A Not-So-Scary Story(An Original Composition)

Ashes To Ashes
By Cannon Lewis

Bunny. Frog. Clouds. These are the thoughts that ran through Gerald Fitzpatrick’s head as he sat on the patio of his small house. It was autumn, but autumn in Austin, Texas, is much the same as any other season, except for all of the pesky leaves that fall on your lawn. Gerald’s patio wasn’t much; it was wood, with a small table and chairs upon it, also of wood. It used to extend all the way around the house, but one day while Gerald was at work, the parts of the patio surrounding the sides and back of the house had burned up. Now there was only the front, which was quite alright with Gerald.
“Let fire burn where it may,” he was often known to say, “Just as long as it’s not on me.”
This remark was then followed by his friends jokingly asking, “What, are you afraid of fire?” To which the customary response was,
“No way, no how. Ain’t nothin’ I’m scared of, nothing at all.” And for all intents and purposes, this seemed to be true. Despite all of the myriad attempts on his bowel control, nothing fazed him. At one point, a neighbor even snuck into his house with a real chainsaw. When confronted, Gerald Fitzpatrick simply flicked on the lights, reached over, and turned the chainsaw off. On this particular day, however, his mind was far from mechanical tree cutters. On this day Mrs. Mclayer was coming to his house.
Mrs. Mclayer, he thought with a shiver, the only daughter of the billionaire Frank Marone. When her father died, he left her all of his money. She had subsequently invested all of the fortune into almost every stock at that time. After he husband died, she had become somewhat reclusive, and was not seen in public for years. Just before this period of extreme privacy, she had moved into the tall yellow house just across the cul-de-sac from Gerald.
Then, he thought, it got weird. Suddenly, a few days ago, Mrs. Mclayer decided to re-enter the world. She did so in an unusual way. First, she had called his company, Meyers and Murfy Stocks and Bonds, and demanded to speak to Gerald. At the time Gerald had been at home, having finished early at work and wanting some time alone. His secretary gave Mrs. Mclayer his number, and immediately Mrs. Mclayer hung up. Ten minutes later, the reclusive heiress called him. When he answere his phone, he heard a husky voice say, “Be in front of your house three days from now. I will arrive at noon.” Then the voice hung up.
Bewildered, Gerald tried to call back, but only got a dial tone. Strange, he thought, not even and answering machine. However, here he was, at eleven forty-five, waiting for his mysterious caller. Nervous, he looked back at his house and sighed.
It wasn’t much. He knew it, and he’d known it for years. The truth was, he didn’t know what to do about the house. On the outside, it looked fine, with a light green outer coat, and white shutters over the windows. It was one-story high, with a tar black roof. The inside, however, was different. A series of strange fires over the years had made their mark, a mark that paint and Febreeze could not cover. A tub had burned, with no apparent cause, only five minutes after his bath. A more mysterious fire had scorched his entire ceiling, but nothing on the floor or walls showed damage. These, and other small instances of combustion, had left his wallet and his nerves stretched to a breaking point.
Suddenly, the door of the house across the street opened. Gerald was only able to see intense darkness before a small figure shuffled into the light and closed the door. As he stared at the apparition, he realized that it was a stooped-over woman, wearing a faded grey bathrobe and what had once been a pair of navy blue slippers. Strangely, both garments appeared charred. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized that it was Mrs. Mclayer who now slowly shuffled across the concrete circle toward him. Her hair was matted and ratty, hanging together in long strands of grey-blond material. Her face was wrinkled, with flaps of skin hanging low beneath her eyes, and a forehead that looked as if it had been kneaded like dough.
His observations were interrupted as he realized that the old woman had reached the gate to his house, which he had left locked. He hastily stood up from his chair and ran to unlatch the lock. As he fumblingly pulled the iron pin from its socket, a clawed hand shot put of the bathrobe before him and pushed the gate open. Gerald stood stock still as the crone shuffled her way up the steps to his doorway. Dazed by the sudden display of strength, Gerald closed the gate and followed Mrs. Mclayer into his home. So preoccupied was he, that he failed to notice the small fire on the exact place that Mrs. Mclayer had pushed the gate open.
Upon opening the door that led to his living room, he found Mrs. Mclayer sitting on his old green couch, staring at the expansive mirror that hung on the wall across from her. This arrangement was the result of Gerald’s own decoration style, and despite many questions from his friends, he was never able to explain it. She seemed to be staring quite intently at her reflection, and only looked at Gerald when he sat in the chair opposite the couch. Suddenly, a hole appeared in the folds of skin underneath he nose and, in the same throaty voice he had heard over the phone, issued the words, “I will die today.”
Gerald, not believing his ears, whispered, “What?” She beckoned to him, stood, and walked towards his kitchen. Though shaking his head like a wet dog, he followed her into the other room. He noticed that Mrs. Mclayer was standing in the middle of the space, guzzling coffee straight from the pot.
“I wish to make you my heir,” she rasped, pointing at a paper on the kitchen counter, “Sign this paper and I will go.”
Gerald wanted to argue, wanted to ask what was going on, but found that all he could do was walk to the paper, pick up a pen, and sign. But then, just as the pen touched his hand, he smelled smoke. He filled a bucket with water, ignoring the curses of the old woman behind him, and rushed to the source of the smoke. It was the green couch. He quickly doused the fire, and returned to Mrs. Mclayer. She was standing exactly where she had been, still pointing at the paper. He picked up the pen again, and glanced at the paper. I seemed to be full of dense legal jargon, and he could only understand parts that were about the transfer of property and affairs. Before he could think twice, however, he was signing his name.
Then, simultaneously, Mrs. Mclayer let out a sigh, and the coffeepot burst into flames. After throwing some water on the burning container, he decided that his house was too dangerous for an old lady right now. However, she was already at the door. He pushed open his front door just in time to see Mrs. Mclayer be consumed by fire. Rushing back to his sink, he filled a bucket with water and ran back outside. However, all he found was a pile of ash on his front lawn, which quickly blew away in the wind.
The next day, Gerald Fitzpatrick took the legal document he had signed the day before to his lawyer’s office. After talking to his lawyer and filling out an application form, he realized that he now owned both Mrs. Mclayer’s house, and all of her many stocks. Overjoyed and bewildered, Gerald was encompassed by his own thoughts as he left the office. Due to this preoccupation, he failed to notice his lawyer’s desk become a blazing fire.

A new day, a new dawn

Dear no one,
Today, I begin my first blog, and, in doing so, take a step towards becoming a writer. Either that, or I have way to much to complain about. An image comes to mind while I type this. It is of a dawn, orange streaks blazing across otherwise indifferent clouds. Then, the sun first peaks above the unforgiving hard line of the horizon. After all, is not every new beginning like a sunrise? Does not every new idea rise above the established order of our lives, and streak the masses that march about their chores with a new color?
But I digress. The real purpose of this first post is to establish the foundations of the new morning that I propose to conjure into being with my thoughts. Though I do not plan to write anything embarrassing about any single person, for the sake of friendly protection I shall be extremely vague when discussing people outside of my family, or inside my family who do not wish to be discussed. Also, from time to time I shall publish either a book review or an original work of my own. Though I am currently in a Creative Writing class, and therefore have plenty of material, it is only a semester-long class, and I cannot say how much time I will have for writing stories after that.
The over-arcing purpose of this blog is for me to have a place to express myself, but I would also like to entertain the reader. Any comments or suggestions are appreciated, and I will bear them in mind. Having said all that I plan to for now, I bid you Arrivederci(Goodbye).