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