The Return of Walkaway Mary

Living Sensical Press

She met me at my cabin door. She knocked. I opened.

And then she was in my arms, smothering me with kisses.

I recognized that scent, that hair, those lips.

"Mary, I..."

She put a finger on my lips. "Shhhh..."

The cabin porch shimmered around us - and disappeared.

What replaced it was the scenery of a Crater Lake, with steep sides, an unnatural circular symmetry. The hulks of shipping barges and fishing craft, grounded out on its shores. We stood on a narrow sand spit, in the light of a moon's reflected glow.

The sunken basin reeked of rotting fish, rust, and spilled oil.

"Welcome to my home, John - the one you condemned me to."


The night was quiet. No more than usual. Crickets fiddling their ancient tune. The occasional hoo-hoo of an owl. Rustling small feet as the coons and possums sought their own meals, or eluded being someone else's.

I wasn't paying attention. For the muses were playing their movies in my head, another story to recall from someone else's life experiences.

Sock feet and sweatshirt were the only unusual changes from my usual attire. The fall evening air was cool, a welcome difference from all the heat of summer. The windows of my tiny-home cabin were cracked open at the bottom, to keep the air fresh, but most of the warmth inside.

My own attention was on writing the words as I knew them to be, using only the best choices. Readers wanted to sense, to be transported, to live the vicarious lives of these characters. Only the right words would help them do that...

A knock sounded at my door. Loud. Insistent. Repeating.

Frowning, I stood – wondering who it could possibly be at this late hour.

The solid exterior door held no peephole. This wasn't New York or any city where I needed multiple locks and chains against intruders. This was the Midwest. No one lived within at least a quarter mile from me. And usually drove pickups or noisy side-by-side utility vehicles to get from here to there – well, other than those of us who walked our pastures.

The darkness and lack of noise said it wasn't someone who traveled by vehicle. My next choice was one of my familiar spirit-guides – and a half-smile came to my face at this prospect.

As I opened the door, the interior lights extinguished. Before I could try the switches by the door frame, someone came in and wrapped her arms around me. The kiss, the perfume were familiar somehow.

I was pushed backwards over to my futon-couch, where the back of my legs folded when they met its resistance.

She and I fell backwards into it – well, she was on top of me anyway, and her lips were still seeking mine.

Quickly, she grasped the bottom of my sweatshirt, pulling it and my t-shirt over my head, just to my wrists, where those clothes wadded up around my hands there.

Next, she skinned off my cotton shorts past my sock feet.

“Hey, what...”

“Shhh...” the unknown, but familiar woman cautioned me as she stood and cast something to the other end of my tiny-home cabin, where it clattered against the end wall.

Then she moved to the far wall, only a couple of steps. And tossed my dungarees and chore coat on top of my bare stomach and chest. “Get dressed.”...

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