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    It Calls Me
    It Calls Me
    It Calls Me
    Ebook103 pages1 hour

    It Calls Me

    By Katie Coughran

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Water destroys and revives.

    Waves shred ears like nails on a chalkboard, soothe troubled souls like a true apothecary.

    Water is a joyful friend. A ghost wearing rouge. A toxin, enrobed in gray.

    Ill-begotten saloons lurk near its edges while quaint riverwalks with ice cream parlors are much-adored sites. Heart-shaped shells fill up baskets amidst grassy trinkets, and the beauty of untouched sand needs to be both preserved and enjoyed.

    Whether ocean, river, or rain, in this breathtaking anthology, Coughran poignantly shows us the beastly, saving nature of water-with a Percy Bysshe Shelley-like ear and range.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMary Gray
    Release dateDec 4, 2018
    ISBN9781948095211
    It Calls Me

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      Book preview

      It Calls Me - Katie Coughran

      It Calls Me

      It Calls Me

      An Anthology

      Katie Coughran

      Monster Ivy Publishing

      Copyright © 2018 by Katie Coughran

      All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

      Cover design by Cammie Larsen

      Cover image from Shutterstock.com

      Interior images from pixabay.com

      Hanging Tree photograph by Josiah Coughran

      Contents

      The House That John Built

      The Hanging Tree

      But Not Only For Me

      The Ghost That Wore Rouge

      Coming Back

      Petticoats and Splintered Bedposts

      Along The Oceanfront

      Enrobed in Gray

      It Calls Me

      At the Crossroads

      The Riverwalk: A Soulmate Seekers Short Story

      Acknowledgments

      About the Author

      Also by Katie Coughran

      Discussion Questions

      The Devils You Meet on Christmas Day: An Anthology

      For Granny, who helped me to push away the gray

      The House That John Built

      It’s nearly your time, the sickeningly perfect voice almost sang.

      But— the young man began, his voice gruff and gravelly in contrast to hers. The blood drained from his face until he was pale and ghostly, his new and inescapable reality hitting him like a rod of iron. This can’t be, he thought, the muscles in his body tensing as if preparing to run.

      All try to hide, Emmett. But none are able. Standing there in a white toga, a golden belt wrapped around the waist, the Priestess’ gaze fell on him. Eyes piercing through Emmett’s, she seemed able to read his every thought and fear. Take your gift and use it wisely.

      Opening his mouth to speak, Emmett’s throat became dry as a desert. He couldn’t say a word, and it felt as if he’d fallen into a nightmare. Only, I can’t wake up from this one. And soon, I won’t wake up at all.

      Here, she said, holding out her hand, offering the gift nobody wanted. And yet, there wasn’t anything to do but accept it.

      Reaching out, his warm palm brushed against her icy hand, and Emmett took the ancient gold piece, contemplating. I guess this is how my kin felt when receiving their own tokens … I always wondered. Resolve hardening, he asked, How long do I have?

      Smiling politely, she paused thoughtfully. Long enough to utilize that. She nodded at the golden piece in his hand. I will come for you when it’s time.

      Before Emmett could say more, the woman turned and retreated the way she came, silky black hair falling down her back.

      Exhaling, Emmett released a breath he’d been holding to the point of gasping. As he looked once more at what rested in his hand, he shook his head. Then, continuing down the road, he kicked a rock or two that rested in his path. And, even in the face of death, he felt a pang of guilt upon remembering how much his mother had despised the habit. Poor woman was always trying to break me of it.

      One foot in front of the other, he walked, finally reaching the small log cabin he’d built with his own two hands. Entering, he carefully placed his toolbox on the shelf, wiping away a little sawdust. Fingers resting on the hammer Emmett’s father had given him, he pulled it from the wooden box, handling it tenderly. Things change so fast, he thought, considering how he’d spent his day woodworking . . . before the life-changing meeting with the Priestess on the road.

      Emmett eyed the empty rocking chair, table, bookcase, and bed he’d crafted in the hopes of sharing them one day. But the opportunity had never come. Returning from labor to the warm and loving arms of a wife had never been his lot. Nor had his dream of rosy-cheeked children at his wife’s apron strings come to fruition. Instead, he was greeted by a cold hearth and empty bed.

      Fury building up inside, Emmett looked down at the gift in one hand, hammer in the other. Slowly, he gripped them harder and harder, knuckles turning white, as he once again thought of his lonely, meaningless life. Vagabonds will take my home and things – nobody cares that I lived, or whether I die.

      Emmett drew his arm back, as he powerfully flung the hammer forward and across the room. It spun through the air, the polished metal glinting as it caught the last light of the day. Smashing into the river stones of the fireplace, a chunk of broken rock tumbled from the hearth along with the hammer. First cringing at the damage, Emmett’s expression quickly turned to rage. Why should I care? he shouted at the empty room. Nobody else does!

      Letting out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a yell, he rushed toward the hammer. With one swing of his leg, Emmett sent it smashing at the chimney once more.

      Staring at the cloud of soot he’d knocked loose, he gripped the token tight, hating to accept the thing the Priestess called a gift. Eyes searching the room, he knew it was the only thing left in his life that held any true value. But what am I supposed to do with it?

      Emmett stumbled toward the rocking chair and allowed himself to fall into it. He rarely sat in the chair — it was to be his future wife’s, and he wanted to keep it as perfect as possible for her. Now, the sentiment seemed incredibly foolish. I could have been sitting in comfort all this time, he growled aloud. Not a single woman sat in the thing!

      Wincing, Emmett remembered his words weren’t quite true. One woman had sat in the chair. I thought she was happy here, he whispered, thinking of the charming conversation and her sweet face. Running his fingers along the arm of the chair, Emmett thought of Lucy doing the same, admiring his work and filling him with hope.

      John had more money, though, Emmett said, his voice sounding like the death that would soon visit. Memories came, threatening to overwhelm him as he thought of the lovely face that had lost its joy over the years, the happiness starved until it was dead. It had been unbearable to watch, unrelieved even by John receiving his own token.

      Had Lucy chosen Emmett, he knew their life would have been simple. Walks along the shore, conversations by the fire, and daily adoration would have been their prizes. Mouth tight in a grim line, Emmett muttered, "Security of possessions won over security of love. It couldn’t have been worth it."

      But, even as Emmett belittled what her choice had brought, thoughts of John’s magnificent home, the baby that was almost as beautiful as her mother, and the carriage and fine things Lucy owned flashed through his mind. Much as he hated it, the debate was easily won. There were too many ways it had, indeed, been worth it.

      Running a hand through his dark hair, Emmett’s heart sunk, tightly gripped by remorse. Unable to handle the

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