Unspoken Rules:

Flash Fiction February 22.

The house was quaint. Resembling something built by rough hands and someone who had lived an even rougher lifestyle. It was located in the nook of two hills and surrounded by desert animation like green and yellow shrubbery, cacti, and dark cottonwood trees. The city of Pachuca de Soto laid itself just on the other side of those same hills. It kept growing like a big tumor of stone walls over the centuries.

The night brought a sweet smell as the precipitation of the soil brought out ancient scents. The rain above the small valley awaited its que in a blanket of gray clouds. Crickets chirped among the brush of hiding scorpions and lonely tarantulas. Paper mache figures lined the window sills and stood in front of brilliant white curtains. Most of the figures were orange or red and displayed square heads of anger, envy, sadness, greed, and indifference.

Inside the house, everything was shadowed by darkness. The bruja sat at her rounded table. She was listening to the songs of the spirits that constantly shifted around her. Sometimes their songs brought out peace. Sometimes agony. Yet their lyrical woe was always a guidance. The guidance of those spirits that walked before her.

He knocked. The door spoke to him. In what life will you have your happiness? He replied, “This one.” The door cackled open.

The man walked in with dust on his boots. As he put both feet onto the black floorboards the dust was whisked away and back out of the door. The true color of his boots were blue. A dark veil covered her head, turning the bruja into a formless shape within her seat at the table. He removed his hat and stared at the inky blot before him. His eyes were wet with fear but his words came out smoothly as his spine straightened up. “Senora Negra. Thank you for having me.” The door closed and the house swallowed him.

A candlelight seemed to emerge from the table itself and cast the bruja in a dancing orange hew. His face was barely visible but you could still see the sweat dripping down his shaved temples. She pointed at the seat across from her and he flashed a nervous smile. The man sat down. He never took his eyes off of her.

One of the paper mache figures stared back at him from the middle of the table and underneath the candlestick. It had anger written all over its downturned eyebrows.

“How is the city?” She asked him. Her voice came out like she was singing a lullaby. It was soft, delicate, and coated in sugar. It helped ease his heavy breaths as he settled his bosom into the seat. He said, “Light’s are beginning to appear everywhere in Hidalgo, Senora. Like the stars came down to the land itself.”

She let the stillness linger for a moment. “The moon gave us enough light.”

He did not reply.

The bruja shifted in her seat. It sounded like she was wearing steel wind chimes. If she was, the man did not see any sight of them in her void. She asked him, “So your ‘woman’ problem?”

He nodded. “The bitch seeks to end me. My entire life, gone.” He tried to continue but someone else knocked on the door. The running of raindrops began to settle onto the earth outside. Her head snapped towards the door with a small jingle of her chimes. Then her gaze returned to the man sitting in confusion across from her.

It can’t be. I double booked them? She thought. The whispers of the walkers were louder now. Something beyond her control was occurring. The knocks came again. A bit louder this time. A mistake. A mistake? No. She listened to the spirits for a moment longer.

She told him, “Open the door.” He fumbled with his hat as he secured it onto his head. “Me?” He whispered for confirmation. She simply pointed towards the door. The man scooted out from his seat.

The bruja detached her legs. One by one they laid themselves onto the black wood beneath the chair in folds of black. The man opened the door. Her large shape smoked and embered down into the size of a bird. It fluttered into the corner of the house, near a red brick chimney.

When he swung the door open, the wind rushed in and carried the paper mache of anger into the frame. The visitor was none other than his wife. A red haired woman with a large nose. “Angelica?” He asked, dumbfounded.

“Michael?” She asked back, just as dumbfounded.

She barged into the house and looked around. “What the hell is going on here?” The house brightened up on her last word and revealed an empty cobwebbed space. She didn’t notice the black bird peeking at them from the corner. It waited.

Angelica faced the man and said, “So what Michael? We are talking to spell casters now?”

Michael furrowed his brow and retorted, “How did you know? Matter of fact, why are you here too?”

Angelica found herself at a loss for words for a second. Her anger overtook her face and she said, “Well – The man who said his vows to me before God no longer wants to be around me. Why should I keep him around?”

Michael gasped, “What? No! You don’t even understand why I’M here?”

“I do not. Conspiring with some bitch bruja?” She said this with conviction.

“NO! YOU are my woman. I am conspiring AGAINST a bitch!”

“Against? What does that mean?”

“This psycho keeps wanting to break my vows in Pachuca! I came here to get her off my damned back! Without killing her of course.”

Angelica’s voice trailed off, “Well you should have told me -- I could do it. . .”

Michael cocked his head and smiled. His anger seeped from his body and into the floor.

The black finch looked on with a puffed up chest. It quietly snuck out into the chimney and chirped up into the night sky. It dodged fat raindrops as the couple inside began to communicate. Even the bruja was unable to play with the strings of hearts, as some things were simply out of touch. Hearts that hold power of their own. A universe that aligns. Sometimes.

(James Qualtrough via Unsplash)