Onion stumbled backwards and landed uncomfortably on her back and dropped the rock. Dazed, she looked up to the skies, to the roof of the mountain and thought for a moment about how fine a night it was for star gazing. Yet when she tried to inhale her lungs remained defiantly deflated, having had the breath knocked from them.
But there was no time to recover.
Cedric rushed upon her once again and was sure to hit his prone target if she continued searching the stars and gasping for breath. Lungs burning with atrophied disuse, she nonetheless willed her lethargic muscles to roll down the slope as Cedric's bladed fist swooped down. On her knees again, she tried to regain her composure, but the quick acting Cedric would give Onion no respite. A swift kick to her cheekbone nearly found its destination when Onion summoned the last of her strength, ducking the blow and forcing her aching body forward, head and shoulders down. She tackled her assailant, crashing into his abdomen. The two of them fell to the ground in a muted thud.
Nearby, the tents of the other leper travelers rustled as their occupants scurried in to be away from the commotion. Onion was too focused on her own battle to pay them much heed, but Cedric's eye darted towards his reluctant audience for a moment.
In the half second Cedric's surprise took him off guard, Onion made a grab for his blade. The pale man was too fast however, and he tightened his grip on the weapon before burying it into the thieving arm. Onion howled as she felt the steel part flesh and muscle. Again she cried when the dagger was pulled out again and her leper's bandages bloomed into a deep crimson.
He means to kill me she acknowledged to herself for the first time, but I will not give him that honor. Before the blade could be inserted into her throat as easily as it had been in her arm, Onion scrambled and pushed the man hard in the sternum. He was just out of reach now, but it gave Onion a chance to collect herself.
Again, he lunged at her, stabbing the hostage blade forcefully, but Onion would not flee his advancement this time. She stepped swiftly to the side, placing her hand around the attacking wrist. Using his own momentum, she pulled him off balance, then twisted his hand backwards, causing the dagger to fall to the ground with a clink, which she recovered quickly. But what will a blade do but kill? I cannot incapacitate him. she thought, I must kill him. I will try to make this quick for him.
Without remorse, she prepared to stab Cedric's unguarded back when the sound of someone running to her gave her pause and a black form in the night rushed to knock her over. Onion avoided the figure but her opportunity to end the conflict had passed. Cedric was up on his feet again and prepared to defend himself. His eyes, however, were focused entirely on the small woman dressed in bluish black who had just come from a small cluster of nearby trees.
The figure breathed heavily, exhausted from her sprint from the arbor-borne darkness and she cast a long shadow against the firelight. But Onion recognized her for who she was, nonetheless.
Of course it was a foolish thought to ever consider that Gregor, as a bei'thal, would have trusted the two of them to follow his instructions under duress. That two death-row escapees, denied the homes they so longed to return to, could be trusted to travel alone to a strange and foreign city would be a leap of faith that even she would have a hard time justifying.
"What is all of this?!" Onion demanded, exasperated and in Nüish. Her question went unanswered, and likely not understood. Instead, Anita, still blindfolded and brazen, began to exchange words with Cedric in a language Onion had only heard Gregor use with the bei and Vaughn. While she was ignorant to the meaning of the conversation, the exchange gave her a queer feeling deep in her throat and belly. Within moments Davin had also arrived at the scene. He turned to the Nü and through his own blindfold, Vren could feel herself being carefully observed.
Their short conversation was angry, but Onion could see the violence drain from the pale chef's face. He still stood defiantly, but uncomfortably, as if he were trying to cover up a secret. In an instant, Davin grabbed his hand,and pulled Cedric's ear to his face. In the firelight, Onion could see the bei move his lips, but she could not hear a word. But she felt them. For you the time has come to sleep, to dream, to die. Beyond all promises, in the shadow of our souls, we dwell and wait.
Cedric seemed to shrink, but thin pink lips reluctantly responded and again, Onion felt their meaning fall somewhere upon her web. To die, a breathless response, dwell and wait.
When he finished, Cedric's eyes rolled in the back of his head and crumpled to the ground.
"Is he dead?" she muttered in Nüish, a question to herself rather than to her unfeeling rescuers.
Anita ignored the young Nü. Whatever communication the two could manage in the realm of Onion's web could be accomplished no more and Onion had no desire to see that woman, that bei, in her most sacred of places, even if she could determine how to invite her back.
Davin returned his sightless gaze to her, though. With great effort, he produced a few words of thickly accented Eirdren. "Roor (Linguistic notes to be deleted later: never / not for eternity - Eirdren is a no double negative language. Typically verb would be conjugated Mayl (mail); do not announce ). kal'Meihl (to everyone' announce/ command tense). Saegfrük (on the pain of death, lit: beyond: frük, death: Saeg). Ahcha (male object, person over there) Bei'd (~d = about). Mayl. Saegfrük."
The two of them put the unconscious man to bed for the night and disappeared back into the glade. She knew they were not far. Onion kept repeating the words Davin had told her, as to not forget them before getting a chance to look them up in her dictionary.
"Do not tell anyone about this." He had said in pigeon Eirdren. "Do not tell anyone about the bei Cedric."
Friday, December 28, 2012
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Chapter 8 - Part VI
But to suggest that the man she knew as Cedric could actually use the tool, that left Onion warily incredulous. But even if she could not know his skill with the blade, the taste of fear in the air was palpable and of all people in this small world, Onion knew what fear could do to a man.
Suddenly, he made his move, advancing with deft speed Onion had not thought possible, the scarecrow of a man lunged at his target. Onion dropped down to the ground smoothly and rolled to the side where she found a fist sized rock along the fire ring, careful to touch only the cooler outside edges of the jagged granite.
She looked up just in time to see the scrawny man plunge the blade into the space that she had occupied only moments before. Cedric glared at her, wide eyed with obvious frustration. He had likely not expected much resistance from his opponent either.
As Onion stood up again she assessed her options. A warm rock might be a fine bludgeon weapon for some, but Onion had never mastered the skills of melee. Her strength was in surprise attacks and guerrilla assaults. When her assassination attempts were successful, she would kill quickly and move on to her next target. When she failed, she would attempt to flee.
But here she was, one on one with an aggressor she could not run from in the confusion of a larger battle. And this time she had no brothers around to save her.
By now Cedric had reappraised his opponent. Feverish drips of sweat coalesced from his temples and beady eyes fixed upon her every muscle. She had been quick. The hostage blade was easily avoided without an attack in return. But within the core of the man, blood pumped adrenaline from heart to head, searing his mind with the imperative to destroy that which could ruin everything. He had to remove the threat that stood before him now.
He lunged at her again, but this time kept his attacking shoulder low and his left hand in a fist behind his back. Onion saw the advance and thought to use the opportunity to incapacitate her aggressor with a dodge and counter attack. While she was not sure she would be able to overcome Cedric, the violence of his attacks had pushed out any thoughts of self-doubt or unsurity. She had to take him out quickly, and hopefully without doing any lasting damage to him.
As before, Onion positioned herself to drop and roll away from the attack, but this time she merely spun herself around to Cedric's weaponless side when he lunged. She raised the stone, hoping to strike a knockout blow, but Cedric must have anticipated this, acting before she could strike. Sweeping his bladed hand behind for momentum, he delivered a solid punch to her diaphragm, knocking both the rock and her breath from her.
Suddenly, he made his move, advancing with deft speed Onion had not thought possible, the scarecrow of a man lunged at his target. Onion dropped down to the ground smoothly and rolled to the side where she found a fist sized rock along the fire ring, careful to touch only the cooler outside edges of the jagged granite.
She looked up just in time to see the scrawny man plunge the blade into the space that she had occupied only moments before. Cedric glared at her, wide eyed with obvious frustration. He had likely not expected much resistance from his opponent either.
As Onion stood up again she assessed her options. A warm rock might be a fine bludgeon weapon for some, but Onion had never mastered the skills of melee. Her strength was in surprise attacks and guerrilla assaults. When her assassination attempts were successful, she would kill quickly and move on to her next target. When she failed, she would attempt to flee.
But here she was, one on one with an aggressor she could not run from in the confusion of a larger battle. And this time she had no brothers around to save her.
By now Cedric had reappraised his opponent. Feverish drips of sweat coalesced from his temples and beady eyes fixed upon her every muscle. She had been quick. The hostage blade was easily avoided without an attack in return. But within the core of the man, blood pumped adrenaline from heart to head, searing his mind with the imperative to destroy that which could ruin everything. He had to remove the threat that stood before him now.
He lunged at her again, but this time kept his attacking shoulder low and his left hand in a fist behind his back. Onion saw the advance and thought to use the opportunity to incapacitate her aggressor with a dodge and counter attack. While she was not sure she would be able to overcome Cedric, the violence of his attacks had pushed out any thoughts of self-doubt or unsurity. She had to take him out quickly, and hopefully without doing any lasting damage to him.
As before, Onion positioned herself to drop and roll away from the attack, but this time she merely spun herself around to Cedric's weaponless side when he lunged. She raised the stone, hoping to strike a knockout blow, but Cedric must have anticipated this, acting before she could strike. Sweeping his bladed hand behind for momentum, he delivered a solid punch to her diaphragm, knocking both the rock and her breath from her.
on Something New
just... this:
http://www.eruptingmind.com/avoidance-behaviors-and-procrastination/
I've got this as a problem. I think it is getting worse. I don't know what to do about it.
http://www.eruptingmind.com/avoidance-behaviors-and-procrastination/
I've got this as a problem. I think it is getting worse. I don't know what to do about it.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Chapter 8 - Part V
His head tilted to her slowly, and an unnerving smirk crept upon his face.
"Hul grelerak mithar?" he accused in a rapid fire speech, but Onion could make no sense of it beyond Hul, to me (Linguistic note: pronouns are given an alternate ending indicating possessive, transitive, passive, causative, and passive causative. Hu = I, ~l = transitive) She eyed the book he still held in his hands and wondered what he had seen that seemed to have catalyzed this change in him. She considered a grab for her dictionary, but thought better of it. Her mind flashed warnings of danger at the mere concept of approaching the man. It could not be physically possible, but it seemed that he had grown in stature.
Clearly impatient with her silence he demanded, "Bwaer?" Onion, still constricted and obscured underneath the gauze of her leper's garb. Onion's mind raced through the little language she had learned. Bwaer, Definition: Yes, Positive, Understand. It was strange that he was speaking Lithenese, Gregor's language, and not Eirdren, but this thought did not cross her preoccupied mind.
Her confusion was quickly turning to caution. While she still believed the scrawny man posed no genuine threat to her self, his increasingly agitated speech and defensive stance put her on edge. Instinctively she felt for her calf-high boot and the throwing knives they usually contained. But the day she lost it all she lost those too.
Her opponent also felt though the folds of his own attire, but unlike her, the man know to her as Cedric was fruitful in his search. At his waist the erratic man drew a small but sharp dagger whose blade had been concealed, pressed horizontally against the flat of his abdomen underneath his belt.
Hostage blades, they called them on the continent, though they had yet to make an appearance among any of the tribes of the Outer Crest. They were useless in melee and their balance was too asymmetrical to serve as the functional throwing daggers so favored by the Nü. But they were easily hidden and quite effective at presenting close range victims with very few options. It was a fine tool for both kidnappers and their would be victims alike, and the bei'thal likely anticipated that Cedric might become the latter.
"Hul grelerak mithar?" he accused in a rapid fire speech, but Onion could make no sense of it beyond Hul, to me (Linguistic note: pronouns are given an alternate ending indicating possessive, transitive, passive, causative, and passive causative. Hu = I, ~l = transitive) She eyed the book he still held in his hands and wondered what he had seen that seemed to have catalyzed this change in him. She considered a grab for her dictionary, but thought better of it. Her mind flashed warnings of danger at the mere concept of approaching the man. It could not be physically possible, but it seemed that he had grown in stature.
Clearly impatient with her silence he demanded, "Bwaer?" Onion, still constricted and obscured underneath the gauze of her leper's garb. Onion's mind raced through the little language she had learned. Bwaer, Definition: Yes, Positive, Understand. It was strange that he was speaking Lithenese, Gregor's language, and not Eirdren, but this thought did not cross her preoccupied mind.
Her confusion was quickly turning to caution. While she still believed the scrawny man posed no genuine threat to her self, his increasingly agitated speech and defensive stance put her on edge. Instinctively she felt for her calf-high boot and the throwing knives they usually contained. But the day she lost it all she lost those too.
Her opponent also felt though the folds of his own attire, but unlike her, the man know to her as Cedric was fruitful in his search. At his waist the erratic man drew a small but sharp dagger whose blade had been concealed, pressed horizontally against the flat of his abdomen underneath his belt.
Hostage blades, they called them on the continent, though they had yet to make an appearance among any of the tribes of the Outer Crest. They were useless in melee and their balance was too asymmetrical to serve as the functional throwing daggers so favored by the Nü. But they were easily hidden and quite effective at presenting close range victims with very few options. It was a fine tool for both kidnappers and their would be victims alike, and the bei'thal likely anticipated that Cedric might become the latter.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
on Losing faith in humanity - this is a rant
I'm beginning to think I shouldn't bother posting on authorstand anymore. Between the hyper-christians telling me my stories are encouraging behavior god doesn't like, and an old retired woman living in florida who is extremely insecure.
As I mentioned, I wrote a story for a Winter Contest. Part of the deal is then I go through other stories written, reflect on them, rate them and give them my comments.
For this particular entry, the woman didn't write a story, she wrote a diary entry, basically explaining a winter day. There was no plot to speak of, or character development. It was a post basically. It was also rife with grammatical errors to the extend that I actually couldn't understand parts. Due to this, I gave her 2/5 stars and wrote for the review:
"Sweet, but not really fiction. There were several glaring spelling errors as well and while I don't like to harp on them, if they inhibit my ability to read a sentence, that detracts."
This woman was upset with my review and wrote me a personal message in response:
" My spell check finds O mispelled words and, the rules of this contest did not specify fiction, this happened in my life and are my feelings about winter, nothing wrong with that, now is there?"
Okay, that is fair, I should have written "a story" and "grammatical" I reply:
She responds to this even more harshly:
" I think people get lost in all this review business, we ask for reviews not critics, no one likes a critic! frankly I don't care a wit about reviews, i write for fun and my friends and family to enjoy."
Ok. I guess nobody likes me? This is not news. And I doubt she doesn't care about reviews if she is messaging me. But I respond anyway, hoping to indicate to her that I am not exclusive to her in giving poor ratings, if it is justified.
" And that is fine! I'd encourage you to keep writing what you love. But a review is a critique. Both words, review and critique, mean to highlight both the positive and the negative of your writing. You did do a good job of making a sweet little piece, which I noted in the review. But for a contest, I am going to follow the guidelines in the review. I'm going to be honest in it, because that is who I am, and what I expect of my writings as well. "
Okay. That is that. End of story right?
Of course not Kara. This is the internet we are talking about.
She sends me a message this morning:
"Just for the heck of it, read some of your reviews, made my day and gave me a hearty laugh, I would never write mythological or ghouls and gobblins gibberish let alone read it! you would not like my review for sure, so I will refrain, that's how truthful I am,... but so glad, I checked to see what your writing is all about... LOL Good Luck!"
(to reference what I wrote for the contest, see an earlier post, however, in summation, it was based in mythologies of the world)
I guess I shouldn't respond to the troll, but being part troll myself, sometimes I can't help it. First I thanked her for her review (too quickly). Then I realized it wasn't a review. It was a rant:
"I'd say that you haven't looked at what my writing is all about if you didn't read it though. So I retract my thanks. You haven't helped me grow as a author at all :(. If you don't like the topic of mythology though, I suggest you look at the last thing I wrote for a contest, which is a children's book about trees.
http://shop.authorstand.com/Products/9917-indecision.aspx
I guess I write things too quickly, because when I first read your most recent message, I took it that you were trying to provide me with real room for growth. Upon looking at this message a second time, I get the feeling you are angry. That is too bad. I am not angry with you. Just wanting to grow and an author!
Anyway, have a great Christmas!"
Again, I know it was stupid to feed the troll. But for whatever reason, this opened the flood gates of river crazy:
"Have you read my childrens stories? they are about animals mostly or my Xmas story for kids with loads of pics. to go with the story... many of my readers believe I should offer it to disney for a movie, and I had real publishers after me for my big novel, which I am working on a 2nd. but I am retired and not looking for a job or interested in publishing in hard cover...I do not write about inaminate objects for kids either, and Harry Potter Suks in my opinion, don't care how much $$$$ she made on them. I am a happy author here, I write when I feel like it, it's not a job. And my Winter one for the contest I wrote in about 10 mins. You may want to read my poem to authors/writers for Xmas it's a hoot! This old Gal does not get angry but will respond to unkindness, in a heart beat! Oh and P.S. I do not get hung up on typos etc. if my word processor catches it fine if now..then figure it out, readers.. you should see the mistakes right from the library on novels.. OMG"
Man. People like this make me loose my faith in humanity... Don't feed the trolls Kara...
As I mentioned, I wrote a story for a Winter Contest. Part of the deal is then I go through other stories written, reflect on them, rate them and give them my comments.
For this particular entry, the woman didn't write a story, she wrote a diary entry, basically explaining a winter day. There was no plot to speak of, or character development. It was a post basically. It was also rife with grammatical errors to the extend that I actually couldn't understand parts. Due to this, I gave her 2/5 stars and wrote for the review:
"Sweet, but not really fiction. There were several glaring spelling errors as well and while I don't like to harp on them, if they inhibit my ability to read a sentence, that detracts."
This woman was upset with my review and wrote me a personal message in response:
" My spell check finds O mispelled words and, the rules of this contest did not specify fiction, this happened in my life and are my feelings about winter, nothing wrong with that, now is there?"
Okay, that is fair, I should have written "a story" and "grammatical" I reply:
She responds to this even more harshly:
" I think people get lost in all this review business, we ask for reviews not critics, no one likes a critic! frankly I don't care a wit about reviews, i write for fun and my friends and family to enjoy."
Ok. I guess nobody likes me? This is not news. And I doubt she doesn't care about reviews if she is messaging me. But I respond anyway, hoping to indicate to her that I am not exclusive to her in giving poor ratings, if it is justified.
" And that is fine! I'd encourage you to keep writing what you love. But a review is a critique. Both words, review and critique, mean to highlight both the positive and the negative of your writing. You did do a good job of making a sweet little piece, which I noted in the review. But for a contest, I am going to follow the guidelines in the review. I'm going to be honest in it, because that is who I am, and what I expect of my writings as well. "
Okay. That is that. End of story right?
Of course not Kara. This is the internet we are talking about.
She sends me a message this morning:
"Just for the heck of it, read some of your reviews, made my day and gave me a hearty laugh, I would never write mythological or ghouls and gobblins gibberish let alone read it! you would not like my review for sure, so I will refrain, that's how truthful I am,... but so glad, I checked to see what your writing is all about... LOL Good Luck!"
(to reference what I wrote for the contest, see an earlier post, however, in summation, it was based in mythologies of the world)
I guess I shouldn't respond to the troll, but being part troll myself, sometimes I can't help it. First I thanked her for her review (too quickly). Then I realized it wasn't a review. It was a rant:
"I'd say that you haven't looked at what my writing is all about if you didn't read it though. So I retract my thanks. You haven't helped me grow as a author at all :(. If you don't like the topic of mythology though, I suggest you look at the last thing I wrote for a contest, which is a children's book about trees.
http://shop.authorstand.com/Products/9917-indecision.aspx
I guess I write things too quickly, because when I first read your most recent message, I took it that you were trying to provide me with real room for growth. Upon looking at this message a second time, I get the feeling you are angry. That is too bad. I am not angry with you. Just wanting to grow and an author!
Anyway, have a great Christmas!"
Again, I know it was stupid to feed the troll. But for whatever reason, this opened the flood gates of river crazy:
"Have you read my childrens stories? they are about animals mostly or my Xmas story for kids with loads of pics. to go with the story... many of my readers believe I should offer it to disney for a movie, and I had real publishers after me for my big novel, which I am working on a 2nd. but I am retired and not looking for a job or interested in publishing in hard cover...I do not write about inaminate objects for kids either, and Harry Potter Suks in my opinion, don't care how much $$$$ she made on them. I am a happy author here, I write when I feel like it, it's not a job. And my Winter one for the contest I wrote in about 10 mins. You may want to read my poem to authors/writers for Xmas it's a hoot! This old Gal does not get angry but will respond to unkindness, in a heart beat! Oh and P.S. I do not get hung up on typos etc. if my word processor catches it fine if now..then figure it out, readers.. you should see the mistakes right from the library on novels.. OMG"
Man. People like this make me loose my faith in humanity... Don't feed the trolls Kara...
Monday, December 10, 2012
AuthorStand Flash Fiction Contest Entry - Indecision
Indecision: The Complicated Lives of Acorns and Boots
“Quickly, they are coming! Now is not the time to be shy.
Cast off your indecision or be left to wither and die!”, the 15/16ths American Chestnut sprout shouted
to the small acorn lying on the floor of the greenhouse. They watched as the door swung open and two pairs of well-worn hiking boots entered.
“Aye!” squeaked the acorn, “What a quandary this be, how can I decide?
To stay is death, to go is unknown; no place for me to hide!” responded the nut in the way all sentient
plants must.
The two humans remained oblivious to the acorn and its plight as they set to work.
“I’ve been asked to give a talk on the Asian Long-horned beetle in Maine” the voice of the dark brown boots ventured after gently rearranging the seedling trays.
“That’s wonderful. Make sure you get out and hike when you are done.” replied his partner, the voice
of the tan colored boots. “I’m headed out to Oregon. My husband and I are taking a little vacation from the kids.”
But the acorn had no time for their small talk. It had to escape this greenhouse, and those boots were
the only way. Only, which boots? It wished it had more information to help figure out this conundrum.
“Chestnut, chestnut what is best?
To go east or to go west?
I’ll hide on a boot, I won’t be noticed
But how can I know where home is?” whined the acorn in a panic. Time to jump was running out.
“If you are undecided I cannot help,
My home is here upon this shelf!
When I’m big enough so they say
I’ll move to a park and play all day.
So ask the wind, they would know well
Or a rock, a bug or even a seashell.”
The acorn looked around for friends and not much later a gust of wind briefly blew open the greenhouse door.
The wind does not speak as a plant does. It whispers and seduces, cajoles, then abandons.
“East head I, to the morning sun.
To a land of watercolors.
To the mountains so old and worn
To the salty sea must I flee.
Join me, won’t you, little oak tree
Grow proud and strong with friends to spare,
When season’s late be colorful and bold
Let your leaves come and dance with me.”
This was sound reasoning to the acorn and it hopped on board the dark boot.
But a rock holding down important paperwork had something to say in its stubborn, terse way.
“How can you decide without hearing the rest?
Rest assured the wind does not tell all.
All that you know, is yet undetermined at best.
Best to hear what I have to say.
Go east if you want to hide among your cousins in a crowd.
Crowded with colors on mere hills on the ground.
Ground yourself in the boulders further west and beyond.
Beyond lays mountains of rock so tall.
Tall trees of might tower over the fields.
Fields of wildflowers dance at your feet.”
“Aye!” exclaimed the acorn, “That sounds wonderful to me.
West with adventure and mountains it shall be!” and the acorn quickly jumped ship to the tan boots.
“Oh little tree it tells you not,
The life of oak out there is hard.
Scraggly and short you will be,
Black oak, sad oak, small stunted tree.”
What is a poor little acorn to do? Before it could think to switch boots again, the tan boot voice spoke, “Mike! Looks like we missed one of the oak acorns. Let’s get this little guy planted!”
“Quickly, they are coming! Now is not the time to be shy.
Cast off your indecision or be left to wither and die!”, the 15/16ths American Chestnut sprout shouted
to the small acorn lying on the floor of the greenhouse. They watched as the door swung open and two pairs of well-worn hiking boots entered.
“Aye!” squeaked the acorn, “What a quandary this be, how can I decide?
To stay is death, to go is unknown; no place for me to hide!” responded the nut in the way all sentient
plants must.
The two humans remained oblivious to the acorn and its plight as they set to work.
“I’ve been asked to give a talk on the Asian Long-horned beetle in Maine” the voice of the dark brown boots ventured after gently rearranging the seedling trays.
“That’s wonderful. Make sure you get out and hike when you are done.” replied his partner, the voice
of the tan colored boots. “I’m headed out to Oregon. My husband and I are taking a little vacation from the kids.”
But the acorn had no time for their small talk. It had to escape this greenhouse, and those boots were
the only way. Only, which boots? It wished it had more information to help figure out this conundrum.
“Chestnut, chestnut what is best?
To go east or to go west?
I’ll hide on a boot, I won’t be noticed
But how can I know where home is?” whined the acorn in a panic. Time to jump was running out.
“If you are undecided I cannot help,
My home is here upon this shelf!
When I’m big enough so they say
I’ll move to a park and play all day.
So ask the wind, they would know well
Or a rock, a bug or even a seashell.”
The acorn looked around for friends and not much later a gust of wind briefly blew open the greenhouse door.
The wind does not speak as a plant does. It whispers and seduces, cajoles, then abandons.
“East head I, to the morning sun.
To a land of watercolors.
To the mountains so old and worn
To the salty sea must I flee.
Join me, won’t you, little oak tree
Grow proud and strong with friends to spare,
When season’s late be colorful and bold
Let your leaves come and dance with me.”
This was sound reasoning to the acorn and it hopped on board the dark boot.
But a rock holding down important paperwork had something to say in its stubborn, terse way.
“How can you decide without hearing the rest?
Rest assured the wind does not tell all.
All that you know, is yet undetermined at best.
Best to hear what I have to say.
Go east if you want to hide among your cousins in a crowd.
Crowded with colors on mere hills on the ground.
Ground yourself in the boulders further west and beyond.
Beyond lays mountains of rock so tall.
Tall trees of might tower over the fields.
Fields of wildflowers dance at your feet.”
“Aye!” exclaimed the acorn, “That sounds wonderful to me.
West with adventure and mountains it shall be!” and the acorn quickly jumped ship to the tan boots.
“Oh little tree it tells you not,
The life of oak out there is hard.
Scraggly and short you will be,
Black oak, sad oak, small stunted tree.”
What is a poor little acorn to do? Before it could think to switch boots again, the tan boot voice spoke, “Mike! Looks like we missed one of the oak acorns. Let’s get this little guy planted!”
The Troll is Strong with this One
On occasion I write on a site called AuthorStand. They do user generated contests from time to time (with the only prize being bragging rights - and judging done mostly by peers) which I have submitted to twice now.
I had posted The Shirt up there for their for money contest as well. Some of the feedback I got was great, some of it was deriding me for pushing a homosexual agenda, and that God probably has something against it. I've since come across several AuthorStand members who are extremely Christian and in pretty much every thing they write - which often makes their stories bland; touting the same old stories when I'd like to see new, fresh, inventive stories. So when the contest came up for a flash fiction under the title of "Winter" and utilizing a "rose" in the story, I suspect part of me wanted to lash out against this and even if I was not acting a rebel, based on the brazenness with which several authors wrote more parables than stories about how turning to God was the only thing to do, I felt that I could be just as brazen. Below is my submittal.
WINTER
I stop at the headstone and kneel, placing a single red rose, purchased
earlier at the local florist, upon the grave. The snow has been falling
for hours now, not too unusual for this time of year in Maine. The grey
sky above me reminds me of the many winter days I spent with my grandmother
when she was still alive. She would bring me outside while the overcast
sky was illuminated by a shy, hidden sun. There we would build snowmen
and snow igloos until the two of us were exhausted and rosy cheeked. I
miss her even still.I get up off my knees and watch the first snowflakes begin to collect on the rose. In minutes it will have crusted over each edge of the flower, giving it a crystalline appearance. In hours it will be buried; vanished under a thick sheet of white like the letters of my grandmother's grave.
As I stand and think fondly of my grandmother, I adjust my hood. It is thick with a faux fur padding lining the edge of the felt exterior. I’ve always loved these coats for the winter. I would pretend I was an Eskimo while playing in the backyard of my grandmother’s house.
Suddenly, I feel a strong yet scrawny hand clench my shoulder; giving me a start.
“You scared me!” I shout as I turn sharply on my heel. I search the face for some sign of recognition, yet while I can tell that underneath the fleece outwear the figure is somewhat tall and lanky, I cannot even tell if it is female or male and a hood hide everything but the person’s face. When our eyes make contact a devious and red, wide smile blooms on its pale and drawn face.
“So, have I won yet?” the person asks mischievously, its voice high pitched and nasal.
“Who are you?” I implore, “are you here to pay your respects to my grandmother?”
The person completely ignores my query and supplies its own demands, “Guess my name already!” The figure recoils from me and starts to dance around a young tree, denuded by the season, in the graveyard. “Guess guess!” are the taunts that are flung at me like confetti.
The person does not look dangerous, but I don’t want to incite further passions in fellow that might make it dangerous. “Uhh” I begin. What sort of name can I suggest without running the risk of offending. I still can’t tell the gender of the person. “Casey?” a good gender neutral name. I am greeted with a harsh frown. “Pat? Kerry?”
The figure approaches me again, this time taking the tone of an exasperated mother. “You aren’t doing very well. Fine. Let me help you.” In one smooth motion, the figure pulls his hood revealing short platinum hair. “Just call me a boy already.” I wonder if he is reading my mind.
Still, he is not familiar to me whatsoever. “I need a hint” I say sheepishly. “Where did we last meet?”
“Same place as always, in a graveyard. Wait!” he stops as a new thought appears to have crossed his mind as he furrows his brows. “Maybe YOU don’t even know who YOU are! Oh wonderful.”
“Of course I know who I am.” I reply defensively.
“Then who are you?” he sneers.
“I’m Lily Stanley’s granddaughter. I’m…” I stop as I realize that for whatever reason, I’ve blanked on my own name. It has been a weird morning.
He takes my hand. “Come” and with unexpected strength, he pulls me through rows of unfamiliar headstones. The snow remains unbroken in the path we take until we reach our destination. Here the snow has been piled off to the side of a plot, with clumps of icy white sprinkled with specks of rock and dirt that the falling snow is working hard to cover fully. The plot was freshly excavated but the covering dirt had recently been replaced. And on top of the plot were eleven long stem roses only slightly covered by new precipitation.
Now I am feeling more than a little bit nervous. What is this supposed to mean?
“Go ahead, take a look. Nothing ground shaking I assure you.” He sings, whistling when he’s run out of words to say.
Grace Burney, b. Feb. 14, 1989 d. Dec. 24, 2012.
I recognize the name as my own.
“How can this be?” I ask, “I’ve got to be dreaming.”
He is completely oblivious, or perhaps unconcerned with my emotional duress and childishly asks, “Yes, yes, now do you know who I am?”
“No, not at all. The Grim Reaper? An angel? I don’t know. I don’t believe in any of this. I’m an atheist.” I say, exasperated.
He chuckled uncontrollably at this. “I know, it is amusing. I’ve never heard of an atheist Thor or agnostic Hades, but the world does do strange things to an ignorant god.” he uttered in an unnaturally serious tone, until his face brightened. “Let’s play a game!”
“But what about this other game you keep asking about if you’ve won?”
“That’s not a game!” he snapped sharply, “That is a bet. And dearie, you are losing.”
“Ok” I say with trepidation. “I’ll play this game.”
“I have many names, and so do you in this world. I’ll give you one of your names, and in return, you must give me one of mine. Ok! Start! You are Pywll. Now, give me one.”
I stare at him blankly. “Pywll?”
He turns at me, clearly vexed. “Fine, I guess that was a hard one. The answer is Gwydion. Try this: You are Set. You are El, later called Yahweh or among others Hadad, you are Jupiter, you are Odin.”
My mind goes fuzzy, but somewhere between my mortal experiences and beyond, these names ring true to me. “And you are Seth. You are known as Lucifer…”
“Ouch! That name doesn’t mean what it used to Zeus. The Canaanites are all grown up and they’ve since reformed Yahweh and Lucifer into monotheistic legends.”
I continue unhindered. “You are Mercury and you are Loki.”
“Loki! Coyote! I always liked those two the best. But you recollect yourself, so you cannot avoid the question any longer. Have I won?” he chirped incessantly. I know he will not leave me alone in this.
There is no getting around the truth. “Yes, you have won our bet. You tricked a god into thinking that I’m mortal this time. I was wholly convinced.”
“Double or nothing?” he asks craftily.
“You bet. I’ll see you in 80 years or so.”
****
Loki watched as the king of the gods took his leave to be reborn as the lone
son to a rural Chinese couple. He laughed
over the 11 remaining roses.“You got one thing wrong. Not just this time. Every time. And I will trick you again, and you will go back to Earth again and again as a mortal.”
But he took on an earnest face that he reserved for rare times, “And this is how I keep us bloody violent gods out of the world of man. Your children will thank me for this eventually.”
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