Tea Party

    It's hard to say how all eight of them met.  They shared no backgrounds, went to different schools, and even lived in different cities.  One was from Paris, in one case.  Taylor was a repairman at the theater, Clariss was a teacher for the deaf, Adam taught Sunday school.  Each had a different income, and each had their own way of getting there.  Some by car, one by bus, and one had walked from at least the neighboring town.  What is known is that each filled the meter, and locked their doors as if they expected to return.
    The one later identified as Chris Spent, an accountant hailing from Ottawa, was said to have been there since early in the morning by joggers, standing tall with a folding table under his arm, a stack of eight chairs by his side, and a box at his feet.  He stood tall in the cold breeze and the ever-creeping sun, meticulously checking his watch, and waited for the tide to wilt away.  About an hour after low tide had shrunk to the horizon, the table was set with all chairs surrounding and the box of dishware laid before him.  Soon the rest of the company filtered in.  They all wore suits and dining dresses tailored with materials each could afford.  They arrived at more-or-less the same time and shook hands with smiles and greeted each other as if this were business.  Did they somehow meet before?  Friends of friends of friends of friends?  Regardless the circumstances, the rest is known.
    From eyewitness accounts, we know they were about a half mile from shore.  And while the tide slowly slid back to its original line of fortitude, the tea party never altered.  The crew of eight stretched and arched their backs as they sat, good posture and all, and tipped their cups against one another's high in the air in solute.  No toasts were made.  No grand speeches.  They talked amongst themselves as the first signs of the returning tide whetted the soles of their shoes.  The firm ground on which the table stood began to slope on one side.  As Mary tipped back in her chair, closing her eyes to feel the wind and smell the sea, she, too, slowly sunk backwards in her chair.
    The water tossed itself over their laces.  Their shoes and chair legs grew firm in the sinking sands.  But they held their cups to the salted air with cheers and made their declarations to many things.  They nodded in agreement to the laughs and shouts of one-another.  Boats drifted on the distant waves, unaware of the tea party on the shore.
    Some got up to dance in the waves as a new incoming tide swept past them.  The others parted from personal conversation to smile at the spectacle.  The power of each wave twisted and warped the plastic of the chairs with each hit, and soon the group had to stay planted in their seats to make sure their thrones weren't sailed away.  The suck of the ocean pulled at each of them.  They hooked their ankles and tied their laces around the chair legs to stay in place.  Water collided around the edges of the table and coasted tea doilies closer to shore.  Amanda grabbed the tea pot, now nearly gone except for the sea water, before it drifted from the table.  The chill of the water would have given them pneumonia after a time, but none shivered.  They continued to laugh and shout conversation across the sunken table and the roar of the ocean.  They acted like drunks, warm to the idea of death.
    As the water rode through their hair and between their lips, the people on the sands of the shore became less and less sure of what the spots of color were they saw flickering in the water.  The tide came slow, and spectators came and went, sure that someone else would stop them or they would surely stop themselves.  By the time the sun inched its rosy fingers back behind the hills, conversations had all stopped.  People were cut off mid-sentence and punchlines left unresolved.
    Soon it was Chris who was the last one whose head peaked above the water.  His last few breaths were breaks of laughter.  He toasted to the stars as they peeked through the blue.  As the water rushed over his head and muffled his laughter, Chris' arm stayed erected high, his cup overfilled with the sea.  It stayed still against a rushing current, like a testament fought against the grain.
    No notes were found at their residences, no circles on calendars or hints left to friends and colleagues.  Nothing but eight cups washed upon the shore.

Shiver

    There's a wall of dark in the woods around you.  The flashlight cuts a tunnel through the pitch 'til you can see all the trees around.  They act as support beams, holding up the sky so the stars don't come crashing down.  You ask yourself when you first noticed the noise.  Not when it started but how long you've been standing there while the low droning carried itself closer.  It's loud but it barely sounds above a mumble.
    Since when was the dog barking?  You're afraid to turn your back on what's coming but what if you already have?  Your whole body turns, your feet still glued to the dead pine needles thrust in the grass, to see your dog shaking and yelping and pissing on the porch in the dim light of the outdoor lamp.  It's too late.  You made your decision and turned your back to the dark.  You can see the breath fog your vision in front of you, but you've been holding your breath for just how long?  The mist tickles the back of your neck and the air smells of dirt freshly dug.
    Your legs spring forward and your heart beats so loud nothing else can be heard.  Just losing senses one-by-one.  In one arm you have the dog, sopping-wet, and you dropped the flashlight to slam the door behind you in the other.  Your back is to the door, the dog has run off, and you're sitting there on the floor 'cause your legs won't stop shaking long enough to stand.  The dropped flashlight on the other side of the door shines in the crack underneath and lights your shadow against the living room wall.  In a blink the shadow fades into everything else.  The flashlight turned off.  The droning sound has stopped.  The air is so still and quiet that nothing chirps.  Nothing speaks.  Not even the trees.  Not even the dog.
    The kitchen light is still beaming around the corner.  The porch light outside hints around the edges of the house and you're stuck darting your eyes between the doorway to the kitchen and the windows looking for shadows.  Did you lock the doors and windows out of old superstition or did you tell yourself you were truly alone in these woods and throw caution to the wind?  The low hum was loud enough to rumble your eardrums but nothing in the house shakes.
    Just you.