Ruins by Susan May James - February Femmes Fatales

Last year, Susan May James opened the very first February Femmes Fatales showcase with the chilling Shadows. How wonderful that she has agreed to grace The Feardom's pages once again with a new tale, Ruins.

Susan has a wistful way with words; a delicate beauty that dabbles in cruelty. She also describes the most inviting settings for her fictional treats - who wouldn't want to tread Abigail's path in Susan May James's new, atmospheric thriller...

RUINS

You walk barefoot towards the castle ruins; heather brushes your ankles and your feet press a trail into the early morning dew. Bright sunlight tinges the mossy landscape and you pause, glancing back at the tent before changing course to move along the rocks that line the edge of the sea.

You think you are alone.

Standing straight, you stare out across the waves, your long blonde hair and white nightdress billow in the wind. For a moment you stretch out your arms and tilt back your head, like the winged angel you once purchased for our Christmas tree. When you look up, worry creases your fine features. Wrapping your arms around your waist, you bend forward, lips parting.

‘Abigail,’ I whisper as my grip tightens on the binoculars and I brace against the castle wall. Your voice, calling his name, makes me shiver and I almost feel a flash of regret. But then I remember yesterday; the two of you sitting on the rocks, laughing, pointing, drinking wine, no-doubt hoping to spy a seal or a dolphin.

‘Maybe an orca,’ I smirk.

You run back towards the tent, although you know he’s not there. Predictable, you then make your way to the car, still calling his name, still hoping.

I smile at the look on your face when you find it empty.

Finally, you turn back towards the castle—logic tells you that he probably woke up early and went for a hike around the ruins—and you chastise yourself; you should have checked there first.

Then, all of a sudden, you stop short.

I know you’ve seen it, the present I left you. Pressing the binoculars against my eyes, I watch with excitement as you double over. It takes a few minutes before you stop retching. In a panic you run back to the car, but it’s locked; the keys are in my pocket. Again, I smile.

Dropping the binoculars, I reach for my rifle.

_________ The End _________

Bio: Susan May James is a Canadian born writer living in London. She writes short fiction and is currently juggling a number of projects. Her passions include travel, photography, and history. Susan can usually be found scribbling and scattering on her blog: http://scribble-scatter.blogspot.com/

Sparkling and sumptuous Susan May James - February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - February 25th

Susan May James opened the February Femmes Fatales showcase with Shadows. Her second generous offering, Rubies is equally well-written, and just as strange.

There's a poetic magic to the story of Jasmine and her rubies; the conversations she has with them twinkle as much as the fairy-lights in her London apartment.

But I will say no more, except that life is not all roses, even if they are ruby-red...



Rubies by Susan May James

Pulling on her stiletto boots Jasmine sits on the bench near the door and casts a final glance around the studio flat. Everything is perfect; the dark burgundy curtains are drawn, fairy lights twinkle in strands from the ceiling to the walls and unlit candles dot tabletops and shelves. The sofa bed has been made up with satin sheets and topped with a crushed velvet throw and three plump pillows. ‘Sumptuous,’ she coos as she stands up and crosses the room. Her steps are heavy, causing her heels to echo against the laminate floor. Pausing in front of a small table in the corner of the room she closes her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and calming her nerves. Incense wafts up, drenching her in a cloud of sandalwood as she opens her eyes to look down at her collection of crystals and gemstones. Amber, rose quartz and amethyst catch her eye but her hand reaches out to wrap around a large polished piece of aventurine. Holding the pale turquoise coloured sphere tight to her chest, absorbing its properties, she reaches with her other hand for a small velvet bag. After a few moments, she replaces the sphere, slips the velvet bag into her coat pocket and leaves the flat.

Sirens blare as she makes her way along Camden High Street. The street is wet and the air damp and thick with the smell of fast-food. She darts down a small alleyway and into a bar. Music pulses and her eyes take time to adjust while she buys a drink and sits down, her long skirt brushing the floor. She takes out the velvet pouch and shakes three raw rubies into her palm. Each the size of the tip of her baby finger, they are dull and flecked with impurities. Nonetheless she smiles as she holds them, knowing the process won’t take long.

She sheds her leather coat and is just leaning back to sip her drink when a man at the next table smiles and tries to catch her eye. She grips the rubies but nothing happens and so she ignores him and checks her watch. The man turns away and she sighs, looking round the room as she strokes one of the rubies between her thumb and forefinger. The second one is more self-assured as he approaches, greeting her with a cocky grin. He sits down and introduces himself but his voice is lost in the dull roar that washes over her. The experience is similar to holding a seashell to her ear, only much more intense. As the rush fades, the rubies grow cool in her palm and when she glances down she sees that they’ve grown darker in colour. The rubies work more quickly now. Looking up at the man she meets his gaze and smiles. He is the one, the rubies whisper.

‘What are those?’ he asks as she puts them back into their velvet pouch.

‘Oh, just my lucky charms,’ she replies before taking a sip of her drink.

His name is Thomas and he works for a small PR firm in Kentish Town. “I don’t normally come in here,” he says. “But it’s been a long day so I thought I’d stop in for a swift half.”

Jasmine nods, he’s not really her type, but that doesn’t matter, it’s not her decision. She notes the faint line on his finger; slightly indented and pale in contrast to the rest of his tanned skin.

“Are you married?” she asks.

“No,” he is quick to reply and changes the subject. “What do you do?”

Looking away so he doesn’t see the flash of resentment in her eyes, Jasmine finishes her drink. “I’m a pharmacist.”

Thomas stands up, “So, what are you drinking?” he asks but she hesitates, explaining that she prefers to get her own drinks.

“It’s just that I don’t know you,” she says as he sits back down. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you but I like to be careful.” He accepts this and passes her a banknote before she heads to the bar.

As she waits for their drinks she turns her back to him and slips her hand into her skirt pocket, discreetly working a small tablet into her palm. Then, as the bartender turns away, she deftly drops it into the drink and reaches for a swizzle stick. Smiling, Jasmine returns to the table.

It doesn’t take long for the alcohol and drug to take effect and they stagger towards her flat. Although Jasmine is sober, she stumbles under his weight as she guides him up the stairs. Once inside, she just manages to get him onto the bed as he passes out. With a sigh of relief and anticipation, she quickly rolls him over and cuffs his hands behind his back. She then lights the candles and a fresh stick of incense, taking a moment to switch on the stereo and lava lamp. The sound of pan flutes fills the room as she spreads a large tarpaulin onto the floor and drags her tools out from under the sofa bed. Fairy lights twinkle and she pauses to admire the atmosphere.

After awhile she heaves Thomas onto the floor and strips off his clothes. Folding them into a bundle she places them into a carrier bag; tomorrow she will donate them to a charity shop.

Hours later she sits with her head on the kitchen table, exhausted. Her task is near completion; the cutting had been arduous but now all the pieces are individually wrapped in plastic and packed into two large suitcases. It had taken her longer this time and daylight now creeps in round the edges of the curtains. Disposal must wait.

Nonetheless she is satisfied; she always listens to her rubies and follows their bidding.

__________________________________

Bio:

SUSAN MAY JAMES is a Canadian born writer living in London. She writes flash fiction, short stories and is currently working on a novel. Her other passions include travel, photography and history and she can be found scribbling and scattering on her blog; Scribble & Scatter.

The first February Femme Fatale is... Susan May James

February Femmes Fatales - February 1st

It's what you've been waiting for... Twenty eight days of dark fiction and poetry from fourteen of the best women writers I have had the pleasure to meet in the virtual world. I am proud that so many took up my private invitation to contribute to the showcase. Thank you, you marvellous creatures of the pen.

Our very first Femme Fatale is Susan May James. Susan only began contributing to my weekly Prediction challenge back in November 2010, yet it feels as though she's been part of The Feardom for ages.

I love Susan's edgy wit and acerbic observations. The style and subject of her story here, Shadows reminds me of one of my favourite authors, Joanne Harris. I hope you enjoy it.

Shadows by Susan May James

Every day late in the afternoon the light shifts so as to cast shadowed stripes across the small damp cell. Ten stripes in all; eight are perfectly formed and cover half the cement floor while the other two stretch, distorted, up the wall. The shadows are an essential part of Magdalene’s day as they are the only method by which she can discern the time. Often as the light changes, Magdalene sinks to the floor where she sits cross-legged, her palms facing up. Slowly she passes her hands through the shadowed pattern, playing with the darkness as the sounds of Venice drift through the open window. The drone of tourists melts into the sound of lapping water while somewhere in the distance motor-boats hum and vaporetti thump against their docks. Soon the shadows will blur into dusk and it will be time to begin her daily preparations. With a sigh she stretches out her legs, relishing the coolness seeping into her bones. You should be thankful you are spared the scorching midday sun. Dario’s dismissive words, spoken with the threat of the temper and penchant for violence for which he is renowned, are etched into her memory; as if this one point should make up for the tedium and degradation of the girls’ lives.

All of a sudden Magdalene hears a screech as the metal lock slides open and she hastens to stand up. With her head lowered she follows Matron into what they refer to as the marble room. There she joins three other girls, each languishing in a deep bath. Matron leaves and as Magdalene disrobes a hush falls over the room. The other girls do not befriend her. Aware of their differences they whisper and giggle as Magdalene lowers herself into the large tub. She doesn’t blame them for their jealous behaviour. They are all foreigners passing through this city, ill-fated and vulnerable, although Dario often tells her that she is more fortunate than the others and, providing she obeys and puts in her time, her passport will soon be returned.

Baths finished, the three girls dress in short skirts and skimpy halter tops. They snicker when Matron carries in an armful of gold brocade and mauve satin. A masquerade ball gown fashioned after those of the nineteenth century, complete with full hoop skirt and lace trimmed sleeves. Magdalene looks at it with trepidation. Its heavy fabric and tight bodice will weigh her down and crush her ribs, making her performance in the orchestra difficult and exhausting.

The others leave, their heels clicking, as Matron dusts Magdalene’s face with powder and carefully nestles a bow in the tendrils that flow down her back.

“You know what to do,” Matron finally speaks to her as she hands her the cello and a pointed Venetian mask. Magdalene nods. After the concert, seek out one of the older gentlemen, flirt and proposition; get paid and fleece him for as much as possible. Move on to the next.

“Remember, cash is best, don’t bother with travellers’ cheques, they’re not worth the trouble, get plastic and be sure to learn the pin numbers. Watch over their shoulder as they pay or withdraw money; use your wiles, whatever it takes.” Matron issues the instructions while leading her down the hallway.

As Magdalene passes an open door, a small boy looks up from where he sits at a table. A colouring book is open in front of him and he clutches a thick crayon. “Mama?”

Her heart racing she stops but Matron grabs her by the wrist.

“You can see the boy when you return,” she says as she holds the door open and pushes her out into the shadows.

__________________________________

Bio:

SUSAN MAY JAMES is a Canadian-born writer living in London. She writes flash fiction, short stories and is currently working on a novel. Her other passions include travel, photography and history and she can be found scribbling and scattering on her blog; Scribble & Scatter.