The Jar

She kept the jar on the mantelpiece,

Our Grandma, Eleanor Flood,

A plain ceramic with just one flaw

A cross that was scrawled in blood.

We didn’t know what she kept in there,

We’d ask, but she’d never tell,

She merely said if we opened it

Our souls would go straight to hell.

It sat forever above the hearth

And stared at us as we ate,

My sister said it was filled with earth

Scraped up from somebody’s grate.

I thought it might hold a pile of coins

Of Spanish Dollars and gold,

I’d read so much about gold doubloons

In pirate stories of old.

But Grandma Eleanor pursed her lips

Each time that we asked her why,

We couldn’t look and we couldn’t touch,

She’d sit, and stare at the sky.

‘You vex me, child,’ she would often say,

‘You’d tempt the devil to tire,

Your parents left me to care for you,

The day they died in the fire.’

She used that story to shut us up,

She knew to pile on the guilt,

She made us pay for each bite and sup

By shaming us to the hilt.

She made it seem like a deadly chore

To have to cater for us,

‘My life,’ she said, ‘should have been much more,

Not that I like to fuss.’

We’d often ask about Grandpa Joe,

Ask what had happened to him?

Her eyes would turn to a fiery glow,

‘He died in a state of sin.’

She wouldn’t tell us what he had done,

What got her into a state,

We looked for signs that she’d loved him once,

But all that we saw was hate.

The house was heated from down below

A furnace under the floor,

I’d have to feed it with coal and coke

I’d bring from the coal house store.

She’d make me empty the pale grey ash

And scatter it on the stones,

Out in the garden, by the trash,

And next to a heap of bones.

She said that Grandpa had kept a dog,

And fed it on butchers bones,

Then threw them out by the fallen log

And next to the pathway stones.

My sister said they were burned and black

And like they’d been in a fire,

We wouldn’t have dared to answer back

Or call our Grandma a liar.

One day, while dusting the mantelpiece

The jar had crashed, and it burst,

The sound of shattering porcelain

Drowned out our Grandmother’s curse.

For spilling out of the broken jar

Was a pile of ash in the light,

And sitting there was a skull as well,

Along with the ash, bleached white.

Then Grandma let out a weird wail

And fell, to kneel on the floor,

She stared, and the skull was staring back

To tear at her cold heart’s core.

‘Why have you come to haunt and stare,’

She cried, then toppled and fell,

Down on her face as her heart gave out,

Sending her soul to hell.

Two jars now sit on the mantelpiece

Of Joe and Eleanor Flood,

A matching pair, and each with a cross

I carefully smeared with blood.

I shovelled her through the furnace door

And later, raked out the ash,

While now there’s a growing pile of bones

In the garden, next to the trash.

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[TPK Stories]

A macabre tale of bitterness. Well told.

[Tony Jordan]

I had a formidable auntie who was like Eleanor Flood. This has such a Grimm-esque feel DLP - truly one of your best dark fantastic tales.

[Coyote Poetry]

A interesting story my friend. You create strong characters and I liked Eleanor tales. Thank you David for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote