Crow image by Washington Whitten
Poe girl is my tribute to Edgar Allen Poe. The Cask of the Amontillado ignited my passion for telling stories. Or perhaps it was Mother Goose and the brothers Grimm. Either way Edgar has my heart.
Photo by Ron Armstrong
That corny old saying was finally ringing true for me: Today was the first day of the rest of my life.
It's been a road full of potholes, but tonight I'll be riding on smooth asphalt because my position as brew master and CEO of Cranium Breweries goes public. The ebbs were ruthless, jarring—even excruciating, but tonight the respect, happiness, and my precious ale Captiva will flow.
I opened the front door, grabbed the newspaper, and let my best friend Fortunato in. This gorgeous creature was my guardian, my best friend, but most of all, my savior. He's a stunning black-masked, red-coated Afghan hound. "Good morning, Forti. Did you have a good run?"
My companion wiggled and wagged his tail every time he saw me. No matter what, he loved me.
I kissed his cold, wet nose. "It's a great day, Forti. I feel like a queen and tonight's ball is my coronation. I'm taking the paper to my throne to read about my kingdom and what my loyal subjects are saying."
I couldn't remember the last time hope, love, and coffee started my day. My wish was to turn it into a daily reality.
The radiant heating under the tiles on the bathroom floor warmed my bare feet. Each toe savored the warmth on this crisp fall morning. Autumn was harvest time—you reap what you sow, as the saying goes, and I've sweated tirelessly planting the seeds for a bountiful life. I was going to take a few minutes to enjoy this new feeling.
My panties dropped to my ankles as I sat on my top-of-the-line throne. The bathroom was a sacred place. When I remodeled, I indulged in every one of my whims to feel comfortable, luxurious, and safe. The seat was heated and plush. I adjusted myself to the most relaxed position and began to read the daily paper.
A picture of Anita Robinson's constipated face appeared next to her byline, grabbing my attention. I wanted to vomit. I was in the right spot for heaving and hurling but in the wrong position. The photo hypnotized me. I was afraid that if I stared too long I'd turn to stone. This hag was a modern day Medusa. She possessed a head full of red curls, green eyes set too close, and the teeth of a piranha. I groaned.
Fortunato ran into my royal powder room to check on me. He took his usual seat and faced me. Usually this would make me laugh, but today I looked at Fortunato, then at Anita’s fiery red head, and was shocked by the difference between the two gingers. My animal was exquisite. The human was a beast.
I caressed Fortunato's red coat. "Well, Forti, let's see what the swine wrote," I said, and then I read the article.
Since the death of her husband, Leah Cranium has successfully finished a batch of the family's trademark porter ale, Captiva. This unique brew has been a family legacy since 1915. At present, it is in the hands of a Cranium by marriage. This challenge would be daunting for a blood relative with ale in their blood, but for someone with cheap beer flowing through their veins, well, I cringe at the obstacles Mrs. Cranium will face. Her humble background, lack of formal education and work experience, and, let's face it, lack of pedigree create just a few stumbling blocks she'll need to navigate in order to be a successful brew master, a brew master of one of the oldest and most successful breweries in local history.
Allow me to draw you a stein of brew master particulars. It's customary for the wife to be in charge of all things social and charitable. The brew master is in charge of brewing, experimenting with yeasts, and formulating recipes. This particular position is run with expertise, an artisans flair, and a head for business. I hope Mrs. Cranium is up for the task. Her inaugural batch of liquid courage will make or break Cranium Breweries. Will this novice from simple beginnings destroy an empire? All eyes and palates eagerly await the answer when Leah Cranium unveils her first batch of Captiva as acting CEO and brew master during the annual Witches’ Brewfest. All proceeds from the annual brew and chew benefit The House of Hope, a safe house for victims of domestic violence.
Anita Robinson
Photo by Daniel Norwood
"Enough!" I slammed the poisonous tabloid masquerading as journalism on my immaculate marble vanity. My royal doody of tending to fecal matters ended. I wiped, then used the bidet to ensure cleanliness, but my anger resulted in a major blunder. I forgot to flush.
The well established ritual began. Again. I walked five steps, touched the wall, and then paced six steps back toward the toilet. It was a comforting routine I knew too well. Calm down. Think. I'm safe. He's not here anymore. "It's okay. I'm okay," I said. Three, four, five, turn. "I've taken her countless attacks, hoping they would go away." One, two, three. "I've ignored this woman, taken the high road, yet she continues to insult me." Four, five, six. "This . . . this is bullshit. Cheap beer runs through my blood? Her blood is riddled with rancid words—there's too much acidity in her system. This doesn't fare well for the CEO and head brew master of the most prestigious and successful brewery in local history." One, two, three, four. "It's my duty and honor to balance the imbalance in her system." Five, six. "My professional ability will not be assaulted." One, two. "Stop! Stop pacing. I'm in charge. Anita Robinson must pay."
I worked myself into a high pitched scream, frightening my beloved companion. When I seized the offending rag of a newspaper, it slipped out of my hand and fell into the toilet, snapping me out of my rage.
Fortunato settled down and, apparently wanting to see what I was looking at, jumped up and placed both paws on the toilet and stared at the irony. The number one beer critic swam with my number two.
"Forti, can you feel the vicious words impaling my soul?" I looked at my confidante with kind eyes, considerate nature, and understanding heart, and then looked at the paper with Anita's picture bathing in excrement. Any other day, this would've amused me. Today it drove me mad. Revenge poisoned my hopes for a new life. The words erupted from me: "NEMO ME IMPUNE LACESSIT.” No one attacks me with impunity and gets away with it. It may take an award winning performance to submit to her, but in the end, I’ll get my revenge.
Fortunato ran to my side ready to do battle. I caressed his red coat and explained my frustration. "Oh sure, she may be known as the connoisseur of ale, but she's ignorant of my true brewing abilities, just like everyone else. What they don't know, what they can't possibly comprehend, is that when Richard was alive I was the brew master. Me, not him. He was the last of the renowned Cranium heirs. The man possessed no talent for brewing good beer, let alone running a business. I did. And I did very well."
Fortunato relaxed and lay by my feet while I continued to confide in him.
"That was my old life, Forti. I'm in the conditioning phase now."
Conditioning was the brewing process of creating condition, otherwise known as carbonation in the finished beer. This was the technical definition. Actually, it referred to the period of maturation, where the sparkle, the pizazz, and the special je ne sais quoi was added. Warm condition referred to the moment when the liquid fearlessness developed more complex flavors.
"Countless nights my late husband Richard pounded me like concrete with his defective jackhammer, slurring what a simpleton I was—then moaning Anita's name.” I said, reminded now of my past. As if it weren’t enough he had to be abusive and a liar but he also had to cheat on me too-with that woman, of all people. It seemed I hit the trifecta of excellent-spousal- traits when choosing a mate. But it was just a phase. I could see that now. Richard had just been an unfortunate stage I went through. Warm conditioning was a brutal process… but it made the product stronger.
Cold conditioning is where the clean round taste is imparted into the brew. Then the ale was ripened and ready to flourish, evolving into the life of the party. During my cold conditioning phase my brewing frustrations, rage and helplessness unified then blended into a fine ale featuring the secret ingredient-vengeance. As the process was coming to an end I murmured a quote written by Walter Scott in The Heart of Mid-Lothian “Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.” It was in that moment I knew the perfect place for carrying out my plan was at the original Brew House. "I'll raise my mug to that. Cold conditioning indeed.”
"Enough!" I slammed the poisonous tabloid masquerading as journalism on my immaculate marble vanity. My royal doody of tending to fecal matters ended. I wiped, then used the bidet to ensure cleanliness, but my anger resulted in a major blunder. I forgot to flush.
The well established ritual began. Again. I walked five steps, touched the wall, and then paced six steps back toward the toilet. It was a comforting routine I knew too well. Calm down. Think. I'm safe. He's not here anymore. "It's okay. I'm okay," I said. Three, four, five, turn. "I've taken her countless attacks, hoping they would go away." One, two, three. "I've ignored this woman, taken the high road, yet she continues to insult me." Four, five, six. "This . . . this is bullshit. Cheap beer runs through my blood? Her blood is riddled with rancid words—there's too much acidity in her system. This doesn't fare well for the CEO and head brew master of the most prestigious and successful brewery in local history." One, two, three, four. "It's my duty and honor to balance the imbalance in her system." Five, six. "My professional ability will not be assaulted." One, two. "Stop! Stop pacing. I'm in charge. Anita Robinson must pay."
I worked myself into a high pitched scream, frightening my beloved companion. When I seized the offending rag of a newspaper, it slipped out of my hand and fell into the toilet, snapping me out of my rage.
Fortunato settled down and, apparently wanting to see what I was looking at, jumped up and placed both paws on the toilet and stared at the irony. The number one beer critic swam with my number two.
"Forti, can you feel the vicious words impaling my soul?" I looked at my confidante with kind eyes, considerate nature, and understanding heart, and then looked at the paper with Anita's picture bathing in excrement. Any other day, this would've amused me. Today it drove me mad. Revenge poisoned my hopes for a new life. The words erupted from me: "NEMO ME IMPUNE LACESSIT.” No one attacks me with impunity and gets away with it. It may take an award winning performance to submit to her, but in the end, I’ll get my revenge.
Fortunato ran to my side ready to do battle. I caressed his red coat and explained my frustration. "Oh sure, she may be known as the connoisseur of ale, but she's ignorant of my true brewing abilities, just like everyone else. What they don't know, what they can't possibly comprehend, is that when Richard was alive I was the brew master. Me, not him. He was the last of the renowned Cranium heirs. The man possessed no talent for brewing good beer, let alone running a business. I did. And I did very well."
Fortunato relaxed and lay by my feet while I continued to confide in him.
"That was my old life, Forti. I'm in the conditioning phase now."
Conditioning was the brewing process of creating condition, otherwise known as carbonation in the finished beer. This was the technical definition. Actually, it referred to the period of maturation, where the sparkle, the pizazz, and the special je ne sais quoi was added. Warm condition referred to the moment when the liquid fearlessness developed more complex flavors.
"Countless nights my late husband Richard pounded me like concrete with his defective jackhammer, slurring what a simpleton I was—then moaning Anita's name.” I said, reminded now of my past. As if it weren’t enough he had to be abusive and a liar but he also had to cheat on me too-with that woman, of all people. It seemed I hit the trifecta of excellent-spousal- traits when choosing a mate. But it was just a phase. I could see that now. Richard had just been an unfortunate stage I went through. Warm conditioning was a brutal process… but it made the product stronger.
Cold conditioning is where the clean round taste is imparted into the brew. Then the ale was ripened and ready to flourish, evolving into the life of the party. During my cold conditioning phase my brewing frustrations, rage and helplessness unified then blended into a fine ale featuring the secret ingredient-vengeance. As the process was coming to an end I murmured a quote written by Walter Scott in The Heart of Mid-Lothian “Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.” It was in that moment I knew the perfect place for carrying out my plan was at the original Brew House. "I'll raise my mug to that. Cold conditioning indeed.”
Photo by Domen Jakus
The annual Witches’ Brewfest was the perfect venue for my plan. It was the biggest fundraising event of the year for The House of Hope. This particular charity was a safe house for battered women and children. Restaurants, microbreweries, artists, and musicians from all over the region would rent booths to market themselves and give back to the community. The attendance on Halloween night was always staggering because it was a costume party as well.
It was a bewitching event where costumes enable the revelers to portray who they really are under the masquerade of being something else. Most people squirmed being their genuine selves, so they opened their pocketbooks a little wider to ease the guilt of their debauchery, thus making the Witches’ Brewfest a successful and prosperous charity event. Everyone wanted to be a part of it, even the monsters dressed as angels, the cowards portraying super heroes, or the innocents impersonating outlaws. It was a clash between genuine souls and the forgeries. The carnival was the perfect place to launch my first batch of Captiva as the publicly known brew master, begin my new life as an independent woman, and take care of old business.
All Hallow's Eve arrived and the beer flowed; music blared, while the smell of fried food hung in the air like hops on a filter. Laughter was plentiful, and a long line of ghosts, goblins, and sexy maids waited to indulge in my microbrew. Captiva was a success with the carnival-goers. Everyone—except for me—was in a charitable mood. Rage simmered inside, strangling my compassionate nature. If I didn't bring it to a boil, it would fester. I didn't want to die from this disease.
When I saw Anita approaching my beer garden, I realized my costume was exactly what I needed for my plan to go smoothly. She was dressed in a turn of the century gown the colors of a peacock. A diamond-encrusted tiara ruled the top of her head, governing her fiery red curls. She held the accessory every queen desired, a silver bell to ring when a minion was required. Our costumes echoed the dichotomy of our real life personalities—I portrayed a tavern wench, a mere servant, and she was a royal bitch.
"Leah, hello," Anita said, walking toward me. She stopped to extinguish her cigarette in a deserted plate of half-eaten potato salad, then had the audacity to air kiss my cheeks. She was overly friendly and overly drunk. Her breath reeked of my competitor's pale ale, and the grease and crumbs from the fried mushrooms stained the neckline of her gown. Her sloppiness and intoxication indicated to me that she was ready for the cask—or rather, the casket phase. This refers to the secondary stage of fermentation and maturation in the cask at the point of sale, when light carbonation is created. I wonder if Anita will see the light and repent her sins to me when I’m finished with the casket-I mean cask phase?
"Anita, nice to see you. I'm honored you stopped by my booth." I lowered my head in a show of submission. Now the question was, do I laugh, gag, or continue this subservient charade? Then I remembered my conditioning, my newborn spine, and stuck to the plan. "Captiva is a success, but I realize I must diversify in order to compete." I slumped my shoulders, adjusting my body language to reassure her of her self righteous superiority. "I've just finished a new recipe for a light pale ale. It's made with huckleberries." I cleared my throat, then looked her in the eyes. "Anita, um, Ms. Robinson, I know you're an important woman, but I'd be honored if you would come taste it when you can spare the time and give me your opinion?" The words gushed out of my mouth, but I straightened my posture, waiting for her response.
"Huckleberries?" she spat. "Huckleberries? There have only been a few—a rare few—who could make a nice ale made with huckleberries. You're an ambitious novice, Leah. I'm intrigued. I want to taste it now." She rang her little bell, and a lackey brought her a shawl. A loud exhale escaped me, and I realized I held my breath. The fermentation process was going much more smoothly than I had anticipated. Her ego and superior attitude provoked her curiosity, forcing her to come along with me. I expected it would take more work to persuade her. Who was the simple one now?
"Ms. Robinson, thank you, but I can't impose on you tonight. I'm sure you have more exciting plans on Halloween than to babysit a new brew master." I reined in my giddiness.
"It's the least I can do," she said as she pulled out her compact and checked her make up. "Richard was an old friend of mine. I feel I owe it to his friendship to make sure his legacy won't be ruined." She snapped her compact shut with a loud snap. "No offense, dear," she added with a contrived smile.
"Well, if you're sure it's not an imposition? The batch is at the original brew house down in the cellar. I felt it was the perfect place to experiment. There are no employees snooping around. You understand, I'm sure, what with me being a beginner and all." I fought the urge to grab the back of her head and slam her face into a nearby table, or to perform a lobotomy to rid "dear" from her vocabulary. If I were dressed like a female wrestler or Hannibal Lechter, I may have given in to my impulse. I imagined thanking my dearly departed husband for teaching me patience in the midst of turmoil.
The annual Witches’ Brewfest was the perfect venue for my plan. It was the biggest fundraising event of the year for The House of Hope. This particular charity was a safe house for battered women and children. Restaurants, microbreweries, artists, and musicians from all over the region would rent booths to market themselves and give back to the community. The attendance on Halloween night was always staggering because it was a costume party as well.
It was a bewitching event where costumes enable the revelers to portray who they really are under the masquerade of being something else. Most people squirmed being their genuine selves, so they opened their pocketbooks a little wider to ease the guilt of their debauchery, thus making the Witches’ Brewfest a successful and prosperous charity event. Everyone wanted to be a part of it, even the monsters dressed as angels, the cowards portraying super heroes, or the innocents impersonating outlaws. It was a clash between genuine souls and the forgeries. The carnival was the perfect place to launch my first batch of Captiva as the publicly known brew master, begin my new life as an independent woman, and take care of old business.
All Hallow's Eve arrived and the beer flowed; music blared, while the smell of fried food hung in the air like hops on a filter. Laughter was plentiful, and a long line of ghosts, goblins, and sexy maids waited to indulge in my microbrew. Captiva was a success with the carnival-goers. Everyone—except for me—was in a charitable mood. Rage simmered inside, strangling my compassionate nature. If I didn't bring it to a boil, it would fester. I didn't want to die from this disease.
When I saw Anita approaching my beer garden, I realized my costume was exactly what I needed for my plan to go smoothly. She was dressed in a turn of the century gown the colors of a peacock. A diamond-encrusted tiara ruled the top of her head, governing her fiery red curls. She held the accessory every queen desired, a silver bell to ring when a minion was required. Our costumes echoed the dichotomy of our real life personalities—I portrayed a tavern wench, a mere servant, and she was a royal bitch.
"Leah, hello," Anita said, walking toward me. She stopped to extinguish her cigarette in a deserted plate of half-eaten potato salad, then had the audacity to air kiss my cheeks. She was overly friendly and overly drunk. Her breath reeked of my competitor's pale ale, and the grease and crumbs from the fried mushrooms stained the neckline of her gown. Her sloppiness and intoxication indicated to me that she was ready for the cask—or rather, the casket phase. This refers to the secondary stage of fermentation and maturation in the cask at the point of sale, when light carbonation is created. I wonder if Anita will see the light and repent her sins to me when I’m finished with the casket-I mean cask phase?
"Anita, nice to see you. I'm honored you stopped by my booth." I lowered my head in a show of submission. Now the question was, do I laugh, gag, or continue this subservient charade? Then I remembered my conditioning, my newborn spine, and stuck to the plan. "Captiva is a success, but I realize I must diversify in order to compete." I slumped my shoulders, adjusting my body language to reassure her of her self righteous superiority. "I've just finished a new recipe for a light pale ale. It's made with huckleberries." I cleared my throat, then looked her in the eyes. "Anita, um, Ms. Robinson, I know you're an important woman, but I'd be honored if you would come taste it when you can spare the time and give me your opinion?" The words gushed out of my mouth, but I straightened my posture, waiting for her response.
"Huckleberries?" she spat. "Huckleberries? There have only been a few—a rare few—who could make a nice ale made with huckleberries. You're an ambitious novice, Leah. I'm intrigued. I want to taste it now." She rang her little bell, and a lackey brought her a shawl. A loud exhale escaped me, and I realized I held my breath. The fermentation process was going much more smoothly than I had anticipated. Her ego and superior attitude provoked her curiosity, forcing her to come along with me. I expected it would take more work to persuade her. Who was the simple one now?
"Ms. Robinson, thank you, but I can't impose on you tonight. I'm sure you have more exciting plans on Halloween than to babysit a new brew master." I reined in my giddiness.
"It's the least I can do," she said as she pulled out her compact and checked her make up. "Richard was an old friend of mine. I feel I owe it to his friendship to make sure his legacy won't be ruined." She snapped her compact shut with a loud snap. "No offense, dear," she added with a contrived smile.
"Well, if you're sure it's not an imposition? The batch is at the original brew house down in the cellar. I felt it was the perfect place to experiment. There are no employees snooping around. You understand, I'm sure, what with me being a beginner and all." I fought the urge to grab the back of her head and slam her face into a nearby table, or to perform a lobotomy to rid "dear" from her vocabulary. If I were dressed like a female wrestler or Hannibal Lechter, I may have given in to my impulse. I imagined thanking my dearly departed husband for teaching me patience in the midst of turmoil.
Photo by DncnH
The brew house was close, so we walked. Well, I walked. She stumbled. I contained my contempt at the sight of her catching her shoe on the bottom of her gown over and over. There were a few close calls when she nearly fell on her face into the street, but even in her drunken state, she walked like a queen while ringing that damned little bell.
When we arrived, I grabbed her arm as if she were an old woman who couldn't walk without assistance. We worked our way across the marble floor in the foyer toward the stairway, and then she stopped suddenly and stared. Two coats of arms hung over the mantle. The first depicted a red shield with a silver dog. It belonged to the Craniums and had hung there for an eternity. The second one belonged to my family, the Amontillados: a red lion holding a sword over a yellow background. The words "Nemo me impune lacessit" underscored the lion. I hung it earlier in the day.
"I recognize the Cranium's coat of arms—the other I do not. Does it belong to your family, Leah?" Anita asked with genuine curiosity. "What's the phrase on the bottom say? Is it Latin?" She squinted her drunken eyes to try and make out the words. "What does it mean?"
I hesitated. Her astuteness surprised me. My stomach turned, and I fought the urge to pace. Squelching the butterflies, I stood erect and looked into her bloodshot eyes. "It's my family's motto," I said. "Allow me to interpret it for you: No one messes with me and gets away with it."
Her sickening laughter came instantaneously. "Leah, that's from your family? Fabulous!" She threw back her head and cackled some more. "I don't believe it, but it's fabulous."
I grabbed her arm again, this time not so delicately, and steered her toward the staircase leading to the cellar. I refrained from throwing her down them—it wasn't easy, but I restrained myself. Then, I gently took her arm and cooed into her ear, "Come now, Anita. I know you don't have a lot of time. You're a prominent and well-respected writer. You will be missed at the festival." I regained control of the situation.
The brew house was close, so we walked. Well, I walked. She stumbled. I contained my contempt at the sight of her catching her shoe on the bottom of her gown over and over. There were a few close calls when she nearly fell on her face into the street, but even in her drunken state, she walked like a queen while ringing that damned little bell.
When we arrived, I grabbed her arm as if she were an old woman who couldn't walk without assistance. We worked our way across the marble floor in the foyer toward the stairway, and then she stopped suddenly and stared. Two coats of arms hung over the mantle. The first depicted a red shield with a silver dog. It belonged to the Craniums and had hung there for an eternity. The second one belonged to my family, the Amontillados: a red lion holding a sword over a yellow background. The words "Nemo me impune lacessit" underscored the lion. I hung it earlier in the day.
"I recognize the Cranium's coat of arms—the other I do not. Does it belong to your family, Leah?" Anita asked with genuine curiosity. "What's the phrase on the bottom say? Is it Latin?" She squinted her drunken eyes to try and make out the words. "What does it mean?"
I hesitated. Her astuteness surprised me. My stomach turned, and I fought the urge to pace. Squelching the butterflies, I stood erect and looked into her bloodshot eyes. "It's my family's motto," I said. "Allow me to interpret it for you: No one messes with me and gets away with it."
Her sickening laughter came instantaneously. "Leah, that's from your family? Fabulous!" She threw back her head and cackled some more. "I don't believe it, but it's fabulous."
I grabbed her arm again, this time not so delicately, and steered her toward the staircase leading to the cellar. I refrained from throwing her down them—it wasn't easy, but I restrained myself. Then, I gently took her arm and cooed into her ear, "Come now, Anita. I know you don't have a lot of time. You're a prominent and well-respected writer. You will be missed at the festival." I regained control of the situation.
Photo by Me
The staircase was steep and long, exactly thirty-seven steps to the bottom. And every step Anita took, the blasted silver bell rang. It got under my skin. At step twenty-two, Anita went into a wheezing and coughing fit. I held her tighter so she wouldn't fall, then helped her sit down on the step. She was having a nasty asthma attack. I eased her head down between her knees so she could catch her breath. This wasn't easy because of the yards and yards of taffeta. It felt like a lifetime before she stopped.
"Anita, are you all right? Do you have one of those inhalers?" I asked with genuine concern. I was not about to let her check out on me now.
"No, I don't have an inhaler because I haven't had an attack in years. The dampness in this musty dungeon triggered it. I'm fine," she said, still a little shaky.
"Anita, are you sure? We can do this another time. Your health is important," I continued, with my mock maternal tending.
"Stop coddling me," she snapped, recovering from her show of weakness. "I'm a reporter and can handle anything. If someone like you can work down here, I certainly can walk down these stairs. Let's go." Her bell rang the remaining fifteen steps.
When we arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she shrugged her arm out of my hold. She took off her glass slippers, grabbed the bottom of her dress, and strutted without further assistance. "For God's sake, Leah, how much farther do we have to go?"
I ignored her tone and grabbed the flashlights I stashed earlier, and then handed one to her. I hoped she'd lose the bell, but instead she let her gown fall to the ground, freeing a hand, and took the flashlight. I turned mine on and led the way. There wasn't much light until you came to the end of the hallway. Fortunato was waiting for me in a hidden spot.
Between the darkness and my sidekick, I was comforted, and my strength renewed. "Did you know that Richard was really into the medieval dungeon games?" I asked.
Anita smirked. "Leah, I'm not going to pretend anymore that you don't know Richard and I had an affair." The darkness appeared to be reviving her pompousness, likely aided by the gallons of alcohol she’d clearly drunk. "Of course I knew about his taste for danger. He loved to role-play during our little liaisons. He would be the lord of the manor, and I would be the . . ." She stopped mid-sentence as she noticed the shackles attached to the wall. "What is that?" she asked.
It took me a minute to recover from what she just revealed. Yes, I knew about the affair, but her boldness and insolence, and the pride in the way she addressed me knocked me off guard. The contempt seeped from her pores along with the odor of the large quantity of alcohol. Her tone was repulsive, even for her standards. She held no respect for me, not even as a fellow human being.
I took a deep breath, rebounding from the verbal attack. Her attitude reminded me of why we were here, so I aimed the beam of light toward the chains and shackles, and for the first time this evening, I unleashed a bona fide smile.
The staircase was steep and long, exactly thirty-seven steps to the bottom. And every step Anita took, the blasted silver bell rang. It got under my skin. At step twenty-two, Anita went into a wheezing and coughing fit. I held her tighter so she wouldn't fall, then helped her sit down on the step. She was having a nasty asthma attack. I eased her head down between her knees so she could catch her breath. This wasn't easy because of the yards and yards of taffeta. It felt like a lifetime before she stopped.
"Anita, are you all right? Do you have one of those inhalers?" I asked with genuine concern. I was not about to let her check out on me now.
"No, I don't have an inhaler because I haven't had an attack in years. The dampness in this musty dungeon triggered it. I'm fine," she said, still a little shaky.
"Anita, are you sure? We can do this another time. Your health is important," I continued, with my mock maternal tending.
"Stop coddling me," she snapped, recovering from her show of weakness. "I'm a reporter and can handle anything. If someone like you can work down here, I certainly can walk down these stairs. Let's go." Her bell rang the remaining fifteen steps.
When we arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she shrugged her arm out of my hold. She took off her glass slippers, grabbed the bottom of her dress, and strutted without further assistance. "For God's sake, Leah, how much farther do we have to go?"
I ignored her tone and grabbed the flashlights I stashed earlier, and then handed one to her. I hoped she'd lose the bell, but instead she let her gown fall to the ground, freeing a hand, and took the flashlight. I turned mine on and led the way. There wasn't much light until you came to the end of the hallway. Fortunato was waiting for me in a hidden spot.
Between the darkness and my sidekick, I was comforted, and my strength renewed. "Did you know that Richard was really into the medieval dungeon games?" I asked.
Anita smirked. "Leah, I'm not going to pretend anymore that you don't know Richard and I had an affair." The darkness appeared to be reviving her pompousness, likely aided by the gallons of alcohol she’d clearly drunk. "Of course I knew about his taste for danger. He loved to role-play during our little liaisons. He would be the lord of the manor, and I would be the . . ." She stopped mid-sentence as she noticed the shackles attached to the wall. "What is that?" she asked.
It took me a minute to recover from what she just revealed. Yes, I knew about the affair, but her boldness and insolence, and the pride in the way she addressed me knocked me off guard. The contempt seeped from her pores along with the odor of the large quantity of alcohol. Her tone was repulsive, even for her standards. She held no respect for me, not even as a fellow human being.
I took a deep breath, rebounding from the verbal attack. Her attitude reminded me of why we were here, so I aimed the beam of light toward the chains and shackles, and for the first time this evening, I unleashed a bona fide smile.
Photo by Randy Von Liski
"Ahh, yes. This is what I was talking about," I said. "The Cranium family legend states that these are the shackles that Richard's ancestors used on competitors who tried to steal the original recipe for Captiva. Richard idolized these shackles. He was obsessed with power and control, just like his ancestors."
Anita edged closer, a smirk forming on her lips as she took in this piece of history.
"Would you like a closer look?" I asked, though she was already climbing up on the small platform, trying to get a closer look at them, when the moment presented itself. I snatched her blood red curls with my fingers and smashed her head into the wall. She slid down the wall like the ale flowing from a full keg. I lifted up my persecutor, turned her around, and then expertly secured her to the shackles. The long hours of practice paid off. I took a moment to relish this victory—until the sound of her bell brought me back into the moment.
She came around pretty fast. I worked so intently securing her wrists that I paid no attention to the damned bell still clasped in her hand.
The moment she realized what happened, her screams began. Each shriek was accompanied by a loud ringing of the bell. The constant noise penetrated my head, agitating me.
I rubbed my temples, closed my eyes from the ruckus, and then cracked. "Shut up! Shut up!"
I back-handed her with a fierce slap. The blunt force sobered her, and she became quiet and still. I had to stand still and catch my breath. The chaos overwhelmed me. The room was spinning, and I needed silence. I practiced the Lamaze breathing techniques I learned while coaching my pregnant sister. And it worked.
It's funny, the breathing that supports you during birth also prepares you for death.
"Leah, what the hell are you doing?" she demanded. It seems her terror subsided, and she was trying to intimidate me while shackled in a dark, damp cellar. I guess I should have admired this trait as it's taken me years to stand up for myself. Perhaps she's leading by example.
Then the wheezing began again. Finally, she's taking me seriously.
"Hush, you aren't going to have another coughing fit, are you? It's unattractive." Her sudden weakness disgusted me.
I approached my toolbox, which I brought down earlier, and pulled out my trowel.
I watched rather gleefully while her eyes widened at the stack of bricks and bucket of mortar next to my toolbox. She was an observant creature. I'll give her that. I guess it's one of the special gifts that creates an excellent beer critic, reporter, and whore.
"Anita, you know all about my humble beginnings—you know, the beginnings you always reference when addressing me? But did you know I come from a long line of masons? I know, I know—you're going to say, 'Isn't it a group exclusive to men?' Yes, but since there was no male heir in my family, my grandfather taught me. He even shared the secret rituals performed in the club to initiate new members."
She was stunned or scared—I'm not sure which—but I continued chatting, while Fortunato came out of his hiding place to sit beside me.
"Masonry is just one of the many trades I'm skilled at. Let me give you a run-down of my resume," I said, as I carried on with the building of her tomb. "I was the beer master at Cranium Breweries the entire time I was married to Richard. Well, except for the first year. Do you remember the year of all the disasters? The one where they used all available PR at their disposal to make it appear that the beer had been tainted by infiltrators from another brewery? Except every mishap occurred because of Richard's ignorance. He did not possess a talent for brewing, for business, or for anything which required a brain."
I let out a belly laugh when I realized his last name was Cranium, though he was really dumb. The song "Ironic" instantly popped into my head, and I began to sing:
Isn't it ironic? Don't you think? It's like ray-ey-ain on your wedding day. It's a free ride when you've already paid. It's the good advice that you just didn't take. Who would've thought . . . it figures.
Anita was horrified, but I just looked at her with curiosity and asked, "Don't you like the song?"
"Is this because I had an affair with Richard?" she whimpered.
My God, she's as stupid as he was. "No, you see, as I was saying, Richard had no talent for the business, except for the schmoozing part. He was the face of Cranium Breweries, and what a handsome face it was. If you don't remember his drop-dead good looks, you can see for yourself. He's in the vault right next to you." Fortunato jumped and growled at the offending crypt. "Down Forti," I commanded, then turned back to my guest. "Although his face is probably gone by now. Flesh has a way of going away with time." I shrugged my shoulders and grinned like the Cheshire cat.
Fear seeped into my secured antagonist. "You killed him?" she screamed and rang the blasted bell. I remained calm and busy working while she was throwing a tantrum. When she stopped screaming she tried to regain composure and finished her questioning. ”I thought he was presumed dead from the avalanche in the mountain he was skiing on." I just shrugged my shoulders and raised my eyebrows.
Anita went into another coughing fit, followed by an unattractive heaving as she glanced towards Richard’s crypt, laying dead next to her. She clearly knew I was serious at this point. Finally, a little respect. That's all I wanted. It wasn't so much to ask. I continued building the brick tiers of happiness.
“Listen to me Leah. I’m sorry. Please, can’t we work something out? I’ll do anything. ANYTHING!” She was hysterical. “You know a few great reviews written by me will propel Captiva and you into the big leagues.” Anita begged.
“It’s too late for that. It’s my turn to talk. Now, where was I? Oh yes, we were happy when we married. We weathered the year of disaster. My gift for brewing came naturally, so I took over and I was sworn to secrecy. Richard took all the credit, but I didn't care about the notoriety. I loved him and wanted to have my happy family. The Craniums were thrilled, and only a close few knew of the situation."
Anita tried to hold back her wheezing, but the bell kept ringing. She knew it upset me and continued to ring it. She let out a string of loud curses, alternating with defiant silence to rebuke me.
"Brave 'til the end, huh, sugar? The bell keeps ringing, but no servants are coming. Are they?" I laughed at my own wit. This domination business was much more satisfying than being a victim. "As I was saying, I was the one at the helm, and after a while, Richard couldn't handle it. So he took his frustrations out on me. The first time he hit me, he cried and begged for forgiveness afterward. He told me he didn't know how to handle failures. He panicked, because how could the man of the house let the woman do all the work? He was ashamed." The memory floored me, and humiliation charged to the surface, always ready to take over my life.
Anita stared at me in horror. It was becoming clear to her now. "Did he continue to beat you? That must have been so hard." Apparently she was trying a new tactic to deal with me. "I saw you at all the functions. You never let on. I just thought you were a shy mouse of a woman, out of your element." Her attempt to trick me failed as her hatred of me overtook her false concern. "I wondered what someone as dynamic as Richard saw in you. I wanted him to leave you and be with me—now I know why he didn’t.” Her strategy backfired, awakening my strength and shooing away my indignity, and I resumed my masonry.
"Yes, Anita, the beatings became more frequent and intense. He knew the exact spot to target so there would be no evidence. He also liked taking his aggressions out on me in the bedroom. I wanted to leave, but I feared for my life. However, I am smarter than a Cranium. I am an Amontillado. You remember our motto, don't you?" I stopped building and looked her in the eyes, and then I repeated my mantra: "No one messes with me and gets away with it."
Anita was a formidable opponent. She knew she couldn't get to me with force, so she ambushed me with words. "Amontillado! Ha, your name is Leah. I did a story on baby names once. Your name means weary, weak, feeble, deficient, impotent. Shall I continue?"
I put my hands up to my throat. It felt like her remarks pierced my skin. Survival mode kicked in. My body stilled. My eyes closed, and then my mind was set free. I grabbed my trowel, and then went back to the soothing, hard work of laying bricks and storytelling.
"I knew his obsession with shackles was one of his many, many vulnerabilities," I said. "I wonder if his secret name was Leah? I just heard from a reputable source the meaning of the name." I winked at her and continued. "So, along with the thought of my new huckleberry ale and the impression that I was going to indulge him in his debauchery, I enticed him down here to meet his fate. Along with pushing me around, that's another thing you two have in common." I took a deep breath and kept laying bricks and continued telling Anita her last bedtime story.
"He loved it. My aggressiveness turned him on. Was that how you lured him? With your aggressiveness? Because it sure ain't your beauty." I couldn't resist the jab. "I seduced him with kisses and ale. I stroked his ego and his alter ego. The rest, well, I don't kiss and tell. You will have an eternity to talk it over with him. Your dreams are about to come true. You will be together for eternity. Oh, no need to thank me."
The tiers were up to her neck, and I was getting thirsty. I pulled out a bottle of the infamous huckleberry ale. It was my precious baby and her downfall. The bottle was perfect, the color a gorgeous lavender, and when I opened it, the aroma intoxicated me.
I took a long swig, but my thirst wasn't quenched. Then I looked at my guest. "Where are my manners? Here take a sip—this is what you came for." I held it up to her mouth and, well curiosity being what it is, she took a sip. I could tell she loved it. She swirled it around in her mouth, her eyes went hazy, and then she spit the sweet ale in my face.
I wiped my face with the back of my arm and laughed. "I should have seen that coming. It's time to finish. I want to get back to the carnival and see how much money was raised for Hope House. A worthy charity, don't you think?" I asked, not expecting an answer.
The last of the bricks were going up when Anita went into a big coughing fit. She was hacking, wheezing, and trying to scream and the bell was ringing constantly. I couldn't take it anymore, so after one more swipe of mortar, I set the trowel down and picked up the last brick. It was heavy, and I struggled to get it into the last hole. Anita's breath was ragged and sparse, yet she was trying to talk. "Leah, I'm begging you to stop. Please."
I hesitated for a moment, grappling with my conscience, but the damned bell wouldn't stop ringing.
"Ahh, yes. This is what I was talking about," I said. "The Cranium family legend states that these are the shackles that Richard's ancestors used on competitors who tried to steal the original recipe for Captiva. Richard idolized these shackles. He was obsessed with power and control, just like his ancestors."
Anita edged closer, a smirk forming on her lips as she took in this piece of history.
"Would you like a closer look?" I asked, though she was already climbing up on the small platform, trying to get a closer look at them, when the moment presented itself. I snatched her blood red curls with my fingers and smashed her head into the wall. She slid down the wall like the ale flowing from a full keg. I lifted up my persecutor, turned her around, and then expertly secured her to the shackles. The long hours of practice paid off. I took a moment to relish this victory—until the sound of her bell brought me back into the moment.
She came around pretty fast. I worked so intently securing her wrists that I paid no attention to the damned bell still clasped in her hand.
The moment she realized what happened, her screams began. Each shriek was accompanied by a loud ringing of the bell. The constant noise penetrated my head, agitating me.
I rubbed my temples, closed my eyes from the ruckus, and then cracked. "Shut up! Shut up!"
I back-handed her with a fierce slap. The blunt force sobered her, and she became quiet and still. I had to stand still and catch my breath. The chaos overwhelmed me. The room was spinning, and I needed silence. I practiced the Lamaze breathing techniques I learned while coaching my pregnant sister. And it worked.
It's funny, the breathing that supports you during birth also prepares you for death.
"Leah, what the hell are you doing?" she demanded. It seems her terror subsided, and she was trying to intimidate me while shackled in a dark, damp cellar. I guess I should have admired this trait as it's taken me years to stand up for myself. Perhaps she's leading by example.
Then the wheezing began again. Finally, she's taking me seriously.
"Hush, you aren't going to have another coughing fit, are you? It's unattractive." Her sudden weakness disgusted me.
I approached my toolbox, which I brought down earlier, and pulled out my trowel.
I watched rather gleefully while her eyes widened at the stack of bricks and bucket of mortar next to my toolbox. She was an observant creature. I'll give her that. I guess it's one of the special gifts that creates an excellent beer critic, reporter, and whore.
"Anita, you know all about my humble beginnings—you know, the beginnings you always reference when addressing me? But did you know I come from a long line of masons? I know, I know—you're going to say, 'Isn't it a group exclusive to men?' Yes, but since there was no male heir in my family, my grandfather taught me. He even shared the secret rituals performed in the club to initiate new members."
She was stunned or scared—I'm not sure which—but I continued chatting, while Fortunato came out of his hiding place to sit beside me.
"Masonry is just one of the many trades I'm skilled at. Let me give you a run-down of my resume," I said, as I carried on with the building of her tomb. "I was the beer master at Cranium Breweries the entire time I was married to Richard. Well, except for the first year. Do you remember the year of all the disasters? The one where they used all available PR at their disposal to make it appear that the beer had been tainted by infiltrators from another brewery? Except every mishap occurred because of Richard's ignorance. He did not possess a talent for brewing, for business, or for anything which required a brain."
I let out a belly laugh when I realized his last name was Cranium, though he was really dumb. The song "Ironic" instantly popped into my head, and I began to sing:
Isn't it ironic? Don't you think? It's like ray-ey-ain on your wedding day. It's a free ride when you've already paid. It's the good advice that you just didn't take. Who would've thought . . . it figures.
Anita was horrified, but I just looked at her with curiosity and asked, "Don't you like the song?"
"Is this because I had an affair with Richard?" she whimpered.
My God, she's as stupid as he was. "No, you see, as I was saying, Richard had no talent for the business, except for the schmoozing part. He was the face of Cranium Breweries, and what a handsome face it was. If you don't remember his drop-dead good looks, you can see for yourself. He's in the vault right next to you." Fortunato jumped and growled at the offending crypt. "Down Forti," I commanded, then turned back to my guest. "Although his face is probably gone by now. Flesh has a way of going away with time." I shrugged my shoulders and grinned like the Cheshire cat.
Fear seeped into my secured antagonist. "You killed him?" she screamed and rang the blasted bell. I remained calm and busy working while she was throwing a tantrum. When she stopped screaming she tried to regain composure and finished her questioning. ”I thought he was presumed dead from the avalanche in the mountain he was skiing on." I just shrugged my shoulders and raised my eyebrows.
Anita went into another coughing fit, followed by an unattractive heaving as she glanced towards Richard’s crypt, laying dead next to her. She clearly knew I was serious at this point. Finally, a little respect. That's all I wanted. It wasn't so much to ask. I continued building the brick tiers of happiness.
“Listen to me Leah. I’m sorry. Please, can’t we work something out? I’ll do anything. ANYTHING!” She was hysterical. “You know a few great reviews written by me will propel Captiva and you into the big leagues.” Anita begged.
“It’s too late for that. It’s my turn to talk. Now, where was I? Oh yes, we were happy when we married. We weathered the year of disaster. My gift for brewing came naturally, so I took over and I was sworn to secrecy. Richard took all the credit, but I didn't care about the notoriety. I loved him and wanted to have my happy family. The Craniums were thrilled, and only a close few knew of the situation."
Anita tried to hold back her wheezing, but the bell kept ringing. She knew it upset me and continued to ring it. She let out a string of loud curses, alternating with defiant silence to rebuke me.
"Brave 'til the end, huh, sugar? The bell keeps ringing, but no servants are coming. Are they?" I laughed at my own wit. This domination business was much more satisfying than being a victim. "As I was saying, I was the one at the helm, and after a while, Richard couldn't handle it. So he took his frustrations out on me. The first time he hit me, he cried and begged for forgiveness afterward. He told me he didn't know how to handle failures. He panicked, because how could the man of the house let the woman do all the work? He was ashamed." The memory floored me, and humiliation charged to the surface, always ready to take over my life.
Anita stared at me in horror. It was becoming clear to her now. "Did he continue to beat you? That must have been so hard." Apparently she was trying a new tactic to deal with me. "I saw you at all the functions. You never let on. I just thought you were a shy mouse of a woman, out of your element." Her attempt to trick me failed as her hatred of me overtook her false concern. "I wondered what someone as dynamic as Richard saw in you. I wanted him to leave you and be with me—now I know why he didn’t.” Her strategy backfired, awakening my strength and shooing away my indignity, and I resumed my masonry.
"Yes, Anita, the beatings became more frequent and intense. He knew the exact spot to target so there would be no evidence. He also liked taking his aggressions out on me in the bedroom. I wanted to leave, but I feared for my life. However, I am smarter than a Cranium. I am an Amontillado. You remember our motto, don't you?" I stopped building and looked her in the eyes, and then I repeated my mantra: "No one messes with me and gets away with it."
Anita was a formidable opponent. She knew she couldn't get to me with force, so she ambushed me with words. "Amontillado! Ha, your name is Leah. I did a story on baby names once. Your name means weary, weak, feeble, deficient, impotent. Shall I continue?"
I put my hands up to my throat. It felt like her remarks pierced my skin. Survival mode kicked in. My body stilled. My eyes closed, and then my mind was set free. I grabbed my trowel, and then went back to the soothing, hard work of laying bricks and storytelling.
"I knew his obsession with shackles was one of his many, many vulnerabilities," I said. "I wonder if his secret name was Leah? I just heard from a reputable source the meaning of the name." I winked at her and continued. "So, along with the thought of my new huckleberry ale and the impression that I was going to indulge him in his debauchery, I enticed him down here to meet his fate. Along with pushing me around, that's another thing you two have in common." I took a deep breath and kept laying bricks and continued telling Anita her last bedtime story.
"He loved it. My aggressiveness turned him on. Was that how you lured him? With your aggressiveness? Because it sure ain't your beauty." I couldn't resist the jab. "I seduced him with kisses and ale. I stroked his ego and his alter ego. The rest, well, I don't kiss and tell. You will have an eternity to talk it over with him. Your dreams are about to come true. You will be together for eternity. Oh, no need to thank me."
The tiers were up to her neck, and I was getting thirsty. I pulled out a bottle of the infamous huckleberry ale. It was my precious baby and her downfall. The bottle was perfect, the color a gorgeous lavender, and when I opened it, the aroma intoxicated me.
I took a long swig, but my thirst wasn't quenched. Then I looked at my guest. "Where are my manners? Here take a sip—this is what you came for." I held it up to her mouth and, well curiosity being what it is, she took a sip. I could tell she loved it. She swirled it around in her mouth, her eyes went hazy, and then she spit the sweet ale in my face.
I wiped my face with the back of my arm and laughed. "I should have seen that coming. It's time to finish. I want to get back to the carnival and see how much money was raised for Hope House. A worthy charity, don't you think?" I asked, not expecting an answer.
The last of the bricks were going up when Anita went into a big coughing fit. She was hacking, wheezing, and trying to scream and the bell was ringing constantly. I couldn't take it anymore, so after one more swipe of mortar, I set the trowel down and picked up the last brick. It was heavy, and I struggled to get it into the last hole. Anita's breath was ragged and sparse, yet she was trying to talk. "Leah, I'm begging you to stop. Please."
I hesitated for a moment, grappling with my conscience, but the damned bell wouldn't stop ringing.
Photo by Thiophene_Guy
Breathe. I needed to breathe. One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths.
"That's better," I said as I regained control and turned to my guest. "Anita, I learned early on that begging doesn't work. You just have to suck it up and take it. Then if you are smart enough, you regain control." I whistled for my dear companion. "Fortunato, say goodbye to our guest."
He jumped up with his paws on the wall and barked. The brick went in smoothly this time. The ringing stopped. There was silence, blissful silence.
My dog and I sat down in companionable peace. I hugged his neck, then took another swig of my pride and joy. The first taste was sweet, and then a bitterness followed.
Breathe. I needed to breathe. One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths.
"That's better," I said as I regained control and turned to my guest. "Anita, I learned early on that begging doesn't work. You just have to suck it up and take it. Then if you are smart enough, you regain control." I whistled for my dear companion. "Fortunato, say goodbye to our guest."
He jumped up with his paws on the wall and barked. The brick went in smoothly this time. The ringing stopped. There was silence, blissful silence.
My dog and I sat down in companionable peace. I hugged his neck, then took another swig of my pride and joy. The first taste was sweet, and then a bitterness followed.
Photo by David Paton
"Forti, I'm going to have to tweak this recipe some. It's not quite there yet. Isn't it a shame I won't get feedback from these two?" I said with a snicker. I made the rules now. I was an Amontillado.
Nemo me impune lacessit!
The photos in the story were gifts from very talented photographers. They graciously allowed a perfect stranger to use of their art and not only did they give me permission they sent well wishes and words of inspiration. I was touched by the response I received. Please do me a favor and visit their sights and show them some love. People are good and amazing, um, except for maybe the characters in this story.
If you click on their name it will take you to their sights.
"Forti, I'm going to have to tweak this recipe some. It's not quite there yet. Isn't it a shame I won't get feedback from these two?" I said with a snicker. I made the rules now. I was an Amontillado.
Nemo me impune lacessit!
The photos in the story were gifts from very talented photographers. They graciously allowed a perfect stranger to use of their art and not only did they give me permission they sent well wishes and words of inspiration. I was touched by the response I received. Please do me a favor and visit their sights and show them some love. People are good and amazing, um, except for maybe the characters in this story.
If you click on their name it will take you to their sights.
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