Creative Thursday: Mystery Times Nine 2012 by Johanna Harness
Since this blog started, we've had writing posts on Mondays through Thursdays and Flash Fiction posts on Fridays. With the start of the new year, we've decided to change things up a bit. Thursdays are now Creative Thursdays, dedicated to any creative work that doesn't fit into the flash fiction category. This might include poetry, novel excerpts, photo-blogging, bits from graphic novels, scripts, song writing (video or lyrics), memoir, comedy sketches, readings or even poetry slam via youtube.
I'm happy to start off Creative Thursdays with an excerpt from my short story, "The Disappearance of Belle Robins," included in the Mystery Times Nine 2012 anthology. This is a great set of short stories selected and published by Buddhapuss Ink and includes some awesome authors from the #amwriting community. I'm really thrilled to be in such great company inside the pages of this book.
The Disappearance of Belle Robbins (a short story excerpt) by Johanna Harness
My first real memory was fear.
Frank Tully twisted the big dial on the radio and folks at the community potluck froze, forks halfway to their mouths. In utter silence, everyone leaned in to hear the announcer’s words.
At five years old, I didn’t understand. “What happened?” I asked. When no one answered, I asked again. Other than the crackle of the airwaves, my tiny voice was the only sound.
An older woman, one of those who said, “Children should be seen, not heard,” turned toward me. Her skin bunched up in deep wrinkles when she smiled. Her eyes danced. “They killed the Lindbergh baby,” she said. Then she winked. “You best be a good girl and hush or they’ll kill you too.”
I didn’t know who that baby was or who killed him, but I high-tailed it out of the Dry Lake Community Center as fast as my legs would carry me. When my mother found me hiding in a tractor shed, I collapsed into her arms, shaking and crying and begging her not to let them get me.
All during my childhood, adults trotted out the story of how Myrtle Tully scared the bejeezus out of Annie MacPherson, how that stupid kid thought baby murderers would traipse all the way to Washington State to demand ransom from a struggling sheep rancher.
I tried not to react, but the same thing always happened. The story kept growing—longer and more agonizing—until they made the tears well up—until they made me look away. Then someone always poked me in the ribs, laughed gleefully, and told me to toughen up. Eventually I did.
Twelve years later, I threw off warm covers and ignored the way the frigid air made my lungs hurt and my shoulders spasm. I rubbed a sleeve back and forth across my nose and eyes and then patted my upper body. Buckles. Straps. I’d slept in my overalls then. Good for me.
Of course, Mother would complain, like she always did. “Annie!” she’d scold. “You’re ruining my good, white sheets!”
Whatever. Mother wasn’t the one getting up around the clock to feed bawling lambs.
I dropped my feet into waiting boots and made my way down to the porch. When I’d first reported Belle Robbins missing, not even her parents believed me. They said I had abduction issues and Belle didn’t like being tied down. She’d turn up. No need to worry.
After my friend had been gone a week, Dry Lake quivered with gossip. Now, after two weeks, it seemed there were some folks who’d like nothing better than the entertainment of a local girl turning up dead.
I shivered and looked out toward the shadow of the barn. I couldn’t be the only teenage girl to feel it—that sense that the community might sacrifice any of us for a little news of blood.
I rubbed my arms, stomped my feet, and tried to get my teeth to quit chattering. Nothing seemed amiss. It was a dark morning just like any other. I couldn’t see any reason to think danger lurked nearby. Of course, that might have been what Belle thought, right before she vanished.
I'm happy to start off Creative Thursdays with an excerpt from my short story, "The Disappearance of Belle Robins," included in the Mystery Times Nine 2012 anthology. This is a great set of short stories selected and published by Buddhapuss Ink and includes some awesome authors from the #amwriting community. I'm really thrilled to be in such great company inside the pages of this book.
The Disappearance of Belle Robbins (a short story excerpt) by Johanna Harness
My first real memory was fear.
Frank Tully twisted the big dial on the radio and folks at the community potluck froze, forks halfway to their mouths. In utter silence, everyone leaned in to hear the announcer’s words.
At five years old, I didn’t understand. “What happened?” I asked. When no one answered, I asked again. Other than the crackle of the airwaves, my tiny voice was the only sound.
An older woman, one of those who said, “Children should be seen, not heard,” turned toward me. Her skin bunched up in deep wrinkles when she smiled. Her eyes danced. “They killed the Lindbergh baby,” she said. Then she winked. “You best be a good girl and hush or they’ll kill you too.”
I didn’t know who that baby was or who killed him, but I high-tailed it out of the Dry Lake Community Center as fast as my legs would carry me. When my mother found me hiding in a tractor shed, I collapsed into her arms, shaking and crying and begging her not to let them get me.
All during my childhood, adults trotted out the story of how Myrtle Tully scared the bejeezus out of Annie MacPherson, how that stupid kid thought baby murderers would traipse all the way to Washington State to demand ransom from a struggling sheep rancher.
I tried not to react, but the same thing always happened. The story kept growing—longer and more agonizing—until they made the tears well up—until they made me look away. Then someone always poked me in the ribs, laughed gleefully, and told me to toughen up. Eventually I did.
Twelve years later, I threw off warm covers and ignored the way the frigid air made my lungs hurt and my shoulders spasm. I rubbed a sleeve back and forth across my nose and eyes and then patted my upper body. Buckles. Straps. I’d slept in my overalls then. Good for me.
Of course, Mother would complain, like she always did. “Annie!” she’d scold. “You’re ruining my good, white sheets!”
Whatever. Mother wasn’t the one getting up around the clock to feed bawling lambs.
I dropped my feet into waiting boots and made my way down to the porch. When I’d first reported Belle Robbins missing, not even her parents believed me. They said I had abduction issues and Belle didn’t like being tied down. She’d turn up. No need to worry.
After my friend had been gone a week, Dry Lake quivered with gossip. Now, after two weeks, it seemed there were some folks who’d like nothing better than the entertainment of a local girl turning up dead.
I shivered and looked out toward the shadow of the barn. I couldn’t be the only teenage girl to feel it—that sense that the community might sacrifice any of us for a little news of blood.
I rubbed my arms, stomped my feet, and tried to get my teeth to quit chattering. Nothing seemed amiss. It was a dark morning just like any other. I couldn’t see any reason to think danger lurked nearby. Of course, that might have been what Belle thought, right before she vanished.
