me. My eyes dart everywhere praying I don’t see Benjie. I feel the panic racing through my body as I rush over to Ernesto gripping the screwdriver in my right-hand.

“Ernesto!” I call out as soon as he is in earshot. The guys look up at me, all of them; Ernesto, Bill, John, Lorenzo, and Paulo but then go back to talking amongst each other. Paulo being the loudest, of course.

“Ernesto,” I start to tell him as I reach his side, but he puts out a hand as if to tell me to wait so Paulo can finish talking.

Impatient, I decide I’m not waiting. “Look at what I found in the van!” I show him the screwdriver. He doesn’t react.

“It’s a Snap-on screwdriver!” I tell him. Still, no reaction.

“I found it in the black van. Miss Kitty has been acting strange lately. She’s been hanging out by the black van instead of with me, just staring at it. As if something was inside it. I took a look for myself and found this, a Snap-on screwdriver!” I hear my voice sounding high-pitched, not the calm tone I want to use.

The men look unimpressed, and Paulo starts talking again, “You should have Rodrigo paint it for you. He gives the lowest price.” I feel ready to scream at someone. How can they be so stupid!

I hold the screwdriver up high and speak more slowly so they can connect the dots, “Remember, Old Man Conroy said that Benjie liked Snap-on tools, right?”

“You think that belongs to Benjie?” Ernesto laughs and the others join in. “Anyone could have left that here. I think you’re just getting worked up because of Conroy’s story. Everyone tells lies around here. I bet he didn’t even know him!” The guys all nod and look at each other in agreement.

“I don’t think he was lying. I’ve been around a lot of liars, and have seen many here at the Junkyard,” I stare down the men around me. “I think he was telling us the truth. I have a bad feeling about this Ernesto, a really bad feeling about this!”

“Okay, I’ll check the yard again so you’ll feel better,” he kisses my cheek and Paulo starts talking again.

I walk away. I turn one last time to look at them huddled around the 1950 Ford. I think it will be a long time before he checks the yard, if ever. Yeah, I’ve worked the Junkyard long enough, I know when someone’s telling a lie.

“I’m heading home!” I call out to him. He might have tried to argue with me, but I didn’t stick around to listen. Why should I? They don’t listen to me.

I gather my stuff. Miss Kitty jumps up on the counter for one last snuggle.

“Don’t worry, Miss Kitty. I’ll be back. No one messes with my Junkyard,” I whisper into her ear and listen to her purr.

 Stay tuned! Part III coming soon!

Check out my Facebook Fan Page, Raeshell Rozet, The Dancing Writer. Each time I write a blog, I post a video on my fan page talking about the inspiration and thoughts behind the story. Please subscribe to the blog and like the fan page to stay up to date! Thank you for reading!

A Junkyard Horror Story

I took this picture of the Junkyard, a few years back, around Halloween time. The sky was a gorgeous blue. I had just finished making a video touring around the Junkyard saying how I’d like to dress it up for Halloween. When I snapped this picture, the colors came out distorted. Perhaps, the Junkyard agreed with me and started decorating itself, or possibly it just likes to give a me a chill from time to time, which it has been known to do.

You will never catch me here alone at night. There are too many abandoned cars with untold stories of their own. What horrors might they have witnessed? Or caused?

Sunlight keeps the dark things away. At least, that’s what I like to tell myself when I go to work.

So with October almost upon us, I thought I’d dress up the “old lunatic on the loose” urban legend with a Junkyard twist. I’ve even added a special character based on the real Miss Kitty.

And so the tale begins, the first of four parts. The story is seen through Sammy’s eyes, as she and her boyfriend Ernesto begin another day at the yard.

“Another day, another dollar,” I mutter to myself as I unlock the front door to the Junkyard.

“Let’s make lot’s of money today, Sammy!” Ernesto calls out behind me. I hold the door open for him as he hauls in his new battery charger and tool bag.

Ernesto is a handsome man when he smiles, like he’s doing now, as he does often, whenever he’s thinking about money. Dark hair, dark eyes, strong and sturdy with a beauty mark on his right cheek that sealed the deal when I first saw him.

He kisses me on the cheek as he passes through the door.

The office is a disaster. I want to go home. I only left work an hour early yesterday. How could the guys mess it up this badly?

I glare at used car parts left haphazardly on the floor, empty water bottles forgotten on the front desk, and wads of paper carelessly dropped, three of which are lying close to the trash can.

“Oh, well. It’s not like I haven’t been doing this for the past two years,” I grumble as I grab the cat food and head outside.

“Miss Kitty!” I call out. I can feel her before I can see her. I always do.

I have a connection with cats. It’s not something I tell anyone. Who would believe me? As an only child, I was raised with cats instead of siblings, and for some unknown reason, we understand each other.

Miss Kitty is a tabby cat with green eyes. She found me a year ago when I was utterly sad.

Back then, I hated the Junkyard. The men didn’t like having to do business with a lady. I had customers that refused to talk to me, demanding simply to talk to one of the men. I wanted to quit. Badly.

But one day, Miss Kitty came out from the yard into the office crying to me. I fell in love, and hundreds of cans of cat food later, we’re inseparable.

Spending the day with Miss Kitty in the office makes the Junkyard bearable, so I’m still here. Ernesto’s happy, because together we own this place.

Today, she’s not running up to me which is unusual. I let myself reach out to feel where she is and follow through the pathway of cars. I find her sitting upright staring at a black Ford E-350 van. She looks at me and meows.

“Miss Kitty! This isn’t like you. Aren’t you hungry?” I ask. She returns to watching the van.

“Is there something inside?” I ask her. “What are you staring at?”

I start to move towards the van, but Miss Kitty hisses at me and runs away. Worried, I forget the van and follow her with my can of cat food in hand.

I catch up to Miss Kitty at the front office. She’s waiting for me and seems like her old self, purring and snuggling up to my boots.

“You’re in a strange mood, my love,” I tell her as I give her the food and head back into the office.

The regulars are already crowding around talking to Ernesto. These are mechanics that I see every day. Each morning, they gather around asking about new cars entering the yard or sharing with each other how business is going. I’ve come to like these guys, even though I don’t join in the conversations. Most call me Senora and refer to Ernesto as my husband, rather than my boyfriend.

“He was stabbed to death over twenty times. The police are over there now,” Paulo tells the others. He has a loud booming voice and a beer belly which he stuffs into overalls.

“Poor guy, he didn’t deserve it. He was a good man. Did they find the killer?” Lorenzo asks leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets and his baseball cap on backwards.

“No,” Paulo answers.

“Who was it?” I ask Ernesto. “Do I know him?”

“Yep, it was Dave. His shop is one block over. They found him this morning,” Ernesto answers giving me a hug to ease the shock.

“Dave. Oh no, that’s awful. He was a really nice guy,” I say remembering his face and how he always acted like a gentleman.

The room stays silent. Nobody knows what to say.

A policeman breaks the quiet, entering through the front door, his walkie talkie buzzing with police talk.

“Hello, I’m Officer Frank Mackenzie. Are you the owner?” He asks Ernesto.

“Yes, I own this place. Can I help you?” Ernesto answers.

“Well, you might have heard that there was a murder in this area last night. I don’t want to alarm you folks, but we’re searching for the killer. We have reason to suspect the killer is Benjie Harris. He escaped a few nights ago from a mental hospital twenty miles from here,” Officer Frank pauses so we can take his words in.

“A looney bin?” Paulo asks.

Officer Frank politely ignores him and continues on, “Mr. Harris was a mechanic for many years. Most of his victims were either customers or co-workers.”

“How many people did he kill?” Paulo interrupts.

Annoyed but willing to answer, “Twelve that we know of, and two more in his escape from the hospital. He’s very dangerous.” He turns to Ernesto, “I’d like to search your yard. We’re searching all the nearby establishments.”

“Yes, of course,” Ernesto answers. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“No, you can go about your regular business. I’ll just walk around and make sure the place is clear. Do be on the lookout for anyone suspicious. Mr. Harris is roughly six feet tall with blonde hair and a beard. He’s in his mid-forties. He has a tattoo on his right hand of a black 1915 Model T Ford. If you see him, call us. Don’t approach him,” Officer Frank warns us as he stares down everyone in the room to make sure he is understood.

After making his point, Officer Frank enters the yard. We watch him look inside every car.

“Okay, time to get to work,” Ernesto announces as he grabs his tool bag. “When John and Bill get here tell them to meet me by the forklift,” he tells me while heading toward the yard.

“Wait! I don’t want to be alone. What if the killer is here hiding?” I ask.

“He’s not. We have an alarm system. Our place was locked last night. Besides, the cop is here checking. You’re very safe. But I need to get started on taking off these parts or our customers will be upset,” Ernesto says as he walks off. Paulo and Lorenzo follow him out, not wanting to cut their morning conversation short.

Ernesto is right, I tell myself. The cops are searching the area. The killer must be long gone by now. I hold onto my walkie talkie and stare at the parking lot watching for anyone suspicious, ready to run if I see a blonde bearded man.

After what feels like an eternity, Officer Frank returns.

“It’s all clear. Man, you guys have a lot of cars!” He says and smiles.

“Over two hundred,” I answer.

“Make sure you set the alarm at night. I don’t think it’s a good idea for anyone to be at the Junkyard alone, especially you. Keep that walkie talkie with you at all times, okay? Call the police if you see anything strange.”

I think about Miss Kitty this morning. I don’t think that’s the kind of strange Officer Frank is talking about.

“Of course, thank you for checking the yard,” I tell him.

“You’re welcome,” he says as he turns to leave.

With all the men gone, Miss Kitty decides to enter the office and hops up on the counter beside me.

“What did you see this morning, Miss Kitty? Should I be worried?” I ask. I know it’s silly, but I can’t help myself.

She simply looks back at me with her green eyes.

I’m fully aware I can’t read her mind, but that doesn’t stop me from being scared. Something isn’t right. Something is not right at all.

Keep a watch out for Part II which will be coming out soon!

The Fortune Teller Part III The Funhouse

Special Note: This is the third part in a four part series. If you haven’t read Part I and Part II scroll to the bottom of this page and click the link to find the beginning of “The Fortune Teller”.

“I don’t want to do this,” Selena whispers as she enters the Funhouse. She passes through the double doors that resemble a giant clown’s mouth and lets the Funhouse swallow her whole.

Inside, she sees crazy black and white stripes scattering in every direction on the walls, floor, and ceiling. It’s a dizzying combination of vertical, horizontal, and diagonal lines running amok. Nothing makes sense. It’s like an awful B-rated black and white movie sprung to life.

Up ahead, across from her, she spots the opening to the next room. Selena takes a few steps forward, but the stripes makes her feel off-balance like she’s walking on a ship at sea. Just keep going, she commands her clumsy legs.

“Aaah!”A high-pitched, blood-curdling scream shakes the room. Everything goes black. Electric fear shoots through her. She can’t even see an inch in front of her. No moonlight shining through the window curtains to soften the blackness. It is pitch dark.

“Ha, ha, ha! Scared you!” An annoying disembodied voice that sounds like a wind up doll yells out. Horrible laughter fills the room. The laughter bounces off the walls in every direction, behind her, in front, from all sides. A terrible thought rises up, “What if I’m not alone?” She swings her arms around violently trying to feel the space surrounding her.

Then she sees it. A blue light flickers above the entrance of the next room. Anything is better than this darkness, Selena reasons, as she rushes towards it.

Selena walks into a nightmare. It is a hallway of clowns. Life-size clown mannequins line the passageway on both sides. There must be a dozen standing still and quiet.

Selena can see the opening to the next room laughing at her from the end of the hallway. What are the chances she’ll make it through without one of them grabbing her?

She studies them carefully, half expecting one to turn its head. Each clown looks the same; chalky white face plastered with makeup, rosy cheeks, bulbous nose, and an exaggerated smile. Fluffs of red hair surround a bald white cap like a friar Tuck. Each have ruffled Taffeta around the neck and are stuffed into a black and white polka dotted clown suit finished with shiny red shoes.

I don’t trust clowns, she thinks. Nothing about them is real. How can you trust something that smiles all the time?

The clowns are motionless. She walks swiftly trying to avoid the eyes. At the same time, she scans for movement and checks behind hoping there is nothing following her. It’s hard to breathe with fear gripping her lungs, but she makes her way.

“Stay with us!” A clown screams out as he lunges from her right side with over-sized hands. Selena escapes his grip and runs past him leaving him laughing behind her.

Selena steals a quick glance behind and sees him there frozen in place with his outstretched hands. A mechanized doll triggered to give a good fright. She breathes easier.

She enters a mirrored maze. Trapping her are passageways of glass and mirrors. Selena runs her fingers along the clear panels to try to get the feel of the maze. She scans around for hidden clowns. A nasty fear of a clown grabbing her by the shoulder creeps along with her as she moves about the maze.

As she twists and turns about the labyrinth, she’s given choices. She wanders each passageway until she reaches a dead end, a distorted reflection of herself staring back blocking the path.

She sees herself skinny, chunky, tall, fatheaded, and wavy; a dozen possible lives she could have lived. Each falsehood reflects an ugliness in the distortion. She starts to long to see herself as she truly looks, just to be sure her face hasn’t changed.

And then she comes upon the mirror that stops her heart. White flakey makeup, red clumps of hair, fat nose, and painted smile staring back with her own eyes underneath. Another Selena dressed in a black and white polka-dotted clown suit, wrapped up in a red taffeta ring around her neck. Selena moves, and it moves as if they are one.

“Oh, crap!” Selena says out loud. Fear wants her to turn away, but she can’t. She keeps looking at it until the fear dies down. Something about this image speaks to her. Seeing herself this way stirs compassion. What have I been doing to myself? She thinks.

“This is who I have been for the past five years,” she says to her image. Painting on a fake smile every day, trying to be the perfect girlfriend, going along with things she knew wasn’t right for her. Trying to stuff herself into a costume to fit in with the other clowns around her.

The only thing left that is real is her eyes and whatever lies inside watching and waiting to be let free. She has done this to herself, chosen this dead end. Hiding away what she loves, her writing, for fear of ridicule from the other clowns. Scared to be herself, if it means being rejected.

And this is what has happened, she has become a caricature of herself. Her eyes plead with her, as if saying, “I’d rather be alone and laughed at than to be stuck in this hideous image. Set me free. I want to see myself.”

Selena touches her image as if to comfort the eyes, and for a moment the clown suit disappears. She sees herself just as she is, her true face. But it quickly disappears, as the mirror opens and Selena finds herself staring at the carnival outside. The bright lights and music rushing to her as she exits the Funhouse.

“There you are! I’ve been waiting for you,” a man in overalls calls out. He heads towards her with his plump belly jiggling his toolbelt as he walks.

“I’m Joe,” he holds out a hand to shake hers. Selena stares up at him taking in his gold-rimmed glasses and blue bandana wrapped around his head.

“I’m Selena,” she answers still a little shaken. He seems nice, she thinks to herself.

“Do you have something for me?” Joe asks and smiles.

“I do,” Selena says as she rummages in her pocket and finds the token. She offers it to Joe.

“I hate those damn clowns. Don’t you?” The mechanic looks at the gold coin in his hands and laughs.

“More than you can imagine!” Selena laughs with him. It feels good to laugh again.

“Okay, my dear. Let’s take you to the Keeper of Odds and Ends,” Joe announces and motions for Selena to follow.

Selena takes one last look at the Funhouse. Inside, she thanks it for tucking away the clowns, preventing them from haunting her any further. She says goodbye to them in her heart, and walks forward more herself than she has ever been.

The Fortune Teller Part II Search for the Tall Man

Special Note: This is the second part in a four part series. If you haven’t read Part I scroll to the bottom of this page and click on the link, “The Fortune Teller Part I”.

We continue on where we left off, Selena is looking for the Tall Man. Madame Zofina has told her to find three guides who can help Selena retrieve a very wise and very old box. The box contains what Selena needs to learn about the future so she can be happy. So far, Selena isn’t having much luck in her search.

“This is impossible!” She grumbles to herself. Selena has circled the carnival three times and has yet to see anyone she would consider to be abnormally tall. She toys with the thought of asking the people around her if they’ve seen the Tall Man, but nixes the idea. It’s bad enough she’s on a fool’s errand, she’s not about to start sharing this silliness with strangers. So, she makes a deal with herself. One last loop. I will try one more time and that’s it. I’m giving up if I don’t see him.

She passes by the game booths. Carnies call out trying to attract anyone willing to spend money for the chance to win a prize. Pop three balloons with a dart and win a gigantic pink bear. Knock down three milk cans with a baseball and impress your date. Parade around all night with your prize to show everyone you are a winner.

Oh well, no Tall Man here, she tells herself as she turns to head towards the amusement rides. She stops when a shadow of movement catches the corner of her vision.

A man with a top hat rises from a park bench, and he’s taller than any man she’s ever seen. He has to be at least eight and a half feet tall! The man is slender and lanky. He is dressed in long black pants, a bright red coat, and has a Walrus moustache so large it must be fake. His hands are covered with white gloves. Selena catches herself staring at him and turns away in embarrassment. That’s awfully rude of me, she scolds herself. Gathering her courage, she makes her way towards the Tall Man.

As she gets closer, Selena tries to think of a way to make the introduction less awkward. The Tall Man simply watches her as she approaches. Selena tilts her head upward to meet his gaze.

“Hello, my name is Selena. Madame Zofina gave me this key,” she holds the key up so he can see it. “She said to find you and ask if you would open the gate for me. I’d really appreciate your help.”

“Hmmm,” the Tall Man says while cupping his chin with one hand. “You’d like my help? What would you be willing to offer in return?”

“You want something in return?’ Selena asks. Her first reaction is surprise which swiftly gives way to skepticism. Just what kind of offer is this guy expecting?

Noticing Selena’s narrowed eyes and straight-lined mouth, the Tall Man quickly asks, “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a barista at a coffee shop,” Selena answers, unsure of his intentions.

“Now, a cup of coffee would be a mighty nice trade. I can’t think of anything I’d like better than a cup of coffee, but it’s night time. If I drink coffee at this hour, I won’t sleep at all. So, that won’t work. What else do you do? Any hobbies?”

“Not much. I dance and write. That’s about it.”

“Dance? I like that! What kind of dancing do you do?” The Tall Man asks.

“I’m a Salsa dancer. It’s just for fun, though. I don’t do it professionally,” Selena answers feeling a little embarrassed.

“Salsa? I love the Latin dances. To dance with a lovely lady like yourself would be a fine trade. But alas, I have only one partner and she’s waiting for me at home. So, that won’t work either. But you said that you’re a writer?” The Tall Man’s eyes shine in the moonlight as he stares down at her. He leans forward a little more as if curious to hear her answer.

“Yes, I’m a writer. I love to write, but I haven’t published anything yet,” Selena feels nervous calling herself a writer.

“What have you written?” The Tall Man’s smile puts her at ease. He seems to be genuine in his curiosity.

“Mostly short stories, but I did just finish the rough draft of my first book,” Selena answers. She’s surprised that she’s telling this to a stranger. It’s been her most guarded secret for the past year. But his smile makes her feel that he is truly interested, and that feels incredibly good.

“Fiction or non-fiction?” He probes.

“Fiction. I love to spin a good tale,” Selena can feel herself start to smile as she says the words out loud.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll open the gate for you, if you make me a character in one of your stories. I love the idea of myself out there somewhere doing something made up.” After presenting the offer, the Tall Man bends down to look her in the eye.

“Okay, I’ll do it! I’d love to have you as a character in one of my stories,” Selena answers. Just the thought gives her goosebumps. No one has ever asked to be part of her stories before. The Tall Man extends his hand and they shake on it.

“Let’s walk over to the gate, and I’ll share a little about myself on the way. You can’t write my character if you don’t know something about me, right?” He smiles, stands tall, and smooths his moustache.

“I’d like that,” Selena laughs.

“Promise me you’ll make me a foot taller than I am and that you will give me a top hat, okay?” He says as they walk slowly together.

“I promise,” Selena replies. She can already feel the words of his character wanting to be written on the page. If only she had a pen she would stop everything and capture it all, especially that Walrus moustache. But for now, she keeps walking and listening.

As they walk, Selena notices the reaction of the crowd to the Tall Man. Much like her own initial reaction, many can’t help but stare. She even overhears one drunk man shout out, “Hey! How’s the weather up there?” She hears people talk about him as they pass by.

“Do you know my official job title?” The Tall Man asks.

“No, what is it?”

“Security Guard,” the Tall Man laughs. “Can you believe it? It’s actually rather clever. While the crowd is watching me, I am paid to watch them.”

“It makes a lot of sense,” Selena laughs with him. “You’d make the ideal Security Guard. Nobody would suspect it,” Selena observes.

“You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen.” the Tall Man shakes his head as if trying to clear away unpleasant memories. “At first, I didn’t like the job. The looks, finger-pointing, and murmurs behind my back. It bothered me. I felt like I didn’t belong. I used to whisper to myself, “If only I wasn’t so tall.” Until one day, I figured out a valuable truth,” the Tall Man stops moving and looks down at Selena.

“What’s that?” She asks.

“We all belong. Nobody’s life here is perfect. I’ve seen people you wouldn’t expect lie, cheat and steal. I’ve seen couples dress and act like rich people and then argue when they don’t have enough gas money to make it home. But mostly, I see ordinary folk like yourself wandering about feeling out of place.” Catching the change in her expression, he adds, “Yes, I watched you circling around looking for me. What I’m saying is true, right? You don’t feel like you belong,” the Tall Man continues to look at her.

Instead of feeling defensive, Selena feels understood. She lets down her guard. “Yes, that’s exactly how I feel. Everyone here has someone who loves them, except me. There must be something wrong with me. Look at that girl over there,” Selena points to a woman close by. “Do you see that ring on her finger? She’s engaged. That man holding her hand loves her enough to want to spend the rest of his life with her.”

“Do you think so?” He asks.

“Yes, of course! Do you see how happy they are?” Selena responds back louder than she intends.

“What if I told you last night I saw him here with another girl, and they looked just as happy?”

“I’d say you’re lying,” Selena answers.

“Unfortunately, I’m not. I really wish I were. It’s the one thing I hate about my job. I see more than I want to sometimes,” as the Tall man says this he starts moving again.

Selena has no reason to believe him, and yet she does. She continues walking with him.

“You know, I’d be happier alone than with a man like that,” Selena announces. As her words escape her she feels the weight of them drop to the ground, and in return she feels lighter and freer.

“You see, we all belong. Everyone’s life here is screwed up in one way or another, even if some don’t realize it yet. It is the one thing we all have in common. Nobody’s life is perfect. Selena, my dear, these are your people,” he takes a gloved hand and shows her the crowd like a Ringmaster introducing the circus troop.

“We’ve finally reached our destination,” the Tall Man says as they stop in front of a massive wrought iron gate. He extends his hand for the key. Selena places it in his white glove.

The Tall man unlocks the gate and then tucks the key safely in his pocket. He then hands Selena a token, a bronze-colored coin etched with a clown’s face.

“Give this to Joe, the Mechanic. Up ahead, around the corner, you will see the Funhouse. It’s closed for repairs, but Joe’s expecting you. So, go inside. Once you find your way out, give this token to Joe. He’ll show you what to do next.” At the end of his instructions, the Tall Man holds the gate open for Selena like a true gentleman. After she passes through, he closes it behind her.

“You’re not coming with me?” She asks.

“No, some things you have to do on your own,” he sighs. “But I have enjoyed my talk with you, and truly wish you the best,” with a bit of flair he nods his head and tips his hat to her with one gloved hand.

“Thank you, I enjoyed talking to you too,” Selena answers. She wants to say more, but can’t find the right words, so she leaves it at that. The Tall Man turns and walks away. His long strides carry him off quickly.

She heads towards the Funhouse. Being alone seems to color the night darker. How many horror movies revolve around a creepy Funhouse? They’re cheesy in the daylight with friends, but alone? She’s not so sure about this.

The Funhouse emerges as soon as she turns the corner. It’s visage is a gigantic clown face with its double doors open wide for the clown’s mouth. It’s wild red hair stretches out along the front wall in both directions. A carnival attraction usually has blaring music, but this one stands silent. It is the silence that is unnerving.

She runs. It’s silly, and she would be embarrassed if anyone saw her, but she doesn’t care. If she hurries and screams loud enough, the Tall Man might hear her and return. Selena reaches the gate and tries to open it, but the wrought iron just groans in her hands refusing to budge. It’s locked. The Tall Man is no where to be seen.

She cries. There’s no going back, she tells herself, as both of her hands grip the gate. After the tears start to subside, the words, “There’s no going back,” repeat in her head until she feels another meaning coming from them.

She remembers the girl at the carnival. The one about to be married to a cheat and a liar.

There is no going back to my old life, she thinks. I’m happier alone than with a man like that.

She releases her grip on the wrought iron gate. It won’t budge. Her only choice is to continue on.

Even though the logic makes sense, it’s still scary, especially when facing the unknown alone. But what other choice does she have? When you can’t go backwards, you have to go forward, right?

This is what Selena tells herself as she slowly walks towards the Funhouse. The gigantic clown face watches her approach and smiles.

The Fortune Teller Part I

I’ve always been fascinated with tales that dabble with a Gypsy fortune teller. There’s something both foreboding and enticing about stealing a glimpse of the future for a little sum of money.

I, myself, have never tried it. I’d say it’s because I don’t believe in such hogwash, but if I’m honest, I think it’s fear that keeps me away. It whispers in my ear that some things are best left alone.

So, I’ve done the next best thing. I’ve decided to write my own story of a mystical encounter at the carnival. I’ll be sharing it over the next three blog posts. Starring another version of myself (since every character in a story is the author in disguise, right?), who is much braver than I am. Walk with me in this imaginary carnival, hand in hand, and let’s see what secrets the Lady of Fortune will reveal.

The story begins with the clockwork of fate already ticking. Selena waits outside the carnival gates with her ticket in her pocket. Her best friend, Josie, surprised her with it at work this morning, and the two have agreed to meet at this exact time and place. The catch? Her friend hasn’t shown up yet. As we find Selena, her cell phone gives out that familiar buzz that tells her she has a call, and of course, it’s from Josie.

“Hey, Josie. I’m here waiting out front. Where are you?” Selena asks.

“At home with a sick kid. I’m so sorry. My little guy has a fever of 102,” Josie answers.

“Oh, don’t even worry about it. Family first. I hope your little guy feels better. Do you need anything?”

“No, I have everything I need here. You’re still going to the carnival, right?” Josie’s voice sounds worried. She’s not her usual carefree self.

“Nah, I think I might just call it a night,” Selena casually touches her ticket resting in her pocket as she turns to walk back to her car.

“No! Listen, I really want you to see Madame Zofina,” Josie’s voice has a hint of fervor that seems out of place.

“The Fortune Teller?” Selena laughs. “Oh, come on. You know I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“I know, but do it for me. I paid extra for your ticket. It includes a special reading with Zofina. You know, like the one I had. Remember? Look at how much my life has changed! You need this, Selena. You need something to shake you out of the funk you’re in,” Josie’s tone turns more towards pleading. She is very hard to say no to when she gets like this.

“All right, I’ll do it for you,” Selena says as she turns back towards the carnival. Josie always gets her way in the end. What would be the point of fighting?

“Perfect! Call me as soon as its over. I want to hear all the details before you forget any of it!”

“I will,” Selena promises and hangs up the phone.

The bright lights of the carnival are inviting on a dark night. Each ticket promises to deliver a good time. The crowd murmurs in excitement as they enter the gates. Happy smiles, screams of delight, couples holding hands, cotton candy fingers, prized over-sized bears, all of it alluring, but Selena would prefer to turn around and go home. Oh, well, she thinks, I’ll do it for Josie.

Selena walks up to the gate and surrenders her ticket. A young man with a grubby red flannel shirt and ponytail looks it over carefully and then puts a plastic yellow bracelet around Selena’s wrist.

Selena watches others pass by, walking into the park without the trinket.

“Why do I have this on my wrist and others don’t?” She asks the carny.

He smiles and looks at her for a moment (a moment too long for her liking), “That’s because they are not a Special Guest of Madame Zofina.” After holding her gaze for another uncomfortable pause, he starts laughing.

He’s messing with me, Selena thinks. Trying to be good-natured and keep the mood light, she lets him have his fun, laughs it off, and moves on.

“What a creep!” She thinks to herself as she enters through the gate. Her plan is to find Madame Zofina, have her future read, and leave. She doesn’t belong here. Everyone has someone, except her.

The carnival reminds her of Randy, her on again/off again boyfriend she’s been dating for the past five years. Last year, they were here holding hands like all the other happy couples, and now, they’ve called it quits once again.

I’m such a screw up, she tells herself as she heads towards Madame Zofina’s tent. I don’t need a Fortune Teller to tell me that my life will still be screwed up in the future. Or worse yet, lie to me. Promise me love and fortune is just around the corner.

Why did Josie buy this ticket? She can’t afford it. They both work as baristas in the local coffee shop, hardly millionaires. And yet, Josie had come into work this morning bubbling with excitement as she handed the ticket to Selena.

Josie is Selena’s opposite, constantly searching for tell tale signs from the universe and good omens in tea leaves. It’s that same positive energy that makes her such a good friend. Josie is the only one cheering on Selena’s dream of becoming a writer, reading every short story as if it’s a bestseller book.

Selena has been unable to write since Randy and her broke it off. That’s the funk Josie was talking about. Life feels hopeless. Why keep dreaming that tomorrow will bring something better? It just seems so disappointing.

And there it is, Madame Zofina’s tent with its colorful fabrics laden with moons and stars, hiding who knows what inside. In the dead center, there is a small opening inviting/frightening anyone curious enough to enter. Above the gateway looms a large wide open eye that sees all.

“Oh my goodness, I can’t believe Josie believes all this crap! But since she’s the sweetest friend I’ll ever have,” Selena mutters to herself as she enters Madame Zofina’s tent.

“There you are my child. Come closer so I can see you. Please sit down. I’ve been waiting for you,” Madame Zofina’s voice echoes off the draping fabric as Selena walks towards her.

Madame Zofina is seated across from her at a round table. The dim lit room casts shadows, but gives enough light so Selena can take in all the strange objects around her. On the table rests a crystal ball, a deck of Tarot cards, and a Ouija board. Everything you would expect to find in a Charlatan’s lair.

Madame Zofina, herself, looks rather odd. A small woman, older than expected, perhaps in her late sixties, with long curly red hair and bright green cat eyes. She has a purple scarf with rhinestones and dangling gold coins wrapped around the crown of her head. She has layers of colorful fabric and jewelry adorning her and a silky white blouse with billowing long sleeves. Instead of being intimidating, she has a welcoming smile and a kind voice, almost that of a grandmother drawing out a shy child. Selena takes a seat at the table.

“How can I help you, Selena?”

“You know my name?” Selena asks.

“Of course, I wouldn’t be much of a Fortune Teller if I didn’t,” after a long pause, Madame Zofina laughs and adds, “and your friend, Josie, told me your name.” With a wink and a smile, Madame Zofina points to the yellow wristband, “Plus that’s a pretty good give away.”

“Surely, I’m not your only customer tonight,” Selena points out.

“”There have been many today,” Madame Zofina sighs. “Happy couples wishing to know if they’ll stay together forever. Women wanting to know if they’ll ever have a child. Others asking for career advice. Everybody wants to know something about the future. But, I only do one Special Reading a night.”

“Only one?” Selena’s high-pitch inflection gives away her skepticism.

“Only one,” Madame Zofina answers. Her green eyes widen with excitement, “So, my dear child, what is it that you want to know?”

Selena thought about lying, but she couldn’t. It would be so easy to ask for something predictable like love and money, have Madame Zofina spout some mumbo jumbo, and be on her merry way back home. But, it isn’t in her nature to lie. She’s a lousy liar.

“Madame Zofina, you’ve done so much for my friend, Josie. She’s really happy and talks non-stop about how you’ve helped her. But me, well, I just don’t believe in any of this. I’m here, because I promised my friend I would come. I’m sorry,” she was going to continue on, but Madame Zofina interrupted.

“I knew I would like you!” Madame Zofina clapped her hands together in delight making Selena jump slightly in her seat. “I knew it from the minute you entered my tent. You are a smart girl and very honest! But my dear, if I may ask, why are you so sad?”

“What? Sad? No, not really,” but even as Selena utters the words out loud they resonate off the fabric walls with a false tone.

Madame Zofina simply looks at her. How much did Josie tell her? She has a new respect for Madame Zofina. Although the old woman looks like a kind grandmother, she is a cunning fox and this is her den. Selena was one blabber away from confiding in her.

Madame Zofina laughs watching her, “Don’t worry. You’re friend told me nothing about you except for your name. I asked her not to. It makes it more fun for me that way. I’m not using my psychic powers to read your aura, either. Haven’t you ever seen a sad person before? I was simply curious and had to ask. How could such a beautiful, strong, smart woman, such as yourself, not be happy? We live in a truly strange world, I think,” as she talked she rose from her chair and retrieved a small object from a nearby shelf.

“That’s okay, my love, you don’t have to tell me. I’m just an old lady who is like a curious cat. The only one you have to be honest with is yourself.”

The Fortune Teller closes the distance between them and hands Selena a large old-fashioned key.

“You will meet three guides tonight who will help you retrieve a very wise and very old box. When you find the box bring it here, and we will open it together. Do not open it before! Inside the box will be what you need to know about the future, so you can be happier.”

“What? I have to search for a box! Couldn’t we make this easier? I don’t want to waste your time. I know your busy, right? Look, we don’t have to make it a Special Reading. Couldn’t you just do a quick reading now?” Selena tries her best to persuade the Fortune Teller that she doesn’t have to put on a big show to please her.

Madame Zofina gives her a stern look that silences her like a misbehaved child. No laughter. No smile. No nice Grandma.

“Lies come easily. For a sum of money, anyone can whisper sweet lies into your ear. I’ve done enough of that today. What I am giving you is the truth, so you’ll have to earn it,” as she scolds Selena she softly takes her by the hand to guide her out of the tent.

Madame Zofina links her arm with Selena as she slowly ushers her out. The younger woman being at least a foot taller than the elderly lady. Madame Zofina huddles close to her as they walk together.

“Look for the Tall Man. He is your first guide. Give him the key and convince him to open the gate. That is your first task,” Madame Zofina tells her as Selena steps outside the threshold.

Selena turns to ask another question, but the drapes of the tent close before she can open her mouth.

“Madame Zofina, Madame Zofina,” Selena repeats her name several times, each attempt becomes a little louder, until she gives up and opens the tent.

No one is there. The tent is empty. This is ridiculous! Where could she have gone? She must have slipped out the back. Probably a trick to add drama.

Selena feels a bit of anger stir up in her. This reminds her of Randy. Always demanding his way and then threatening to disappear if she voices any objections. His latest demand was an open relationship, and when she said no, they broke up.

Feeling the weight of the key in her hand, Selena thinks of her friend. Josie spent what little money she had hoping that Madame Zofina might help Selena be happy again. Even if this is stupid, I’m not going to let Josie down. I can’t lie to her, so I’m going to do this, Selena thinks as she steps away from the tent.

Selena scans the carnival. It looks twice as large as she remembers. Where does she begin to look? The guy’s big, right? He can’t be hard to find. So, she braves the carnival alone on a fool’s mission with directions given by a Charlatan, an old key in hand, searching for the Tall Man.

.