Writing

The Woman with the Golden Veil

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Picture Credit – http://cdn.klimg.com/fimela.com/resources/sites/default/files/article/2014/09/golden%20veil.jpg

To catch a glimpse of her was to stop and catch your breath in wonder. There was little about her self that was remarkable: lips like raspberries, skin like milk, a simple dress, dark curls of hair. She was plain, but the veil, the veil made her ethereal. It was like sunlight captured, woven, and spun, a resplendent crown upon her dark head, pouring over her shoulders like holy oil. She said not a word, made no move to accept obeisance or the worship surely due someone of so glorious a diadem. She barely raised her eyes from the ground as she walked. Creamy-white feet pad through the dust, from the temple, through the market, to city square and babbling fountain. This water was never drawn, drunk, or even touched. That was what the well in the market was for. This fountain was sacred, like an oasis in the desert. Sacred to Melusina, the water goddess. And this woman was come to read her will. Read it in the current, the ripples, the waves, and the froth. She was the lady of the waters, Melusina’s oracle.

The golden veil cast sunlight shimmers on the water as the oracle took her snowy hands and did the unthinkable: she sank them into the fountain.

Many Thanks!

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In 2014, I published 155 posts/articles here on MWGS, had 2,174 visitors to the site with 3,422 views, 388 likes, and 76 comments. I’ve also had six articles published by The Well Written Woman. This might not seem like a great deal in the long run but it is a HUGE deal to me to make such forward strides with my writing, and I have you folks to thank. So…from the bottom to the top of my heart, thank you! ^_^

The Light Around the Door 2014

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2015 is two days away and I find myself sitting in contemplation of the year gone by. There has been a lot of happening this year, so bear with me as I suss at least some of it out.

Firstly, a huge thank you to you, my readers, for sticking with me over this year and lending me your time, hearts, and minds in your reading of these paper bullets of my brain. I hope you have enjoyed reading this blog as much as I have writing it, however scary it was at times.

One of the most notable occurrences is that I have become a contributor to The Well Written Woman, which has been an absolutely wonderful experience! I have had a fabulous time working with the talented ladies at TWWW. They have allowed me a great freedom in exploring subjects in my writing – fiction pieces, personal writings, works on faith and social matters – and I have greatly enjoyed getting to know co-founder and editor Camicia Bennett. Thanks so much, Cam!

I took college courses for the first time since graduating with my Masters in 2006 and entirely online. I was very nervous about how I would handle it and being a mom at the same time. It was hard work, completing two graduate courses simultaneously in five weeks, very stressful and tiring. But I had amazing help from my in-laws, my parents, and my husband; I found ways to enjoy it; and I succeeded, earning A’s in both classes. A personal triumph and big weight off my back as those grades allowed me to renew my teaching license for the next ten years, should I choose to return to education when Elizabeth heads off to daycare/preschool eventually.

Speaking of Elizabeth, my daughter turned two years old eleven days ago and she is an absolute force of nature. Even my mother had to admit that when she was here to visit. As such, I sometimes do not know what to do with her, but we are doing our best. Our Bizzy is smart and bright, talking more every day. But she is also clever and cunning, though thankfully I am still more so just yet. She is artistic, skilled with anything technological (similar to her mother), creative, fun-loving, energetic, and loves the outdoors. She is also sweet and loving, giving affection to those in her life, tight little hugs and sweet kisses. She loves her Marie (The Aristocats) and Katarina Kittycat (“Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood”) stuffies – they go to bed with her every night – and she is never as happy as she is watching “Daniel Tiger” (unless she is outside exploring). She loves to be read to but will also insist on “reading” to herself. She has started to take her own ‘me time’, climbing into her rocking chair in her room to rock by herself for a little bit with a book, her tablet, or just her stuffed buddies. She may still be little but she has gone from a baby to a little girl in the space of a year, and I am constantly amazed by her.

As I have been writing and also continuing in my position as the wife of a Quaker pastor, I have had the opportunity to sit and think seriously on what I believe and how it affects my life, or how it should affect my life. I am well aware that there are some, or many, who disagree with my faith or even what I believe in particular within that faith. And that is OK; my faith makes sense to me. Lately, I find myself drawn more and closer to its core tenet of “loving others” (Matthew 22:37-40) and “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone” (Romans 12:18). I want to do that: love others in whatever way is needed, whether it is a listening ear, a requested explanation of what I believe, a note to say hello, a little gift, prayer, or just my time. And maybe I can help someone find/experience a little bit of peace, even for a short amount of time. I have learned some wonderful lessons from a writer whom I discovered this year: Lysa TerKeurst. Lysa is a wonderful woman who manages to speak to my heart without ever knowing who I am. Her devotionals, books, and faith-based writings have spoken to my soul as I have worked through several issues in my life this year, and I have taken several of her teachings to heart as I work to build myself an even stronger foundation and keep my emotions from becoming “unglued”. One that has been the closest to my heart this year is a reminder that our feelings are indicators but they do not need to be dictators of our behavior or actions. I can choose to act out of high emotion or I can choose to act and speak out of love, grace, and gentleness. The latter is most definitely what I want in my life, and I have some wonderful examples of these to follow in this.

Always, but especially this past year, I have been astounded by the loving natures and kind hearts of the people in my life. My family and friends are simply amazing! My life is constantly blessed by them and their generous souls. There are days when a card in my mailbox, a text popping up on my phone, an IM chiming on my computer, or even a surprise package waiting for me has been just what I needed, just the uplift and tender touch that my heart and soul required on that day, the thought or those words just what I needed to give me the strength to take another step forward. Even those words were simply, “Hi. I was thinking about you.” So, to them I say, “Thank you!” from the fullness of my heart. You are more than I could have ever dreamt for. You hold lines to my heart and I am so grateful for how gently, honestly, and lovingly you handle them.

As this year’s curtain descends, there are indeed many things that I wish I had done and ever the more that I wish I could do. This year has been full and I am thankful for all I have been able to do, accomplish, and witness this year. I know that this next year will be full of its own miracles and hardships, triumphs and challenges. I look forward to it and am nervous for it, too. But, again, that is life and it continues on apace.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 30: The End is the Beginning

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Here we are at the end of November and the end of NaBloPoMo 2014 (for me, at least). As I sit here on my couch, my newly-downloaded Infinite Rain app filling my ears with rain, thunder, and soft chimes, I find myself stymied as to what I can write to simultaneously sum up this month and move me on to the next. I have enjoyed the exercise and “muscle”-building of writing (or at least posting) something every day and it is a practice that I really want to keep up. I want writing to become a discipline and not just a hobby.

Wordsworth admonished, “Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart,” and I truly feel as though that is what I do when I write. Whether fiction or non, story or reflection, what I write is attached to my heart, breathed of it, part of it. The nonfiction pieces are infinitely scarier to me, though. Those are my personal thoughts, feelings, and opinions. That’s my soul right there, laid wide and bare for anyone – family, friends, stranger, comrades, critics – to read, enjoy, despise, pass judgement, give encouragement, or comment on.

Articles like “Discussing the Other” and “The Weight of Silence”, in their deep vulnerability and honesty, are terrifying to me. They terrify me because of the probability of their divergence from the opinions of others who mean a great deal to me, of striking a heart too hard, or touching a raw nerve, and, therefore, the possibility of their inciting the anger, hurt, or disappointment of those particular people. Even at the age of thirty-one, it is difficult to divest myself of the importance of others’ opinions. My husband once said, “You don’t worry about people not liking you. What worries you far more is someone being upset with you.” And it’s true. Believe me, it isn’t as bad as it used to be. Not that many years ago, I truly think I seriously would have chosen to have my head cut off before allowing others who had known me all my life to see me as less than. Less than perfect, less than what they had always assumed me to be, less than the example that I should be. In order words, I would have rather had the earth swallow me up than take a chance at being vulnerable and see looks of disappointment reflected back at me. I feared it all the time, guarded my vulnerabilities and shortcomings with a frightening vigilance, though, truthfully, probably not as closely as I thought I did. As an adult now, I cannot kid myself in the idea that someone didn’t know, that my mom or dad didn’t see that I wasn’t perfect. And you know what? They loved me anyway. The people who are steadfast in my life always have. They love me no matter my shortcomings, no matter my failings, no matter my vulnerable humanity. And so I write. I write as honestly as I may, speak as I need to, across this medium and others. If the results are negative, then I shall deal with them as they come and, hopefully, consider it practice in graceful reactions and healthy conflict resolution.

I write far better than I speak. In the time that it takes my words to travel from my brain to my fingers to either write or type them out, there seems to be a bit more of a profound filtration system than the path they take from my brain to my mouth. Of course, with writing, there is the benefit of editing and revising before we hit Send, Post, Tweet, Publish, etc. Writing enables me to take extra time before “speaking” to see how my words look before I “say” them and that is a benefit and a boon. I am trying to practice something similar in my verbal conversations, taking necessary moments before speaking from an unglued place. After all, HOW I say something can make or break what I have to say, regardless of how true or honest it might be.

Over the past four and a half years, this blog has become a place for those paper bullets of my brain, my thoughts and wonderings, my heart and soul to be poured out, parsed out, taken apart to be analyzed, and pieced together in a coherent whole. You, gentle reader, have been exceedingly patient with me as I have walked and continue to walk this path of bettering my art and, simultaneously, myself. So thank you for that. And I hope that, even just now and again, I can write something here that will help your heart, harmonize with your voice, and make happy your soul.

Thank you for sticking with me through this National Blog Posting Month, and here is more steps along the path and adventures along the way. Cheers!

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NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 28: The Doll Mage

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Author’s Note: This character creation story was inspired in part by the novel Dollmage by Martine Leavitt and also in part to the late night idea sessions held with my husband for Changeling: The Lost. He wondered aloud how creepy it would be to have an Elemental Manikin who was also a doll-maker. I insisted that, no, she would have to be an Artist and this character’s story began to unravel itself in my brain. A girl who hated dolls who was fated to make them for all time for a cruel master. Not a bad beginning, hm?

= = =

Delilah had a serious Elektra complex. At least that’s what most psychotherapists would say. She adored her step-father with everything that she had (her own father had died in the war just before she was born). Her step-daddy was perfect. Everything he did was perfect. She loved being with her step-father.

Her mother…was a whole different story. People often said that Delilah looked like her mother but a sour look always came over the girl’s face when someone said that. She didn’t like being compared to her mother. Delilah’s mother was a quiet woman who loved dolls. She even made her own dolls and, for Delilah’s 12th birthday, she made a very special little lady. She even made the doll’s beautiful blond curls herself, painted that perfect bow mouth with her own two hands. She sewed the doll’s beautiful purple dress, fashioned her lace and satin hat. When she brought it out to Delilah at the height of the girl’s birthday party, it all fell apart. Delilah despised the doll that her mother had so painstakingly made, throwing it on the ground and insisting that she wanted a Barbie doll, the new line that had just come out recently.

“Not your stupid, old-fashioned doll!” Delilah threw it down again, and, this time, the doll’s delicate porcelain face shattered into pieces on the tile floor.

The party stopped dead, everyone going silent. Delilah just glared at her mother and, quickly, her father hurried her off to open gifts from the other guests. “Come on, Del, honey. Let’s open your other presents.”

Silently, Delilah’s mother gathered up the remains of the shattered doll, trying to hide her tears as she did. What none of them knew was that another set of eyes was watching them. In the shadows of the room, a Drudgeman watched everything. This particular one was called Grange, and he adored Delilah’s mother. He loved her creativity and had helped her with her dolls many a-time, adding charming little touches when she wasn’t looking. The little things that hardly anyone would notice but everyone could appreciate without even really knowing what all they were appreciating.

But this little girl. This little girl angered Grange. Sharon deserved a much better daughter than this, especially since he knew this girl had doll-talent. She despised the gift her mother had given her – both figuratively and literally – and he just would not let that stand.

Off to Arcadia he went, a plan percolating in his mind. He had promised one of the Fae to keep his eyes out for a child with maker-talent. And this child was perfect, he decided. So off Grange trot and the Fae was quite glad to hear of his discovery; they concocted a plan and contracted it.

It wasn’t too long. One night, in the darkness, Delilah disappeared, leaving something else in her place. Something sweet, loving, and just what Sharon deserved.

~ ~ ~

Meanwhile, Delilah was spirited off into Arcadia, where she kicked and screamed and hollered all the way in Grange’s grip. Used to humans, he didn’t have issue with it but the Fae that he delivered her to found it most annoying. He commanded her to be quiet. Of course, Delilah didn’t. She, in return, demanded that she be allowed to go home to her father. She wanted her daddy!

Finally, the Fae had had enough. Pulling out an ebonite needle and black widow thread, he held Delilah fast and savagely sewed her mouth shut. “Now you will listen, willful sprite. I have brought you here for a reason. You have maker-talent, doll-talent, and you will use it for me.”

A smile split his face then. A smile like the one she had seen in her storybooks, the scary ones. “You don’t understand. Of course you don’t.” He waved his hand, opening a window of sorts. In it, she could see her father and mother together in the living room…with her. Or at least what looked like her. The little girl was cradling a doll just like the one that Sharon had made for her birthday. She actually seemed to like the stupid thing and Sharon was all smiles. Dad was behind a newspaper, glancing at them every now and again with a little smile of his own.

No! That wasn’t her! It wasn’t real! She could see it for what it was. A doll of cobbled together yarn, Caymanite eyes, and a poison ivy smile. It wasn’t real!

“See? You have one. And you will make those…fetches…for others. You are not a toy. You are a tool, a worker, a means to an end. Nothing more. If you do not do what I say, I will kill you, and that thing will stay in your place forever. Do you understand?”

Delilah had to admit that she did not understand. But, honestly, that she didn’t understand really didn’t matter all that much. The Master-Maker took her into a workshop and plunked her down into a chair amidst sundry tools and materials. Delilah looked around helplessly, wringing her hands and her lips working against the painful stitches.

The Master-Maker smiled over her, grasping her hands. His skin singed her, leaving red, swollen marks on her hands. “Oh, you’ll know what to do. You are the daughter of a maker; you have the maker-talent, the doll-talent, in your hands.” The storybook smile split his lips again and, releasing her, he exited the room. Before he shut her away in the dark for no one knew how long, she barely caught sight of Grange the Drudgeman beyond the door. He gave her a triumphant, leering look, wiggling deformed fingers at her before the door slammed to.

~ ~ ~

Over the next forty-four years (at least it was that many in the human world), Delilah worked for the Master-Maker, creating fetches for those mortals that he stole away from the real world and into Arcadia. He was sickeningly right; looking at each helpless person that entered his hold, she knew exactly what to do. Each fetch bore her own special touch. A smear of honey for a smile here. A porcupine’s heart there. Kitten fur for hair on this one. A pug’s tail for a nose on that one.

Delilah began to age as well. But slowly, oh so slowly. To grow three inches took a decade. To age a year felt like a lifetime.

After not too long, the Master-Maker began to bring other Fae to see her handiwork and they marveled over her maker’s-talent. Soon, he began to contract her services out to other True Fae.

Delilah made hundreds, maybe thousands of fetches over the decades. It became rote for her. Her fingers moved and made of their own volition; she hardly had to look at what she was doing. The Master-Maker had long ago taken out her stitches, and she had never screamed again.

Before she had begun working, however, the Master-Maker had contracted someone else to “make her more efficient”. His name was Vincent.

He put corset lacings in her back to make her sit up straight and keep her from becoming bowed from sitting at the workbench. He took away the color in her eyes and made them dark, empty, cold, and capable of absorbing the very soul of person in order to make their fetch. Her skin paled away in the darkness. But Vincent, at the Master-Maker’s command, left the red burns on her hands from his touch to forever mark them. The stitch-scars stayed as well. While she was to become a fetch crafter, Vincent, she discovered, was a crafter of changelings. They worked together several times after that, but she never spoke to him. Nor he to her.

The Master-Maker only came to her when he had a new commission or a new catch for himself. He called her his “maker” or his “tinker”. So that’s what she now calls herself: “Tink Maker”.

~ ~ ~

One night, many years later, a fresh new mortal was brought into Tink’s workshop. She lifted her head from whatever she was working on and cleaned off her workbench silently. The Master-Maker dropped the mortal in front of Tink’s workbench and, as though distracted by something, he turned for the door. Tink raised her head; he’d never left her alone with one of them before.

“This one’s owner is being fractious about the cost. I shall return shortly.”

He slammed the door to behind him and Tink took her long, black, soulless look at the new mortal. Not really seeing them so much as feeling them, sensing them out, after forty-some years. Finally, silently, Tink turned towards her supply cabinet, pulling things out to make this one’s fetch.

“What are you doing?” came a trembling female voice. The mortal.

Tink didn’t reply, only brought the supplies to her bench and began to work silently.

“How can you work for them? How can you do this?” The scared voice turned accusatory. Silence fell again. The mortal tried another tack. “You…you used to be human, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

Tink didn’t answer. She never answered. She just worked. It kept her safe. It kept her from getting her mouth sewn shut again.

“Please! Please, let me go! I want to go home. I have a husband, a daughter…please! I want to go home. I want to run in the woods with my daughter, walk on the beach with my husband. Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember what it was like? To see the sun, feel its warmth? It’s so cold here.”

Tink struggled to keep her eyes on her work but found them trailing up to look at the woman. She almost gasped. This time, she saw her. Actually saw her. And the woman looked like…like her mother. Same silky gold hair, same big blue eyes – now swimming with tears.

“Please! I have a little girl. A gorgeous little girl. She loves dolls; I have to make her a new one for her birthday.”

Mama! Tink looked down at her hands in horror at the half-finished fetch on her bench. Hay for hair, a porcelain heart, robin’s blood for the mouth. She’d been making her own mother’s fetch!

With a cry, Tink stood and dashed the half-made fetch to the floor! Tears began to stream from her eyes. Her own mother! Turning to the frightened woman, she approached her, hand out.

But the woman’s look turned frantic as she fully saw the black, empty eyes and the stitch-scarred face. “No! Stay away from me!” she cried, afraid that the creature was just about to tear her apart as well. Still Tink reached for her.

She had so much to tell her. That she was sorry, that she loved her, that she missed them both. All of a sudden, the door slammed open and the terrifying face of the Master-Maker stared down at her! His quick eyes took in her closeness to the mortal as well as the ruined fetch on the floor.

“What are you doing? Why aren’t you finished yet?” he demanded.

Tink shook her head. “You can’t have her! Take her back! I won’t…I won’t make her replacement!” Her voice felt heavy, gravelly after not being used for so long. “I won’t let you take my mother!”

Tears streamed down the woman’s face and the Master-Maker’s own split into that storybook villain smile. “Your mother? Oh, my dear little tinker, no. This isn’t your mother.” He yanked the woman to her feet. “This, my little maker, is your sister. She is the spitting image of your mother, though, isn’t she?”

Then his face fell, darkened, became terrifying once more. “Do you have any idea what your stupidity has cost me? Finish it or you will find yourself, and her, in most dire straits. Servants can be replaced, after all!” With that, he yanked the woman away, through the door, slamming it to before Tink could get near it.

“No! Let her go! Let her go! Please! Don’t hurt her! Sister! Sister!” Tink screamed until her voice was raw and banged on the door until her hands bled. But there was no answer but the woman’s screams. They were changing her, transforming her, just like they had done to Tink.

Suddenly, the slot in the door opened. “Hear that, my little tinker?” the Master-Maker asked, as a particularly painful scream rippled through the halls. “Every moment you dally, the worse it becomes for her. Her pain is on your plate. Enjoy it.” The slot slammed shut.

Tink didn’t have a choice. The longer she refused, the harder they would make sure the transformation was for her sister. Falling into silence again, she stooped to gather up the remains of the fetch, sat at the workbench again and, amidst streaming tears, she let her fingers work.

As soon as she put the finishing touches on the fetch, the door opened again and in swept the Master-Maker. He said not a word to Tink but grabbed up the fetch doll and exited the room once more.

Tink felt a great weight settle on her shoulders and she fell forward onto her workbench and sobbed and sobbed.

After that, Tink’s talent began to wane, become shoddy and lackluster. The Master-Maker was displeased, to say the least. His reputation was suffering because of her worsening work. He sewed her mouth shut again when she verbally refused, burned her hands again when she physically refused.

It went on and on. When her work was less than desired, the Master-Maker punished her for the fall in his reputation. Day after day Tink lay in the dark, unsure of whether or not she would survive her next punishment. He was becoming more and more savage when he punished her and she was becoming more and more reckless in her refusals. The stitches had stayed in this time, the burns making her hands ache.

Tink does not know to this day exactly how she escaped. All she can remember is that a mortal lost their life in the process as she fled the Master-Maker’s mansion. And she…she somehow tumbled out of the hedge, scarred, scratched, bleeding, mouth still stitched, into the wilds of Nowhere, Indiana.

Now her story starts all over again.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 21: How Things Are Below

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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 19: Black and Cream

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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 13: Corner Table

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‘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.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 11: The Shadow In My Window

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“Once Upon a Time” Peter Pan Art by and Property of Lehanan – http://lehanan.deviantart.com/

Inspired by and based on J.M. Barrie’s creation Peter Pan and Wendy.

= = =

When that shadow showed up at my window, I knew instantly what it was. Part of me didn’t want to let it in, but how can you keep a shadow out? I knew what it heralded. I knew who was coming. And what he was coming for. He was coming for me.

I had done something very foolish. No, very stupid. Everyone with a mind knew that a story wasn’t just a story. There was always something behind those fictions, something real. And he was. He was real. Pan. Barrie had conveniently left out the part about Pan also being an ancient Greek god, represented as a man, forever young, tripping and traipsing and stealing away young women for his enjoyment. I didn’t find that out until later, until after I had done my something stupid.

I had called him. I offered him my voice, since he couldn’t hear mermaids sing or fairies talk. I offered him my breaths to count by, as his days are but one endless summer. I offered him my memories to tell him endless stories. I offered him my heart since he doesn’t know love.

I had offered my life, myself, not to an ageless child bent on fun, but to the god of eternal summer. Peter Pan. Puck. Robin Goodfellow. I had given myself to the oldest of the Old Ones. And now he came to collect. I was to turn sixteen the next day. Age of consent. The beginning of adulthood. And, tonight, his shadow showed up at my window, slipped beneath the brace, and sat itself at the foot of my bed. Its master was soon to follow, stepping through a window that opened to admit him as if glad to see him arrive.

I could smell sunshine in his wake, leaves and salt spray on the wind that brought him to my room. He crouched there on the windowsill. He had eyes like flint, a mouth set in a line that would make even a smile look grim.

And, eventually, he did smile with hand outstretched, a voice lilting yet ancient. “Are you ready to fly? Just think a little happy thought and it will be over quick as winking.”

The shadow loomed and I felt cold. All I could do was stare past him to those stars, just as cold but ever bright. Second to the right and straight on to the light.

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.