One of Us

by Samie Sands

  “Aromatherapy oils? You have something in all your little bottles that works with witches?” Zoey asked.

  “Well, there just might be! I remember reading something about Geranium, I’m not sure. Let’s hurry cause we need all the help we can get.” And they drove back home.

  They ran their errand and were back at the library at 5:30 pm. The library closed at 6 pm. but most of the people had already left. They had discussed a few scattered ideas on what they should do, as they drove back, but they had no real plan.

  They walked up to the librarian and this time Zoey took note of the name tag on the desk—Miss Meredith Fink. Aunt Elise spoke first.

  “Excuse me but we may need your help!” The librarian looked up apprehensively.

  “You ladies were just here a while ago,” Miss Meredith Fink exclaimed, “Is there a problem?”

  Zoey leaned on the desk and said, “Yes, Meredith, a big problem. I really need your help!” And when the librarian simply stared at her, Zoey looked around to see if anyone was near and then stuck her hand near the woman.

  “I have a bite here and I need your help,” Zoey said looking up at her.

  “Well, what’s that got to do with me?” She answered, and the look of distaste on her face was obvious.

  “You know, Meredith,” Zoey said playfully, “It’s a witch’s bite!” And with that phrase, Meredith, the librarian rose abruptly. Her dank smell became stronger to Zoey and was almost unbearable. In her weakened state, she felt faint.

  “Where are you going, Meredith?” Aunt Elise asked abruptly. “We need you to help us. You are a witch, aren’t you?” The librarian stepped away from the desk and started backing away. A weird sing-song sound rose in her witch’s throat.

  “If you don’t help us, we’ll tell the library that they have an old witch working for them- they wouldn’t like that now, would they!” Meredith, the witch, began reciting something that sounded spell-ish so Zoey began with her counter phrasing.

  “Oh, Meredith dear witch you are so caring and kind to children and animals! Your heart is so big and you have so much love!”

  Meredith looked baffled and the sound in her throat ceased. Aunt Elise took out a cotton pad that was soaked with rose essential oil with a touch of geranium.

  This was a very feminine essential oil that stood for natural womanhood and beauty and motherhood—all the things that Meredith was not. She stepped forward and put the odorous cotton pad under the witch’s nose. Meredith shrieked and began to run and renewed her spell chant, but Zoey caught up with her and held her with both hands. She continued to bombard the witch with niceties and kind compliments.

  “You are the queen of kindness and loyalty, so loving and full of concern for all you meet! “The witch wiggled in her arms and her face was beginning to turn a reddish-purple color.

  “What do you want from me?” the witch screamed out. A young man suddenly came into view and hurriedly walked up to them. Zoey gave him a big, toothy grin.

  “Uh, are you the librarian?” he asked, looking at Miss Fink. “Yes, yes,” Meredith responded.

  “Well, can I check this book out so I can go,” he answered

  “Oh, yes, she’ll check that book out for you,” Aunt Elise said, “There’s nothing that she loves better than to help people out, isn’t that right, Meredith?”

  The frustrated librarian checked his book out and when he was gone from view, Zoey stepped back in.

  “It’s almost closing time and we all need to get out of here. If you don’t help me I will make your life miserable. Believe me, I know how. Just kiss this damn bite better and we all can go home. That’s all I want!”

  “Oomva- ista...” Meredith started to chant!

  “You are so lovely in that sweater,” Zoey cooed and her aunt stuck the cotton pad under the witch’s nose again.

  She shivered and squealed and tried to break loose from Zoey’s grip.

  “Okay, alright!” Meredith yelled “I’ll do it! Just don’t let me smell that again!”

  Zoey smiled broadly and still saying complimentary words, softly, just in case the witch would sneak in a spell, she put her hand forward under the witch’s mouth.

  Meredith’s top lip almost curled.

  Then she snarled and shivered like a dog but she put her lips together and kissed Zoey’s hand.

  “Eww!” Zoey, grimaced, “Why thank you, Miss Fink”.

  She looked closely at her hand and saw that the redness quickly began to recede. It felt warm and tingly and she slowly peeled off the band-aid.

  “No,” said Aunt Elise, “don’t do too much to it. I have to wrap it in Valerian tea when we get home.”

  But something else was happening to Zoey. She looked at her aunt as she watched Meredith scurry off.

  “I feel warm and tingly all over- Aunt Elise! I don’t know what is happening to me!” she exclaimed.

  But from deep within, Zoey felt a surge of strength and fortitude. She looked across the floor where Miss Meredith Fink was quickly getting into her jacket. And she could see that witch’s tainted soul and the potential of her evil intentions. Then and there Zoey both acknowledged and accepted her new found power. And she knew then, that she had been given a gift, or maybe it was a curse. But any witch that had even the whisper of a desire to hurt her, or anyone she cared about, had better run fast- and far.

  The older woman smiled at her, “You’re kind of glowing a bit, Zoey! You look wonderful!”

  “Well, I never got to tell you what I also read in that ‘Remedies’ book. I found out what happens when you survive a witch’s bite,” and she looked over at her dear aunt’s face that had anticipation written all over it.

  “You become stronger, not weaker—and I read you get even an increased power over witches. I have survived the witch’s bite—“And then she shouted out quite loudly. Considering they were inside a public library—

  “I am Zoey. Witch Hunter!” And they both laughed and hugged. “And you, dear Auntie, are my helper!”

  Linda Jenkinson

  Writing as a passion came full circle five years ago. I discovered writing again and renewed my earlier interest with some pieces for magazine and newspaper, newsletters, etc. I’m an avid content writer but have recently plunged myself into writing ‘Creative’. This includes poetry, short stories, novel excerpts and hopefully a first novel, sometime, before the cows come home. A Canadian born woman, born in Ontario, I have enjoyed both the busy cities and the near wilds of the northern Kawarthas.

  I’m excited about my renewed writing path and just want to get to work. Love this anthology and the chance to contribute!

  Day of the Clowns

  Lila L. Pinord

  “No, I don’t want to go!”

  “You say that every year, Davey, but you know it’s no use fighting about it, don’t you?” Irritation put an edge to his mother’s words. “The company picnic is important to your father and his job. How many times must we go over this?”

  “But, but...” Davey Mansfield did know it was no use arguing, but felt he had to try anyway.

  “No more ‘buts’, Son. Now, go to your room and get cleaned up for dinner. Dad will be here any moment.” With a relenting smile, Joan ruffled her nine-year-old son’s sandy brown hair and added, “I’ve fixed one of your favorites—spaghetti and meatballs. Ice cream for dessert Now scoot!” She gave him a fake kick to his small backside.

  Davey sulked his way to his room, at the top of the stairs. His was the only occupied room up there. The others were a small guestroom and an even smaller sewing-computer room. At times the boy felt all alone in the world, upstairs in his room, listening to night sounds that could be anything he imagined them to be. A spook walking up the darkened stairs, a goblin banging on water pipes, a vampire seeking some fresh blood. Or a clown—his biggest fear.

  He hated clowns, feared them, and wished to stay as far away from them as possible. “Wish they would all go to Hell!” (Oops!) Davey covered his mouth as
he knows he’s never supposed to curse, even though he figures that’s where they come from in the first place.

  That’s why he always fought so hard to stay home on the Fourth of July, the day of his father’s company picnic at Tisdale Park, near the center of town. He couldn’t tell anyone of his fears, the horror he felt in their presence, the deep-throated dread that washed over him at the very sight of them. He felt if he did tell, they’d all think he was loony, or something.

  One year, panic so overcame him that he yelped and ran so fast, that his parents could hardly keep up with him. When they did, they dragged him back to the clowns—where he stood and squeezed his eyes shut so tightly, he’d almost blacked out. So that’s how little Davey Mansfield got through the ordeal of the clowns that year.

  It seemed like it was the same thing, every year and each time, his dread became stronger and stronger, until it began filling his nightmares and daymares, as well.

  When school started in early September, he could keep busy enough so the thought of the clowns was forced to the back of his mind. At least until the next May and June. Now it was the dreaded “time of the clowns”, as he called it. Tomorrow...the Fourth of July––The Day of the Clowns!

  Davey walked slowly to the window in his room, which over-looked the front part of the house and studied the homes across the way, deliberately avoiding the pale blue one. It was third house from the center, owned by the Canby family, where his best friend, Scoot Canby, once lived; until the clowns got him!

  The first picnic that Davey could remember was when he was three-years old. He and Scoot were all excited about going to the park to eat hot dogs and watch the fireworks. Their parents were good friends, so they’d end up hanging out together. Davey whined until they allowed him to bring their dog, Slingshot. The dog loved to run and play in the park, just like the kids. After the boys played on the slide and swings, it was time to eat lunch, which they greatly enjoyed. An adult manned the giant-sized barbecue, grilled hot dogs and hamburgers, while others spread cloths on the long picnic tables and laid out the paper plates and utensils.

  Of course, then everyone had to sit still while the bigwigs gave speeches about the company and how far it had come in the last twenty-five years...

  That’s usually about the time when the children stopped listening and started fidgeting in their seats. Next, they’d attempt in vain to climb down from the wooden benches, while parents held onto them tightly by their collars. They certainly did their darndest to keep them still, which was always a losing battle.

  Many ended up holding the kids on their laps, while some gave up and let them run wild.

  Davey and Scoot were the lucky ones that ran wild, usually playing on the teeter-totter, until the “Big Cheeses” (that’s what they heard parents say, referring to the bosses) got through speaking. Then they would head back to the tables and chow down on hot dogs, with mustard and ketchup running down their little chins, until their bellies were about to burst. “No fair!” they would complain, if they didn’t have room left in their tummies for watermelon or cake.

  The first time three-year old Davey saw the clowns, he was overjoyed. They appeared in the front of the annual Fourth of July Parade, riding on miniature cars and kiddy’s tricycles, and it was funnier than a “barrel full of monkeys,” as his dad would say. The clowns were dressed in different colored outfits. Kids clapped uncontrollably as they jumped up and down, laughing as hard as they could.

  There was only one really scary moment, that first year of the clowns for young Davey. One of the clowns, who dressed in white with red trimmings, pedaled his undersized bike very near the front row of children. He was so close that Davey could have reached out and touched his grinning face. As the front tire nearly ran over his little foot, he quickly pulled both feet back out of the way. His young mind figured it was part of the act anyway, so he grinned widely at this comical performer.

  Suddenly, he felt as if an icy finger was travelling up his spine, as he gazed into the clown’s eyes. Those eyes––they were not smiling. They appeared black and flat, without depth. Beneath the painted-on grin, his mouth wasn’t smiling either.

  Davey stepped back and buried his face in his mother’s skirt, refusing to look at the clowns anymore that day. His mother hugged his head close with her gentle, angel’s hands, as she continued her conversation with a friend who was standing next to them.

  Davey waited until he was sure the clowns were out of sight, and then peeked out just in time to see a rusty, old, fire engine passing by. Then came a marching band, followed by a drill team. With his mouth agape, he began to enjoy himself again, watching the baton twirlers tossing their sparkly batons high in the air and then catching them. There were dogs pulling small carts with kittens in them, which completely erased any thoughts of the scary clowns from his young, impressionable mind.

  Later at dusk, the crowed oohed and aahed at the fireworks display. When it was all over, Davey went home and right to bed, a very tired, but happy little boy.

  The next morning, as a sleepy-eyed Davey dragged himself down to the kitchen, he became aware that there was some kind of sadness in the air.

  June quickly said to her husband, Guy, “Shhhh, we’ll talk about it later. Poor Marion. I’ll go see her this afternoon...”

  His father nodded, eyeing his son as he entered the kitchen.

  AT FOUR-YEARS OF AGE and after attending preschool, Davey considered himself quite grown-up. He already knew his ABC’s and could count to twelve, even though he had only ten fingers.

  “It’s almost the Fourth of July, my little man.” His mother always called him that. Why...he didn’t know, besides, who ever saw a man who was actually little?

  He smiled up at her with a question in his eyes, all the while making a mess with his cereal.

  “Fourth of July, Davey! Picnic at the park, fireworks, clowns, parade....”

  For whatever reason, a slight shiver rippled through his body. Picnic, clowns...Davey shook it off and grinned broadly again at his mother.

  “Just two more days, Davey, then we go to the park and have all kinds of fun!” The last word was emphasized like it was some kind of extra-special fun, butDavey wasn’t so sure about that.

  He poked his stubby fingers up and counted, “One, two.”

  “Right you are, Little Man!” June embraced her son and he felt the love flow from her heart into his.

  Before long, it was the usual bustle as the barbecue smoke filled the air, people laughed, others played ball, and children dashed everywhere. One of Davey’s classmates glued himself to his side, being a shy boy and a bit younger than him.

  “C’mon, Wilson! Go play somewhere else,” he urged the new boy, “Maybe over there, with those girls!” He was partly teasing the boy and partly meaning what he said. Wilson hung his head as a small tear escaped from beneath his long lashes. Then Davey felt sorry and relented. They both headed for the swings.

  After the mustard and ketchup face-smearing contest, it was time to wander over to edge of the street and await the first entry in the parade to pass by. Again, it was the clown act.

  Not remembering his reaction to them from the year before, Davey’s eyes glinted with joy watching the antics of the colorful clowns as they rode their small cycles and cars.

  “One, two, three, four, five,” he counted on his raised fingers. “There are five of them, Mommy, Daddy!”

  Then Davey let out a sudden gasp of fright, as one of the tricycling clowns came too close to him. Davey stumbled backward to hide behind his mother’s legs not realizing he’d done the exact same thing the year before.

  His mother smiled down upon his head and said, “What are you hiding for, Davey? You’re not scared of him, are you?”

  “No, Momma, not scared!” He lifted his eyes and stared boldly at the clown face in front of him. At that moment, the entertainer swung around and continued down the curb, seeking another little one to terrorize, all in the name of fun, of course.

>   As Davey watched, craning his neck sideways, he spotted Wilson down the line, standing next to his own parents. Wilson was laughing and laughing, like he would never stop. Then, he extended his small hand out to touch the clown’s face.

  Don’t! Don’t do that, Wilson! Don’t touch him! Davey had no idea why he thought that way and how much he wanted to yell those words out loud, but at the same time, he knew how stupid they would sound to everyone around him, so he held back.

  Davey gasped again, watching the scene unfold, as if it were in slow motion. Wilson just barely swept his chubby hand over the painted cheek of the grinning clown, when he jerked it back like he’d come into contact with a hot, burning coal. He hid his fist under one arm and giggled uncertainly. The rider on the small bike continued on his wobbly way.

  Then the moment passed. When everything returned to normal, Davey let out his breath, again. Whew! he thought. That was strange. Davey went to play and forgot about the little performance with the clown.

  “What? WHAT?” June was on the phone in the kitchen the following day, her eyes wide as she listened to the person on the other end. Her husband shot her an inquisitive look, to which she waved him off and laid one finger across her lips to silence any questions he might utter.

  “No. I can’t believe it! That poor, little boy. Why, he’s in the same class as...” June stopped speaking when she realized her son had wandered into the room.

  She sat heavily on a nearby stool and said softly, “Do you mind if I call you back in a bit? I have to fix something for the boys to eat...” She waited a moment. “Okay. Later then.”

  “I want Cheerios!” Davey said.

  “What’s the magic word?” asked his Dad with a half-frown on his face.

  “Abracadabra!” his son shot back, then playfully ran around the table before his father could swat his behind.

  With a twinkle in his eye, Davey sat down and said, “Okay, puleeeze may I have Cheerios for breakfast?”