Beatrice (Bertie) Margaret Calhoun/Montgomery/Clayton/Rosenthal, May She Rest in Peace

**WARNING: The following is a work of dark fiction. It may contain various triggers. Discretion is advised**

Image by Carolyn Booth from Pixabay 

Beatrice (Bertie) Margaret Calhoun/Montgomery/Clayton/Rosenthal, of Slaughterville, Oklahoma, passed away in her home with her 24-hour care nurse by her side. Her caregiver said she went out kicking and screaming and throwing things at the pictures on her walls. Her funeral will be held at the Slaughterville Memorial Chapel on Route 6 next Saturday at 2 p.m.

Bad luck seemed to follow Bertie throughout her life. Born October 20th, 1921 at 12:34 AM, Beatrice Margaret Calhoun was the eldest child of Charles and Lillian Calhoun, of Beaver Falls, Louisiana. Her parents had two more children after her, though neither one made it to the age of three.

In the summer of 1929, Bertie and her parents moved to Slaughterville where her father opened The Grand Slaughterville Hotel. Less than a year later, Charles Calhoun fell ill and passed away in his sleep. The hotel was purchased by the prominent Montgomery family. Bertie and her mother stayed on as housekeepers as a means to remain on the property. Within 6 months time, Lillian Calhoun was found at the bottom of a staircase and died shortly afterward. Her death was ruled an accident by the Slaughterville Coroner's Office. 

David and Dorthea Montgomery took little Bertie in and raised her as one of their own. In the spring of 1938, Bertie Calhoun married the Montgomerys' eldest son, Franklin.  Less than a month after the wedding, Franklin joined the military and was sent off to war. He came home 3 years later to find that his younger brother, Nelson, had died in a car accident and his only sister, Agnes, had fallen from the balcony of the hotel, dying instantly.

Less than a week after returning from the war, Franklin’s father, David Montgomery, was found dead in his office, of an apparent heart attack. Three days later, Dorthea Montgomery was found in her dressing room with a broken mirror shard protruding from her neck. It was determined that her cause of death stemmed from excessive alcohol. Heartbroken at the loss of his entire family, Franklin Montgomery apparently took his own life shortly thereafter.

Bertie took over the hotel and ran it as best she could. She hired Baxter Clayton as a groundskeeper and the two were wed in July 1944. Baxter kept the hotel and grounds in pristine condition until his untimely death in October 1947. While trimming branches from an old tree in the back of the hotel, Baxter had caught the cuff of his trousers in his ladder and fell to his death. The small handaxe he’d been using was found underneath him, buried in the back of his head. The coroner’s office called it a horrible accident.

Toward the end of the 1940s and the beginning of the 1950s, Bertie Clayon ran the hotel on her own. In 1954, she turned the west wing into a lounge and started hiring musicians to come in and play. By the early 1960s, The Grand Slaughterville Hotel was the place to stop for those who hadn’t quite made it to the big leagues. 

In 1966, Bertie met an older musician by the name of Herbie Rosenthal. He was working on becoming the next big music promoter but told locals that there was just something about Bertie that made him want to “dig this scene” and turn Slaughterville into a beatnik hotspot. 

Bertie and Herbie seemed happy in their little hippy culture home. However, in the summer of 1970, Herbie Rosenthal was found in the beer cooler with a full keg of beer lying beside his crushed skull. Investigators deduced that the keg had slipped off a shelf while Herbie was tying his shoe. His death was ruled a terrible mishap.

Between 1970 and 1992, Bertie Rosenthal remained alone in her hotel. Most Slaughterville residents had either thought her to be traveling the world or had forgotten about her altogether. In November 1992, Bertie attended the funeral of Jacob Johansson, the groundskeeper of the hotel at that time. She was welcomed back into Slaughterville society and began holding lavish parties at her hotel once again. 

Between 1993 and 2008, Bertie’s hotel flourished. In June of that year, the FBI came looking for several young men who had last been known to have stayed at her hotel. Though nothing ever came of the accusations, The Grand Slaughterville Hotel closed its doors for good.

Bertie became a recluse, being seen only by the 24-hour care nurses she’d hired to care for her in her golden years. Between 2009 and her recent passing, a total of 87 nurses cared for the aging woman. It is said that many of them packed up in the middle of the night and left town as they’ve never been seen nor heard from again.

Bertie Calhoun-Montgomery-Clayton-Rosenthal passed away on October 20th, 2021 at the age of 100. Her caregiver pronounced her time of death at 12:34 AM.

Bertie is preceded in death by her parents, both of her siblings, her adoptive parents, her adoptive siblings, and all three of her husbands. 

There were no survivors.

The Best of You

 

I am I and you are you

And nothing less will ever do

I can’t be you, you can’t be me

And that is that you must agree

Don’t try to be him, her, or them

Embrace your own internal gem

Relax and let yourself fly free

Trust yourself and you shall see

That there is nothing you can’t do

When you shine the best of you

~~~*~~~*~~~

II wrote this in response to something I read on Twitter. The poster said that 
they were tired of trying to be as good as others in their chosen field.
I felt compelled to write this, though that person may never see it. But, if 
it helps one other person, I'll consider that a success. 

~~~*~~~*~~~

Image by Gerd Altman from Pixabay

Battle at Sea

 

As the battle raged, neither side noticed the skies above. A blackened wall hid the sun, while violent winds tore the sails.

I fell into the waters below, a barrel my only hope. Men screamed between cracks of thunder, as a wall of water shoved me beneath the waves. I’d no air to breathe, light to see, nor chance to fight. Then...silence. 

I emerged once more, the barrel my saving grace. The sky was clear, the waters calm, the Armada, gone. I was alone, drifting with the currents toward land.

That was the day the sea ended the war.

~~~*~~~*~~~

The above story is the product of a writing prompt (SEA) given by Quill and Crow Publishing House. They have a different prompt listed in their June Prompt List for each day of the month. Though they offer these as poetry prompts, I wanted to do something a little different. I've opted to create microfiction pieces of exactly 100 words.

I won't promise to have each one up each day, but I'm going to do my best. Anything to keep writing. I hope you enjoy.

~~~*~~~*~~~

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

Sensuality Sublime

The way you peer into my soul

And grasp me in your gaze

Sends a shiver through my veins

And sets my heart ablaze

I long to feel your lips on mine

Your breath upon my skin

The searing scent of musty heat

That makes my head to spin

Salty beads of passion fall

Into the velvet folds

Around your torso like a glove

My aching body molds

Flesh and fire mix as one

Our mounting heat explodes

Rhythmic chanting echoes loud

My energy implodes

Two as one in perfect beat

Intense in perfect time

My fantasy alive again

Sensuality sublime

~~~*~~~*~~~

I originally wrote this poem in August of 2010. Today is April 22, 2021. I am still proud of this one. 

~~~*~~~*~~~

Image by efes from Pixabay

Screwed

I’d spent weeks casing the joint. If I didn’t get this right, I’d be screwed. Don Giovanni wanted Peter Donovan kidnapped and it was up to me to make it happen. I had to make it happen. My life depended on it.

It wasn’t easy getting close to a multi-millionaire who surrounded himself with personal bodyguards and yes-men. But I got it figured out. He ate at the same restaurant every Saturday night and that was going to be my way in.

I landed a job at the restaurant as a waiter. I knew Mr. Donovan always asked for the same server, so I had to make some changes. I poured a little Ipecac syrup in the usual server’s drink, making him sicker than a dog. He couldn’t run out of that place fast enough. I volunteered to take over his tables, knowing Mr. Donovan would be there soon. 

My plan was to accidentally spill something in his lap, causing him to run to the restroom. Once he was in there, I’d crack him over the head and drag him out the back to my van. I had everything in its place, ready to go.

Mr. Donovan and his party took their seats. Without speaking a word, I set out menus and baskets of bread. 

“Where’s Milo,” he asked rather rudely. “I specifically asked for Milo.”

“My apologies, Mr. Donovan,” I replied in a professional manner, “Milo has taken ill and had to leave. My  name is Logan and I’ll be your server this evening.” In all outward appearances, I was nothing more than another waiter. I told the group about the evening’s specials and took their drink orders. When I returned, I set my plan in motion.

As I placed drinks in front of all the guests, I purposely tipped my tray so that the last drink would fall onto Mr. Donovan’s lap. “You stupid son-of-a-bitch,” he yelled as he jumped out of his chair.

Several members of his entourage tried to help clean up the mess, which only made him angrier. He slapped them all away, then headed for the men’s room. I turned and left the table without anyone taking notice. 

I snuck through the kitchen and made my way to the entrance on the opposite side of the room. I watched through the port window as Mr. Donovan made his way to the lavatory. None of his people had gone with him, so I waited just a moment and followed him in. 

I slowly opened the door, taking note of the reflection in the mirror. I could see him in front of the sink, wiping himself down with a handful of towels. 

I shut off the lights as I entered, trying to remember exactly where he was standing. I had my billy club in hand and hit him as hard as I could. I heard a muffled scream coming from him, so I hit him once more for good measure. He was out cold.

I pulled a bag from my pocket and put it over his head. Then I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him from the room. I peeked out before leaving, making sure no one was in the hall. I made it to the back entrance without being seen. 

I opened the sliding door on the van, threw him inside, then jumped in and took off. As I sped off down the alley, I called Don Giovanni and told him I had his prize. 

We met up at the predetermined rendezvous site. This was my big moment. I was finally going to give the boss what he wanted and my debt would be paid in full. His goons went to the van and dragged the man back to where we stood. 

I could hear his moans as his body was dropped to the cement floor. One of the henchmen pulled the hood off the millionaire’s head, giving the boss a good look.

“Who the hell is that?” I could tell by the sound of his voice that something wasn’t right. I looked down to see that the man lying on the floor wasn’t Mr. Donovan. It was the bathroom attendant who passed out the towels. 

My hands began to shake and I felt sick to my stomach. I knew there was no way I could convince Don Giovanni that this was the man he wanted kidnapped. As I looked into the boss’s eyes, I knew I was screwed.

~~~*~~~*~~~

Thank you to WritingPrompt.com for posting the following prompt on Twitter.

You kidnap a different person than the intended millionaire the mafia boss paid you to kidnap.

I had a ball writing this.

~~~*~~~*~~~

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Forever

I stand on the bank of the river, watching a lone boat sail out to deeper water. I know I should be heartbroken, but instead, I only feel relief. 

I met Carson just a few weeks ago. He was a new recruit on one of the fishing boats and was ready to be back on dry land. He’d come into my bar in need of a hot meal and a stiff drink. The mere sight of him took my breath away. 

I took him home that very first night. There was just something about him that ignited my passions. The heat that flamed between us was more than intense. It was solar.

I came alive at the feel of his muscled chest against my bare skin. I longed for the grasp of his hands around my hips. My pouty lips danced along the curve of his neck. My body exploded in waves of inhibition with every primal thrust. He brought the animal in me to life.

For weeks, our bodies were entwined in a dance of unbridled passion. We studied each other’s movements. We embraced each other’s fantasies. We became each other’s desire. We achieved carnal perfection. 

When it came time for him to head back out to sea, he promised to return. He pulled a box out of his pocket and handed it to me. I opened it to find a beautiful, gold ring. I giggled in delight as he slipped the ring onto my finger. Tears of joy trailed down my face as I knew he would be mine forever

“I love you,” he said as he leaned in for a deep kiss. 

I felt the heat between us rising once again. My body came alive as his tongue ran the length of my neck. He pulled my blouse over my head, his fingers delighting the curves of my chest. I loosened his belt to free his pulsating manhood. I held him in my grip, bringing him to full attention.

He flipped me onto my back, lifting my skirt above my waist. I felt every inch of him enter my dampened domain. My muscles pulled him in deeper with each labored breath.

“I love you,” he said once again in a rhythmic tone. “I love you, forever.”

The words took hold of me and I could no longer control my surge. I pulled myself to him. Our bodies rocking in perfect unison. I wrapped my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, drawing him in closer as we both began to rise. 

I could feel his rhythm quicken as euphoric grunts escaped his lips. I kissed his neck, my tongue as hard as him. I felt his racing pulse beneath my lips and contracting muscles against my own. 

Harder, faster. Our bodies clenched in perfect unison. He thrust himself deeper one more time, an animalistic growl emitting from his throat. I pulled him in closer, my tightening muscles refusing to release. 

I wrapped my lips around his throat one last time, sinking my teeth in as hard as I could. I drained his very essence from opposite ends, filling my soul with eternal fire, ensuring that he’d be mine forever.

Now, I stand on the bank of the river, watching that lone boat sail back out to deeper waters. They’ll be long gone before the husk of what was once a man, is found below decks. 

I head back to my bar and prepare for the day. I open the safe in the office and pull out a little box. I remove the ring and place it in the box, along with all the others. 

And he will be mine...forever.

~~~*~~~*~~~

I wrote this based on a writing prompt I created. I've been playing around with a Random Word Generator and came up with the words HEAT, RING, and SAIL. This story came out of that.

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

Wicked Scream

Mitchell Bowser on Unsplash

Aiden walked toward the barn, wondering what that strange sound was that came from the loft. He'd known that owls nested up there, but this sounded different. More like a scream than a screech.

It was darker than usual that night, with an almost sinister feel in the air. He chalked it up to the fact that the old barn had always given him the creeps, but tonight seemed worse than usual.  

He reached the barn doors within moments, trembling with each passing second. He noticed a thick, oozing liquid smudged across the handles. Though he couldn't be sure in the glean of the small yard light, he was sure it was made by a human hand. His pulse began to race.

He pulled on the sliding door, shivering at the creaking sound it made. Though he'd heard it a million times before, it seemed to decalcify his spine. 

He knew he should have brought a flashlight, but left it lying on the table. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tried to find the app for its flashlight. He'd only used it once before and struggled to remember where it was. 

He finally found the app, momentarily forgetting his heart-pounding fears. This is until he heard that wicked little scream once again. 

He shined his phone's light up towards the rafters. He didn't see anything straight away, but he did detect some movement in the corner. He tried to sound brave when he called out, “Who's up there? I know you're there. Show yourself.”

Other than the echo of his own voice, the barn remained silent. 

He moved a little further into the barn, keeping his flashlight aimed upwards. Remembering that he'd been working out there earlier, he thought it best to shine the light out in front of him and it was a good thing he did. He was only inches away from walking into the handle of his drill press. 

He backed up a few steps when he felt something on his back. He froze instantly, his pulse the only thing still racing.

He slowly moved the flashlight directly in front of him, steadying himself to face whatever was behind him. 

On one heel he turned around, fearing the strange breathing he was sure he'd felt on the back of his neck.

Then he saw them. Those beady little eyes, glowing in the beam of light. 

He stared into the face of his deepest fear. A face complete with flaring nostrils and toothy snarl.

Then he heard the voice. A voice that sent waves of terror through his entire being.

“Dammit, Aiden. Are we gonna do this every time you drink beer and watch scary movies? Take your drunk ass back in the house. I swear, I married a moron.”

Aiden sunk to his knees, thankful that he'd been wrong about his fears once again. He headed back to the house but stopped in his tracks when he heard it again.

That wicked little scream. 

~~~*~~~*~~~

This story came about thanks to my friend, CJ Landry. I had no idea what a writing sprint was until she helped me realize it's nothing more than a well-done freewrite. In our 2nd session, I decided to write for the full 20 minutes with a brand new idea. And this is what I came up with. I think I kinda like it. Thanks CJ.

Just Another Pretty Unfamiliar Face

Meet Clarisse
created with the AI program thispersondoesnotexist.com

One of my favorite things is in coming up with new characters for my stories. Or just coming up with characters in general, that I then offer to my fellow writers because someone out there might be able to give them life. But I found a really cool tool that has helped me in my character quest. It's called This Person Does Not Exist and it's an Artificial Intelligence program that creates faces of people who don't exist.

I was led to this site by a gentleman by the name of J.A. Taylor. He is one of the creators of a little pub called Centina Pentina on the Medium.com platform. They publish stories of 50 and/or 100 words each. I've been a huge fan of the publication for several months now and have had several pieces published through them. 

One of their prompts was to go through this site and find a picture of someone and create a story around them. It was a blast. I was lost on the site for 3 full hours before I remembered what I was supposed to be doing. I also noticed something a bit...odd. In some of the pictures, the computer hadn't gotten it quite right and there are weird abnormalities. For example, I found a picture of a guy with the partial face of someone sitting beside him. The thing is, she had an eyeball looking out of her MOUTH! It was odd...to say the least.

This creeped me out
Made with AI program thispersondoesnotexist.com

However, in that 3 hours, I met a whole new community of potential characters. And the thing is because they're not actual people, I can let them be whoever I want, or should I say, whoever they want to be. A lot of the pictures just seemed to have a name when I'd look into their eyes. 

One of the other places that Mr. Taylor turned me onto is the sister site of this one, called This Word Does Not Exist. Yep, you guessed it. It's an AI program that creates words that don't exist in a dictionary-esque way. The program will create new words, along with their meanings, as though in a dictionary. Or, you can invent your own words and upload them to have the program create the definitions behind them. It's a blast. 

I invented this word and this is the definition given by
the AI program thisworddoesnotexist.com

I love making up new words, but don't always have an idea of what they mean. Or I have an idea but not sure it works. This program is a blast if you like to invent words. I came to realize that most of the words I invent sound like either language dialects, ancient cultures, or medical conditions/treatments. I found that rather interesting. The one posted above was the only one I created that was defined as a game. A strange game, but a game nonetheless. 

So, hey, check them out and see if you can't get lost in a world of imagination. If you do check out This Person Does Not Exist, watch the little box that comes up at the bottom of the pages. It will lead you to another program that creates works of modern art. I loved that one.

Have fun and Happy writing!!!

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Hey, check out my new Patreon Page. It offers a free monthly newsletter, as well as 5 tiers of writing prompts each month. 

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Where the Hell Have I Been???

Image by cosmix from Pixabay

Hey Kids,

Miss me? Did you even notice that I was gone? No? Oh well. 

So, it seems I last posted here about 8 months ago. I'm proud of myself for not making it a full year, but I still have some splaining to do. So, just where the hell have I been since last July? I've been creating an empire. 

Okay, so not an actual empire, but I have been working myself silly putting together some rather awesome blogs. As of this posting, I have built like 5 blogs from the ground up. And I've had a ball. Not blogger blogs like this one, but actual Wordpress blogs. 

Now, that being said, I have NOTHING against Blogger. This was my first blogging platform almost 20 years ago and I will always have a special place in my heart for it. I love Blogger. But I wanted something more. I already owned the domain name GRAVESPUBLICATIONS.COM so I used it and went with it. 

I put together that blog, then started 2 more sub-sites from there. I also own the domain name COLLECTEDKEEPSAKES.COM and put that one together as well. I have another one, but it's not doing much at the moment. I'm not sure how to go about using that one, but I'm going to keep it just in case. 

As of right now, I have:

GravesPublications.com
CollectedKeepsakes.com
ParaMythic.gravespublcations.com
GodBlog.gravespublications.com
MultiVerse.gravespublications.com
OnlineDealsandSales.com

I've also put together a free wordpress blog:

MedbsLibrary.wordpress.com

I've had a blast putting these sites together, but I find myself getting bored...again. I kept thinking that I needed to make myself a site where I could just post my own poems and stories, and not care whether anyone stopped by to read them or not. Then it dawned on me. I already had a place I could do that. Right here.

I've had Priestess of Words for about 10 years now. It's been a place where I could post anything I wanted and not feel guilty about it not being in the right "category". This site has never had a real "category" about it. It was just a place I could be me. And here I am again.

As usual, I have no idea where I'm going to go from here, but I'm going anyway. I will always have a place where I can put my thoughts down and get them out of my head. It helps me think clearer, get my ideas in order, and even helps me come up with new ideas. 

What about you? Do you have a place where you can just be you? If not, I urge you to do so. It doesn't matter if anyone comes by to read it, it only matters that you give yourself a space to free your mind. Go ahead. Be free.