Beautiful Sorrows Read online

  This collection features works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Publication History:

  “The Boy Who Hangs the Stars” Neverlands and Otherwheres (2008)

  “Pixies Don’t Get Names” Reflection’s Edge (2008)

  “Show Your Bones” The Vestal Review (2008), The Shine Journal (2008)

  “The ABCs of Murder” On the Premises (2009)

  “The Container of Sorrows” The Pedestal Magazine (2009)

  “Flat, Flat World” Silverthought (2009)

  “Life” Abandoned Towers (2009)

  “She Called Him Sky” (as “Flowers”) BluePrintReview (2009)

  “Broken” Wigleaf (2010)

  “Blossom Bones” The Binnacle (2010/2011)

  “The Container of Sorrows” The Gate: 13 Dark and Odd Tales (2010)

  “Heartless” Shock Totem: Holiday Tales of the Macabre and Twisted (2011)

  “Stars” Best New Writing 2012 (2012)

  “Black Mary” The Gate 2: 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair (2012)

  All other stories are published here for the first time.

  Cover art and illustrations by Yannick Bouchard

  Cover layout by Yannick Bouchard

  Digital layout by K. Allen Wood

  Digital Edition Copyright © 2012 by Mercedes M. Yardley

  Shock Totem Publications

  Established in 2009

  www.shocktotem.com

  FIRST DIGITAL EDITION

  Published in the United States of America.

  For Mein. All of you.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Broken

  Black Mary

  Flat, Flat World

  Extraordinary Beast

  The Boy Who Hangs the Stars

  Untied

  The Container of Sorrows

  A Place of Beauty

  Music to Jump By

  Axes

  The Quiet Places Where Your Body Grows

  Show Your Bones

  The ABCs of Murder

  A Place Shielded from Horrors

  Crosswise Cosmos Sabotage

  Life

  Luna e Volk

  Stars

  Wings

  Sweet, Sweet Sonja T

  Blossom Bones

  Edibility

  Heartless

  Pixies Don’t Get Names

  Ava

  She Called Him Sky

  Big Man Ben

  Beautiful Notes

  INTRODUCTION

  The Daughter of Achelos: A Paean to Friendship

  by P. Gardner Goldsmith

  In Greek mythology, the Sirens were vocal enchantresses possessed of such aural power and lyrical beauty they could lure unwitting sailors to their deaths by smashing their ships upon the rocks. These daughters of Achelos could even entice listeners to dive out of vessels, only to perish while swimming toward the rapturous sounds. No one could resist. To hear them was doom.

  Listen...

  A song is starting...

  Mercedes M. Yardley is here. And she is calling...

  You hold in your hands one of the most fantastic collections of truly creative fiction to have been published in decades. It will enthrall you. It will amuse you. It will break your heart and make you cry. And it will sing to you with word-songs of such epic beauty, such profound grace and symmetry, you will realize, like I have, that you’re hearing the song of a Siren. And you’ll happily give up everything to hear more.

  To know Mercedes is to understand that she is unique, a one-in-a-million scion of myth. I first encountered her at the debut KillerCon, in Las Vegas. Tall, beautiful, with a smile that could power a thousand cities, she struck a chord. She immediately welcomed me as a friend. We had similar musical tastes, similar perspectives on individualism and ethics, on the importance of fidelity and family. It blew my mind. If ever there was a template for internal and external beauty, she was it.

  Then I joined a group of people to hear her read flash-fiction.

  And everybody in the room stopped breathing for a moment.

  We must’ve felt like town-league hoop players in the presence of Michael Jordan, because none of us had ever encountered a talent like her. In twenty minutes she had taken four words and a phrase tossed to the competing writers and used them to create a story of such poetic and narrative force and beauty that I realized I was in the presence of someone truly different, naturally unique, and focused to use her talents to the utmost. Heck, this girl was some kinda Siren, and I was ready to jump ship and swim!

  Now you have the opportunity to understand.

  It is my firm belief that while reading Beautiful Sorrows you will fall in love and hate at least four times. You will want to sing and see flowers in the air, and you will want to fly with birds. You will remember what it is like to be an innocent child. And at times you will become receptive to timeless wisdom, carried to you through characters who are unique and magical, yet fundamental to the core.

  Come listen to the music as she sings of wonders. Relish in the absurd-realism of “Untied.” Swoon to the wry, somehow innocent wisdom of “The Boy Who Hangs the Stars.” Chuckle with mom as she helps balance her little corner of the universe in “Crosswise Cosmos Sabotage.”

  And swim. Dive with me into the ocean of delight as Mercedes draws us into additional realms uniquely like-unlike our world. In each tale, she deftly, almost slyly, reveals new facets of her skills and talents.

  A keen understanding of the most fundamental human emotions runs through Mercedes’s work. Look at “The Container of Sorrows,” and you’ll see... If you share any of my sensibilities, you’ll find yourself compelled to turn the pages of “Luna e Volk”, enthralled and aghast as the tale unfolds... You’ll realize you are wistful and hopeful at the same time when you read “A Place of Beauty”... And you will understand the emotional power she wields as you identify with “the girl” in “She Called Him Sky.”

  You’ll be near tears when you read that one.

  Upon delving into “Sweet, Sweet Sonja T,” you’ll begin to see the jagged precipices of psychological danger down which Mercedes can propel you.

  When you read “Black Mary” the narrative sophistication that Mercedes employs will hit you like a comet, and the psychological danger will turn to horror. Believe me. You might want to stop reading. You might want to pull away. It’s going to hurt. It’s correct, precise, fueled by the highest level of cogency and understanding. Watch out.

  I can’t believe how well this woman can write.

  Perhaps, if you are like I am, when you read “Pixies Don’t Get Names” you will think, God. Life is short, and I want to feel it with someone, give that person something lasting. It’s good to think it. It’s one of the things that gives life meaning.

  And when you read “Big Man Ben,” you will cry.

  I just re-read it, and I am crying now.

  Life is short. Time passes. Grab goodness when you can. Strive for goodness and offer it to others. Be kind. Love beauty. Love.

  And as you swim in the ocean near the island Mercedes and her great family call home, as you hear the songs she sings to you like a mythological force, ask yourself this:

  What if the songs the Sirens sang were so wonderful that the sailors died happy? What if one could put himself in the mind of a sailor, spitting salt water as he feverishly swims toward the glorious sound? What if the Sirens created such beautiful and wondrous magic that to die in their thrall was the most desirable way to meet one’s fate?

  Turn the page... />
  You are about to find out...

  And thank you. I am not only a fan of Mercedes’s work. I am a friend. She is living evidence that the world can be a wonderful, beautiful, caring, amazing place. I hope my words can come close to doing her and her work justice.

  Thank you, Mercedes, for what you do.

  P. Gardner Goldsmith

  July 2012

  BROKEN

  The dried twigs cracking under her feet broke exactly like the small bones of children. She wished she didn't know that.

  BLACK MARY

  The other girl, she has eyes like oil. They’re dark and black and slick. They widen like holes and one day they’ll swallow me completely.

  I tell her this. She smiles, just a little.

  “Maybe.”

  I go outside to drag some heavy wood to the house. I wear a large pair of men’s boots that I tie as tightly as I can, but I still step out of them. I’m not allowed to have a pair that fits.

  The wood is running low and this worries me. The wolves howl in the freezing night, venturing from the forest that looms on the edge of the fields. The dank little house doesn’t have windows that fully shut. There’s no way to keep the wind out.

  “If you bring me an axe, I’ll chop my own wood,” I had told him on Tuesday. At least he had mentioned it was Tuesday. I stood there in bare feet, hugging my arms around my torn dress. “You won’t have to do anything. I’ll do all the work for you.”

  He hit me then, once, hard enough that it knocked me to the ground and I couldn’t get up right away. Black Mary crouched over me like a cat, hissing at him. He didn’t seem to notice her.

  Later he took me to his bed, gently rubbing my freezing arms and legs. The black-haired girl stood in the doorway, silently. I met her eyes over his greasy shoulder.

  “Little girls aren’t meant to use axes, honey,” he said. “What if you hurt yourself? Nobody is here to help you, not for miles. It isn’t safe. Do you understand?”

  I wanted to tell him that I would be careful, that I was almost eleven years old, but I only nodded, my hands clasped between my knees.

  “Tell ya what I’ll do. I’ll bring in wood when I come, okay? Lots of it. Will that make you happy?”

  I nodded, and the gentle caress on my arm turned into something different. The girl turned away and I squeezed my eyes shut.

  That was two days ago. Now the black-eyed girl stands behind me, brushing my hair. “He wears a wedding ring,” she said. “That means he has a wife. Maybe some kids. Maybe his kids are the same age you are.”

  I turn my head to the side and throw up. “Sorry,” I say, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  She steps in front of me and crouches until we’re eye level. “Don’t you ever apologize to me, get it? I’m your friend. I love you—real love—nothing like what he says love is.” Her eyes burn, scorch. Fire rushing across oil. “I’d like to kill him.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  Black Mary is fierce. “I would. He knows it. Why doesn’t he leave an axe here, huh? Because he knows I’ll kill him one day. I’ll take that axe and swipe at his head when he isn’t looking. Or even when he is. Either way.”

  I back up a little.

  She snorts.

  “What, I’m too harsh for you? Are you scared, sweet little thing?” She stands up, tossing her hair back. “This is why he takes you, you know. You, and not me. Because you give in. Because you’re so good and quiet, and men love little girls who are quiet. Me?” She shrugs. “Nobody loves me. Not anymore.”

  She turns and walks away. It hurts me to see her go, but I have other things to tend to. I still have bruises, inside and out. I still have the nightmares.

  Black Mary has been gone for several days. I look for her on the horizon, but there isn’t anything besides fields of weeds. The food is almost gone. I’m hungry and sick and almost want the man to come again so that I can have something to eat. Almost.

  “That’s what he wants, you know,” Black Mary says to me. She’s sitting on a large rock out in the field. Her pointed nose and shiny hair reminds me of a crow. A raven. Something that could simply fly away.

  “Why did you come back?” I ask her.

  “Didn’t you miss me?” She tilts her head like a bird. I wonder if she sheds her skin at night and there are feathers underneath.

  “Of course I missed you. I missed you so much. But weren’t you free? Didn’t you get away? Why would you come back?”

  She reaches for my hand but I pull it away.

  “Do you remember your mother?”

  I freeze. “Why?”

  My mother wore yellow dresses and grew lavender in the front yard. Her eyes were brown, like mine. Or maybe they were blue.

  “Do you think she’s out there looking for you?”

  I sit down, my back against the rock. My stomach is hurting.

  “Do you think your mother is still looking?” She isn’t letting the question go unanswered.

  I want to think so. But it’s been so long. She probably gave up by now. I wipe my face with my sleeve.

  “Know what I think?”

  I shake my head.

  She slides off the rock and grabs my wrists. She’s careful of the bruises, as always. “I think moms never stop looking for their kids. Not ever. No matter how long they’ve been gone.”

  “I don’t look the same anymore.”

  “No, you don’t. You’ve grown a lot in the last few years.”

  “What if she doesn’t recognize me?”

  “What if she does?”

  I cough and the black-eyed girl draws away. “Come on. We need to get you inside. You’re getting sick and you remember what that’s like. Maybe when he comes back, he’ll bring more wood.”

  He doesn’t. He doesn’t bring much food, either, just a cheeseburger from a fast food place and a shopping bag full of apples.

  “Is...is there anything else?” I ask, and I pay for it.

  The girl with the black hair helps me up and stands behind me while I wash the blood from my dress. I meet her eyes in the mirror.

  “Something’s wrong, did you notice?” Her arms are folded across her chest. “See how he’s pacing like that? Be careful.”

  He barks for me and I come.

  The girl is right. Something’s wrong.

  “Have you been out of this house, Mary?” he demands.

  My name isn’t Mary. I told him that once, but he didn’t care. We’re all Mary here.

  “Yes, sir. Just to the field and the wood pile.”

  “No farther?”

  “No, sir.” There isn’t anywhere else to go. Nothing but fields and rocks and animals that run through the grass.

  He leans close, his face red and his eyes wild.

  I flinch and this seems to make him angrier.

  “You afraid of me, girl?”

  I don’t know what to say.

  He raises his fist.

  The girl with the black hair stands behind him, her eyes huge. They’re leaking oil.

  I’m still staring at her when he hits me. A few more blows and I squeal, “How come you only hurt me and not Black Mary?” The second I say it, I wish I could take it back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I tell her, but she crouches in the corner, her hands over her ears, away from me.

  The man demands to know if I love him. I try to say no. I try to say yes. My mouth is too swollen to work properly. The man stares at me in a new way and leaves. He’s never left before morning. Even though I’m grateful, my stomach twists and I’m afraid.

  A new girl arrives with the sunrise. She’s younger than I am. She has curly red hair and freckles. Like me, she’s in a torn dress. Like me, her feet are bare.

  “Who are you?” I ask. It hurts to move my jaw.

  “This is Red Mary.”

  The girl with the black hair has bruises around her eyes. Her long hair has been cut, shaggy and boyish, like mine. She has displeased him.

  “What happened to
you?” I want to ask, but I’m afraid that she’ll tell me. He found her. He went to her. I pointed her out and she isn’t safe anymore.

  Red Mary speaks. Her voice is tremulous, soft like tiny bells. “He asked me if I liked toys. He said that we could play games.”

  I turn and look at her. Seize her arm, yank up her sleeve. Her skin is white, without marks in the shape of his fingers. Her eyes are scared but not horrified. Not yet.

  “He said that to me,” I tell her. I grab her hand. She grabs back.

  “He said that to me, too.” Black Mary’s voice has changed. It sounds tired, more like mine. Like she’s given up.

  I’m not giving up. Not if we can save Red Mary.

  “We need to go,” I say.

  The girls look at me.

  I swallow hard. “We need to go.”

  “Go?” Red Mary asks. She’s so trusting. She’d holding onto a gray stuffed bunny that I haven’t noticed before. I had one just like it when I was little.

  “He’ll hurt you,” I tell her. “He’ll keep you here and do...horrible things.”

  She starts to tremble. “What kind of things?”

  My breath hitches and I can’t talk for a minute. I catch Black Mary’s eye. One is starting to swell shut, but she still tries to smile at me.

  “If he catches you, he’ll kill you,” Black Mary says. “You know that he will.”

  I know.

  I don’t have anything to take with me except the apples. I shove my feet into the too-big boots and stuff them with newspaper. It had snowed during the night. I wish that I had a coat.

  “Now we run,” I say, and take Red Mary by the hand. My muscles ache and new cuts from last night open up. But we keep moving.

  “I’m tired,” Red Mary says after a few hours. “I want to go back.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t.”

  Black Mary slogs through the snow beside me. She isn’t even breathing heavy.