“Mind the Gap”. Art by 365-DaysOfDoodles – http://365-daysofdoodles.deviantart.com/
NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 22: Art – “Mind the Gap”
NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 21: How Things Are Below
There were rules here, a way that things went. Every child born knew the rules from their swaddling. The rules never changed.
1. Finders = keepers.
2. If more than one find it together, it’s divided equally.
3. No hunting until you are sixteen.
4. No stealing! Stealing is the worst sin of all. It could get you killed.
This was how it had always been done and how it would always be done. Learning patience, cunning, and all the necessary skills for hunting took time and practice. But, eventually, you would get to be out there, hunting for your own. You ate what you caught. You kept what you found. You lived each day until you died.
NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 20: As the Old Song Goes…
This time next week, if all goes well, Thanksgiving dinner will be over and my little home will still be full of family and delicious smells. Turkey, sweet potatoes, broccoli casserole, pies. The food will have been consumed with all the gusto and gratitude for which we are known, and the leftovers will have been divvied up into their respective containers (though I’ll probably still be filching dark meat from the bottom of the turkey pan). The tables, plates, flat- and glassware will have been cleared away and maybe even washed by now, the family will be spread over the couches and chairs, and maybe, if I am supremely lucky, my daughter will be snoozing along with her grandfather on his lap while the songs and quips of “White Christmas” fill the room. It’s a tradition: Thanksgiving dinner and the watching of “White Christmas” usher in the Christmas season in our family.
I love Thanksgiving! I love the time spent with family, as well as the fact that there are no presents, no pressure. On the whole, though, it is just relaxing, meditating on all the good that we have in this life, enjoying each other’s company, plates (several) of good food, and good, fun conversation (I say silly things when on the verge of a food coma). While Christmas season might be my favorite, Thanksgiving is probably (I am just now realizing) my favorite holiday with family. I mean, think about it: it’s a day specifically set aside to count our blessings. And that’s always a good practice.
NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 19: Black and Cream
Trigger warning: Loss of loved ones.
She stretched out her hand and ran it over the pillow next to her. It was cold and smooth, memory foam with no memory. It even smelled cold now. Padding from the silent bedroom and into the empty living room, the scent that greeted her made her stop in her tracks. Sometime in the night, the automatic plug-in air freshener must have switched over to a new cartridge and this one drew tears to her eyes.
The creamy, custardy scent filled her nostrils and the synapses in her brain fired, memories pulled to the forefront. Memories of Thanksgivings and Christmases, memories of him cooking and baking and their house filled with heaven for the tongue. His cooking ushered in warmth and laughter and family and fellowship and love. But it was the scent that clung to him that she remembered the most – creamy and sweet, like caramel. He smelled like it for an entire day afterward. In fact, she had started asking him to wait to shower until the next night after cooking such a meal, because she loved him covered in that sweet scent. She would bury her face in his black hair and breathe it in when he held her, taste it on his lips when she kissed him. As they made love and reveled in each other, it came to cover her, too, and, in the morning, her skin smelled (and tasted, so he said) like butter cream.
And now…the living room – this empty room, this cold room, this decoration-less room that radiated alone – also radiated this scent. A scent that made her crumple to the floor as if the life had been stolen from her alone with her breath. Her home was dark, her life was dark, like a candle suddenly snuffed. With his dark hair and bright eyes and winsome smile, he had been her light, been the warmth of their home. And now he was gone.
Propped against the wall, she sobbed until she feared that, like Alice, she would float away in a sea of her own tears. But those limpid eyes had only one focus for their weeping. And it laid in the stately marble urn that stood upon the mantelpiece of a dark and cold fireplace.
Inspired by “Black is the Color of my True Love’s Hair” as sung by Peter Hollens and Avi Kaplan
NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 18: Cancellation’s Freedom
When I was teaching, you know what one of my favorite things was? Snow days. Yes, I know, snow days are a pain in the rear – the adjusting plans, the getting behind, the making them up, etc. Yes, an absolute pain, but there was something special to them, too.
When I first started teaching right after we got married, my in-laws were also teaching. In fact, they and Ben worked at the same school, in a different corporation than me. So, on the rare times that we had snow days off together, it was a treat. If the snow was high and deep, Ben and I often would decide that we weren’t going anywhere. More often than not, the phone would ring and it would be Ben’s dad, asking us if we wanted to go get breakfast. Half an hour later, Dad’s big old Dodge Ram would pull into the driveway, we’d pile in, and the four of us would venture out into the snowy world in search of a yummy breakfast. I loved those days. The world bright and clean and free. It was the thrilling joy of an unexpected holiday and the happiness of time spent with the family.
Yeah, I loved snow days.
NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 17: Snow-Capped Joys
Today was my daughter’s first day playing in the snow. It’s her third winter, if we want to be technical but her first time playing in the snow. When she was born, her birth ushered in the heaviest snow as of yet that winter. I spent that winter mostly indoors with my new little infant. The following year, the winter was one of the coldest on record. So I kept my one-year-old inside for the most of that icy winter.
This year, winter has settled itself into our little part of the country quickly. The temperatures are already supposed to dip into the single digits within the next few days, so I decided to take advantage of what will be the warmest day this week and take my daughter out into the new-fallen snow (we got at least two inches last night). So I bundled her up in coats, boots, hat, mittens, and scarf and out we went into the snow, her first real foray into the white stuff. The sun was bright and the world was pristine and clean. Rogue zephyrs played in the air, swirling snow from trees and rooftops into dancing shapes. The cold air hit me like a sudden kiss and took my breath away. Bizzy held tentatively onto my hand as we started walking on the driveway but, by the time we got into the yard, I let her go to find her feet on her own. It was powdery and blowy and we walked through the sunshiny snow over the patio and into the back yard, feeling it crunch beneath our boots and I watched my daughter examine it with wonder. The first time she put her hands into the snow, she held them up as if holding something ethereal and divine. Her cheeks were appled and her eyes pretty little half moons from the smile hampered only by her pacifier, which she soon relinquished to me in favor of laughs and smiles as she tromped off into the snow.
NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 16: A World in Twilight
Author’s Note: This is one of my in-between stories based on Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. I have always enjoyed the companionship between Galadriel and Gandalf, the unspoken understanding between the two of them that has always seemed so comforting.
This is also in honor of fall’s quick fading away into the cold of winter. I am very much not ready for winter yet.
= = =
Fall was quiet, leaves of gold and amber making their silent courses to the carpet the ground. This was when he enjoyed the world, at its twilight. Gandalf’s own was approaching, this he knew. His task had been fulfilled.
Four years to the day when he had delivered the hobbits to Imladris from Minas Tirith. Four years since the little ones had fought for home and hearth. Four years since he had passed through his own fiery gauntlet. It might not seem like a long time to some, especially to he who had seen the ages of this world pass by like wisps of cloud. But it was enough.
Twilight was falling for him. And also for others.
Frodo was beginning to fade; he could feel it. It was like a breath of cold seeping into his heart. Gandalf would soon leave on that last ship from Middle-earth, and he knew that Frodo must leave with him.
‘It is time,’ the old Maia murmured as he walked beneath the fading trees of Lothlorien.
~
If spring is Lothlorien’s glory, then autumn is its phoenix burning.
‘Gandalf, you wished to speak with me?’ A bright figure paused at the doorway to the wizard’s chambers. Galadriel, Lady of Light.
‘Lady Galadriel, please.’ Gandalf held a hand out to her.
The Elf Queen smiled and took his arm in full confidence. ‘What is it, old friend? You know my time for granting requests grows short.’
‘As it does for all of us, my Lady. But this boon I must ask.’ Gandalf turned as they reached the moonlit terrace. ‘Frodo is failing. Failing and fading quickly.’
Galadriel’s bright eyes seemed to cloud a bit. ‘His wound is a danger to him; it feeds on the darkness the Ring left in his soul, the broken pieces of himself.’
Gandalf sighed, suddenly feeling very old. ‘He is so young to have borne so much.’
Galadriel placed a hand on his arm again, Nenya, the ring of Adamant, shimmering in the pale moonlight upon her finger. ‘We were all young once, Gandalf.’ A gentle smile graced her lips. ‘But you had a request.’
The Maia regarded her softly. ‘You already know of it, my Lady.’
Galadriel gave a quiet nod. ‘Frodo is not merely a Peleninath. He is also a Ring-Bearer, as is Bilbo. Therefore, I would think it fitting that they should join us; they have earned their rest.’
A smile, one she had known of old, crinkled around Gandalf’s ancient eyes.
‘Our twilight has come, Gandalf. Soon we will journey beyond the White Towers and into the West. The power of our Rings has ended and the time has come for the dominion of Men; may Aragorn and his line rule well.’ The Lady of Light then turned to Gandalf, echoing his words, ‘May they be blest.’
Gandalf, too, smiled. ‘A part of you will always live on in Middle-earth, my Lady. It lives on now in your granddaughter Arwen and will flourish in her children. The light of Lothlorien will never fully be gone as long as one descendent of her line lives.’
Galadriel gave a quiet smile at his words. She did love her granddaughter Arwen Undomiel wholly and completely and part of her heart was saddened at her remaining behind, having given up her Elvish radiance and immortality. But Galadriel also knew the powerful bonds of love.
Galadriel looked out over the gold-and-reddening Wood. ‘Yes, our twilight has come.’
NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 15: Touchy-Feely
Hi! I’m Mel and I like warm hugs! And squeezes. And being lifted off my feet. Oh, and I love cuddles and snuggles, and having my hair stroked, and my shoulders rubbed, and my back scratched, and my feet massaged. Honestly, I just like physical affection and touch. There are times and situations when I don’t wish to be touched, yes. But more often than not, if I am comfortable with you, I’m happy to give and receive physical affection. A hug is my go-to for comfort, gripping someone’s arm or hand my way of showing support, stroking their hair a playful gesture.
Honestly, the fact that I am “touchy-feely” (I do believe that is the technical term) at all still comes as a bit of a surprise to me. My family on the whole is not very touchy-feely, unless it was the moms with their own children. My friends and I weren’t very touchy, unless we were doing each other’s hair. In fact, hugging between us girls didn’t really even come into being until we were in high school and, even then, I wasn’t much of one to express my affection physically. It wasn’t until I got into college that I connected with the side of me that likes to give and receive physical affection. It was mainly with my female friends, of course, but I also learned not to be afraid of hugging my male friends either. Several thousand miles and a whole country away from home, the caring hugs and hair-strokes of my friends became a supreme comfort to me in times when my heart was low. An arm thrown around my shoulders during a walk produced a smile. A hand slipping into mine amidst difficult words gave me strength.
Some of my happiest, most content times have been with those I care about. One of my best friends, my very first memory of her is of me standing behind her while she and my husband (then boyfriend) and some of their friends were playing a session “Changeling: The Dreaming” (a tabletop game). As I stood behind her and observed the game, I played with her hair. I remember these luxuriant, thick, silky red locks pouring through my fingers as I just enjoyed their weight. I remember asking her several times if it was OK for me to be touching her and she told me, yes, that she was enjoying it very much. Things like that I remember. I remember the way that people hug. Hugs are like fingerprints. I would dare say that there are several people I would know by their hugs alone. The way their arms feel, the way they squeeze me, the sound that rumbles in their chest when they do. Like loops and whorls and arches, each a unique mixture.
Today, my daughter stood up from having her diaper changed and leaned into me for a hug, which I happily gave. I held her a good long time, her head on my shoulder and my chin rested on hers, and I just breathed and marveled at the comfort that I received from such a little body and such a simple action as touch.
NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 14: Fleurs du Mal
Tonight, I reached up onto my shelf and drew down one of the most beautiful books I own: a leather-bound copy of The Flowers of Evil (Fleurs du Mal) by Charles Baudelaire, the poems translated into English. I first became aware of these poems when a friend had his character in a forum rpg (so deep and mysterious, that one) send the book to my character. And then, suddenly, I find this book in the store. I couldn’t resist it, couldn’t leave it behind, and it has become one of the favorites, one of the few books of poetry in my collection. Below is my favorite poem in the volume.
= = =
The Cat
Come, beautiful creature, sheathe your claws;
Rest on my amorous heart,
And let me plunge in your marvelous eyes,
Of mingled metal and agate.
When my fingers caress at leisure
Your supple, elastic back,
And my hand tingles with pleasure
From your body’s electric contact,
I see to see my mistress. Her regard,
Like yours, nice animal,
Deep and cold, cuts and thrusts like a sword,
And from her feet to her head’s dark coronal,
A subtile air, a dangerous perfume,
Swim round her brown body’s dusky bloom.
NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 13: Corner Table
‘Why do so many stock photos of girls in coffee shops have them sitting with their chin in their hands, looking dreamy or wistful or even morose?’
It was a brief wondering that flit through her head as she sat in – what else? – a coffee shop. It was a warm respite from the world that blustered and blew outside. Her book sat splayed on the table, held down by her left hand as her fingers surround and drum softly on the saucer of her cup of smooth vanilla chai. The steam curls cunningly from the cup, just as the words of the story coil their way into her brain, filling it with characters that she was, admittedly, quickly falling in love with. She cut a rather lovely figure sitting there at her table, in her boots, stockings, skirt, and sweater, her body angled out to allow her to cross her legs. Suddenly, there was a bump against her ankle that drew her out of her world with a start!
“I am so sorry!” came a voice. Unfamiliar, male, but unmistakably apologetic. “Really, I am so very sorry!”
She looked up to find a pair of bright eyes and apologetic smile meeting her own brown-eyed gaze. He bent then to retrieve the offending culprit: a streusel muffin, now more the worse for wear. “Alas, poor Yorick…” the young man intoned, holding up the crumbly confection before depositing it on his plate. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to dive-bomb you with my snack.”
She found herself smiling without reservation, bending down to brush off her ankle with a chuckle. “No, no. It’s all right. I’m just sorry that your muffin didn’t make it.”
“Probably for the best,” he replied, poking the bygone muffin with a quirk of his mouth. He then glanced at the book, which had fallen closed on her tabletop. “Lackey. Is that her new one?” he then asks.
“Oh, yes. One of them. I haven’t gotten Blood Red yet,” she replied with a smile, “Are you a fan of the Elemental Masters?”
“I’ve read a few, yes,” he replies. Then, as if suddenly remembering that he was standing, he indicated the seat across from her, “Excuse me, may I?”
She nodded in acquiescence and he seated himself, introductions made all round and nicely. They fell into conversation as naturally as tripping on the sidewalk, and it soon spanned a myriad of topics and a plethora of stories.
Dark was starting to fall, the lights on the street outside blinking into being and the building windows starting to glow.
“I should go,” she said, reluctance lacing her voice.
He didn’t try to stay her but they said their goodbyes nicely, shaking hands all round. Then he handed her back her book, which he had borrowed from her for a moment.
“I’ll have to thank that muffin for its uneven bottom and well-time dive,” he said, giving her that smile again, “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, too,” she replied, settling her creamy-colored hat over her dark hair.
He helped her on with her coat, held the door for her, wished her well, and then she stepped out once more into the cold. Her book was cradled under her arm, her hands tucked tightly into her pockets. Little did she know the book was carrying a brand new bookmark within its pages: a simple napkin pressed privately into service, waiting to be found twenty pages onward.
MWGS: Mom, Writer, Geek, Superwoman 