Tag Archives: tales

Halloween Special

Dearest Reader,

‘Tis with great regret I write to tell you that I have been attacked this night; from the darkness came the spirits of writers past, claiming back the awful stories kept hostage in my grey loft. Surrendering to their threats, I write this message from within the crypt where my dearest memories reside.

Stars dare not cross this sky. Light flails and gasps as the shadows suffocate said emerging spectrum, swallowing its presence with their hollowed souls. Soft gossamer drifts from the ceilings, reminding me of a tale once told many years ago. There was a girl, probably thirteen years or more, who was driven from her home by the vulgar associates her mother entertained. Left to fend for herself, she soon stumbled into an avenue only fit for those who enjoy the benefits of dark nights and full moons. Unbeknownst to this girl, her tantalizing scent and throbbing pulse was all she needed to reside with these pale strangers. Summer came and went and soon autumn set in. She was the subservient messenger for her new found family. Their delicate frames and sharp canines were enough to keep her in check and if she felt an inkling to leave the fine establishment she now called home, the claws of the young, hairy cousins were enough to change her mind.

Halloween approached with the swiftness of death, calling out to all who supported the shadows and skulked in the basements of the decrepit surrounding buildings. At the request of the almost porcelain elders, who sat at the high table all day and all night in the attic, she sifted through the cupboards and larders, searching for something festive. Soon she found a linen closet well equipped for the romantics. Soft gossamer in gold and silver swished through her fingers, drifting on invisible air towards the uneven floorboards under her naked feet. Excited, she ran through the house, hammer and nails in hand and soon the rooms felt like Bedouin tents awaiting pale concubines to perform the sensuous dance of the seven veils for their blue tainted captors. All the residents were pleased with her efforts and promised her light for the first time in that year. Candles were carefully lit and placed around the property, highlighting the gaunt ceilings now chipped and flaking; the gnarled door handles barely capturing the soft light emanating from the waxy tall spires of light. Sadly, that was the last thing the quiet residents saw as the gossamer caught aflame, sucking up the heat with great fervour. Before anyone could escape, the crumbling residence was engulfed, the screams of the girl the last thing passers by heard.

To this day, if you listen carefully, gossamer cries through your fingers as it slinks away, flittering like candle flames from your fingers.

Alas, dear readers, my gaolers have returned to torment me further. They say my stories lack a certain scary quality befitting the day. Apparently, pulling my fingers back and tearing my toe nails is deemed appropriate torture for such a crime. My only solace is knowing that my ears have not been touched, unlike the little boy from No. 16. When he was three, his mother decided to teach him a lesson about listening to her. She decided to scare some sense into him and chose the Halloween night when all the other good children were happily celebrating the existence of witches and ghouls, and gorging on sweets. This tall witch herself, decided to take her dear littling out trick or treating, but with evil intentions, wandered closer and closer to the forest just behind the houses.

Once out of view from the other parents, the nasty woman persuaded her son to follow her into the forest, whereupon she left him for the foxes and wild pigs to devour. The poor child tried to listen out for the direction of her footsteps to find his way out of the labyrinth of statuesque trees looming above him. She laughed and darted to and fro, in and out of sight, calling to him to listen better. What horrible torture for a child so young. Now, deep inside, we all call for the woman to fall to her just desserts, but it is with sadness I tell you what happened next. The wild pigs were not interested in the morsel crying out in front of them. They saw fit to chase and eat the harpy screaming to her young one to follow and listen. The young boy watched his witch of a mother serve a greater purpose in life. Horrified at the sight of her being chewed to nothing, the boy collapsed. The pigs, sensing the youngling’s need for guidance, revived him and led him deeper into the forest where the animals congregated on special occasions. It was decided that they would watch over the child until he was old enough to leave the forest and join the evil mankind who tortured their young. This was never to be. The child stayed young, forever reliving the halloween night.

To this day, if you leave your window open at night, you will hear the cries of the child as he cries for his mother who tried to teach him to listen. Some say it is the cry of the tawny owls, but now you know better.

 Thinking of the youngling never growing old, never leaving that forest, brings to mind certain spirits we were told about by our grandparents when we did not behave: the tokoloshi. To some Afrikaans people, it means, little spirit. To me, it meant little demon! Whenever my grandmother found me doing something naughty (which was often) she would tell me that the tokoloshi would come and teach me a lesson. It terrified me to think that something tiny could reach me and torture me, but to be honest, these spirits holding me down now have similar qualities. I guess our fears never leave us, no matter how old we are and the myths surrounding our childhoods follow us into our old age.

In this welcome, I will bid you farewell. Listen out for the gossamer and the cries of the babe in the woods and think kindly of me, dear reader, for warning you before they come to get you and your half stories awaiting to be told.


Book Tuesday: Howard Loring part 2

Hi and welcome back to Book Tuesday!

Last week I featured the time travelling author, Howard Loring, and focused on his collection of short stories called Tales Of The Elastic Limits.

Before I share the second half of the story from last week, here are a few facts from Howard’s information file…

Given TIME is full of Paradox, HOWARD LORING’S books can be read in any order for none are sequels that require a backstory, but these independent plotlines do in fact relate and explain each other.

His first two works are novels and all three are available online in book or eBook, published by PreCognitionPress.  

For further information Google Howard Loring or contact hloring@precognitionpress.com or http://www.facebook.com/HowardLoring  

HOWARD LORING is a pen name. 

Right, here is the second part of the story I have chosen (my favourite!) called The Woman Who Changed Everything or A Brief History of Beans.
If you missed the first part of the story, please click here.
The Woman Who Changed Everything


A Brief History of Beans


A strange man, not of her tribe, was there. She abruptly stopped, leery once she finally saw him sitting in the meadow. Yet he only smiled sweetly, and nodded.

She thought of running away, but she didn’t. She sensed no danger, oddly none at all and, after a bit she stepped closer, now only wondering who he was. At her steady, determined approach, the strange man slowly stood.    

He was thin and very tall. He was also dressed strangely, and wore garments unlike any that she had ever seen. No clan she knew of had such a covering.  

“Welcome,” he said to her, “I’ve been waiting for you.”  

This statement she didn’t believe. Still, she laughed a bit, for he was a man and she thought him only flirting, as most men would do with any unattended female. Yet the stranger politely persisted, quickly dispelling her misplaced conclusion.  

“The ground remains cold,” he informed her, “too cold for your still sleeping seeds. Just have patience. It won’t be long.”  

Following this profound pronouncement, she did become wary. The feeling, however, was fleeting and soon passed. She looked him in the face, now highly curious.  

“How do you know such?” she asked of him.  

The man bid her to sit. He sat also, across from her. Then he smiled again, in reassurance.  

“I know many things,” he answered her. “I know of your long interest, and of your newest intent. And,” he added for emphasis, “I also know your vision is a true one.”  

At this, she smiled at him, for under the bizarre circumstances she was compelled to accept this stranger at his word. It was an easy thing for her to do. The woman still didn’t know who he was or why he was helping her, but nevertheless she somehow understood that he had only her best interests in mind.    

Indeed he did. He was most eager to assist her, it was his singular goal. The tall stranger was from another Timeframe, and aiding her was his direct mission.  

Soon the beans grew. Every evening, she checked on them after her daily chores had been seen to, and shortly others in her clan took notice, as well. Her mate was much amused by all this attention, seeing no real value in her self-imposed, added labors.  

Nevertheless, the beans thrived in a perfect growing season. Nothing went amiss. The rain was always gentle and no pest, insect nor animal, attacked her plants.    

Now more than her clan was engrossed. Word was spreading. The local men who came to gawk were well entertained by all the heavy interest, as her mate had been, but the hard-working women in the tribe saw and appreciated the inherent advantages.  

They offered their help.  

The young woman politely refused. Their labor was currently unneeded, she knew. The strange man in the meadow had explained everything in detail.  

“Maybe next year,” she said.  

Her bean plants soon produced a bumper crop. When this happened, word really spread. Even the most hardened of the tribal men were impressed, for they all loved beans as much as meat, and now they saw the obvious advantage, too.  

Beans, after all, while being quite an enjoyable meal were generally hard to come by.  

The young woman shared her bounty with her clan, and her mate shared in the gratitude that followed. He was most proud of her. Undeniably, she was a good woman.  

She did ask her female kinfolk for help in shelling the beans. It was a big task taking much time, for there were many full baskets of pods. The women sat in a circle as they worked and talked of the future, laughing together at every opportunity.    

The beans were carefully graded before being doled out. Many of them were an average size or smaller, and these were the ones equally divided and dispersed, a most succulent bonus. A substantial number, however, were bigger than the average, and the woman kept these back to plant in the next season.  

The next season never came. The tribe, after two years, moved on. Sadly, its new territory was heavily wooded and held no area sufficiently suitable for her beans.

She and her mate then argued over them. He wanted to eat her tasty seeds, and he boldly stated they would go bad if they didn’t. She’d always check first, but after finding them still only sleeping, each time she stiffly refused to comply.

Then, in the warming time the tribe suddenly returned to its previous location. The cautious elders now judged moving a hasty mistake. The available game was still plentiful and there was abundant water to be had close by.

The woman staked her rawhide tent by her old, sunny hillside.

Now they came, scores of women from many clans in the tribe. Their mates all wanted tasty beans. Teach us, they pleaded, the secrets of how to grow them.

She did, but she demanded a price. The women would learn by tending her plot, under her instructions, some of every day for a season. She would initiate them, and also give them beans to plant, but only after her harvest was completed.

This was a stiff bargain. Men didn’t like waiting. More importantly, they wouldn’t understand such a strange arrangement, and they’d only see their women working for someone else, an unheard of thing.

The now fully mature and resolute woman replied only, “If we start soon, and the early air is warm enough, we can have two harvests. Your men will have beans later, in the cooling times, but still this season. Or,” she casually added, “only my clan will assist me now, and next season you can ask them for help.”

The tribe’s women saw wisdom in this, for it was a good plan. Enlightening their mates would be a different matter. Still, after using her argument, they did.   

This time, there were problems. First there was too much rain, and later the fat, green bugs arrived. Luckily, many men, always impatient for beans, came by to check on things and ended up eating most of the juicy insects.   

Some plants did die, but many more survived and again there was a bumper crop. As earlier stipulated, the growing season was only halfway done and the mentoring woman then held to her part of the bargain, dispersing seed to her now trained, former helpers. All were excited, and they eagerly rushed home to quickly create their own, small garden plots.   

After her second course of beans was planted, she returned to the hidden meadow in hopes that the strange man would still be there. He was. Again they sat.   

“You’ve done much good,” he told her, “I knew that you would.” “Yes,” the woman concurred, “this is a fine thing for the tribe, but I’m most concerned. There are times that I cannot grow tasty beans, for often the forest is too thick and the sun is blocked. Tell me how to raise my plants then.”

The time traveler answered quietly, saying, “You must grow your beans in a new and different way. You must have fine fields, always. Your tribe should not move but always stay, and grow many beans in many fine fields.”

“But men hunt,” she answered him. “They follow the prey to do so. The tribe will move, it will always move, it must.”   

“You can trade for meat,” was his rejoinder, “for other tribes will savor your tasty beans, too. Many tribes would gladly trade good meat for good beans. And your men will be busy with another thing, a vital thing they must do now.”   

“What thing,” she asked, “helping grow beans?”

“Not yet,” he instructed. “That will come later, but for now the men must do something else of great importance. They must protect the ones that grow the beans.”

This she understood. Why work for something when it can be taken by force? Many unfriendly tribes would want beans and, not yet knowing how to grow them, they would try to steal them instead, why wouldn’t they?

Still, she had reservations.

“The tribe will always stay,” she asked him, “for beans alone? No, this is too great of a change. This would change everything.”

The stranger slowly nodded, understanding her dilemma. Yet, he also knew that it was just a matter of time. Change always comes, and time will out, regardless.

“Your beans first came from wild beans here,” he said, with a sweep of his arm, indicating the meadow now full of fine grass.

“Yes,” she agreed.

“Yet, if you didn’t take them,” he continued, “the pods would have just popped open, with the beans falling to the ground.”

“Yes,” she said again.

“The beans do this to live,” he said, “so that other beans will come later. But some pods didn’t pop open. Their beans, being trapped, could not grow.”

“Yes,” she said for a third time.

“But now they do grow,” he pointed out. “They can live because of you. These beans will now feed your tribe, and other plants do much the same thing.”

Again he indicated the field around them. The tall grass was full of tiny, green seed heads. Strange, she hadn’t noticed them before and she should have.

This particular type of grass was a most delicious plant, too.  

“This seed must be taken early, before it’s ripe,” he explained. “If not, it will just fall from the stalk in order to grow the next grass. It’s hard to gather then.”  

Here she only nodded, knowing from experience it was true.  

“But, like your beans,” he said, “some stalks will keep their tasty seeds. They won’t fall like the others do. These seeds would never grow, for once the stalk finally fell, the ground itself would then be too cold to welcome them.”  

“I see it,” she said, but then she made the larger connection.  

The man, realizing this by the look on her face, smiled.  

“This grass can also be grown?” she inquired.  

“Easily,” he answered, “but plant only the ones with the largest seeds, like you did with your beans. Some of the new seed will be larger still, and you will then save this to plant. Much food can thus be grown and traded by your tribe.”  

She traveled home, enthused, but still her mind was troubled. How could she, only a woman, convince the stiff elders to always stay and grow things? She knew not.  

Yet, once at her tent she found that great change had already arrived. The clan’s headman, her mate’s father, had died suddenly in the night. The clan members had quickly elected the dead man’s son, her mate, to replace him.  

Now her mate was the headman of her clan, and so by extension a member of the tribe’s elders as well, albeit the youngest and most inexperienced.     

“We must always stay,” she told him. She then explained the reasons why, the same rationalities the strange man had listed. But her mate was noncommittal.  

Trying to sway him, she returned many times to the meadow to pick the ripest seed heads there, for he loved the sweet loafs they always made. The smell of them cooking alone was mesmerizing. Still, he didn’t agree to always stay.  

Each time the determined woman returned to gather, she wished again to speak to the stranger, but she never did. She couldn’t. He wasn’t there.   

One day when the cooling times came, she stood surveying her bean field. The dying plants were now bare of pods, for they had all been harvested. Because of her unwavering efforts, the plot was now just one of many in the tribe and this season they had all produced many tasty beans.    

Her mate, returning from the day’s hunt, then approached her.   

“When will you tell the elders to always stay?” she demanded.  

He sighed, not wanting to argue further.   

“To always stay may be a good idea,” he conceded, “but it’s a new idea. And I’m a new elder. They would not listen to me.”    

“You are my man,” she said slowly, her eyes hard and her jaw set, “and you should see this my way, it makes good sense. Beans keep, meat does not. They will feed us when the cold comes, a good thing if the hunting is bad.”  

This statement shocked him at first for he took it as an affront, a commentary on his competence as a provider, but that reaction soon passed. She was a good woman. She spoke the truth and undeniably it was a noble point.  

What’s more, he hadn’t even considered this view, a valid advantage. That rankled for as an elder, even a novice one, he always needed to contemplate every option. Yet now, the hardpressed man only grunted, turned and walked away.    

She turned also, back to her dead beans. What else could she do? She didn’t know.  

Much later he returned to the tent, holding a solemn face.   

“I talked to the elders,” he announced. “They agree to always stay, at least for now. The tribe can still move later, if need be.”  

Her eyes filled with tears and he took her in his arms. Then she cried outright. Next, her mate tightly hugged her.

“Good thing,” he whispered, “they all love beans.”  

Before the cold time started in earnest, she returned to the meadow. The strange man was not there. Something else was though, a gift from him, perhaps.  

She noticed dark brown, fully ripened seed heads on several of the grass stalks. These seeds had not been broadcast. She gathered them and then walked home.  

To always stay.  


I do hope you enjoyed the story.  Next week I will be featuring another author with a book that has been launched this week.  More details to come! Thanks for reading.