Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Silver Flash #20: Yes He's My Ex: Are They Friendly Spirits

Happy Wednesday and welcome to another edition of the Silver Flash! This week we were presented with some Herculean prompts of twisted proportions. They were:

#1: Cross your genre borderlines.

#2: Become gender fluid.

 #3: Use one of the following:

"You'll never take us alive." (But not in a live & death criminal situation)
"I took a vow of silence when he tries to talk to me." (Doesn't have to be word for word, can be used at the theme of the story)
Drumstick. Guyliner. Big, fluffy cat. (use all three)

I am proud to announce that I used all of the above. As you'll recall from last week, we left Sonny and Tim standing in front of the house on the hill behind the Bates Motel, running from the three FBI agents, when Sonny had just reached for the bell pull and.... And what?

Afterwards, be sure to check out the other brave Silver Flashers for this week who are listed at the end of my blog. I now bring you

Are They Friendly Spirits?

I’m not sure exactly what I expect when Sonny yanks that bell pull, but I’ll tell you what—whatever it was, it is far outstripped by reality.

The door slowly creaks open. I find myself holding my breath, clutching Sonny so tightly that he yelps. I look down to find crescents in the back of his hand. I hastily kiss them, then glance up to behold…

Scarlett O’Hara? What the fuck?

Second glance reveals it’s not actually the long-dead Southern belle, but a woman in a bright hoopskirt of mint julep green, twirling a parasol, flashing me her most genteel smile, even as she exclaims, “Fiddle-dee-dee!”

I’m so struck by this phenomenon that I momentarily lose sight of the seriousness of the situation until I hear a muffled ping. Hopefully they’ve shot one another, but somehow I doubt it. The solution is made simple when the belle opens the door wide and bids us enter. I give Sonny a shove into the house and she shuts the door behind us. I hear the latch.

“Come with me, gentlemen,” she bids us, beckoning with one finger, as we follow her into the interior of the house. “Allow me to show you some of my Southern hospitality.”

The hair on the back of my neck rises. I have visions of her forcing us into some sort of weird threesome as compensation for not revealing our whereabouts. This thought is quickly laid to rest as we traverse a narrow hall. Coming toward us, from the opposite direction, is a portly gentleman dressed in a style reminiscent of the Tudor period. Somewhere about the early 16th century is my guess. He holds something in one hand which he gnaws upon most vigorously. It isn’t until we draw closer that I recognize it for what it is—a turkey drumstick.

“Now, now, Your Majesty, leave some for the rest of us,” she chides him, gently tapping him with her closed fan. He mumbles something but never stops.

“Tim-tim,” Sonny whispers loudly to me, “Why’s everyone floating? Can I do it too?”


I glance at our hostess. For some reason, she is indeed floating several inches above the floor, her feet making no contact with it, acting as if it was the most normal thing ever. Like a … My friend refuses to even think the word.

Sonny has no such qualms. “Are they ghosts?” he asks in a hushed whisper.

I start to tell him there are no such thing as spooks, but the words catch in my throat as a large fluffy cat races by, yowling. All fluff, no feet. What is it running on, the air? As if that isn’t freaky enough, a man bursts from the kitchen immediately afterward. He wears black lingerie, torn black fishnets and high heels, and he has a ton of guyliner on his overly large eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was….

Maybe I don’t know better after all. And he floats too. Are they all ghosts? If so, how can we see them? Have we died and not realized it?

Hot upon the good doctor’s heels is an obviously distraught man, chasing him, tears streaming from his eyes. “Bring back my Laura,” he sobs, “I want my Laura back.” The two men disappear around the corner and up the steps; I wait in vain for the sound of clattering that never comes.

As Scarlett pushes open the door to the kitchen, I overhear someone say, “"You'll never take us alive."

Alarmed I glance into the room to find a number of people grouped about a kitchen table. Alright, saying people is stretching the truth a bit. One is a large white rabbit in a waistcoat who keeps glancing at his fobbed watch; one appears to be made completely of stone—how he manages to move is a mystery to me, he’d make a great gargoyle, though; a knight in shining armor; a ringleted blonde girl with three bears. My mind boggles just to tell it.

Upon the table sits a game. On closer inspection, I recognize it as Candyland. A red-coated soldier draws a card and makes his move, and is forced to retreat half the distance of the board, to his dismay.

And every single one of them is floating off the ground. On a hunch, I reach toward Goldilocks, without foul intent, of course, just as an experiment. My hand passes through her as if I were touching air. Except it’s cold air.

 Scarlett laughs, and pulls Goldilocks into a wet liplock.   Okay, I’ve had enough.  I grab Sonny. We run back the way we came, down the hallway. We bowl right into someone, all three of us taking a tumble. Only Sonny and I hit the floor. It’s Frank-N-Furter. But without the attendance of the crying man.

“Don’t worry,” he reassures us, “it’s all good, you know.” He smirks openly ogling both Sonny and myself. I draw Sonny protectively to me.  “His name is Leland, he’s always going on and on about his daughter  Laura.” He throws up his hands in disgust. “Morning, noon and night. Who killed Laura Palmer? Who killed Laura Palmer? Who fucking cares? Honestly? I took a vow of silence when he tried to talk to me the first time. Drives him crazy. “

He leans toward us, from his perch above the floor, painted lips in a wide smile. “Say, why don’t we three go upstairs and find a little fun?”

What could possibly happen next? I think I’ve seen everything. Until I pull Sunny through a doorway into what is obviously a drawing room. Dim lights, a round table, a crystal ball. Knock three times. A tambourine floats in mid air. A gypsy violin plays. At the table is a man in a straight jacket. Or is that an escape jacket. Aha!

Harry Houdini, obviously. He’s holding a bell pull in his teeth.

Sonny yanks on the bell pull just as I scream.

to be continued...

Don't forget to check out the other intrepid Silver Flashers:

Lindsay Klug      m/f
Heather Lin       m/f

Come back next week to find out what happens after Sonny grabs that bell pull! 

What do you think of the series so far? I'd love to hear!

♥ Julie


  1. WOW Julie you've got a wild imagination! I love how you worked the prompts into this story. of course another cliffhanger! can't wait for next weeks

  2. Thanks, Lily! I really appreciate your support and love for the story! I wonder if anyone else is old enough to recognize the reference in the title? lol Email me if you do :)