Of Friday 13ths and Valentine’s Days

It was still too early for the seeds to blossom, yet late enough for the mirth of Yuletide to fade with the embers in the hearth, carrying unto morning the last of its warmth. And so it was that Mr. and Mrs Hallmark, recently arrived from the English isles, argued to and fro about matters of love on the Sabbath. They were newly betrothed and inflamed by the passion they attributed their hearts but satisfied their loins, but as newcomers in this dormant town, they worried their ardor might be viewed askance, and often quiet were the nights at the Hallmark house.

Yet that night, the 13th of the second month on a Friday, with all windows candle-lit to stave off the spirits, Mrs. Hallmark possessed by the desire so often denied by the watchful eyes of the quiet town, took it upon herself to make her intentions known to Mr. Hallmark in the most surprising of manners. As all cowed inside their home, the passionate bride, thought the occasion called for colorful treat, and certainly the sight of her unclad shape, wrapped only in flower and air wouldn’t fail to arise her husband’s flame, and after all what better way to stave off demons than by rendering all access to one’s cavities and soul unavailable by means of another being. It is love, not candlelight that shines brighter.

And so, shrouded in darkness and moonlight, her pale complexion mellowed by pink and brown protuberance and blond patches of hair, she walked across the silent village, a few flowers through her scalp. Mrs. Hallmark did not know, and how on earth could she, that in the village lived a witch or so the villagers believed, and her husband, always the skeptic but open to new things, was hoping on Friday 13th to trap the wretched being.

The villagers hid as she walked by, a smile on her face in anticipation of an evening free from fear, save of that of an unwanted child, but to fend that there were means. And so she rounded the house, alabaster in the moonlight, electric from her toes up her thighs, and cracked open the barn, hoping that the hay would provide for soft release, and felt a club upside her head bring her to her knees.

The neighbors heard a scream, lit more candles, and shut the blinds, and woke up in the morning to find Mr. Hallmark waltzing, his arms holding his dead bride.

About the Author
Mame Bougouma Diene is a civil servant on permanent vacation even when he works 70 hours a week, who also blogs for the Times of Israel in French. He's French-Senegalese American, loves Israel and the Middle East, would really like to see an end to this intractable mess in his lifetime.