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NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 9: What Might Have Been

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Author’s Note: This is part of my in-between stories for Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Elenyaiel Windfoot is my own original character.

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What Might Have Been

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“See that lass there? The one with the dark hair.”

“Oh, aye. What about her?”

“Didn’t you know that she was to have married Frodo Baggins?”

Old Marigold Bracegirdle almost dropped her coffee mug in amazement. “Here now, what’s all this?”

“Why, as sure as I’m sitting here, Mr. Frodo was fixing to speak to her! I could tell!” Thistle-Ann Proudfoot adamantly insisted. “That is, before his adventure and all.”

Marigold glanced again at the hobbit-lass about whom Thistle-ann spoke. She was barely 50, just past the age of maturity for a hobbit. She was of normal hobbit stature, though quite slender. She had glossy black curls caught up in a linen snood which, as soon as her mother was out of sight, she ripped off and let the curls trickle over her shoulders and down her back. Her white blouse, pale-yellow bodice and grey skirt seemed to only heighten the pink in her cheeks and made her look that much lovelier. Her emerald-green eyes danced gaily and with a silvery laugh, she disappeared through the marketplace, a half-filled basket on her arm. Soon, her mother returned only to find the spot by old Lumbertoll’s flower cart empty.

“Elen! Elenyaiel Windfoot, where be ya?” she called but to no avail.

“That’s the Took in the dear lass; just as mischievous as our dear Master Peregrin used to be, before he became all lordly and such.” Thistle-Ann commented as she returned to her coffee. “But this child is a fine hobbit-girl indeed. She took right proper care of Bag End while Mr. Frodo was gone, until those ruffians moved in. Yes, she would have made Mr. Frodo a fine wife.”

Old Marigold just glanced in the direction where the girl had disappeared and, giving an expected nod, returned to her coffee as well.

 

Up the lane at Bag End, there came a smart jangle of the doorbell. Sam left Rosie nursing Elanor and hurried to answer the door; Frodo was occupied in the study and Sam despaired of disturbing him. He opened the door quickly and there stood a pretty young hobbit on the doorstep, barely older than his Rosie.

“Good day, Master Samwise. Is Mistress Rose at home?” the lass asked.

“Why, yes, Ms. Elen. Won’t you come in?” Sam’s face lit up at the sight of his childhood neighbor.

“Oh, thank you but I really cannot linger, unfortunately. I only came to drop this by for your new daughter. I only hope it’s as pretty as her name.” With this sweet speech, Elen presented a darling linen smock of bright blue. “Congratulations, Sam!”

“Thank you, Elen. Come by again, won’t you?” He watched with a smile as she hurried off down the lane and then shut Bag End’s green door.

“Who was that, Sam?” Rosie asked, looking up from Elanor’s cradle.

“Elenyaiel Windfoot, if you can believe it,” he replied, handing her the smock and relating Elen’s greetings.

Rosie’s lovely face lit up. “Dear Elen? Are you sure? Why didn’t she stay for second breakfast?” She moved as if to hurry to the door and recall her old friend.

“I saw a half-filled basket on her arm and reckoned that she’d run away from another market trip and that her mother might be missing her.” Sam replied with a chuckle.

Rosie laughed as well, for Elen had been running away from market days since she had been a little hobbit-girl. She’d always cut around to see a friend and then return to the market before her mother left for their home on the south end of Hobbiton again.

Elenyaiel Windfoot was the daughter of Geradoc Windfoot and Lilyan Took. She was an only child, unfortunately, but enough of a handful for her parents to equal a hobbit-hole full of children. Her mother, whose family had been known for visiting with Elves, had insisted on her daughter having a lovely Elvish name, so she was named Elenyaiel, which means “Starsday”. But most fell to calling her Elen. Her family had come to Hobbiton from Marish when she was but a babe and she had known Sam Gamgee and Rosie Cotton all her life, as well as Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, to whom she was a direct cousin.

Elenyaiel had become acquainted with Frodo soon after Mr. Bilbo Baggins adopted him as his heir and brought him to live at Bag End. Elen had also been a help to Mr. Bilbo as a housekeeper of sorts for a short while, especially around the time of his eleventieth birthday. She’d flown round the elegant hobbit-hole, making sure that things were kept in order and that not too many visitors bothered dear old Bilbo, who was grateful for her help.

As she’d grown up knowing Frodo, Elen had noticed many things about the young hobbit that struck her fancy. Being quite Tookish herself, she understood his curious moods and his desire to see the world outside the Shire; but, unlike Mr. Frodo, she had never gotten the chance to do so. She had kept quiet about the affection that had steadily grown in her heart for the young Mr. Baggins over the years, doing her best to not set hopes too high, not even daring to tell her own mother about what dreams lay sleeping.

“If it will be, it will be,” was what she always said to herself. However, she had only seen Mr. Frodo in passing since he had returned from his adventure and, along with Sam, Merry, and Pippin, had restored the Shire to its hobbits.

“If it will be, it will be,” was what she now whispered to herself as she hurried down the lane from Bag End.

 

“Sam.”

Rosie and Sam turned to see Frodo standing in the doorway, a small smile on his face and his hands stuck comfortably in his pockets as he watched them look after Elanor.

“Yes, Mr. Frodo? Did you need something?” Sam asked, ready to fly to the furthest part of the Shire if need be.

Frodo smiled broader and shook his head. “No, no. I was just going to take a walk and was wondering if you’d like to join me.”

Rosie smiled. “You two go on ahead. Now that Elanor’s asleep, it will keep you out of my way while I get things cleaned around here. Take your second breakfast with you and you can have a picnic.” She always had been a smart, practical hobbit and it was one of Sam’s favorite things about her.

Soon, the two gentle-hobbits were on their way through the paths and fields of the Shire, enjoying the morning sun on their backs and the fresh breeze in their hair.

They traveled in silence for a while but, presently, Frodo spoke, “Did we have a visitor this morning, Sam? I thought I heard the doorbell while I was in the study.”

Sam glanced up from the blades of grass that he had been looking at, “Oh, it was Elenyaiel Windfoot. She came by to drop off a dress for Elanor.”

Frodo stopped walking and sort of stared at Sam. “Elen? Really? She came up to Bag End?”

“Yes, she was running away from market day again,” Sam replied with a smile. He watched for Frodo’s reaction, having always been aware of something deep in his friend’s heart for Elenyaiel Windfoot. Frodo has spoken of it only once or twice and Sam had never pressed him, knowing that his friend would always follow his heart in the end.

As Sam watched his face, Frodo became thoughtful and quiet once again and they kept on walking. Soon, they found a pretty spot near the old Bramblebush stream in the forest and sat down to have a late second-breakfast. It was so late, in fact, that it might as well have been elevensies.

After they ate, the two hobbits sat placidly smoking their pipes (the ones Bilbo had so generously given them on their departure from Rivendell). After a while, Frodo ventured to speak again. “I was to speak to her, you know, Sam. I had planned on it, my mind was made up.”

Sam glanced up at his friend, letting the mouthpiece of the pipe slip from his lips but he said nothing.

Frodo puffed for a moment more and then lowered his pipe. “Before we left, before everything happened, I was ready. Ready to settle down, ready to speak. But now…now it would not be fair. Not now.” His fingers strayed searchingly to his neck and clasped about the white pendant that Queen Arwen had given him, as if his life depended on it.

“But why ever not, Mr. Frodo? I’m sure she would accept, even after you’ve been gone. She cared for Bag End when we left, before Saruman and his lackeys moved in. Stood up to them right proper from what I hear.”

“I know, Sam. But I just can’t,” Frodo argued gently. “Besides, it’s too late I’m sure. Elen’s probably married by now; I know that Merry’s cousin Larimore Brandybuck had his eye on her.”

Sam fairly jumped up at this, anxious for Frodo to grab this chance at finally being happy. “No, it’s not too late, Mr. Frodo!” he interjected, “She hasn’t married from what I can tell, if you follow me. You can still speak. She’s surely been waiting for you, sir.”

He paused for a moment, almost regretting his hasty words when he saw his friend’s face color a bit. Sam had not meant to embarrass him. “You know, Mr. Frodo, I think that Elen always understood you, better than even I did.” The thought made Sam smile because he knew that Elenyaiel and Frodo did indeed have similar spirits.

Frodo’s eyes lit up a bit but then faded again as he clutched the pendant even tighter as though something pained him deeply. “No, Sam. No one can understand me better than you. But I can’t speak now, after everything. I’m…I’m not well. It wouldn’t be fair to her. No, I cannot ask her to be my wife now.” With an air of finality to his voice, Frodo put his pipe back in his mouth.

Sam sighed quietly and the two hobbits smoked in silence for a while. Soon, they saw the sun start on his westward run and decided that it was time to head on back to Hobbiton. Gathering up the remains of their picnic, Sam and Frodo started on their way, puffing on their pipes as they went.

 

Several days later, Frodo was helping Sam in the garden when a merry voice hailed them over the gate, “Good day to you, Masters! ‘Tis a right fine day for being outdoors!”

The friends looked up to see Elenyaiel standing there. Her hat was in her hand and a twinkle in her green eyes as her shiny, dark ringlets poured over her shoulders. The red and white of the dress she wore gave her a sort of rose-ish look, much befitting the early-summer day.

“Elen! Good to see you!” Frodo said, smiling and walking over to the fence. Sam added his greetings but soon slipped silently inside Bag End to watch by the window.

Frodo opened the gate, holding out his hand to his old friend. “I’m sorry, Elen. I should have cut round to see you sooner. Things have been quite hectic about here with Sam marrying and becoming a father and all.”

Elen just laughed and gave his hand a hearty shake as she and Frodo sat on a bench in the sunshiny side garden. “Please, no apologies, Frodo Baggins. I understand. You must be very happy with Sam and Rosie living right here with you, not to mention little Elanor.”

Frodo nodded, smiling at the words I understand. “I am, but something has been bothering me as of late.”

Elen turned, touching his hand. “Oh? What is it? Come now, ‘fess up and we shall make it right like we used to as children.”

He looked at her, right into those sparkly green eyes of hers. “I wanted to say that I am dreadfully sorry. Sorry for not speaking when I had the chance. Sorry for leaving the Shire without telling you how I felt. But things have changed now; I have changed.”

He paused for breath but then hurried on. “Don’t mistake me, Elen. I care for you as much now as I did then but things have changed. Things I can’t explain to myself, much less to you. Things I couldn’t bear to burden you with.” There was such a look of remorse on his face that it caused tears to well up in Elen’s eyes.

“Frodo. Dear Frodo Baggins. I have loved you since that day we met in the Party Tree all those years ago. What’s more is I’ve always understood you. How or why, I don’t know, but I have. And I understand you now. You are right, Frodo; you have changed.”

She saw him wince as though the truth of his own words hurt him. “Do you remember when we used to bring wood for Mr. Bilbo from Sam’s Gaffer because he always had the best wood chips?”

Frodo nodded, the memories plain in his mind of Elen, Sam, and himself trudging up the lane with their arms full of small wooden logs.

“Remember how we shared out the load so we would all be helping with the burden? Well, things are like that now. You carry a great burden in your heart, Frodo. I can sense it. But, this time, it is a burden that neither Sam nor I can help you bear. Though I wish to high heavens I could.” At this, her eyes filled with a look of sadness that should never be the lot of any hobbit.

Elen’s voice grew softer and she took Frodo’s right hand in hers, the hand that was now missing its third finger. Her other hand she placed on his shoulder, above the Nazgûl wound, as if to address both injuries at once. “Frodo, I have loved and waited for you, and I will continue to do so. And who knows? Perhaps, someday, we shall find that place where it can be.”

Elenyaiel ended her speech with a quiet smile and a gentle, understanding look that went straight to Frodo’s heart. Somehow, he managed to smile as well.

“Thank you, Elen. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dear Frodo.” Then, with hat in hand, she stood, all traces of the sad pain gone from her pretty face. “Now, am I correct in assuming that there is still a standing invitation for me at Bag End?”

“Of course there is! Come in, both of you, or luncheon will be cold!” Rosie’s voice carried from the kitchen, and she and Sam’s faces could be seen smiling at window.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 6: Undone

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Amazing how things can begin with such pomp and circumstance, such ceremony and celebration, and then can simply be undone by a pair of signatures. He sat there, looking at the papers that lay between them on the table, the ink still wet and bright on the signature lines. His hands were folded on the table in front of him, feeling strangely lighter now, at least his left one. The skin on his fourth finger was worn smooth just below the third knuckle and he rubbed it subconsciously.

How could things be undone so simply? It had been far from simple, really. It was the final process that seemed almost insultingly simple. “Sign here and it is as if it never happened.” Years gone with a pen stroke. How could it be so easy? Are all things in life so simply undone? Loves simply wished away? Memories forgotten? Do we make space in our minds and in our hearts for the future by getting rid of the past?

His mind turned over and over and over itself, none of his thoughts happy. None of them sad. Just thoughts. This wasn’t what he had planned, wasn’t how he had seen things going. But, then again, when does life ever go as we think it will? All we can do it keep walking, step by step, and do life day by day.

Hands pressing against the table, he rose slowly to his feet and left the conference room, never looking back. Life waited beyond the door. Life that had yet to be done.

To Break an Angel’s Heart

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Once upon a time, an angel told a devil how to break her heart.

It was a strange event, the devil arriving at the edge of Heaven, and an even stranger question that he lobbed at her through the pearly gates.

“How could one break your heart?”

The angel’s wings waved pensively, the feathers brushing the golden bars of the gate. She was reminded of her erstwhile thoughts of whether the gate was to keep the devils out or the angels in.

How could one break your heart?

The question rang in her perfect ears, thrummed against her colorless skin, and pierced her inner light. Indeed, a touch of it seemed to spill from her chest, which she covered with her perfect hand.

“To break my heart, you must first find it.”

“Find it?” the devil echoed, “It is with you, is it not?”

The angel shook her perfect head, light and music spilling from the very rustle of her tresses. “It is not. It is there,” and she pointed beyond the gates, beyond Heaven, in a direction that most supernal beings agreed the earth laid. “It is in uncountable pieces, bits innumerable, hidden in lives lived, living, and to be lived from now through the end of time. In order to break it, you must gather it together, piece upon piece, bit upon bit, and then you must blacken it, every piece. Blacken it with greed, selfishness, unkindness, hate. Every portion must be touched, must be corrupted. In order for my heart to be brittle enough to break, every part of it must be burned and blackened with these flames. For, if even one is untouched, it will continue to beat and glow and that one piece will pour its light into others and those into others and so on. The light will never be diminished.” She blinked perfect, colorless eyes.

“We were all made this way, with our hearts split asunder. That is why we sing and praise and smile and glow. For our hearts are always alight in some corner, spreading to others.”

The angel’s voice was like bells of silver in the devil’s ears as he listened to her explain. When she was done, he slunk away from where he had stood, an inch from Paradise, and walked slowly back down to the Kingdom Below. What he desired was impossible and would always be impossible, for, as long as there are virtues such as goodness, kindness, love, patience, and generosity in but one human heart, that good will pour itself into another and another and another. Good abounding in people uncountable, lives and souls innumerable and alight.

Fitting the Mask

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It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But you would do well to not earn one of your own. You know why I wear this mask. You know who gave it to me. It’s because of my face, my voice.  So I live behind it, within it. It is who I am now, the mask.

The scarring? Oh, don’t worry about that. It doesn’t hurt much anymore. It’s fine.

Can you touch it? Touch me? Well, that seems a little forward, a bit intimate a caress but, yes, you may. Why does your brow wrinkle when you look into my eyes? Yours are a fascinating green-grey. How lovely!

No, you would do well not to earn a mask of your own. Trust me. It is not for everyone. But this one is for me. This one is me. Smooth, perfect, flawless, a bit of gold to the pout, a bit of silver to the blink. Is that not why you came? Is that not why you are here? Why you paid your money at the door? Is not Perfection the god whose robe hem you came to touch?

If you think not, then you have tricked yourself, and you may be fit for a mask of your own after all.

Written Upon My Lady’s Back (Kaious and Vashka) – #amwriting

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Author’s Note: This is my original work and from a wider novella about Kaious and Vashka that I have been working on for a few years. I love these characters. Please, do not take them from me.

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Ouch! Gods, help me!

Vashka’s entire body screamed at her as she lowered herself onto her stomach on her bed. Her back was afire but there wasn’t anything she could for herself at the moment. She sent the servant girl for Ochabu, for she trusted only the old woman to tend her.

“Child! What happened?” the old midwife questioned as she entered the room and pulled the door to.

Vashka merely groaned weakly from where she lay on the bed. If she could have seen what Ochabu could see, she would have considered the old woman’s exclamations well-warranted.

Her clothes lay in bloody shreds upon her, the brown skin of her back striped a dozen times. The lines lay thin but the lashes had gone deep; not deep enough to stitch but too deep to heal quickly.

Ochabu rolled up her sleeves and set to work immediately, heating water and sending another slave girl out with a list of specific herbs and plants to make a healing salve for the girl’s wounds. She tore off what remained of Vashka’s clothes. There was no time for modesty; Vashka was already beginning to shake with the pain of the whipping.

“Who did this to you, child? Who would dare?” Ochabu asked as she worked and, shakily, Vashka poured out the story of an hour.

After a while, a shadow moved under the door and it opened quietly. “My lady,” a young slave boy said. “His Excellency demands your presence.”

“The Lady Vashka is in no condition—” Ochabu began but Vashka’s quiet voice broke in.

“Tell His Excellency Kaious that I am unfortunately indisposed and send my deepest apologies,” she said with as much strength as she could muster.

The slave boy looked confused and slightly afraid but he obeyed quickly, leaving the harem as fast as he could.

Vashka sank down onto the bed again, feeling Ochabu start to bathe her wounds. She flinched at the hot water on her tender wounds but soon ceased to feel pain as darkness slipped blessedly over her head.

She did not hear heavy, hurried footfalls approach a short while later as Kaious stormed into the room.

He stopped short, just inside the door, seeing Ochabu rising from Vashka’s bed where she still laid, her wounds as plain as day. Without a word, he closed the door and threw the bolt. Then he just stood there for a moment silently. It almost seemed to the old midwife that he was marshalling his anger for the question so she beat him to the punch.

“Your…advisors did this, Excellency.”

“What?” The single word was low but carried the weight of an army’s fury with it.

“Apparently, someone has accused my lady of plotting to poison you,” Ochabu explained as she checked the herbs that were boiling on the brazier.

“Who?!”

“My, our vocabulary is limited this evening.”

Kaious cursed beneath his breath. “This is no time for jokes, Ochabu!”

“I understand that, Excellency. Believe me, I do. But anger will not make these herbs boil any faster,” she pointed out, coming back with fresh cloths to lay on Vashka’s back. Kaious had taken a seat on her bed, next to her, so she handed them to him with a look that said “make yourself useful”.

“Who accused her?” he asked as he laid the hot strips across her back. Seeing those red, glowing, welted stripes over his dear one’s flesh made him sick inside.

“She does not know. They would not tell her. All they would say was that proof had been provided that condemned her and demanded that she confess. Naturally, she would confess nothing. For she has done nothing! The old fools!” Ochabu made an angry sign of disdain with her fingers. “So they striped her for her refusal, for they knew you would never allow her to be executed. Just like spoiled children with an animal that has vexed them.”

Kaious frowned deeply, gazing over Vashka, who groaned as he touched her. “I’ll kill them!” he breathed furiously. “They cannot do such things without my knowledge! Without my permission!”

“Actually…they can,” a voice came from the bed. Vashka was awake, barely. She blinked and tried to move to glance at him but the pain drove her to keep still.

Kaious knelt next to her bedside as she turned her head again, slowly this time. “Shkaya…” He brushed her damp hair back from her forehead.

She winced again in her wakefulness. “Silver-steel whips,” she rasped, her voice rough with pain.

Kaious instinctively winced himself. Silver-steel whips were the favored interrogation tactic of the Council. But to use it on Vashka—on his favorite, his chief concubine—without his permission! It was inexcusable! It was a fool’s errand!

Vashka spoke haltingly and gave a sound that almost sounded like a chuckle. “I know that look. And Jan’zed was so kind as to read me the law before they flogged me. Nothing in the law says that they had to alert you unless they found ‘indisputable proof’.”

“And they obviously didn’t,” Ochabu cut in as she ground the boiled herbs to make the salve.

“Whomever accused you can’t be fully trusted then,” Kaious growled. “Only someone inside the palace would be able to accuse you and the Councilors must not think it enough weight.” He lifted a dry rag and gazed at one of the stripes. Its smooth, perfect edgings where it had cut into her back were the tailormark of a silver-steel whip. The whip lash was wrapped with silver-steel, the softest and most flexible metal in the empire; the steel was also razor-sharp and produced the smooth, deep lashes like those Vashka bore.

“Shkaya, darling, what proof did they give you?” he asked as he lifted the other strips from her back.

“An…obsidian jar.” She flinched again as the air touched the wounds. “They say my accuser found it in my room…that it contained poison (*the kind only found in the dragon chamber*) and that the law allowed them to…question me. They probably thought I would be far enough back in the rotation that you would not see me until they had healed.”

Kaious exploded again, leaping up from the bed! “That is impossible! I know of the one place that poison can be found! And you have never seen it! And the fools thought they could deceive me! They can’t do this! The law…I am the law!”

“No…” her voice was quiet. “You are only Kaious.”

The look he gave her was all anger, sadness, and, most of all, helplessness. She was right; he was only Kaious. He was a figurehead; his word was law but much of the law did not depend on him, for it had been in existence for centuries. Kaious ran his hands over his face and sighed. “I still want them to pay! Jan’zed…that old jackel!”

Ochabu approached, placing a bowl in his hands and gesturing to Vashka’s back.

The hurting woman sighed, too. “Do what you must, love. Be angry, ply your rage. But do not endanger yourself. Do not give reasoning for another uprising so soon.” She paused as he sat on the bed again. “You swore to me that you would be careful. You swore to me, Vima! And I hold you to your word now!” Her voice was still weak but it held a firmness that he had come to know and love.

Ochabus shuffled out of the room, mumbling that she would be back later to check on Vashka and needed to arrange for medicine.

Kaious nodded at Vashka’s words and, leaning down, kissed her hair. “This may hurt, I’m sorry,” he apologized as he began to apply the salve to her back. Every time she winced or groaned, his heart broke anew and his anger flared hot. He should draw and bleed these snakes for what they had done to her…to his wife! It made him shake with fury but he forced his hand to be still as he drew the salve along the stripes on her back. By the smell, he knew it to be the same herbs that she had used on his many wounds during their days in the army.

As he worked his way down her back, Kaious found himself stopping when he reached a familiar scar. A particular stripe had crossed it so that it formed a small X on the far left side of her back. He lingered there for a moment but then moved on, eager for the salve to begin its work. When he was done, he laid fresh strips of cloth over her back and then knelt beside her again. “You must keep still, Shkaya. Let the wounds heal.” He tried to give her a smile. “Think of them as battle scars.”

She gave as weak an effort in return. “I love you,” she whispered.

“And I love you,” was his reply, just as quiet, as he stretched out his hand and touched her cheek. “I must go now. Ochabu will watch you. Whatever you need…”

Vashka gave another weak attempt at a smile and shooed him with a gentle word, “Go.”

As much as he wanted to linger, Kaious knew the dangers of people knowing he was in her chamber. With a gentle, quick kiss, he left her room, closing the door gently behind him. As he turned away from it to move into the open harem, many of the girls felt their blood go cold at the thunderous look on his face as he glared at them.

“I will have none of you tonight!” he bellowed, shaking off Aeth as she approached him. Then he stalked from the harem and the bang of his chamber doors echoed through the corridors.

= =

Kaious did indeed let his anger be known but he planned it out carefully and portrayed that façade of controlled, cold cruelty that serves best to frighten or at least instill that modicum of fear that grows over time.

He did nothing to punish them but calmly assured them that he was grossly displeased with these proceedings and that he, too, knew the letter of law.

“So, my noble sirs, do not make the mistake of hiding behind the law and keeping me in the dark. I am Kaious. Do not forget. You advance yourselves only through my good graces.”

Grand Vizier Jan’zed bowed in reply. “Of course, Your Excellency. We are merely seeking to protect your royal person and the sanctity of the empire.”

“I am well aware of this, Jan’zed. But, I give you my solemn—and experienced—word that whomever accused the Lady Vashka is a liar. She is a smart woman who values her life, Councilors. She would not attempt something as foolish as trying to poison me,” Kaious warned them, sitting stately upon the golden throne of the Ankai. He saw the look of disgust on Jan’zed’s face when he referred to Vashka as a lady but paid it no mind. “I wish this matter dropped, gentlemen. Now!”

Though much of the law did not depend on him, his word was still law. Once Kaious has expressly forbidden something, it could be pursued no longer. And it wasn’t.

Fiction Moment

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Life is a blinding mix of the mundane and the extraordinary. Extraordinary highs that can soar us above the clouds and extraordinary lows where we are dashed to earth all in an instant. It is the latter that only takes a moment. Years of work, effort, or even love can be cracked and shattered in a moment. It was a such a moment that Denise was experiencing currently.

Denise Riley wrung the dishtowel in her hands, quite unsure of what to do next.  Her life was turned totally upside down and she wanted to just sit and sob. And so she did, her tears dripping onto the thick envelop in her lap.

Her little girl was going to college!

The Curvature of Light

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breast-augmentation

Originally published on The Well Written Woman:

It was the light that woke him, peeking through the curtains and obstinately bright, warming his cheek and winking over his eyelashes. Finally, he acquiesced. Turning over silently in the bed, he found the place next to him cold, only the soft duvet left behind. Opening his eyes, he learnt then that he would thank that overzealous star for waking him so early. He’d never been able to catch her at it, this private pre-morning ritual, and, even now, he remained still so as not to startle the current picture from its frame.

She sat on the upholstered stool of a vintage vanity table, the mirror an oval sheen of silver before her. Luckily, he was just out of its view so he could watch her unimpeded and unnoticed. The sheet from the bed was draped around her form, pooling at her hips and leaving her back bare. Her hair was drawn over her shoulder, coiled from its evening braid, and there was a soft, even sound whispering throughout the room as she drew a brush through the tendrils slowly. But it was her naked back that drew his gaze, perusal, and admiration. Her neck was an elegant pillar, sloping down into graceful shoulders. Her shoulder blade flexed with strength as if she would sprout wings and take flight into the early morning. As she moved, he could see the muscles undulate beneath soft skin, and would openly regard the cunning arc and bowl of her spine, the s-curve of her waist as it arched into the heart of her hips.

It was a picture he wanted to photograph, to paint, to sketch, to do whatever was necessary to preserve a beauty that she never observed in herself, in that side of her that forever followed her. But he knew – knew – that nothing would ever be able to fully capture the sight before him at this moment. It was a fluke that he was even awake to spy such wonder so he just laid there and watched, burning the image and its magnificence into his mind. It was this image that he would call up at the most arbitrary of times, the image that would forever remind him, even on the darkest days, that there is untold beauty in this world that passes by, unbeknownst to most, every single day.

She turned her head and spied him watching. This moment’s spell was broken and another woven in the next when she smiled.

Arsenic Candy (complete)

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Author’s Note: This is quite the departure from any sort of story I’ve ever written, I think. But I enjoy its bite. I finally figured out how to finish this quick-write (only took me four years to do so). Enjoy.

= = =

“I taste arsenic on the back of my throat. Are you trying to kill me again?”

I slowly, gently nudged the brown-glass bottle to the back of the open cabinet in front of my chair with the toe of my shoe. “No,” I said, not moving from my microscope, though I knew my voice carried a bit of five-year-old pout. The sort of pout that you get when something doesn’t go your way but you can’t admit it.

Of course I had been trying to kill him. I had been trying to kill him for years. But it seemed that he had developed a tolerance for rat poison after all the dollops in his morning coffee. Oh, well. Scratch experiment #275 for a failure. Back to the drawing board, I supposed, literally and figuratively.

He just shook his head and looked at me in that contemptuous, pitying way. “You’d do better with ricin,” he commented rather sagely and shuffled over to his lab table.

Who was he to pity me and, moreover, give me advice on how to kill him? It was his fault I was still stuck here, amongst these fumes and biologicals all day long. If he’d simply approve my thesis, I could move on and be done with it. But no.

“I have determined,” as he loved to say, “that your thesis lacks depth, structure, and you need more time to perfect your method of experimentation.”

More tests, more experiments, more data. Evermore data. It had been seven long years, my financial aid was just about dry, the university was dead set on being rid of me, and here was the old geezer pissing time away because he was a lonely, old, sadistic prick.

The place smelled like mothballs and formaldehyde and it clung to me when I left. Even showering with hot water and lemons didn’t get rid of it. That was no way to pick up a girl in a bar or club: smelling like a convalescent home. Once, a girl told me that being with me was like sleeping in a coffin or a morgue. Yeah, that relationship went well, meaning it was blessedly brief and long ago.

I hadn’t had sex in three years. Three damned years with nothing but my own hand for company! Even the macabre girl was good for a roll at least.

So, yes, I was trying to kill him, had been for years. But the old dotard just wouldn’t keel over and die. It was like he had made a deal with the afterlife to be my personal torment here on earth just so long as he could keep living, keeping me from my goals, from even the barest acknowledgement of the scientific community. Because of a foul ordinance of the university that required doctoral candidates to have the signed approval of their supervisor on any article they wished to publish, my professional dossier was empty. Old Crab wouldn’t sign off any even the merest observational report that was intended to leave his lab.

Yes, Old Crab. And he looked the part, too. His eyes were beady and black and glittered in the lights of the old-fashioned Bunsen burners that he insisted on using, scoffing at modern heating plates. His hands were gnarled and he had arthritis so badly that his fingers sort of clamped together most of the time so that he looked to have two claws instead of ten fingers. When he flew into a rage, he turned a bright orangey red. Not even a pinky red like most humans. His skin was so sallow that the red fused into an almost carrotish color when the blood rushed to his face and neck.

I hated this man, hated him with all my gut and being. I was ready, I was done. I wanted to be free. But I was so invested, so in debt, that I couldn’t afford to just walk away. I had to graduate, I had to have at least something to show for my years of servitude. I was so busy stewing in my utter rancor and hatred that I didn’t realize that it had fallen quiet in the lab. It was never quiet. Old Crab was always clanking things together and dropping stirrers and such. So quiet was a curiosity. A curiosity that made me turn around.

And I couldn’t help it. I laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed until I cried. And then I picked up the phone.

They said he died of heart failure due to old age and an extremely carcinogenic habit of particular cigarettes (Weren’t those things banned years ago? He must have eaten them like candy).

Me? All I could think of was the sight of him on the floor, arms and legs splayed out in like a crab that’s been flipped onto its back and stomped on.

Is this what they would call a frabjous day?

NaBoPoMo Day 30: And Here We Are

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With a wonderful way to end a month of blogging. The below is a post on the Facebook page of The Well Written Woman Blog:

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ATTENTION PLEASE! Today is the day to announce our#WritingContest winners! There were so many amazing stories submitted! We definitely have the most talented fans on the internet! Thank you all so much for your submissions!
*drum roll*
The winners are…
1st: And the Pieces Move – Melissa Snyder
2nd: Waking up in 1913 – Holly Bowers
3rd: A Change of Heart – Chelsea Grieve
1st Runner Up: Tigger: A Meowmoir – Anne Lundgren
2nd Runner Up: Dove Sky – Anne Krause
Keep an eye on your inboxes for prizes! Your stories will be published next week!
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*does a happy dance* So awesome! I read that post just after midnight last night and jumped out of bed to do a happy dance. I worked really hard on that short story and thoroughly enjoyed it, and I am so glad that they did, too. I will definitely post a link as soon as it’s published.
Thank you, Well-Written Woman!

NaBloPoMo Day 15: Dreamers’ Caste

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Author’s note: A thought that became an idea and we will see if it continues to grow.

Property of Melissa Snyder

“Dreamers’ Caste”

She was a Dreamer, the lowest of the low. She spun what she had from nothing, the greatest sin ever made against Affluence. What made it ever more the worse was that what she “had” was simple, and it flattered her. Her gowns were unebellished yet they sleekend her form and brought out the spun gold in her hair; her house was small but cozy and homelike; and her food, though staple, always tasted delicious and satisfying. She was an affront to everything Affluent, one of those despicable creatures who managed to be happy just by living their dreams, without the work, the blood, sweat, tears, and money that went into being Affluent.

Beyond and below Vessel’s walls, she could hear the bustle of the Inner City, the seat and bed of Affluence.  The city curls and coils in on itself like a circle maze, the most Affluent in the center, of course, and the Dreamers on the outskirts.  Vessel gathered herbs from her window box, placing them in her basket before returning to her house from the courtyard. Waving her hand, she conjured up a pot from Dreamstuff, the perfect side for the stew that she intended to cook that day. She could place it in the courtyard oven and leave it simmer all day and it would be lovely when she got home. But…first. Gathering up her basket and her wrap, Vessel left the house and made her way along the streets, winding her way to the Bazaar near the Inner City’s center. She could create, yes, but sometimes there was nothing better than old-fashioned, orchard-raised apples.