Forgotten at Castle Point

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 As I writer I sometimes harbor guilt over unfinished stories, this is one take on what happens to them...

I wake up slowly. The sound of dripping water is echoing in a room farther down the corridor from my own. I can still smell the room's previous occupant. Their fear mixed with the coppery-sweet scent of blood; all underlying the castle's own distinct odor of dank moist earth and rotting lichen. The combination tickles my gag reflex back to life. I have been locked in Castle Point for... well I'm not entirely sure anymore. Perhaps three weeks, perhaps more, time does not flow the same way here as it does in the rest of the world. It would seem that I have been left to my own devices. There have been no changes, nothing new, no people, nothing at all for several days now.

My whole body aches. I have no wish to open my eyes to face the new day but some things are beyond what we would wish. Sitting up with as much care as possible, I am confronted once again by my dismal situation. I am in one of the castle's corner towers; brought here against my will, as are all the castle's guests. The room around me is sparsely furnished, waterlogged bits that have come in on the tide from the unfortunate ships that have strayed too near the point's rocky shore. The walls are black, not only in my room but throughout the entire keep. A black so deep it appears to absorb all available light. It used to be a brilliant, shining white, I do not know where this knowledge comes from, perhaps the walls spoke of it. But I do know the evil that has taken over here has permeated every stone; staining each one until it shares a closer resemblance to its own true imaginings; creeping and stealing even the magic bestowed upon me by my heritage; leaving me weak and vulnerable.

Nothing But Time

I have lived many lifetimes and always my nemesis came in a form easily recognizable. Always an older man but not too old, always with a job that let him be mobile and accepted everywhere; a bard, a tinker, a ring master with the circus, his work chosen so he might find me more easily.

He has altered his appearance with each new life, using a combination of magic and illusion. So many times have we played out this game that I no longer recall his original features but I always know when he is near.

My heart begins to beat faster, I feel a blush rise to color my cheeks, my stomach comes fluttering to life and my skin becomes tortuously sensitive, completely aware of the lightest touch. Ultimately, the only way that I have ever been certain of his identity is by the star shaped birth mark located just behind his left ear.

That beautiful never changing star, how boring the centuries would have been without its presence weaving its way in and out of my life. So many times I would ask myself, 'Is the man I am leading to my bed to be my mortal lover or my eternal foe come to test our magical powers in battle once more?'

Forgotten Dreams

Its bittersweet sometimes thinking of childhood dreams, remembering the games of imagination played as a child...

The Dragon, the Unicorn and the Oak all stood waiting patiently in Charlotte's field. The trio was becoming worried, Charlotte had not come to the past three meetings and their strength was beginning to wane.

The Dragon's large whimsically coloured wings expanded, while his chest filled with air. He extended his long pale-purple scaled neck and attempted to breathe fire. A noise filled the air, sounding like nothing more than a plump balloon being released.

"Do you see?" The Dragon lamented. "No more fire, my wings will not take me up into the beautiful skies, my once sharp claws are brittle, and look at the color of my wings - they're pastel. No more vivid oranges, yellows, greens and blues, my colors are fading. What are we going to do, my friends?" His mighty head lowered in great sadness, shaking from side to side as he contemplated their dismal future.

Crazy Feeling

The stranger jumped off the bus.  He’d been watching the girl for several stops and when he was sure no one was meeting her he quickly exited through the rear doors.  He waited.  Watching her walk briskly down the busy street checking for other pedestrians. 

The teenager bopped down the sidewalk to her own internal rhythm, a small smile playing at the corners of her full lips, oblivious to the danger that followed so near.  It was a little after ten and although the sun had retreated for the day its lingering warmth still hung in the air.  She was going home after finishing her volunteer work at the nearby leisure centre.  Happy because the boy she had a crush on had finally noticed her this evening and had stopped to chat for several minutes.  Her feet were light with the joy particular to new love.  Her thoughts tumbling, imagining, making plans, and playing with all the possible what if scenarios this small encounter could lead to.

She always loved to dance

She always loved to dance.  Amy would drag me out to the Community Center every Friday and Saturday night. Me complainin' and her knowin' it was all fer show. I loved dancin' as much as she did, least I did when she partnered me. Two-step, boot scoot, black Cadillac line dancin', the style never mattered much to her, not even the words, just the base line.  That deep thumpin' rhythm, anything that got her feet tappin' or her hips swayin' was all the encouragement Amy needed to get out on that floor, pullin' me by the hand. 

I never was really sure who was doing the leadin' and who the followin' - both on the floor and off.  A real firecracker, my Amy, always teachin' me as much as I was teachin' her. Never mattered no how, long as I kept a steady quick, quick, slow  goin' she would spin and twirl to her heart's content. Me smilin' like a dang idjit at how happy she was, tryin' to make sure she didn't bump nobody or stumble and get hurt.

I'm dancin' with her again, a waltz this time. My little girl's all grown up now.  I walked her down the aisle today and gave her to another man. It'll be his job now to see she's happy, and to lead her through life's next dance.

I hope you enjoyed this,

Rain

The Rules According to Mom and Dad - Poem

Do as you're told or we'll spank your bum
Yes we have candy but you can't have none
Do as I say and not as I do
Stand straight, don't slouch, tie up that shoe
Wash your hands before supper; brush your teeth before bed
Don't run in the house or watch our faces turn red

Always wear clean underwear
Don't hit, punch, steal, lie or swear
Don't touch yourself there your palms will grow hair
And whatever you do remember to share

When I call out your name don't shout WHAT just come here
Get that finger out of your nose, your eye, your ear
Look before crossing; you'll make us so proud
Don't swim after eating, your music's too loud

Quit making that face it'll stay that way
This isn't a restaurant you'll eat what I say
Don't go out like that you'll catch your death of cold
You'll understand these things some day when you're old

Phone if you're late, be home by ten
And no I don't mean in the AM
To thine own self you should be true
No, that doesn't mean you can dye your hair blue

If your friends jumped off a bridge would that make you go?
Well you can't. Why? Because I said so
The rules still go on and you know it's true
The craziness aside I still love you

And now that I'm old and I also have kids
I finally understand why you said what you did
Although you have cursed us with kids just like us
We promise not to send them far away on a bus
We'll try to be patient and honest and true
And teach them the lessons we learned well from you 

Written for my Dad over 17 years ago...

Rain

Emily Jane - Loose Lessons

Emily Jane Scrimshaw was your typical teenager, or so she liked to believe. At the start of her final year of high school, as she sat across from the Phys-Ed teacher, Mr. Hawthorn, Emily smiled. Not a friendly smile, or a contagious smile but one stemming from satisfaction. The burly man before her stared at her schedule as though his scrutiny might reward him with some kind of explanation. There were only four classes listed for the entire year. His blue eyes lifted from the bright yellow stationary.

“You’re sure this is right?”

Emily nodded in a self-satisfied manner and tried to explain to him once more why she had so few classes listed.

“I didn’t take any spares for the past two years; I opted to fill those time slots with classes. I also didn’t bother with my optional classes. The first option I took was French and the second one I filled in with Biology.”

“But it says here you have finished both Biology and Chemistry 30, yet you only have Math 20. Students are not allowed to take the 30 level science classes without having completed at least Math 20 first.”

She shrugged and repeated the question she started with when she first sat down. “So, will I be able to put all four of these classes in the first semester and then just come back for graduation in June?”

“I’m sorry, Emily. Clearly you have worked very hard for the past two years, I assume your goal was to finish high school in two and a half years?” At her nod he continued. “That was an admirable goal but you should have perhaps spoken to someone before embarking on such a huge task.”

Emily’s stomach did a slow roll when Mr. Hawthorn broke eye contact with her, his eyes darting

Circle the Moon

The fog cloaked everything in new garb; even the most innocent sapling turned dark and sinister. She was waiting for John. He was late and she was getting worried. A small crease formed between Sara's eyes as she strained to see beyond the thickening mist. John had chosen this night for the two of them to meet because of the full moon. Its glow would help them get to their special clearing without flashlights.

She glanced skyward and shifted her position slightly on the tree she was resting against, trying to gain a better view of the unusual moon. The fog had softened its edges; muting its light and making her feel as though she was seeing a reflection on water. Surrounding its outer rim, a thin white ring tinged with red and humped like a ripple gave more emphasis to the watery illusion.

Writing Ideas

Getting Started
Ideas Anyone?

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As a writer, I am often asked by friends and family where I get my ideas from. This is an incredibly hard question, at least for me. I could wax poetic about how I saw a special on one of those learning channels about cyanide, and that gave me the idea for my short story Almond Cookies - but that would be nothing more than another drop of fiction for the old imagination bucket. I could say "divine inspiration", but considering the racier portions of my books, probably not from there either. (wink, wink) I've been trying to figure out a reasonable explanation to this question for a while now, and the closest I've come to an answer is summed up by this quote –

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Trust that little voice in your head that says "Wouldn't it be interesting if…" And then do it. ~ Duane Michals ~

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Lost Love - Challenge

Quite some time ago, a friend and fellow author (Hi Naughty ;) started a contest. The goal of it was to write a story, 500 - 700 words long, on werewolves. Sounds simple enough, right? It is, until you find out you may not use the word werewolf in any way, shape or form. No shapeshifter, no Latin or other languages. The goal is to have the reader know exactly what your story is about, without telling them directly. This is a fantastic exercise on a couple levels, 1)teaches you to trim the fat and get rid of all your excess words, 2)forces you to show, rather than tell.

So, with this in mind, I'd like to challenge you all to try this. Let your imaginations soar.

I am searching for my husband, Jhonas. He disappeared with the scientists who wish to learn the secret of our longevity and strength. They use horrible inhumane methods. So far I have found nothing but whispers; it seems our race is reduced to campfire stories told by children.

I am high in the hills above the city where Jhonas and I watched the first film about our kind in 1935, brought here by rumours circulating about a test facility in this area and the hope that I might find my lost love alive.