Some shorts and poetry
A collection of short stuff I've written this month including three more entires in the "how darkly can I take prompts from Christmas carols?" game.
Author: Saya
Title: Birth of a Hero
Universe: Eclipse of Ash
Rating: PG
Flavors: Flavor of the Day: Comminate (to threaten with divine punishment or vengeance), Sugar Plum #8 (not a creature was stirring), Marshmallow #19 (when I grow up)
Toppings/Extras: Butterscotch, Fresh Blueberries (to go on when it would seem good to die...that is what any man can do, and so be great. -- Zane Grey), Gummy Bunnies (prompt: #3 Iron source: WriYe Dreamwidth)
Wordcount: 266
Warnings: Swearing, implied violence.
Notes: Adril became a martyr and figurehead dying heroically in battle, but he became a real hero when he chose to fight in the first place.
Adril had lain wedged between his horse and a tree for what seemed like forever, the taste of his own blood warm in his mouth, lucky to even be alive. It hadn't taken long for the fighting to move away from where a flaming arrow had felled his mount; the clash of iron, chanting of summoners, and other sounds of battle receding into mere echoes.
He was running out of time.
They were doomed, he knew that. But they'd always been doomed. The entirety of humanity was only a pawn in the grand war games played by powers he dare not contemplate. So small a price to pay for a chance at victory, so they were damned to die. Everything just delaying the inevitable.
But maybe, just maybe, he could buy them years instead of hours.
The pendant tucked beneath his gambeson felt considerably heavier than silver plate, weighted with potential to save so many lives; allow so many lives to exist. But at what cost?
He was damning them all. Damning them to lives of war, lives of fear and death. And sometimes living was more painful than the alternatives. But thinking of eyes that shined bright with wonder, he couldn't think of that. All he could think was /they would live/.
Somehow, when Arw had dropped a sword into his hands with pleading eyes, Adril hadn't imagined he would become a martyr. And yet, there he was, dragging himself from the relative safety of a field covered in corpses to walk to his own death.
But he would take so many down with him.
Author: Saya
Title: Count on it
Universe: Anterograde
Rating: PG
Flavors: Eggnog #13 (silent night), Sour Grape #30 (stand up and be counted)
Toppings/Extras: Whipped Cream
Warnings: Childhood depression, compulsive behavior, and implied loss of parent.
Wordcount: 540
Notes: A glimpse into the mind/backstory of Taliyah, one of the characters of Anterograde. Originally posted on my blog for #flashfriday
One, two, three, four.
Every day she counts them. Caresses each one with gentle fingers, carefully, carefully avoiding a miscount.
Five, six, seven, eight.
The number never changes, not that she expects it to.
Nine.
Not anymore.
"Taliyah! Hurry up! Your brother needs help tying his shoes." Even without two floors between them anymore, her mother's voice is still muffled. Distant.
She trudges from her room, footsteps thumping unnaturally on grungy carpet. Just like numbers that never grow, the carpet is insulting. A threat to her very existence. She misses sock slides on smooth hardwood hallways with a physical ache.
As if it makes a difference.
Her brother's shoes are tied with a brisk efficiency. If he complains they're laced too tight it's his own fault. Can't he understand what he's done? See all the damage left in his wake? Can't he see how he broke everything precious to her?
Mother bids them farewell over her shoulder, buried too deep in job #3 to even walk them to the door. Taliyah can feel the phantom impression of a kiss on her cheek all the way to the school bus. All the more painful because it's a fantasy.
She counts them the entire ride. Anything to keep her gaze from falling to the windows that reveals too much. Forwards, backwards, sometimes even out of order. Anything to make number ten appear. It never does.
Even with her world narrowed down to nine, she can hear the whispers. "I heard she transferred from some snooty private school. She's so prissy she won't talk to all us commoners even when she's as broke as the rest of us."
Why do they always assume money has anything to do with it? She itches to correct them, but the words stick in her throat. She won't talk about the real reason. Can't talk about it. Can't talk about anything anymore.
A teacher finally calls on her that day. Taliyah had managed to avoid all scrutiny so far, but she couldn't escape.
No matter how many times the teacher prompted, she remained silent. The principle told her there was no shame in not knowing the answer. But why was the answer to some stupid question about dead people so important? How could anything so far in the past matter at all when there were such horrible things happening every day?
She wasn't stupid, she knew how to talk. She just didn't know how to prevent the nightmare of her life from tumbling out the moment she opened her mouth.
So she counted.
One, two, three, four.
The charms tinkled like wind chimes when her mother shook her, a mocking echo of her childhood laughter.
She stumbled in her counting and started over.
One, two, three, four.
Her mother tried reasoning with her, pleaded for her to say something. Anything. But all Taliyah could hear was how her mother used to sing happy birthday to her.
Five, six, seven, eight.
All she could see was her father's smile as he presented her with a new charm for her beloved bracelet, their little tradition. Their little tradition so easily broken that no one tried to fix but her.
Nine.
And how the numbers would never go up again.
Author: Saya
Title: Dear Olivia
Universe: Standalone (but you know me...)
Rating: PG
Flavors: Blueberry Yogurt #22 (making repairs), Hazelnut #7 (lost and found)
Toppings/Extras: Pocky, Banana, Gummy Bunnies (prompt: A letter with no returning address source: Dailyprompt Dreamwidth)
Warnings: Reference to fractured family relations
Wordcount: 93
Notes: A letter home a few years late. Postcard stock by AllThingsPrecious at deviantArt, Chemist font by Cathy Davies at Fontspace, address completely fictional.
Dear Olivia,
I'm sure I'm something you'd all rather forget, but I just wanted you to know that I finally found what I was looking for. I just didn't know all those years ago, when things got so ugly (between us, with the folks, with everybody), that I was looking for myself. I'm sorry that I couldn't find it in our little town. I'm sorry I had to hurt you in the process. But I've found it, and I can be happy now.
I hope that's enough.
I still love you all,
Cayden
Author: Saya
Title: Tarantism: You hear, but don't listen
Universe: Poetry
Rating: PG
Flavors: Sugar Plum #13 (do you hear what I hear?), Black Raspberry Ice #7 (the eyes do not see what the mind does not want)
Toppings/Extras: Cherry (crazy nonsensicalness), Gummy Bunnies (prompt: Abstract poetry "hemidemisemiquaver" source: RL Writers' Group), Pocky
Warnings:
[Spoils the fun if you know what the words mean.]
Marital struggles, evil plotting, obscure references to potential murder/suicide
Wordcount: 48
Notes: Think bouncy, happy thoughts while you read this. And then go look up all the words here are realize what it's really saying. No, I didn't make up a single one of them.
Hemidemisemiquaver; skipping, spinning, squirrel-a-whirl
Argle-bargle, ‘tis a fargle; captious, garble, cagamosis
A gowpen’s worth of brummagem; friable, filipendulous
Two a penny, one a milion; kalopsia, corrigendum
Walla-walla, tohubohu; concilliabule in katzenjammer
Maledicent myrmidon; panjandrum adoxography
Estrapade of snollygosters
Witzelsucht, hamartithia; the mumpsimus of fools
Strikhedonia pandiculation; epeolatry floccinaucinihilipilification
Author: Saya
Title: The Little Fear I Feel
Universe: Lyrical Story (poem)
Rating: PG
Flavors: Bunny Tracks #3 (train), Dragon Fruit #6 (what would they do with their freedom?)
Toppings/Extras: Gummy Bunnies (prompt: "the little fear I feel" source: RL Writers' Group)
Warnings: I imply they're runaways
Wordcount: 295
Notes: Our challenge was to start with a line from Sandra Cisneros' poem Waiting for a Loverand this came out. It was originally one big long story without a shred of punctuation (intentionally), but I like it structured this way better. And no, you did not imagine that sneaky Rent reference. ;)
The little fear I feel
twists and turns in the pit of my stomach
to the beat of your fingernails
tapping on the hard leather of
the briefcase resting in your lap
tucked under protective arms
sheltering it from the deadly drop
to the quivering floor of the train
beneath my toes curling and flexing
inside my boots trying somehow
to clutch onto the world flying by
in the window so fast I can almost believe
the terror clenching my gut is just seasickness
caused by my befuddled brain
and the constant shifting back and forth
between the landscape slipping through my fingers
and the memories scrolling through
at a dizzying pace on the viewscreen of my mind
where I'm forced to watch the paradigm shift of my life
I can feel through the metal bench I share with you
and two decades worth of stuff I didn't know we needed
until I tried to shove it all into a suitcase along with
a litany of hurt and regret to
the soundtrack of shouts and tears
that even the roaring of the locomotive's engine
can't drown out
because I can see the uncertainty lurking
in eyes avoiding mine
no matter the inanities slipping from lips
unable to spit all the reassurances
I want to say but can't because they
ring as hollow and empty as those houses
left so far behind on the tracks incapable of
putting enough distance between me
and the phantom fingers trailing across my cheek
but more than enough to stretch the silence between us
into miles that raise the hair on the nape of my neck
because the little fear I feel is nothing compared
to the thought you'll abandon me the minute
our starving lungs finally breathe in freedom.
Author: Saya
Title: Birth of a Hero
Universe: Eclipse of Ash
Rating: PG
Flavors: Flavor of the Day: Comminate (to threaten with divine punishment or vengeance), Sugar Plum #8 (not a creature was stirring), Marshmallow #19 (when I grow up)
Toppings/Extras: Butterscotch, Fresh Blueberries (to go on when it would seem good to die...that is what any man can do, and so be great. -- Zane Grey), Gummy Bunnies (prompt: #3 Iron source: WriYe Dreamwidth)
Wordcount: 266
Warnings: Swearing, implied violence.
Notes: Adril became a martyr and figurehead dying heroically in battle, but he became a real hero when he chose to fight in the first place.
Adril had lain wedged between his horse and a tree for what seemed like forever, the taste of his own blood warm in his mouth, lucky to even be alive. It hadn't taken long for the fighting to move away from where a flaming arrow had felled his mount; the clash of iron, chanting of summoners, and other sounds of battle receding into mere echoes.
He was running out of time.
They were doomed, he knew that. But they'd always been doomed. The entirety of humanity was only a pawn in the grand war games played by powers he dare not contemplate. So small a price to pay for a chance at victory, so they were damned to die. Everything just delaying the inevitable.
But maybe, just maybe, he could buy them years instead of hours.
The pendant tucked beneath his gambeson felt considerably heavier than silver plate, weighted with potential to save so many lives; allow so many lives to exist. But at what cost?
He was damning them all. Damning them to lives of war, lives of fear and death. And sometimes living was more painful than the alternatives. But thinking of eyes that shined bright with wonder, he couldn't think of that. All he could think was /they would live/.
Somehow, when Arw had dropped a sword into his hands with pleading eyes, Adril hadn't imagined he would become a martyr. And yet, there he was, dragging himself from the relative safety of a field covered in corpses to walk to his own death.
But he would take so many down with him.
Author: Saya
Title: Count on it
Universe: Anterograde
Rating: PG
Flavors: Eggnog #13 (silent night), Sour Grape #30 (stand up and be counted)
Toppings/Extras: Whipped Cream
Warnings: Childhood depression, compulsive behavior, and implied loss of parent.
Wordcount: 540
Notes: A glimpse into the mind/backstory of Taliyah, one of the characters of Anterograde. Originally posted on my blog for #flashfriday
One, two, three, four.
Every day she counts them. Caresses each one with gentle fingers, carefully, carefully avoiding a miscount.
Five, six, seven, eight.
The number never changes, not that she expects it to.
Nine.
Not anymore.
"Taliyah! Hurry up! Your brother needs help tying his shoes." Even without two floors between them anymore, her mother's voice is still muffled. Distant.
She trudges from her room, footsteps thumping unnaturally on grungy carpet. Just like numbers that never grow, the carpet is insulting. A threat to her very existence. She misses sock slides on smooth hardwood hallways with a physical ache.
As if it makes a difference.
Her brother's shoes are tied with a brisk efficiency. If he complains they're laced too tight it's his own fault. Can't he understand what he's done? See all the damage left in his wake? Can't he see how he broke everything precious to her?
Mother bids them farewell over her shoulder, buried too deep in job #3 to even walk them to the door. Taliyah can feel the phantom impression of a kiss on her cheek all the way to the school bus. All the more painful because it's a fantasy.
She counts them the entire ride. Anything to keep her gaze from falling to the windows that reveals too much. Forwards, backwards, sometimes even out of order. Anything to make number ten appear. It never does.
Even with her world narrowed down to nine, she can hear the whispers. "I heard she transferred from some snooty private school. She's so prissy she won't talk to all us commoners even when she's as broke as the rest of us."
Why do they always assume money has anything to do with it? She itches to correct them, but the words stick in her throat. She won't talk about the real reason. Can't talk about it. Can't talk about anything anymore.
A teacher finally calls on her that day. Taliyah had managed to avoid all scrutiny so far, but she couldn't escape.
No matter how many times the teacher prompted, she remained silent. The principle told her there was no shame in not knowing the answer. But why was the answer to some stupid question about dead people so important? How could anything so far in the past matter at all when there were such horrible things happening every day?
She wasn't stupid, she knew how to talk. She just didn't know how to prevent the nightmare of her life from tumbling out the moment she opened her mouth.
So she counted.
One, two, three, four.
The charms tinkled like wind chimes when her mother shook her, a mocking echo of her childhood laughter.
She stumbled in her counting and started over.
One, two, three, four.
Her mother tried reasoning with her, pleaded for her to say something. Anything. But all Taliyah could hear was how her mother used to sing happy birthday to her.
Five, six, seven, eight.
All she could see was her father's smile as he presented her with a new charm for her beloved bracelet, their little tradition. Their little tradition so easily broken that no one tried to fix but her.
Nine.
And how the numbers would never go up again.
Author: Saya
Title: Dear Olivia
Universe: Standalone (but you know me...)
Rating: PG
Flavors: Blueberry Yogurt #22 (making repairs), Hazelnut #7 (lost and found)
Toppings/Extras: Pocky, Banana, Gummy Bunnies (prompt: A letter with no returning address source: Dailyprompt Dreamwidth)
Warnings: Reference to fractured family relations
Wordcount: 93
Notes: A letter home a few years late. Postcard stock by AllThingsPrecious at deviantArt, Chemist font by Cathy Davies at Fontspace, address completely fictional.
Dear Olivia,
I'm sure I'm something you'd all rather forget, but I just wanted you to know that I finally found what I was looking for. I just didn't know all those years ago, when things got so ugly (between us, with the folks, with everybody), that I was looking for myself. I'm sorry that I couldn't find it in our little town. I'm sorry I had to hurt you in the process. But I've found it, and I can be happy now.
I hope that's enough.
I still love you all,
Cayden
Author: Saya
Title: Tarantism: You hear, but don't listen
Universe: Poetry
Rating: PG
Flavors: Sugar Plum #13 (do you hear what I hear?), Black Raspberry Ice #7 (the eyes do not see what the mind does not want)
Toppings/Extras: Cherry (crazy nonsensicalness), Gummy Bunnies (prompt: Abstract poetry "hemidemisemiquaver" source: RL Writers' Group), Pocky
Warnings:
[Spoils the fun if you know what the words mean.]
Marital struggles, evil plotting, obscure references to potential murder/suicide
Wordcount: 48
Notes: Think bouncy, happy thoughts while you read this. And then go look up all the words here are realize what it's really saying. No, I didn't make up a single one of them.
Hemidemisemiquaver; skipping, spinning, squirrel-a-whirl
Argle-bargle, ‘tis a fargle; captious, garble, cagamosis
A gowpen’s worth of brummagem; friable, filipendulous
Two a penny, one a milion; kalopsia, corrigendum
Walla-walla, tohubohu; concilliabule in katzenjammer
Maledicent myrmidon; panjandrum adoxography
Estrapade of snollygosters
Witzelsucht, hamartithia; the mumpsimus of fools
Strikhedonia pandiculation; epeolatry floccinaucinihilipilification
Author: Saya
Title: The Little Fear I Feel
Universe: Lyrical Story (poem)
Rating: PG
Flavors: Bunny Tracks #3 (train), Dragon Fruit #6 (what would they do with their freedom?)
Toppings/Extras: Gummy Bunnies (prompt: "the little fear I feel" source: RL Writers' Group)
Warnings: I imply they're runaways
Wordcount: 295
Notes: Our challenge was to start with a line from Sandra Cisneros' poem Waiting for a Loverand this came out. It was originally one big long story without a shred of punctuation (intentionally), but I like it structured this way better. And no, you did not imagine that sneaky Rent reference. ;)
The little fear I feel
twists and turns in the pit of my stomach
to the beat of your fingernails
tapping on the hard leather of
the briefcase resting in your lap
tucked under protective arms
sheltering it from the deadly drop
to the quivering floor of the train
beneath my toes curling and flexing
inside my boots trying somehow
to clutch onto the world flying by
in the window so fast I can almost believe
the terror clenching my gut is just seasickness
caused by my befuddled brain
and the constant shifting back and forth
between the landscape slipping through my fingers
and the memories scrolling through
at a dizzying pace on the viewscreen of my mind
where I'm forced to watch the paradigm shift of my life
I can feel through the metal bench I share with you
and two decades worth of stuff I didn't know we needed
until I tried to shove it all into a suitcase along with
a litany of hurt and regret to
the soundtrack of shouts and tears
that even the roaring of the locomotive's engine
can't drown out
because I can see the uncertainty lurking
in eyes avoiding mine
no matter the inanities slipping from lips
unable to spit all the reassurances
I want to say but can't because they
ring as hollow and empty as those houses
left so far behind on the tracks incapable of
putting enough distance between me
and the phantom fingers trailing across my cheek
but more than enough to stretch the silence between us
into miles that raise the hair on the nape of my neck
because the little fear I feel is nothing compared
to the thought you'll abandon me the minute
our starving lungs finally breathe in freedom.