Written with the prompts: body speak, Peter came across a horrible secret in Arriana’s diary, wet her pants, invisible threads, the bowl hit the tile floor, hospitality

Peter sat up a little straighter at the breakfast table when he heard Arriana’s footfall on the stairs.  He glanced at his sister Phoebe slicing strawberries at the cutting board.  She looked nervous too.  “I wish you’d never—” she muttered in a stage whisper.

“All right, all right,” he exclaimed before lowering his voice.  “We agree.  I shouldn’t have looked in her diary.  But I did look, and now we know and we can’t unknow—okay?  So—”

“Shut up,” Phoebe chirped for Arriana was crossing the threshold.  They both affected a feigned nonchalance neither one of them felt.  Surely Arriana would notice, wouldn’t she?

Neither Peter nor Phoebe was adept at subterfuge or pretend.  But it seemed vital that they not reveal the horrible secret Peter found in Arriana’s diary.

“Strawberries,” Phoebe blurted.  “We have strawberries this morning.”

“Oh!” Arriana responded at Phoebe’s unconventional greeting.  “How nice and good morning to you too.”

“Yes, yes,” Phoebe agreed, suddenly remembering what normal looked like.  “Good morning.”

“Did you sleep well?” Peter asked a bit too enthusiastically.  Arriana squinted, surprised at his vigor.  “I did,” she said in a low voice, attempting to model a bit of restraint she hoped they might emulate.  “I did indeed sleep well.”

She slipped across the room, her near silent body-speak affirming what they already suspected.  She could move quickly and quietly.  So fast, Peter thought, so fast!—had she even moved her feet?  It seemed she had flung herself across the room propelled by invisible threads.

Watching Arriana, Phoebe looked like she might vomit or wet her pants.   She leaned forward and placed the bowl of strawberries awkwardly on the table, afraid to step closer.  Peter thought about moving a few seats away but he was the consummate people pleaser and Arriana was their guest; he was more scared to offend than he was to survive a bite or two.

Phoebe moved to the far end of the kitchen, stacking boxes of cereal on the counter.  “Will this be enough for you this morning, dear?” she asked.

“Oh,” Arriana said mildly, “nothing warm?”

Phoebe blushed, aware she was shirking her duties as B&B hostess.  “I suppose,” she said darkly, “I suppose you’d like some meat.”  She paused for effect.  “I have some blood sausage in the freezer.  I could defrost them in the microwave.”

“You needn’t go to so much trouble, Phoebe.  I can make do.”

“No, no,” Phoebe insisted.  “I wouldn’t want you to be unsatisfied.  I wouldn’t want you to have to hunt elsewhere.”

Peter stood up abruptly, appalled by Phoebe’s indiscretion.  “I should get going.”  He saw Phoebe’s panicked look.  He knew he shouldn’t abandon her but he was going to get out while the getting was good.

“Are you driving into the city?” Arriana asked him.  “Could I impose on you for a lift?”

Now it was Peter’s turn to feel panicked.  Phoebe smiled and gave a smug retort.  “He’d love to give you a ride, Arriana.  Wouldn’t you, Peter.”

“That’s so generous of you, Peter,” Arriana gushed as she snatched a large strawberry from the cutting board.  She held it for a moment with her long slender fingers, finally popping it into her wide red mouth.  “Mmmm,” she hummed.  “So sweet.  That’s all I’ll need.  I’m sure I can find something more in town.”  She smiled broadly at Peter, allowing her gaze to linger on his chubby cheeks and neck.

At that moment Phoebe dropped a ceramic cereal bowl.  It hit the tile floor and seemed to explode, shattering into a dozen or more shards, scattering from the doorway to the table.  Phoebe flung her arms into the air, and sooty black wings stretched out from her shoulders.  “Not my brother!” she squealed as she morphed into a compact flycatcher, her black wings tinged with white, her black beak pointed and agile, her white breast nearly blinding in its iridescence. 

“Phoebe, Phoebe,” Peter lamented.  “Not again.”

She threw herself at Arriana, aiming for her eyes, but landing in her yellow hair as Arriana morphed into a white spider, exuding a cloud of silk she thrust into Phoebe’s beak.  But Phoebe kept striking, even as Arriana darted across the room, up onto the window sill to squeeze out under a loose screen.

At Arriana’s exit, Phoebe transformed back to herself again, sitting on the counter by the sink, straightening her hair and apron.  

Peter sighed.  “Another paying customer you’ve scared off!” he exclaimed.

“I have her credit card imprint,” she assured him.  “Do you want anything more to eat?”

“Those blood sausages sound good,” he noted with a throaty growl.  

“Coming right up!” she said.

Photo by Tetiana Bykovets on Unsplash