“Wait a minute, is that her?” I stepped closer, head tilted as I studied the broad brushstrokes which composed the face of the female dancer in Elias’s painting.

I turned back to Oscar, who stood in the center of the studio, arms folded across his chest. He nodded. “Take another look around.”

I walked the perimeter of the studio, more slowly this time, scrutinizing every female face in every painting. The sour mouth, the narrow jaw, the flint-chip eyes in the shadow of the heavy brow: they were all her. Every single woman in every painting—a decade of Elias’s work—and they were all her.

“Why would he do that? She abused him. Robbed him of every confidence. Crippled him socially. Why would he do that?”

Oscar walked to a large canvas resting on an easel. On it, the female face glared triumphantly. “It is because…I think he misses her.”

—

151 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

Many liberties were taken in the writing of this little story, and my apologies to the artist for highjacking his/her work for my own twisted purposes. The prompt was in Stockholm, however after taking a number of tours of Sweden this morning, I wound up in Copenhagen and landed in this gorgeous studio. And somehow, my Stockholm concept got tangled up in the canvas here.

The tour of this studio is an example of why I love Google maps. Here I sit on a snowy winter morning in the midwest, and yet I was transported to this bright and sunny artists studio, smelling paint, fika, and strong coffee. There are 100 billion stories out there on Google maps and I can only write them one at a time. Which is why I need your help 😉

Have a super-amazing-most-awesome day!

Karen

It took a hero.

That was the thing outsiders never understood. That, and how the dead would rise from their graves to feed upon their relatives. This was true thing. It was only a matter of time before his brother-in-law’s animated corpse fed upon his children again.

Gheorghe tipped the bottle and took another deep pull of the ţuică. He looked up at the Moon. It would take courage to see his dead uncle’s face, to drive the sickle into his heart, to burn his corpse and make the tea from his rotting Heart. He swayed against his shovel at the thought and took another swill.

When he woke up, the moon was replaced by the amber skies of dawn. He slapped a hand to his neck, feeling for a wound. Had the dead been at him? He sat up, annoyed with himself. He had to do this. Perhaps tomorrow.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

I apologize for my absence as of late. I’ve been battling insomnia. But, I got nine hours last night and feel like a new person. Or at least like an old person who has gotten nine hours of sleep.

This story was inspired by this well-written and worth-reading piece: Romanian villagers decry police investigation into vampire slaying. If you read it, you’ll see my story isn’t fiction at all.

After reading it, I plopped my Pegman down on the map in the general location described by the article and was stunned to find myself right in front of a freshly dug pit. There are more up and down the length of this street. I’m sure there’s an explanation…right?

 

 

All superstitions had been observed for the journey, even the ‘spilling of blood’, which conveniently occurred on its own when the bosun and cooper came to blows over the affections of a blue-eyed whore at a brothel in Matosinos.

A plump gray kitten was secured to bring the journey luck. The quartermaster even purchased a caul from a local midwife. They’d waited to set sail until the first day free of rolling clouds and red dawns. They’d even brought a priest to accompany them on the journey.

Portuguese sailors were notoriously uneasy about weather, and the winds blew ill in the North Sea even in the best of times. Thus, they were reassured by the priest’s presence and the promise of daily mass.

But when the storm came, the fools ran to the quarterdeck for a holy water blessing instead of manning the sails. And thus, the Oporto was lost.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

“Explain yourself,” the Inquisitor-General said. As he paced, his long cape billowed behind him. The woman rambled on, the sounds of her language a puzzle to his ears.

When she finished, the Basque translator turned. “She says they have done nothing wrong. That it is just—how you say—a ‘woman’s meeting.’”

The man snorted. “What nonsense is that? What good can come of a ‘meeting of women?’”

The translator turned, a tangled string of sounds issuing from his lips as he asked her. She answered.

“She says it is there they pass down the ancient wisdom. That they teach how to prepare the leaves that ‘bring the moon’, and what herbs will cure cangrejo. These cures render prayer unnecessary. She says this is sacred wisdom, passed mother to daughter, since the time of Mother Goddess.”

The Inspector-General walked closer, nodding. The woman dipped her head.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

—

149 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

Sorry I’m so late this week. I wrote a story I didn’t like, and wanted to do another one. I then promptly fell into a rabbit hole of fascinating research about the Basque Witch Trials that had me wishing I had more time to know this topic. As it is, this is 90% made up…

Or is it?

Looking forward to everyone’s stories this week!

Karen

Back when we was just girls, we three, we’d walk back on Sundays, red dust kicking up on church shoes, Mawusi always in the blue dress—and we’d share her an ear of tender corn, or some days two fists of banku, and we’d walk slow so she had time to eat it, talkin’ bout things the preacher said, and which we thought was sinning most—them sneaking in late to the back row still smelling like Saturday rum—us making Mawusi laugh teasing her ‘bout Teon who said he’d marry her someday. But he didn’t have a slant roof over his fool head, and no prospects beyond a strong arm. The only thing that boy was rich in was love for poor Mawusi, her with the hungry ma and the seven sisters, their eyes as big as empty plates.

Don’t know why she had to go and marry Big Aagha.

—

151 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

 

“Was it something I said?” Chloe said, eyes wide.

He sighed and shook his head. His mother was always making a scene. It was always her with the shrill scream in the fine restaurant; her with the foot stomp in the jewelry store. And just now—her flinging the croquet mallets across the lawn over a little change in dinner plans.

“It’s okay. I’m sure she’ll be fine,” he said.

“We can do the rehearsal dinner earlier. It’s no big deal.”

“Nonsense, darling. What’s a rehearsal dinner without the bride’s parents?” he wrapped an arm around Chloe’s shoulder and kissed her.

She frowned in the direction of the hotel. “I’m sorry my parents couldn’t come earlier. With Ben in intensive care, they couldn’t—”

“Look at me.”

Chloe turned.

He brushed her hair back and kissed her brow. “Listen to me. It’s time for my mother to grow up.”

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

The boy shivered against him. He wrapped one sealskin clad arm around him and pulled him closer.

In the orbit of candlelight opposite, Aput glared, her eyes as dark as the perpetual night.

There was no point in arguing with her again. A hungry wife was an angry wife. However, it wasn’t as if they’d had a choice. And the government man had promised good hunting, in a land free of white ways. He said they could return to tribal life.

But here in Resolute, game was sparse. And who could hunt in this endless night? He peered up at the stars, winking through the vent of the igloo.

“We should leave,” she said.

He forced a smile. “It will get better. Tomorrow will be better.”

She snorted, her eyes narrowing. “How will we know when it’s tomorrow? In a place with no dawn, tomorrow never comes.”

–

148 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, or to submit your own, click here.

Qausuittuq is the Inuit word for “place with no dawn”. You can read more about the High Arctic Relocation on which this story is based on Wikipedia.