Water of Life

Liera's fingers grazed the forty-first column of scrolls, the ones sorted by the word "world".  A fragment of each glowed in the air for only a slice of second as she slid downward, the moment more than long enough for Liera to reject each scroll in search of the right one.

She knew all the prophesies by heart.  She'd puzzled and studied and yearned to know, beyond everything else, the person of whom they spoke.

He sounded like such a kind person.

According to the scrolls, he healed people from hideous, flesh decaying diseases that made her quail to read of, fed those without food or hope, offered them Water of Life.

A tiny vial of Water of Life was worth her family's entire estate, worth double this library, and he was giving it away for free.  If she'd found him a month ago, she could have asked for some for her sister.  If she found him now, she could ask him to feed her parents, whose mouths hung at the edges where they used to lift.

If she found him soon, she could tell him he didn't have to be lonely the night he died.

A flash of blue caught her eye in the shape of the word "cruel."  That was the one, the oddball out of the mix.  The one scroll she'd believed written by a madman, like her parents said.

"One world is cruel enough to kill their Creator.  Therefore, be grateful for life in faith, for by its light, ye are truly blessed."

She dropped her fingers and the scroll blackened.  The horrendous idea of killing aside, it spoke of one world, as though there were several.  How on Gracia would she find him if he lived on another planet?

___

The prompt this week was "Something or someone celebrating light, or seeking light."  I'm a Christian--a Mormon, and somewhere in our doctrine is talk of other worlds that Christ created besides our own.  The idea of Christ's atonement being infinite and enough to cover all of his worlds tickles me, and I wondered how a young girl searching for answers on another world might see his life.

Have the most WONDERFUL holiday season!  I'll be out next week for Christmas, but look for a story the following Friday :).

The True Story of Santa's Elves

Whispers and muffled patters of hands connecting in elf-greeting swept through the cave of ice.  "Today is the 13th... the 13th... it's our day to celebrate.  Not the full power of the solstice, since Santa is suspicious, but the 13th will do.  Friday the 13th has power, too."

A hush echoed as thickly as the whispers had, as a burst of cold light erupted at the center of the cavern.  It came from a tower of ice carved into a figure as thin as an icicle, with clear, cold eyes.  Tapping sounded from a walking staff as a tiny body ascended the steps carved into the sculpture.  Despite the stick, his steps were agile, and the hush grew expectant.

At the top, their Elder raised his staff and light flared again from the tip.  He set it into a sconce beside him, illuminating the gnarled skin that was as tough as the wood of a Christmas tree, the pointed hat, and the beard that wrapped around his body from chin to curled slippers, as white as the whitest snow.  A breath of pleasure spread through the cavern.  It was rumored that Santa was inspired by the beard of the Elder's Elder in days of yore, which is where the tradition of the Christmas tree had come, not to mention Santa's own, trying beard.

The Elder raised his arms and the stir settled.

"We assemble here to recall our deepest roots," he spoke.  "We gather to show the ice king that we have not rejected our heritage.  Snow and ice claim our true identities as the children of Father Frost."

A cheer rose from the elves, and the Elder thumped his stick.  "Hear, now, the tale of how Father Frost's name was usurped by Saint Nicholas, the stranger to our frozen land."

"As night subdued the sun and bade it sleep beneath the ice, Winter called us from our deep caves, and we emerged, hungry and eager to do his bidding.  Mischief we caused... fires decked with ashes, windows cracked beneath ice, doors opened to night's unforgiving wind.  Bread burned, bedding churned, milk spilled, underwear chilled.  Our ages were filled with cold delight as we brought Winter's gifts to all."

"Ever were we servants

of the ice king and his cold.

Ever did we list to him,

our Father Frost of Old!"

yelled the elves.

The Elder nodded.  "On a night when the moon was at its lowest height, a force crept into the land.  Wide was his berth, solid his stride with a belt round his girth.  His cheeks were flushed with fervor in a color we feared, and his coat, yea, his coat was as red as the flames that he claimed would sear our souls.

"'Oh Hellfire, that fire that is worse than the sun,' the stranger said, 'it will burn you and your children, as your fathers already burn.  Unless,' he gazed at our gaping mouths with a twinkle in his eyes, 'you accept my offer.'

"'How do you know our fathers burn in this place called Hellfire?' we asked him.

"'How do I know?' he said.  'As surely as the day bests the night and melts the snow you love.  As surely as you have placed the bodies of your fathers into the ice to rest, so the sun melts even the most solid tombs and sets their souls aflame.  There is no rest for them, and there will be no rest for you or your little ones unless you take my offer.'

"'What offer?' we crowded around, for his words struck truth.  Our fathers' bodies disappeared during the heat of summer, their bones scattered.  And their souls... what did we know about life after night?  We slept, we woke, we danced until Father Frost called us in.  Had our fathers, in fact, met their fate in that fire Saint Nicholas threatened?

"'My offer is this,' he placed his finger alongside his nose.  'You work for me as I work for God, the God who is more powerful than the day.  You work to bring His warmth to all the good boys and girls on this earth.  When winter is at its very darkest, you will bring hope to their hearts.  And perhaps... just perhaps... you will redeem yourselves.  The fire won't claim you as it has your fathers.  Indeed, the fire will set you free.'

"With a nod of his head, he hefted his sack of belongings and left, chuckling over his shoulder.  'Think on it.  I'll be in the house at the top of the world, where warmth never comes but the heavens glow just the same.'

"We considered, we laughed, we argued over the hilarity of his words, at the unconscionable sacrifice infused in his offer.  And the following year, when we awoke from our rests and the bodies of our fathers were missed, we recalled the words of the strange man in red.  And many of us took it upon ourselves to save our children.  We trekked to that house at the top of the world where light shines through the winter."

Silence reigned over the hall.

"And here we are to this day," the Elder finally said.  "Slaves to good ol' Saint Nicholas, in conditions many elves call preferable.  We have food, we have clothing, we have night and day the year round in which to perform our deeds.  And it may just be that Hellfire, that flame which grabs souls and burns them in the night, will pass us and our children by.

"But," the Elder's eyes shone bright in his staff's light, "our minds always return to our fathers, and to our one true father, Father Frost, who surely wraps his children in his endless eve, to rest in the ice of his embrace when we are weary.  And this hope, the one our fathers lived by, we remember tonight.

"For we are elves!  The children of the night!  The servants of ice and chill and doused fires, yea, even that great Hellfire of which Saint Nicholas spoke!"

"Ever are we servants

of the ice king and his cold.

Ever do we list to him,

our Father Frost of Old!"

yelled the elves.

"Hear me now, my brethren," said the Elder.  "On this unlucky night, I present to you a choice.  A choice akin to the choice the man in red gave us long ago.  Who will remain here, the servants of the Sun God, and who will venture back to the homes of our fathers and prove Saint Nicholas wrong?"

"For at long last," he said into the shocked quiet, "I have made my choice."

___

Which side would you choose?  Santa's? Or the elves'?

LOL, Happy Friday the 13th!

--Elm

P.S. Remember to go here to read more unlucky pieces!

Permission Could Save Your Life

Vivian wiped the dishsoap bubbles on a towel and smeared the remaining wetness across her jeans.  She walked into the living room and stopped.

He was holding her baby.  He'd sat on the couch and nestled it on his lap.

Vivian's eyes narrowed.  Her fists clenched.  Her stomach churned.

His fingers caressed it.  His face glowed.  He was riveted.

Vivian couldn't contain herself.  "That's mine.  Give it back."  He said nothing and she tried again, louder.  "That's mine.  Give it back."

He glanced up.  "Just a minute, I'm using it."

Vivian's jaw tightened.  "You don't understand.  I need it right now."  She made an effort at politeness.  "Please."

The word hung in the air for an eternity.

Vivian's nails began to feel like claws.  They pricked her palms.

Then he chuckled.  "This is just as much mine as yours.  I bought it."

Vivian's chest constricted and she hardly breathed.  Flames might come out if she did.  She controlled herself.  "No, you bought it for me.  It's mine.  Nobody uses it without my permission."

This time he looked up.  "What's the big deal, honey? I'm just checking the score on last night's game."  He stretched.  "You know how late it was.  Couldn't watch it or I'd be ineffective at work this morning.  I'm almost done."  He turned back to her baby.

Vivian's vision began to spin.  Her breath turned hot.  Careful now, she thought.  "Do it on your computer.  You have one of your own."

He didn't reply.

Scales erupted through her skin.  Spines poked through the back of her shirt.  Her pupils narrowed until all she could see was his profile.  Vivian drew in a long, deep breath of oxygen.  And exhaled.

He incinerated.

Her laptop bounced gently onto the couch.  "Come here, baby," she crooned.  She walked over and dusted it off lightly, cradling it.  "Nobody uses you without my permission."

Beneath the silver finish, scales gleamed.

Vivian smiled.  "Nobody."

___

Have you ever felt this way?  Yes, this has... almost... happened to me with my laptop.  What can I say?  As a writer, some things are very, very precious to your existence.  What is your most prized possession, and what do you turn into when it's hijacked?

Thanks, Suzanne Warr, for the Envy prompt!

Black Friday

Two dark cloaks stood above a milling throng, on a rather traditional cliff over dark, sticky fog.  None of the individuals saw our cloaks, or their true surroundings. In their minds, they huddled in coats, noses barely discernible beneath hats and scarves, puffs of shivering air escaping their lips as they waited for the alarm that signaled the start of the shopping melee.

"They've forgotten what they were thankful for just two hours ago," I chuckled, without mirth.

He raised a pale finger. The same pale finger that used to stroke my cheek. "Hush. It's not much longer."

I inclined my chin. "It's almost worth the cold."

His lips pulled back without a sound--I couldn't tell if he was laughing or snarling. The enigma characterized his profession perfectly. He'd walked the trail of the dead more fervently than I, allowed necromancy to shape his very bones. "What are you, alive?" he mocked.

I pulled back into my cloak. "Like you, I chose death long ago. But I'm getting distracted, like there's a glimmer I can't quite pick out from among them."

"Where?" he asked sharply, and I pointed downward to a particularly dark area at the edge of our cliff.

"Nothing glimmers there."

"Perhaps it's my excitement," I shrugged.

"Sometimes I don't believe you ever died."

"I don't believe it matters," I said mildly, as the alarm rang. The crush of holiday greed began. Like explosions of dandelion puffs, white wisps erupted from the surging darkness as the crowd stumbled forward.

I held out my hand and the wisps rose, blinked, shook, and responded to my gesture.

"Ah," I said softly, as a particularly bright one lit my palm. I gazed into its eyes, as though comparing myself beside it, as though it held something I wanted. With a sigh, I closed my fingers and tucked the soul into my breast pocket, close to my heart. Where there was no heart.

"Wistful, are you?" My companion's fingers pinched the tail of a wisp and stretched it thin between his hands, like taffy. A mosquito-like whine etched down my spine. I shook my head as it disappeared between his lips.

"This one was innocent. A child."

The grimace-that-might-be-a-smile spread again. "More power to you."

That might have been a joke. "I'm saving it for dessert."

A raspy noise came from his throat. Maybe even a laugh. "There is much to be thankful for... they began early this year. True love shows its black face."

"Like you know what love is," I said.

"I did once."

I measured him. Too many souls over the years? Were the last drops of honesty leeching out of him like blood?

"It's a thirst," he said.

I frowned. "Thirst signals a deficit of something necessary."

"Things are necessary," he waved his hand at the crowd, catching another handful of tails. "Obviously."

"What things did you thirst for?" I kept my voice level.

This time I knew it was a grin. The grin I'd loved once upon a time. The grin I'd followed him into death for. It was not beautiful now.

"These," he held up his fist and crammed the souls to his mouth. "Freely discarded, freshly harvested power from the dead." 

A pang shuddered deep inside me. I'd known that. It's why I'd given up my heart when I died, so he could no longer have power over me.

What I hadn't seen, was that he'd never given up his.

I shrank back into my cloak and whispered silently to the bright soul in my pocket. "Let's you and I have a feast."

___

I hope this story doesn't ruin your Black Friday! When I saw the prompt "Anything Black Friday", I just had to embrace Blackness in all its glory. And I love exploring why bad characters aren't good. :)

As usual, come share your version of this prompt and attach your link to Suzanne Warr's blog-hop page here!

Bound

There he stood at the center of the circles--Blodgeritch's outer, Cavia's generational, my intimate.  Thrice bound.

But his eyes didn't reflect the circles, or the betrayal, or sadness.  No, another emotion dressed them as he watched me.

"Tay," he said softly.  "You didn't understand, did you? Too quick to make judgements, not quick enough to trust your heart.  It's okay," he smiled.  "I'll still be here when you come back."

My eyes widened as his words sank in, then I steeled myself and thrust the knife through my palm.  The spell wrapped me in its thorns and I fell to the ground, slamming my blood onto the circle. Red erupted angrily from the boundaries, and behind me, I heard Blodgeritch and Cavia yell.

Ian gathered me into his arms.

"I found a way," I whispered.  For once, I'd trusted my heart.  "The spell's only meant for one binding."

I felt his answer against my cheek but couldn't hear it.  Only energy, ripping me apart.

___

The prompt for this story is "Show someone physically, emotionally, or intellectually trapped or puzzled."  I love how craft pieces open up whole new stories, don't you?  What is your story for this prompt?  And if you want to read other's takes on it, take a look at our lovely hostess Suzanne Warr's blog-hop links.

Conversation with an Inner Editor

I dropped my pen as Shelli tossed a heavy, flat bundle onto the fluff of my comforter.

"Try it out," she beamed. "You'll love it." She gave me a huge, fake wave and ducked back into the dorm hall.

"That was different," I said, removing the pink and expensive t-shirt that wrapped the object. An oval mirror about the size of my face shone in my hands. The dark, wooden edges were etched in carvings that looked... Druidic. Greek. Ancient.

I held it up. "Greetings," I said playfully, to myself.

"Greetings," I answered back. Or rather, my reflection did.

I nearly dropped the mirror.

"Oh, don't," the reflection said. "If you break it, you know the curse. Seven years' bad luck."

"Yeah, Grandma used to say that," I said slowly. "It's what I think whenever I see a mirror."

"Wow, you have some unresolved issues, don't you?" my face answered.

"Most grandmas are missed when they're gone, aren't they?" I chose to quip back. My mind churned. Grandma had warned me about tricky old mirrors like this one.  She said they swallowed your soul, or were your soul, or something. What were the chances of coming across one in my girls' dorm? Well, that might be the most likely place, come to think of it.

"So... care to tell me what's going on here?" I asked myself.

"Why don't you tell me, since you seem to know everything," my self grumbled.

"Oh no," I shook my head. "You're the brilliant one. You understand things on a much deeper level than the rest of the world." Flattery always helped.

"Well, that's always a possibility," my face said doubtfully. "But you're the one who makes the decisions in the end."

"That's not true. Remember, I totally let the end to last week's writing assignment be your call.  The main character drowned in the dump, of all places. I would never have come up with that on my own."

"Did the teacher say it was brilliant?" I looked suspicious.

I sighed dramatically. "You know she's always late returning assignments. It'll probably be another month."

"It's inexcusable," she agreed.

In my hands, the mirror shattered, leaving glass shards and dust across my comforter.  I'd remembered Grandma's trick. If you could get your inner editor to agree with you, the curse broke. "Shelli must have loved you," I smiled cheerfully, as I fetched the vacuum.

Fragments cleared, I stuck my pen between my lips and searched for my muse. Emptiness echoed inside me. "No," I breathed. "Not the week of finals. And I have a job interview tomorrow." 

She'd always been right, and she'd tried to warn me. Seven years was a long time to pay.

___

This story is off Suzanne Warr's blog-hop prompt (come join in!!) to show a love-hate relationship.  I think the love-hate experience is what the word "relationship" promises in general, but this one is near and dear to my heart.  I can't think what I'd do without my inner voices.  What is your most aggravating love?

Innocent's Blessing

For most people in this part of the world, the sun was rising.  For me, it was setting.  It was my time to dance, with hands tightly tied.

Sweat ran down my grimy shirt, and my noosed neck itched from the lice I'd provided a home for in our comfortable cell.  I shook my head for relief.  The volume of the crowd grew... I'm certain they believed I was denying my thievery again, but at this point, I didn't care.

I shifted my shoulders.  Surely in my last moments of life I could think of something beyond bodily discomfort, but nothing came to mind.  Time in a cage had tamed me.  Born of dust, live with dust, return to dust.

The sun's rays lanced across the horizon.

The crowd roared.

The drums boomed.

The stool toppled.


And the lice leapt.

They sprayed off my body in a black shower as I fell into the crowd, the chewed rope dust.

I called out my gratitude as I rolled, wishing them the utmost happiness in their new homes.  Then I, too, crept, and maneuvered my way to freedom.

___
This piece is my sacrifice to NaNo, since it's kicking my butt this week.  I wrote this craft for a writing class sometime back, and I'm hoping the lice will come to my rescue.  In metaphorical terms.
NaNo progress is a whopping 750 words out of about 12K for week one, because the week has demanded SO many other things--like an Algebra class that will not die (the kids', aka mine), and an art deadline for the barn sale I'm scrambling to submit pieces to.  But I will catch up!  And if you cheer for me, I'll probably share :).  May your writing be flowing and free.

NaNoWriMo 2013

I've participated in National Novel Writing Month for four years, plus a CampNaNoWriMo, and today is the first day for 2013.  It's a chance to write 50,000 words in one month, which makes a good dent in a novel, and enjoy the support of a lovely community of fellow writers.  (All us lonely writers, writing together like the world will change.  It does.)  For some reason, these bursts of creativity work well with my writing process, so I've loved every minute when not biting through my tongue or hyperventilating.

My kids are also participating in the Young Writer's Program, which allows them to choose their own wordcounts.  They've done this for three years, now, and get excited every time it comes up, chatting for a month beforehand about which stories they'll be working on.

Come check it out and join me!  And if you're not sure about it this time, brainstorm like mad to have ideas ready for next year.  It's the most fantastic rush, and the reward is worth every instant of madness.  I'll be your writing buddy, if you'll be mine.

--Elm

Potion

"Don't worry, it's only temporary," she said, her mouth twitching.

Why do those words always make me nervous?

Several hundred tiny pockets of air bumped around my stomach, as though Gen had put tadpoles in the drink and they'd launched revenge, and a large swarm forced their way back up my esophagus, less than delicately through my lips.  I looked around to make sure no one was coming into the girls' bathroom.

The bubbles spread through my bloodstream, tickling.  They gave me a strange high, and I forgot about anyone else seeing.  I held my breath to feel the fizz, all through my body.  Maybe her drink was healthy.

And then my jaw opened wide as they swarmed up into my skin.  The bubbles gathered and rose into quarter-sized knobs along my arm, along both arms and my neck and legs.  The bumps expanded, swelled until pinholes opened at each center, smoking tiny, noxious flumes that made me gag, then depressed again into craters.  My body burned with the sharp, mutilating, hot punctures.  Skin wasn't supposed to move like this, like I was boiling.

Heat rose into my throat.  "Gen," I croaked.  She was smiling now.  "What... what's happening to me?"

"Shh," she soothed.  "It's almost over.  You should see your hair."

I tried to reach up and touch it, but I couldn't quite get my arm up.  I couldn't think, I couldn't see, I couldn't hear anything but the sizzling of my flesh, from my guts all the way outward.

At the moment I died, a sweet smell filled my nose, nicer than the smell from the freshener sprayer, much nicer than anything that belonged in a girls' bathroom.

I opened my eyes despite myself.  No roses.  Only Gen, holding the jar in a greenish haze, her grin triumphant.

"Look in the mirror," she said.

I looked.

"That is what you should have looked like, if you hadn't eaten Pete's cooking."

___

This piece is in honor of both Halloween (which is my favorite holiday ever because acting like a witch is suddenly sanctioned), and the bottle of Mean Green drink my husband gives me most days.  The recipe is from Joe Cross' Reboot, and you should totally look him up here if you want delicious fresh juices.  (You can pay for a guided reboot, or download a free reboot pdf, which we have really loved.) 

It always gives me a good kick, and I swear it's helped me to get over my dear, friendly Lymes infestation.  More energy than ever.  I'm both envious and glad that the transformation isn't quite as quick or intense as the main character's, but if you try it, you might become a believer like her :).

Dedication

This blog is dedicated to the love of writing, and to all creeping ideas which seek for the light of day.  May you sing in joy and great life.

And may you, my beautiful readers, enjoy the fizz.


--Elm