Three Word Wednesday #255

She was lying down on her bed, asleep, when she got the call.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Miss. Alicia Spinner. This is Judy from the Office of Magical Defense. I am calling to inform you that your mail order Guardian will be arriving shortly. This transaction was carried out on the nineteenth of October, two thousand and ten. Thank you for conducting your business with our company.”

And before Alicia could get so much as a word in edgewise, the woman had hung up, leaving her with only the dial tone for company.

Guardian?

When did that happen?

She stopped short. That night, last night, Luke had left her for that bimbo of a redhead, Molly. She massaged her temples, trying to recall what she did that night. After she saw Luke and Molly together, she ran away and bought as much alcohol as she could before driving back and drowning her sorrows in booze.

And then…

                      “Give me someone who I can trust! Someone who won’t leave
                        me!” she had yelled before collapsing on her bed.

Don’t tell me…that they took that seriously?

Panicking, she tried to redial the number, but the number didn’t show.

In fact, it was as if the call had never taken place.

Maybe she had just imagined it. Funny things happen when you’re in the twilight land between the land of dreams and the land of reality. She put the phone down wearily and drew her hand over her face.

What time was it?

She glided weakly to the window and pulled the curtain back ever so slightly only to find a green eye staring at her from the other side of the glass. Shrieking, she fell backward and clambered back into the bed, her blankets up to her chin.

The owner of the eye walked through the window, as if it was nothing more than a sheet of water, and stopped at the foot of her bed.

She took in his appearance. Jagged pieces of black hair poked out from under a purple top hat, the rest of which was tied into a low ponytail that ended at his waist. Underneath the brim of the top hat gleamed a pair of violently green eyes that eyed her curiously. He was in a purple suit with a green cravat and the mere sight of him made her head ache.

He swept the hat majestically off his head and bowed. “Good evening, Miss. Alicia Spinner,” he said before taking out a white card from the inner pocket of his coat and clearing his throat. “My name is Alexander Finn Beck and I am your Guardian that you have purchased. Henceforth, I shall be protecting you from harm and will accompany you as a general companion. I will carry out any order you give me without question or complaint and will protect you with my own life if I have to.”

“Wh-wha-what are you---that is why are you---I mean---”

He smiled as he put the card back into his coat pocket. “It’s all right. It usually takes a bit of time for our masters to adapt to having us around.”

“That’s not the problem!” she squeaked. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go back.”

He frowned slightly. “Go back? But I can’t. Surely you read the contract…?”

She flushed and looked down at the covers.

“I take it that you didn’t look at the contract, then,” he sighed before snapping his fingers and a formal looking paper appeared out of thin air. “There, see? No refunds, no returns. All transactions are made at the purchaser’s own risk. You signed here, remember?” He pointed at a scribble that she recognized as her own signature.

She held her head in her hands. “This is a bad dream, this isn’t really happening, you’re going to wake up and find that this room is empty. There’s no strange man in a top hat Alexander Finn Bucket---”

“Beck.”

“---this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening---” she muttered to herself, rocking back and forth.

“Ah, shock syndrome,” he muttered. “Well, that’s easily fixed.”

He walked around the bed and put a hand softly on her head. “Mementum,” he murmured, causing a soft glow to emanate from his hand and engulf her head. Her mind went blank and her eyelids closed.

The last thing she saw were the green eyes.

Thursday Tales #44

            He reclined on his chair, his eyes fixed on his finally finished painting. It had been a long journey to reach this point. His one hundredth painting.

Ten years ago, he would never have guessed that he would be painting for a living. He always thought that he would follow his father’s footsteps and footsteps and taken over the store.

            And then he met Joan.

            Joan, who had given him his first paintbrush and, by doing that, opened a whole new world for him.

            “Paint me something,” she had said. “You look like you’d be a good painter. You have that feel about you.”

            Nervously, he had taken the brush and palette from her hands and slapped on a few cursory strokes onto the canvas, streaks of chaos in the vast emptiness. Although it wasn’t much, it gave him a thrill, seeing color in the bland white surface of the canvas.

            After that, he had gone back to Joan’s studio every day and painted on the same canvas, adding color and texture, aided by Joan. As each day passed, the painting seemed to gain form. By the end of two weeks, a finished painting sat on the easel. It was by no means extraordinary, but it was his.

            His first painting

            The painting that would spur his love for art.

            He knew that he could never compare to Joan, but he hoped that he could someday become half as good as her.

            And then, one day after he had finished his sixth or seventh painting, Joan disappeared. She stopped coming to the studio and appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth.

            “She’s like a stray cat,” Luke would say. “Coming and going as she pleases.”

            After she left, he temporarily lost his passion for painting. There was no point if Joan wasn’t there. Instead, he decided to take over the shop as his father had wanted.

            And then, a few months later, one of the customers happened to see one of his paintings. Impressed, the customer asked if he could buy the painting.

            “I’ll give you fifty dollars for it,” the customer had said. “It’s a work of art!”

            Startled that his paintings were considered as masterpieces, he gave the customer the painting and pocketed the money.

            Perhaps there was some future in his painting after all.

            He went back to the studio, now quiet without Joan’s humming and the sound of jazz floating out of the radio, and sat down at the easel. Nothing had changed, except Joan wasn’t there. He picked up the paintbrush, just as nervously as he had so long ago, and started to paint. He let the colors flow from his mind and onto the canvas. The brush was once more part of his hand, moving as he willed.

            After three days of constant painting, the finished portrait stood on the easel. Clear blue eyes. A crescent of a mouth, one side tilted more upward than the other in a lopsided smile. Flowing, dark red hair.

            Joan.

            It was then that he decided to devote his life to art. Painting held more allure to him than managing a store.

            He opened his eyes again, his one hundredth painting sitting on the easel before turning to the portrait of Joan.

            Wherever she was, he hoped she was happy.

Picture was used from here.

Sunday Scribblings #251 - Eternity

No one ever went near the old house at the end of Silverneedle Way. It had been there since the Battle of Forgotten Lies, six hundred years ago. I know. Mama told me the story, just as her Mama told her. She would tell it to me while stroking my hair at night.

They say a woman once lived there, the most beautiful woman in existence. She seemed to have everything she could ever want, a loving family and a kind heart. However, her days of happiness were soon cut short and she was cursed by the Dark Mage, Alastor, for she refused his hand. Enraged at her decision, he cursed her with immortality. She would be forced to forever reside in the house she desperately wished to escape. Its splendors gave her no happiness and the beauty had no use for her. Rather, they reminded her daily of her ill fate. Only one thing gave her comfort: the old piano in the attic, its yellow and black keys stained and pockmarked my the ravages of time. At dawn, dusk, and midnight, her music would float down from her fingers, permeating the air with its unbearable sadness.

She once had a lover, long before she was cursed. Alastor soon found out about their love and, determined to thwart it, sent his familiar to destroy her lover. Taking the form of a horned black wildcat, the creature slipped into the house, where she was with her lover. Paralyzing her, the creature forced her to watch as it ruthlessly murdered her beloved, blood splattering on the floorboards and white walls. The creature then snatched up the remains of its victim and soared off, back to its black-hearted master.

Regaining control of her limbs, the woman collapsed on the floor, the blood of her lover soaking into her gown. She let loose a scream, and Alastor appeared before her.

“Thou hast witnessed what befell thy companion. Consent to be mine mistress, or feel mine wrath!” he hissed, stepping forward. She stumbled backward and grabbed a lamp. Screaming, she lobbed it at him, shrieking in anger as he merely sidestepped the flying lamp and immobilized her again with a lazy flick of his finger.

“Do not toy with me, human,” he growled. “Accept or suffer!” he released her once more. “What is thy answer?”

“Never!” she spat. “I would rater die! Kill me!”

His face darkened. “Is that thy final response? Think on’t carefully, human.”

She remained stoic in unspoken resolve. A darkness settled in the room, as if the light was being sucked out. Alastor’s face contorted into an inhuman leer.

“On thy head,” he hissed, “be it. I curse thee with an immortal life, forever imprisoned in this house, forced never to forget what happened on this day.”

As the words fell from his forked tongue, his features became more and more inhuman. His eyes narrowed to slits, ears lengthening to dangerous points. Sharp teeth glistened like silver daggers. In a gust of wind, he was gone, leaving the woman to live a cursed life.

She clambered up to the window, tears gushing furiously down her face, and jumped, but never felt the blow of the ground below. Instead, she was thrown back into her room, screaming and sobbing. Again and again she attempted to kill herself, but the curse always prevailed.

After a sleepless night, she noticed something glistening in the debris from the previous night. Like a sleepwalker, she glided to the source of the glistening, only to find the locket that she had given to her lover the night before. It played a beautiful melody, passed down generation after generation in her family. Clinging to it, she sobbed anew, her tears rolling over their kin and mixing with the blood that still stained her skirts.

Hurtling upstairs, she threw open the door of the attic, a room as of yet still unknown to her, and found there an ancient piano. Laying the locket on the lid, she played the melody it gave her, the music filling her with a desperate peacefulness and calm. She played it every dawn, dusk, and midnight for all the years after, her tears adding fresh stains to the half rotted keys.

Every year after that, the Dark Mage would visit her, and every year he would repeat the same request. And every year, she would give him the same reply. Perhaps, the Dark mage felt that time would soften her, but he soon found it to be quite the reverse. She became more and more determined and angered with each passing year.

And there she remains still, singing the sun in and out, whispering lullabies to the stars and dreaming of freedom.

A/N: This was my attempt to write in sort of an older style...it's not that good, but still. 

Sunday Scribblings #239 -Intense

            She walked along the sidewalk, lugging her bag full of Halloween goodies. It’d been a good haul this year, all in all. Most satisfactory. Tired, she sat down on the curb and opened the bag to dig out a chocolate bar. Where had Leanne gone? And Andy?

            Crack.

            She whipped around, to see nothing but the old gate of the Manor. She had always wondered who lived in there. People said that they could sometimes see a shadow behind the old curtains, racing back and forth. She’d never seen it, of course. She never saw the things that the old men whispered about in the park, or heard the things that the gossipy old women seemed to think so interesting about the house.

            It was just a house, wasn’t it? She stood up, looking hard, trying to see what the other people said was there. How old was the Manor, anyways? She approached the blackened gate. Grandmother had told her that long long ago, there was a terrible fire in the Manor. Most of the family that lived there managed to get out, but the eldest son was trapped in his room by the fire.

            Of course, that was just an old wives’ tale. She was sure that there were no such things as ghosts. The Dead always passed into the Summerland. Mother had told her that. All spirits of the Departed always went to the Summerland. It was the natural course of things.

            She placed a hand cautiously on the gate, which swung open as soon as she laid her hand on it. Slightly unnerved, she yanked her hand back, but walked in through the rotten wooden gate and made her way to the charred porch. It took less time than she thought it would to walk up to the front door, but once she got there, it took an eternity for her open it. It wasn’t hard to open, no. She just didn’t know if this was such a good idea after all. Maybe…maybe there was something in this house.

            However, the door swung open just as the gate had. Taking a deep breath, she walked in.

            Her heartbeat seemed to echo throughout the entire house.

            Thump, THUMP. Thump, THUMP.

            There was something about this house. Something…sad. She shook herself. There were no ghosts. There never had been. There never would be.

            She walked back to the door, only to see that it had disappeared.

            But, how was that possible? Doors don’t just disappear. Maybe she was looking in the wrong place. She walked to the window, only to see that it wasn’t nighttime at all. The sun was shining and the grass, instead of being withered and dying, was lush and green.

            What was going on?

            She rubbed her eyes, hoping it was just some sort of strange dream, but when she opened them again, it was still daytime.

            There was a child playing in the grass. She was sure that there had been no one outside a moment before.

            The child’s laughter filled the air. Almost as if it were right behind her. It seemed to permeate through everything.

            “What are you doing here?”

            She turned hastily to see a boy standing in the room entrance. He looked to be about nineteen years old, but he was dressed in an odd fashion. As if he were from the early nineteenth century. But, it was 2010.

            “I---I---I---”

            “You…?”

            She looked around wildly. “I…” she couldn’t seem to get to what she was trying to say. What was she trying to say?

            “I…I don’t know…” she whispered, cradling her head in her hands and sinking to the floor.

            She felt him sit down on the floor beside her. “Don’t go crying like that, now.”

            “I’m not crying,” she replied, annoyed. “I’m just…confused.”

            “And what are you wearing?” he asked, looking at her Halloween costume. A pirate wench.

            “Oh…um…er…this is just for Halloween…” her voice trailed off.

            “What is…Halloween?”

            “Oh…it’s…um…look, can you just tell me where I am?”

            “In my father’s house.”

            “But…that’s not possible…I thought no one’s lived here for ages…”

            He looked confused. “What are you talking about? My family’s been living here for a century.”

            She sighed and covered her face with her hands again. “This will seem like a stupid question, but what’s the year?”

            “1854.”

            What?

            “I’m sorry…could you repeat that?”

            “1854.”

I've created a new blog!

Well, I've just created a new blog where I'll be posting up my NaNoWriMo 2010 novel for the world to see. You can check it out right over here!

I'll be posting soon! Let me know what you think. :]

Thursday Tales #31

She walked along the sidewalk, humming to herself and carrying her wares. They were so...pretty. Like orbs of light. She didn't want to part with them, but she had to if she was to collect money for Mommy and Daddy.

She hugged the puffy jacket Mommy had given her from the charity box. "Here, Lila," she had said as she whipped it out. "This will fit you perfectly, my little angel."

Oh, how happy she'd been! It was perfect for keeping cold weather out. She silently thanked the little girl who had parted with it so that she could wear it instead. Winter was coming, and it was a great comfort to have something so warm enshrouding her little body. She guessed this was what it was like to be the child of circus people.

"Does anybody want a balloon?" she squeaked at the passers by, waving her balloons in the air. "Just a dollar each!"

Usually she got a decent amount of money because people always loved the circus. She wasn't old enough to do much for her circus family, but this was all she could do until she could become a trapeze artist like Mommy. So she had to sell these balloons.

"Please buy some balloons!"





The picture used as a prompt can be found here.

Rambling Tongues #1

I sighed to myself. Innocence was bliss. Or is it loneliness that was bliss? It was most definitely better to be alone. Alone so that nobody could hurt me. Then why was I feeling so rotten now? Why did it suddenly hurt to be alone? I’ve been alone all my life. So what’s the problem now?

I traced circles in the sand with a twig, listening to the ocean waves roll in and out. Perfect unison. Perfect harmony. Perfectly together, and yet they separated. Always separated only to come together once more.

Perhaps it is our acquaintances that make life interesting. The people who come and go. How long will each one stay? Will it be life long or just for ten minutes?

Only time will tell.

Haiku Heights #11 - Rejoice

They share the night’s gift

Dancing in oblivion

Rejoicing together.

Carry On Tuesday #73

Where art thou, muse? Where be thy guiding light and thy sweet song? Hast thou abandoned me? Hast thou left me alone in this world of long words and wandering sentences?

Wherefore hath thou left me? Or, perchance, thou were never mine? Thy sweet song were for another, and not for me? Oh, temptress of mine imagination, return to me. Sweet Siren though thou art, I doth need you.

And yet---without thou, I doth feel the wings of freedom arching o'er my back. Without thou I hath once again regained control over mine own writings. Without thou, I am mine own. Instead of being chained and controlled by thy heathen allure.

So, away with ye! I doth stand on mine own. Without thee. 

Microfiction Monday - #51

The wings of his steed

swept her up amongst the clouds,

higher than she had ever gone before.

Sunday Scribblings #235 - Flashback

Sitting on the swings,

she remembers a time past

mixed with the time coming.

Past winters and coming springs,

last summer’s breath still in her hair,

she looks back toward winter.

Sweet winter,

a time of cutting winds

and warm fireplaces

where she once slept

as a little girl, listening to stories

of Christmas past.

Longing to go back home,

yet happy where she is,

she clings to the past,

Looking forward to the future.

Thursday Tales #27

On the edge of the sidewalk,

she takes a deep breath,

bracing herself to move

from safety to adventure.

On the edge of the sidewalk,

she wonders what lies past

the sunset on the mountains

and the hidden ocean.

On the edge of the sidewalk,

she gazes out to tomorrow,

to what lays across the street

and in the world beyond.

Image was used from here

Magpie Tales #34

She snatched up the lamp as she hurtled down the corridor, praying that one of the doors would be unlocked.

The next one…the next one…perhaps the next one… she thought as the heavy footsteps approached ever closer. She dreaded to think what would happen if she didn’t find a hiding place. One of these doors had to be open.

Clunk, clunk, clunk.

They were right behind her.

“Found you,” came the soft, hateful voice. She screamed as she dropped the lamp, shattering it and extinguishing any light that she could have used to see her captor.

“Now be a good Earthwalker and follow me,” the voice said. She felt a cold hand grasp her arm, sending cold shudders down her spine. “Or I will have to use force.”

“What are you going to do with me?” she whimpered piteously.

He chuckled softly. “Prisoners don’t get their questions answered,” he said. His face was too close to hers. She could almost feel the cold emanating from his body.

Deciding it was useless to try and escape, she followed him down the dark corridor until they reached a door.

“Now, give me the key,” he told her.

“But---”

“The key, Evangeline.” He fairly growled at her.

“I don’t have a---”

“In your pocket.”

And as he said the words, she felt an unmistakable weight in her pocket. Stunned, she reached into the soft folds of her gown and withdrew an ornately designed silver key.

“Now, unlock the door,” he hissed, shoving her toward the door. She did as she was told and opened the door.

Where there should have been a sitting room, there was just more hateful darkness. But it was a strange darkness. It seemed to seep into the room like some kind of mist or fog. Yet, all she felt was a cutting wind.

“Inside,”

And taking a deep breath, she stepped into the darkness, desperately hoping she would not be sucked under.

Microfiction Monday - #50

She watched the last ship

disappear over the horizon

wondering when she would see him again...

Three Word Wednesday #208 - engulf, imminent, tamper

             I lazily ran my fingers across the ancient leather backs of the books on the shelf as I walked past them. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m a complete bookworm and I love the written word. But I’ve read most of these books before. Macbeth, Hamlet, The Odyssey, and so many more. I needed something new. Something I could really sink my teeth into. Something that would completely engulf me emotionally, mentally, and physically. I wanted something to become obsessed with again.

            “Are you absolutely positive you haven’t gotten anything new yet, Dan?” I called down the aisles.

            “Pretty sure,” the old librarian replied, feebly hobbling over to where I stood.

            “All right,” I sighed. “I’m just going to take another look around. Maybe I missed something.”

            “If you want to, Tia.” He said as he hobbled away again amongst the books.

            I made my way back to the first aisle and started to look at every single book I passed. There had to be something here that caught my eye. There always was, after all. It was easier to get into the books here. I mean, really get into them. I'm talking being sucked into the pages of the book. I literally watched Oedipus resist against the songs of the Sirens and find his way back to Ithaca last week. And the week before that, I listened to the prophecy the witches made for Macbeth. So why, why, why couldn’t I find a good book this week?

            I closed my eyes, letting my mind wander until it came in contact with something. Eyes still closed, I followed the call of the book until I was standing right in front of it. My eyes snapped open, only to find a dog-eared volume with no title, author or any other inscription on the faded black leather cover. I eyed it suspiciously. Father had told me not to tamper with suspicious books. Or I’d be sucked in immediately.

            I closed my eyes again, searching for a new book, but all I could hear was the haunting melody of the tattered book I had just left.

            Maybe you’re supposed to find this book, my subconscious told me.

            I took a deep breath and turned back to the book. It stood there on the shelf, taunting me, tempting me to open it’s torn cover and look at whatever treasure lay hidden within. Deciding to throw caution to the wind, I snapped up the book and immediately felt a connection. As if it somehow attached itself to my hand. Alarmed, I tried to let go, but I couldn’t. Instead, it opened and I saw that imminent white light as I was sucked into the torn, yellow pages.

Carry On Tuesday #72

It started out as a feeling (they always do, you know). Just a small feeling.

Flutters in her stomach every time he walked by.

Catching herself looking at him without knowing she was.

Suddenly noticing that his eyes weren’t grey, but actually a very very deep blue.

Things like that. Little things. After all, it is the little things in life that make us appreciate it all the more.

Why was this happening, though? How had he gotten past all the defenses she had put up? She had sworn never to love again. Not after Gabriel. She had sworn never to commit the same folly. What real need was there for love? She had done just fine before Gabriel.

But then Micah came along with his warm smile and open hands. With his ocean eyes and sea beach hugs. How could she have let him soften her? How had he wormed his way into her life and nestled himself comfortably in her heart. And why why why wasn’t she resisting? Surely that’s what she should be doing.

Yet, something about him made her want him all the more. He was a good person, after all. Not all men were scum like Gabriel. In fact, Micah and Gabriel were at opposite ends of the spectrum. Gracious, kindhearted Micah contrasted with dark, selfish Gabriel.

Perhaps this was just the beginning. A new beginning. A new story. Or maybe it would come to nothing.

Only time would tell.

Sunday Scribblings #234 - Love

They walked side by side. Together physically, but emotionally and spiritually separated by an ever-deepening rift. He held her hand loosely in his own but did not look at her, fearing – no, loathing the thought of her fearful, tear-stained face.

In front of them, the dark waters glided as one. A few fishermen boats could be discerned from the darkness. The sun was not yet up, but this did not hinder the hardy fisherman. A single star was visible in the cloudy expanse above the sea. He had told her that it was theirs. The star would burn for as long as he loved her.

He released her hand and strode to a bench. There were so many memories here. Sighing with nostalgia, he turned to her, their eyes meeting for the first time in three days. For the first time since he discovered her secret.

She opened her mouth. “Oh, Ronnie I’m sorry,” she whispered, reaching for him. He shrugged away, looking out to the sea.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” his voice was gentler than he wanted. Too warm. Too intimate.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you did.” This time, he could not keep the anger and sadness from his voice.

“If I could do it over---”

“You can’t,” he growled.

She reached for him again. This time, he didn’t shy away from her touch. Squeezing his shoulder, she stood beside him. Just like she did the night they met. He embraced her, disregarding his weakness for her. This time, she held him up. Supported him like he did her that day so long ago. Across the sea, a ray of the sun’s light emerged, renewed.

They would get through this.

Three Word Wednesday #207 - gait, nudge, ripen

She watched him walk through the market. He had a strange, slow gait. Almost loping. Like a lion’s. It was majestic in a way, she supposed. Even he had some beauty about him. A blind beggar. Always there. Feeling his way about, that mongrel always jumping by his feet, barking incessantly. She was a noblewoman, but for some reason she found him intriguing. The way he never seemed miserable.

Why was it that she, a noblewoman who had everything money could buy, felt miserable, but he, a blind beggar, seemed to have no worries at all? How could that be possible? How could he be happier than she? She didn’t understand it. Her maid nudged her slightly.

“Come, Your Ladyship. We are expected back at the fort by five,” the maid told her, leading her away from the crowded market and back to the carriage.

“Just a moment more,” she replied, shaking off her maid and turning back toward the market.

Everyone seemed happy. Except for her. Children chased each other around the stalls, and the general commotion was somehow comforting. Not like the complete silence back at the fort. No, there she had curfews and rules to follow. She must learn Latin. And Greek. And ladylike skills such as sewing and looking pretty. None of the women here at the market needed to waste their time learning such trifling things. They could look at the ripened apples and pumpkins stacked in little towers of red, green, gold, and orange. Fabric from the East, tinted with indigo dye and lined with gold thread. Trinkets and baubles in another corner. There was just so much life here. Life that seemed nonexistent in the fort.

“We must go, My Lady,” the maid said, tugging her arm gently. “The market will come in again in a fortnight. His Lordship is waiting for you in the fort. You musn’t keep him waiting.”

She sighed. “Yes, mustn’t keep him waiting,” she said as she turned back toward her carriage.

Haiku Heights #10 - Sacred

An occasion bright

The bride glides in joyfully,

For the sacred vow

Magpie Tales #33

Amber poison

rushing through our veins

every time we stop

to take a sip.

Amber poison

enticing each victim

with its rich aroma

and elegant form.

Amber poison

dripping slowly from

the glass as they

sip it sophisticatedly

Amber poison

leaving them lying

unconscious on the floor

until they wake up

Amber poison

a slow killer

craftily making its way

until it takes over.