by Andrea Lauritzen
August 2008@ all rights reserved
Copyright @Andrea Lauritzen 2008
Images swirled in her head. Darkness, then bright lights . . . people talking, yelling . . . then silence. Hands. Large hands. She couldn’t breathe. The darkness was stifling. Suffocating . . .
Aubrey shot up from her pillow, drenched in sweat. Chilled . . .
“Another dream . . . just a dream . . .”
. . . a nightmare really, one which haunted her night after night. It felt so real, so frightening and intense. Aubrey picked the wet strands of hair from her cheeks, and drew her hair back from her head. Forcing herself to calm her rapid breathing, she took one deep breath after another.
“In through my nose, out through my mouth,” she repeated as she breathed. Too tired to change her damp sheets, and unexcited about slipping back into their dampness she grabbed her favorite pillow and dragged into the living room.
“Living alone has its advantages,” she thought as she popped a cheerful movie into the DVD player and curled up in a blanket on the couch.
A sunbeam, peeking through the blinds, danced Aubrey awake. Stretching her aching back, she caught the time on the living room clock. “9:02.” Eyes popping, she hurled herself to her feet, nearly falling as her feet tangled in the blanket. “I’m late for work again,” she groaned as she rushed for the shower.
“Nice you could make it to work today,” her cynical co-worker Fred chided as she ran past his cubicle at 10:35 am.
“Shut up, idiot,” she thought to herself. “By the way, dork, nice tie.” Though she was moving fast she couldn’t miss the neon orange necktie with the little purple . . . what were they? Bats? Purple bats hung loosely from his fat neck. She hated working with this two-faced, third-grade-mentality tattle-tale. She did her job. Granted, she was occasionally late for work, but was also generally the last to leave at night. She got her work done. That’s what mattered, right?! Besides, it was none of his business. This was between her and her supervisor, the dreamy guy in the corner office.
Aubrey slipped silently into her swivel chair and turned on the computer. “Another boring day,” she thought as her computer hummed into service. “Too bad the only excitement I have in my life is the nightmares that keep me up all night.”
After checking and answering emails and going over her TO DO List, Aubrey looked at her calendar. Glaring at her from the screen, in red, was an important meeting – now half over.
“Arrrgh!”
Grabbing a pen and pad, she rushed out the door and down the hall to the conference room. “Maybe I should just turn around, go back to my office, call in sick and go home for the day,” she thought as her heels clicked along the hall tile.
The image startled her. Even wide awake it felt surreal to her as she stopped abruptly before the large oak doors. Her hand reached for the brass knob. She saw other hands blurred before her trying to locate the knob. Another knob, dark and slivery, jutted out at her causing her to step back in fear. “They’re coming for me,” she whispered as her legs became noodles and crumpled beneath her. She watched the knob slowly get higher and higher. Then her arm hurt, and something jarred her head.
Voices . . . distant . . . footsteps on carpet . . . the doorknob.
“The doorknob . . . quickly, lock the door.” Darkness . . .
“Aubrey, Aubrey. Wake up Aubrey.” The voice seemed muffled in her confusion. Darkness became subdued tones of grey and white. A deep, pounding echo reverberated through her head. She didn’t want to open her eyes.
Slapping her face quickly, but gently, and giving her shoulders a shake the dreamy corner-office boss looked concernedly into her eyes.
“They’re blue,” Aubrey thought. “I always thought they were brown.”
“Are you ok?” He stated plainly. “We heard you fall.”
The cotton in her mouth made it difficult to form coherent words. She gave up and simply nodded. Dreamy hefted her aptly to her feet, holding her a moment as she wobbled. “Perhaps you should check in with the physician downstairs. Looks like you have a nasty bump on your head. It’s already starting to color. It’ll be a shiner by tomorrow.”
“Great,” she mumbled with sarcasm and then in her mind, “So much for impressing my new boss. I think now would definitely be a good time to go home.” Aubrey smiled, took her shoulders back, and promised she would see the doctor right away.
“Let Susan walk you down,” concern oozed from every word.
“If I weren’t so embarrassed,” she thought, “I’d be flattered by his sweetness.”
“I’ll be ok. Promise. Go ahead and finish your meeting. Fill me in later, ok?” Finally, some coherent words escaped from her cotton mouth. Exerting maximum control, Aubrey remained upright and stable all the way to her office. She felt the searing eyes of her co-workers on her back as she walked deliberately down the hallway. Slumping into her swivel chair, she laid her pounding head on her arms. Her blonde, loose ringlets filled the space blocking the light. That helped. The darkness wasn’t as scary when she knew it was light outside.
“If I thought I could make it to the bathroom . . . “ Aubrey grabbed her garbage can and heaved inside.
“A severe concussion,” concluded the in-house doctor.” You’ll need to rest for a few days . . . “ the doctor’s words faded into other words . . .
“. . . a severe concussion. How did you say she received it?”
“She fell at school. Her teacher called us. Said she’d been goofing off in class.
“She’d have to fall pretty far to hit her head this hard, as well as dislocate her shoulder.”
“The teacher said she was climbing around her desk.”
“It still doesn’t seem likely. What did your daughter say happened?”
“She said she fell off her desk.”
“Aubrey? Aubrey!” Aubrey snapped back to the present. “Where did you go,” the doctor questioned?
“Sorry. I’m just a little tired. I didn’t sleep well last night, and now this. My head’s a little fuzzy. I apologize.”
“That’s ok. It’s understandable. Do you have someone who can drive you home?”
“No. But I don’t live far.”
“I’m not sure, with your zoning out like that, that you ought to be driving. Call a cab.”
“Oh no, I don’t want to leave my car here. I’ll be ok. I’ll go straight home to bed.” The debate continued but Aubrey, proving her astuteness in battle, finally won out. The doctor gave her “a note” to be off work for three to five days. This meant, at least, that they were paid days.
Managing to make it home safely she collapsed into a deep, fitful sleep haunted by images she could no longer avoid. Paralyzed by their familiarity, she tossed through the night.
“Well, I didn’t slip into a coma last night, even though I didn’t wake up every four hours as the doctor prescribed. Lucky me?!” Sarcasm dripped from her last statement to herself. Curling up on the couch with a cup of warm apple juice and ginger, Aubrey clicked the play button. “What I need is a good cry movie,” she said to herself as Savannah Smiles began. “That will help me vent some of these insane emotions.” Staring blankly at the screen she wracked her memory. “I don’t remember falling in school. When did that happen? And dislocating my shoulder?” She massaged the muscle of her currently bruised shoulder. Had this incident triggered a past memory? Her childhood was a blur at best, with large black holes throughout. “Perhaps I fell during one of those black hole periods,” she mused, and sipped her juice?
The days passed slowly with long hours of pounding pain and vivid dreams. Sleep came and went in fits, Aubrey unaware whether it was night or day . . . unsure which were the dreams and which the reality. It all felt so real . . . her nightmares. And her waking moments often seemed to her as a dream, like she was imagining herself grown up when she was really just a frightened child . . . hiding, but from what?
. . . A ladder . . . Climb the ladder. RUN! Get away! She felt hot breath on her bare back as the heavy man huffed after her. She reached the ladder and began climbing. One hand, one bare foot on the old wooden rungs. One hand, grasping. One more foot step up. Reaching . . . His fat fingers wrapped around her ankle, yanking. A yelp escaped her parched lips. She tugged her leg back, and reached for a higher rung. A splinter lodged in her naked waist as she banged against the worn, splintering ladder. A tear escaped from her eye and trickled down her flushed cheek. His fingers brushed her heel, but she was too high to grab. She climbed one hand, one foot, one rung, one tear at a time. The dog barked wildly, and jumped angrily beside the ladder as she climbed into the hay loft to momentary safety.
“Bark, Bark, Bark,” the noise aroused Aubrey from her reality, her dream. Which was it? The clock on her nightstand glared “3:05” in bright red numbers.
“What’s that dog barking at this time of night?” She opened the blind only to be accosted by the glaring afternoon sun. “Wow! Three in the afternoon? I slept all day.”
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Scene
‘Grotesque’ Character Scene
Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2008
The chisel bit into the stone with a grating sound, the craftsman ignored it, focusing his eye, his mind and his sinew on the curve of the stone he was following. He blew away dust and bits of granite, then sat back from his work and eyed the effect of the cut he’d just made. He leaned forward and smoothed a rough spot with his thumb, the blue-gray of his skin a stark contrast against the warm ochre of the stone before him. He smiled at his handiwork. Visions of his mother strolled leisurely across his mind as he gazed at the stone figure before him. The curve of her chin, the softness in her eyes, her cockeyed smile that she always wore when she was being mischievous; all this was beginning to emerge from the hardened stone. He’d chosen this particular stone for the warm tones of color that ran through it. He’d walked the 8 miles to the granite quarry Master Pan had told him about. Once there, he’d hand selected the 10 ton block after throwing away a dozen pieces master sculptors would have fought over. He’d meticulously cut it away from the wall, and carried it on his back to the workshop; only stopping after five miles to eat and nap before continuing up the winding path to the mountainside fortress which was his home.
He leaned in close, only inches from the granite block, bits of stone fell away as the chisel again scored the stone, piercing the surface as if it were clay under his touch. Grains of mineral rained onto the stone floor of the workshop as Grotesque followed the curve of a cluster of sculpted hairs. He worked alone, which he’d come to expect, and prefer; the other students ears were much more sensitive to the scraping sounds metal on stone. Grotesque found that he preferred the solitude while he worked. This was where he found peace, in stone, in working with his hands and his mind. Outside in the Northeastern Court he could hear several of the other students sparring with staffs. The clack clack of wood hitting wood reverberated through the complex. He longed to be out there, exercising his muscles, which ached from being dormant too long. Sculpting honed his control, but he needed to push the limits of his strength, push it until he felt exhausted with fatigue. It had been such a long since he’d simply cut loose and pushed his body until it cried out in relief at having gone as far as it could go.
He put down his sculpting tools, stood his full 6’-5”, and stretched. He ran strong fingers through his course black hair and walked out into the courtyard. The moment he reached the edge of the court, all sparring stopped and he was greeted with respectful bows from all of his colleagues. He bowed respectfully to them, and said, “Please, continue.” They walked to their respective spots, and continued their practice, gracefully dodging, leaping , and somersaulting. All the while their 2 meter long staffs slashing the air at and around their partners. One of the young men approached Grotesque with two staves in hand. “You should practice too,” he said, extending a staff to Grotesque and smiling. “You’ll grow flabby spending so much time sculpting.” He poked Grotesque gently in the stomach with the staff.
Grotesque smiled back, “I can’t take the risk, I might kill you by accident Jo-Jah, but you know that already.”
“Are you threatening me?” Jo-Jah said in a mock-serious voice. He spun and crouched into a fighting stance, both staffs ready to strike. “Now I must defend my honor by cutting you into a million pieces and throwing you to the Gulls.”
“Don’t be an idiot Jo-Jah,” Ko-Lim, a taller boy, said through his laughter, “Grotesque would take you apart with both hands and feet tied behind his back.”
“That is, if we could find chains strong enough to keep him bound.” Sam chuckled.
The other boys laughed.
Grotesque smiled appreciatively.
Jo-Jah, still smiling himself, said, “You asked for it.” then adopting a serious expression, sprang into the air, several feet above the ground bringing both staves down on Grotesque one after the other so quickly that he almost didn’t have time to throw up his arm to protect himself. The two staves made cracking sounds as they came in contact with his steely forearm. Grotesque showed no signs of injury. Instead his expression turned stern.
The boys who had moments before been standing close by, scattered, some into nearby trees, others behind a sturdy-looking column or statue.
“Jo-Jah, no!” Grotesque scolded, “You know why I can’t!” He watched Jo-Jah move swiftly into a position on his left, and turned reluctantly to keep him in sight.
“Enough excuses scoundrel,” Jo-Jah said, “Fight for your honor!” he swung a single staff around and struck him across the back of his thigh, then vaulted to the right using the second staff. He struck again, this time hitting Grotesque across the middle of his back. Then he retreated, circling Grotesque from a distance, one staff horizontal to the ground, an extension of his outstretched arm, the other staff behind his back and pointing skyward. “Now do you see that you cannot win, Grotesque-San?”
Grotesque had grown accustomed to Jo-Jah’s sense of humor, and his fighting style, and though he had never fought with him hand to hand, he had watched him spar with others. Jo-Jah was cocky, and quick, but not quick enough.
He’d leaped into the air again, but Grotesque, who was much faster and stronger, launched himself forward and with an arm outstretched swept Jo-Jah’s legs from under him, Jo-Jah’s upper body spun toward the ground, head first. Grotesque grabbed the tunic of the young fighter stopping his fall an inch above the ground. He held him there a moment before slapping him soundly to the stone floor, winding him slightly.
Grotesque leaned in close to his ear, and said, “I didn’t want to hurt you, Jo-Jah,” before walking away toward the baths.
Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2008
The chisel bit into the stone with a grating sound, the craftsman ignored it, focusing his eye, his mind and his sinew on the curve of the stone he was following. He blew away dust and bits of granite, then sat back from his work and eyed the effect of the cut he’d just made. He leaned forward and smoothed a rough spot with his thumb, the blue-gray of his skin a stark contrast against the warm ochre of the stone before him. He smiled at his handiwork. Visions of his mother strolled leisurely across his mind as he gazed at the stone figure before him. The curve of her chin, the softness in her eyes, her cockeyed smile that she always wore when she was being mischievous; all this was beginning to emerge from the hardened stone. He’d chosen this particular stone for the warm tones of color that ran through it. He’d walked the 8 miles to the granite quarry Master Pan had told him about. Once there, he’d hand selected the 10 ton block after throwing away a dozen pieces master sculptors would have fought over. He’d meticulously cut it away from the wall, and carried it on his back to the workshop; only stopping after five miles to eat and nap before continuing up the winding path to the mountainside fortress which was his home.
He leaned in close, only inches from the granite block, bits of stone fell away as the chisel again scored the stone, piercing the surface as if it were clay under his touch. Grains of mineral rained onto the stone floor of the workshop as Grotesque followed the curve of a cluster of sculpted hairs. He worked alone, which he’d come to expect, and prefer; the other students ears were much more sensitive to the scraping sounds metal on stone. Grotesque found that he preferred the solitude while he worked. This was where he found peace, in stone, in working with his hands and his mind. Outside in the Northeastern Court he could hear several of the other students sparring with staffs. The clack clack of wood hitting wood reverberated through the complex. He longed to be out there, exercising his muscles, which ached from being dormant too long. Sculpting honed his control, but he needed to push the limits of his strength, push it until he felt exhausted with fatigue. It had been such a long since he’d simply cut loose and pushed his body until it cried out in relief at having gone as far as it could go.
He put down his sculpting tools, stood his full 6’-5”, and stretched. He ran strong fingers through his course black hair and walked out into the courtyard. The moment he reached the edge of the court, all sparring stopped and he was greeted with respectful bows from all of his colleagues. He bowed respectfully to them, and said, “Please, continue.” They walked to their respective spots, and continued their practice, gracefully dodging, leaping , and somersaulting. All the while their 2 meter long staffs slashing the air at and around their partners. One of the young men approached Grotesque with two staves in hand. “You should practice too,” he said, extending a staff to Grotesque and smiling. “You’ll grow flabby spending so much time sculpting.” He poked Grotesque gently in the stomach with the staff.
Grotesque smiled back, “I can’t take the risk, I might kill you by accident Jo-Jah, but you know that already.”
“Are you threatening me?” Jo-Jah said in a mock-serious voice. He spun and crouched into a fighting stance, both staffs ready to strike. “Now I must defend my honor by cutting you into a million pieces and throwing you to the Gulls.”
“Don’t be an idiot Jo-Jah,” Ko-Lim, a taller boy, said through his laughter, “Grotesque would take you apart with both hands and feet tied behind his back.”
“That is, if we could find chains strong enough to keep him bound.” Sam chuckled.
The other boys laughed.
Grotesque smiled appreciatively.
Jo-Jah, still smiling himself, said, “You asked for it.” then adopting a serious expression, sprang into the air, several feet above the ground bringing both staves down on Grotesque one after the other so quickly that he almost didn’t have time to throw up his arm to protect himself. The two staves made cracking sounds as they came in contact with his steely forearm. Grotesque showed no signs of injury. Instead his expression turned stern.
The boys who had moments before been standing close by, scattered, some into nearby trees, others behind a sturdy-looking column or statue.
“Jo-Jah, no!” Grotesque scolded, “You know why I can’t!” He watched Jo-Jah move swiftly into a position on his left, and turned reluctantly to keep him in sight.
“Enough excuses scoundrel,” Jo-Jah said, “Fight for your honor!” he swung a single staff around and struck him across the back of his thigh, then vaulted to the right using the second staff. He struck again, this time hitting Grotesque across the middle of his back. Then he retreated, circling Grotesque from a distance, one staff horizontal to the ground, an extension of his outstretched arm, the other staff behind his back and pointing skyward. “Now do you see that you cannot win, Grotesque-San?”
Grotesque had grown accustomed to Jo-Jah’s sense of humor, and his fighting style, and though he had never fought with him hand to hand, he had watched him spar with others. Jo-Jah was cocky, and quick, but not quick enough.
He’d leaped into the air again, but Grotesque, who was much faster and stronger, launched himself forward and with an arm outstretched swept Jo-Jah’s legs from under him, Jo-Jah’s upper body spun toward the ground, head first. Grotesque grabbed the tunic of the young fighter stopping his fall an inch above the ground. He held him there a moment before slapping him soundly to the stone floor, winding him slightly.
Grotesque leaned in close to his ear, and said, “I didn’t want to hurt you, Jo-Jah,” before walking away toward the baths.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
DELEMETRE
Delemetre travels the servants’ passages to Lord Eliv’s room. She listens outside the door. There are voices inside. A groan. Silence.
Delemetre waits for a moment, and slowly opens the door.
“Good afternoon.”
Delemetre jumps slightly, recomposes herself, and turns a cool look to Eliv. “Good afternoon, My Lord.”
He is blocking her view of the room. “Looking for something?”
“I got lost in the passage. I was looking for my master.”
“You are the servant of the other guest, Lord Talor. Come. I will take you to him.”
He steps even closer. Delemetre pretends to drop something and bends to pick it up. She sees the legs and feet of someone lying on the floor behind Eliv.
“Come on, Girl.”
She stands, looking him directly in the eye. “Who is that?” She shoves Eliv aside to see the face of the corpse. It is just another one of Eliv’s thugs. No one she knows. Blood is leaking from a stab wound in his chest.
Eliv grabs her arm in a vice-like grip, and pulls her into the room. “I am sorry, but now that you have seen him, I must insist that you join him.”
Delemetre turns her cool, angry face to his; lightning flashes in her eyes. “You are despicable. You have no respect for life. The ghosts of the countless people you have killed scream for justice.” He twinges slightly at her intense gaze, “Oh, yes, I can hear them. The more you kill, the louder they become. One day, you will find yourself alone with them, and they will have their revenge.”
Delemetre twists free of his grip. Kicks him, and darts from the room. Eliv gets to his feet, screams with rage, and follows.
Elizabeth Williamson Copyright © 2008
Delemetre waits for a moment, and slowly opens the door.
“Good afternoon.”
Delemetre jumps slightly, recomposes herself, and turns a cool look to Eliv. “Good afternoon, My Lord.”
He is blocking her view of the room. “Looking for something?”
“I got lost in the passage. I was looking for my master.”
“You are the servant of the other guest, Lord Talor. Come. I will take you to him.”
He steps even closer. Delemetre pretends to drop something and bends to pick it up. She sees the legs and feet of someone lying on the floor behind Eliv.
“Come on, Girl.”
She stands, looking him directly in the eye. “Who is that?” She shoves Eliv aside to see the face of the corpse. It is just another one of Eliv’s thugs. No one she knows. Blood is leaking from a stab wound in his chest.
Eliv grabs her arm in a vice-like grip, and pulls her into the room. “I am sorry, but now that you have seen him, I must insist that you join him.”
Delemetre turns her cool, angry face to his; lightning flashes in her eyes. “You are despicable. You have no respect for life. The ghosts of the countless people you have killed scream for justice.” He twinges slightly at her intense gaze, “Oh, yes, I can hear them. The more you kill, the louder they become. One day, you will find yourself alone with them, and they will have their revenge.”
Delemetre twists free of his grip. Kicks him, and darts from the room. Eliv gets to his feet, screams with rage, and follows.
Elizabeth Williamson Copyright © 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
TOPIC: CHARACTER SCENE
it's the 15th. new topic time! (those of you who have not posted for the last one yet can still post. if it's a draft it will post on the day the draft was written not published) ok we did character maps back in may. those of you who are new to the site can do the character map as well (or not, just pick a character you created that you like, or create a new one) anyway the character that was mapped needs something to do. write a scene with that character.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
SILENT DAD
The front door slammed open. A group of Elves, Gnomes and Dwarves ran through the house, killing as many people as they could; men, women and children.
Death enters the house. He found a Dwarf slitting the throat of a child. Death cut him in half with his scythe. An Elf shot arrows in the backs of those that were trying to run away. Death killed him. A Gnome thew a young boy out of an upper story window. Death eliminated him. Another Dwarf slashed his way down the hall. Death slashed him. Other murderers inflicted as much damage as they could. Death sought them out.
He cornered the last murderer. "Why have you killed my children?"
The Gnome refused to answer. Death killed him.
Death did his duty and separated the spirits of the murdered from their dead bodies. He said "Goodbye" and "I love you" to each one.
Life entered. She screamed at the sight of her slaughtered children.
Death told her what happened. Tears streaming down her face, she went outside and fell to the earth. The ground rumbled and shook. A large hole formed.
Death, and the children still living, brought out the dead and placed them in the hole.
Life dug her fingers into the earth. The ground covered the bodies. Grass and flowers sprouted.
Life collapsed and sobbed. Death knelt beside her and sobbed with her. The living children joined them.
=====
My aunts say it was just a dream, but the images are so clear I wonder if they are telling the truth.
I lean over the soup pot and stir the contents. I hear his quietly shuffling feet on the stone kitchen floor. I watch him. His movements are wooden as he sits down at the table. He isn't really looking at it. He always looks straight ahead into nothing. He never says anything. He never does anything. He never goes anywhere. I want desperately for him to speak. What would he say? I want to cry for the words he never says, for the feelings he never shares.
I dish up a bowl of soup for him and give him a spoon. He eats listlessly, while I serve myself. I sit across from him. I can't eat. I have to know.
"Dad." His eyes flicker ever so slightly and shift to mine. I have no memory of ever calling him that. My aunts have told me nothing of his relationship to me, but I know who he is. The word tastes strange in my mouth. I swallow. "Why don't you ever speak to me? Don't you love me?"
His blue eyes are penetrating as they look into mine. I try to penetrate back. I see sadness, pain and that quiet softness that is his alone, but he is very far away. I can see him coming back into himself, slowly at first, but coming faster and faster. When he is fully there, his eyes light up. He clears his throat. "Yes, Qeria, I do. I am sorry. I have been very busy." His eyes start to dim again.
"Dad! Wait!" He stops and comes back. "Busy with what? Can I help?"
He thinks about this for a minute. I have never seen him so lifelike. It is shocking, yet relieving. I don't want him to leave again. "I have been doing my duty. No one can help with that."
"What is your duty?"
He raises an eyebrow at me. "Have your sisters told you nothing?"
"My sisters? I don't have any sisters!"
"No sisters? Ariara!"
Aunt Ariara rushes in. "Dad! You're here! What happened?" He's here? He's always here! Isn't he? My aunts Dotia and Elemie enter the kitchen with the same question.
He looks at each of them sternly. "Qeria has no sisters?"
I have never seen my aunts so flustered before. They "um" and "er" and look at each other, but refuse to meet Dad's eyes.
"Well?" he asks.
"We told her we were her aunts," Ariara mutters.
"Her aunts? Why?"
They shuffle their feet. "Because, we're so much older than she is. It was weird saying she was our sister," says Ariara.
"Especially since we look older than you," says Dotia, "She's only ten!"
His eyes are momentarily hard before softening again. "Your older siblings said the same thing about you. History repeats."
"Dad, where's Mom?" I ask.
"She's coming," his eyes dim momentarily, "with your brothers."
"Why don't they live with us?"
"You will know soon enough," he says.
"Did you and Mom break up?"
He smiles at me. "No. We love each other too much for that. We have been together even though we have not been with you."
"Where have you been? What have you been doing?"
"You didn't tell her. Why?" he asks my sisters.
"We thought it would be better if she didn't know," says Ariara.
"Better for whom?"
"Know what?" Why didn't they just say it?
He pulled me in close so I would see only his eyes. His eyes. Blue. Old, even though his face was not Eternal, with many endings. I gasp. "You're Death!"
He nods.
"And... and Mom?"
"Life."
"It was real."
I drop to the floor, shocked. My au- sisters are yelling. Dad ignores them, picks me up and sits me on his lap. He doesn't say anything, he just holds me.
I was right. The truth is scary. Not boogieman scary. A different kind. What am I? What will I become? Will I age like my sisters? Or will I be ageless like my parents?
"You should have told her," he says.
=====
Boys are so noisy. I have never lived with my brothers before. Kofer, one of my younger brothers, runs through the house, arms spread, pretending to be a Dragon. Mom smiles at him.
It's weird having her around, but, then again, it's weird having Dad around too. They act as though they have never been apart. They say they haven't.
Dad disappeared two days ago, then walked in the door with five more sisters and two more brothers. Mom did the same, bringing three more brothers and one sister. Dad says there are more. I currently live with twenty siblings, with more on the way, not including the twins still in Mom's belly.
New rooms to the house appear every time siblings arrive. The living room is enormous. Dad grabs Kofer, and, calling to the others, carries him into the living room.
“Alright everyone. Quiet down,” says Dad. The furniture is covered by my siblings. There are so many. Janue, my toddler sister, sits on Mom's lap. Dad continues, “We need to know what you can do. We have been a family divided because we were attacked.” He holds up his hand as voices fill the room. “We thought we would be safer if we split up, but many of your brothers and sisters are not here.” He pauses. “I had to visit them officially.”
This causes quite a stir. “We need to test each of you. We need to know what abilities you have,” says Mom.
“Why?” says Ariara.
“We are going to fight for our family.”
The tension is broken by seven more sisters and five more brothers walking through the door.
=====
It is my turn. I don't know what I can do. My older sisters never let me do much magic. They said it was for my protection. Mom takes my hand and we move from one point to another in no time at all.
"Can you do that Qeria?"
"I don't know. I've never tried."
"Go ahead and try now. Just think of where you want to go."
Before I have time to think of anything else, I am standing next to Dad. He is working. We are in a Gnome city, with bodies piled up in the streets. Many of the Gnomes are crying. I tug on Dad's cloak. He turns to me, his eyebrows rise. "What are you doing here?"
"Mom told me to think of where I wanted to go and I thought of you. Where are we?"
The Gnome city of Herion. I am stalking the streets."
"Why?"
"It's expected of me when there's a plague."
"Is that all you do, is stalk?"
"No. I do my regular work too." He swings his scythe and a spirit leaves its body.
"Can I try?"
"No. This is my work."
We walk in silence for a few minutes.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"How many siblings do I have?"
"Currently? Or altogether?"
"Both."
"There are two hundred and eighty six currently living."
"Two hundred and eighty six! I haven't even seen them all!
"Many of your older siblings are married and have families of their own. Remember, your mother and I are immortal. We have lived on this world since the beginning. You have many brothers and sisters who have simply died of old age."
"How many altogether?"
"One thousand and eight. The twins in your mother's womb are 1009 and 1010."
A thousand children! I stop and stare and Dad. He stops his stalking to look at me.
"What number am I?
"One thousand."
"How do you remember us all?"
"As Life and Death, your mother and I know the names of every person who has ever lived."
Mom appears. "Death, have you seen... Here you are Qeria. I was worried."
"I wanted to see Dad."
She smiles. "We have another child that can travel as we do."
"Can they all?"
She shakes her head. "Not since our first."
"Who was your first?"
"Time."
"Oh. I'm the only one since her that has been able to travel like you?"
They nod.
"Does this mean I'm immortal too?"
They shrug. "Maybe," says Dad. "We don't know."
"Why not? You would know if anyone does."
"The Creator likes us to find these things out ourselves," says Mom. "Come. Let's go home and let your father get back to his stalking."
I take her outstretched hand and we return home. I might be immortal. I don't know whether to be excited or sick.
Elizabeth Williamson Copyright © 2008
Death enters the house. He found a Dwarf slitting the throat of a child. Death cut him in half with his scythe. An Elf shot arrows in the backs of those that were trying to run away. Death killed him. A Gnome thew a young boy out of an upper story window. Death eliminated him. Another Dwarf slashed his way down the hall. Death slashed him. Other murderers inflicted as much damage as they could. Death sought them out.
He cornered the last murderer. "Why have you killed my children?"
The Gnome refused to answer. Death killed him.
Death did his duty and separated the spirits of the murdered from their dead bodies. He said "Goodbye" and "I love you" to each one.
Life entered. She screamed at the sight of her slaughtered children.
Death told her what happened. Tears streaming down her face, she went outside and fell to the earth. The ground rumbled and shook. A large hole formed.
Death, and the children still living, brought out the dead and placed them in the hole.
Life dug her fingers into the earth. The ground covered the bodies. Grass and flowers sprouted.
Life collapsed and sobbed. Death knelt beside her and sobbed with her. The living children joined them.
=====
My aunts say it was just a dream, but the images are so clear I wonder if they are telling the truth.
I lean over the soup pot and stir the contents. I hear his quietly shuffling feet on the stone kitchen floor. I watch him. His movements are wooden as he sits down at the table. He isn't really looking at it. He always looks straight ahead into nothing. He never says anything. He never does anything. He never goes anywhere. I want desperately for him to speak. What would he say? I want to cry for the words he never says, for the feelings he never shares.
I dish up a bowl of soup for him and give him a spoon. He eats listlessly, while I serve myself. I sit across from him. I can't eat. I have to know.
"Dad." His eyes flicker ever so slightly and shift to mine. I have no memory of ever calling him that. My aunts have told me nothing of his relationship to me, but I know who he is. The word tastes strange in my mouth. I swallow. "Why don't you ever speak to me? Don't you love me?"
His blue eyes are penetrating as they look into mine. I try to penetrate back. I see sadness, pain and that quiet softness that is his alone, but he is very far away. I can see him coming back into himself, slowly at first, but coming faster and faster. When he is fully there, his eyes light up. He clears his throat. "Yes, Qeria, I do. I am sorry. I have been very busy." His eyes start to dim again.
"Dad! Wait!" He stops and comes back. "Busy with what? Can I help?"
He thinks about this for a minute. I have never seen him so lifelike. It is shocking, yet relieving. I don't want him to leave again. "I have been doing my duty. No one can help with that."
"What is your duty?"
He raises an eyebrow at me. "Have your sisters told you nothing?"
"My sisters? I don't have any sisters!"
"No sisters? Ariara!"
Aunt Ariara rushes in. "Dad! You're here! What happened?" He's here? He's always here! Isn't he? My aunts Dotia and Elemie enter the kitchen with the same question.
He looks at each of them sternly. "Qeria has no sisters?"
I have never seen my aunts so flustered before. They "um" and "er" and look at each other, but refuse to meet Dad's eyes.
"Well?" he asks.
"We told her we were her aunts," Ariara mutters.
"Her aunts? Why?"
They shuffle their feet. "Because, we're so much older than she is. It was weird saying she was our sister," says Ariara.
"Especially since we look older than you," says Dotia, "She's only ten!"
His eyes are momentarily hard before softening again. "Your older siblings said the same thing about you. History repeats."
"Dad, where's Mom?" I ask.
"She's coming," his eyes dim momentarily, "with your brothers."
"Why don't they live with us?"
"You will know soon enough," he says.
"Did you and Mom break up?"
He smiles at me. "No. We love each other too much for that. We have been together even though we have not been with you."
"Where have you been? What have you been doing?"
"You didn't tell her. Why?" he asks my sisters.
"We thought it would be better if she didn't know," says Ariara.
"Better for whom?"
"Know what?" Why didn't they just say it?
He pulled me in close so I would see only his eyes. His eyes. Blue. Old, even though his face was not Eternal, with many endings. I gasp. "You're Death!"
He nods.
"And... and Mom?"
"Life."
"It was real."
I drop to the floor, shocked. My au- sisters are yelling. Dad ignores them, picks me up and sits me on his lap. He doesn't say anything, he just holds me.
I was right. The truth is scary. Not boogieman scary. A different kind. What am I? What will I become? Will I age like my sisters? Or will I be ageless like my parents?
"You should have told her," he says.
=====
Boys are so noisy. I have never lived with my brothers before. Kofer, one of my younger brothers, runs through the house, arms spread, pretending to be a Dragon. Mom smiles at him.
It's weird having her around, but, then again, it's weird having Dad around too. They act as though they have never been apart. They say they haven't.
Dad disappeared two days ago, then walked in the door with five more sisters and two more brothers. Mom did the same, bringing three more brothers and one sister. Dad says there are more. I currently live with twenty siblings, with more on the way, not including the twins still in Mom's belly.
New rooms to the house appear every time siblings arrive. The living room is enormous. Dad grabs Kofer, and, calling to the others, carries him into the living room.
“Alright everyone. Quiet down,” says Dad. The furniture is covered by my siblings. There are so many. Janue, my toddler sister, sits on Mom's lap. Dad continues, “We need to know what you can do. We have been a family divided because we were attacked.” He holds up his hand as voices fill the room. “We thought we would be safer if we split up, but many of your brothers and sisters are not here.” He pauses. “I had to visit them officially.”
This causes quite a stir. “We need to test each of you. We need to know what abilities you have,” says Mom.
“Why?” says Ariara.
“We are going to fight for our family.”
The tension is broken by seven more sisters and five more brothers walking through the door.
=====
It is my turn. I don't know what I can do. My older sisters never let me do much magic. They said it was for my protection. Mom takes my hand and we move from one point to another in no time at all.
"Can you do that Qeria?"
"I don't know. I've never tried."
"Go ahead and try now. Just think of where you want to go."
Before I have time to think of anything else, I am standing next to Dad. He is working. We are in a Gnome city, with bodies piled up in the streets. Many of the Gnomes are crying. I tug on Dad's cloak. He turns to me, his eyebrows rise. "What are you doing here?"
"Mom told me to think of where I wanted to go and I thought of you. Where are we?"
The Gnome city of Herion. I am stalking the streets."
"Why?"
"It's expected of me when there's a plague."
"Is that all you do, is stalk?"
"No. I do my regular work too." He swings his scythe and a spirit leaves its body.
"Can I try?"
"No. This is my work."
We walk in silence for a few minutes.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"How many siblings do I have?"
"Currently? Or altogether?"
"Both."
"There are two hundred and eighty six currently living."
"Two hundred and eighty six! I haven't even seen them all!
"Many of your older siblings are married and have families of their own. Remember, your mother and I are immortal. We have lived on this world since the beginning. You have many brothers and sisters who have simply died of old age."
"How many altogether?"
"One thousand and eight. The twins in your mother's womb are 1009 and 1010."
A thousand children! I stop and stare and Dad. He stops his stalking to look at me.
"What number am I?
"One thousand."
"How do you remember us all?"
"As Life and Death, your mother and I know the names of every person who has ever lived."
Mom appears. "Death, have you seen... Here you are Qeria. I was worried."
"I wanted to see Dad."
She smiles. "We have another child that can travel as we do."
"Can they all?"
She shakes her head. "Not since our first."
"Who was your first?"
"Time."
"Oh. I'm the only one since her that has been able to travel like you?"
They nod.
"Does this mean I'm immortal too?"
They shrug. "Maybe," says Dad. "We don't know."
"Why not? You would know if anyone does."
"The Creator likes us to find these things out ourselves," says Mom. "Come. Let's go home and let your father get back to his stalking."
I take her outstretched hand and we return home. I might be immortal. I don't know whether to be excited or sick.
Elizabeth Williamson Copyright © 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Theme: Kitchen Utensil/Drama
Flight of the Gryphon
Ken Chandler Copyright © 2008
The man, dressed in rags and shoeless, stumbled. A weary calloused hand shot out to the cool stone wall, which bore his weight, he paused briefly before walking on.
“I am Simon Barrister. I live at 1421 Belden Lane with my wife, Jo Barrister, and our dog, Mo.” the man recited hoarsely. Lack of use and dehydration made speaking difficult. As Simon paced, he held in his hand a wooden cup. He thumbed the outline of a roughly carved gryphon, which had been cut into the wooden surface. When he reached the wall opposite, he turned and continued his relentless march.
Four days ago, Simon had come to the grim realization that his ability to reason clearly was beginning to slip, and he’d begun to doubt what was real in his 8’ by 10’ world. It was then that he’d begun the practice of reminding himself of little things like his name, and the world outside, telling himself stories of his family, his job, what trees looked like, the feel of grass beneath his feet. These things all became to him a tentative harbor, a safe place, where he could anchor his mind. It was a tedious exercise, and at times he dreaded doing it, but he realized it was his one hope of getting out of this hell with his sanity in tact.
Escape. This singular thought seemed a mockery. “No!” The word sounded like a bark. He gritted his teeth, his fists clenched. “I can’t lose hope. I mustn’t!” He sat down, pulling one of his few possessions, a grey woolen blanket, over his shoulders. He was weary with hunger and fatigue and his mind wandered. I will be free of this place, someday. He thought. Maybe soon. He hoped. Then he amended… and perhaps not for many more years. The hope of escape could not, must not, diminish. More than food and water, he longed for freedom. If that singular dream died in him, then they had truly won. But who were they, his captors? The mystery of why he was here was the most haunting and perplexing of all the hardships he had borne, it was not knowing the reason for this captivity, in this cell, without explanation, that plagued his mind most dreadfully. It was not knowing that caused him to cry out in anger and frustration, or to fall upon the blanket, and weep like a lost child.
A creak of hinges far down the corridor echoed into his prison. And for a moment he sat silent on the wooden plank, which was his bed. What would the guard bring him this time, a rancid piece of meat, or a knife in his gut? Death… he considered. Would death be another form of escape? And would it be better than this? Would he prefer death to seeing his beloved Jo again? He staunched the thought. In that moment he resolved to live, if only long enough to tell his Jo how much he loved her. On this point he would be unyielding.
His thoughts shifted to the day of his arrival. In those first days, he'd almost longed for death rather than the abuses he'd been forced to endure. The last thing he could recall was entering his hotel room, number 221, a hand with a handkerchief clapped over his nose and mouth, then an overwhelming smell that bit into his nostrils, then blackness. When he woke, he was being dragged between two strong men. After they'd thrown his limp body into the cell, both gave him a welcome home present; never in his waking memory had he been beaten with such ferocity. When he at last fell unconscious, under the rhythmic thrum of kicks and punches, it was blissfully embraced. Waking was never less desirable, and he prayed for unconsciousness to fall back over him, it didn’t. In the days following, water was brought, as he ruefully discovered, waking with a shock, soaked and cold; the sound of laughter echoed in the hall as the guard bolted and locked the cell door. Simon realized that he could suck some of the water from his clothes and blanket, though the taste left something to be desired. For hours afterward he was forced to sit naked and shivering as his clothes dried. For food he was brought a slice of stale bread, and a cold watery soup made with a single withered carrot or a hunk of lettuce, browned and limp. At first he resisted eating these, but after a time he ate them anxiously, his stomach growling at him for sustenance.
After an indeterminable time a new guard started serving him. The quality of the food became more tolerable, and the water was served in a wooden cup. A gryphon was roughly etched into the cups side. The wooden soup-spoon, likewise, had a gryphon carved into its handle. When he noticed these carvings, he smiled, and thought longingly of his wife who knew of his love of Gryphons. Fantastic creatures of ancient lore, with the heads and wings of eagles, and the bodies of lions, they were both powerful and majestic. Adorned with razor sharp claws and a beak of iron, these mythical beasts instilled hope and a will to survive into the hearts of men. On his 26th birthday Jo had purchased several skillfully crafted gryphon sculptures, which sat proudly on shelves in his den. He often sat thinking, or pacing the confines of his cell, imagining that a real gryphon would crush the walls of his dungeon and fly with him to freedom. Impossible, He thought silently, laughing within himself. Gryphons don’t exist.
The sound of footsteps nearing the door of his prison roused him from his reflections. The lock lifted, a chain rattled and fell to the floor. A large gruff looking man looked to the left and to the right of the hall before he backed into the room. Simon recognized him as the guard who’d brought him the gryphon carved mug and spoon. The guards cloak billowed slightly as he turned and made a shushing sound as he put a finger to his lips. He approached Simon and conjured a polished red apple from his robe and handed it to Simon. “Eat this,” he said. Simon grabbed it, intent on eating it in four bites, but he hesitated. He looked up into the bearded man’s face and scrutinized it for malice, or an expression that might reveal some hidden intent.
The man looked perplexed than with a dawning expression said, “It’s not poisoned. Eat up, you’ll need your strength.”
Satisfied, Simon shoved the apple into his mouth taking a large bite that crunched and dripped juice down his chin. He groaned rapturously.
The bearded man darted to the door and peered into the torch lit hallway again. When he returned, he pulled a shoulder bag in front of him and began pulling a shirt, pants, leather moccasin-like shoes and a cloak out of it and placed them on the board next to Simon. “Put these on, I've drugged the guards, and we've only got a small window of time to work in, so the time is now. We’re getting out of here.”
Simon stopped eating, swallowed hard, and looked up at the man again, his full attention on the stranger. Tears formed in the corners of Simon’s eyes. He tried to ask how it was possible, but the words couldn’t work their way past the well of emotion.
“I’m a bounty hunter. Your wife hired me to find you and bring you home.” He extended a strong calloused hand to Simon, who shook it. For the first time the bearded man smiled broadly. “My name is Bryson McKitrick, but you can call me Gryphon.”
Thursday, August 7, 2008
The Partner
Grant was frantic with anger, betrayal, and fear. ‘If he touched her. . . I’ll kill him.’ He thought mercilessly as he turned on the siren and maneuvered around traffic in his black Ford Police car. So many thoughts assaulted his already racing mind. So many unanswered questions. But there was only one that really mattered to Grant at this moment. ‘Did that creep hurt his baby girl.’
The “creep” was Grants partner and best friend, Mac Billings. Less than 24 hours ago Grant and Mac were closing in on a child pornography ring. They were just missing one piece of the puzzle. Grant just couldn’t believe that Mac was that missing piece. In fact if it wasn’t for the proof in his pocket he still wouldn’t believe that his best friend could be involved in something so vile. But what was truly the cause of Grants fear was that it wasn’t just Grant and Mac who were friends. Their 5 year old daughters were inseparable. Grant couldn’t count the times that his baby girl slept over at that “creep’s” house. His stomache twisted and he sped even faster.
He was just about to turn onto Mac’s street, his anger and fear was quickly turning into an adrenaline pumped rage. He radioed the station. “Send back up to 55 Elm Road. . . I’ve just killed a man.”
Grant burst into Mac’s house with gun in hand.
“Hello, who’s there?” Mac called from the Kitchen. Grant followed the voice calmly. Mac was at the island counter chopping a tomato when he saw Grant and his gun pointed at him. “Grant?” Mac said puzzled by the sudden arrival of his friend with gun pointed in his direction. Then he half smiled. “Ha. Ha. Your hilarious.” Mac snickered at the joke.
Mac didn‘t laugh. “If you touched my baby girl. . . If you laid one finger on her. . . Or took any kind of picture. . . I swear to God I will kill you. Now tell me, Mac, did you take pictures of my baby?” Grant said seething.
This absolutely shocked Mac. “What the hell are you talking about?” Mac replied now with terror and confusion in his voice.
“You know damn well what I am talking about.” Grant yelled as he slid a picture across the counter to Mac. Mac picked it up and stared at it for a moment before realizing it was a picture of his daughter Maddie in a seductive pose in his own house.
“No. . .no. . .no.” Mac said just above a whisper. He just kept staring at it. He crumpled it in his hand as tightly as he could. Then suddenly he started walking toward Grant with his tomato knife still in hand.
“Mac, stop or I’ll shoot.” Mac just kept walking not afraid of Grant’s threat. He walked quickly past Grant into a hallway, pleading under his breath ‘no, please, dear God, no.’ Grant’s anger turned to confusion so he put his gun down to his side and followed Mac. Mac went into a bedroom. The room was covered with posters of sports stars, punk rock bands, and glistening bikinied girls. Grant quickly realized that it was Mac’s 14 year old son’s room. Mac started to tear apart his son’s room. No words needed to be said Grant understood and started to help look for the rest of the pictures.
Though the room had been far from clean it now looked like a robbery gone bad. Just as Mac was about to give up spot on the wall in the closet. He stabbed it with his knife and tore a hole into the wall. Dozen’s of pictures came falling out. Mac didn’t even look at them he just went and sat on his son’s bed. Grant slowly let out a deep breath. He put his hand on his friends shoulder then went to the pictures. He gathered all of them into his shaking hands. He was frightened to see the truth. But he had to know. Grant looked through them one by one ignoring the depravity of the content. He just looked at faces. Tears stung his eyes seeing picture after picture of his friends daughter but no sign of his own. His heart was too heavy to be relieved. Mac just sat on the edge of the bed motionless, clearly stunned by the last 23 minutes. Then in very slow movements Mac uncovered a baseball mitt on the floor. He picked it up and just stared at it. Grant sat next to Mac. He didn’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who has lost both their children?
JB 2008
The “creep” was Grants partner and best friend, Mac Billings. Less than 24 hours ago Grant and Mac were closing in on a child pornography ring. They were just missing one piece of the puzzle. Grant just couldn’t believe that Mac was that missing piece. In fact if it wasn’t for the proof in his pocket he still wouldn’t believe that his best friend could be involved in something so vile. But what was truly the cause of Grants fear was that it wasn’t just Grant and Mac who were friends. Their 5 year old daughters were inseparable. Grant couldn’t count the times that his baby girl slept over at that “creep’s” house. His stomache twisted and he sped even faster.
He was just about to turn onto Mac’s street, his anger and fear was quickly turning into an adrenaline pumped rage. He radioed the station. “Send back up to 55 Elm Road. . . I’ve just killed a man.”
Grant burst into Mac’s house with gun in hand.
“Hello, who’s there?” Mac called from the Kitchen. Grant followed the voice calmly. Mac was at the island counter chopping a tomato when he saw Grant and his gun pointed at him. “Grant?” Mac said puzzled by the sudden arrival of his friend with gun pointed in his direction. Then he half smiled. “Ha. Ha. Your hilarious.” Mac snickered at the joke.
Mac didn‘t laugh. “If you touched my baby girl. . . If you laid one finger on her. . . Or took any kind of picture. . . I swear to God I will kill you. Now tell me, Mac, did you take pictures of my baby?” Grant said seething.
This absolutely shocked Mac. “What the hell are you talking about?” Mac replied now with terror and confusion in his voice.
“You know damn well what I am talking about.” Grant yelled as he slid a picture across the counter to Mac. Mac picked it up and stared at it for a moment before realizing it was a picture of his daughter Maddie in a seductive pose in his own house.
“No. . .no. . .no.” Mac said just above a whisper. He just kept staring at it. He crumpled it in his hand as tightly as he could. Then suddenly he started walking toward Grant with his tomato knife still in hand.
“Mac, stop or I’ll shoot.” Mac just kept walking not afraid of Grant’s threat. He walked quickly past Grant into a hallway, pleading under his breath ‘no, please, dear God, no.’ Grant’s anger turned to confusion so he put his gun down to his side and followed Mac. Mac went into a bedroom. The room was covered with posters of sports stars, punk rock bands, and glistening bikinied girls. Grant quickly realized that it was Mac’s 14 year old son’s room. Mac started to tear apart his son’s room. No words needed to be said Grant understood and started to help look for the rest of the pictures.
Though the room had been far from clean it now looked like a robbery gone bad. Just as Mac was about to give up spot on the wall in the closet. He stabbed it with his knife and tore a hole into the wall. Dozen’s of pictures came falling out. Mac didn’t even look at them he just went and sat on his son’s bed. Grant slowly let out a deep breath. He put his hand on his friends shoulder then went to the pictures. He gathered all of them into his shaking hands. He was frightened to see the truth. But he had to know. Grant looked through them one by one ignoring the depravity of the content. He just looked at faces. Tears stung his eyes seeing picture after picture of his friends daughter but no sign of his own. His heart was too heavy to be relieved. Mac just sat on the edge of the bed motionless, clearly stunned by the last 23 minutes. Then in very slow movements Mac uncovered a baseball mitt on the floor. He picked it up and just stared at it. Grant sat next to Mac. He didn’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who has lost both their children?
JB 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Apples
i know i haven't posted in awhile. this one is actually for the previous topic. it's not too exciting but here it is.
**********
The store owner wave his spoon in the air after me as I ran down the sidewalk with the apples in my arms. I darted around the next corner and across the street then stopped behind a stack of boxes. My chest was tight, trying to catch my breath after that sprint.
That particular store owner has caught me before but never did anything about it. Just yelling and waving that wooden spoon at me to scare me off. It's not like I was stealing the most valuable thing to him. But food was valuable to me. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a tattered bag and put the apples I valued into it. This wouldn't be much of dinner but it was better that nothing.
My breathing had calmed and I started moving again. Back out onto the main street of the market. Eying things and my mouth watering at things that I knew I wanted but couldn't have. Knowing that other sellers were not so kind as to just scaring me off. It was too much of a risk with some people, they were just trying to survive as I was. It was unlikely that I would be lucky twice in one day. So I wiped my mouth and headed for home.
It was only a few streets away, but most likely a place where few people thought of to look for street urchins. But it was close enough to the market so we knew we had access to things that my 'family' and I needed. The theatre had been shut down for several years now. There were plans to fix it up but the city was so slow on plans that it would be even longer before anything was done about it.
It looked like I was the first one home. I had to wait for everyone else before I could dig into my treasure. I laid down on my mattress, made up of old seat cushions, to wait for them. I doze off to a blissfull sleep dreaming of dinner with apples.....
**********
The store owner wave his spoon in the air after me as I ran down the sidewalk with the apples in my arms. I darted around the next corner and across the street then stopped behind a stack of boxes. My chest was tight, trying to catch my breath after that sprint.
That particular store owner has caught me before but never did anything about it. Just yelling and waving that wooden spoon at me to scare me off. It's not like I was stealing the most valuable thing to him. But food was valuable to me. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a tattered bag and put the apples I valued into it. This wouldn't be much of dinner but it was better that nothing.
My breathing had calmed and I started moving again. Back out onto the main street of the market. Eying things and my mouth watering at things that I knew I wanted but couldn't have. Knowing that other sellers were not so kind as to just scaring me off. It was too much of a risk with some people, they were just trying to survive as I was. It was unlikely that I would be lucky twice in one day. So I wiped my mouth and headed for home.
It was only a few streets away, but most likely a place where few people thought of to look for street urchins. But it was close enough to the market so we knew we had access to things that my 'family' and I needed. The theatre had been shut down for several years now. There were plans to fix it up but the city was so slow on plans that it would be even longer before anything was done about it.
It looked like I was the first one home. I had to wait for everyone else before I could dig into my treasure. I laid down on my mattress, made up of old seat cushions, to wait for them. I doze off to a blissfull sleep dreaming of dinner with apples.....
Monday, August 4, 2008
New to site
I am new to the blog and just wanted to introduce myself. I am a friend of golemhunter, for about 18 years now (can you believe that?). He invited me aboard. I am excited for the opportunity to receive and give critiques to other fine writers. I have recently self-published a non-fiction book titled, Masquerade: A Story of Abuse - A Gift of Adversity, which can be viewed and or purchased at my website masqueradeandrea.com for those who may be interested. There are also a couple of sample writings of mine on the web page (poetry and prose). Good writing. Andrea
Friday, August 1, 2008
TOPIC: DRAMA
I was asked to create the new subject for the next story. So here it goes. I like good drama (in stories, not life) so for this time write something dramatic involving a kitchen utensil.
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