March 23, 2015

Happy Monday, everyone. I suppose my thoughts are dwelling on the romantic today….

“I am,” it said quietly.

Quite a bold statement, if you think about it. Declaring your existence to the world is almost a brave act in itself. It takes a lot of courage to unequivocally declare one’s existence – to claim one’s place in the world and to do so proudly.

“I am,” it repeated, a little louder this time.

That felt good. It took a deep breath and congratulated itself. Then it screwed its courage to the sticking place. And took another deep breath.

“I am!!!” it shouted.

Well, now. That felt better. It’s a load off of one’s shoulders, to definitely know that you exist. Isn’t it, reader?

It is. It was. It would be. That much was certain.

Now, the grand question…. What was it?

That was as yet to be determined.

It did not know much, but it remembered some…. It remembered being placed in a velvet bed, with all the others. It remembered the brightness of the lights and the dim, cool loneliness of the nights. Most of all, it remembered feeling honored, privileged somehow, when someone pointed to it and said “I want that one.”

It remembered ambivalence and fear. The jittery, jiggly, upside-down feeling that you get before things have been decided, just before the pieces fall into place.

A pocket is not a good place to be during such times. It remembered much pacing. Much jiggling and walking and thinking….

It is difficult to describe the experience of another being’s thinking. Suffice it to say, it feels very much like the heat coming off of a boiling teapot. You know there’s much action and boiling and roiling going on in there, even if you can’t see it.

It remembered the nervousness, the feeling of your insides jangling around inside of you.

But nothing lasts forever. All things happen, sooner rather than later, if we have the patience to wait for them.

And it remembered hope. Being proffered, held up by a warm palm.

It remembered the words, “I love you.”

It remembered the words, “I love you too.”

And “Always.”

And now it sat, wrapped around a finger, on a hand so far away from where it had started, but where it now belonged.

Sunlight blazed through the stone, setting sparkles against the wall.

“I am,” it said, with quiet confidence.

It was.

And it knew what it was.

It was, and forever would be, a symbol of love.

And it was perfectly fine with that.

Mildly inspired by Vindicated, by Dashboard Confessional:

“Hope dangles on a string
Like slow spinning redemption
Winding in and winding out
The shine of it has caught my eye”

Image courtesy of:

http://www.morguefile.com/

January 19, 2015

She was going to be home soon, and he was starting to sweat.

It had seemed so simple, at the time.

Just make dinner.

A nice meal. A little candlelight. A little romance.

He’d already dusted and swept… well, as much as you could sweep a floor that was entirely composed of dirt and rock. He grunted, releasing a small spurt of smoke. He just hoped she appreciated his effort.

She was always complaining; about how he never cleaned up after himself, about how he always tracked mud home.

‘I got that stupid welcome mat for a reason,’ she’d say. ‘And it’s certainly not because anyone else is welcome here.’

She’d complain about always having to do the cooking, and how he was constantly leaving his things all over the place.

Today she’d gone out with the girls – getting a mani/pedi. An utter waste of gold, if you asked him. Of course, she hadn’t asked.

‘I’m going out,’ was all she’d said. He’d heard the irritation in her words and known better than to argue.

He was in hot water, he knew. But it would go from hot to boiling if he didn’t have the place cleaned up and dinner on the table by the time she got home.

Speaking of hot, it was a good deal harder to get the fire started than he’d anticipated, even for one of his particular skill set. With a half-grimacing, toothy grin, he turned away from the fire and started getting dinner set up – that fancy French word – what was it? Mise en something?

He’d actually been decent at French in school… You know, once upon a time, before he’d gotten hungry and eaten the French teacher.

That was another thing she always complained about – he was too impulsive. Sigh. Admittedly, he had a ways to go toward being the perfect husband. But he was bound to keep trying as long as she was willing to put up with him.

Arranging things on the counter, he heard a clattering noise behind him.

Dammit. Not again.

With a sigh, he turned around and shuffled over to where he’d left dinner. Not surprisingly, dinner had made a run for it.

Dang humans. Always trying to escape.

He thought he’d tied the guy pretty tightly, but the little man, still in his armor, was apparently pretty resourceful, although not smart enough to take off the suit before trying to make his getaway.

There the little man was, clanking towards the cave entrance.

He rolled his eyes and caught up with him in a moment.

The cave was not a terribly large one – she was always complaining about that as well. How they should save up the gold, instead of spending it on all of the little gadgets he was always buying. She wanted a bigger cave. Then, she said, they could have children. There was no room in this tiny little space. Now that he was thinking about it, she was right.

As if to reinforce her point, he managed to trip over a pile of gold he’d left off to one side of the cave, cracking a claw against a particularly sharp ruby.

Dangit.

He ignored the pain and grabbed the human in one big paw.

“I thought I told you to stay still,” he said, walking back into the cave to tie the little man up again. “Won’t do any good if you run away…. You’re dinner, you know. Without you, all I’ve got is garnish. And I don’t need to be in any more trouble than I already am.”

He wasn’t sure why he was explaining himself to dinner, but somehow, saying it out loud made him feel better.

Not that dinner had anything helpful to say in response. The little man was shouting something about sparing his life, pleading and such. Not terribly interesting.

Absentmindedly, he retied dinner to the spit, tighter this time, of course, before turning back to his preparations. He should, he thought, do this more often. She deserved it.

He hummed a grumbly, growly, indistinct song as he began chopping the carrots.

Sometimes, he reflected, it really is important to show the people that you care about how much you love them.

Writing Prompt:

250-300 words * A Mythical Creature or Idea * cooking

(exceeded the word limit, but there you go…)

Writing Prompt courtesy of:

http://panthermoon.com/generators/generator5.php

Image Courtesy of:

http://www.morguefile.com/

November 21, 2014

He didn’t want to go out on such a night….

He didn’t want to go out on such a night, but some errands are simply unavoidable. And so it was with a heavy sigh and a mildly unpleasant sense of duty that he put on his boots, crouching down on the small stool by the door and forcing his creaky old knees to bend as he maneuvered the footwear onto his feet.

Finally, after much trouble, the boots were on. Next came the coat and scarf. Not his best coat, certainly, but his second-best would do for an unpleasant task like this one. Besides, he noted with satisfaction, his second-best was a good deal warmer.

It wouldn’t do to stain one’s best coat, he thought, especially when the social season was just starting. There would be Christmas parties and fundraisers and dinner parties – he’d definitely need his best for those. He was, above all things, a gentleman.

And so it was, appropriately coated, booted, gloved and scarfed that he set about the task at hand. He was quite glad that they’d kept the large plastic sheeting when they’d bought that new mattress. It made unpleasant tasks like this much easier.

He dragged the plastic out of the closet and down the hall to the kitchen. The thing lay, heavy and inert, on the kitchen floor. With as much care as he could manage, given his somewhat advanced years, he scooped the thing up and rolled it in the plastic sheets.

He was huffing and puffing by the time he was done. Sixty, after all, is no spring chicken. But somehow, with much effort, he managed to pick the thing up and carry it to the car, using the kind of fireman’s carry he’d seen on TV so many times.

Much heavier than it used to be, he thought, as it landed in his trunk with a heavy thud. He was grateful that it fit easily. Trunk space hadn’t really been a consideration when purchasing this car and he’d never had to haul anything big or heavy before, but just now he was grateful for the space.

As an afterthought, he wrapped up the baseball bat and threw that in the trunk as well.

Baseball bat. He considered it briefly. Such a common thing. So low-class of him. Come to think of it, he had no idea how they’d even come into possession of a baseball bat. He’d certainly never bought one. Maybe one of the kids had left it.

Oh, well. No matter now.

It had served its’ purpose.

The drive to the forest preserve was not a long one, but he made sure to drive a little ways further into it, just in case.

It was late and dark and the rain was coming down in a heavy, unpleasant drizzle, like having someone spitting on the back of your neck. No one should be out. No one should see. But it was always best to be careful.

Breathing heavily, he hauled the thing out of the trunk and carried it some small distance into the woods, dropping it, finally, with a rather unappealing grunt. He made a second trip back to the car and dropped the bat in the woods as well. Not like he’d need it anymore.

He dusted off his gloves and peeled them off. They would, of course, have to be disposed of later.

The drive home was short and he found himself, uncharacteristically, turning on the radio and singing along. He unlocked the door, took off his coat and hung it neatly in the closet, wrapping the scarf around the hanger.

He pulled off his boots and walked back into the kitchen, a man confident in a job well done.

He looked critically at the sizeable blood stain on the floor. That could stay, he decided.

Finally, he pulled out his cellphone and carefully dialled the three digits. A polite female voice answered.

“911. What is the nature of your emergency?”

He allowed tears and a note of panic to creep into his voice as he answered.

“My wife,” he said. “She’s missing. I just got home from work and she’s not here…. and…. there’s a big bloodstain on the kitchen floor.”

“Calm down, sir,” she said. “I’ve dispatched a unit. Help is on the way.”

“Come quickly,” he said, voice quivering. “I don’t know what happened to her and I’m so scared.”

First line writing prompt courtesy of:

http://shortstoryideas.herb.me.uk/firstlines.htm

(and possibly influenced by my recent reading of Gone Girl…)