Stories and Such

Haven't written much lately...

2010-01-05T19:38:00.001-08:00

Haven't stopped to think much either.

Short Story: (Dream)

2009-09-03T10:39:00.001-07:00

Written 9/3/09

Critique welcome!

This story is based off of my sister's dream. I have her permission ;)

Sorry it is double spaced...

You keep the crow in your sight—or try to, but its wings flit in and out of your peripheral vision with the speed of a cat’s paw striking a mouse. The crow’s unsteady guidance takes you down a row of uncanny houses, with doors askew and windows irregularly placed, past faceless people with their backs turned, long, drab coats carelessly tossed over their weak bodies. He takes you past all these things repetitively, until at last you reach a building that lords over the rest. It is a stone mansion.

You are inside the mansion, limbs straining horribly to keep the crow in sight; he must be kept in your vision but it tortures your body and your legs do not seem to be your own any longer. A flash of the crow’s black wing near the stony ceiling beckons you to a wooden, spiral staircase in the corner. But now you do not want to follow. You never wanted to follow, and now the little devil wants you to place a bare foot on a step that whimpers with the lightest touch, to climb a staircase that may have been a servant’s more than a century ago. You scream, “No!”—

You are almost at the top. It is not quite so frightening now; after all, you have conquered the staircase—you have placed your feet so carefully, you have placed them like you set your mother’s china on Sundays so it would not break and she would not yell, and you are at the top.

The crow rests delicately on the stone window seat. He looks at you.

And he morphs into a man, the type of man that you would pick to be a crow if you had to choose, with sleek black hair and a lithe figure cloaked in the same color. You feel you must know him. In a way, you understand why: he guided you here. But somehow you know him as more than a guide.

The crow-man smiles. He knows you, too. But then he is behind you, touching your hair and you are frightened. So you walk over to the window seat, tripping on your way there, and look outside at the grey sky that holds its fury in check so the row of uncanny houses below might not drown. You let your legs hang down the other side in the open air, and do not fear falling.

“I am glad you made it here. For a time, I thought you might—” the crow-man looks at you as if you were a child. “I thought you might not make it.”

“I don’t understand. I don’t know you.” You do not turn around to meet his eyes when you speak these words, weak and unsure. You know they are not true, but can not grasp why. Perhaps you do not try hard enough to understand; indeed, you’ve been thinking about those uncanny houses and the faceless people. You’ve been thinking of flying out the window. You’ve been thinking of becoming a crow yourself.

And you’ve been thinking so hard that you don’t realize until several minutes have passed that you have not heard a sound. When you turn around, the crow-man is no longer standing and staring at you with that condescending smile. He is crumpled on the floor, his face white with death. Someone grabs your waist from behind and pulls you out the window.

You fall.

But you are not a crow, and you can not fly.

Poem: Goings and Comings

2009-08-30T06:56:00.001-07:00

written 8/29/09

He left, and his closet

became storage for the

ironing board.

He returned, and in disbelief

threw it

out.

He left, and forgot a mass

of clothes and trinkets

of sorts.

He returned, and remembered

the piles of thoughts

and plans.

Thoughts and plans

thrown

out.

On A Walk: Writing Exercise

2009-08-29T07:17:00.000-07:00

in second person.

Critique Welcome!

If you've been on a walk with a sister who's prettier than you, you'll have committed to memory the looks on the faces of the hundreds, of the hundred thousands, of men you've passed on a walk like that. You'll have seen how they look at her. How their eyes drift down her toned, tanned legs, and you'll be torn between punching their nose, kicking their crotch, and running down another street to cry in self pity. If you've been on a walk with a sister who's prettier than you, you'll have chosen the latter. But if she's a good sister, a friend, she'll have searched and found you. She'll have looked away from those hundred thousand men, and pointed out the one geeky boy who looked at you.

And you'll both have laughed.

Poem: What Happens?

2009-08-04T20:05:00.000-07:00

written 8/4/09

critique welcome.

What happens if my pen stumbles

over words that won't come?

Words that once flew winged to speckle and splatter

a blank page,

what happens if they can't form,

if they don't form,

like they aren't forming now.

It's because I don't have experience,

I know it is.

Don't tell me different.

Don't try to tell me different.

I know my lack of self, of hurt, of love,

is all my own fault.

I know my fear of fear is pathetic.

I know that, if I felt,

I could write again

Poem: Lies

2009-08-04T10:16:00.000-07:00

written 8/1/09

Critique welcome.

I've opened a Pandora's box

of secrets

without meaning to.

I've told things normal people

wouldn't tell

and lost affection.

So I kept secrets,

gained trust,

but lost truth.

Poem: My Spotted Socks

2009-07-13T14:24:00.000-07:00

writted 7/13/09

critique welcome.

Threaded with pink

and white

and a tiny bit of orange.

Thoroughly worn

and loved

and torn at the toes a little.

They don't exactly keep my feet warm,

But as long as I can look at my spotted socks

I almost don't mind being cold.

Wondering...

2009-07-07T14:24:00.001-07:00

Why I've forgotten my pen

And it's stout comfort.

Why I revel in other silly,

Unimportant half-joys.

Why I've not let my heart

Pour out to my God?

My future...

2009-05-22T19:24:00.000-07:00

Just thought I'd post this.. it's kind of silly, but it might make you laugh :)

This desperate child
With hair of brown,
Short and stout
Disinclined to frown,
Will find within

Herself a dream
One that others

May have seen
She'll find a prince
And dance in the snow
And write away her days,
But she'll never grow.

Character Study

2009-05-22T11:27:00.000-07:00

(I saw him at Barnes and Noble the other day... Shh! what, no, I'm not a stalker)

A uncouth swagger meets a civilized world as Frank walks into the bookstore with a dirty leather coat and naturally faded, old jeans. Ordinary books line the shelves, except for the un-ordinary ones here and there, and it is toward the latter that Frank feels an inclination of preference. He picks up Alien Wonders, flips through the pages, sets it back down, then keeps walking through the store.

What is he looking for?

Haha.. he was very strange. I still like to think about it. Very inspiring. Thank you, Frank, whoever you are :)

Poem: The Porcelain Cup

2009-05-14T13:37:00.000-07:00

Written 5/14

Critique Welcome!

I hold a porcelain cup in my hand.

Hand-painted ivy twirls through

Dancing harps—

I can hear their music.

I can speak their language,

Silence.

Its lip curves toward mine.

This side has but slight irregularities,

Only visible when my eye draws it so near,

So very near,

That everything else blurs.

I hold the porcelain cup in my hand,

And ache for it to be complete

As it once was—

But now it is broken.

Even now it is crying,

“Let me be whole!”

Let mine fingers stroke its side,

Jagged and painfully unique

And I will drink my tea.

That awful tea,

From my beautiful, broken cup.

Haiku: Tree

2009-04-21T08:50:00.000-07:00

Written 4/21

A bastion for birds

Freckled limbs restrain new life

Crooked, awkward limbs.

Known and Un-Known

2009-03-30T08:59:00.001-07:00

Free verse, written 3/27/09

"Ready?" Calls a voice well-known,

Though the face my eyes can't see.

The sky is wet and lined in rain,

But I only know that

Because a half-hidden lamp,

A lonely lamp, can see.

Splash.

"Take my hand!" My own voice cries.

How alive is nature at night!

One aged hand, one trusting hand,

Intertwine as we run

Past a half-hidden lamp,

A forgotten lamp, that sees.

Poem: Flooding

2009-03-24T10:36:00.000-07:00

Written 3/23/09

Picayune matters,

Only trifles of life,

Build and build and build.

One day they shatter.

Droplets of rain

Drip and drip and drip.

I search for a ladder

As floods

Rise and rise and rise.

I fall as it clatters.

As water,

As anger,

As despair,

Drown me, drown me, drown me!

(Yes, I realize the last section is different... rrrg.)

Poem: Unnamed

2009-03-13T19:10:00.001-07:00

Written 3/5/09

A little more abstract, so don't feel bad if you don't get it... that's just my confused self writing deeper feelings that make no sense :)

Wish for a song

Hope for the words

To rescue the lost

That wave behind you-

"So long"

Forms their lips

Wish for needle and thread,

And make me

Into a puppet

And I'll dance to the song-

"So long".

When you're lost.

Critique Welcome. Especially on this one.

Poem: Wish of a Star

2009-03-03T11:11:00.000-08:00

Written 2/13/09

The wish of a star:

To not be afraid

Or feel how alone

They seem to be made

How I wish to comfort

That flickering light-

One bashful part

Of this beautiful night!

Ditto from below.

Poem: Sin or Storm?

2009-03-03T11:08:00.001-08:00

Written 1/29/09

What could I have done to anger

This frighteningly alive

Mask over my sun?

Are my sins so great

That even the rain feels the need

To try to rinse me clean?

Why, even the trees whisper

Condolences, at least forgiving

My unknown trump of nature!

I can't be this awful, I think,

Though the skies, rain, and trees

Seem to protest a differing

Opinion.

As always, critique most welcome!

Stories: A Poem

2009-02-28T20:17:00.000-08:00

Written 2/6/09

Just a quick little poem I wrote for fun :)

I opened my window

And heard in a dream

The still, cold air

Speak to me.

And I heard all

The tales of men,

Children, lovers,

Those that had been.

She spoke plainly,

She of the wind

Of the trucks with red

Lights 'round the bend

She wept aloud of

Horrid nights

Like these, but why

Should I be afright?

'Tis only a story,

A whistle, a sound.

And I am safe in a house

On the ground.

I closed my window

And wind turned her face.

Her back is to me,

Her vanity disgraced.

Critique welcome, though it is just a quirky little thing :)

Random Quote: Cry, the Beloved Country

2009-02-19T13:11:00.000-08:00

I'm reading Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton for school. It's interesting, and written in a very unique style, which in my opinion gives it an extra golden star.

But it's also very profound in its ideas. I ran across this today as I was reading it, and it really grabbed me. Well, there were actually a lot of quotes that grabbed me, but this one is my favorite:

The truth is that our civilization is not Christian; it is a tragic compound of great ideal and fearful practice, of high assurance and desperate anxiety, of loving charity and fearful clutching of possessions. Allow me a minute...

This is part of a manuscript written by a son that is being read by his father. "Allow me a minute" is the last thing the son writes before he hears a sound downstairs, goes to look, and is shot. Which, along with being extraordinarily depressing, is also interesting... What awfully beautiful last words to write.

It makes me wonder what the last words I write will be.

Meme: Me! (moved from AyeCaptain)

2009-02-11T11:09:00.000-08:00

Thanks for the questions, GirlWiththeBraids!

1. What is your favorite color?

At the moment? Yellow or Teal

2. If you could meet one author in person, who would it be?

Easy! Alison Croggon, author of the Pellinor Series

3. What song describes your life?

This was what took me so long to answer... I have no idea.

BUT the closest one I could find was Marching Bands of Manhattan, by Death Cab for Cutie. AMAZING band. If you haven't listened to them yet, LISTEN to them!

4. What TV show do you want to guest star on?

Gilmore Girls ;)

5. Converse or high-heels?

Depends on what I'm wearing.. but seeing as I don't actually OWN any converses, I guess that means high heels XD

What about converse-high heels?

If any one else wants to do that, let me know your email and I'll ask you five questions!

Voice of Time

2009-02-10T17:55:00.000-08:00

written 2/9/09

Minutes repeat

Like a wavering voice.

But when that voice runs out

of air--

Minutes pause:

"Tick"

Will no longer

"Tock".

We would run in circles

(If we could run),

Alas, time has stopped

(And the world is undone)!

Listen to the pause

In the flickering verse

(In the very least,

At its very worst)

The voice of time,

Hear her shout:

"All is wrong!"

When her voice runs out.

I apologize this one is kind of "all over" and probably confusing and awful. Critique?

My Lamp (poem)

2009-02-02T05:37:00.000-08:00

Something a little brighter!
Written 1/23/09

Little lamp, you are strong
and brave
When I grow scared of the hauntings
Outside this room, your soul flickers
And instead of withering shadows,
I see the dust in my room-
On the shelves
In between books
Behind curtains.
Places I should have cleaned.
But what if every once in a while,
It is right to quail before those shadows?
Should I test the brink of nightmares
To experience something new?
Ah, what if the owl is hooting
Merely of a magical place?
And the glint in a beast's eye reflects
Not a prowling ghost,
But a fairy, whose light was thought to be
Hidden?
Perhaps our Lady Moon isn't trying to light up evil things,
But only preening her image in the slumbering
River?
Little lamp, have you tricked me!
Your bravery has become my weakness.

Untitled (poem)

2009-02-02T05:32:00.000-08:00

Written 1/22/09

His hand rested on the Bible,
A vow of its own kind
Accompanying the words spoken
His body acted in accordance
With the expected.

His hand rested on the Bible,
Light and sure of accomplishment,
But these accomplishments were not
Would not, stay astride with what
The Bible accepted.

His hand rested on the Bible,
The same hand that, with a flourish,
Would sentence other hands
To strangle a spark of life in a
Newly formed babe.

His hand rested on the Bible,
A broken vow of its own kind,
Accompanying the lies spoken
The soul acted in accordance
With my expectance.

Please refrain from commenting on the political aspect of this poem, rather critique it as a work of poetry. Thank you!

Dark is Darker

2009-01-15T07:13:00.000-08:00

My New Year's Resolution was to write a poem every day. So far I've done pretty well, missing only a day or two here and there. Of course most of the poems are just terrible, but I rather liked this one.
(Many thanks deanna for giving me a journal to do this in!)

Written 1/4/09

Dark is darker when I close my
eyes
"Hope is vain" I say and
sigh
We wait, you and I,
Unanswered,
Like that closeted darkness.
We cry, you and I,
Like a tortured blindness.
Scattered?
Shattered?
Dark is lighter when my eyes adjust.
"He will come," you say, and I
Trust.

Poem from my story

2008-11-05T06:09:00.000-08:00

Here is a poem from my NaNoWriMo story. Its actually a song my MC sings. Its really depressing, but just so you know, I'm not the depressed one. My MC is. :D But it's her first song, so I'm happy for her.

When the world seems a darker place,
When all you see is a pained face,
When cries and shouts follow you,
And people begin to abandon truth,
The old songs drift away,
They carry nothing but hardened decay,
And in my mind the troublesome thoughts,
They won’t leave, they won’t stop,
Something else is being taken,
Another life has started quaking,
How many more?
How many times?
I’m sick of all Death’s un-avenged crimes

Can you tell my story is depressing? Ask deanna or traci, haha.

Poem: Rain Drops Teardrops

2008-09-26T17:29:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem as a metaphore exercise.. see if you can guess what it is a metaphore for :) answer is at the bottom.

The clouds draw nigh with thundering sigh
The people in bed awake
Yet slowly amidst the constant prattle
Of rain, their sleep o’ertakes

But near one open window,
A puddle, still and calm,
Surrounded by a fence and sky
Sings a tranquil, monotonous psalm

The storm passes, to leave disdain
On those who sleep below
And the puddle stares, awake and scared
Till morning starts to show

The remnants of destruction steer
The puddle away from home
Miniscule rivers on miniscule sands
Leave to search and roam

Some join others, and some stay apart
Yet yours reluctantly fall
Fear not, my child, your joy will come
For time will not cease to heal all

Answer: the puddle is the child's eyes; the storm an argument between her parents. The rivers are tears flowing from her eyes.

Saddest Moments; Happiest Times

2008-09-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

To my little white pony Rambler, who gave me his heart then left with mine

Riding a little white pony has been the dream of many a girl. The lily-white coat, soulful eyes, and dainty hooves that cover many little bedroom doors are more than just a pony. They are a symbol of childhood, of innocence and spontaneity. I was once blessed with one of these perfect symbols. But sometimes, such gifts can only last so long.
My sister and I had been “sharing” a buckskin pony for a couple of years. Of course, I knew Bucky was never really mine. Siblings have an uncanny silent way of deciding things like that when it comes to animals. I still loved the buckskin pony and rode him and cared for him when I was allowed. I took him to shows and lessons. But whenever my sibling rode Bucky or petted him, I knew they had a stronger relationship. That was the kind of relationship I wanted. I wanted a friend in a pony. And I fervently hoped it maybe could be white.
Coming home from school one day, my mom told me of a certain little pony her friend owned. The woman’s daughter had outgrown the pony and had acquired another larger horse to ride. The pony hadn’t been ridden for a while as was apparently a little spitfire, so she was looking for someone to get him back in shape.
My mom said yes.
I knew I wouldn’t really own the pony, but I was still excited when I ran to meet the fuzzy white creature. My mom had said his name was Rambler. He stared at me with brown eyes and little white ears pricked with curiosity when my feet dragged me closer. His hide was stained with mud, but the unnatural beauty of creation still permeated around him. “Rambler,” I whispered. He held his regal head high, and then returned to munching the delicious grass.
Rambler and I formed that special bond over the next few years as we competed. His heart and mine started growing together. We borrowed confidence from one another, and love and hope. I trusted him and he carried me, whether with a saddle and bridle or neither. Of course I fell. We both messed up. But my worst mistake was starting to forget he wasn’t mine.
The owner had decided she needed to sell Rambler. I ignored the Pony for Sale! flyers we took to horse shows and feigned interest when people came to look at him. Rambler was mine whether I owned him or not. One day, Rambler’s owner called and said that someone in Maine wanted to buy him. I felt my eyes grow big and my forehead crease. Maine was very far away from North Carolina, too far away. I had never imagined that Rambler would go to another state. In the times that my tears reminded me he was going to be sold, I had placated myself knowing I would be able to visit him and run my fingers through his fluffy mane at least once in a while. If Rambler went to Maine, I would never see him again. It would be like he died.
The next couple of weeks went by too fast. I took pictures with my best friend, my pony. I climbed on his silky back and weaved my fingers in his mane often, just sitting out in that green pasture under a blue sky. But more than anything, I cried. It was hard to concentrate on schoolwork and sleep, when our merged hearts were slowly being pulled apart. I don’t know if Rambler would have cried if he had been able. Sometimes I wonder if animals get as much out of relationships as humans do. He always seemed happy; his bright, curious eyes level with mine when I shed my tears. But then he would nicker and rub his muzzle against my cheek, trying to wipe away whatever sadness lay there. His strong heart was ready for whatever came; mine was not.
The night that Rambler was going to leave, I had to go to bed early. It didn’t make sense to me; I would have thought my parents would know I would not be able to sleep. I stayed next to my white pony as long as I could. My hand slid down his neck over and over. I walked next to him around the pasture as he grazed. I finally closed my eyes, let my head drop on his shoulder, and squeezed my heart out through my eyes. Holding the tears back while I left him was hard enough as I passed my mom and went into the house. Rambler would leave at one o’clock in the morning and it was only nine. I left my room and ran toward my parents’, where I could see Rambler through a window. I hadn’t run out of tears quite yet as I peeked through the blinds and stared at my pony. He stomped and twitched, shaking off the flies. He was so normal, but so perfect. I never deserved him anyway, I thought when I returned to my room and curled under my quilt.

Rambler left that night to make his way into the heart of another little girl. His genteel but spunky spirit and angelic little face brought many kisses, pats, and hugs. I still have a bit of his tail saved in a little plastic bag, and still hope I might see him again, though it has been many years. But even if his silken body has fallen and his dark eyes have closed, I will always remember my little white pony; my friend.

Stay Strong; Be Brave

2008-08-18T10:54:00.000-07:00

I wonder in this sleepless night
The reason for irrational fright
That whips its holder on the face
And tears our clothes with sickening grace
I wonder why, when these terrors come
Some shake and hide, some quickly run
And some stand tall, and brace for fate
To lead them on to heaven’s gate
But when that brazened soul doth shine,
The fears that horde the braver mind
Will flee to fields of scorched grain
And cry, cry, cry in vain

Little, But Fierce: A Story of a Boy

2008-08-11T04:57:00.001-07:00

The little boy stared at the boat, his brown eyes big in unbelief. He glanced around, wondering if anyone was looking. Not seeing a soul, he crept toward the boat. His hand reached out, as if it was being pulled rather than a controlled motion. The glossy dark finish of the new boat gleamed under his little tanned fingers. The boy hopped up onto the deck, but his scarf caught on a nail. He yanked it free and threw it on the deck.
“That feels better anyway; it was getting hot,” he said as the wind fondled his dark, curly hair. He walked around in the fishing boat, hearing his boots clunk on the new surface. He looked out to the sea, sloshing and foaming in its nautical brilliance around the little village.
“Still dreaming of the sea, Unio? You know you would never make it out there,” said a voice on shore. Unio jumped off the front of the boat in a frenzy, and fell on his face in the sand, soaking his pants with water. The boy on shore laughed.
“Don’t you have something better to do, Osuga? Can’t you all just leave me alone for once?” Unio said bitterly as he turned sideways and huddled.
“Oh, Unio, but don’t you know how fun you are? Come play with me and my friends, Unio.”
Unio shook his head and walked down the beach, knowing full well what “play” meant. He still had the bruises to show for it.
“You can’t run away from us forever, Unio. We’ll always be here, you’ll always be here, and things will just get worse until you face us,” said the older boy as he walked away jauntily.
Both boys returned to where they were originally supposed to be. But while one tried to stop laughing, the other tried to keep from crying.

“Have you seen the new boat, Unio?” asked Unio’s father at breakfast the next morning. Unio ate slowly, thinking about what had happened near that beautiful, cursed boat.
“Aye, father, she’s little, but fierce,” said Unio with a glow of admiration. He grabbed a piece of bacon, thinking of how similar the boat’s beautiful color was to the food.
“That she is,” said Unio’s father dreamily.
“Could we have a boat like that one day, you think?”
“Nah, unless some turn of nature lowered its price by half at least,” the boy’s father laughed.
Unio stared at his plate and sighed. Maybe one day I’ll buy it myself.
“You can’t come fishing today; I need you to go to the market and get some things,” said Unio’s father, with a sad smile. He knew Unio would be disappointed.
“Yes, sir,” was all Unio said. His large eyes were cheerless, and his boyish mouth clamped shut as he stared out their little kitchen window. The colorful bottles that hung down over it reflected light into his eyes, but Unio didn’t turn away.
“You can buy a book,” said his father, trying to brighten the boy up a bit. Unio met his father’s eyes, and the boy’s lips twitched into a little smile.
As he kissed his father’s grizzly face, he couldn’t help but think, You can’t feel the sea in a book.

Unio sat curled up on the floor reading when his father came home. The words began to swarm before his eyes and he blinked rapidly to clear them.
“Unio! What did you do today?” said his father in a loud, booming voice that shook the floor Unio lay on.
“I went to the market. You told me to!” Unio sat up quickly and scooted back to the wall. His father rarely got mad, but when he did…
“Why are your clothes wet then?” His father walked toward him, his face red with ire. The man’s head was sweating as his hands repeatedly ran over the sparse hairs. It was times like these Unio wished he had a mother to hold him; to calm his shaking hands.
“I walked home by the shore, and I tripped,” muttered Unio. His clumsiness embarrassed him. Unio thought his father knew that.
“And then what did you do?” asked his father, sounding very skeptical.
“I came home, unloaded all the things from Market, and read this book,” Unio held up the book he was reading. He had almost finished it.
“What is the book about?” asked Unio’s father. Unio was bewildered at his father’s anger and distrust. He hadn’t done anything wrong!
“Father, what happened? What’s wrong?” said Unio quietly.
“Answer me!” shouted his father. Unio’s eyes rimmed with tears as his father began shaking his shoulders. He told his father everything he had read.
“Have you read the book before?”
“No.”
By now Unio was curled in a tighter ball, what muscles he had, clenched, his long hair falling into his eyes.
His father heaved a long sigh, his blue eyes searching his son’s dark ones. He turned around and put his hands on his hips as his eyes started leaking tears. Unio stood and ran over to his father, his little feet padding the soft, dirt floor.
Father and son embraced, and the father began muttering in the son’s ear.
“They think—everyone thinks you stole the boat. But you—you didn’t, Unio! Why would my son ever—he wouldn’t. You wouldn’t! Oh, Unio...”
Unio stared out the window as his arms wrapped around his father’s sides. His beautiful boat was gone.

“My son did not wreck your boat!”
“His scarf was found in there. Everyone knows it is his scarf. Your son wears a red scarf everywhere, and he doesn’t have it now.”
“That doesn’t mean he stole a boat! He was home all day yesterday; he went to the market, he read a book. How do you have time to do all that, steal, and wreck a boat?” Unio’s father was furious. But really, there was no evidence for Unio anyone would believe. All the evidence was against him. All the men were out fishing. None of the other kids had gone missing and they all had evidence of seeing each other. And Unio was the one that had been seen wet.
“I did go in the boat.”
Unio’s father turned toward his son, incredulous.
“Unio, this isn’t a game.”
“I know, father. But I didn’t go in the boat yesterday. I went two days ago and just sat in it; that’s all! My scarf got caught on a nail and I threw it in the boat. I forgot to pick it up when I went home. But I promise I didn’t steal the boat.”
After this, talk flew around the mob of men surrounding the boat owner, Unio, and his father. Everyone was saying something.
“Sounds like an excuse to me!”
“He’s just a boy, he can’t steal a boat!”
“Shows how obsessed with it he was!”
“Heaven’s sake! We don’t even know if it was a person from our town who stole it!”
“Why would someone randomly wreck a boat?”
“He does look to weak to handle a boat himself.”
Unio fled. Everyone pushed against him, some patted his head, some pulled his curls, and some tripped him. But he just got up and kept running. It was all too much.
“Unio, why are you running?”
Osuga stepped in front of him as Unio finally fled all the people. Osuga was grinning with the sheer pleasure of torturing the boy before him, his green eyes flashing with excitement.
Unio stared at Osuga, then drew his right arm back and punched the boy standing in his way. Osuga lifted his hand to feel the blood coming from his mouth, and Unio looked at the gash in his knuckle from Osuga’s teeth.
“That wasn’t too smart, little Unio.” Osuga glared at the boy before him, whose drawn eyebrows enhanced the fine lines of his face. If Unio could have seen himself, he would have hidden from the proud, fierce look that overcame his face.
“I was never very smart, Osuga, but I know I did not steal that boat. And I have a feeling you know who did,” said Unio. Unio searched his foe’s face, but he must have stared too long. Osuga’s fist flew into the boy’s face, and Unio crumpled to the ground.

“Unio!” said the boy’s father as his strong arms curled around his son. Unio muttered something incoherent.
People once again crowded around the boy, whispering. Osuga shuffled to the back of the crowd as he recognized what he did. Someone grabbed his arm, and he tried to pull it away.
“Let go!” he screamed, then looked up to his father, the boat owner. Osuga cringed.
“Why did you punch that boy, Osuga?” Osuga’s father held his son’s rebellious stare, but eventually Osuga lowered his eyes.
“He’s a bully. He punched me, and I had to protect myself. That’s what you always told me to do with bullies, isn’t it?” Osuga said.
His father laughed unbelievingly.
“Unio is a bully? Oh, yes, that makes perfect sense, considering Unio reads all day, and hardly ever goes out, and—“
Osuga’s father paused. Unio’s eyes fluttered open as his father poured water on his head.
“Unio, did you steal that boat?” asked Osuga’s father. Everyone stared at Unio as he held the man’s gaze.
“No.”
Osuga’s father nodded with understanding and finality.
“The boy tells the truth. I see it in his eyes. Aye, he loved the boat, but the boy didn’t steal it,” said Osuga’s father.
Unio smiled up at his own father, and then whispered a small “Thank you” to the other man, who had turned back to his own son.
“Osuga, my son, perhaps you know who stole my boat?” asked the man, with a twinge of accusation.
Osuga looked away for a while, and then turned to his father with bitter humiliation and regret.
“Osuga,” said the boy’s father. His face was lined with disappointment as he grabbed his son by the ear and dragged him home.
The crowd dispersed, chattering and mingling as small town crowds do. Within a month, all would be forgotten. Perhaps not for Osuga, who had to work on building a new boat with his father and was not allowed to roam the streets for a while, but most people would forget all the other little boy was accused of. Unio continued fishing with his father, and though the boy was innocent, it was a while before his father let him steer their boat.
Their boat, glossy and proud, built hand by hand from pieces of another boat with a somewhat sadder story.

Dahrke: A Short Story about Fairies

2008-08-11T04:55:00.000-07:00

Her hands grazed the tops of that Spring’s gifts. It may have comforted her, but for the thorns here and there and brambles that clung to her already scarred hands. She fell to the earth on her knees, grasping the soil, wishing some sort of pity from it. Her view of what was once to her a perfect world became blurred, not only because of her tears, but also because Merry had touched something far more complicated, yet far more wonderful than any other ten-year-old girl could imagine. Merry met fairies. And they were nothing like what anyone would believe.

An owl hooted outside Merry’s window, and the girl’s green eyes turned toward the darkness of the night. She had been awake for a while now, unmoving and huddled beneath her simple cotton blanket. A breath was finally released, and Merry sat up, swung her legs over the side of her bed and stood up. Her white nightgown clung to her, wet with sweat, her dark hair tangled and messy, yet Merry seemed oblivious to all this except the cold wind that embraced her body. She grabbed a cloak and softly stepped out of her room, then outside, then glided her way behind her house into the woods.
I wonder why people don’t like the dark? It’s so beautiful.
Merry’s feet took her along a makeshift trail. She admired all that she passed and welcomed it, pushing her nightmares away. At last she came to a stream and lowered herself next to a tree. The night air pressed down on her, enveloping her in a cocoon of its crisp, cool smell. Grass, or something, tickled her bare feet, and an unearthly sleep swept away Merry’s mind. The little shadow under her produced a muffled laugh.

Kehlan wiped the blood and herb mixture off the tip of his blade, his slanted eyes gleaming with anxiety for a human to bring to Dahrke. His thin, gleaming wings lifted him up to the face of Merry. He looked at her, gazing with quite wonder.
She is a beautiful human.
Kehlan had never met any being with such pink cheeks, such soft hair, and long, full eyelashes. He extended his arm and touched her skin, surprisingly smooth. All the female fairies at his forest had black hair, blacker eyes, and dark skin, such a contrast to the little human. He drew a breath.
“Come, girl,” spoke Kehlan, as he drove the tiny spear in his hand into the girl’s neck. Merry awoke and grabbed her neck, yelping with pain until she set eyes on Kehlan. He held her gaze, allowing her to enter into a trance. The girl’s eyes misted and she arose and followed the shadow with wings into captivity.

“Excellent, Kehlan,” whispered Dahrke, resting in a branch of an oak tree, chiseled and smoothed to fit him perfectly.
“Do you wish me to put her—“
“Lock her up. Bring her out when we Gather,” spoke Dahrke.
Kehlan led Merry away without emotion. The girl was slowly regaining consciousness and making feeble efforts to stray toward home. Yet even these feeble efforts made it hard for Kehlan, as he was not even a fourth of the girl’s height. He tugged her hair, then flew around poked her back lightly with the tip of his spear, just enough for Merry to jump forward and fall into a hole underground.

Merry opened her eyes, blinking rapidly to clear them. The ground she sat upon was slightly damp. Her head rested on a sod wall, and as she brought it forward to look closer at her surroundings the pain in her neck reawakened, forcing her to lie back. She breathed deeply, trying to understand where she was; and, having no logical conclusion come to mind, Merry decided she was having a dream. So, she arose, now bracing herself against the expected the jolt of pain in her neck, and looked around. However upon seeing nothing other than sod walls shaped like an upside-down bowl, Merry returned cross-legged to the floor.
“Do you like your resting place, little human? Comfy, yes?” came a voice behind the child.
Merry jumped and turned her head toward the sound, the backed up, horrified.
She saw what she considered the cruelest face upon a tiny body, with black, flimsy wings that sputtered sporadically up and down, then side to side. The sharp face had a deep complexion with a hint of green toward the ears, which curved then pointed toward the crown of the head. The head was covered with black curls, almost like a human could have, but they, too, contained a green tinge toward the base. His eyebrows were straight, his eyes somewhat slanted and the eyeball completely black—more as a marble than an eye, for it contained not even the smallest tinge of white. The lips were full, and again slightly greener than the skin. In all, this creature Merry came to assume was a fairy was not ugly, but it wore such a sarcastic glare, such a pleased twist of the mouth, that all Merry could think about was getting away. This was not the kind of fairy she heard about in stories, not the kind she read about in books. As happens recurrently in dreams, Merry forgot she “thought” she was dreaming and accepted the moment as reality. And yet, there was no place Merry saw that she could run, so she huddled against the wall, trembling. The creature’s features softened slightly.
“I’m not going to hurt you, little human,” muttered the fairy.
“My name is Merry,” the girl whispered, with a hint of anger.
“Pleasure, Merry,” spoke the fairy with some disdain. Then he paused, perhaps considering his tone and continued, “I am called Kehlan. I captured you.”
The girl remained silent.
“You are my first capture for Dahrke.”
The girl flinched.
Kehlan shifted then announced, “Well, I will bring you out to the others in a while. For now, try to rest if you like.”
Kehlan looked at Merry once again, then jumped and flew into a small hole in the roof of the little room that Merry had not seen.
The girl cried silent tears.

Merry looked up at the sky as she was led away from the little sod room by a rope with thorns intertwined. Part of the ceiling had been lifted away, and she was pulled up by four fairies. It may have been an amazing feeling, but Merry’s mind was elsewhere, and even so, it was slightly uncomfortable. She looked at the path now ahead of her that led to the same river that bordered the tree at which she fell asleep. Amidst the trees were more fairies, similar to Kehlan. Yet when she looked up into the trees, she saw one that was slightly larger than the rest—it was about half her height, with long, straight, black hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. The eyebrows on this fairy slanted upward, yet the eyes, penetrating and solid, were the same. Merry assumed this was Dahrke. He nodded to Merry as she approached.
“Welcome, human,” spoke his voice, not very deep, but with somewhat of a brassy tone, “I suppose you know why you are here.”
“Not exactly,” said Merry, and as the fairies first heard the human’s voice, soft and quite, they stared, some with amazement, some with pure hate. The fairy in the tree laughed sadistically, along with others perched beside him on the tree.
“I would have thought Kehlan would have told you. No? Kehlan, tell her now,” he nodded at Kehlan.
“I will leave the honor to you, Sir,” replied Kehlan with a wicked glance toward Merry. Dahrke looked amused, but agreed. He flew off his branch and close to Merry’s face, his dark wings reflecting the moon above into the girl’s eyes. He began to speak.
“A long time ago, the first Dahrke leader began a tradition. When the Hunter’s Moon is full in the sky,” he paused, and seeing Merry’s look of confusion, continued, “That would be the full moon of your, ah, November? Yes, he moon you see in the sky is that moon. At that time, each family of the Dahrke fairies was to bring one drop of human blood, to give to the river. Human blood calms the river fairies, who would otherwise attack when the chill of winter comes. This used to be easier, as humans would walk the forests often, yet now we have had to travel farther and farther to bring back our drops of blood. However, you are here tonight, and now we can save our blood for next winter. You should be thankful to the first Dahrke leader, though, because the blood must come from a different human every year. Otherwise, we would never have to worry about gathering blood if we had you to stay with us.”
With this, Dahrke smirked and, while Merry was staring at his cruel, deep eyes, he sliced the top of her hand. Merry dropped to the ground, clenching her hand, and screamed. This scream of pain brought others of joy, for the fairies of Dahrke love to hear suffering. They leapt from branch to branch, shrieking and calling out to the moon. Dahrke dropped his blood into the river. Ten fairies surrounded Merry next, then flocked to her, slicing her arms, legs, neck, anywhere they could reach. All the while, more fairies flocked to the child, while the women and children fluttered around, singing and dancing with glee. Merry’s screams continued, tears poured down her cheeks as blood stained her nightgown. She kicked and blindly flung her arms about, which only allowed fairies easier access to her blood. Then, one by one, they flew to the lake, and fewer fairies flocked to her, until the last one sliced her hand and left. Merry lay on the forest floor, exhausted and broken. Then she turned over onto her back, and looked up at the night sky, which was empty. A leaf cracked beside her and she turned her stained face. Kehlan approached. He dropped a flower into her hand; it was pure white.
“Thank you, Merry. We don’t deserve it, but you saved us,” Kehlan whispered, then stepped back, and more forcefully commanded, “Go home, Merry. Go home.”

Months have passed since Merry’s encounter. Each day, the memories of the fairies of Dahrke, her sod prison, her sacrifice, and everything else in that forest slip farther and farther away, as other trials emerge into her life—trials that require her attention and can’t have fairy tales getting in the way. She often wonders whether that night was really reality, then she glances at her hands to remind herself how it definitely was, no matter how terrible and beautiful. As she walks through the fields surrounding her house, Merry’s mind drifts back to the forest and the stream within. She glances at her hands, counting the scars, and realizes that both the pain and discipline afterwards for “running away” was worth it—because Merry now had something that no one else she knew had; something she could hold on to and never let go of; something special; something all hers. Merry had met fairies.