All she had were the clothes she was wearing and two dogs. Yet, she was happy. She left her fiancé’s mansion before dawn and had set out with his two greyhounds down the road that ran a few miles from the back of his property. The blizzard was actually a blessing; the wind hid her tracks and obscured her figure escaping via the side of the road.
Although feeling free was a cliché, that was how she felt. There was a small fear driving her, but by noon she had realized he wasn’t going to follow her. She was hungry, but glad for some sort of primal motivation apart from the concentrated, benign lifestyle that she had been through. It was refreshing to live off of the actual land.
Though her first night was yet to come, she felt good, cold, and satisfyingly achy. The dogs would help keep her warm and hopefully find some sort of food. She headed off the road and made her way to thicker fields. Nature as her protector, she didn’t mind the numb feeling in her feet and hands. She knew she wasn’t going to die and she continued. Where: she didn’t know.
Author’s comments on post 355: I wanted to write about something other than relationships, so you get this. Another tomorrow.
They found it in the middle of the woods one midnight that neither could sleep. Neither one knew each other before that night, but by necessity they became friends. She had been crying in her room and angrily snuck out the window; he had been fighting tears and took a walk to find a private place to cry. They ended up finding the exact same spot of the forest.
It wasn’t chance, something had led them there. She was driven by the sound of a familiar voice and he had been driven by the sound of silence. They both saw light but it was only when they reached the clearing that the saw the creature.
It looked like a small rock, but then it unfolded and became something between a dragon and a ki-rin. It turned its head and the glittering eyes on either side of its head happened to see them both at once. It thought that the two were its parents and tried to follow them both home. Confused when the two people bolted opposite ways it let out a heart-wrenching cry that brought both she and he back to the baby creature. The two met and arranged a plan for their newfound child, shook hands, and walked back to their respective houses.
Leaves fell, snow drifted and melted, buds grew and blossomed and the cycle repeated for five years. They managed to keep it a secret until the creature got too big. Once it was the size of a pony and frustrated by keeping its wings too close to its body, they drove across the country to the desert. She was crying, but he held his resolve. The creature in the back was confused, but knew something was wrong.
He stopped the car at the edge of a canyon. They wouldn’t be observed as they led the creature out of the car and let it flap its wings. Then once they were sure it had gotten the hang of that, they pushed it off the edge of the canyon.
Angry squawking met their actions, but they both persevered, getting closer to each other than they had ever been in five years. Finally they won, the creature fell of the edge and by inherent survival instinct flew away.
He started crying and she held his hand as she watched the creature keep flying away. Then they ran back to the car and drove back. After that, they never really saw each other again.
Author’s comments on post 354: I’m undecided about whether or not I like this one, but I’m going to publish it anyway. I’m not sure about the style and tone although I like the small details in character actions and growth, despite being matter-of-fact. Thoughts and critiques are appreciated. Hopefully another post tomorrow.
Ours was a world of pseudo gods. No one knew how these people came about—or rather why they were born—but it seemed that any wish anyone had would be personified in these supernatural beings. They looked just like everyone else; including varying shades of skin color, personality, charisma, gender, and sexuality. It was the legends and rumors associated with them that made them unique. Every so often someone would claim to be one, but their charade wouldn’t hold up to the claim and the imitators stopped trying.
First was the Key Master. She first appeared among black market rumors. The law enforcing officers hated her because criminals could run loose with merely a good word from someone in the know. Her appearance remained unknown because no one outside the criminal market would realize it was her, but she was infamous, none-the-less.
Her claim to fame was in fashioning keys. She possessed two keys to every single lock in the world. Whether she had informers give her copies, she fashioned them herself, or both, it didn’t matter. For every lock, she held the key and maintained her monopoly by an intricate web of trust and intuition.
Then came the Weather Maker. He was less human in his qualities, though more famous. A flamboyant figure, he never hid his ability to predict and control the weather. His visage was well known as he assumed he had nothing to hide and seemed to always let people know who he was and take advantage of it.
Then following him, the Story Teller. For every tale there was to tell—fictitious or fact—the Storyteller knew it. Truth never eluded him and people would be frightened of everything he knew if he wasn’t so charismatic.
Then came several others—real and pretend—before the trend died away. But the world had changed with these new beings walking among mortals and the potential for their powers were yet to be imagined.
Author’s comments on post 353: Hey something in the fantasy category! Seems like I’ve just been writing realistic fiction, so something new. I’ve had the Key Maker and Story Teller in my head of a while, but in seperate spheres and I thought "Why not combine them?" and the story just flowed out on its own. I’m quite pleased with the premise and I might add on to it at a later date (but no promises).
In other news: I go on break in 2 weeks and I’m hoping to plan and start writing a short story based on a science fiction piece I did a while ago. I have new plans for it and I hope that to publish sometime in March. If I don’t get around to it then, I’ll have it in May or June.
Exactly a year ago, I had been sitting in my high school’s student commons when heard the news that a good friend of mine had passed away. She was seventeen years old and died from an ordinary flu. I was numb, although I didn’t know it. We had to perform—by obligation and personal necessity—at a vocal jazz festival in a city several hours south of us the next morning. I pushed away my tears to be stronger for the group, though I felt that I was the only one making a concerted effort to put forth as much positive energy to the audience. It’s hard to make an audience want to get up and dance when you’re noticing that hole in your heart and your midst.
At the funeral, I cried. I didn’t want to cry as much as I did, but everything came tumbling out from places in my soul I didn’t know existed. Afterwards, I felt numb again. I don’t think this was all acceptance, a part of me still tears up when I think about all her opportunities lost. Occasionally I’ll find myself thinking existentially about life and death and whether or not I am doing justice in how I remember her.
Today, I needed a moment of reflection. I cut a long piece of blue ribbon and set out for the gardens on campus. I reached the carillon and started down the hill behind it; I picked a tree that felt like the right one, and tied the ribbon around it. Then I slowly walked back to campus, in a roundabout fashion. My path took me down the canal in the back of campus and then up a set of stairs to where the academic buildings sat stoically. I watched the reflection in the canal and the sun between the trees. Part of me wished she could have the opportunity to enjoy her own experience in college—probably that same part that wondered whether or not I was doing enough to preserve the sanctity of her memory. As I watched the geese fly noisily from their perch on the water, past the bridge and into the sky, I resolved that it didn’t matter what I did as long as I was satisfied. She no longer cared and even if she did, would never know my thoughts. For however long that ribbon stays tied to the tree, I’ll be happy. Thinking back, I shouldn’t have tied it in a knot before the bow, so that the birds could easily untie it and use it in their nests, but letting go is really what this whole day is about.
I don’t think we—myself and her other friends—could possibly forget what a beautiful, unique person she was, but I only let her guide me to do my best and to live each of my days up to my full potential instead of dwelling on the tragedy of her death. We never know what the future brings, but we can make the best of the present while we can. Even though I know she’ll never read this I have to say: Rest in peace, Marie. We all miss you.
Author’s comments on post 352: Obviously, self-explanatory since it is biographical. Originally I was going to write an ode, but I only got so far before I had to give up. This came out much more freely. I wish she could have gotten her wish of being an opera singer, but I suppose my bass and I will just have to do that for her. I have something more hopeful and interesting planned for tomorrow, but today, I had to get this off my chest.
He strangely enjoyed watching her put on her makeup and she didn’t mind him watching her fix her reflection from the bed where he could get an equally good view of the mirror.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked as she applied mascara to her already long and lush lashes.
“I can’t help thinking this guy isn’t good enough for you.”
“Sam, he’s a sweetheart and very chivalrous. I thought that was all you wanted for me.”
“Dani, you deserve someone with more than politeness and charm. There’s not a flaw in his person and that bothers me.”
She smiled and winked at him. “Since when did you become my brother?”
He shook his head, but smiled back. “I just don’t want this guy to hurt you.”
“Sometimes that’s what we have to go through. I appreciate the concern, but everyone gets hurt sometimes.”
“All right, you win.”
“Damn straight,” she said before putting on her favorite shade of lipstick. She sighed and stood up, adjusting her clothes over her full frame. She looked good anyway, but the nervous fidgeting was just part of the routine.
“How do I look?” she asked, keeping her eyes fixed on her profile in the mirror.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“You look lovely,” he said getting up. “I’d better go before your date gets the wrong idea.”
She grabbed his arm before he left the room and gave him a hug. “I’ll tell you how it goes when I see you tomorrow.”
“You’d better,” he said. “I expect all the dirty details.”
She almost laughed, but instead maintained a wide smile. He could tell that she was focusing more on impressing her guest than on him. That was the way it was supposed to be. And even though he wasn’t sure about the gentleman she was dating, he thought the man was one lucky fellow. Nervous, he descended the stairs and after wishing her luck, got it his car and drove home.
Author’s comments on post 351: Hi all! Yes, I’m back to the land of the not-so-overworked-and-underpaid. I went on a trip to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico so my absense was due to preparations and vacation. But I’m back and determined to continue doing ten minutes. I really like this one, though, so I suppose the break was actually beneficial. I hope this makes up for me missing Valentine’s Day.
The sun reached between the large houses lining the street and cast their faces in shadow. Elizabeth watched it rise and lighten the sky with every passing minute. Finally, a figure exited out of the house in front of her and ran across the street to where she was waiting. Once the figure was closer, Elizabeth confirmed that it was her friend, Anna, impeccably dressed with sopping wet hair.
“I’m sorry,” the newcomer said breathlessly, “it’s hard to wake up at a particular time without using an alarm clock.”
“Let’s go,” was the reply Elizabeth gave and then led Anna down the perpendicular street to where her car was parked.
“I don’t like all this secrecy,” Anna said once inside the vehicle. “I think we should just let people know.”
“You know as well as I do that your parents will flip when you tell them you’re gay.”
“Or maybe I think they will because I’m afraid they will and they won’t. This is getting harder and harder to keep from them and if my mom wakes up early and I’m not there, I’m screwed.”
“We’ll be fast. I just want to show you something.”
“Provided we don’t get a speeding ticket first.”
Finally, they reached the beach where Elizabeth first met Anna. The colors of the sunrise were greatly faded and just barely in the sky, but the reflection of the morning sun on the gentle waves was beautiful enough to make up for it.
“Happy anniversary,” Elizabeth said.
“You, too,” Anna said, smiling, “Now take me back home before my parents wake up.”
Author’s comments on post 350: Something very different from me today. I thought I’d venture out of my box for once. Hopefully something tomorrow.
Justice no longer has a blindfold and even scale. Her sword is blood stained and her eyes can see and the scale she holds are even just to maintain the illusion that she’s fair, although she’s anything but. I know it’s a very angry, but poetic interpretation of our beloved symbol, but I have had a lot of time to work out my opinion on the subject. I used to be a lawyer, now I work a nine-to-five in a generic office. I haven’t had the urge to go back, not since that trial.
I was already very vested in the case. My sister was on trial for something she didn’t commit; fingerprint evidence was non existent and every clue was placed so precisely that it was obviously placed to frame her. A less corporeal feeling that my sweet, altruistic, endearing little sister could not possibly have killed three people was perhaps clouding my judgment, but I considered that evidence even though it was almost impossible to use in court (though if Atticus could do it in To Kill a Mocking Bird then I could as well). Yet, the jury could not be swayed and she was sentenced to lethal injection.
Months after her death the killings started again; it was deemed work of a serial killer and the hunt started again. They might have found the criminal, but you never know these days. I received an official apology in the mail, but it’s just an empty gesture to replace something they can never give back.
I knew the judicial system was flawed when I entered law school, yet I could never figure out how corrupt and judgmental it was until that point. I couldn’t keep working for it because every man and woman I saw was innocent and wrongly accused even when the facts lined up. Logic no longer drove my arguments and most importantly, I had no desire to continue practicing law.
What can you do when dreams are shattered? I hold my pride and stay away from the subject. It’s not that I prefer anarchy or to have no system at all for such things, but I feel that in the scheme of the future, Justice is just a pretty face among a row of partners who destroy her.
Author’s comments on post 349: I don’t remember where this came from; I have a vague impression that this might have stemmed from a conversation about Dexter, but I’m not certain. Regardless, here it is.
“Who is she?” the little boy asked Daniel pointing to a framed photograph on the wall.
Daniel turned from the canvas he was painting and followed the boy’s finger before quickly answering. “No one. She’s nobody.”
Daniel knew that wouldn’t keep the boy’s curiosity for long, but for the moment the boy was surprisingly quiet. A moment passed before he said:
“Does she have something to do with the lady who left me here?”
“I don’t know,” Daniel said. “And I mean it. Stop pestering me with questions of that social worker who brought you here.”
There was another pause and then the boy said:
“You’re lying. That lady isn’t nobody. Who is she?”
Daniel sighed. “My late wife.”
“Late?”
“She died.”
“Oh.” Silence and then, “she was very pretty. What was her name?”
“Margaret.”
“How’d she die?”
“In a plane accident. She was a pilot in the war and her plane was shot down.”
The boy didn’t answer. Daniel continued painting in silence carefully outlining the figure in front of him with a thin line of light. He didn’t want to be thinking about Margaret, but now his mind would go nowhere else. She was such a strong individual it put him to shame, but yet, she was tender when she wanted to be and it was when she wasn’t thinking about work that he loved her the most. When she died, he felt more empty than anything until the funeral and occasionally it would hit him how fragile life was and how much he missed her. The days always passed more slowly when such moods took over.
Then there was the matter of the boy. A woman had knocked on his door several months ago and introduced herself as a social worker and claimed that this boy was his nephew, now orphaned with no other kin. But Daniel didn’t have siblings and he found it unlikely that Margaret’s entire family would be gone that he had to take care of the child. It was a peculiar situation and after a quick DNA test, he surmised that he was in no way related to the boy by blood. Yet, he didn’t want to turn the child out on the street, so he thought the boy could stay regardless of the unusual clarity of questioning the boy seemed to have for his age of seven and the even more unusual understanding he seemed to have of situations that Daniel even considered out of his grasp.
The stool the boy was sitting on creaked as he fidgeted. Daniel knew that was his cue to clean up his paints. He glanced at the little figure that waited patiently for him to finish. Once cleaned up, he lead the boy upstairs and fed him lunch. Daniel sat down across from him and watched quietly contemplating.
Author’s comments on post 348: I’ve been very busy these last few days and been doing my best to write every day. This doesn’t mean I necessarily get a chance to edit what I’ve written and publish it within a timely manner. Bare with me and trust that I am writing and I will post more than three posts this month.
She checked her watch. If dancing and the necessity of quick costume changes had taught her anything, it was changing clothes fast. She was particularly pleased with the thirty seconds it took her to change into an almost entirely new person.
She walked out the stage door and then took her time to saunter to her car. After doing an entire show, her feet hurt to walk in heels, but the image had to stand before her comfort. Once she was in the safety of her car, she pulled out a scrap of paper from the glove compartment and memorized the address. Then, she rolled it up into a ball and flicked it to the floor of the passenger’s side before turning up the radio and pulling into traffic.
She loved Chicago traffic; it was much more natural than New York’s. She arrived at her destination in no time (fifteen minutes ahead of schedule) and remained in the car applying a more natural amount of make-up until a man in a dark suit walked past her car and through the gate of the apartment building in front of her. She got out and walked up to him.
“Mr. Tillens?” she said sweetly.
He turned around quickly. “Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Elizabeth Kennedy,” she lied, extending her hand, “we spoke on the phone?”
“Oh yes,” he answered nervously. “I guess you can just follow me.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t buzz your apartment but I arrived early.”
“That’s all right.”
He led her up a few flights of stairs, into his hallway and then to the kitchen where they both sat down across from each other.
“Well, Mr. Tillens—”
“Mark is fine.”
“Mark, I called following up a business proposition you received. You see,” she said pulling out a gun from her purse. “your blackmailer was getting impatient with the rate at which you paid your bills and I’m afraid that you had your last warning.”
She shot the gun and with the silencer managed to make just enough noise to imitate something falling to the floor. She went through the cupboards until she found the pots and pans and moved them around noisily as if someone was pulling them out to cook. Then she found her way to the door and let herself out to where her car was waiting on the street.
It wasn’t glamorous work, but it paid the bills and it would certainly still support her when she was washed out from dancing. It always helped to have an insurance plan.
Author’s comments on post 347: I have such a busy week that I wrote this late last night and just got time to publish it now. I’m hoping to get in ten minutes before I go to sleep tonight and publish that tomorrow. A bientot!
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Needed tape to put him back together again.
And when they did, the doctors of the land
Were sent to give Humpty’s health a hand.
And when Humpty was as good as new once more
Humpty always made sure to sit on the floor.
So what’s the lesson you should take?
Always learn from your mistake.
Author’s comments on post 346: Er, well…this is something silly that I came up with after trying to do something respectable. Think of it what you will, and I’ll be back tomorrow with hopefully something worth while.
