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Wednesday's Tale
Wednesday's Winter Suncatcher Shard
sponsor(s): none / Merisol's tale still has $15 to go
prompt: tentacles have always been my friends...
Author's note: The final shard. Regarding the fact that it's the final shard, I am considering posting my thoughts about this exercise later, if I can gather them. :)
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Merija was always a strange child. She talked to nothing, danced to music that wasn't there, and drove her parents to distraction with her odd behavior. When she finally went to school, they thought she would settle in and make friends, the way her older sister and brother did. But her report cards always came home with notes like "stays to herself too much," or "is too quiet." When they confronted her, she would give them odd replies.
"I don't need friends," she would say. "I have plenty."
Her parents just couldn't accept that answer. "But your teachers tell us you're not talking to the other children!"
And she would smile a secret little smile and pat their hands. "Don't worry! I'm fine."
Truth was, she was never a child, not in the way most children are. But her parents couldn't be expected to know that, because her older sister and brother had been ordinary children, and no preparation for Merija. But she did need food, and shelter, and clothing the way other children did, and she did take to the learning bits of school the way other children did (if a bit faster than other children), and if her interests seemed odd, tending towards strange stories written by authors that her parents found chilling and fey, well, at least she enjoyed reading, right?
Then she hit her teenage years, and she did become a normal teenager, with teenage hormones and all the angst, rebellion, and anger that teenagers can hold.
And her parents were somewhat relieved to see this glimmer of normalcy, even if her anger was a trial. And then the odd things began happening. The things breaking when her temper snapped. Things flying through the air as she walked in the door. And the odd things that you could only see out of the corner of your eye, always there, always around her.
Her mother was convinced that she was possessed. Her father was more sanguine, convinced that the odd phenomena was simply a sign of her agitation, and that perhaps something at school was sparking it. He wanted to change her school, to find a private school with a better reputation to send her to. They began to argue about it often. Her mother began a campaign to try and get Merija to come to church with her.
Merija began to avoid them, her anger growing, becoming a physical thing, a cloud nearly visible to the naked eye rather than simply the corner of it. Her siblings began to avoid the house. Her brother had moved away years ago, but he stopped visiting even. Her sister went away to college after having said she was going to delay college for a few years.
Her school, which had never before been a problem, began to suffer. The other students didn't want to be around her, complained of things disappearing when she was there. (Oddly, the things always reappeared later.)
The day she was expelled, she came home to find her mother waiting in ambush for her with a priest.
She was at the edge, and the sight of the priest pushed her over. "You fucking bitch! I don't need a goddamn priest!" Merija threw back the glamour hiding what she called forth from the darkness, and her mother and the priest could see the tentacles. The priest immediately began praying. Merija laughed. "These aren't the work of 'Satan,' you idiot."
"Merija, why?" Her mother gaped at the sight of her child wrapped in coils of living darkness, her eyes alive with horror and awe.
"The tentacles have always been my friends," Merija said softly, letting one of them slide through her hand. "I can't remember a time they weren't there. As well as ask me why I breathe, Mom." Her face changed, became hard. "And you know, you can't make them go away with the church."
Her mother looked at the priest, her eyes full of Merija's darkness. "No. I suppose we can't."
Merija smiled. So that's where she'd gotten it...
******
Merija's mother looked at the freshly turned earth with speculation. "I wonder if we could plant roses. I hear they grow very well in some cemetaries..."
Merija smiled at her mother. "I know just the type."
They turned and walked away together, as an unseen tentacle caressed Merija's mother's arm.
Tuesday's Tale
Tuesday's Winter Suncatcher Tale
Sponsor(s): none / Merisol's tale $15 to go
prompt: the golden rose
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Once upon a time, there lived a king with a beautiful daughter and no son. He wanted to protect his kingdom, and ensure that his daughter would marry a man who would love her and rule his land well, so he went summoned the Oracle who lived high in the ancient mountains, to ask her how he could ensure the future of his kingdom.
The Oracle came, for she knew this king was a good ruler, and she had seen the future if she did not. She did not like the choice she had to make, for the future for the king was not a gentle one, but too often these things were like a sword-- edges on both sides.
So the Oracle came unto the King and Queen, and bowed her pale head to them. Then she lifted it, and fixed her eyes upon the rulers of the land and spoke. "Oh wise and gentle rulers, if it is a fitting husband for your daughter you must have, then the Golden Rose of Cormirant you must send for, and your daughter's husband must claim it before he can claim her hand in marriage."
The king and queen were startled, for all had heard of the Golden Rose, and none could lay a hand upon it! But the Oracle would speak no more, and the King and Queen rewarded her for her vision, and sent for the Rose.
For this would not be a grand quest to ride upon. The Golden Rose was guarded by no great Dragon, nor even a many-headed beast. There was no dungeon to beard, nor an ocean to sail across and brave storms in search of the Rose. The Golden Rose of Cormirant had sat in a display case for many years, growing dusty with age. It had been found by the King's many-many-times-great grandfather, who had died upon touching the thorns in its beautiful golden stem while he was visiting the Duke of Cormirant, to the north. In apology, the Duke had attempted to give it to the then-Queen, who had refused. The Duke had, using a gauntlet that oddly did not damage the "delicate" gold, set the Rose in a wooden base and put a priceless blown glass cylinder around it. It had rested in Cormirant ever since.
The King sent out the notices of the Oracle's declaration at once. The Queen raised a fuss, worrying that her daughter would never wed, because the Golden Rose's deadly thorns were known to all. Who would dare them just for a chance at the Princess's hand?
The King's wealth, land, and the Princess's beauty soon put the Queen's worries to rest, as a slew of would-be bridegrooms came to the castle to pluck the Rose from its resting place. Second sons from nearby kingdoms, and even some of the King's own Dukes came.
The coffin-makers were the only ones to rejoice after the attempts, sadly.
The Princess had faith. She calmly continued sewing her wedding gown, her needle flashing in the glow from the Rose, adding seed pearls to her veil. The Queen paced and fretted and bewailed the Oracle's proclamation at every turn. The King even worried, as the line of suitors slowed, and the number of fresh graves in the graveyard grew.
Then a jester tripped into town, with bells on his shoes and hat. He made the Queen giggle like a girl with his outrageous flirts, and made the king's frown ease with his news from other towns. (The financial news from some of the Dukedoms was quite good, and the lack of second sons would make some of the Dukes have to consolidate!) He pulled a lute from his pack, and began playing.
The Golden Rose began to sway.
And then it danced. Right off the wooden platform and into his hand.
The jester bowed. He was no prince, only a merchant's son, but it was no matter. He was a Prince now.
The Princess glowed. The Queen kept smiling. And the King knew that this man would rule his kingdom well.
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To give me a prompt, go here.
Monday's Tale
Monday's Winter Suncatcher Tale sponsor(s): none / Merisol's tale has $15 to go prompt: in the moment --------------------------- Ella turned the television off, leaning her head back against the couch with a sigh. It had been such a long day, and there was nothing on television that could get the nasty taste of all the customers shrieking at her out of her mouth. Even snuggling an unusually happy cat hadn't helped. She petted the cat apologetically and pushed her down. Time for some driving therapy. She pulled on an old pair of jeans and a sweater to guard against the chill, found a couple of CDs to listen to, and headed out the door, rattling down her old steps as loudly as she wanted. No one was there to hear her--one of the few perks of living above an old bookstore that closed at 6pm was that by the time she got home at 8, the place was as dead as last year's spiderwebs. She got into her car and picked a CD-- Queen's Greatest Hits was a nice loud, bouncy place to start-- and headed for the Blue Ridge Parkway. It wasn't likely that anyone would be out there at this hour-- it was already almost midnight, and that meant the only thing she had to be careful of was deer. She turned the music up ("Bicycle Race!") and rolled the window down, defying the cold November night as she pulled out onto the dark, twisty road. The stars twinkled brightly at her, no city lights to hide their majesty up here. She drove the road with the ease of years of practice, heading far out past the city, into the space between, that spot that is only darkness to the airplanes flying high above, where she finally pulled into a parking lot, rolled the passenger's window down, turned the music up, and climbed onto the hood of her car, letting the engine's warmth warm her. Staring up at the stars, lost in the moment, in the waving of the trees, in the sparkling of the stars, the annoyances of the day slipped away, leaving only a girl, and green grass, and some brown leaves, and a blue sky, and endless possibilities to look forward to. ------------------------------------------
Sunday's Tale
Sunday's Winter Suncatcher Tale
sponsor(s): None / Merisol's Tale has $15 to go
prompt: blue, olive, and pomegranate
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It's funny, it was so long ago and yet every now and then, when I make time to see my sister, this awkward silence will fall between us, separate us like the shards still sit there, accusing, and I know, again, that I'll never get over it. I wish I could. Don't get me wrong, I love my sister-- I go see her when I can. But she never forgave me for being an artist. And how can you do that? How can you forgive someone when they can't or won't forgive you for just being who you are?
I've been trying for the last twenty years...
She was six, and I was 13 or 14. It was Christmas, of course, and I had just gotten the best present I'd ever gotten. My Mom later told me that my Grandfather had searched at least a dozen different art stores to find them for me. Twenty-four pieces of chalk, with brilliant pigments, and nifty names like cornflower blue, olive, and pomegranate red. I drew him a picture right away, not even noticing her watching me, and the chalk just... it made everything so alive. I could create shading and nuance-- not that I knew what "nuance" was back then, but the artist in me knew how to make it happen, and chalk fit my style like a glove. The picture that I drew for my grandfather glowed with love and nascent talent, and my parents and the recipient himself were proud and let me know it. I drew a second picture, and a third, and then I was off and running, deep into a world of perspective and shading, balance and composition.
I gifted the other best pictures to my mother and father, and then set about creating a picture for my sister. I decided on a drawing of our cat, Cherokee, because she was a tortoiseshell, and her combination of brown, black, red, and orange would be a challenge to capture. I sketched her, lying on our big gray couch, and then set about trying to capture her glorious colors in chalk. It was a challenge, and I spent a good two hours on it, trying to get every color just perfect. It was a labor of love, and before I could finish it that night, my Mom insisted I go to bed.
The next day, I wasn't sure the drawing was good enough. I discarded it, and did another line sketch of Cherro in a different pose, and started another chalk sketch. I took a break for lunch, and while I was eating and fiddling with the drawing at the kitchen table, Tessa came down. We got into an argument-- she wanted me to teach her how to draw, and I told her I couldn't. I later remember trying to explain to her that I didn't know how to teach it. No one had taught me. I just started doodling, and when Mom saw me doing that, she gave me books, and I learned from them. I offered her the books-- but that wasn't good enough, she wanted me to show her. I couldn't make her understand that *I* didn't know how to show her what I was doing, I just did it! After several rounds of this, she was furious with me, and I was angry and hurt and frustrated because she just didn't understand.
I left the chalk and the incomplete drawing where it was and went for a walk to try and calm down.
When I came back... when I came back, I came back to utter destruction. She had broken every piece of chalk. She had torn the sketches of Cherokee, and the drawing I had discarded, and the half-finished drawing I was making for her.
I carried the pieces of the drawing I'd been doing for her upstairs into her room, where she was angrily cleaning, throwing dirty clothes into a basket. I stood in her doorway with the shards of paper and stared at her. She glared at me, but something in my face must have spoken louder than my words, because her face went from angry to uncertain to simply pale. I finally spoke. "I was making this for you."
I dropped the pieces onto her floor and went back downstairs, to sit at the kitchen table with my bits of mahogany, and black, and pomegranate red, and cornflower blue, and olive, and wonder if I would ever be able to draw from a place of love again.
I never could with chalk. I found I could with paint, and with pencil still, but chalk slipped through my fingers to shatter on the floor, or would develop odd salt patches on the paper that would marr the design.
Perhaps someday. If I can ever get the dust off my sister's fingers...
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To give me a prompt, go here.
Saturday's Tale
Saturday's Winter Suncatcher Tale sponsor(s): None / Merisol's tale has $15 to go prompt: storm clouds -------------------------- The storm clouds were low that day, as the willow tree bent beneath their assault, and the oak and yew swayed. The dryads laughed and played in the lee of their branches, tossing loosened leaves back and forth, as they often did. Their green and brown hair permanently tousled, clinging to their back, shedding bits of bark with every action as they scrambled along branches aged and gnarled, darting along roots only they could see to giggle and touch each other before scrambling back to their homes. The fae watched from mounds nearby, and shook their heads at their odd grounded siblings. And we, the ancient and forgotten, bubbled up from within our watery haven and longed to be part of their games. Then the lightning struck our river and granted us our wish, lashing our water with power and reawakening us, giving us our name again. Nyad. With the fury of an age, we lashed out. The Willow was the first to suffer our wrath, as our lightning struck her and took a third of her depth, her root and branch, torn asunder. Then the Oak, torn in twain by a lightning strike, parted into two trees by the power we unleashed. The Yew was last, and our fury could only singe her, take the green from her and send her into dormancy for a dozen years, the long sleep of an elder tree. We were avenged, the power stolen from us was returned, and our hearts were healed. We sat upon the bank of our river, and watched as the leaves swirled past us, and spoke of vengeance on the humans next. Poor, unwitting souls. They would not know what hit them... ---------------------------------------------------
Friday's Tale
Friday's Winter Suncatcher Tale
sponsor(s): none / Merisol's Tale has $15 to go
prompt: the pain of loving
(Author's note: Some days I have to pick prompts that I can work with. Today is one of those days. See my journal later for details.)
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"How do you know?" Renee asked him, holding the aged cat in her arms too tightly. Blondie simply purred, his eyes half-closed, his paws on Renee's almost-an-adult shoulders.
"Well," her father answered, stroking the cat's head. "They tell you. And if you listen, Blondie's telling you, sweetie."
"No," Renee said, her eyes filling with tears. "He's not."
"Honey, we talked to Dr. Schroeder. The medicine for him isn't working anymore." Her father sat on the bed beside her, and hugged her. "Keeping him here, that would be selfish, because we'd be doing it for us. The thing is, we promised to take care of <i>him</i> when we took him in. And that means letting him go when he's in pain, when he's telling us he's ready to go. He's not gaining weight anymore, honey." He petted the cat again. "Eighteen is a good, long life for a cat."
Renee's face crumpled. "I'm not ready."
"We never are." Her father said sadly. "Take tonight to say good bye."
Renee looked up at her father. "You're really going to do this?"
"We don't have a choice, sweetheart. Blondie's kidneys are failing. Dr. Schroeder said he doesn't have long to go if we don't put him down, and I don't want his last few weeks on this earth to be painful." Renee finally nodded, burying her face in Blondie's aged fur.
"OK."
"Good night."
"Good night, Dad."
Renee went to sleep that night, her fingers curled around her cat, praying for the final morning to never come. She was learning the pain of loving animals the only way you ever do. Blondie slept, his paws tucked beneath his chest, impervious to the human drama around him.
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To give me a prompt, go here.
Thursday's Tale
Thursday's Winter Suncatcher Tale
sponsor(s): none / Merisol's tale has $15 to go!
prompt: the scent of fresh oranges
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I awoke the next morning with the scent of fresh oranges in my nose, and an odd tickling sensation on my stomach. I blinked, and stretched, and remembered the night before. Opening bleary eyes, I discovered Genevieve making a pyramid of orange peels on my bare belly. I giggled, and they tumbled sideways, to the bed.
"Good morning," she purred, leaning over and offering me an orange slice. I leaned up and bit off the end, letting the sweet-tart taste fill my mouth and wash away the night's fuzziness. She ate the remainder, and then offered me another slice, this one from her lips. I smiled, and met her lips around the succulent fruit, and we parted with fruit laced lips. Her eyes were smug and full of secrets. I wondered what she was really thinking, but was so relieved she didn't seem to want me to leave.
"It is quite a good morning, waking up like this," I said with a smile. "Such lovely fruit."
She traced a piece of fruit down my arm. "Not as lovely as you, my dear Sondra."
I blushed and leaned up to kiss her again. "Flatterer." She kissed me deeply, and then stood, not seeming to notice her nudity. I found myself blushing. She turned back to me, her hair caressing her body, and smiled.
"Do you drink coffee?"
I chuckled. "I've often been accused of having a bit of coffee with my cream and sugar."
"Ah!" She laughed. "Just the way I like it."
I decided if she wasn't going to use her robe, I would, and followed her into her little kitchen alcove. I found her apartment fascinating. The kitchen was separated from the rest of the studio by an island, which had bar stools. I perched on a bar stool and enjoyed the view as she puttered around the kitchen preparing the coffee. She glanced back at me and smiled upon seeing me in her robe. I flushed. "Is this ok?"
"You look better in it than I do."
I laughed. "Not likely."
She crossed around the island and slid her hands over the silky fabric. "I think so."
I smiled. "That's all that matters, isn't it?"
"No," she protested. "What matters is what you think, too. You should know how beautiful you are, Sondra."
I tilted my head and looked into her eyes. "I'm starting to see."
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To give me a prompt, go here.
Wednesday's Tale
Wednesday's Winter Suncatcher Tale
sponsor(s): none / Merisol's Tale still has $15 to go
prompt: dirty gold stained glass
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The old church still had the power to move me, even though it was a burned out husk. So many masses I'd heard there, so many confessions, so many communion wafers. I stepped over what used to be a brick wall, once upon a time, and stood in the vestibule, feeling the ghosts of priests past move through me. A shard of dirty gold stained glass glinted up at me, and I bent down to pick it up. I brushed soot and years of abandonment off it, and wondered which of the glorious windows it had been from. I stepped out into the altar area, and looked around. Ghostly shards of other colored glass lined walls that leaned, tilted awkwardly, no longer graceful, no longer arcing to the heavens, no longer echoing with the voice of God.
I shivered in the chill air, feeling oddly empty.
I walked to where the alter once stood, and wondered where it had gone. Stone did not burn, and it would have stood, still, through the ravage of the fire. Only a soot-free square marked its passage. To the left and right, empty hollows marked the missing statuary, no Mary or Joseph to gaze benignly on me and bless my loss.
I wandered through the remains of my old church, feeling lost, hunching my shoulders and shoving my hands further into my pockets. My feet crunched through the sooty remains of pews and columns, stations of the cross and maybe even the old crucifix, with its beatific Jesus, beaming down at the children below despite his wounds. That cross had been frightening to me as a child, before I understood why they'd made it that way. Years later, the 'Buddy Jesus' had given me more than one chuckle as I'd compared it to my old crucifix. Oh, if only they'd known.
I stepped across the threshold of the old door, and gazed back at the place that used to give me such peace. I left black footprints as I walked away, murmuring the most ironic words I had ever uttered. "Ashes to ashes, indeed."
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To give me a prompt, go here.
Tuesday's Tale
Tuesday's Winter Suncatcher Tale
sponsor(s): None / Merisol's Tale still has $15 to go
prompt: tapestry
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Christmas day dawned bright and early, with the sounds of feet thumping as they raced down the stairs. Jeff was awake enough to realize "oh, no" and grab a pillow to block as Tyler leaped the back of the couch and landed atop him.
"Uncle Jeff! Santa brought us presents!"
Tyler's sister, Anita squealed from beneath the tree. "Tyler! This one is for Uncle Jeff!"
Jeff scrubbed a hand down his face and sat up, glad he'd slept in his jeans and old University t-shirt. "Really, Anita? Let me see."
Anita gleefully brought him the box and popped onto the couch next to him. "Open it, Uncle Jeff!"
"Only if you get one of yours and open it with me." He pretended to think, and then tousled her hair. "Even better, find your present from me, and open it."
"You got me something, Uncle Jeff?"
He put his hand to his heart, acting wounded. "Would I ever not?"
She giggled and bounded from the couch, searching around beneath the tree, as Tyler did the same. Tyler found them first. "Here they are!"
Tyler joined him on the couch on on side and Anita on the other, and they opened their presents, with Jeff opening his a bit slower. Tyler squealed over his video game and hugged Jeff, and then went bounding off upstairs to show his parents. Anita stared at her little locket and then looked up at Jeff with big eyes. "Does this mean I'm a big girl, since you got me big girl jewelry?"
Jeff smiled. "Yes, honey, you are. Now go show your Mom, ok?"
He hoped he'd gotten the right thing, since his sister had been vague, saying only "get Anita something girly but more adult-- she's not a kid anymore!"
He got up, pulled his green sweater on over his t-shirt, and scrubbed a hand through his unruly hair, trying to fix the mess that sleeping on the couch had created. He knew Deb and Todd would be down soon, and his Mom would start cooking, and soon enough Gran would be awake and demanding everyone pay homage to her-- after all she'd lived through two husbands and God only knew how much abuse-- but for now, he wanted to enjoy the quiet.
He slipped into the kitchen and started up the coffee maker, then slipped out onto the back porch, ignoring the freezing temperatures and his bare feet. His breath curled into the air before him, as memories slid through him. This backyard held so much. He smiled and stretched, and went back inside to find his mother wiping the counter down.
"Good morning, sunshine," she said with a smile.
"Morning, Mom," he said, crossing the kitchen to kiss her cheek. "Did you put the turkey in the oven already?"
"First thing. I see you've already put the coffee on. Did you see the creamer I bought for you?"
He grinned. "I did. Thank you."
"Least I could do for my favorite middle son."
He laughed at the joke, and gave her the usual reply. "Only middle son." She winked at him.
"Your sister will be down soon. She was delighted with the locket you got Anita. Perfect. You'll make some lucky girl a good husband."
"Mom..."
"I know. But I'm not getting any younger, Jeffery Ryan."
"Mom, really. Can we have this discussion--" She held up a hand, and he sighed again, running a hand through his hair.
"We'll table it."
"Thank you."
"It's just that I want you happy."
"I'm perfectly happy."
"If you say so, Jeff."
He thought of the tapestry of his life, so many threads all woven together to make up one huge pattern, and smiled. "Mom? There's a lot you don't see, yet. But trust me when I say I am happy. Now, what can I do to help?"
She looked at him, curiously, then nodded. "Ok." She then turned away from the counter and walked to the pantry, returning with a bag of potatoes. He groaned.
"Potatoes, again?"
She laughed. He peeled potatoes, and thought about how mothers always win, in the end.
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To give me a prompt, go here.
Monday's tale
Monday's Winter Suncatcher Tale sponsor(s): phinnia / Merisol's Tale still has $15 to go prompt: blue-green ocean (Author's note: Continued, per phinnia's request, from yesterday's tale. :D) -------------------------------- I quickly called the waiter over to pay for my dinner, and was informed it was "on the house." I blinked up at him. "Pardon me?" He gave me a sweet smile. "Our chanteuse has taken care of it, my dear. She asked that I pass along her regards." "Oh. Ah." The moment of truth was abruptly a bit sooner than I’d counted on. I shored up my courage with one last sip of the glorious red wine, then boldly looked him in the eye, my decision made. "I would love to thank her for her kindness." His smile grew bigger, and he gave me a little bow. "Certainly! Allow me to show you the way." I collected my coat and purse, and prayed for courage as I followed him through the tables and into the small vestibule to the side of the stage. We walked down a hall and he tapped twice on a plain, unmarked door, then cracked it open. "Miss Genevieve? You have a visitor. The young lady whose dinner you requested be complimentary." Her rich voice rolled into the hall, wrapping me in shivers. "I will see her, of course." He gestured for me to go into the room, and I pushed the door open, stepping into the dressing room, stepping into the glow of her radiance. She was sitting before the mirror in a peach colored satin dressing gown, her pale pink stockings and delicate feet the first thing my eyes beheld. I flushed and lifted my eyes to hers, meeting them in the mirror. She dragged a heavy boar’s bristle brush through her long black hair, pulling the waves of raven's wings straight. Her eyes were still heavy with dark stage makeup, impossibly thick lashes waving at me as she blinked, studying me. I could finally see that her eyes were an impossible shade of turquoise, deep like the blue-green ocean, yet darker with curiosity about me. I edged into the room further, and smiled at her. "Thank you for dinner." She smiled back, tossing her heavy hair over her shoulder and placing the brush down on the vanity before her and crossing her legs. The action made her robe slide open, revealing her underwear, revealing her flesh. My eyes were again drawn to her stockings, and the bare leg above them. I tried to meet her eyes, but her body drew my gaze like a flame. Her bra was the same rose color as her stockings, pale satin, cupping the flesh above it, creating enticing hollows and curves. I wondered why she wanted me here, seeing her gorgeous half-nakedness, her pearly skin. I felt like a peeping Tom, and yet like I was in on a special secret. I met her eyes at last, and she gave me a coy grin. "I was glad to do it," she said. "You are not the usual patron we see here." "I’m not?" "No." She pulled her hair across the opposite shoulder, picking up the brush again and running it over the edges of her hair. I realized she was softening it, removing the gel and hairspray from her hair, and smiled. She caught my smile, casting her eyes at me through the mirror. "I like the unusual, and you are that. I wanted to know you. What is your name?" "I’m Sondra." "Sondra." She purred my name, making it sexy. My body came alive to her voice, and my breath shuddered from my lips. "It doesn’t sound like that when I say it," I said, making a joke of it. She laughed, and I thrilled to hear her laughter. She was smiling when she finished laughing, and I found her smile sexy and somehow it made the fluttering in my stomach ease. I sat down on the edge of the small chair next to her vanity. "Then again, with your voice, you could probably read the phone book and make it sound sexy." She looked over her shoulder at me. "You like my voice?" "Very much." "That’s so sweet," she said. "I haven’t had anyone compliment me in a long time." "Oh, come now. I find that so hard to believe. Really?" "Really. No one comes in here for the music. We only play because the owner likes to hear us." "But your voice is amazing." She wasn’t even looking at me at this point, focused on the mirror for the intricate task of removing her false eyelashes, but I could somehow feel her intense interest. "Thank you, Sondra-darling," she drawled, making my name almost as much of an endearment as the ‘darling.’ I flushed and looked down. "You’re welcome." She finished removing the eyelashes and makeup, and somehow her beauty was enhanced rather than diminished by the absence of it. Her huge eyes and black hair made her seem doll-like, and her pale skin made her luminescent. I found myself staring, but I couldn’t stop. She turned from the mirror and smiled at me, her lips now merely a dusky rose rather than blood red, but still so beautiful. She suddenly tilted her head at me, and then leaned over and placed those gorgeous rosebud lips against mine, and I melted against her. Her lips were so soft, so gentle against mine. She lifted one hand to my cheek, and the heady scent of cherries and cream filled my nose. I tentatively lifted my hand to her cheek, mirroring her, and she pulled back from the kiss to give me an intimate little smile, pressing our foreheads together. She whispered, her breath a minty perfume in my nose. "I don’t suppose you’d like to stay with me this evening?" I couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth as I answered her. "I thought you’d never ask." ---------------------------
Sunday's Tale
Sunday's Winter Suncatcher Tale sponsor(s): none / Merisol's Tale still has $15 to go prompt: that little jazz club ------------------- I still don't know what inspired me to go into that little jazz club that night. I had wanted to go out and do something different, and because of that, I had dressed up a little. Short black skirt, bright red silk shirt, silk stockings and heels, and even jewelry, which I so rarely wear. I'd left my curls free down the middle of my back, not even trying to tame them, and I'd felt beautiful. It was nice to feel beautiful just for me. I fluffed my hair and twirled around, preening for myself, then laughing at myself before I grabbed my purse and left, locking the door behind me. I parked the car in a little garage downtown that I knew was safe, and walked past a few clubs that were too loud, or too crowded. I spotted the little place across the street from where I was walking, and could hear the soft thrum of the bass even over the cars whizzing by me. Something about it called to me. It was different. I could see the tables, people actually sitting and eating. It spoke of the 20s and 30s, of bathtub gin, of old black and white movies, and smoke-filled rooms. I don't remember walking across the street, or being seated. I ordered a lush red wine and sipped it while I waited for a dinner too rich and expensive for my meagre budget and palate. And then she appeared. The bass note announced her, and then the ringing piano wrapped around the bass and sent my heart soaring-- but it was her voice that snapped my gaze to the stage and trapped it there. Her voice, like molasses and smoke, purring softly through the music, reaching into my body and awakening me. She stepped into the spotlight, and I was entranced. She was all curves and lace, her gown absorbing the light and casting shadows on her flawless skin, her black hair shimmering with blue highlights. She was too far away for her eyes to be more than dark pools, but I would have sworn she looked at me more than once. I was entranced. On her second song, she swayed through the crowd. My expensive dinner sat before me, untouched, as I took sustenance from her voice. She passed by my table three times, and on the third pass, she winked at me. I flushed, feeling suddenly shy. My dinner at last gained my attention. To my surprise, even cold, it was delicious. She finished her set, and the bass and piano, and a previously unnoticed by me drummer played an instrumental riff that had my toes tapping under the table. A waiter approached, and dropped an envelope next to me. I thought it was the bill. I finished eating, and opened it. Elegant handwriting startled me, making my eyes widen. I am officially done at 11. Come backstage and introduce yourself. Below it, her name. I stared at her signature, tracing the letters, so elegant and clean. Just like her. Her name was Genevieve. I stared at the note. Could I do this? Did I dare? I had ten minutes to decide... --------------------------
Saturday's Tale
Saturday's Winter Suncatcher Tale Sponsor(s): none / Merisol's tale still has $15 to go prompt: mascara helps me look alive (Author's note: PG-13 content, and also, sorry for the lateness. Bad pain day.) ------------------- I hate my name. My mother named me 'Tawny.' She obviously wasn't thinking. I mean, c'mon. Did she want me to become a prostitute or a porn star when I grew up? I tried to buck the trend. I was good in science, and I went to college and everything...for a year. But I guess some destinies-- like names-- you just can't escape. So here I am, standing in front of my mirror, looking dead in my mini-mini, and my spangled bra, and ho-boots. Mascara helps me look alive, thank God. I should go to Nevada and see what kind of a good job I could get, but I just... haven't. I keep telling myself I'm going to stop, that I'm going to escape my destiny, that I'm going to get a real job, that I'm going to make something of myself. Yeah, right. With a name like 'Tawny,' who am I kidding? Maybe I'll go down the road and find out if it's true that women do make more in the porn industry. It can't be any worse than this... can it? ------------------------------------
Friday's Tale
Friday's Winter Suncatcher Tale Sponsor(s): none / Merisol's tale has $15 to go! prompt: the smell of sunshine -------------------------------- Jerrica paused, feeling the lump in her throat threatening to close her airway again. She'd never meant for it to get this bad, for things to go this far, for the gulf between them to become uncrossable. She closed her eyes, breathing in slowly, trying to push the tears back. She dropped the books in her hand and went outside, needing air, needing to get away from things that were so theirs she didn't know how she could separate them and become his and hers again. She stood outside, face turned up at the sun, eyes closed, letting her mind play over absurd topics so that she didn't have to remember that he was coming home soon, and would expect her to be gone. She inhaled, wondering if that warm scent was the smell of sunshine, or if it was something closer to lemons. She finally opened her eyes and rubbed her arms, glancing back at the apartment behind her. Break's over, Jer. Back to work. She climbed the stairs like an execution victim, and then got back to work, packing two boxes of books and a box of photographs and albums she wanted to keep and wanted to burn at the same time. She carted them down to her car, and then went back inside. She walked through the apartment, memories like shards of glass in her mind. Here, we had our first Valentine's day dinner. Here, we watched that stupid comedy he hated, but he watched it for me anyway. I hung mistletoe here, so he'd kiss me every night... Her eyes blurred with tears, for the apartment was so empty. So much of her was already gone. How could it have come to this? She walked through, one last time, checking the closet, where the empty hangers stared like bones at her. She closed the door behind her, and then stood in the living room, unable to believe it was really done. Over. She took the key off her keyring and stared at it, then put it on the counter in the kitchen, feeling as though she'd cut it out of her heart. Then she locked the door handle lock, and closed the door behind her, feeling in the click of the lock the absolute finality of what she had spent the day doing. Her footsteps echoed in the hall as she walked down the stairs. --------------------------------
Thursday's Tale
Thursday's Winter Suncatcher Tale
Sponsor(s): none
prompt: blood on a white leather glove
(Author's note: This one I will continue for a sponsorship. If you want to sponsor Meri's Tale, donate and email me. Once I get $20, I will figure out what happens next. ;D email: deyaniera at yahoo dot com)
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Merisol knew she was drinking too much. But for whatever reason, she couldn't get the fact that the phones were shut off out of her head. It wouldn't leave her alone. She reached for another wine glass when Stephen took her hand. "Meri, really."
"It's just a little wine, Stephen."
"Meri, you've had more than enough," he said more firmly, taking her hand into both of his. He could feel the shaking, and he pulled her over into a corner. "Are you still spooked by earlier? Come on, it was just them opening the champagne."
"Then why are the phones off?" He didn't have an answer for that, and she lifted her chin, fighting to hold back the tears of fear and anger that were threatening to spill. "I want to go home. Can't we just leave?"
"Not until they do the white elephant crap," Stephen said with a sigh. "You know how Osterfeld is about that."
"Stephen!"
"Meri, I want that promotion, and that means playing the game from time to time! This is one of those times!"
"I don't care, I want to go home. I'm going to go get my purse and coat and call a cab."
"Meri--"
"Just call me when all this is over." She stalked off, leaving Stephen torn, staring between her retreating form and the party with a worried frown. He finally followed her.
She stomped into the conference room where the coats had been left, flipping the light on and glancing around for her coat. Her attention was captured by a splash of red, impossible red, red which could not be, should not be, the red of blood on a white leather glove. She stepped back, into Stephen, and shrieked. "Meri, what's--"
He saw past her, saw the room, saw the blood, and gasped, his arms coming up to embrace her, to protect her. She turned around, placing her palms on his chest. "We have to get out of here!"
And then the lights went out.
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To give me a prompt, go here.
Wednesday's Tale
Wednesday's Winter Suncatcher Tale
Sponsor(s): none
prompt: a crown made of her hair
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It had been so long since we had had a queen we had forgotten how to be truly noble. We had forgotten the prophecy, forgotten the jewel. It sat, like so much furniture, among the velvet robes of the royal family, gathering dust. Our eyes no longer strayed longingly to it, wondering who would next wear it. We simply lived, laughed, and eventually forgot who we were.
We became forest spirits rather than stewards of the forest. Our dryad and nyad sisters lost their way, and their trees and ponds grew gnarled and foul. Our flowered patches grew dim and the mushroom circles no longer sang at night. We withered, and the night sky no longer called our names.
But prophecies do not forget, and the moon turned, as it always does. One dark moon night, a child was born with a crescent scar on her brow, though no knife had ever touched her. Her eyes were the blue of a starlit night, and her hair the color of the mink. She brought magic to life with a flick of her finger, and her laugh made mushrooms grow. We began to remember. We danced that night, the night she was born, for the first time in a thousand generations. We had forgotten much, but we linked arms and flew doesil around one of the trees, and the dryad within came out and clapped her ancient hands, sprinkling bark over us all.
The starlight child's third birthday, we flew a chain across one of the ponds, and awakened the nyad within to her powers, cleansing the pond for the first time since the ancient stones had been built, and the nyad showered us with petals from water lilies as a reward.
We ate the lily petals, and got drunk on nectar that night, and flew into the nearby town and bestowed blessings on their children for the first time since the plague had cursed the poor magicless creatures.
And then, the starlight child fulfilled the prophecy, she called a mushroom circle into being, and opened the gates, and we flew home. <i>Home!</i>
The Summer Sidhe had no idea where we had been for so long, and they thought we were lost forever. We had forgotten who we were, and how to get home. None of us could recall how to open the gates to Summerland. They opened the gate back to Winter, and brought the golden gem and the velvet cloak over, and crowned the starlight child with a crown made of her own hair, and put the golden gem in the center of it, and it threw sparks. She was the Winter Queen now and forever.
And we knew who we were. We were the Winter Sidhe, and we were home.
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To give me a prompt, go here.
Tuesday's Tale
Tuesday's Winter Suncatcher Tale Sponsor(s): niteshadesrealm prompt: from a room, with the door locked and closed, two screams are heard-- then nothing but clicking. (Author's note: For this one, the prompt itself isn't getting used. But it did set up the story. Those of you who are groaning at the female character's name-- sorry. She refused to change it.) ------------------------- Merisol giggled and shushed Stephen as they slipped into his office. "Quiet, you'll get us caught!" "No one saw us," he murmured, before locking the door. He framed her face with his hands and then kissed her, pressing her into the door. "I can't believe--" A shrill scream shattered the playful mood, making her brown eyes widen, and causing both of them to turn. A bang and a second scream followed the first, and Merisol put a hand up to her face. "Stephen... What... what on earth could be happening?" A repetitive clicking began, made all the more ominous by a soft hiss after each click. "I'm calling the police," Stephen said, going to the phone on his desk. Merisol stared at the door as though it were a snake, feeling the peace and joy of the Christmas party utterly shattered. Stephen put the phone down after a moment. "The line is dead." "Do you have your cell phone?" She asked shakily, checking her own side, and realizing belatedly that her purse was out there-- out with that noise. "Yeah," he said after a moment, and she relaxed. The police would come. They would come, and the world would be normal again... Just then, the door rattled. "Hey, is someone in here?" a voice hollered from the other side. Merisol shrieked. "Open up!" She went to the door and opened it, and found three things-- the noise was the copy machine, the bang had been a champagne bottle, and her boss was not amused that she had gone missing. Neither of them thought to mention that the phone lines were down... because it was just a Christmas party, right? --------------------------
Monday's Tale
Monday's Winter Suncatcher Tale Sponsor(s): None Prompt: scars ------------------------- Mbewe turned her head away from the scar-maker, waiting for the numbness to come. She closed her eyes to prevent the tears from falling, knowing she could not move while he was digging the pattern into her skin. His movements were so quick and deft she only felt the pain later. He was nearly to her elbow, and her hand and wrist had just begun burning. She would not cry out, though. She would not embarrass her family, she would be brave, and endure. And she would be honored. She would put her child-name behind her, and her mother would give her the name only whispered between them late at night. Despite the pain, she smiled, thinking of that name, the name that would be hers once the world-snake curled around her arm and rested its head on her shoulder. She would be beautiful, and strong, and the men of the tribe would see her at last as a woman. She turned her eyes back to the scar-maker, watching his hands twist the thorn in and out of her skin, so quickly. Blood welled from each wound, trickled down her arm, over her fingertips, and stained the fronds beneath her arm, dripping in tiny rivers from the crushed ends. She watched it, awed at how the droplets seemed to dance to the chanting of her mother and grandmother and older sisters behind her. They were drumming her womanhood in, and if she concentrated, if she closed her eyes, she would swear she could hear more than just their voices. Echoes of other voices seemed to hover in the heavy air. She moved to wipe sweat from her forehead, and the scar-maker swatted at her. "Do not move! The pattern must be pure!" She murmured an apology, but finished her movement, wiping the sweat away. The sun was beating down on the already-painful wounds, and he was high on her arm, piercing tiny wounds in the underside of her upper arm, threads of pain lacing through her with each movement. There was no delay now, no matter how fast he moved. She opened her eyes wide to keep the tears hidden, and breathed with the drums, breathed with the chanting, breathed in the power of her femininity. The world-snake was upon her shoulder, his head pointing at her neck. The scar-maker sat back, finished. He looked upon her with pride and nodded. "It is finished," he announced to the waiting women, and they broke out into the traditional song. She sat up, gazing upon her arm, from the tiny tail on her hand, up through her shoulder. She could not see the head, which was below her chin, but she knew she would be able to see it in the river tomorrow morn. She lifted her chin, ignoring the pain, and smiled. She was Ambata, at last. ----------------------------------
Sunday's Tale
Sunday’s Winter Suncatcher Tale
Sponsor(s): none
Prompt: Christmas wish
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“Have you ever wanted something so badly you ached for it?” She was laying on the grass, staring at the stars, and I watched the breeze pick her hair up and drag the pale strands across her cheek.
“Yes,” I said softly.
“Really?” She turned to me, her eye color inky black in the darkness, but I knew their brown depths as well as my own hand. “What?”
I blew out a breath, unable to say what I really wanted. Lucky for me, I was good at thinking on my feet. “When I was 13, I wanted a puppy more than anything in the world.” I flopped back onto my back, unwilling and unable to meet her eyes, which were suddenly too attentive to this tale. “I begged for one all year, and then finally, I asked for one for Christmas.” I searched the sky, staring at the stars, finally finding Orion’s belt, and focusing on it. It would keep me sane, keep me from telling the truth, wouldn’t it? “It was my one Christmas wish, the only thing I asked for that year.” I fell silent, abruptly remembering the pang of disappointment that year. Story of my life, wasn’t it? And here I was, heading for another one.
“What happened?”
“I got a bunch of stuff that year. No puppy.” I dragged a hand through my hair. “I later found out Dad was allergic, but it still was probably the crappiest Christmas of my life.”
“I’m sorry, Ryan.”
I shrugged. “No worries. I survived, and we got a cat later that year, and it turns out I like cats.”
“You do?” She giggled. I couldn’t help but smile at the sound of it.
“Yeah, I do. Cats are cool.”
“I like cats, too,” she said softly, and I realized at some point she had rolled over and gotten a lot closer to me. I found myself staring up at her, and wondered if maybe I was about to have a Christmas wish come true in July. I could totally get over that puppy thing if…
“Marissa…”
“Ryan, I really like you.”
Did she just say that? I touched her hair, brushing it off her shoulder, letting my hand graze her skin. She must’ve. “I like you, too, Marissa.”
She smiled, suddenly looking away, like she was shy, and I felt like a superhero. Except a superhero isn’t supposed to be under the girl. I sat up, and she did, too. She kept giving me these looks, and I finally got the hint.
I bumped her nose the first time, but the second time… I couldn’t stop smiling afterwards. Her lips were so soft, and she glowed.
Christmas in July. Who’d’ve ever thought?
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To give me a prompt, go here.
Saturday's Tale
Saturday's Winter Suncatcher Tale Sponsor(s): None Prompt: link --------------------- Gerriander shook his head, backing away from the oreador. "No. No, no, the link is no good." Bondmate? The oreador shook shell fluid from its wings, spreading them in the dampness of the hatching gardens, its red eyes wide with worry and unhappiness. "Gerriander, you have been chosen," the Guardian stepped forward, its full-grown oreador licking the young one reassuringly. "Take up the meat and feed your new bondmate." "No. I am a mage, I was to be a sikka-mate!" Gerriander said desperately, falling to his back in the sand. His oreador crawled atop him, dripping fluid, and began licking and nudging his face. Gerriander's mage-gifts were allowing him to block some of the link, but he was feeling the oreador's fear and desperate desire to belong, and it was weakening him. The Guardian sighed. "Gerriander, your mage-gift is unpredictable and unreliable. Your trainer said it may not be the gift at all, but something else that has not manifested yet. Now, stop blocking the poor oreador and bond with it before I call the Overlord!" Gerriander reached up and touched the damp fur, letting the bond wash over him, and he gasped at the fullness of belonging and love that he felt. Why had he wanted to be with the sikka? Why had it mattered that he was a mage? He ran fingers through the damp feathers, and helped his Ketchen spread his wings wide, so they would dry, and sighed. Ketchen pushed his head beneath Gerriander's hand, and he helped the oreador lay down. "Stay here, I will bring back food." Food! He chuckled as he walked away, never noticing the Guardian's visible relief as he and his oreador walked off to check on another new pairing. ***** Months later, Gerriander and Ketchen were sitting in the Healer's wing, on one of the wide benches. Ketchen had his wings mantled slightly, protecting both of them from the sun, as Gerriander reflected on the convoluted path that had brought them here. "I never thought to be a healer." Few have the gift, bondmate, was Ketchen's only comment. "It seems to hit one per generation, in our core," Gerriander replied, squinting up at his teacher's cave. His teacher, Hynrik, was growing old, his knuckles curling from the joint-ill, and he could not give himself relief from the pain. Gerriander's appearance had been a great aid to him. One per generation, per sylf. Gerriander chuckled. The bonded animals were oddly territorial about their healers-- as Ketchen pointed out, each "sylf" had their own. "Indeed." He had found his place, and he was happy with it. *******************
Friday's tale
Friday's Winter Suncatcher Tale Sponsor(s): none Prompt: silks and velvet and brocade ------------------------- Tymon stalked the hall, ignoring the wealth around him. They thought that by throwing silks and velvet and brocade and all manner of other riches at the men and women they would forget they were simply breeding stock, intended to create the Redeemer. Tymon never forgot, just as he never forgot that his true purpose was to prevent the Redeemer's birth. By any means necessary. He had reluctantly arranged the death of the last woman that the Luminous Seven had deemed a true breeding threat. But this new message was throwing him into a tizzy. The one thing Tymon had sworn never to do was kill a child. And Delima, the newest "true threat," had two children. He clenched his fists, thinking of the babe...then reminded himself that the hall was public. Anyone could be watching. He smoothed his features to impassivity, and kept walking. Thirteen women, and of all of them Delima was the threat. He would have to find her child, the toddler, Mykkal's little girl, later. For now, he had to find Delima, and see to it that she drank the tea he made her. Delima... He made his way to her rooms, which was acceptable since he was still her primary mating partner, and knocked. He heard scrabbling, and then she was there, opening the door, her hair disheveled and wild, her robes open. "Delima?" "Tymon? What are you--" "Tymon?" The male voice made Tymon step forward, and he felt a constriction in his chest. "Mykkal?" He felt something snap, and a haze came over his vision. "You-- and Delima?" "You are not supposed to be here!" Delima cried, wrapping her gold-and-red brocade robe around herself. "We are scheduled for tomorrow." "Schedules," Tymon snarled, stalking around the sitting room, the brown leather chairs, with their little red velvet ottomans suddenly sickening him. "Schedules, and mating times, and bloodlines! It makes me ill!" He finally spotted what he'd been seeking, and slid it into his sleeve, the rich black velvet with the gold ribbon hiding the little letter opener perfectly. "I will have no part of it any longer! I am finished!" Mykkal was still standing beside Delima, holding his hands up. "Tymon, calm down. I have been selected for Delima next, and I came here only to get to know her. I did not know you felt an attachment to her." Delima looked between Mykkal and Tymon, realization dawning. "Tymon?" Tymon snarled, his face a rictus of revulsion. "No longer." The blade was not sharp, but the neck was a vulnerable area. Tymon had been chosen by the Luminous Seven for his knowledge of such areas, taught to the children who guarded the flocks of sheep and cattle from bandits in the lean times. Mykkal died first, his blood spraying Tymon's face. Delima screamed and ran from him, her feet tangling in her lush robes. She fell to the floor, crawling, and he grasped her hair, plunging the letter opener into her neck, nearly severing it. His hands were covered in her blood when he stood, some small noise drawing his attention to her bedroom. It could not be that easy, could it? He paced into the bedroom, his hand clenched around the black handle, the plush orange carpet still a hideous offense to the eyes as he crossed into Delima's room. The burnt copper brocade walls were barely lit, the only light a small oil lamp next to the bassinet within which he could see a wavering fist. He heard it again, a soft cooing. He strode to the babe, his heart suddenly in his throat, air suddenly too thick to breathe. He looked into the crib, and saw the tiny face, little fists waving. The babe smiled. Suddenly strengthless, he fell to his knees. A whisper, or a prayer, came from his mouth. "My son." *** The legend was told, later, of the Redeemer's father, covered in blood, delivering his son to the family that would raise him. It was said he saved the child from those who would slay him. There is some truth in every tale, after all... ----------------------------------------------------
Thursday's Tale
Thursday's Winter Suncatcher tale sponsor(s): none Prompt: ...icicles shooting rainbows... ---------------------------------- Keri kicked at a pile of snow just because she could, sending snow spray across the freshly cleared sidewalk. She hated winter. It was too cold, and school sucked, and there was no place to run. Not that she could run, anyway, with the heavy boots on her feet, and bundled up in her thick snow coat. She shoved her hands in her pockets, feeling again the gloves she refused to wear. She couldn't stand having to be all bundled up. Wintertime always made her feel like she was in a cocoon, and as far as she was concerned, that sucked. She tossed her head back, feeling the cold air on her cheeks, and sighed. The chill made her eyes burn, and she hated that, too. She put her head back down, and kicked at the snow again. If only her mom would've let her stay home today, instead of shoving her outside. She wouldn't have minded sitting inside, where it was warm and she wouldn't have had to be in this coat, all wrapped like one of her mother's precious presents. She finally made it to the park, and kicked the snow again as she darted through the clear white hills up into the fenced area where the poles that usually held her swings looked oddly naked without them. She clambered into the picnic area, and once out of the wind, with the sun shining onto her table, she shucked her coat and sat down on it, atop the table, her feet on the seats. She breathed again. The sun was warm, and without the slight chill of the breeze, her sweater was more than warm enough. She lifted her heavy brown hair off the back of her neck and gazed out into the playground. The monkey bars held icicles shooting rainbows across the sand beneath, which was speckled with snow. Her playground was a strange sight, an otherworldly place, not at all like it was in spring and summer. She dug her sketchbook from beneath her sweater, tucked into the waistband of her pants at her back, and began sketching, using the rainbows as lanes to other worlds, places even more far-fetched than a winter wonderland was to a child of the spring.
Wednesday's tale
Wednesday's Winter Suncatcher Tale Sponsor(s): None Prompt: Feathers and fur ------------------------------------- Chiara leaned across her jikkam, petting its wide head, wishing for the others from its wing to return. They both regretted not being able to fly today, but Tikkal's wings were still moulting, and until she was finished with the moult, she would be grounded. Chiara ran a hand through the heavy fur and sighed. "Back to the sand pit, Tik. It's time for more brushing, and another check of those feathers." The jikkam's feathers were valuable, and Chiara couldn't allow them to simply fall off. They were carefully collected each moulting season, to be used as decoration for garments, in dreamcatchers, woven into hair pieces, and whatever other projects Chiara didn't know about. Tikkam stood up, towering over her bondmate, and grumbled into Chiara's head. It is good that we return to the pit. I itch. Chiara chuckled as she reached up and scratched a particularly itchy spot beneath Tikkal's chin. "I'm sure you do." They made their way back to the pit, passing a few of the heavier, more dog-like oreadors as they walked. Chiara was biased, of course, but she loved the cat-like jikkam, and was very glad she'd bonded to Tikkal rather then ending up with one of the oreadors or even one of the magic-eating sikka. The sikka, if she were honest, frightened her. She had never gotten used to them, not in the six years she'd been living here, and every time she had an encounter with one of their riders, she just left feeling cold and dirty. They looked like huge lizards with wings, to her, and she couldn't see a single pretty thing about them. Fur and feathers were pretty-- but scales and feathers? They just didn't go together. Once in the pit, Tikkal rolled, digging the sand deep into her feathers and fur, while Chiara got one of the large paddle-like brushes from the equipment areas. First things first-- and Tika needed a good brushing. Part of the moult was shedding, after all, and Tika's thick golden fur was coming out in clumps. Chiara was sweating like crazy when she was done with that part, and more than happy to sit down with a wing across her lap to start dusting the feathers off and investigating their strength. She used a delicate brush-tool that looked almost like a paint-brush for this part of the work, putting each feather that came out into a basket. Tikkal was purring, her eyes slitted, and the bond between the two of them was fairly thrumming with her pleasure and comfort by the time Chiara was finished. She stretched, promising herself a nice long soak in the hot baths when she had a moment, and patted Tika's muscular shoulder. "There." As she'd expected, the big cat stood up and stretched, and then shook. Bits of feather dust and fur remnants went flying through the air. It is good, she pronounced, in her regal way. I am no longer itchy. Chiara chuckled. "You've been scratched within an inch of your life, m'love." Tika headbutted Chiara. Indeed. Chiara held the huge head near hers for a moment, and then let go. "Go, get yourself some dinner. I need to eat my own dinner, and then get a bath." The huge gold-green eyes twinkled. Yes. You are a mess. She pushed off the jikkam. "And whose fault is that? Go eat, silly girl. I'll see you later." The bubble of laughter echoing in her head, she walked off the sandpit back into the landing fields. Her eyes automatically went to the sky, to where her wing would be practicing maneuvers. They were too far for her to see, of course, but she could not help but seek them out. They were her brothers and sisters, and she missed them when they were not near. She went into the hall with a spring in her step nonetheless. Her jikkam was in a good mood, despite the moult, and she had a relaxing afternoon ahead of her. If only things could stay this way... --------------------------------
Tuesday's Tale
Tuesday's Winter Suncatcher Tale Sponsors: no new Prompt: she felt it shatter in her palm ----------------------- She was tired. Very, very tired of fighting, tired of reaching out and having her hand slapped away, tired of trying, tired of everything. She wished she could take it back, but it was too late. She lifted weary eyes to him, and held out his heart to him. "Take it, and give me mine back. It is the only way." He sneered at her. "I will not. I am enjoying this." She felt her heart clench as he fisted his hand around it, and she fell to her knees. She held his against her chest, crying out. "Yes, again," he said coldly. "No!" He laughed, and it was an evil laugh. She fisted her hand, and he gasped. "Enough." She slammed his heart against the floor, and she felt it shatter in her palm. "I have had enough!" He fell so slowly. She had never seen someone fall so slowly before. She watched him fall, watched his eyes grow cold, dim, and sightless, and she took her heart back from him and crushed the remains of his into the ground before she left. ---------------------------------
Monday's tale
Monday's Winter Suncatcher Tale
Sponsor(s): bifemmefatale
Prompt: the far future; 19th & 20th c. landfills are now mines
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Kairiel was sleeping soundly when Goren slipped back into their room to speak to her about Amalle's decision. She wanted Goren and Kair to start working, so that they were a part of the complex here, and no one would be suspicious as to why they were staying in Amalle's suite. Goren was worried-- the only open job at the moment was at the mine, and he knew that he, as an earth mage, had issues with it-- as powerful as Kair was, would she have issues as well?
He fretted a bit, but he was going to let Kair make that choice.
He sat down on his side of the bed, knowing he couldn't touch Kair to wake her up, speaking softly at first, hoping to wake her up gently. "Kairiel. Kair, sweetheart, wake up."
She mumbled and rolled over, blinking blearily at him, and then pushed herself up against the headboard. "What is it?"
"Amalle has a great idea for us, love, if we're willing to take it."
"Hmm?" She shoved her hair behind her ears and wrapped her arms around her knees.
"She wants us to go to work, to become part of her commune, so that we fit in, and no one questions why we live here." Kair nodded.
"What type of work?"
"Working out at the mines."
Kair's eyes widened. The mines were nearly legendary among the inner city dwellers, since many of the younger kids had tried to break in at one point or another. The sites known as mines now had all been landfills centuries ago, and what the ancient people had thrown away was now what Amalle wanted them to help others dig through for the biological remnants that could be used for mulch and turned into new food, or for other trash that could be turned into various treasures. It was amazing the things that could be found, and Kair was curious about them, as many of the people who hadn't seen them were. "Well, that's awesome!"
"Kair, you haven't seen them. They aren't... They aren't what you think."
She shook her head. "We need to do what Amalle asks, though, and this is a great opportunity."
Goren sighed. "Very well. She sent over jumpsuits, so let's get ready, and you can see for yourself."
They dressed in the special jumpsuits and boots, and Kair braided her hair and tied it back, and they headed out to the transpo that Amalle sent for them. After a fairly long ride out of the city, they arrived at the mine. Kair was fairly vibrating with anticipation, but Goren, who was sensitive to the earth's changes, found himself again feeling that drain on his powers as the dead earth far beneath the garbage cried out for renewal. Goren found himself moving slowly as the drain on his powers effected his coordination. They were given two bags, one for biologicals, and one for other things that would be useful. Kair clambered over the piles of trash with energy and efficiency, but Goren could barely bring himself to move, finally sitting down in a gulley between two piles of trash and letting the earth's cries overtake him. He went deep down, deep within, to where the worst of the damage was, and brought in healing from nearby places, fixing the worst of the damage, though it was never going to be the same here until they had stripped this mine of its resources, which would take decades.
When he opened his eyes, he found Kair staring at him, a frown marring her forehead. "Why didn't you tell me this was bad for you?"
He struggled upright. "Because you were right, we need to work--"
"You aren't well, and you aren't doing much."
"I'll be better now."
She gave him a suspicious look, handed him her bag of biologicals, which was full, and took his near-empty bag. "If this is going to make you sick, we should ask for a different assignment," she said as she turned to go find more.
He sighed, and stood, stretching. The drain was not as severe, the air was clearer. "It will be fine, Kair," he said, but he was speaking to air.
He went through the trash, picking out paper, knowing that the sorters were compacting it for firewood, and hunting for other valuables. Real wood was rare, but occasionally he found old furniture that had been wood, and he took that, too. He didn't find anything good this time, but he knew they'd be back.
Later, they gave their bags to the sorters, and left to return to Amalle's suite. Kair was bubbling about the things she'd found, and how the sorter had let her keep one-- a tiny metal cheetah statue. Goren just smiled at her, glad to be home, knowing that the job would keep them safe for a while, but it was no guarantee that they'd be able to stay hidden forever. The others were still out there, still wanted Kairiel, and they would still come for her someday. He hoped Amalle really was going to protect her.
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To give me a prompt, go here.
Sunday's Tale
Sunday's Winter Suncatcher Tale
Sponsors: XXY Webdesigns
prompt: Otters
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It was spring, and the deer had little fawns by their side, when I learned I was going to be participating in the next vision quest. I had known that I would have to go through something in order to proceed with the Path that I wanted to walk, since our Shaman, One-Eyed Bear, had told me that I could not be his apprentice until I had passed a test, but I did not know that he, Chief Black Horse, and the Medicine Woman Thunder Heart had decided it would be so formal a task.
There had only been one other female shaman, and she was a legend among our people--White Deer Woman.
I did not think that I would go from being Wolf Child to being someone like White Deer Woman. But it was with a glad heart that I said I would make my prayer ties and set out to get the cloth and the rope from my family's storage area with my mother. My mother, Two Birds, did not know what to make of her daughter who was to be a Shaman, and she was a silent companion on this journey.
After we were back, sitting before our teepee, she made a fire, and we shared some tea. This seemed to relax her, and she knew how to make prayer ties. It was easy to make her believe I did not, and get her to show me when I asked her. It opened something, and she sat with me as I prayed and knotted the coarse rope around the tobacco. "Wolf Child, you are sure of this path?"
"I am sure, Mother. The dreams do not stop, and..." I looked around to make sure that no one could hear. "I have been helping One-Eyed Bear with the children's totems. The spirits speak to me already."
Her face grew troubled. "This is a powerful gift, Wolf Child." She caressed my hair. "Often, with such gifts, come great troubles. I hope it is not the case for you."
I took my mother's words to heart, and added that to my prayer list, praying that my life would not be full of the troubles that One-Eyed Bear had gone through. He had sacrificed an entire eye for his gifts, which had been many, and had only waned when I came into his life. I shivered often as I prayed, and got no respite in my dreams.
Still, the sun and moon do not stop for a child's worries, and the morning of the vision quest dawned clear and bright.
I went into the belly of the earth with the others, boys who would emerge from their quests as men, with strong totems and hunting spirits to guide them. I went, praying for the knowledge of where to put my ties, my older brother, Spotted Panther, who had agreed to pray for me, following behind, to ensure that I did not select a place too near to water. I was careful not to look at him; now that I was out of the sweatlodge, I was holy, and could not look anyone in the eyes.
I found a place, at last, that spoke to me. It was within sight of a lake, but not close enough to where I could drink. There were trees for shade, and yet the ground was flat enough I felt I would not be in danger of sitting in water if it rained. I lay my ties in a circle, and Spotted Panther ran off to report that I had chosen a place. I curled up on the ground, nearly hidden by the tall grass, and shivered, feeling my nakedness for the first time.
Still, I was not worried. Now that the prayer ties were down, I was on holy ground. Protected.
I slept. I did not dream, not yet.
I awoke with the sun in my eyes, for it was setting-- I had slept the entire day away, and with a white otter doing a wardance outside my ties. I sat up and blinked at it blearily. It chittered at me, and then ran off to join its mates and play, splashing into the lake I'd noticed earlier and making more noise than three small creatures should be able to make. I watched them play and couldn't help but laugh at them.
Then, I realized the white otter was gone, and there were only two brown ones playing.
I wondered if it had been a dream.
I watched them, and then curled up, for it was getting chilly. I watched the sun slip away, and the moon rise, and the skies fill with bats. I saw owls swoop past, and finally slipped into sleep, to dream of white otters dancing.
When I awoke the next day, I saw the otters again, and I saw hawks, and other birds. I dreamed of an eagle flying overhead, while otters dove in the water and caught fish. The days passed as I grew hungry, and drifted in and out of the dream world. I finally asked what I needed to learn, and was laughingly told I should learn to play, that I worried far too much.
Silly child, don't you know that you will be taken care of?
"But Mother said that those with gifts like mine always have troubled lives..."
It depends on your purpose, child.
"What is my purpose?"
Your purpose is to teach your people how to play again, my child. Your people have forgotten the lessons Coyote has tried so hard to teach them, so we will send them you, White Otter Dances.
And I laughed until I cried, knowing that Coyote is always a lesson filled with laughter and tears.
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To give me a prompt, go here.
Saturday's Tale
Saturday's Winter Suncatcher Tale. Sponsors: No new Prompt: glass (Author's note: A prompt given me has unblocked an old story! *glee* I'm going to sit on it until Monday, though, so that everyone can enjoy it. ) ------------------ The first one he destroyed was the little unicorn, delicate glass body, gold horns, hooves, mane and tail. The horn pierced her arm, but she fought not to flinch, not to make a sound, and most of all not to cry. She knew if she cried, he would drag it out longer. It had been only a matter of time. She had tried so hard not to get attached to them, not to fall in love with them. It was just that they were so beautiful. She could not help it. They were her one pretense of freedom, in this house. This prison. She dreamed of the day she would turn 18, and could turn her back on her father, walk out the door, be one of the little glass horses and unicorns. "You spend far too much time with these fripperies! You stupid child!" The second one he destroyed was the little purple horse, her little racehorse, crushed under an uncaring boot. She stayed still, widening her eyes to keep the tears from coming, biting her lip to keep the no that wanted to escape from flying out and crashing into his unfeeling chest. "Such a waste of money! How much of my hard-earned money have you wasted on these stupid horses?" She felt the injustice deeply. "I earned that money!" "Don't you talk back to me!" She barely felt the slap. She hadn't known, before then, that a broken heart truly felt like shattered glass, but it did. Her little zebra, painted black and white, broke next, then little blue-flower, and the green-and-gold one she'd always thought of as a mare. One by one, smashed coldly, a rainbow of glass pieces that had once been a little girl's dream. ------------------------
Friday's Tale
Friday's Winter Suncatcher tale A reminder of what I'm doing-- these stories are the equivalent of me strumming a guitar on a corner with a hat out. I'm just asking if you like them, you drop some change into my hat. I'm hoping to raise enough money to help with some bills and put food on the table at the end of this month. My goal is $150-- I've raised $20 so far. Sponsors: no new ones Prompt: Luminarias (Author's note: This was unintentional. I had a hard time choosing a prompt today, and when I finally settled on this one, this was the story that wanted to be told. *shrug* I suppose my love of all things Celtic is showing. Just be happy I'm not regaling you with tales of Deya and Cilian and their doomed love.) ------------------------- Lorcan had known he could not bury Gráinne, in case the Nicolai would return. Aside from that, burying her did not seem right. Her passion, her life, it deserved to be honored with fire. He choose a clearing near a stream, and built a bier. He found the men who owned this land, and paid them well for their silence. Then, he prepared his wife. He created the oils with his own hands, and rubbed them into her skin. He found that some of the herbs he wanted didn't grow here, in this wild new country, so he substituted as closely as he could, and prayed it would be acceptable. Then he laid her on the bier, and lit it. His eyes were dry, his heart on fire, consumed to ash with her body. He lit tiny candles from the flames of her body and put them into the little black bags he had brought with him, letting them drift on the stream. Sixty. One for each year he had spent with her. They had been ridiculously expensive, and he hadn't cared a whit. Then, he turned his back on the bier, and watched the luminarias float, watched them mill around on the water, and then finally find their direction, heading downstream. They glowed with an eerie fire, and he found himself smiling a little half-smile at it. It was somehow appropriate, that black glow. He knew he had chosen rightly when he'd picked them. He sat, his elbows hooked around his knees, his fingers loosely woven together. He watched and waited, until the fire had consumed the grasses she had lain on, and the last glowing bag had drifted out of sight. The moon had set. He stood back up, and walked to the bier. The ash that had once been his wife was warm. He passed a hand through it, and walked to the water. "All that I was, Gráinne, I gave to you." He dipped the ash-covered hand into the liquid, and watched the flakes drift away. "I have nothing now, and so I will take." He bared his fangs. "I will take until they fear what they have created, and then I will take their lives." ------------------------------------------
Thursday's tale
Thursday's Winter Suncatcher Story Sponsors: no new ones today prompt: The scent of cherry blossoms on the wind. -------------------------------------------- The scent of cherry blossoms on the wind always took him back to the beginning, to the time before he had found his mate, to a rather innocent time, if a vampire can be said to have an innocent time. Certainly, it was a time before he'd appreciated exactly how much of a predator he had become. Then again, it was before they had shaped him, by taking away the family he had created there. He had enjoyed the work he did, the carving and the joining, the actual physical creation of furniture, far more than he had ever expected to. And the carpenter and his family had accepted that he was cursed, and had shared their blood with him to help him abate the curse. In those days, curses were things to be borne, to be dealt with, to be feared--but when they afflicted one that you considered part of your family, you did what you could to help the person. He'd gotten very lucky in his adopted family, really. Back then, the name he'd carried had not been Vincenze. No, he'd still worn his birth-name, still acknowledged his Irish heritage, still left milk out in case the Little People followed him from Eire. He shook his head to think about it, now. The Vampire Council had decided that he'd stayed there too long, was risking exposure, for he didn't age, and his adopted family would surely begin to notice, despite the fact that unlike the majority of his kind, he had stopped aging in his late 30s. He was the first and only Irish-born, full-blood Vampire, and they were still trying to figure out the genealogy of it all. He could have told them, but even then his father's blood had given him greater insight, a stronger intuition, and he had known that telling them would be a bad thing. He had known that he needed to be strong, so that he could destroy them before they destroyed him. He simply hadn't realized it would begin as early as it did. He had been asleep, as was necessary in those days, in the special suite of tunnels they had dug for him, carefully reinforced, his clay jars of Irish dirt arranged around his head. Back then, he had to sleep all day. He had awakened to find his wife's brother at the foot of his pallet, tears still streaming down his face. The destruction had been appalling, even to his wild nature. Morimoto had only been spared because he had been delivering a table for his father. The Council had not given him a warning, had not told him "you are risking exposure, leave this family." No. They had simply murdered the people he thought of as his. Fury, grief, and guilt had wracked him. He had, then and there, written a contract with Morimoto, and sworn that he would avenge his wife and her family. He had told Morimoto that it would be his children's children's children who would see the rewards of the contract, for he had known, even then, that it would take hundreds of years to come into his full power, and be able to take on the Vampire Council. Then, he had vanished, as far as Morimoto knew. In reality, he had bowed his head, as far as the Vampire Council knew. He had reported to them, and told them he would not risk exposing them again. They had accepted his apparent humility as their due. He had memorized each and every face, tasted their auras of power, and then left to seek the people that Morimoto had told him of. The Ninja. He trained with them, learning to wield a sword, learning of secret places that would kill a human with a blow, and of control, of balance, of striking when the opponent is unaware, of strategy, and of chi. He learned to hide his own aura of power, and learned patience from masters of timing. It was not easy, the training. The hardest part was finding blood. He would not take it from his fellow-trainees, and they were far from inhabited places. He subsided on animals during that time, and learned to make the most of weak blood. He learned that he could survive on animal blood, but he was not up to his true strength. Still, when training with humans, he counted it possibly a good thing not to be up to his full vampiric strength. He accepted several missions, and regained his full strength. This was child's play, and he learned he could play with the shadows, and with some human's minds. This was an eye-opening time, and he dared travel back to Europe, now that there was none alive who could recognize him. He dared rejoin society, toying with people who had more wealth than sense, and when the opportunity arose to go to the new world, he dared the ocean voyage to see it. There, far from the Vampire Council, he settled in and began building his own power base, and waited, knowing that it would take time, but the time would come, and the reckoning would be worth it. Then he had met Gráinne, and the Vampire Council had been forgotten. For what vampire can think of revenge or anger when in love? For sixty years he and his Grace had lived and loved... until the Vampire Council had struck again, declaring that they had to move on. And so they had-- but the Nicolai, the bitter, heart-lost vampire... Well... "Irish, you do not deserve to live, much less have a mate." "My name, Nicolai, is Lorcan, and you would do well to remember it. It is the name of the man who will kill you." "Kill me? You've as much chance of doing that as I have of walking in the noonday sun, you freak of nature." "Lorcan, come. Dinna fight with him, mo croi, it is too close to dawn." Gráinne pulled at Lorcan's arm, and he covered her hand with his own, glaring at the other vampire. His blue eyes were bright with anger and fierce protectiveness. "As my mate wishes," he finally said, lowering his head to hers. He gave Nicolai one last glare, and then turned to go with Gráinne. Nicolai moved so quickly Lorcan had no chance to block the blow, no chance to protect Gráinne. Her gasp of pain was all the warning he had that something was wrong-- her gasp of pain, and the corresponding pain in his own chest. "Gráinne?" "Lorcan... it hurts..." The laugh from behind him, as he realized that the warmth on his hand was his mate's heart-blood made his temper spark, but he was not about to leave her side. He banked the fury to unleash later. He could find Nicolai-- he could find the man as long as he had Gráinne's blood on him. He helped his mate to the ground, and held her hand. "Dinna concentrate on the pain, love." For her, and her alone, he let the brogue of their homeland free. "Look at me, love, just me." He captured her eyes, green to his blue, and stripped the pain from her. She breathed out. "Lorcan? I dinna want t' leave ye." "Then don't." "But--" "Come back t' me. Promise me, Gráinne. Come back t' me. I know if anyone can, you can." She smiled a brilliant smile, and nodded. "I promise." He kissed her fiercely, then, and she caressed his cheek. He pulled back, staring into her eyes, which never left his face. Her hand drifted so slowly from his cheek to lay beside her head, and the love in her eyes dimmed. Her face blurred, and he finally closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the pain that swallowed all the joy that had been in his life just a moment ago. He wrestled with it, until finally he realized it was another weapon, and embraced it. Gráinne would not have recognized the eyes that opened to look at her beloved face one last time, for they were brilliant blue orbs that promised death and pain to any who looked into them. He touched her face one last time, closing her eyes, and cutting a lock of her hair, which he tucked into the vest he was wearing. And then he rose, and flickered into the shadows, to find a place to sleep, and to plan. The Nicolai would be the first to die... ------------------------------------
Wednesday's tale
Wednesday's Winter Suncatcher Story
Sponsors: no new ones today
prompt: The Agony of Knowing
Author's note-- Today's tale is late, and I apologize for it. Yesterday's "great idea," I realized, was a bit of a cop out, because there was a bigger, more important story beneath it, waiting and wanting to be told. So, the story of Vincenze will wait, and today's story, instead, is dedicated to the survivors who are past what it is about, and to all the women who are facing what the characters below face, and what my mother-in-law just faced.
AN2: Today's tale deals with the "adult concepts" of death, facing your own mortality, and cancer. It is rated PG-13.
11:20 am, the Doctor's waiting room
Jeff looked at Bess, wondering again what she was thinking. She had been so composed through the waiting, what he was starting to think of as the agony of uncertainty. He took her free hand, the one not holding the book, and lifted it to his lips. She turned her head to him, her hazel eyes widening, and her lips curving in a slight smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I was just thinking of how much I admire you. You've been so...calm."
She smiled more broadly, and put her book down on her knee, then wrapped her hand around his. "Panicking isn't going to do either of us any good, love. And if I had started freaking out, Hannah would have figured out something was wrong, and then she'd tell Bryce, and we'd both have ended up having to talk to them about what was going on before we even had answers." She gave him a fond, exasperated look. "It was bad enough having to tell her that you were distracted by a work project. When she finds out the truth she isn't going to be happy with either of us."
He chuckled and looked away. "I've never been good at keeping things from Hannah. She has your eyes, and your intuition."
"Pity poor Tim. She's always twelve steps ahead of him." Bess sighed happily. "Do you think he's figured out they're going to get married yet?"
Jeff laughed. "If he's smart, he's hanging on to Hannah with both hands."
"Well. There is that." They smiled at each other. Finally Bess spoke again. "Frankly, I've been scared out of my head. I know there have been a lot of advancements over the years, but cancer is still cancer, and I don't want to go through the things that my grandmother went through."
"Different kind of cancer, love. She had lung cancer--"
"Same basic concepts, dear. Surgery. Chemotherapy or radiation. Losing your hair, being physically ill all the time. That."
"Oh." He looked at her lovely, thick, brown hair, speckled with the grey of a good life--or, as she was fond of saying 'the grey of a life with children,' and felt a pang. He hadn't even considered that. He hadn't considered how sick the chemo or radiation might make her. He took a deep breath and squeezed her hand. "I'll be right by your side."
She looked into his eyes, her own shimmering with unshed tears, and her lips trembled. She closed her eyes, the tears falling. Her voice was soft, tremulous. "I know."
11:47, inside the Doctor's office.
"Mrs. Simms, I'm afraid that the test results are not what we were hoping for." Dr. Cordova peered over his glasses in a manner that Bess had always found endearing, but which right now she found almost unbearable. She wished he would look her in the eyes for this particular conversation.
"What does that mean?"
He sighed and shuffled through her paperwork. "It means that I am concerned about the possibility of your cancer having already spread. I would like to schedule you for another test--"
"More tests?" Jeff burst out. "But you've already tested her so many times! You must have some answers for us. Where are our answers, Doctor?"
Jeff's frustrated question seemed to get through to the Doctor at last. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked between them. "The answers are not good, Mr. and Mrs. Simms. The tumor in your breast, Mrs. Simms, is an aggressive form of breast cancer, and it's one that I am afraid may have spread to your lymph nodes. That's why I want to do a few more tests. I want to verify the previous biopsy, I want to test the lymph nodes to see if they are cancerous, and I'd like to schedule you for surgery to remove the tumor."
"When would you like to do the surgery?" Bess asked, feeling numb.
"As soon as possible."
"But what about the tests?" Jeff asked, grabbing his wife's hand.
"We can do the tests at the time of surgery-- we will remove a section of her lymph node when we remove the tumor."
Jeff felt the weight of the knowledge sinking into him, a lump in his throat and a lead ball of fear atop his heart. He cursed himself then, for thinking the agony of waiting was bad-- this was so much worse he could not begin to describe it. The agony of knowing, and being helpless, unable to do anything to stop what must now happen. Bess and the doctor were talking, but it was white noise to him, as he stared at his wife, memorizing her features, her expression, her voice. He could not lose her. It could not happen.
He realized, belatedly, that they were looking at him. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You'll be able to drive me on Wednesday, right?"
"Of course. I'll make arrangements."
"Then Wednesday it is." The doctor scribbled something on a prescription pad and handed it to Bess. "Just a reminder for you. No food after midnight, black coffee is fine."
Thank you, Doctor."
They walked out to the car together, but each lost in their own thoughts. Jeff turned to Bess and reached for her. She pushed at his arms. "Jeff, no."
"Bess, just let me hold you. I--"
"I'll cry."
"Then cry." He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her hair, pressing his cheek against the top of her head.
"I don't want to die," she murmured against his body. "I'm not going to, you know."
"Good," he whispered.
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Tuesday's Tale
Winter Suncatcher Story #2.
Sponsors: Azhure, Zianuray
Prompt: Doing a rune reading for Odin.
(Author's note: Yes, I should've saved this one for Wednesday, I know. *grin* But could you pass up such a great prompt?)
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Magnella leaned on her table and sighed. Why was it always this way? As soon as she turned the sign from "Palm Readings" to "Runes Read!" customers drifted past the door instead of coming inside. It wasn't like she changed anything else. She did her best "gypsy" impression, despite her blond curls and decided lack of a bosom upon which to rest the peasant-style blouse she was sporting. Well... minus its sleeves, given that she'd taken up residence in
Ordinarily, she'd be doing a grand business. Tourists loved her little airy tent. She was licensed, something she displayed prominently, since every fourth customer last week had been an undercover cop trying to bust her for running a con game. She blew a breath to lift her bangs off her forehead. If only. She hadn't asked for her gift. She lifted her heavy hair off her neck and considered her grandmother's stories-- that the gift she'd gotten had been passed down through generations who had a touch of blood from a Norse god. She snorted. A likely story. Her grandmother was a woman right out of a storybook, she thought with a fond smile. Your stereotypical "blind seeress." Gram had always told Magna "Never read the runes for the gods, child. They'll blind you just like they did me."
As if the gods were real.
Of course, Magna thought with a tiny touch of resentment, Gram never had to work for a living. She never knew what it was like trying to fit in to a school with the Sight. She never knew what it was like trying to get a real job with the Sight, suddenly realizing that the guy you thought was so nice was actually cheating on his wife. Or that the boss you thought so admirable was embezzling money from the company. Magna sighed. Easy to think the Sight is a gift when you can pretend that gods took your vision, and all you ever saw was happily ever after for yourself before it left you.
Magna shook herself, feeling guilty. Not fair, she reminded herself. Gram never wanted Mom to have the gift, and when Mom died in childbirth and passed it to me, Gram felt guilty. She always wanted a boy to break the curse. Kept hoping...
A chill interrupted Magna's thoughts. It had been such an odd day-- only a scattering of customers, and the heat, usually so attractive to
A customer walked in, a typical surfer type, lean and laid-back, with a smile. "Hey, I saw your sign. Can you read my runes?"
Magna's feeling of dread peaked. She violated her usual rule of not reading her customer's auras, and shifted her Sight to his body. It was impossible to read--a thousand colors swirled before her eyes, with a blank spot hovering about his head, and confirmed her suspicion that this was no ordinary human. She shook her head. "I cannot read for you."
The surfer chuckled, and changed, and a grey-bearded man stood before her. His clothing was contemporary, though she couldn't have imagined any ordinary human wearing jeans and a leather hat like his on a day like today. "A wise choice, child."
Magna's temper snapped. "You would steal my eyes, as you did my Grandmother's?"
He shook his head. "That was not I, child. That was a dirty trick, and one that I would not have done. Had you offered to read my future, I would have revealed myself to you, and bade you peace. Your mother's sacrifice has led me here."
"My mother's-- My mother died giving birth to me."
"Your mother gave her life to me, in order that I would give you this choice." He sat in what she always thought of as her petitioner's chair, and pierced her with his one good eye. The cup with her runestones sat on the table between them, and she fought the urge to reach for it, to move it away from the table, to get it as far away from him and her eyes as possible. She fought to trust, since Gram had always said the gods would pay you in kind. He spoke again. "Your freedom from the Sight, if you want it."
Magna froze. The chance to be free of the Sight? A part of her screamed "YES!" but suddenly another part of her stood up and demanded its own reckoning. She frowned, and abruptly the Sight whispered to her, as though it were afraid of being heard. Something was not right here. "How long do I have to decide?"
"You must tell me now, child."
"You would ask me to make a decision like this, and give me only a moment to tell you my choice?"
"Your mother--"
"My mother should have bargained better. I shall keep my Sight."
The god before her changed again, with a jarring flash, into a curly-haired, very angry looking man. She blinked, wondering if she dared believe what she was thinking, before he growled at her. "You shall regret this, child of Odin!"
He was gone, then, just a hint of frost in the air. She shivered, and stood, walking out into the sunlight. She glanced at her sign, wondering if she should put the "back in 15 minutes" up, so she could catch her breath, when a voice spoke from behind. One of the beachcombers, wearing an old straw hat, his Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned, and his loud red Bermuda shorts almost a match for the shirt, chuckled at her. "Heya, gypsy girl. You done good."
She blinked. She'd seen him a thousand times, and never.... "Well, thank you, Grandfather."
"I knew you had it in you." He winked his one good eye at her, and toddled off.
She looked at her little half-tent, and shook her head. "I'm going back on the road. Staying in one place too long has me seeing things." With that, she hung her "back in 15" sign, and turned her back on her tent.
From a vantage point up the road, Odin watched his many-times-great-granddaughter and smiled. This one would be just fine.
Monday's tale.
Donors: None yet. Prompt(s): The Omicrom Amulet/silver cities ------ The Omicrom Amulet spoke to her on the night of her betrothal. It said "Once wed, dead before midnight; Twice wed, a butterfly's life." She did not understand it, but she reported it as was her duty. The Ruby King listened, nodded, and told the Queen of Ashes and the Priestesses of the Dead. They wailed and gnashed their teeth and beat their breasts and told the Ruby King that his precious Princess would die, because butterflies did not live more than a day, and that it was a prophecy of two deaths. The Ruby King shook his fiery head and told the Priestesses they could not see past their God, and that he was King for a reason. He caressed the Princess's hair and told her to seek her answers in the heart of the Silver cities, and she would understand the Omicrom's prophecy then. "But Father," she protested. "I cannot die on my wedding day! This is awful" "You will understand all, my daughter. Change comes with the butterfly's wing." He smiled and kissed her forehead. "I see your future in your eyes." He hung the Amulet around her neck, and sent her into the Silver Cities. She descended the steps, counting them to quell the pounding of her heart. When she stepped off the last, and whispered "thirteen" to the ghosts, she could not help the shiver that sent her chestnut hair rippling down her back. The silver was slick beneath her slippers and her fingertips, and chilled her as she tiptoed through it, seeking something--anything--alive. She made her way through streets limned with emeralds and copper, past shops long-closed, clambering over rubble heaps worth more than many of her people had seen in years. She wondered why her father never came to this city to reclaim its wealth. And then she heard it. A long, slow rumbling. Almost like a cat's purr, but deeper pitched. She turned towards it, spotting an arch outlined in topaz, the golden gemstone spitting fire against the silver, and she smiled. She walked through the door, and saw the black creature curled around a pile of stones, bones, gold, and ash. It had horns leaping gracefully from above a long face, its eyes were wide set and kind, though their color--a deep red-- should have given her pause. Its nostrils were tiny slits low on its nose, which was flat, and its face seemed more insect-like than draconic, though its neck was long, and its wings, when it unfurled them, dwarfed her. It was beyond anything she could have imagined. She realized, after a moment, that the Amulet was pulsing. And then she realized the dragon? Or whatever it was was speaking. "Come child. It is time for the wedding." She stopped, frowning, completely confused. "You are my bridegroom?" She wondered if he was a shapeshifting dragon. Would he show her his human form? "I am the wedding." She stepped forward, opening her mouth to question him, and was engulfed. She saw nothing but black, and died. She awoke to gold. Blinking, she tried to move, and realized she could not. "Shh," the dragon's voice reached her. "You cannot move yet. You must be wed again." "What?" She shifted, so she could turn her head, and saw him. "What are you?" "I am the wedding. I bring your potential to life. You are a treasure of your people, for you will be a true Fairy Queen." "I?" She thought he smiled. "Hush now, and rest." She closed her eyes, and felt a wave of peace flow through her. When she awoke again, it was to the dragon's voice telling her. "Fly to your Father, now, Queen of Air and Fire. You shall live a thousand years, and rule your people well." She fluttered her wings, and laughed a tinkling laugh, and thought of the fear that had ruled her earlier. "Oh dragon, what of my marriage?" "You shall marry only the one who shall carry your fire in a basket without it being burned." She took his prophecy, and flew home, to tell her Father the truth of the Omicrom's prophecy, and of the dragon's delight. ------------------------
Prompt: Green
This is an old piece that I wrote a while ago, as an example of my writing, and what you will see starting Monday. :)
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Writing for money.
My husband and I are experiencing some financial difficulty, and I've decided, due to the success of some friend's endeavours, that I need to start trying to make some money with this whole writing gig. Ergo, starting Monday, I will be posting short fiction to this website using writing prompts given to me by friends.
If you like what you read, the option will be there for you to give me a tip, just as you would for someone who was busking on the street, in the subway, etc. If you are moved to donate, and you include a writing prompt, I will use your prompt in one of my stories.
To kick it off, here's the button. Feel free to donate, include writing prompts, whatever you're moved to do:
I've started writing again!
Finally, having my own laptop has enabled me to get started with the writing gig again.
I am so relieved.
It feels good to be getting content out there, even if it is still hard to hit the word count goals every day.
Hopefully next week will be better.
So much for NaNo
I haven't been writing.
I am in a very bad headspace, writing wise, and it sucks.
I don't know what to do to get out of it.
Help?
Not Nano
Alas, I cannot NaNo this month without breaking the rules, so I am not going to.
I'll work on finishing Book and then see what happens.
Here's to next year.
No NaNo this year.
I am very bummed about not being able to participate in NaNoWriMo this year, but I think it's the best choice. I need to finish Book1, and I want that to be my primary focus until the dang thing is DONE. Completely.
And there's always next year.
Still. Wah.
Getting off my ass and writing...
...is so much easier said than done.
I need inspiration. And I don't know where to find it anymore.
Bad bad writer
I am so upset. I haven't been able to write at all this week, and now my laptop's acting up so there's no chance of catching up anytime soon.
Agh. There goes my progress. And a great deal of my chance at getting stuff done before NaNo, when I wanted to be finished with Book 1 and working on Book 2.
Feh.
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