Fitting the Mask


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.

Weary Whelming


Sorry about my absence, my dears. Life has been fast and fierce of late. We visited my family for a week and a half and, in the middle of our trip, my classes started. In order to renew my teaching license, I have to take six credits worth of continuing education. Therefore, I am in week two of two five-week graduate courses – Comparative Education and Development of Creative Thinking. It’s been eight years since I graduate with my Masters and I haven’t taken any college/graduate courses since then, so I am feeling more than a bit overwhelmed at the intensity of these courses.

So I will try to write and update as often as I can, but, until these classes are over, I just wanted to give you a heads up that it might be intermittent at best.

Thanks for your patience, my dears. ^_^

Missing the Thrill


She feels strange, standing here, in a dress instead of her silks, heels instead of boots, and, instead of a helmet, a hat more complex than a gig harness. She feels like a fool, all truth be told. The running of the Belmont Stakes and here she is, on the sidelines. Her muscles are amazingly relaxed and loose. Perhaps it’s being here, on the track, the scent of the dirt rising into her nostrils, mingled with the scent of the horses that will run it. They aren’t even in the gate yet but she can smell them, she can hear their nickering, the stomp and thud of hooves, and feel the ripple of muscles as they are loaded into the gate. She can practically feel Winchester moving and shifting beneath her, his muscles coiled, ready to run.

She had fought, bit, and clawed her way into that gate. She had been good, too. One of the best. Winchester’s Country Gentleman had never run better than when she was his jockey. She misses it, all of it. She misses walking him around the paddock, over the track. She misses counting out her eight pairs of goggles and layering them just so atop her helmet. She even misses the taste of dust in her throat.

Then, in the back of her memory, there comes the thunder of the track, the world tilting to the left, and the scream that haunts her dreams even now. But while she’s here…she can forget, at least for a little while, ironic though it might seem.

She smiles, hearing the bugle peel out over the Stakes, signaling the race is about to get underway. Turning from the fence, she begins to make her way up to the stands, though she moves slowly. Prosthetic legs and heels, a far cry from her jockey boots.

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


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.

= =

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.

Reading my Soul


I had a thought today, as I was driving, about how I write. I pictured reaching into myself, taking my soul in my hands, and turning it around, examining it. Sometimes I feel like Quorra in Tron: Legacy, watching Flynn draw out a corrupted line of her code to examine the damage. I draw out lines within my soul and it is from these bits and pieces, these lines and stories, that I write.

As I write, I take my soul in my hands, its glowing orb warm and pulsing with my own heartbeat, strong and delicate at the same time. It is the heart of me, the seat of my being, everything that makes me me. When I am done here, I will put my soul away until it is filled with inspiration and bids me take it out and turn it over again.

The Coquette’s Curl


Kiera Knightley in “The Duchess”

Her hair was the golden brown of the most perfect loaf of bread, coiffed flawlessly into a mass of curls where each had its place. Except for the two glossy ones that coiled over her shoulders. The tendrils flirt with her collarbone  and the expanse of soft skin between her pearls and the Brussels lace edging the square, low neckline of her gown.

Her gown is simple but flattering, the cunning little chapeau gracing her head modest in its decoration, but those ringlets, they beckon like a siren on a sea-swept rock. They dare one to capture them and twist one around your finger to feel its glossy smoothness, smell the soft fragrance of spring peonies that has been captured there.

It is not the girl but the curl that draws you in, that captures your interest. The curls, they are the true coquette.

A Storm’s Moment


The moment has passed and the storm with it (I was driving through most of it), but this is what came to mind as the sky darkened and the rain fell.

= = =

Today is raining, today is storming.

Today is cuddle time.

Today is game day.

Today is sexy time.

Today is candle glow and a good book.

Today is silence, a notebook, and pen.

Today is the patter of rain marking a beat for your mind,

Taking your heartbeat with it.

Fiction Moment


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!

Not the End of the Story


1491606_624325770975867_589373496_n What is the part of the story that most readers fear/enjoy most?  That’s right: the end. Sometimes, the end of the story is satisfying, with all the ends tied up in a way that makes sense and gives a feeling of closure to the tale. Sometimes, the ending leaves us wanting to tear our hair out and going, “WTH did you just DO?!” But something that all of us realize throughout the reading of the book, – the ones that are the most impactful, the most life-changing – is that it’s not the end until the end. So when the characters, such as Eleanor of Aquitaine in Alison Weir’s Captive Queen, are going through hell, we as the readers know that it’s not the end, not yet. So we keep reading. We don’t just stop, because the bad times are not the end of the story.

That was the sentence with which I began my week: Bad times or wrong things are not the end of the story. I was sitting in church, this past Sunday, letting my brain and heart work back over the past few weeks, searching the Bible for guidance and encouragement. Honestly, I felt a bit downcast and distraught. But, then, during open worship, a member of our church stood and said something extraordinary that has stuck with me all week. She said that she was so thankful that the bad times or the wrong things that happen to us are not the end of the story. We don’t have to give up because we aren’t at the end yet and we can trust God to carry us through. And that lodged itself in my heart and has stuck there all week. I emailed her that evening to tell her thank you for sharing, that what she said what just what my heart needed to hear, to be reminded of.

A few days later, the above picture showed up in my Facebook newsfeed, posted by a friend. I couldn’t help but smile and say to myself, “I guess this is my theme this week. Bad times are not the end of the story.” And I found myself using that phrase over and over again throughout the week in attempts to encourage others who have been having a rough time. It’s not the end of the story. You’re not done in yet. Just hold on, hang on. Just a few more pages, a few more chapters. The story is not done. Choose each day to end the story as well as you can. End well. That is another phrase that kept popping up in my life this week. The story is not done, you can choose how the next chapter looks. Yes, there will be things in our lives that throw us for a loop, hurt our hearts, and oppress our minds. But we can still choose to write the next pages well, even if it is just in little ways – choosing to give a smile, asking someone else how they are doing and trying to give an encouraging word, spending some time in the sunshine. Little things, day-by-day choices, words on the page. Words add up to sentences, sentences to pages. Bad times are not the end of the story. Keep going. It’s not the end. Not yet.

The Curvature of Light


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.