Hello again, friends. I am inspired to write this entry thanks to two private messages I received from redditor shannibell. I have been very lax in my writing lately, so shame on me. I am desperately trying to rededicate myself to my first love: fiction writing. But sometimes life gets in the way and that is what I'm currently struggling with.
I just recently moved to be closer to my new job, but found out that they would be doing mass layoffs within the next two months (so this is potentially the second time in six months...). If I am one of those people laid off, trust me, I will be writing much more than I have been. I will obviously have the time like I did when I lost my job in March.
I have been doing my best to develop Iona and Bjarke into robust and beloved characters and figuring out what direction I want to take their story in. I think about them every day to and from work. I think of several situations those cheeky kids can find themselves in.The same is for Asra and Liore. I have been writing tiny tidbits about them and tucking them away. In my panicked packing, I literally balled up one of the small sections of story I wrote and threw it into the box just to make sure I wouldn't forget it.
I hope you will all stick with me while I make my way through this muddled mess that is my job situation and hopefully tonight I can write a bit more about either Bjarke and Iona or Asra and Liore. (I'm not going to lie, my boyfriend and I have plans to watch How to Train Your Dragon for a bit of inspiration and the fact that I love that movie.)
Thank you again for all the encouragement you have given and I hope to write something worth reading soon!
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Lack of Posts
Hey everyone. I sincerely apologize at my lack of posts recently. The new job is keeping me extremely busy so I've had less time to write. I'm also getting ready to move soon so that has also been a challenge. I hope to have something new up soon as well as continuations of Asra and Liora and Bjarke and Iona's stories.
Thanks for being patient and I hope you will continue to read the things I write. For those where it's summer, I hope you are enjoying all the hot weather, because I'm totally not...
Thanks for being patient and I hope you will continue to read the things I write. For those where it's summer, I hope you are enjoying all the hot weather, because I'm totally not...
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Monster Under The Bed Pt. 2
More monsters under beds! Please enjoy!
The next night, Asra didn't wait until I was in a half asleep state before he showed himself. Like mist curling over a road, he slipped from underneath my bed and took the same chair he had the night before. While his attitude was a bit warmer towards me this time, he still seemed wary and unsure of himself.
"Can I ask you a question?"
Asra seems startled by my abruptness.
"I do not see why it would be a problem, Liora," he said slowly, folding his hands on his lap serenely.
Just the gracefulness of his movements made me feel clunky and useless in his presence.
"You never seemed interested in scaring me the way I would assume a traditional monster under the bed does," I said. "Why is that?"
Asra's golden eyes looked thoughtful for a moment.
"I suppose I'm cut from a different cloth than others," he said slowly. "I did enough to keep you slightly frightened and uncertain as a young child. As you got older, I just made small noises to let you know I was still here."
"I used to try and stay awake all night just to meet you," I said, my voice becoming dreamy and far away, lost in childhood fantasy. "I used to think I could catch you but you wouldn't be scary at all and we could be best friends."
Asra let out a cough but I was pretty sure he was trying to cover up a laugh. It did seem like a stupid concept when one thought about it long and hard enough and it earned me ridicule my entire life.
"Everyone used to tell me that I would outgrow you," I said to him, my dark eyes meeting his light ones. "That I would forget all about the monster under the bed and move on to something worth my time."
"You would have seemed to have accomplished that," the monster said matter-of-factly.
I gave the fiercely handsome creature a sad look.
"No, I never did and everyone has called me everything from crazy and delusional to obsessed," I said, casting my eyes to my white knuckled fingers.
Tears threatened to escape my eyes. I didn't think that asking Asra this simple question would have brought back so many painful memories. It was hard enough being one of the only Jewish children in your school but when you have fantastical thoughts and self-made adventures with the monster under your bed... Well, children are cruel and it doesn't get better as you get older.
A whispering touch on my chin causes me to look up. I find myself face to face with Asra and I am again breathless at the beauty I find in it. He is very far from the monster I would have believed him to be years ago. He has fine features with a proud, straight nose and his molten eyes set underneath well shaped brows. There are no lines or wrinkles on his face save a tiny birthmark at the corner of his right eye.
"The unfortunate side effect of growing up in your world is a lack of imagination in most cases," Asra says, still taking hold of my chin.
His eyes rove over my face as if to memorize it's features. Surely it is a face he has seen many times and he has had lifetimes to gaze at faces more beautiful than mine. I let my gaze drop from his.
"Liora, no one can make you feel inferior without your consent," Asra said, letting his fingers slid off my chin.
My eyes shoot back to him and I let out a surprised exclamation.
"You just quoted Eleanor Roosevelt!" I said in shock.
Asra nods as he finally takes a seat next to me.
"I do like to keep occupied," he said. "I find the human world probably about as fascinating as you do mine."
I give him a look.
"I would be more fascinated if I knew what your world is like, you know," I told him. "You have yet to tell me anything about it."
Asra looks uncomfortable again, his eyes shifting uneasily to my floor as if he can see into his world. For all I know, he can.
"Well, my world can be unforgiving and brutal if you are not careful," he said slowly. "A monster gets to choose their own form when they are assigned to a child."
I nod. I guess it would make sense for the monsters to be assigned children. How else could so many children have the same stories about monsters under beds and noises that bump in the night?
"You and I, we are an unusual case," Asra said. "This is because you still believe I exist."
"So, you're saying, the only reason I can see you is because I believe in you?" I asked, incredulous. "That's like the terrible plot line of a poorly though out 90's cartoon flick for children."
Asra chuckled lightly.
"You and I are different because most monsters are not with their children very long. They stop fearing the monsters so the monsters are reassigned to new children every couple of years," he explained. "Except I have been paired with you for the last 23 years. You are actually a bit of a minor celebrity back in my world."
I felt myself blush, not only at Asra's proximity but at the thought of being a C-list celebrity where he lived.
"No one has kept a child longer than 2 years," he explained. "Children grow out of their imagined fears. Yours just seemed to change."
I sat there mystified. I knew I was strange to begin with but to be considered famous in a world that was invisible to me was strange and disconcerting. A large yawn that almost unhinged by jaw interrupted our conversation. I was tired and had to get to sleep.
"Promise you'll be here tomorrow?" I asked Asra sleepily.
"I will," he said.
Before I drifted off to sleep, I thought I felt him kiss my brow softly and whisper in my ear -- "Always."
The next night, Asra didn't wait until I was in a half asleep state before he showed himself. Like mist curling over a road, he slipped from underneath my bed and took the same chair he had the night before. While his attitude was a bit warmer towards me this time, he still seemed wary and unsure of himself.
"Can I ask you a question?"
Asra seems startled by my abruptness.
"I do not see why it would be a problem, Liora," he said slowly, folding his hands on his lap serenely.
Just the gracefulness of his movements made me feel clunky and useless in his presence.
"You never seemed interested in scaring me the way I would assume a traditional monster under the bed does," I said. "Why is that?"
Asra's golden eyes looked thoughtful for a moment.
"I suppose I'm cut from a different cloth than others," he said slowly. "I did enough to keep you slightly frightened and uncertain as a young child. As you got older, I just made small noises to let you know I was still here."
"I used to try and stay awake all night just to meet you," I said, my voice becoming dreamy and far away, lost in childhood fantasy. "I used to think I could catch you but you wouldn't be scary at all and we could be best friends."
Asra let out a cough but I was pretty sure he was trying to cover up a laugh. It did seem like a stupid concept when one thought about it long and hard enough and it earned me ridicule my entire life.
"Everyone used to tell me that I would outgrow you," I said to him, my dark eyes meeting his light ones. "That I would forget all about the monster under the bed and move on to something worth my time."
"You would have seemed to have accomplished that," the monster said matter-of-factly.
I gave the fiercely handsome creature a sad look.
"No, I never did and everyone has called me everything from crazy and delusional to obsessed," I said, casting my eyes to my white knuckled fingers.
Tears threatened to escape my eyes. I didn't think that asking Asra this simple question would have brought back so many painful memories. It was hard enough being one of the only Jewish children in your school but when you have fantastical thoughts and self-made adventures with the monster under your bed... Well, children are cruel and it doesn't get better as you get older.
A whispering touch on my chin causes me to look up. I find myself face to face with Asra and I am again breathless at the beauty I find in it. He is very far from the monster I would have believed him to be years ago. He has fine features with a proud, straight nose and his molten eyes set underneath well shaped brows. There are no lines or wrinkles on his face save a tiny birthmark at the corner of his right eye.
"The unfortunate side effect of growing up in your world is a lack of imagination in most cases," Asra says, still taking hold of my chin.
His eyes rove over my face as if to memorize it's features. Surely it is a face he has seen many times and he has had lifetimes to gaze at faces more beautiful than mine. I let my gaze drop from his.
"Liora, no one can make you feel inferior without your consent," Asra said, letting his fingers slid off my chin.
My eyes shoot back to him and I let out a surprised exclamation.
"You just quoted Eleanor Roosevelt!" I said in shock.
Asra nods as he finally takes a seat next to me.
"I do like to keep occupied," he said. "I find the human world probably about as fascinating as you do mine."
I give him a look.
"I would be more fascinated if I knew what your world is like, you know," I told him. "You have yet to tell me anything about it."
Asra looks uncomfortable again, his eyes shifting uneasily to my floor as if he can see into his world. For all I know, he can.
"Well, my world can be unforgiving and brutal if you are not careful," he said slowly. "A monster gets to choose their own form when they are assigned to a child."
I nod. I guess it would make sense for the monsters to be assigned children. How else could so many children have the same stories about monsters under beds and noises that bump in the night?
"You and I, we are an unusual case," Asra said. "This is because you still believe I exist."
"So, you're saying, the only reason I can see you is because I believe in you?" I asked, incredulous. "That's like the terrible plot line of a poorly though out 90's cartoon flick for children."
Asra chuckled lightly.
"You and I are different because most monsters are not with their children very long. They stop fearing the monsters so the monsters are reassigned to new children every couple of years," he explained. "Except I have been paired with you for the last 23 years. You are actually a bit of a minor celebrity back in my world."
I felt myself blush, not only at Asra's proximity but at the thought of being a C-list celebrity where he lived.
"No one has kept a child longer than 2 years," he explained. "Children grow out of their imagined fears. Yours just seemed to change."
I sat there mystified. I knew I was strange to begin with but to be considered famous in a world that was invisible to me was strange and disconcerting. A large yawn that almost unhinged by jaw interrupted our conversation. I was tired and had to get to sleep.
"Promise you'll be here tomorrow?" I asked Asra sleepily.
"I will," he said.
Before I drifted off to sleep, I thought I felt him kiss my brow softly and whisper in my ear -- "Always."
Monster Under The Bed
We've all been scared of the monster under our beds or in our closets. I, to this day, get very uncomfortable sleeping with my closet door open. It usually has to be closed. But this is also coming from a young woman who will still sleep with the light on if she's too terrified, but I digress. This is a cool concept and the way I wrote it was kind of like a combination of "Rise of the Guardians" and "Some Quiet Place" by Kelsey Sutton. If you haven't seen "Rise of the Guardians" or read "Some Quiet Place" [which I recommend you do] then ignore that last statement.
I might want to further pursue this idea. I kind of like the vibe I have going on. But Bjarke and Iona take on precedence. Please enjoy!
The first time I saw him, I was around 6. I had just insisted to my parents that I was a big girl and wasn't afraid of the monster under my bed or in my closet or otherwise. After all, I had my trusty stuffed bear to protect me and I could always hide under my covers. If I can't see it, it must not exist.
That night, I was woken up in, what felt like the middle of the night, by a scratching sound coming from under my bed. In my sleep hazed vision, I saw something appear before me and bend towards me. I screamed loudly and the black shape disappeared into the shadows underneath my bed. I didn't stop shrieking until my parents came rushing into my room, throwing on the light and comforting me.
From that day forward, I knew I would catch and confront the monster underneath my bed. But I never saw the fuzzy shape again. Until now.
I had moved out of my parent's house just this past week into my first apartment. I didn't mind living by myself, but I was sad at the thought that my monster had been left behind. My family and friends had all made fun of me, still believing at 23 there was still a monster under my bed. But I knew otherwise. I would hear the faint scratching on the wood floors, his sign to let me know he was still there, waiting.
At the end of another day, I collapsed onto my bed, dressed in my most comfortable pair of summer pajamas and snuggling deep into my comforter. It had been a long week with the move and my new job and I was eager for the weekend. As I started to fade into sleep, I heard the quiet 'skritch skritch' that had become so familiar to me. I froze in my spot, eyes wide. Had my monster come to my apartment with me or were the sounds of an unfamiliar place playing tricks on my mind? I lay awake, hoping that I would finally be able to meet him.
Several minutes later, a dark shape slid from underneath the bed and formed the shape of a young man. His bright gold eyes widened as he noticed I was still awake. His edges looked fuzzy, as if he were made of grains of sand and he was more handsome than scary. He grimaced and like he was about to flee back under the bed before I called out.
"Please, don't!" I cried softly, sitting up. "I've been waiting ages to meet the monster under my bed."
He continued to stare at me warily as if I were trying to trick him. I patted the space next to me, enthralled with the creature before me. He looked more like a stock broker than a monster under the bed with dark, curly black hair and a cloak that looked like the whirling night sky.
"Please don't go," I said. "I wish to talk with you."
"Why?" he asked in a deep voice that reminded me of a thundering waterfall. He still looked like he would disappear in an instant if I moved to fast, like a feral cat.
I paused. I didn't know why but I knew I had to.
"I've believed you were real my entire life," I offered. "I've always wanted to meet you. I was never scared, only curious."
"If I recall correctly, you didn't believe in me at six until you saw me and then you screamed your head off."
My cheeks reddened.
"Well, I was a young child," I argued. "You can't expect me to not be startled when the thing your older brother had tormented you with your entire life all of a sudden shows up in your bedroom."
The monster chuckled.
"You are strange for a human," he said, still not taking the offered seat. Instead, he glided over to my computer desk and sat down in my office chair.
"And you are strange for a monster under the bed," I retorted in reflex. "You are not what I was expecting."
He didn't seem fazed by my confession.
"What were you expecting?" he asked.
"I don't know. Something hairier, bigger, more drool and some fangs. Isn't that what the monster under the bed is supposed to look like?"
"I suppose," he said. "But then again, humans see what they wish. I could appear to you like that but I've never had a liking for it. I like the way I am."
"Then you are strange for a monster under the bed," I told him bluntly. He let out a wry laugh before focusing in on my face again.
I blushed. Was there toothpaste at the corner of my mouth? I self-consciously dragged the back of my hand across my mouth to check. The monster noticed and looked embarrassed that I had caught him staring.
"So, is there a reason you came to with me to my new apartment rather than stay at my parent's house?"
He rubbed that back of his neck, looking uncomfortable at my question.
"That is just how it is," he said finally. "There are rules in my world that are mostly likely too difficult for you to understand."
I shot him an annoyed look.
"I've been waiting years to finally talk to you and learn about you and that's the answer you're going to give me," I huffed. "That I'm too stupid to understand the rules and regulations of the monster under the bed world."
He gave an exasperated sigh.
"I didn't say that," he countered. "I have known you for years. I have seen and heard your accomplishments and heartbreaks. I have seen and heard every song you've ever sang into your hair brush and every sigh and whispered promise to everyone."
I flushed at his words. While slightly awkward and strange, it was almost comforting to not have any secrets from someone. The monster's pale skin also seemed to have a bit of a rosy tint after confessing what he knew.
"You are not too stupid to understand our rules," he said again. "They are just complicated to explain."
"Well, seeing as I can't call you 'Monster Under The Bed' forever, is there something I can call you?"
"I am called Asra," he said, with a slight bow of his head.
"Asra," I repeated, rolling his name on my tongue like a sweet. "It's nice to finally meet you, Asra. And even though you already know me, I'm Liora."
Asra let a brilliant smile rise to his lips and his eyes crinkled in what seemed like happiness.
"How fitting," he said. "You light and I dark."
He stood and made is way over to the bed. Reaching out, he touched my forehead gently, his fingers feeling like the brush of silk.
"Sleep," he said in his waterfall voice. "I will be here again tomorrow and we can talk more then."
"You promise?" I asked with a jaw cracking yawn. I didn't want to sleep and find that he had disappeared for good by tomorrow night.
"I promise."
I laid down, my eyes suddenly became heavy and Asra began to fade from my sight as I drifted off to sleep. That night, my dreams were filled with roaring waterfalls and swirling diamond skies.
Research Notes: I feel like I should always put research notes down at the bottom of these prompts because I do actually do some research into what I write. Maybe I'm crazy. Anywayyyyy. Asra means 'travels at night' in Arabic and I thought that was quite appropriate for a monster under the bed. Who cares if it's a female name. You don't know me and I'll live my life how I please dammit!! Ahem. Liora is Hebrew for "light for me" and is the strictly feminine form of Lior. So that is the meaning behind Asra's comment about dark and light. Ohohohoho, I'm so clever.
I might want to further pursue this idea. I kind of like the vibe I have going on. But Bjarke and Iona take on precedence. Please enjoy!
The first time I saw him, I was around 6. I had just insisted to my parents that I was a big girl and wasn't afraid of the monster under my bed or in my closet or otherwise. After all, I had my trusty stuffed bear to protect me and I could always hide under my covers. If I can't see it, it must not exist.
That night, I was woken up in, what felt like the middle of the night, by a scratching sound coming from under my bed. In my sleep hazed vision, I saw something appear before me and bend towards me. I screamed loudly and the black shape disappeared into the shadows underneath my bed. I didn't stop shrieking until my parents came rushing into my room, throwing on the light and comforting me.
From that day forward, I knew I would catch and confront the monster underneath my bed. But I never saw the fuzzy shape again. Until now.
I had moved out of my parent's house just this past week into my first apartment. I didn't mind living by myself, but I was sad at the thought that my monster had been left behind. My family and friends had all made fun of me, still believing at 23 there was still a monster under my bed. But I knew otherwise. I would hear the faint scratching on the wood floors, his sign to let me know he was still there, waiting.
At the end of another day, I collapsed onto my bed, dressed in my most comfortable pair of summer pajamas and snuggling deep into my comforter. It had been a long week with the move and my new job and I was eager for the weekend. As I started to fade into sleep, I heard the quiet 'skritch skritch' that had become so familiar to me. I froze in my spot, eyes wide. Had my monster come to my apartment with me or were the sounds of an unfamiliar place playing tricks on my mind? I lay awake, hoping that I would finally be able to meet him.
Several minutes later, a dark shape slid from underneath the bed and formed the shape of a young man. His bright gold eyes widened as he noticed I was still awake. His edges looked fuzzy, as if he were made of grains of sand and he was more handsome than scary. He grimaced and like he was about to flee back under the bed before I called out.
"Please, don't!" I cried softly, sitting up. "I've been waiting ages to meet the monster under my bed."
He continued to stare at me warily as if I were trying to trick him. I patted the space next to me, enthralled with the creature before me. He looked more like a stock broker than a monster under the bed with dark, curly black hair and a cloak that looked like the whirling night sky.
"Please don't go," I said. "I wish to talk with you."
"Why?" he asked in a deep voice that reminded me of a thundering waterfall. He still looked like he would disappear in an instant if I moved to fast, like a feral cat.
I paused. I didn't know why but I knew I had to.
"I've believed you were real my entire life," I offered. "I've always wanted to meet you. I was never scared, only curious."
"If I recall correctly, you didn't believe in me at six until you saw me and then you screamed your head off."
My cheeks reddened.
"Well, I was a young child," I argued. "You can't expect me to not be startled when the thing your older brother had tormented you with your entire life all of a sudden shows up in your bedroom."
The monster chuckled.
"You are strange for a human," he said, still not taking the offered seat. Instead, he glided over to my computer desk and sat down in my office chair.
"And you are strange for a monster under the bed," I retorted in reflex. "You are not what I was expecting."
He didn't seem fazed by my confession.
"What were you expecting?" he asked.
"I don't know. Something hairier, bigger, more drool and some fangs. Isn't that what the monster under the bed is supposed to look like?"
"I suppose," he said. "But then again, humans see what they wish. I could appear to you like that but I've never had a liking for it. I like the way I am."
"Then you are strange for a monster under the bed," I told him bluntly. He let out a wry laugh before focusing in on my face again.
I blushed. Was there toothpaste at the corner of my mouth? I self-consciously dragged the back of my hand across my mouth to check. The monster noticed and looked embarrassed that I had caught him staring.
"So, is there a reason you came to with me to my new apartment rather than stay at my parent's house?"
He rubbed that back of his neck, looking uncomfortable at my question.
"That is just how it is," he said finally. "There are rules in my world that are mostly likely too difficult for you to understand."
I shot him an annoyed look.
"I've been waiting years to finally talk to you and learn about you and that's the answer you're going to give me," I huffed. "That I'm too stupid to understand the rules and regulations of the monster under the bed world."
He gave an exasperated sigh.
"I didn't say that," he countered. "I have known you for years. I have seen and heard your accomplishments and heartbreaks. I have seen and heard every song you've ever sang into your hair brush and every sigh and whispered promise to everyone."
I flushed at his words. While slightly awkward and strange, it was almost comforting to not have any secrets from someone. The monster's pale skin also seemed to have a bit of a rosy tint after confessing what he knew.
"You are not too stupid to understand our rules," he said again. "They are just complicated to explain."
"Well, seeing as I can't call you 'Monster Under The Bed' forever, is there something I can call you?"
"I am called Asra," he said, with a slight bow of his head.
"Asra," I repeated, rolling his name on my tongue like a sweet. "It's nice to finally meet you, Asra. And even though you already know me, I'm Liora."
Asra let a brilliant smile rise to his lips and his eyes crinkled in what seemed like happiness.
"How fitting," he said. "You light and I dark."
He stood and made is way over to the bed. Reaching out, he touched my forehead gently, his fingers feeling like the brush of silk.
"Sleep," he said in his waterfall voice. "I will be here again tomorrow and we can talk more then."
"You promise?" I asked with a jaw cracking yawn. I didn't want to sleep and find that he had disappeared for good by tomorrow night.
"I promise."
I laid down, my eyes suddenly became heavy and Asra began to fade from my sight as I drifted off to sleep. That night, my dreams were filled with roaring waterfalls and swirling diamond skies.
Research Notes: I feel like I should always put research notes down at the bottom of these prompts because I do actually do some research into what I write. Maybe I'm crazy. Anywayyyyy. Asra means 'travels at night' in Arabic and I thought that was quite appropriate for a monster under the bed. Who cares if it's a female name. You don't know me and I'll live my life how I please dammit!! Ahem. Liora is Hebrew for "light for me" and is the strictly feminine form of Lior. So that is the meaning behind Asra's comment about dark and light. Ohohohoho, I'm so clever.
Paper Love
I have been very remiss in my writing as of late. I am no longer unemployed, which is a godsend but I work much further away than I used to. Because of that, my weekends are used to get everything done because I don't get home until late, then I go to the gym and then I pass out. I guess I live an unproductive life style.
For those who are interested, which I'm sure you're not but I'm going to tell you anyway, I am a journalist. I work at a weekly newspaper in Northern New Jersey. It's definitely an interesting job. I've already had a slight brush with the law. I was taking photos of a NJ Transit bus and had the police called on me because it was suspicious. I don't know how suspicious a girl in a pencil skirt can look but I guess it's a good thing someone said something. As everyone has parroted since 9/11, if you see something, say something. But the officer sent out recognized me because he was our model for my police body camera. So win-win. I didn't get arrested and the cop remembered me. [I'll post the link to my body camera story if anyone is so interested. It was actually pretty interesting.]
[http://www.northjersey.com/news/public-safety/police-rolling-out-body-cam-initiative-1.1630181?page=1]
Anyway... Now that I'm done hawking my newspaper skills and newspaper to everyone. I have a new writing prompt. I've seen this concept before and a favorite author of mine, Jodi Picoult and her daughter wrote a book kind of based on this scenario. I hope you enjoy it. This was filed under both writing prompts and constrained writing.
Out of every all the people who have read my story, you are the first person I have seen are the first one who has truly brought me to life. I have loved watching your lips form the words that make up the deeds I have accomplished, the interrogations I have performed on terrible men and the thoughts I wake up with after my nightmares.
Only you seem to understand and care for me. I have called out to you so many times in my dreams and in my doings but my paper words fall on deaf ears. I wish to tell you of your beauty and empathy and how wonderful it is. I want to use my calloused fingers to wipe away the tears you shed when you read my story.
I wonder what it is about this story that brings you back again and again. Is it the mystery? Is it the resolution of what seems to be an unsolvable crime? Every time I see your face as you read, I see an understanding and a deep, undeniable pain. Have you been hurt in a way that makes you understand my story and my pain and my nightmares.
Sometimes when I am lying deep in thought while the book rests at your bedside, I think I can hear you thrashing around and crying out against enemies that neither of us can see or fight. And when you awake, sweating in the dark, I long to take you tenderly into my arms.
How painful it is to only be able to whisper words to you, only to have them fade into ash and dust before they can leave the page. Each utterance of 'I love you' that fails to reach your ears is like a paper cut. Small, yet painful. And while I watch you suffer your pain in silence while this novel wraps mine up in a sweet little bow, I pray to be able to reach out to you and grip your fingers with mine and comfort you in every way I can.
For those who are interested, which I'm sure you're not but I'm going to tell you anyway, I am a journalist. I work at a weekly newspaper in Northern New Jersey. It's definitely an interesting job. I've already had a slight brush with the law. I was taking photos of a NJ Transit bus and had the police called on me because it was suspicious. I don't know how suspicious a girl in a pencil skirt can look but I guess it's a good thing someone said something. As everyone has parroted since 9/11, if you see something, say something. But the officer sent out recognized me because he was our model for my police body camera. So win-win. I didn't get arrested and the cop remembered me. [I'll post the link to my body camera story if anyone is so interested. It was actually pretty interesting.]
[http://www.northjersey.com/news/public-safety/police-rolling-out-body-cam-initiative-1.1630181?page=1]
Anyway... Now that I'm done hawking my newspaper skills and newspaper to everyone. I have a new writing prompt. I've seen this concept before and a favorite author of mine, Jodi Picoult and her daughter wrote a book kind of based on this scenario. I hope you enjoy it. This was filed under both writing prompts and constrained writing.
Out of every all the people who have read my story, you are the first person I have seen are the first one who has truly brought me to life. I have loved watching your lips form the words that make up the deeds I have accomplished, the interrogations I have performed on terrible men and the thoughts I wake up with after my nightmares.
Only you seem to understand and care for me. I have called out to you so many times in my dreams and in my doings but my paper words fall on deaf ears. I wish to tell you of your beauty and empathy and how wonderful it is. I want to use my calloused fingers to wipe away the tears you shed when you read my story.
I wonder what it is about this story that brings you back again and again. Is it the mystery? Is it the resolution of what seems to be an unsolvable crime? Every time I see your face as you read, I see an understanding and a deep, undeniable pain. Have you been hurt in a way that makes you understand my story and my pain and my nightmares.
Sometimes when I am lying deep in thought while the book rests at your bedside, I think I can hear you thrashing around and crying out against enemies that neither of us can see or fight. And when you awake, sweating in the dark, I long to take you tenderly into my arms.
How painful it is to only be able to whisper words to you, only to have them fade into ash and dust before they can leave the page. Each utterance of 'I love you' that fails to reach your ears is like a paper cut. Small, yet painful. And while I watch you suffer your pain in silence while this novel wraps mine up in a sweet little bow, I pray to be able to reach out to you and grip your fingers with mine and comfort you in every way I can.
Friday, July 1, 2016
Trapped
Hey everyone, it's been awhile. I'm so sorry for neglecting you all. I have been very remiss this month in completing writing prompts. I've been busy searching for a job in my field, which hasn't been easy, especially when the industry is so small. Back in March, I ran into a speed bump in my career that I was afraid would ruin me forever. But I'm happy to announce that it hasn't.
I was also offered a job today, which I accepted so my writing skills might be a bit sharper and Iona and Bjarke may get a bit more ignored. I'm really trying, I promise. I hope to have something up about them by the end of next week.
Until that time, however, please enjoy this other little writing prompt that I did. My first in almost a month.
She was finally free. After millennia of being bound to the Amulet of Bast, some fool had finally broken the spell and Neith was finally released from her hellish prison. Stretching her arms to the sky, the ancient, evil being and cooed with delight.
Wait... Cooed? Neith began to panic slightly, confused by the sound that came from her mouth. She was a thing to be feared. She did not... coo. She attempted to howl in triumph, but it came out more like a ear piecing and desperate sounding shriek.
No, no, no, no. Something was not right. Neith lifted her head as best she could, noting how heavy it seemed to be now. She waved her arms in frustration and was bewildered to see they were soft, small and pudgy. She flexed each tiny fist, perplexed at her situation. What in all the Gods' names was going on? Neith began screaming, the sound practically sending shockwaves through the room. Moments later, a small boned and harassed looking woman came rushing into the room.
"Oh, my poor darling," the woman said in a babying tone. "What is the matter?"
'How dare you speak to me as in such an insolent way! I am an ancient being to be feared and worshiped, not coddled,' Neith snapped.
Her protests instead came out as high volume shrieks as opposed to a voice that typically sent mere mortals to their knees. As her yowling got louder, the woman picked sat her up and made her turn so she was facing reflective glass.
"Emma, look who it is! That's you!" the women said, pointing to Neith's reflection. "It's my sweet baby girl in the mirror."
'Bloody fucking hell,' Neith thought, staring at her reflection. She was a Gods damned infant.
This was an absolute nightmare. Neith had not thought for a second that, when the seal on the Amulet of Bast was broken, that she would be forced into the body of a helpless child. This was an absolute nightmare.
Ready to cry again in frustration, Neith took a long look at herself in the mirror. If she was going to be stuck in this body, she was going to own it. She looked down at her fleshy legs and moved them experimentally.
'Alright,' Neith thought. 'First things first: learn how to walk."
Research Notes: Hello again. Thanks for making it this far! Research note time! If you've read anything else on my blog, you will know that I try to put significance in most of my writing, a lot of times through names. I do make an effort to do some research about what I'm writing. This time, I'm based in Egypt, but with names only and there's not too much to report. Neith means Goddess of War, and if you're going to have an all powerful evil, she might as well be the goddess of war.
The Amulet of Bast isn't a real thing (I checked) but Bast is a real Egyptian Goddess; She was the daughter of Ra and become the goddess of protection, protection and blessing,and was the protectress of women, children, and domestic cats. She was the goddess of sunrise, music, dance, and pleasure as well as family, fertility, and birth. That's according to Wikipedia. Bad source, I know, but it's around 4 a.m. my time right now and the proper research habits are out the window with my need for sleep. I hope you enjoyed the story!
I was also offered a job today, which I accepted so my writing skills might be a bit sharper and Iona and Bjarke may get a bit more ignored. I'm really trying, I promise. I hope to have something up about them by the end of next week.
Until that time, however, please enjoy this other little writing prompt that I did. My first in almost a month.
She was finally free. After millennia of being bound to the Amulet of Bast, some fool had finally broken the spell and Neith was finally released from her hellish prison. Stretching her arms to the sky, the ancient, evil being and cooed with delight.
Wait... Cooed? Neith began to panic slightly, confused by the sound that came from her mouth. She was a thing to be feared. She did not... coo. She attempted to howl in triumph, but it came out more like a ear piecing and desperate sounding shriek.
No, no, no, no. Something was not right. Neith lifted her head as best she could, noting how heavy it seemed to be now. She waved her arms in frustration and was bewildered to see they were soft, small and pudgy. She flexed each tiny fist, perplexed at her situation. What in all the Gods' names was going on? Neith began screaming, the sound practically sending shockwaves through the room. Moments later, a small boned and harassed looking woman came rushing into the room.
"Oh, my poor darling," the woman said in a babying tone. "What is the matter?"
'How dare you speak to me as in such an insolent way! I am an ancient being to be feared and worshiped, not coddled,' Neith snapped.
Her protests instead came out as high volume shrieks as opposed to a voice that typically sent mere mortals to their knees. As her yowling got louder, the woman picked sat her up and made her turn so she was facing reflective glass.
"Emma, look who it is! That's you!" the women said, pointing to Neith's reflection. "It's my sweet baby girl in the mirror."
'Bloody fucking hell,' Neith thought, staring at her reflection. She was a Gods damned infant.
This was an absolute nightmare. Neith had not thought for a second that, when the seal on the Amulet of Bast was broken, that she would be forced into the body of a helpless child. This was an absolute nightmare.
Ready to cry again in frustration, Neith took a long look at herself in the mirror. If she was going to be stuck in this body, she was going to own it. She looked down at her fleshy legs and moved them experimentally.
'Alright,' Neith thought. 'First things first: learn how to walk."
Research Notes: Hello again. Thanks for making it this far! Research note time! If you've read anything else on my blog, you will know that I try to put significance in most of my writing, a lot of times through names. I do make an effort to do some research about what I'm writing. This time, I'm based in Egypt, but with names only and there's not too much to report. Neith means Goddess of War, and if you're going to have an all powerful evil, she might as well be the goddess of war.
The Amulet of Bast isn't a real thing (I checked) but Bast is a real Egyptian Goddess; She was the daughter of Ra and become the goddess of protection, protection and blessing,and was the protectress of women, children, and domestic cats. She was the goddess of sunrise, music, dance, and pleasure as well as family, fertility, and birth. That's according to Wikipedia. Bad source, I know, but it's around 4 a.m. my time right now and the proper research habits are out the window with my need for sleep. I hope you enjoyed the story!
Monday, June 6, 2016
True Story
True story is true, bro.
Meghan and I drove down Route 9, headed towards the mall.
"I like your new Twitter handle," I said, as we pulled up to a red light. She had recently changed it to reflect her love of t-rexes. "Mine's so boring. It's just my name and favorite number."
Meghan laughed.
"I'm sure we can come up with something better," she said, glancing to the right where a large light and fan store was located.
Above the white and windowed building was a sign: Paddle Fans.
"Hey, change it to paddle fans," she said pointing to the sign.
"Hmmm, I like that," I said, tucking paddle fans into the back of my mind. It was certainly more interesting than @kaitkanzler8. "Paddlefans it is."
----------------
And that's the [for serious] true story of how I got my handle for Twitter, Instagram, reddit and much of the social media I'm a part of. I always get awkward looks when I tell that story. My boyfriend passed the sign when we first started dating and had to ask if that's where I got my social media names. I had to admit that it was. The end.
Meghan and I drove down Route 9, headed towards the mall.
"I like your new Twitter handle," I said, as we pulled up to a red light. She had recently changed it to reflect her love of t-rexes. "Mine's so boring. It's just my name and favorite number."
Meghan laughed.
"I'm sure we can come up with something better," she said, glancing to the right where a large light and fan store was located.
Above the white and windowed building was a sign: Paddle Fans.
"Hey, change it to paddle fans," she said pointing to the sign.
"Hmmm, I like that," I said, tucking paddle fans into the back of my mind. It was certainly more interesting than @kaitkanzler8. "Paddlefans it is."
----------------
And that's the [for serious] true story of how I got my handle for Twitter, Instagram, reddit and much of the social media I'm a part of. I always get awkward looks when I tell that story. My boyfriend passed the sign when we first started dating and had to ask if that's where I got my social media names. I had to admit that it was. The end.
break through the silence pt. 2
Part 2 of Maise and Oscar's story. I haven't slept all night, again.... I don't know if I'm just excited to write sometimes or it's just insomnia. It's great for my creative side, not so great for my sleep schedule...
“I promise I'm not,” Oscar said.
As we walked to the PATH station on
33rd Street, Oscar and I continued to chat. I was having a
hard time containing my enthusiasm, even with how tired I was. The
excitement of being able to finally hear a voice was starting to wear
on me and I could feel myself starting to drag my feet but I was
determined to keep up with Oscar. I could relax and rest a bit once
we were on the PATH train.
“That coffee place was pretty good,”
Oscar said, still allowing me to hold onto his arm.
Maybe he was afraid I was going to run
into something again.
“Cup & Cup? They're one of my
favorites,” I said. “I work in Murray Hill so when I'm in the
city, I naturally gravitate to it. Though I'm a caffeine addict, so
I'm there quite often.”
“I've passed them a few times and a
lot of my friends have recommended them,” he said, releasing my arm
so we could go down the stairs to the station. “Where do you work?”
“Oxford University Press. I'm an
editorial assistant there.”
Oscar looked impressed, but he
shouldn't have. It was an interesting job but could get repetitive.
Sometimes I felt like a glorified intern, being sent for coffee and
making copies. I was always tempted to make the argument that if I
wanted duties typically assigned to administrative assistants, I
would have applied to that job instead of the one I had. But it was a
pain to argue about so I left well enough alone.
“That seems like an interesting
enough job.”
I shrugged and made a face. We swiped
MTA cards and waited on the platform with several other people.
“There are some things that are
pretty cool, but I'm not sure if that's what I want to do.”
“You're young,” he said. “You
have plenty of time to decide what you want to do with your life.”
I laughed and pushed his arm lightly.
“I doubt you're much older than I am,
sir. You can't be older than 35.”
Oscar looked sheepish as he adjusted
his messenger bag on his shoulders.
“I'm 29,” he said with a sigh.
“See, you're not so worldly and old
after all.”
He grinned at me and threw up his
hands.
“I'm plenty worldly and the kids I
teach make me feel old,” he told me. “I think that counts.”
The PATH train whooshed past us with a
hot and smelly gust of air before slowing down and stopping
completely. We stepped into the cool car and took seats next to each
other on the hard plastic bench. I blushed a bit when the train
lurched forward, causing me to knock into Oscar. Him offering his arm
was one thing, but we were about to be cramped together in a small,
undoubtedly packed train car. He glanced down at me with his clear
green eyes, brow furrowed.
“So I have a bit of a prying question
for you,” he said, adjusting his bag in his lap. “But I figure it
makes us even considering you barreled into me and then commandeered
my evening. How did you lose your hearing?”
I felt heat creep up my neck and ducked
my head, embarrassed.
“I'm sorry. I never even thought that
I was derailing your night,” I wailed, hiding my face in my hands.
“I was just focused on the fact that I could hear you that nothing
else around me mattered.”
Oscar pulled my hands away from my face
and gave me a friendly smile.
“There's nothing to apologize for,
Maise,” he said. “Trust me when I say this is better than what I
was supposed to do tonight. I can imagine this whole situation is
quite a shock to your system, considering you haven't been able to
hear anyone for 10 years. Which brings me back to my question. How
did you lose your hearing?”
“What were you supposed to do
tonight?”
“Nice try at a diversion,” Oscar
said. “Answer my question first and then I'll answer yours.”
“It's actually really simple,” I
said, quickly checking my iPhone for text messages. Since meeting
Oscar, I had pretty much ignored it's pulsing buzz. “No one knows.”
“What!? How is that possible? Your
hearing loss must have been caused by something.”
“Oh, I'm sure it was,” I said,
shooting off a quick text to my roommate, telling her it was okay
that she went out without me. “But no doctor's have been able to
figure it out. One day, I went to bed as a normal high school
sophomore and then woke up as the deaf freak. It was like someone
took a remote and pressed the mute button.”
Oscar frowned.
“Being deaf doesn't make you a
freak,” he said, nudging me with an elbow. “You're just as normal
as everyone else. Did people really think that?”
I lifted my shoulders in a nonchalant
salute to the assholes I had once called my friends.
“You would know better than anyone
how cruel high schoolers can be,” I pointed out. “No one seemed
to understand that, overnight, I went from the happy-go-lucky girl
they knew to someone who was now struggling with absolute silence for
the rest of her life. There was always something else to occupy their
time once they realized I couldn't communicate with them easily.”
Talking about my past sometimes made me
uncomfortable. I had grown up in an extremely small town on the
Jersey Shore and had gone to a fairly small high school. I was still
the girl next door but I was the girl next door who was suddenly
different.
“None of them bothered to even
attempt to learn sign language,” I explained. “I had only one
friend who seemed interested but she got busy with school. That was
just one more thing she didn't have time to add on her plate. By that
point, she and I didn't see each other and we mainly communicated
through Facebook and texting.”
“That sounds lonely.”
I nodded.
“It was for a time, but it lead to me
studying very hard and getting into a good school. So I guess it paid
off in the end. Okay, now for my question.”
“You are full of them,” Oscar said,
snickering as I swatted at him.
“Yes, well. As I said earlier, I
could listen to you talk for hours and hours. I'm afraid your voice
will be the only voice I ever hear for the rest of my life.”
“I have faith that you'll be able to
hear someone else's voice,” he said. “Maybe some doctor will
figure out what happened to you.”
“Maybe,” I echoed as the train
pulled into the Hoboken station. “So?”
“I was going to pick up some things
from my ex-girlfriend's apartment,” he said as we got up and exited
the train car to the platform. “We broke up a few months ago and I
just haven't had the time to go and grab it. I'll just go tomorrow.”
My heart leaped with glee. With such a
recent breakup, he may not be attached to anyone, leaving me
potentially able to monopolize his time. I was slightly selfish to
think that, but I was used to getting my way. I was a charming girl.
We climbed the stairs to the surface
and began walking along the sidewalk. It seemed so strange. It was
like I was hearing Oscar's voice in a vacuum. Only his voice and his
gentle breathing. I really did want to keep him to myself for the
rest of the night to learn more about him but I had to go to sleep or
else I'd fall asleep standing up.
“I hate to leave, but I must go to
bed,” I said, pausing at a corner and waiting for traffic to stop.
“I'll never be able to function in the morning.”
“Me as well,” he said. He held out
his hand. “Here, trade phones and we can put our numbers in them.
That way, you can hear my voice again and again.”
I smiled as I said, “I would like
that. You know, I meant what I said about wanting to be your friend.
I guess I got lucky that the one person I can her isn't jerk. At
least that I know of.”
“I promise I'm not,” Oscar said.
Trading iPhones, we added each other to
our contacts. Getting my phone back, I quickly sent him a smiley face
emoticon and he laughed as it popped up on his screen. I navigated us
to my block, which wasn't far from the station at all and stopped at
an intersection. As enamored as I was, I was going to play this smart
and not let him know exactly where I lived.
“Well, this is my street. I can walk
from here,” I said. “Thank you so much for tonight. I don't think
I can ever tell you how much this means to me.”
Oscar looked down and scuffed his foot
against the pavement.
“I enjoyed myself considering how
strangely everything started,” he admitted. “And I'd really like
to get to know you better.”
His statement made me melt inside.
Without even thinking, I gave him a tight hug. He stiffened at first
and then he relaxed against my body. Before he left me on the corner
of my street, Oscar placed a soft kiss on my forehead. It felt rather
brotherly but I wasn't going to complain. I'd take any contact with
him at this point.
“Text me when you get into your
apartment,” he said. “I'll give you a call tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a promise,” I
teased.
He looked at me with solemn green eyes.
“It is.”
Sunday, June 5, 2016
break through the silence
This was an interesting idea. There is a movie with Camilla Belle called "The Quiet" that might be worth watching. Camilla Belle plays a girl who pretends to be deaf and mute to be closer to hear father after her mother's deaf. I just gave a terrible description of the movie because it's a lot more than that. It got terrible reviews but I thought it was an okay movie. Maybe it's because I'm a fan of Camilla Belle and Shawn Ashmore. Anyway, enjoy Maise and Oscar!
Since I was 15, silence has been my constant companion. No one can tell me why my hearing mysteriously disappeared 10 years ago. I've been poked and prodded by a thousand different doctors all over the world and not a one can even give me a diagnosis. My parents tried everything they could but to no avail, which resulted in me learning sign language to communicate. It also caused all my friends to distance themselves from me. No one had time to bother learning sign language when there were boys and makeup and parties to deal with. Once a popular girl, I quickly became ostracized and learned to spend much time by myself.
As I got older, I became more accustomed to my situation and learned how to make friends in my own way. I still spent a lot of time by myself but it didn't bother me in the least. After getting a job as an editorial assistant in New York City, I moved to Hoboken and spent much of my time exploring and learning. I soaked up as much as I could read, becoming interested in all sorts of subjects. It caused me to become habitually distracted when I would traverse my way through the city. That was how I met Oscar.
As I walked along the street, I scrolled through my phone and only glanced up occasionally to make sure I wasn't about to walk into the middle of traffic. While distracted by an interesting article from MIT about immune engineering, I ran into something or someone solid and began to fall. I let out a small screech and flailed my arms in an attempt to keep upright. Unfortunately, the first thing my fingers grabbed was someone's arm. I pulled them down with me and they landed on top of me, knocking the wind out of me. Damn, they were solid.
My victim scrambled off of me and to their feet in panic. I glanced up to see an athletic looking man with slightly curly brown hair, a brown tweed jacket and square glasses perched on his nose offering me his hand.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
I stared at him in shock, ignoring his extended hand. Had I just heard him speak or was it my imagination?
"Um, miss? Are you okay?" he asked again, beginning to look uncomfortable.
I took his hand and he helped me up, my face still frozen in wonderment. Everything else around me was silent except for him. I didn't hear the sounds of traffic or the city or the whispers of those around us who had witnessed my clumsiness.
"I can hear you!" I said to him in hushed tones of amazement.
He releasing my hand, he gave me a confused look.
"You can hear me?" he repeated.
"Yes!"
I knew I was speaking loudly. I tended to do that since losing my hearing because I was unable to determine how loud I was actually talking. But even if I did know, I would have still spoken loudly. It had been almost 11 years since I physically heard someone else's voice.
"Ummm."
"I've been fully deaf for the last 10 years," I told him, excitedly. "Your voice is the only voice I've heard since I lost my hearing."
The man's eyes widened and a his mouth formed a small 'o' in surprise. I needed to know this man. He could be the only person in the world I could ever hear.
"I'm Maise. This is going to sound unbelievably strange and slightly awkward but, will you come get coffee with me?" I asked.
"Oh, wow. You're right, that is slightly awkward and unbelievably strange," he said, one hand running through his mop of curls and the other gripping his messenger bag strap nervously.
"I'm sorry," I said, tumbling over my words. "It's just been so long since I've heard someone's voice. I-- I need to speak with you. Please."
"I mean, I guess I could," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Oscar."
Later, in the dimness of my favorite coffee shop, I stared at Oscar in wonder as he told me about himself. He was a high school English teacher who also lived in Hoboken with a cat and an annoying roommate. I barely picked at my muffin as I just listened to the sound that flowed from his mouth. His voice had a pleasant timbre to it, though, to be honest, even it if were the worst voice in the world I would have loved it.
"I know I'm making a total fool of myself," I told him when he paused for breath. "But I could listen to you talk all day."
Oscar let out a cheerful laugh and smiled.
"Well, this is certainly turning out to be an interesting day," he said. "You speak very well for being deaf."
As happy I was to be able to hear someone speak, I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Everyone seemed to think all deaf people had difficulty speaking.
"Most people ares surprised that I speak so clearly, but I did have 15 years of hearing and speaking. I'm deaf, not stupid."
Oscar winced slightly at my comment.
"And blunt," he added, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Yeah, force of habit," I said, draining the last of my drink. Peeking at my watch, I saw it was late. "Yikes, I don't want to miss the next train home. Wanna head back to Jersey?"
He nodded and got to his feet, throwing out our cups and opening the door for me. When we got outside, I stopped and turned to face him.
"Oscar, I desperately want to be your friend."
He offered me his arm.
"Well, Maise, I think I would like that."
I could hear the smile in his voice, not just see the one that was dazzling me. I let out a laugh. I could hear someone.
Since I was 15, silence has been my constant companion. No one can tell me why my hearing mysteriously disappeared 10 years ago. I've been poked and prodded by a thousand different doctors all over the world and not a one can even give me a diagnosis. My parents tried everything they could but to no avail, which resulted in me learning sign language to communicate. It also caused all my friends to distance themselves from me. No one had time to bother learning sign language when there were boys and makeup and parties to deal with. Once a popular girl, I quickly became ostracized and learned to spend much time by myself.
As I got older, I became more accustomed to my situation and learned how to make friends in my own way. I still spent a lot of time by myself but it didn't bother me in the least. After getting a job as an editorial assistant in New York City, I moved to Hoboken and spent much of my time exploring and learning. I soaked up as much as I could read, becoming interested in all sorts of subjects. It caused me to become habitually distracted when I would traverse my way through the city. That was how I met Oscar.
As I walked along the street, I scrolled through my phone and only glanced up occasionally to make sure I wasn't about to walk into the middle of traffic. While distracted by an interesting article from MIT about immune engineering, I ran into something or someone solid and began to fall. I let out a small screech and flailed my arms in an attempt to keep upright. Unfortunately, the first thing my fingers grabbed was someone's arm. I pulled them down with me and they landed on top of me, knocking the wind out of me. Damn, they were solid.
My victim scrambled off of me and to their feet in panic. I glanced up to see an athletic looking man with slightly curly brown hair, a brown tweed jacket and square glasses perched on his nose offering me his hand.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
I stared at him in shock, ignoring his extended hand. Had I just heard him speak or was it my imagination?
"Um, miss? Are you okay?" he asked again, beginning to look uncomfortable.
I took his hand and he helped me up, my face still frozen in wonderment. Everything else around me was silent except for him. I didn't hear the sounds of traffic or the city or the whispers of those around us who had witnessed my clumsiness.
"I can hear you!" I said to him in hushed tones of amazement.
He releasing my hand, he gave me a confused look.
"You can hear me?" he repeated.
"Yes!"
I knew I was speaking loudly. I tended to do that since losing my hearing because I was unable to determine how loud I was actually talking. But even if I did know, I would have still spoken loudly. It had been almost 11 years since I physically heard someone else's voice.
"Ummm."
"I've been fully deaf for the last 10 years," I told him, excitedly. "Your voice is the only voice I've heard since I lost my hearing."
The man's eyes widened and a his mouth formed a small 'o' in surprise. I needed to know this man. He could be the only person in the world I could ever hear.
"I'm Maise. This is going to sound unbelievably strange and slightly awkward but, will you come get coffee with me?" I asked.
"Oh, wow. You're right, that is slightly awkward and unbelievably strange," he said, one hand running through his mop of curls and the other gripping his messenger bag strap nervously.
"I'm sorry," I said, tumbling over my words. "It's just been so long since I've heard someone's voice. I-- I need to speak with you. Please."
"I mean, I guess I could," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Oscar."
Later, in the dimness of my favorite coffee shop, I stared at Oscar in wonder as he told me about himself. He was a high school English teacher who also lived in Hoboken with a cat and an annoying roommate. I barely picked at my muffin as I just listened to the sound that flowed from his mouth. His voice had a pleasant timbre to it, though, to be honest, even it if were the worst voice in the world I would have loved it.
"I know I'm making a total fool of myself," I told him when he paused for breath. "But I could listen to you talk all day."
Oscar let out a cheerful laugh and smiled.
"Well, this is certainly turning out to be an interesting day," he said. "You speak very well for being deaf."
As happy I was to be able to hear someone speak, I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Everyone seemed to think all deaf people had difficulty speaking.
"Most people ares surprised that I speak so clearly, but I did have 15 years of hearing and speaking. I'm deaf, not stupid."
Oscar winced slightly at my comment.
"And blunt," he added, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Yeah, force of habit," I said, draining the last of my drink. Peeking at my watch, I saw it was late. "Yikes, I don't want to miss the next train home. Wanna head back to Jersey?"
He nodded and got to his feet, throwing out our cups and opening the door for me. When we got outside, I stopped and turned to face him.
"Oscar, I desperately want to be your friend."
He offered me his arm.
"Well, Maise, I think I would like that."
I could hear the smile in his voice, not just see the one that was dazzling me. I let out a laugh. I could hear someone.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
All Sorts of Nope
This prompt is absolutely hilarious! I've seen a similar comic and loved it.
Harumi cursed as she held up a lock of her hair. She was absolutely doomed. Everyone knew that having outrageously colored hair was a bad sign. And she had the bad luck of having unadulterated sapphire curls. Thus far, in her 15 years, all it had ever done was cause problems. It made her the target of every trope known to man. After she had given birth, her mother took one look at her bright blue hair and had a nervous break down. At least it had only been a nervous break down rather than just packing up and leaving. It would have added to an already tragic backstory.
She avoided as many potential story plots as possible. As a young child, she had been been approached by a talking deer with "a magical quest." Later that day, she and her father had a nice venison stew. The locket with a mysterious stone her aunt had given her with a cryptic message when she was 12 was pawned to buy an iPod. Today in school, a new student arrived and immediately wanted to befriend her. She quickly put him in his place by having the biggest boy in school beat the ever living snot out of him. Though, Harumi had built a minor criminal enterprise in an effort to avoid being a main character. That in itself made her a protagonist.
When Harumi reached her house, she kicked off her shoes and stopped into her father's study.
"Whoa, what is the matter?" her father asked as she threw herself onto the couch in the room.
"This!" she yelled, holding up a blue curl. "This stupid hair."
"I'm sorry, sweetie," he said, putting down his pen and leaning on his desk. "I don't know what to tell you, Harumi. It is just the way the world works apparently."
"Way the world works," she mumbled, yanking a piece of hair.
"I didn't ask to some how end up as the main character in idiotic adventures," she said to her father.
"Trust me, we didn't ask for this either, Harumi."
Harumi when to whine again but was interrupted by a knock on the door. She got up and went to see who was at her door. As she opened it, a handsome redheaded boy was waiting on the step.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"Fair maiden, my name is Prince Letrick and I come from a far away country," the boy said. "I have been overthrown and am in need of someone with a cunning and brutal mind. Rumor has it that you would be that mind. Will you aid me in my quest to reclaim my throne."
Harumi looked at the young prince.
"Ah, hell."
Harumi cursed as she held up a lock of her hair. She was absolutely doomed. Everyone knew that having outrageously colored hair was a bad sign. And she had the bad luck of having unadulterated sapphire curls. Thus far, in her 15 years, all it had ever done was cause problems. It made her the target of every trope known to man. After she had given birth, her mother took one look at her bright blue hair and had a nervous break down. At least it had only been a nervous break down rather than just packing up and leaving. It would have added to an already tragic backstory.
She avoided as many potential story plots as possible. As a young child, she had been been approached by a talking deer with "a magical quest." Later that day, she and her father had a nice venison stew. The locket with a mysterious stone her aunt had given her with a cryptic message when she was 12 was pawned to buy an iPod. Today in school, a new student arrived and immediately wanted to befriend her. She quickly put him in his place by having the biggest boy in school beat the ever living snot out of him. Though, Harumi had built a minor criminal enterprise in an effort to avoid being a main character. That in itself made her a protagonist.
When Harumi reached her house, she kicked off her shoes and stopped into her father's study.
"Whoa, what is the matter?" her father asked as she threw herself onto the couch in the room.
"This!" she yelled, holding up a blue curl. "This stupid hair."
"I'm sorry, sweetie," he said, putting down his pen and leaning on his desk. "I don't know what to tell you, Harumi. It is just the way the world works apparently."
"Way the world works," she mumbled, yanking a piece of hair.
"I didn't ask to some how end up as the main character in idiotic adventures," she said to her father.
"Trust me, we didn't ask for this either, Harumi."
Harumi when to whine again but was interrupted by a knock on the door. She got up and went to see who was at her door. As she opened it, a handsome redheaded boy was waiting on the step.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"Fair maiden, my name is Prince Letrick and I come from a far away country," the boy said. "I have been overthrown and am in need of someone with a cunning and brutal mind. Rumor has it that you would be that mind. Will you aid me in my quest to reclaim my throne."
Harumi looked at the young prince.
"Ah, hell."
Thursday, June 2, 2016
A Life for a Life
Quick prompt this time. We all would like to think we're good enough people to sacrifice ourselves for others, but in reality, I think most of us are of the thought, someone else will do it and that's how situations like Kitty Genovese happen.
I never thought I would be on the pavement bleeding out. Granted, I also didn't think I was the kind of person who would stand up for someone I didn't know. But low and behold, I apparently was and that's how I ended up stabbed.
I had always thought I would be the kind of person who would do whatever they could for strangers until a grew up and realized no one would care of thank you. But this man had been harassing this young woman and something in me just snapped. He was being cruel and threatening and I decided that I had seen enough, praise be damned.
By my altruistic intentions had been my undoing. In my fading vision, I saw the young woman sobbing over me. She was pressing my wounds with as much pressure as she could to staunch the bleeding. I tried to tell her it was okay and that I was happy she was safe but it came out as a gurgling breath.
In the last few minutes, I had come to terms with the fact I would die. And I was surprisingly at peace with it. I had saved someone else's life and that was that was the most important thing. The women kept whispering "thank you" in my ear as everything went in and out of focus. As I felt the last bit of life run out of me, I managed a brief smile before being swallowed by darkness.
I never thought I would be on the pavement bleeding out. Granted, I also didn't think I was the kind of person who would stand up for someone I didn't know. But low and behold, I apparently was and that's how I ended up stabbed.
I had always thought I would be the kind of person who would do whatever they could for strangers until a grew up and realized no one would care of thank you. But this man had been harassing this young woman and something in me just snapped. He was being cruel and threatening and I decided that I had seen enough, praise be damned.
By my altruistic intentions had been my undoing. In my fading vision, I saw the young woman sobbing over me. She was pressing my wounds with as much pressure as she could to staunch the bleeding. I tried to tell her it was okay and that I was happy she was safe but it came out as a gurgling breath.
In the last few minutes, I had come to terms with the fact I would die. And I was surprisingly at peace with it. I had saved someone else's life and that was that was the most important thing. The women kept whispering "thank you" in my ear as everything went in and out of focus. As I felt the last bit of life run out of me, I managed a brief smile before being swallowed by darkness.
REMEMBER 3112
I've been working more on Iona and Bjarke's story but nothing that really will be posted right yet. I will post something soon though. I promise. This prompt was based on a dream original poster's had and I had a pretty interesting and possibly story worthy dream. I just need to write it down. I hope you enjoy this story!
The cry of gulls overhead and a gentle rocking is what woke him up. The man groaned in pain, eyes fluttering open and rolled over. Blue skies and a sail greeted him and he sat up in alarm.
"What the--"
He looked around him. How had he ended up on a sailboat in the middle of the ocean? There was no land in sight and his head ached. The man put his hand to his head, feeling a large lump. Rust colored flakes coated his fingers. Dried blood. He must have hit his head somehow. It was then he noticed gauze and tape around his wrist.
Peeling off the bandage, it revealed a small tattoo on the inside of his wrist. The skin around the simple statement was red, indicating it was very recent. All the tattoo said was "REMEMBER: 3112" in bold, black lettering. The man stared at the phrase, thinking hard. It made no sense, but then again none of this did. He couldn't remember anything. His name, what he did, how he had gotten on the sloop. He knew he could navigate and sail the boat to get to land. But he couldn't remember anything about himself.
The man got to his feet and paced the deck of the sloop, the sun beating down on him. Before he did anything, he needed to find his way to land. Glancing around, he finally noticed a set of stairs leading below deck. He had been so distracted by his predicament, he had missed them. Taking them, he found himself in a small space with a table, bench and mini refrigerator. He grabbed a bottle of water and took several long pulls, draining it in seconds.
This was a fairly modern boat and the man assumed it would have a navigation system somewhere. Going through the open doorway next to the mini fridge, he found himself in what appeared to be a cramped bedroom. Sitting on the neatly made twin bed appeared to be a gray cell phone, .22 caliber pistol and a piece of paper. The man picked the electronic up. It was a Garmin GPSMAP 78 GPS. Well, this would be helpful. Picking up the handgun and feeling its weight, he threw a quick glance at the slip of paper. In the same bold handwriting as his tattoo, it read: "This should help. Good luck, Poe."
The note wasn't signed and gave no other indications. Poe... The man thought the name seemed familiar but whether or not it was his first name or his last was still beyond him. The fact there was a gun sitting on the bed was unnerving, but he was positive he had used a similar gun before. Tucking it in his waistband, Poe powered up the GPS and headed up to the top deck, making his way to the wheel. He would figure out what had happened to him and why he had ended up on a sailboat in the middle of the ocean. One way or another.
The cry of gulls overhead and a gentle rocking is what woke him up. The man groaned in pain, eyes fluttering open and rolled over. Blue skies and a sail greeted him and he sat up in alarm.
"What the--"
He looked around him. How had he ended up on a sailboat in the middle of the ocean? There was no land in sight and his head ached. The man put his hand to his head, feeling a large lump. Rust colored flakes coated his fingers. Dried blood. He must have hit his head somehow. It was then he noticed gauze and tape around his wrist.
Peeling off the bandage, it revealed a small tattoo on the inside of his wrist. The skin around the simple statement was red, indicating it was very recent. All the tattoo said was "REMEMBER: 3112" in bold, black lettering. The man stared at the phrase, thinking hard. It made no sense, but then again none of this did. He couldn't remember anything. His name, what he did, how he had gotten on the sloop. He knew he could navigate and sail the boat to get to land. But he couldn't remember anything about himself.
The man got to his feet and paced the deck of the sloop, the sun beating down on him. Before he did anything, he needed to find his way to land. Glancing around, he finally noticed a set of stairs leading below deck. He had been so distracted by his predicament, he had missed them. Taking them, he found himself in a small space with a table, bench and mini refrigerator. He grabbed a bottle of water and took several long pulls, draining it in seconds.
This was a fairly modern boat and the man assumed it would have a navigation system somewhere. Going through the open doorway next to the mini fridge, he found himself in what appeared to be a cramped bedroom. Sitting on the neatly made twin bed appeared to be a gray cell phone, .22 caliber pistol and a piece of paper. The man picked the electronic up. It was a Garmin GPSMAP 78 GPS. Well, this would be helpful. Picking up the handgun and feeling its weight, he threw a quick glance at the slip of paper. In the same bold handwriting as his tattoo, it read: "This should help. Good luck, Poe."
The note wasn't signed and gave no other indications. Poe... The man thought the name seemed familiar but whether or not it was his first name or his last was still beyond him. The fact there was a gun sitting on the bed was unnerving, but he was positive he had used a similar gun before. Tucking it in his waistband, Poe powered up the GPS and headed up to the top deck, making his way to the wheel. He would figure out what had happened to him and why he had ended up on a sailboat in the middle of the ocean. One way or another.
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Accords: The Beginning
Another image prompt that happens to work perfectly with Bjarke's story! I was so excited to see it today. I've neglected Bjarke and Iona for the past week, the poor ducks. I've been working on more of their adventures. It's time Iona to attempt to learn manners. I predict chaos will ensue and everyone in the village will be treated to a great big headache. I'm excited to delve deeper into Iona and who she is.
Also, reddit user, drawswpsometimes drew an absolutely brilliant and beautiful version of the last scene in the first Bjarke and Iona story. They sent me the entire story board they did and I almost cried at how wonderful and beautiful it was! It was published on their tumblr (unknowingly) on my birthday. It was a great surprise birthday present from one of the great people of the interwebs.
Please enjoy this tidbit. No Iona in it though. I used the prompt as a jumping point of how Bjarke and his crew stumbled upon her little bit of land. Things may change as I delve deeper but who knows! I overlapped some of the first story at the end for it to make a bit more sense.
The longship slipped through the thick fog, obscuring the carved bow. The men working the oars murmured and prayed to the gods. These waters were cursed and many a valiant Viking had perished in search of treasures. Bjarke, however, was not afraid.
"Are you sure this is wise?" the burly Viking's second in command, Rangvald asked. "This soup we are sailing in is putting the men on edge."
"They're strapping lads," Bjarke said, peering out into the mist. "They just need to make a slow go of it."
Rangvald shrugged and went back to work. He was as uneasy as the men, but he trusted Bjarke to guide them true and bring them back to their home shores.
While he was not afraid, the blond bearded Viking knew he had to be cautious. In the back of his mind, Bjarke wished Tur was on board the longship. Besides the fact that she was a top notch rat catcher, the black cat always seemed to bring good luck to the ship. But she had just mothered a litter of kittens right before they left the village and he hadn't been able to pull her from them. He didn't like to admit it, but Bjarke doted on Tur more than most did to their cats, but he did the same for Finnr, his watch dog.
"Easy men," he called over the deck. "Keep her steady. We should be out of this mess soon."
The crew jumped slightly at the sudden sound, Bjarke's voice was quickly swallowed up by the thick haze. His well manicured fingers tightened on the rudder. He had made many trips like this one, but a foreboding feeling was burrowed deep in his chest, next to his heart. With each beat, the sensation increased.
"Rocks ahead," Rangvald cried suddenly, spurning the entire crew into action. "Veer to your right!"
The crew strained at the oars, while Bjarke kept a white knuckled grip on the smooth wooden handle. Sea water sprayed the men and beads of sweat flew from their foreheads with the effort of steering the boat through the outcropping of large rock formations. They loomed like giants above the men, ready to dash the ship on their rocky bases.
Bjarke could barely take time to appreciate the massiveness of them and their beauty as he fought to keep the boat away from the formations. They rose out of the water like the fingers of the gods, ready to grab the insignificant boats and gobble the men up with greedy mouths. The Viking strained at the rudder and tried to peer past the upcoming rock formation. It seemed to be lighter up ahead.
"Steady men!" Bjarke shouted over the crew's grunts. "I see sun up ahead."
The longship glided out of the mist and the crew breathed a sigh of relief.
"Rán bless us," Bjarke sighed under his breath.
That had been slightly terrifying. The rock formations had appeared out of nowhere.
"Well, that was a great exercise," Rangvald joked from the bow. "What's next?"
Bjarke and several of the crew members gestured rudely to the second in command who chuckled.
As they emerged from the mist, the longship approached a small spit of land, barely visible through the choppy waves. The air was silent, the sound of the oars splashing in the water the only noise. No birds and no sound of the waves. Bjarke squinted at the tiny bit of land and blinked. Had something moved?
A voice, like liquid gold, rang out, catching the attention of the crew. The voice tumbled over the open water like a river over rocks, sweet and promising. Bjarke heard the melodious voice sail over the sides of the longship, weaving promises in the minds of those around him.
For the love of Odin, he thought, rolling his eyes. It's a damn Siren.
Also, reddit user, drawswpsometimes drew an absolutely brilliant and beautiful version of the last scene in the first Bjarke and Iona story. They sent me the entire story board they did and I almost cried at how wonderful and beautiful it was! It was published on their tumblr (unknowingly) on my birthday. It was a great surprise birthday present from one of the great people of the interwebs.
Please enjoy this tidbit. No Iona in it though. I used the prompt as a jumping point of how Bjarke and his crew stumbled upon her little bit of land. Things may change as I delve deeper but who knows! I overlapped some of the first story at the end for it to make a bit more sense.
The longship slipped through the thick fog, obscuring the carved bow. The men working the oars murmured and prayed to the gods. These waters were cursed and many a valiant Viking had perished in search of treasures. Bjarke, however, was not afraid.
"Are you sure this is wise?" the burly Viking's second in command, Rangvald asked. "This soup we are sailing in is putting the men on edge."
"They're strapping lads," Bjarke said, peering out into the mist. "They just need to make a slow go of it."
Rangvald shrugged and went back to work. He was as uneasy as the men, but he trusted Bjarke to guide them true and bring them back to their home shores.
While he was not afraid, the blond bearded Viking knew he had to be cautious. In the back of his mind, Bjarke wished Tur was on board the longship. Besides the fact that she was a top notch rat catcher, the black cat always seemed to bring good luck to the ship. But she had just mothered a litter of kittens right before they left the village and he hadn't been able to pull her from them. He didn't like to admit it, but Bjarke doted on Tur more than most did to their cats, but he did the same for Finnr, his watch dog.
"Easy men," he called over the deck. "Keep her steady. We should be out of this mess soon."
The crew jumped slightly at the sudden sound, Bjarke's voice was quickly swallowed up by the thick haze. His well manicured fingers tightened on the rudder. He had made many trips like this one, but a foreboding feeling was burrowed deep in his chest, next to his heart. With each beat, the sensation increased.
"Rocks ahead," Rangvald cried suddenly, spurning the entire crew into action. "Veer to your right!"
The crew strained at the oars, while Bjarke kept a white knuckled grip on the smooth wooden handle. Sea water sprayed the men and beads of sweat flew from their foreheads with the effort of steering the boat through the outcropping of large rock formations. They loomed like giants above the men, ready to dash the ship on their rocky bases.
Bjarke could barely take time to appreciate the massiveness of them and their beauty as he fought to keep the boat away from the formations. They rose out of the water like the fingers of the gods, ready to grab the insignificant boats and gobble the men up with greedy mouths. The Viking strained at the rudder and tried to peer past the upcoming rock formation. It seemed to be lighter up ahead.
"Steady men!" Bjarke shouted over the crew's grunts. "I see sun up ahead."
The longship glided out of the mist and the crew breathed a sigh of relief.
"Rán bless us," Bjarke sighed under his breath.
That had been slightly terrifying. The rock formations had appeared out of nowhere.
"Well, that was a great exercise," Rangvald joked from the bow. "What's next?"
Bjarke and several of the crew members gestured rudely to the second in command who chuckled.
As they emerged from the mist, the longship approached a small spit of land, barely visible through the choppy waves. The air was silent, the sound of the oars splashing in the water the only noise. No birds and no sound of the waves. Bjarke squinted at the tiny bit of land and blinked. Had something moved?
A voice, like liquid gold, rang out, catching the attention of the crew. The voice tumbled over the open water like a river over rocks, sweet and promising. Bjarke heard the melodious voice sail over the sides of the longship, weaving promises in the minds of those around him.
For the love of Odin, he thought, rolling his eyes. It's a damn Siren.
Extra notes time! I did some research again because I would like to keep this story at least somewhat based in reality. Like all good seafaring folk, I thought it was good to give them a healthy dose of superstitions. According to this website , it was good luck to have a black cat aboard a ship. Bjarke named her Tur, which means "luck" in Swedish.
Bjarke also mentions Finnr, his dog. Finnr is a Norwegian Buhund, also know as the Norsk Buhund and the Norwegian Sheepdog. Apparently, the Norwegian Buhund is one of the oldest known spitz breeds and were used by vikings to herd sheep and as watch dogs. Like most spitz, they're probably too smart for their own good. According to this website, Finnr means "magician" and is believed to have derived from Finnar, who were considered to be powerful magic workers. Now, for anyone who has read the first part of Accords, we all know Bjarke knows magic thanks to his mother. His secret is hiding in plain sight in the name of his dog.
Rán is the Norse goddess of the sea.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Betrayed
It's kind of funny that I came upon this image prompt. I went through a similar situation with a similar necklace. It didn't end up in the woods for me though. It ended up in my mother's bedroom as I could not bear to wear it or look at it. I also didn't walk in on my boyfriend at that time cheating on me, but he did cheat. So I kind of took my experience and turned it into this story.
http://imgur.com/mWwP2mj
It was never supposed to end this way. But things rarely work out the way the should, do they?
I slammed my bottle of beer down on the table, causing my cat to jump. Sensing my mood, he slinked away to his bed in the corner. The events of 20 minutes ago were just the vomit icing on the shit cake of a day I was forced to endure. My nightmare of a boss had demanded that I drop the project I had spent the last three months on and hand it off to the new guy. He was apparently the second coming of Christ.
I took another swig of beer, the alcohol fueling the fire in my brain. On my way home, I ended up sitting in traffic for two hours. My car's AC had crapped out on me a few weeks ago and I had been way too busy to fix it so I also had to endure the scorching heat that had been bombarding the area for the last few days.
And then the best part of my day. Going to my girlfriend's apartment to eat dinner together. It was always the most calming part of my night. We would usually eat, drink a glass of wine, maybe end up in the bedroom. Except tonight ended very differently from what I had imagined.
Instead of finding a homecooked meal waiting, I found the leavings of an already eaten meal for two. And then I followed the sounds of passion coming from the bedroom. I should have never opened the door. If I hadn't, I would have been spared the sight of my boss with her head between by girlfriend's thighs. I would have also avoided the look on my girlfriend's, well ex-girlfriend, face as she did so.
The rest of what happened was a blur. And I guess that's how I ended up with the the necklace I had given to her on our five year anniversary last month. I must have swiped it off her dresser in my anger. There was also a good chance that I was fired, seeing as I slugged her in the face after she scrabbled off of my girlfriend.
My aching hand twinged as I clutched the battered box. I needed to get rid of this. I needed to get rid of it now. Ignoring my intelligent self, I managed to get myself too close to the edge of one of the many lookouts in the area. I gazed out at the sea of trees. I raised my arm and hurled the tiny, blue cloth ribbon tied box. Despite the darkness, I could see the white box fly through the air and disappear into the trees bellow.
I felt hollow. It seemed that my anger had fled with the necklace. Maybe it would land somewhere that it could be found by someone who knew what love actually was.
It was only way I could become she who needed to forget.
http://imgur.com/mWwP2mj
It was never supposed to end this way. But things rarely work out the way the should, do they?
I slammed my bottle of beer down on the table, causing my cat to jump. Sensing my mood, he slinked away to his bed in the corner. The events of 20 minutes ago were just the vomit icing on the shit cake of a day I was forced to endure. My nightmare of a boss had demanded that I drop the project I had spent the last three months on and hand it off to the new guy. He was apparently the second coming of Christ.
I took another swig of beer, the alcohol fueling the fire in my brain. On my way home, I ended up sitting in traffic for two hours. My car's AC had crapped out on me a few weeks ago and I had been way too busy to fix it so I also had to endure the scorching heat that had been bombarding the area for the last few days.
And then the best part of my day. Going to my girlfriend's apartment to eat dinner together. It was always the most calming part of my night. We would usually eat, drink a glass of wine, maybe end up in the bedroom. Except tonight ended very differently from what I had imagined.
Instead of finding a homecooked meal waiting, I found the leavings of an already eaten meal for two. And then I followed the sounds of passion coming from the bedroom. I should have never opened the door. If I hadn't, I would have been spared the sight of my boss with her head between by girlfriend's thighs. I would have also avoided the look on my girlfriend's, well ex-girlfriend, face as she did so.
The rest of what happened was a blur. And I guess that's how I ended up with the the necklace I had given to her on our five year anniversary last month. I must have swiped it off her dresser in my anger. There was also a good chance that I was fired, seeing as I slugged her in the face after she scrabbled off of my girlfriend.
My aching hand twinged as I clutched the battered box. I needed to get rid of this. I needed to get rid of it now. Ignoring my intelligent self, I managed to get myself too close to the edge of one of the many lookouts in the area. I gazed out at the sea of trees. I raised my arm and hurled the tiny, blue cloth ribbon tied box. Despite the darkness, I could see the white box fly through the air and disappear into the trees bellow.
I felt hollow. It seemed that my anger had fled with the necklace. Maybe it would land somewhere that it could be found by someone who knew what love actually was.
It was only way I could become she who needed to forget.
Yes
So it's been about a week or so since I've written. I've been a bit busy and distracted which is, really, no excuse. I've neglected Bjarke and Iona, for which I apologize. This is my first prompt in almost two weeks and I'm not 100 percent pleased but it isn't terrible, per say. This is the first time I did a constrained writing.
Her touch was like a tango, igniting flames inside his chest.
He breathes in and out and rejoices as her fingertips trail down his face. He needed to drink her in and keep her in the circle of his arms forever. She was the ending he had always wished for. All these moments banded together after all these years is serendipity. This was the moment he had waited for.
He sinks to his knee and presents her a promise.
She smiles at him, corners of her mouth shooting up. She cannot breathe. This is what she has waited for. He would be hers for eternity.
Her voice was a song that slipped through the air on the breeze. Her answer -- yes.
Her touch was like a tango, igniting flames inside his chest.
He breathes in and out and rejoices as her fingertips trail down his face. He needed to drink her in and keep her in the circle of his arms forever. She was the ending he had always wished for. All these moments banded together after all these years is serendipity. This was the moment he had waited for.
He sinks to his knee and presents her a promise.
She smiles at him, corners of her mouth shooting up. She cannot breathe. This is what she has waited for. He would be hers for eternity.
Her voice was a song that slipped through the air on the breeze. Her answer -- yes.
Friday, May 13, 2016
Write Me A Love Story
Another poem. This time about love. So here's a secret. I used to hate writing poetry. When I was in high school, I took a creative writing class, thinking most of it would be fiction writing. Boy was I wrong. I was absolutely dismayed to find out that most of what we would be writing would be poetry. My poor, poor teacher. But throughout the class, I came to appreciate poetry more than I ever thought I would. I even participated in a poetry slam, something I never pictured myself doing. I even managed to get to the second wrong but got my tush beaten by much more deserving people. Also, my poetry was angsty as a teenager is apt to be. I hope you enjoy this. And I promise, there will be more Bjarke and Iona within the next day.
Love stories are like dreams.
Equally thrilling and terrifying.
Love stories engage a person's passion
and engage a person's rage.
Love stories are written by traveling lips
and bold declarations.
Love stories are written by tender fingertips
trailing fire down a spine.
Love stories can be full of pain
and venom can drip from pointed fangs.
Love stories are told as fairy tales
and are as delicate as a fairy's wing.
Love stories can be built on lies
and false promises.
Love stories can be built on strength
and unrelenting faith.
Love stories are a meeting of hands,
lips,
eyes,
minds,
hearts...
Love stories are written, not by societal expectations,
but the conviction of people.
Love can build bridges
and tear down walls.
Go forth and discover a love story,
one that is solely yours.
Love stories are like dreams.
Equally thrilling and terrifying.
Love stories engage a person's passion
and engage a person's rage.
Love stories are written by traveling lips
and bold declarations.
Love stories are written by tender fingertips
trailing fire down a spine.
Love stories can be full of pain
and venom can drip from pointed fangs.
Love stories are told as fairy tales
and are as delicate as a fairy's wing.
Love stories can be built on lies
and false promises.
Love stories can be built on strength
and unrelenting faith.
Love stories are a meeting of hands,
lips,
eyes,
minds,
hearts...
Love stories are written, not by societal expectations,
but the conviction of people.
Love can build bridges
and tear down walls.
Go forth and discover a love story,
one that is solely yours.
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Brave
I really like the idea of a prompt almost being like dialogue. I think it gives it an interesting touch.
I held my breath, sweat dripping down my back. I waited, balanced on the edge of a precipice. Each minor hiccuping breath put me closer and closer to being discovered.
"Come now," came the deep, silken voice from the shadows. "Come to me."
I trembled and my leg muscles screamed in pain as I stayed crouched from behind a low wall. I had glimpsed the ill omen, it's bone white fingers beckoning. The words were enticing, almost like a lullaby. But I knew better. This is what the world had been running from. We had been successful until it caught up with us, the one person left I cared about sacrificing himself in the shattered calm.
"I need you to be brave," Nader had whispered to me. "I will draw it away."
I had let out a small sob and grasped his hands, dark against my pale skin.
"If you draw it away, you will die."
It hadn't even been a question. Just a cold, hard fact. Instead of answering me, he gave me a sad look then darted away. Not too long after he left me, I heard his tortured screams. I should have hidden in a better spot after he disappeared into the foggy night. If I had, I wouldn't have found myself hidden behind an inefficient wall with a harbinger of death stalking me.
"I found you," came a singsong voice above me head.
I looked up and found myself staring into a death masque.
"I need you to be brave..."
Nader's last words echoed in my head. The muscles in the thighs bunched as I sprang forward, launching myself at the creature.
I would be brave.
I held my breath, sweat dripping down my back. I waited, balanced on the edge of a precipice. Each minor hiccuping breath put me closer and closer to being discovered.
"Come now," came the deep, silken voice from the shadows. "Come to me."
I trembled and my leg muscles screamed in pain as I stayed crouched from behind a low wall. I had glimpsed the ill omen, it's bone white fingers beckoning. The words were enticing, almost like a lullaby. But I knew better. This is what the world had been running from. We had been successful until it caught up with us, the one person left I cared about sacrificing himself in the shattered calm.
"I need you to be brave," Nader had whispered to me. "I will draw it away."
I had let out a small sob and grasped his hands, dark against my pale skin.
"If you draw it away, you will die."
It hadn't even been a question. Just a cold, hard fact. Instead of answering me, he gave me a sad look then darted away. Not too long after he left me, I heard his tortured screams. I should have hidden in a better spot after he disappeared into the foggy night. If I had, I wouldn't have found myself hidden behind an inefficient wall with a harbinger of death stalking me.
"I found you," came a singsong voice above me head.
I looked up and found myself staring into a death masque.
"I need you to be brave..."
Nader's last words echoed in my head. The muscles in the thighs bunched as I sprang forward, launching myself at the creature.
I would be brave.
No Return
I am filled with all sorts of stories once again. I can't thank reddit Writing Prompts enough for helping me find the author in me again. And also to my boyfriend who was the one who introduced me to it. This is the first time I've been happy writing in a long time. Sorry it's not Iona and Bjarke this time.
Katiya remembered when the men of her tribe used to don their heavy furs and thick soled boots, seeking food for the mouths of the hungry. It seemed so long ago when they would come back, sleds laden with thick cuts of meat, luxurious furs and bright silks and sweets that would melt away in her mouth quicker than a snowflake. There was laughter and celebrations all the time, thanks to the hunters and the tradesmen. Katiya remembers.
But the world became meaner, striping away the love it used to dole out. First, the men would come come back will less and less. The meat that used to taste so delicious became nothing more than fat and gristle. Furs and silks were few and far between and Katiya only had the memory of sweets.
"Why is there no laughter, Papa?" she had asked, noticing his face was lined with worry. "Why are things changing?"
Her father had placed a tired smile on his lips.
"It will be okay soon, myshka," he assured her, patting her head and she had believed him.
But it was never okay again.
Finally then hunters and tradesmen would come back empty handed. The air around them would fill with the cries of the hungry. And with the hunger sometimes came sickness. Katiya saw too many of her tribe members fade away into nothing. She feared she would be the only one left.
Every day, she would wake up with her father and watch him disappear into the darkness with the other tribesmen, desperate. And every evening, she would see the disappointment and despair etched onto their faces. Eventually, the world began to turn on them. Instead of being the hunters, they became the hunted. Beasts stalked them with new found confidence, waiting for the perfect time to pick them off -- finally high enough on the evolutionary ladder to take revenge.
The first day they had come back one man short, the stares of the tribesmen were hollow and their clothes were painted in blood of their friend. After that, there would always be one or two less men with them when the returned. Instead of silently watch her father go into the unknown, Katiya began to cry and beg him not to leave.
"Hush, myshka," he would say, wiping away her tears. "Papa will always return to you."
And then, one day, he didn't. No one did. And then she was alone.
Katiya remembered when the men of her tribe used to don their heavy furs and thick soled boots, seeking food for the mouths of the hungry. It seemed so long ago when they would come back, sleds laden with thick cuts of meat, luxurious furs and bright silks and sweets that would melt away in her mouth quicker than a snowflake. There was laughter and celebrations all the time, thanks to the hunters and the tradesmen. Katiya remembers.
But the world became meaner, striping away the love it used to dole out. First, the men would come come back will less and less. The meat that used to taste so delicious became nothing more than fat and gristle. Furs and silks were few and far between and Katiya only had the memory of sweets.
"Why is there no laughter, Papa?" she had asked, noticing his face was lined with worry. "Why are things changing?"
Her father had placed a tired smile on his lips.
"It will be okay soon, myshka," he assured her, patting her head and she had believed him.
But it was never okay again.
Finally then hunters and tradesmen would come back empty handed. The air around them would fill with the cries of the hungry. And with the hunger sometimes came sickness. Katiya saw too many of her tribe members fade away into nothing. She feared she would be the only one left.
Every day, she would wake up with her father and watch him disappear into the darkness with the other tribesmen, desperate. And every evening, she would see the disappointment and despair etched onto their faces. Eventually, the world began to turn on them. Instead of being the hunters, they became the hunted. Beasts stalked them with new found confidence, waiting for the perfect time to pick them off -- finally high enough on the evolutionary ladder to take revenge.
The first day they had come back one man short, the stares of the tribesmen were hollow and their clothes were painted in blood of their friend. After that, there would always be one or two less men with them when the returned. Instead of silently watch her father go into the unknown, Katiya began to cry and beg him not to leave.
"Hush, myshka," he would say, wiping away her tears. "Papa will always return to you."
And then, one day, he didn't. No one did. And then she was alone.
Accords Pt. III
Guess what? There's a part 3! While nothing is concrete, I'm trying to flesh out Iona and Bjarke's world a bit. I was so excited about finally writing again that I didn't sleep at all. Maybe an hour. So thank you for inspiring, facesless masses of the Interwebs. I still don't have a real title, so I'm still calling it Accords. Again, this is cross posted from reddit's Writing Prompts.
It took another, nonstop complaining by Iona and several more threats by Bjarke before they reached home. Bjarke was not one to be homesick, but seeing the buildings come into view always made him feel warm inside. The village had been built in the shelter the high cliffs of a cove several generations before Bjarke had been born. The sturdily built wooden homes showed their age through faded colors and weather-worn wood but each home was cared for by its occupants.
A crowd had gathered on the shore to welcome the men home. Bjarke could see children running around the crowd, eager to get a first look at the plundered treasure they were carrying home. Tore, a hulking, grizzled man caught the thick rope tossed to him by Rangvald and helped pull the longship to shore. He strode up the wooden gangplank to greet the Viking.
“How were the spoils of war?” he asked Bjarke as his men began to unload the large pile of loot.
“Profitable.”
Tore caught sight of Iona, still naked and holding her head high amidst them activity. His wild greying eyebrows shot almost into his hair line as he assessed the Siren.
“Clearly,” he said before clasping Bjarke’s forearm and welcoming him home.
The younger Viking watched as the stolen goods were carted into the great hall at the center of the village where their return would be celebrated tonight. Iona joined him at the rail, causing some distractions in the crowd and a low murmur of curious voices.
“Am I to live on the ship forever?” she asked. “Or do I get to leave?”
Bjarke sighed, rubbing his forehead. Since meeting Iona and making the deal, it was as if someone planted an ax in the middle of his forehead. There was a constant pounding between his eyes. She was flat out vexing.
“We will go ashore in a minute,” he said.
The Siren clapped her hands.
“Fantastic! I know you love this thing and all,” she said gesturing to the ship, “but I will be so happy to get off of it.”
As the last of the loot was unloaded from the ship, the bearded Viking let Iona disembark ahead of him. In her usual overly dramatic manner, she strode down the wooden place and to the shore, her long silver hair streaming behind her like a banner. Nothing was left to the villagers’ imaginations as the Siren’s toes hit solid ground for the first time in weeks.
The women gawked at her and she paid them no mind as she turned and looked at him expectantly. Fighting the urge to bang his head against the longship’s mast, Bjarke followed Iona ashore. One of his men’s wives, Ylva, stepped forward.
“Who is this… interesting creature?” she asked for the whole group.
“Um, this is Iona,” the Viking said. “I saved her from a Siren who was keeping her prisoner.”
The gathered women cooed and clucked their sympathies. While Bjarke didn’t doubt their misplaced pity, he knew they were looking for something to gossip about.
“And why was she naked before everyone?” Ylva admonished. “Did no one offer you clothing?”
Iona let out a laugh that sounded like a babbling brook. She had found the queen bitch of the village and already disliked her.
“Why would I hide my perfection from anyone?” she asked, eliciting surprised twitters from the group.
Ylva sputtered in shock.
“Surely you cannot walk around the village in the nude!” she exclaimed. “Asta will give you something to wear as you are about the same size.”
Iona made matters worse by wrinkling her nose in distaste. Great. In a matter of minutes she had managed to insult a whole group of people. Seeing the crowd of women become more irate, Bjarke decided, while it was fun to watch the Siren dig her own grave, he did not want them to run the beast out of town after only a few minutes. With a hurried goodbye, the Viking steered Iona to his house, only nodding at those he passed. Most of the people in the village stopped in their tracks to stare at them as they passed. Thankfully, they reached Bjarke’s home without further incident.
“What hateful little harpies,” Iona said, seething. “Don’t those nasty creatures have anything better to do?”
“They’ll run you out of the village if you aren’t careful,” Bjarke said, stripping off his kyrtill and tunic, baring his battle scars and leaving him only in his trousers and calf high boots.
All he wanted was to be clean. Being gone for weeks at a time made it hard to stay completely clean, but he made an effort as did some of his men. Bjarke gave up long ago at worrying about it, but if given the opportunity, he would ty and bathe as often as possible. Behind him, Iona tsked in disappointment.
“If only you desired the love of a woman,” she said wistfully, appraising him.
Byarke was definitely easy on the yes, the Siren thought. He had broad shoulders that connected to a muscular back and a solid waist. His stomach muscles rippled with strength. Iona imagined that everything hidden beneath her new companion’s remaining clothing was just as glorious. His face was pleasant to look at. Greyish-blue eyes peeked out beneath strong brows and Bjarke’s nose was proud and straight, not yet broken in battle. His thick, tightly braided blonde hair gave way to a rugged beard that almost hid his well-formed lips.
“I would devour you,” Iona sighed. “Are you sure you are not the bastard child of a god?”
“Devour me as a wanton woman or to take a nice big bite out of my neck?” Bjarke asked. “And last time I checked, I was not a product of a god’s wanderings.”
“Both,” she admitted. “But for all our ‘monsterness,’ I find the taste of man to be bitter. I’d rather eat something different. It sets me apart from my sisters, who have no problem devouring the flesh of men.”
When he and Iona first struck their bargain, the Viking had been unsure of what the Siren ate. When he asked, she had replied ‘the souls of men’ without blinking and a deadpan tone. Starve was all he said to her. Iona had burst in a fit of laughter, amused by her own joke. She assured Bjarke she at real food and it had been at least 100 years since she had feasted on a man’s flesh. After all, her territory had been in a tucked away corner of the world, almost never passed by. She had to sustain herself somehow.
“Lucky for you, fish is most likely not on the menu for tonight’s feast,” he told her, since she complained about the amount of fish devoured during the journey.
A timid knock on the door interrupted their conversation and Bjarke went to open it. Standing at the threshold was a blonde-haired beauty, who blushed at the man’s state of undress. In her hands were a linen dress and a green woolen tunic. She also had a pair of thick socks and supple leather shoes.
“Hello, Asta,” Bjarke said. “Are those for Iona?”
“Y-yes,” the young woman stuttered, holding them out to the scarred Viking. “Will you be at the f-fe-feast tonight?”
He smiled kindly at her as he took the clothing.
“Of course, we shall see you there.”
She barely squeaked out a response before fleeing.
“Poor thing,” Iona tutted. “She’s so in love with you she can barely stand upright.”
Bjarke looked uncomfortable as he offered the Siren the borrowed clothing.
“I try not to encourage anyone’s affections,” he said tightly.
“You can’t help that you’re so darn manly and attractive,” she said cheekily, inspecting the clothing before her. “How do I put this nonsense on?”
“I’m not sure to be honest,” Bjarke said, feeling the need to tease her. “Want me to call Asta back or get Ylva?”
Iona scowled at him.
“So I can watch that girl simper at you the entire time or have that old she-wolf get her fangs in me?” she asked. “No thanks.”
The Viking let out a chuckle and headed to the bathhouse, leaving the sea beast to figure out the garments on her own. When he returned, Iona had more or less figured out how it went. The woolen tunic was slightly crooked and the linen dress was bunched in some places. The Siren almost looked human. She kept pulling and adjusting the dress like a fidgeting child.
“This is awful,” she complained, pulling at the dress’s collar. “I’m hot and itchy and this is heavy.”
“It’s like you were born to complain rather than lure men to their death,” Bjarke said, heading to his bed where a fresh kyrtill lay.
Iona sniffed and put her nose in the air, a picture of perfect arrogance.
“I’m quite efficient at both, thank you very much. But honestly, how can anyone stand to wear all this?”
The burly Viking shrugged before donning his own clothing. It was nice to finally have a proper bath, even if everyone at the bathhouse bombarded him with questions about his supposed war bride.
“Because it isn’t polite to waltz about in the nude whenever you feel like it,” Bjarke said, pulling on a thick pair of socks and his boots.
“Humans are strange creatures,” Iona mused, following him into the room.
“Speak for yourself, sea beastie.”
She gave him an indignant stare. What a heathen to call her a ‘sea beastie.’ She was practically a goddess. She was made to be worshiped.
It took another, nonstop complaining by Iona and several more threats by Bjarke before they reached home. Bjarke was not one to be homesick, but seeing the buildings come into view always made him feel warm inside. The village had been built in the shelter the high cliffs of a cove several generations before Bjarke had been born. The sturdily built wooden homes showed their age through faded colors and weather-worn wood but each home was cared for by its occupants.
A crowd had gathered on the shore to welcome the men home. Bjarke could see children running around the crowd, eager to get a first look at the plundered treasure they were carrying home. Tore, a hulking, grizzled man caught the thick rope tossed to him by Rangvald and helped pull the longship to shore. He strode up the wooden gangplank to greet the Viking.
“How were the spoils of war?” he asked Bjarke as his men began to unload the large pile of loot.
“Profitable.”
Tore caught sight of Iona, still naked and holding her head high amidst them activity. His wild greying eyebrows shot almost into his hair line as he assessed the Siren.
“Clearly,” he said before clasping Bjarke’s forearm and welcoming him home.
The younger Viking watched as the stolen goods were carted into the great hall at the center of the village where their return would be celebrated tonight. Iona joined him at the rail, causing some distractions in the crowd and a low murmur of curious voices.
“Am I to live on the ship forever?” she asked. “Or do I get to leave?”
Bjarke sighed, rubbing his forehead. Since meeting Iona and making the deal, it was as if someone planted an ax in the middle of his forehead. There was a constant pounding between his eyes. She was flat out vexing.
“We will go ashore in a minute,” he said.
The Siren clapped her hands.
“Fantastic! I know you love this thing and all,” she said gesturing to the ship, “but I will be so happy to get off of it.”
As the last of the loot was unloaded from the ship, the bearded Viking let Iona disembark ahead of him. In her usual overly dramatic manner, she strode down the wooden place and to the shore, her long silver hair streaming behind her like a banner. Nothing was left to the villagers’ imaginations as the Siren’s toes hit solid ground for the first time in weeks.
The women gawked at her and she paid them no mind as she turned and looked at him expectantly. Fighting the urge to bang his head against the longship’s mast, Bjarke followed Iona ashore. One of his men’s wives, Ylva, stepped forward.
“Who is this… interesting creature?” she asked for the whole group.
“Um, this is Iona,” the Viking said. “I saved her from a Siren who was keeping her prisoner.”
The gathered women cooed and clucked their sympathies. While Bjarke didn’t doubt their misplaced pity, he knew they were looking for something to gossip about.
“And why was she naked before everyone?” Ylva admonished. “Did no one offer you clothing?”
Iona let out a laugh that sounded like a babbling brook. She had found the queen bitch of the village and already disliked her.
“Why would I hide my perfection from anyone?” she asked, eliciting surprised twitters from the group.
Ylva sputtered in shock.
“Surely you cannot walk around the village in the nude!” she exclaimed. “Asta will give you something to wear as you are about the same size.”
Iona made matters worse by wrinkling her nose in distaste. Great. In a matter of minutes she had managed to insult a whole group of people. Seeing the crowd of women become more irate, Bjarke decided, while it was fun to watch the Siren dig her own grave, he did not want them to run the beast out of town after only a few minutes. With a hurried goodbye, the Viking steered Iona to his house, only nodding at those he passed. Most of the people in the village stopped in their tracks to stare at them as they passed. Thankfully, they reached Bjarke’s home without further incident.
“What hateful little harpies,” Iona said, seething. “Don’t those nasty creatures have anything better to do?”
“They’ll run you out of the village if you aren’t careful,” Bjarke said, stripping off his kyrtill and tunic, baring his battle scars and leaving him only in his trousers and calf high boots.
All he wanted was to be clean. Being gone for weeks at a time made it hard to stay completely clean, but he made an effort as did some of his men. Bjarke gave up long ago at worrying about it, but if given the opportunity, he would ty and bathe as often as possible. Behind him, Iona tsked in disappointment.
“If only you desired the love of a woman,” she said wistfully, appraising him.
Byarke was definitely easy on the yes, the Siren thought. He had broad shoulders that connected to a muscular back and a solid waist. His stomach muscles rippled with strength. Iona imagined that everything hidden beneath her new companion’s remaining clothing was just as glorious. His face was pleasant to look at. Greyish-blue eyes peeked out beneath strong brows and Bjarke’s nose was proud and straight, not yet broken in battle. His thick, tightly braided blonde hair gave way to a rugged beard that almost hid his well-formed lips.
“I would devour you,” Iona sighed. “Are you sure you are not the bastard child of a god?”
“Devour me as a wanton woman or to take a nice big bite out of my neck?” Bjarke asked. “And last time I checked, I was not a product of a god’s wanderings.”
“Both,” she admitted. “But for all our ‘monsterness,’ I find the taste of man to be bitter. I’d rather eat something different. It sets me apart from my sisters, who have no problem devouring the flesh of men.”
When he and Iona first struck their bargain, the Viking had been unsure of what the Siren ate. When he asked, she had replied ‘the souls of men’ without blinking and a deadpan tone. Starve was all he said to her. Iona had burst in a fit of laughter, amused by her own joke. She assured Bjarke she at real food and it had been at least 100 years since she had feasted on a man’s flesh. After all, her territory had been in a tucked away corner of the world, almost never passed by. She had to sustain herself somehow.
“Lucky for you, fish is most likely not on the menu for tonight’s feast,” he told her, since she complained about the amount of fish devoured during the journey.
A timid knock on the door interrupted their conversation and Bjarke went to open it. Standing at the threshold was a blonde-haired beauty, who blushed at the man’s state of undress. In her hands were a linen dress and a green woolen tunic. She also had a pair of thick socks and supple leather shoes.
“Hello, Asta,” Bjarke said. “Are those for Iona?”
“Y-yes,” the young woman stuttered, holding them out to the scarred Viking. “Will you be at the f-fe-feast tonight?”
He smiled kindly at her as he took the clothing.
“Of course, we shall see you there.”
She barely squeaked out a response before fleeing.
“Poor thing,” Iona tutted. “She’s so in love with you she can barely stand upright.”
Bjarke looked uncomfortable as he offered the Siren the borrowed clothing.
“I try not to encourage anyone’s affections,” he said tightly.
“You can’t help that you’re so darn manly and attractive,” she said cheekily, inspecting the clothing before her. “How do I put this nonsense on?”
“I’m not sure to be honest,” Bjarke said, feeling the need to tease her. “Want me to call Asta back or get Ylva?”
Iona scowled at him.
“So I can watch that girl simper at you the entire time or have that old she-wolf get her fangs in me?” she asked. “No thanks.”
The Viking let out a chuckle and headed to the bathhouse, leaving the sea beast to figure out the garments on her own. When he returned, Iona had more or less figured out how it went. The woolen tunic was slightly crooked and the linen dress was bunched in some places. The Siren almost looked human. She kept pulling and adjusting the dress like a fidgeting child.
“This is awful,” she complained, pulling at the dress’s collar. “I’m hot and itchy and this is heavy.”
“It’s like you were born to complain rather than lure men to their death,” Bjarke said, heading to his bed where a fresh kyrtill lay.
Iona sniffed and put her nose in the air, a picture of perfect arrogance.
“I’m quite efficient at both, thank you very much. But honestly, how can anyone stand to wear all this?”
The burly Viking shrugged before donning his own clothing. It was nice to finally have a proper bath, even if everyone at the bathhouse bombarded him with questions about his supposed war bride.
“Because it isn’t polite to waltz about in the nude whenever you feel like it,” Bjarke said, pulling on a thick pair of socks and his boots.
“Humans are strange creatures,” Iona mused, following him into the room.
“Speak for yourself, sea beastie.”
She gave him an indignant stare. What a heathen to call her a ‘sea beastie.’ She was practically a goddess. She was made to be worshiped.
Accords Pt. II
Thanks to everyone for all the encouragement! I will be continuing this story. It is cross posted on reddit Writing Prompts. I was not expecting the reaction that I got. Writing the second part, I took people's suggestions into consideration. I hope you enjoy part 2!
They pressed their bleeding forearms together to seal the pact. As Bjarke bound their wounds, he kept glancing at the small bit of land that had been Iona’s home until several minutes ago. He had expected the whole chaining a Siren to himself to be… well, more dramatic.
“What’s with the disappointed face?” Iona asked, exploring the ship as best as she could without stepping on the men lashed to it. She wasn’t having much luck, treading on several of his crews’ fingers.
“I guess I thought binding you to me would be spectacular or disturb the cosmos or something.”
The Siren turned around and glared at him.
“You are practically dragging a fearsome creature home as a magnificent war bride,” she said, offended.
Byarke’s mouth dropped open. By Odin, she was a vain creature.
“First of all, you’re not being dragged anywhere,” the Viking said, beginning to untie the ropes that held down his crew. “Second, you are far from a war bride and third, it is not as if anyone can know you’re a Siren.”
Iona fluffed her drying hair as she rummaged through the loot from a sacked village.
“Ugh, you’re taking the fun out of me being a dangerous creature,” she groused.
Bjarke ground his teeth in frustration and raised his eyes to the sky in supplication. He was already regretting his decision.
“Don’t you have anything in this pile of junk that doesn’t smell of peasant?”
Yep. He definitely regretted his decision, title of the most feared Viking in the world be damned.
When his sleeping spell eventually wore off a half hour later, he gave the crew a vague explanation as to what happened. Bjarke wove a barely believable story of a Siren knocking them unconscious and saving them and Iona in the process.
“How did you not fall under the beast’s spell?” Fiske asked, still a bit disoriented from the spell.
Bjarke glanced at Iona briefly and noted her gleeful smile. Of course she would watch him squirm rather than help him. She was definitely going to be more trouble than she was worth. Shaking his head, he pulled a small wad of wax from a pouch at his waist and held it up. The crew murmured, some of them nodding in understanding. Placing the wax in his ears would have made Bjarke immune to the Siren’s voice. His second-in-command, Rangvald, gave him a suspicious look, as if to tell him his story smelled like bullshit.
“I saved this woman from the clutches of the evil temptress who I slew,” the Viking said loudly and awkwardly, thrusting his sword into the air. “And then I claimed this woman as my prize!”
A half-hearted cheer went up from the crew, who were still slightly unconvinced and several of them threw furtive glances at Iona, who was still stark naked. She bared her teeth at them and hissed. Bjarke let out a groan at her antics. She certainly wasn’t acting like a damsel in distress. His fellow Vikings did not believe a word he said nor did they care about the strange, silver-haired, nude woman who had mysteriously appeared on the longship. Bjarke hastily disbanded the group and sent the crew to their duties.
Rangvald strode up to his friend and said under his breath, “Now why do I feel like you don’t even believe the crap that just came out of your mouth?”
The blonde Viking shrugged and scratched his beard, itchy thanks to the sea water Iona dumped on him.
“It’s true,” he said unconvincingly.
“If that’s true, then I’m a sheep’s ass,” Rangvald said, clapping Bjarke’s muscular shoulder.
“You’re already a sheep’s ass so drop it,” he said to Rangvald, who just laughed heartily at his friend’s discomfort.
The rest of the journey was uneventful, not for the lack of Iona trying. The Siren refused to were a stitch of clothing. Instead, she was perfectly content to languidly display herself on deck, stretching her limbs and drawing the crews’ eyes to her milky skin and perfectly proportioned body. Bjarke did everything he could to get her to cover herself.
“I am a sight to behold,” she argued. “They should be staring at me.”
“You’re distracting them,” he said, brandishing his kyrtill at her. “You won’t need to sing to kill us. The sight of you will run us into the rocks.”
Iona won the argument by sticking her tongue at him and ignoring him.
She also complained endlessly.
“I’m bored,” she whined to Bjarke for the umpteenth time one day.
“Was escaping your rock not good enough?” he asked through gritted teeth as Rangvald snickered in amusement at their arguing despite not knowing what they were saying. “Go enjoy the view.”
Iona leveled her pale blue eyes at him.
“Staring at water is tedious,” she said, stomping her foot like a child. “It all looks the same.”
At his wits end, Bjarke threatened to tie enough weight to her and drop her into the sea. The Siren shot him a wicked grin as the crews’ voices raised in protest. The little beast had charmed the men with her antics. Fiske patted Iona’s silver head as if she were a pet. Iona shot Bjarke an infuriating wink.
“You can’t throw her overboard!” Fiske exclaimed. “Then you won’t have a bride.”
Gods above, the man was as dumb as he looked Bjarke thought.
Hel, take him now. He would jump off the ship himself if they didn’t reach the village soon. Iona sauntered up to him, a mischievous smile on her plump, pink lips. Damn Siren was pleased with herself. Bjarke glanced down at her.
“I hope you know I already regret this,” he told her.
She laughed.
“Yeah, I figured you would,” she said with a nod. “But I have to keep entertained somehow.”
“How about I tie you to the prow and leave you there?”
“Oh, that could be fun.”
“Thor preserve me. You are going to be the biggest pain in the ass.”
Iona shrugged.
“And you’ll be the most feared Viking in the world,” she said. “Sounds like you’re getting a good deal.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
They pressed their bleeding forearms together to seal the pact. As Bjarke bound their wounds, he kept glancing at the small bit of land that had been Iona’s home until several minutes ago. He had expected the whole chaining a Siren to himself to be… well, more dramatic.
“What’s with the disappointed face?” Iona asked, exploring the ship as best as she could without stepping on the men lashed to it. She wasn’t having much luck, treading on several of his crews’ fingers.
“I guess I thought binding you to me would be spectacular or disturb the cosmos or something.”
The Siren turned around and glared at him.
“You are practically dragging a fearsome creature home as a magnificent war bride,” she said, offended.
Byarke’s mouth dropped open. By Odin, she was a vain creature.
“First of all, you’re not being dragged anywhere,” the Viking said, beginning to untie the ropes that held down his crew. “Second, you are far from a war bride and third, it is not as if anyone can know you’re a Siren.”
Iona fluffed her drying hair as she rummaged through the loot from a sacked village.
“Ugh, you’re taking the fun out of me being a dangerous creature,” she groused.
Bjarke ground his teeth in frustration and raised his eyes to the sky in supplication. He was already regretting his decision.
“Don’t you have anything in this pile of junk that doesn’t smell of peasant?”
Yep. He definitely regretted his decision, title of the most feared Viking in the world be damned.
When his sleeping spell eventually wore off a half hour later, he gave the crew a vague explanation as to what happened. Bjarke wove a barely believable story of a Siren knocking them unconscious and saving them and Iona in the process.
“How did you not fall under the beast’s spell?” Fiske asked, still a bit disoriented from the spell.
Bjarke glanced at Iona briefly and noted her gleeful smile. Of course she would watch him squirm rather than help him. She was definitely going to be more trouble than she was worth. Shaking his head, he pulled a small wad of wax from a pouch at his waist and held it up. The crew murmured, some of them nodding in understanding. Placing the wax in his ears would have made Bjarke immune to the Siren’s voice. His second-in-command, Rangvald, gave him a suspicious look, as if to tell him his story smelled like bullshit.
“I saved this woman from the clutches of the evil temptress who I slew,” the Viking said loudly and awkwardly, thrusting his sword into the air. “And then I claimed this woman as my prize!”
A half-hearted cheer went up from the crew, who were still slightly unconvinced and several of them threw furtive glances at Iona, who was still stark naked. She bared her teeth at them and hissed. Bjarke let out a groan at her antics. She certainly wasn’t acting like a damsel in distress. His fellow Vikings did not believe a word he said nor did they care about the strange, silver-haired, nude woman who had mysteriously appeared on the longship. Bjarke hastily disbanded the group and sent the crew to their duties.
Rangvald strode up to his friend and said under his breath, “Now why do I feel like you don’t even believe the crap that just came out of your mouth?”
The blonde Viking shrugged and scratched his beard, itchy thanks to the sea water Iona dumped on him.
“It’s true,” he said unconvincingly.
“If that’s true, then I’m a sheep’s ass,” Rangvald said, clapping Bjarke’s muscular shoulder.
“You’re already a sheep’s ass so drop it,” he said to Rangvald, who just laughed heartily at his friend’s discomfort.
The rest of the journey was uneventful, not for the lack of Iona trying. The Siren refused to were a stitch of clothing. Instead, she was perfectly content to languidly display herself on deck, stretching her limbs and drawing the crews’ eyes to her milky skin and perfectly proportioned body. Bjarke did everything he could to get her to cover herself.
“I am a sight to behold,” she argued. “They should be staring at me.”
“You’re distracting them,” he said, brandishing his kyrtill at her. “You won’t need to sing to kill us. The sight of you will run us into the rocks.”
Iona won the argument by sticking her tongue at him and ignoring him.
She also complained endlessly.
“I’m bored,” she whined to Bjarke for the umpteenth time one day.
“Was escaping your rock not good enough?” he asked through gritted teeth as Rangvald snickered in amusement at their arguing despite not knowing what they were saying. “Go enjoy the view.”
Iona leveled her pale blue eyes at him.
“Staring at water is tedious,” she said, stomping her foot like a child. “It all looks the same.”
At his wits end, Bjarke threatened to tie enough weight to her and drop her into the sea. The Siren shot him a wicked grin as the crews’ voices raised in protest. The little beast had charmed the men with her antics. Fiske patted Iona’s silver head as if she were a pet. Iona shot Bjarke an infuriating wink.
“You can’t throw her overboard!” Fiske exclaimed. “Then you won’t have a bride.”
Gods above, the man was as dumb as he looked Bjarke thought.
Hel, take him now. He would jump off the ship himself if they didn’t reach the village soon. Iona sauntered up to him, a mischievous smile on her plump, pink lips. Damn Siren was pleased with herself. Bjarke glanced down at her.
“I hope you know I already regret this,” he told her.
She laughed.
“Yeah, I figured you would,” she said with a nod. “But I have to keep entertained somehow.”
“How about I tie you to the prow and leave you there?”
“Oh, that could be fun.”
“Thor preserve me. You are going to be the biggest pain in the ass.”
Iona shrugged.
“And you’ll be the most feared Viking in the world,” she said. “Sounds like you’re getting a good deal.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
Monday, May 9, 2016
Accords
This one was fun!
Bjarke heard a melodious voice sail over the sides of the longship, weaving promises in the minds of those around him.
For the love of Odin, he thought, rolling his eyes. It's a damn Siren.
He looked at his men, who were entranced by the hypnotizing voice and moving close to the railing. If he didn't act soon, he'd lose his whole daft crew in seconds to the cunning beast. Bjarke spent the next several minutes strongarming his magicked crew into the belly of the longship before bolting the door shut from the outside. Lucky for him, his mother had been a witch and he was able to knock them out with a simple spell. That would prevent any of them from hacking a hole in the side of his ship. He worked hard to build it and Bjarke wasn't about to let some song-drunk idiot sink it.
The lilting voice grew stronger as the Siren tried to beckon the men. Bjarke stepped up to the railing.
"For Thor's sake, shut the hell up, you hussy!" he shouted over the gray water.
He saw head pop out of the water, rage written on her beautiful features. In an instant, the silver-haired Siren was at the side of the longship and scowling up at him.
"Hussy!" she shrieked. "Listen here you sansorðinn! I may be a lot of things but a hussy is not one of them. I will drag you down to a watery death."
Bjarke give her an amused smile. It would be a joy to tease this creature.
He brought his meticulously cared for nails to his face for inspection before saying, "What could you possibly need with all the men on my ship if not to be a hussy."
The woman sputtered in shock before summoning a wave to push herself onto the boat's deck. Bjarke yelped in surprise as he was soaked from head to toe. Great. This was one of his nicest shirts and now it was covered in seaweed and salt water. Blinking the stinging water from his eyes, the Viking saw the Siren stand up, her scaled tail disappearing now that she was no longer in the water. She stood before him naked, her long silvery strands of hair covering her breasts.
"You listen to me," she hissed, poking him in the chest with sharp fingernail. "I am Iona, a magnificent creature of the sea descended from Ægir himself. I will not be reduced to the image of a wanton woman by the likes of you."
Bjarke merely stared at Iona, unperturbed.
"Why are you not affected by my singing," the Siren asked, suddenly curious. "You are a male of a hale and hearty stock. You should have been one of the first to respond to my beckoning."
Bjarke's eye twitched. Yes, she would think that, wouldn't she. This was a secret he had kept close always. A secret that, if revealed, would come with a price. He was not ready to lose all he had worked hard for.
"Yeah, well. Not all of us are tricked by your charms."
Iona pursed her lips and circled him like a vulture.
"Hmmm," she said, tapping a finger to her lips. She glanced down towards his groin. "Are you lacking the needed equipment?"
Bjarke glared at her.
"I have perfectly working 'equipment' thank you very much."
Iona's perfectly shaped brows raised up high in realization.
"You're fuðflogi," she said, breathlessly. "That makes so much sense."
The Viking shushed the Siren harshly.
"Yes," he said in a hushed voice, despite the fact they were the only two conscious on the longship. "But no one knows."
"It is not an evil thing to desire the love of another man," Iona said to the burly, bearded man.
"Not everyone sees it that way," he said gruffly, running his hand over his braided blonde hair. "I will have to marry soon or else they will know."
"I will make you a deal," Iona said, taking sudden pity on the man. "I will help make you the most feared viking in the world if you take me away from this Odin-forsaken spit of land I've been stuck on. "
Bjarke looked at the silver-haired maiden curiously.
"You are a Siren," he said. "Can you not travel the waters freely?"
"Not as freely as you think," she said, sadly. "If I am captured in my human form, I am bound to them and the magic chaining me to this barren place will be split. I will instead by chained to you until you die."
"I would not wish that on anyone," he said.
"It is what I wish. It seems it would not be so bad to be chained to you until your death," Iona said thoughtfully. "I will appear as your wife and help you claim the world. Then we will both be free. I am able to mask my voice as to not charm your village. All you need to do is bind me to you through blood."
Bjarke looked at her, considering her offer. From his belt he drew a knife, slicing a shallow cut down is arm. He held it out to Iona, who mimicked his actions.
"Deal."
When I write these, I do some research. Viking warships were called longships and they were built for speed. Obviously Thor, Odin and Ægir are Norse gods. Even the characters names have meaning. Bjarke means bear, which is what a burly gay man is sometimes referred to as and Iona means born on an island. Sansorðinn is an insult and according to this website means "used in the position of a female by another man" or "demonstrably sodomized." Fuðflogi is a man who shuns marriage according to this website.
Bjarke heard a melodious voice sail over the sides of the longship, weaving promises in the minds of those around him.
For the love of Odin, he thought, rolling his eyes. It's a damn Siren.
He looked at his men, who were entranced by the hypnotizing voice and moving close to the railing. If he didn't act soon, he'd lose his whole daft crew in seconds to the cunning beast. Bjarke spent the next several minutes strongarming his magicked crew into the belly of the longship before bolting the door shut from the outside. Lucky for him, his mother had been a witch and he was able to knock them out with a simple spell. That would prevent any of them from hacking a hole in the side of his ship. He worked hard to build it and Bjarke wasn't about to let some song-drunk idiot sink it.
The lilting voice grew stronger as the Siren tried to beckon the men. Bjarke stepped up to the railing.
"For Thor's sake, shut the hell up, you hussy!" he shouted over the gray water.
He saw head pop out of the water, rage written on her beautiful features. In an instant, the silver-haired Siren was at the side of the longship and scowling up at him.
"Hussy!" she shrieked. "Listen here you sansorðinn! I may be a lot of things but a hussy is not one of them. I will drag you down to a watery death."
Bjarke give her an amused smile. It would be a joy to tease this creature.
He brought his meticulously cared for nails to his face for inspection before saying, "What could you possibly need with all the men on my ship if not to be a hussy."
The woman sputtered in shock before summoning a wave to push herself onto the boat's deck. Bjarke yelped in surprise as he was soaked from head to toe. Great. This was one of his nicest shirts and now it was covered in seaweed and salt water. Blinking the stinging water from his eyes, the Viking saw the Siren stand up, her scaled tail disappearing now that she was no longer in the water. She stood before him naked, her long silvery strands of hair covering her breasts.
"You listen to me," she hissed, poking him in the chest with sharp fingernail. "I am Iona, a magnificent creature of the sea descended from Ægir himself. I will not be reduced to the image of a wanton woman by the likes of you."
Bjarke merely stared at Iona, unperturbed.
"Why are you not affected by my singing," the Siren asked, suddenly curious. "You are a male of a hale and hearty stock. You should have been one of the first to respond to my beckoning."
Bjarke's eye twitched. Yes, she would think that, wouldn't she. This was a secret he had kept close always. A secret that, if revealed, would come with a price. He was not ready to lose all he had worked hard for.
"Yeah, well. Not all of us are tricked by your charms."
Iona pursed her lips and circled him like a vulture.
"Hmmm," she said, tapping a finger to her lips. She glanced down towards his groin. "Are you lacking the needed equipment?"
Bjarke glared at her.
"I have perfectly working 'equipment' thank you very much."
Iona's perfectly shaped brows raised up high in realization.
"You're fuðflogi," she said, breathlessly. "That makes so much sense."
The Viking shushed the Siren harshly.
"Yes," he said in a hushed voice, despite the fact they were the only two conscious on the longship. "But no one knows."
"It is not an evil thing to desire the love of another man," Iona said to the burly, bearded man.
"Not everyone sees it that way," he said gruffly, running his hand over his braided blonde hair. "I will have to marry soon or else they will know."
"I will make you a deal," Iona said, taking sudden pity on the man. "I will help make you the most feared viking in the world if you take me away from this Odin-forsaken spit of land I've been stuck on. "
Bjarke looked at the silver-haired maiden curiously.
"You are a Siren," he said. "Can you not travel the waters freely?"
"Not as freely as you think," she said, sadly. "If I am captured in my human form, I am bound to them and the magic chaining me to this barren place will be split. I will instead by chained to you until you die."
"I would not wish that on anyone," he said.
"It is what I wish. It seems it would not be so bad to be chained to you until your death," Iona said thoughtfully. "I will appear as your wife and help you claim the world. Then we will both be free. I am able to mask my voice as to not charm your village. All you need to do is bind me to you through blood."
Bjarke looked at her, considering her offer. From his belt he drew a knife, slicing a shallow cut down is arm. He held it out to Iona, who mimicked his actions.
"Deal."
When I write these, I do some research. Viking warships were called longships and they were built for speed. Obviously Thor, Odin and Ægir are Norse gods. Even the characters names have meaning. Bjarke means bear, which is what a burly gay man is sometimes referred to as and Iona means born on an island. Sansorðinn is an insult and according to this website means "used in the position of a female by another man" or "demonstrably sodomized." Fuðflogi is a man who shuns marriage according to this website.
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