Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story where water plays a role. It can be a lake, a river, the sea; rain or just some water to drink.
This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, is available from her locally or on Amazon. MISTER WOLFE, the sequel, coming soon, as well as MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series.
“It’s in the Eyes” by Cathy MacKenzie
Chet stops by the clump of trees along the bank of Mira Lake, which flows into the Atlantic Ocean. He clearly sees the object that rhythmically sways as if in tune to music.
Without hesitation, he jumps in. The water is deep, and as he nears, the colours become brighter and bolder. The female is mired in brambles. He tries to disentangle her, but it’s impossible—and too late. Her limbs flail, hampering his progress.
Her bulging eyes glisten and sparkle. Did she cry before the water swallowed the tears whole? At the instant life departed from her eyes, did time stop for her? Was it like a wave high in the sky before it plummeted upon an unsuspecting swimmer? Did she have any inkling what was to befall her?
Will the woman’s motions eventually stop, or will she flounder forever until creatures scavenge the flesh?
Too many unanswered questions.
He swims to the surface, flapping his arms and kicking his legs, and when he explodes into sunlight, he faces the sky, inhales a great breath, and howls.
He wakes when the sun rises. He slips from bed and stands by the bedroom window. Shades of flaming red splash across the horizon, reminding him of Jennifer’s hair splaying underwater.
And the eyes!
Isn’t it always in the eyes? The eyes of Jennifer. The eyes of Isabel. The eyes of Barb.
Jennifer stared—dead yet alive—her motions performing a version of a weird dance. Alive yet dead.
Isabel was the easiest. Her eyes remained open for eight minutes—he’d counted—but closed when she succumbed, disappearing forever into the ocean’s depths. No graceful dance—not even an odd dance—for her.
Barb? Her eyes were amber. Sneaky like a cat. He’d never forget those eyes. And her name? Had she been born a Barbara? He once knew a Cindy whose legal name hadn’t been Cynthia.
Cindy. Another one.
And other women. Had to have been more.
He combs his fingers through his hair, wishing he can remember. He yawns and rubs his eyes. He hardly slept. The same nightmares every night. The women, all dancing under water with bold, wide eyes…
He didn’t do anything; he’s positive he didn’t. Yet—
Those time lapses. Blackouts. Missing blocks of time.
He hates how he occasionally wakes, day or night, not remembering what had transpired the previous few hours.
He yawns again. No matter. Not as if he can do anything about it now. The past is the past. Where it must remain.
He returns to bed, dreading the clear-as-day night dream that will wash over him again.
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/