Stories written and submitted by Victoria Shellady
Sourdough
Elizabeth Moore had dinner on the table at 5 p.m., like she did every other weeknight. That night’s creation was a new recipe torn from the pages of the latest edition of Better Homes and Gardens. The Best Pot Roast You Will Ever Have, the article claimed. Elizabeth bought a chuck roast, potatoes, celery, and carrots the night before. She set the chuck in a bag of mysterious but delicious juices. When the dish hit the table, a cloud of fragrant steam produced a fat plume of smoke in the cool air. Her husband, Roger, who was wearing a shirt one size too small, evidenced by the buttons fighting for their life against the weak seams, sat at the end of the table, fork and knife in either hand.
“I think she should do ballet,” Elizabeth said, slicing down into the meat with the assistance of her body weight and newly sharpened knife. Flesh peeled away from the bone, revealing a small circle of pink giving way to crispy edges. She didn’t particularly like pot roast, but Roger loved it. It was his childhood favorite. His mother had been an excellent cook. A fact that Elizabeth, despite her best efforts, couldn’t escape.
“No one in this family is a dancer.” Roger laughed, pushing his plate toward his wife. She plopped two juicy pieces onto fine China, another relic from his mother’s kitchen, and ladled a few vegetables on the top.
Elizabeth’s nose scrunched up. “I suppose she does have short legs. Not really dancer legs.” She wasn’t going to say it was Roger’s fault.
Which it was.
“Jimmy was saying Irene really likes that astronomy camp. Could be worth looking into.” Roger plunged his fork into the meaty center, sliced with the knife waiting patiently in his left hand. Satisfied with the size of the piece, he wasted no time devouring it. Two chomps and one large gulp later, the meat was gone.
“I thought she had to pass an AP course to get into it?”
“She did.”
“She did?”
“She did. And it’s not like Irene is any smarter than our child.”
Elizabeth spooned out a portion of vegetables onto her plate. As she settled into her chair, Roger gestured he wanted another slice of meat. She obliged, cutting a piece that was thicker than the first.
“I heard that a painting camp or music camp could be very beneficial for the brain. You know, that creatively minded people can just do more. Ricky, Donna’s son, just did one.” Elizabeth said, taking her first bite of warm potato.
Too much salt.
She would adjust that for next time.
“You really want her to live in a shoebox, fighting for her life over art?” Roger laughed between bites.
“He sounds happy. Last I talked to Donna.” Elizabeth cut her vegetables into tiny pieces. They were so small they turned to mush.
“Happiness doesn’t pay for electricity.” Roger preferred to discuss things that led to money. Money brought food to the table.
“Painting has made me happy,” exclaimed Elizabeth, passion coloring her voice. “Yes. And you’re very good at it. But you also have the common sense to know hobbies don’t pay the bills.” Roger’s plate was empty, save for a ring of juice that hugged the edges. “Do we have bread?”
Elizabeth nodded, stood from her chair, and padded toward the kitchen. She brought back one slice of bread. Sourdough she had made from scratch. Another of Roger’s favorites. Twelve hours of labor later — after kneading, pounding, and measuring everything in painstaking increments — he snatched the delicate bread from her, mopping up every last drop of liquid before plopping it into his insatiable mouth. No time at all to taste those intricate fibers she worked so hard to get right.
It would have been so easy to poison.
Perhaps next time.
“I think we will tour schools early. Scope out their programs. See who offers advanced science and math, then we can decide from there.” Roger slipped a hand around Elizabeth’s waist, pulling her into his lap. She winced, her hand flying down to between her legs.
“Still hurts?” Roger asked.
“It’s been months. I thought it would go away by now.”
“The doctor said it may take a while.”
“Maybe the extra stitch was a mis–”
“Everyone does it. You’ll be fine.” He put a hand on her leg.
“I think I need to see the doctor.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Roger, please.”
“You told the doctor you wanted this.”
Elizabeth wished she had had the moxie to say no. But she didn’t want to disappoint anyone, especially Roger. It would’ve been challenging to say no to her husband in a room of six people. Six men, to be precise.
“Anyway. I have five tours set up next week, one with the conservatory too.”
“Roger!”
“What?! I’m excited.”
Elizabeth pushed her way up from his lap. “Don’t you think she should have a say?”
“Let’s ask her.” Roger’s eyes went to the seat in the middle of the table, where June had been resting, with no hint of agitation, for the entirety of the dinner. But as Roger’s and June’s eyes locked, she screamed, rattling the toy in her left hand. “I think the baby’s hungry,” Roger said.
Elizabeth grabbed her plate of mush and slid it toward Savannah. She picked up the silver spoon, holding it just in front of Savannah’s mouth. Savannah’s green eyes sparkled at the sight of her mother.
“Open up, sweetie.”
White Stone
The men of Yorkshire gathered that Sunday as they had the last Sunday of every month.
They met in an old abandoned barn just outside of town. As the men entered, they found a place to sit in the circle, a gesture to honor the ritual performed by those who created it. There were grumbles and nods of assurances as they filed in and took their seats.
Mr. Sampson, a weak, poor-postured man, sauntered inside with incredible slowness. He took his seat next to Mr. Kombs, who had just welcomed his first child, a baby girl, into the world. Across from them was Mr. Peters, who had been married more than five times, a secret that wasn’t so secret in a town like Yorkshire.
Mr. Russ, the leader of the ritual, stepped inside. He was always the last person to enter the barn; he waited outside the door until he saw all the town’s men had entered.
“Can you believe this is back around again?” Mr. Francois said to the group. He was bitter from the cold, not wearing the warm fleece jacket his wife had told him to put on.
There were huffs and exhalations around the room, some in agreement, others in annoyance. Mr. Russ, whose fingers were chilled from the frosty November air, shut the barn door. He took a seat in the middle of the circle; this is where the ritual leader always sat. He reached into his weathered brown trousers and procured a black drawstring pouch.
“Alright, boys. You know the drill.” He said.
He recited an incantation, which had to be spoken before the picking began. The men bowed their heads and prayed as he recounted, “Now, forever, and always. As we have done in days past, we do now and in the future. For our health. For our prosperity. For the good of all people.”
Following a moment of silence, Mr. Russ stood. He walked from man to man, urging them to take a stone from the bag. Like previous rituals, the men were not allowed to look upon the rock in their hands.
“How old is Sarah now, Jim?” Mr. Kombs said to Mr. Sampson.
“Oh, she just turned eighty, son.” Mr. Sampson replied.
“Lucky man, you.”
“The luckiest.”
Once every man picked a stone — including Mr. Russ — there was another moment of silence. Mr. Russ looked about the room. “We open at the same time — count of three.”
He counted: “1 . . . 2 . . . 3.” The men opened their hands, exposing their palms to the group. They hurriedly looked at one another’s — whispers floating across the room. It wasn’t long before their eyes settled on Mr. Kombs. A small white stone sat upon his open palm — but not for long.
He threw it down immediately, his face colored by rage. “Louise and I just got hitched a year ago.”
“The rules, Mr. Kombs.” Mr. Russ reminded him as he pulled a silver revolver from his back pocket.
Mr. Kombs let out a deep sigh and reluctantly took the gun from Mr. Russ’s hands. He marched out of the barn, some men in tow behind him, and made his way back to the house. Louise opened the door to greet him.
Bang.
Victoria Shellady is an Iowa City based writer and performer. While she specializes in short horror stories, she also enjoys dabbling in writing that explores identity, love, and the endurance of the human spirit. Her work has been published across local newspapers and featured on stages across the corridor. To see what she’s up to, you can follow her on Instagram.