Another:
The Circus For Fools

I explore.
The door, old and wrought iron, has tiny little words painted in white all over the bars, and it's all in languages I don't know. To my right are words, white metal bars twisted into the word 'Open'. I feel a bit wary, but all around, on the old bricks is the same iron decorative shapes, some words, some designs, most black, but some little splashes of color. The door swings open without a hitch.

I don't immediately see what it is yet, but there is the noise, the music (for I realize it was music), and people. My eyes adjust to the brightness, and before I'm fully aware of what is going on, a woman about my height marches over, her attire strictly Victorian, and her demeanor friendly. She speaks with a Cockney accent so thick I have to wonder I'm not in England. 
She welcomes me, and ushers me farther in--and suddenly I know what this is. A freakshow. I've read about them, and as far as I knew, everyone had abandoned them. They were 'undignified', or something. As far as I was concerned, if the participants were willing, then why not?
It was free, though I didn't actually realize it till I had left. I never saw it again, that magical place, but again, I never knew that until I went back the next day. The people performed stunts I hadn't known existed. I couldn't tell you exactly what had happened, though I do know that woman that greeted me sat beside me most of the night, and only as I left did I notice her skin had an odd, scale-like sheen to it.

The man who seemed to lead the performances was short, and charisma poured from his loud laugh, his sparkling eyes, and every movement of his broad shoulders. He seemed to participate in every act, and I wondered at how one person could be so talented. I did not see anything odd about him either, though every performance, every trapeze artist, every clown and daredevil, seemed to be of a different stock of human. I don't even mean the deformities or oddities, but rather the way they were able to make you see beauty in everything they did. 

I was there forever. It seemed as though I were never to leave, I recall eating cakes and drinking tea while sitting on silken pillows--watching a dance of Titiana and Oberon, it felt. Finally, I was almost asleep, and the kind woman who had shown me in leads me to the door. Suddenly there I see him--the ringmaster. He grins at me, and I hear his voice as though it were the only clear sound in my cloudy ears. 

"I am glad you enjoyed our performance. " He says nothing else, and I am struck with familiarity. Quietly, I venture, "What is your na--"

He holds a finger to his lips. "Secret. But I promise you this, Clarie--"
My eyes widen, and I step back uncertainly.
He smiles, and I see the flash of teeth. I cannot leave. The woman has stepped in front of the door.


"You...are an extremely delectable fool."

Hi again! This is a little memory lane sort of piece, for me.

The Orchestra

It is loud. So loud I cover my ears, and drop to my knees behind the bar that, I suppose, is there to keep hapless citizens sliding down the sloped white plaster into the seats below.
It is only what Mema calls the 'warmup', she says they are making sure their instruments are not broken. 'Tuned'. I stick my head up again as it quiets, so I can peep at the orchestra, and try to find the tuba--I think any instrument that's so funny sounding must look funny, too. And it does. But I look back and see Mema's kind of angry look--like she doesn't like what I'm doing, but won't actually tell me to stop. I feel sorry, so I hoist myself back into the scratchy velvet seat and pray it won't fold up again--with me in it.
She smiles softly, her lips wrinkling a bit, and I wonder if it hurts to have all that purple on her mouth. Maybe she will let me try when we get home. I blink, and when I open my eyes the lights are getting darker--I don't know why, because the stage is still bright. A person, tiny and faraway on the stage, walks into the middle and bows. Everyone claps. I think she's holding a stick somewhere, because Mema told me about the 'conductor', who tells the people how to play their music with her hands, and that special stick. Daddy once told me it was a magic wand. I laughed at him and told him how silly he was. He was surprised when I told him how it really worked, how the conductor was making signals to everyone.

The clapping gets quiet, and I quickly stop too, just as a pounding comes, and I can only think whoever is playing must be having a lot of fun.
But when it keeps going, I realize it must be angry. The drum is being helped by a really loud thing, I don't know what, and I am frightened almost, my hand sneaks over to Mema. The drumming goes on, quieter but faster, and the music sounds like....like an army. Marching. I close my eyes and see them, lots and lots of people fighting some shadowy dragon. I bite my lip, and then look up, open my eyes as a sweet sound changes the music. The army won, I think, and they are happy. I want them to go home to their families, and I think that's what the music says. It is still loud, but the happy sound goes away...and the angry fighting comes back. I don't like it, and I watch carefully, hoping for another ending.

When it's over, I run around in the park outside, and touch the statue of a woman, with her mosaic skirt. I think she is sad looking, and I ask Mema if she is the mom of a fighter. She doesn't know, but I try to make a statue out of the dirt, to make her family again. Mema watches, and when we leave to get french fries and applesauce, there are three little people leaning against the lady.

Well, another catch-up piece.

Connie's Cuties!

"Welcome, welcome!" The woman at the door embodied hustle and bustle, red frizzy hair, quick legs, and a loud voice. There were no customers in the shop, which had a cozy facade, all wooden siding and pastel paint, cute little shutters with flowerpots in the windows, but inside was an almost factory-like atmosphere, employees rushing to and fro, all but for one man.

He was standing in a corner, arms cradled to hold something small, something he clearly cherished. His uniform was plain, simple and some would say historic, a tunic over loose pants, and soft leather shoes, the front emblazoned with the cheery slogan, "A Baby Fills A Place In Your Heart You Never Knew Was Empty! ~ Connie's Cuties--pick up your baby today!"

Ha. This was no shop for babies. Why bother having a facade? This man knew the answer. And now, he was busy. Quite busy, in fact, for in his strongly muscled arms, a tiny 'bundle of joy' lay squirming, mewling like a kitten. This baby, this infant, was none other than Julian Tiber Kermit. General of the Frisian army.

Why, then, is he a baby? That is most likely the question that springs to mind. If not, well, too bad. That's the one that is most likely to be answered.

By this man. This man, cradling the thing in his arms, is none other than the brother of our illustrious general. 

Justin Rhine Kermit was unseen by many. This facility, used for the age reversal and thus incapacitation of enemies to the Empire, was highly classified, and only the top Frisian agent had a chance. Julian being, well, not his best, that left it up to his heir, successor, and brother to get them out alive. Restoring them to their rightful age should not have been a problem. The problem was getting them out.
And that problem, Justin knew, had one solution--the use of common, industrial-strength, garbage bags.

It had to work.

Here we go! Another one! FFM is pretty much over, but I can catch up with my postings and such. So here's one:

Life

It was raining. Why, then, did the fire burn so brightly, casting its radiant glow over the three, the woman, her raven locks burnt black as smoke, the man, his eyes burning with the embers of life, and the thing, it's nigh shapeless form cold, but intelligent. The three were the only ones left, you see. Their powers were drained, their knowledge and memory all that remained of the world that had come before. 

The world, that still had had life.
But they had hope, well, the man did. The woman had fear, and the thing had only the truth of what was to come, and could not speak of it.
But they toiled, relentlessly building the fire, their backs roiling with sweat, peeling with burns, as they searched far for fuel, labored endlessly, to create the star.

The star would bring back heat, and the witches could rest. It would bring light, so they might wake, and see what remained of their world. They would recover, and could then work more, bring back plants. They would create animals, and watch over them. They would die, long before the world was complete--but they could do nothing else, and they did not complain, nor give up.

And thus, they died in peace, with renewed hope for the future.

Well, I was in NEw Jersey, catching jellyfish, crabs, and the swatting the horseflies...but here is a story!
http://wrenofthecookes.deviantart.com/art/A-Little-Gorgon-469778640

It had happened again.

The little girl ran to her father through the garden, sobbing and tripping over her baby blue  dress, now grass and dirt-stained. "Baba, Baba!" She found him standing still, shoulders hunched slightly, but he turned as soon as she neared him, and knelt stiffly to take his daughter's smooth, young hands in his. His voice, a raspy comfort, was quick,but calm. "Has it happened,Sa-sa?" He asked quietly. "Y-yes..." The little girl swallowed and tugged him back, "Please Baba, come help me!" She pleaded, and the old man nodded, standing and following her down the marble path that wove throughout the gardens. His heels clicked on the stone as her feet slapped it with the sting of urgency.

And there they were. Two children, one of Medusa's own years, standing with books in her arms--and another, a boy slightly older, holding out a toy stethoscope. Her father had been so overjoyed to find a child with such interest in healing as he did himself, and the siblings that had become Medusa's best, and really her only, friends, were always welcome. But inevitably....He laid a hand on his daughter's shoulder, and she blinked, looking up at her daddy solemnly, though tears still tracked her cheeks.

Aesculapius knelt in front of the two young statues, and placed one hand on each heart. He closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed. Medusa watched anxiously, and a small smile hesitated before taking root on her face as she witnessed the gentle glow of flesh on stone, and life returning to the children. Her father's eyes were shut, and his breathing grew ragged, then with a gasp he stepped back, catching his breath. With a start Medusa lowered a pair of sunglasses to hide her lavender, pupil-less eyes, and the pythons that crowned her head hissed uncomfortably.
As her friends blinked, rubbed their arms to get back the feeling, the boy looked up, and grinned at the now-shy Gorgon. "'Dusa, you okay?" He stepped over, and flushed rather sheepishly at Aesculapius, who now raised an eyebrow, his unfocused, clouded eyes suspicious. The boy paused, then admitted, "We, uh....wanted to see. What color. Her eyes are." His sister nodded silently, then ran to Medusa and hugged her tight, causing the snakes to writhe, but the girl to smile cautiously and return the embrace. 

"As long as you are careful and don't do something so foolish again, Aaron, Polona." He admonished. Medusa nodded, and her friends did in unison, then all three ran off to continue their game, the Gorgon's dress and pink boa fluttering, Polona's books clutched tight, and Aaron, falling behind, stuffing the stethoscope into his pocket frantically.

The god saw none of this, as he limped to a bench and sat, shaded by a bower of lilies. He had taken Medusa in when she was but a wisp of a child, who sent people running, if they had not already been petrified. The poor girl had had no friends, no family until she came to live with the god of healing.
Aesculapius had made many sacrifices for his daughter, but thought none of them worth more than her joy and life with others.

Here's something new!


Friends

She had seen him every morning, walking to work, or to the library, or even just down to the convenience store to get some coffee. She always gave him a cup, and sat for a moment with him, even though he smelled of old things that long gone unwashed. They talked about anything, as long as it wasn't boring or awkward. Nothing was too personal; she told him about her relationships with the Russian man who hated dogs, and he would smile, nod, and show her the bit of Russian he knew from school. "Nyet," When she offered him her coffee once the bus to her office arrived. She'd wave, and not feel childish for it, because he'd wave back.

Friends. That's what they were. On his birthday, she took him to a thrift store, and she bought him a suit, a cassette tape player and books. He cried on the way home, and it was then she realized the homeless man whose name she didn't know was a wonderful man.


Then he died. He was an addict, he was a drunk, and he was in his fifties. He had no home, and one night he just...left.

She spent nights outside, listening to music and crying, and wishing he'd gone to a shelter.
But would it have helped? Maybe. Maybe. But she knew he would not have thrived there. She knew what they were like.

And sometimes she still sat on that corner, drank coffee, and watched the people go by.
Remembering her friend.

All right. So, today's story (well, the first one, anyway) has a visual prompt, that I would like to show you, with permission from the artist.

Photo by  MPREVERT on deviantart!

Here is the story: Heaven On Earth

Jessie sat there on my bay window, smiling as wide as she could. I step farther in, closing the door behind me, and notice the way she bites her lower lip subtly. "What's up?" She doesn't answer right away, but stands, her voluptuous hips swinging naturally--and I cant help but smile at the way she moves, energetic and unplanned, spontaneous. Lord knows I see enough cat walkers at the conventions, and her easy, friendly manner puts me at ease.
Coming around behind me, she spins me around, and I throw my hands up. "Oh dear, I have a bad fee--" She interrupts, her hands flashing quickly into the contortions that have to be the oddest form of communication I've seen. "Outside, come on." Her smile ever-present, I shrug, and let her lead me out. As she steps ahead, her hand taking my callused, thin one, I close my eyes a moment and let the sun beat on my tired eyelids. I quickly open them as she pulls me farther into the garden, needing to see where I'm going. I need to spend more time out here, I remind myself. It's beautiful, if a bit overgrown--the tangle of vines where we planted a raspberry, the huge patch where day lilies have taken over...Then the arbor that Jessie made--I was sick when she did, and it was one of her gifts. I sit under it when I have time, and drink orange juice with my meds.
"Look." She'd turned to say this to me, and I look past her, my eyes widening as I see the fence that now lines our property. Before, it was always open. I furrow my brow, and ask, "What is this..."
She grins, and lifts my hand, pointing it at a shape that's moving among the shadows of the treeline. I step closer to the fence, and the shape, four legged, comes closer.

A goat. I gasp, step backward, already laughing as she steadies me. "You got it, really?" My eyes are wondering, shocked as my hands flash. She nods, and proffers a bag--of raisins. I raise an eyebrow, delicate and speaking volumes--I've had the practice--but take a handful, and kneel gingerly on the grass, holding my hand out through the fence. Jessie squats beside me, and I smile down at the ground after getting an eyeful of what's under her shirt--I don't mean that dirtily at all. She's the kindest person I've known in my short life, and that she can be so casual around me, after knowing me only a year, means so much to me. 
The goat does not care what our relationship is, and enjoys her raisins. I bite my cheek when her teeth brush against my palm, and I wince in case she bites--she doesn't. Jessie laughs, and stands after I have sufficiently spoiled the goat.
"I thought you might like to relax today." She signs, and I shrug again. She raises a brow now, well, it's both because she can't do just one. However, she can snap her fingers and I can't, so I guess we're even. We both can wiggle our ears, though.

In response to her suggestion, I yawn, then point over to the rose garden. "Let's listen to music. If you want." She nods, and her hand on my shoulder, we make our way over. I have a boombox already out there, because the circle of soft grass bordered by the blooms is the best place to do everything and I need to be prepared.

She lets me stand in the center, and crosses to the black plastic behemoth on the bench. She starts it, and I watch her reaction to the sound, already the way her foot comes down with purpose--and thus the beat is born in my mind. Her lips move softly, and I can know instantly what she chose, by the way her shoulders shake up and down, her hands clasp mine and move with a uptempo joy. I let her guide me, then we break apart and I am left swaying to her beat, as her hands flash words across. 

Rocky Horror. It strikes me as hilarious, somehow, that she chose it. I hated it, or used to. But when she paints it in my head, it is beautiful. Love the dancer, hate the song?

But I recognize immediately the next one. She stops, a small, almost sad smile as she sings the words to me, and I listen--the deep, rough voice, the guitar, the chorus....
She is swaying simply now--no footwork, just Jessie's body back and forth, back and forth, and she holds mine so I follow without a falter. I can close my eyes, and not worry.

"This is how I want it to end." 
I don't see her answer. 
I don't want to, I just want her to know that.
It isn't sad, because it isn't now. I'm not terminal. But I want to be here forever, with Jessie, swaying to almost forgotten tunes and feeding goats.

"Don't worry. I'll make sure that it is." I've opened my eyes in time, and I smile, stumbling and she catches me. Jessie is the only one who would say that, and not tell me to be quiet. I would laugh if they said that because of the wording, and so would Jessie. 

"You know I will stay here, even when you're better, Martin."
She would. I think she adopted me.
"I know."

When the song ends, she takes me inside, and we sit on the window, looking at the sunset and eating orange sherbet.

It's homemade.

So, I was writing. Sort of. I'm not too terribly proud of this one, because I was tired and bored and couldn't stop watching youtube videos of Aha. Please, don't judge. Or do. I guess I don't really mind. Anyway, here it is, so you can discover how even someone such as I can fail.

That was sarcasm, by the way. It's hard to convey with no voice, but....anyway, here it is:

Space. Not that it is terrible, actually--I like the beginning. It just sort of fell aprt, I think--so here's the texty text.

James's eyes were closed, thick, mascara-ed lashes overly dramatically done, as usual. Slender fingers tapped, brushed over the new toy's thigh. I wrinkle my nose. Gross. Then, just to wipe off that contented smirk, I say quite sincerely, "I'm pregnant."

His eyes fly open to reveal those angelic peepers of cyan, and he kicks the bot across the room. She, if it can be called as such, makes a rather melancholy clunk.

I raise an eyebrow. "With that chocolate cake you made. I really need to start working out."
He growls at me, and pushes past, through the plastic doorway and into the carpeted hall. 
"There's work to do!" I call sweetly, flicking my fingernails, and following. 

It's a typical day for us, here at the TerraPrep Automated Engineering Facility. Admittedly, we are not model employees, what with James' collection of company property, used for, well, non-textbook purposes, and my penchant for protesting every aspect of our work. 

How are we still here? Well...I'll get to that. Right now I think I can smell James burning another casserole. Dinner for two, comprised of ick, blech, and onions. For some reason, onions are the only thing we can grow here anymore. Kind of sad. I miss tomatoes. I don't care what anyone says, those tiny shriveled bundles of salt aren't sun-dried, or even vegetables. Actually, I know they aren't, because tomatoes are fruit.

Sorry. I'm a bit of a know-it-all. That's originally why I was hired, you see. 
Well, I was hired because I was smart, not because I rubbed it in people's faces, though I suspect James liked that bit. At least until I stopped using it on his enemies in the office, and only on him.

The food isn't really that bad. James, a human from the original Earth, was a pretty good cook. But with our range of supplies, there's not much room for creativity. Or for taking tastebuds into account. I haven't asked him to disable mine yet, because I feel that would be cruel to him, and while that wouldn't usually stop me...I would miss it. And we might not have the power to turn them back on. 


I enter the control room, and find James bent over a computer, one of the thick backed types. We don't have the newer types they have in the ships that transport people. We don't need the new ones.. but the speed is appalling.

But..if he's here, what's the burning? I tilt my nose to the air, and whiff. Carbon, of course...and silicon. Oh no. "James!Fire!" He jumps up, and I am grateful for his reflexes as he immediately pulls out the tiny, pressurized container of fire suppressor, while I lead him, my eyes closed to better my scenting, to the scene--one of the monitors has combusted. He sprays it over with the foam, and sighs. "Fifth one this week. We really need to clear out the hard drives..."
"We can't." I remind him immediately, automatically. "They're keeping us in orbit." He rolls his eyes, Russian accent thickening as he gets annoyed. "I don't care. I'd rather not die of an explosion one of these days." I sigh, and he glares at me. He hates it when I breathe. 

The next day, James seems depressed. He doesn't even play with Tricsie or Sabrena, his favorite bots.

I stay out of his way most of the day, and watch the old fashioned, digital clocks count down the minutes. Sometimes I wish I didn't know how the rest of the world was doing, how behind we are. How obsolete.
But automatic updates are nonnegotiable, and news reports used to give James some enthusiasm. Not now.

I'm worried. He isn't eating. He says 'There's not much point, is there?" 

I have to agree. The decline continues, until I don't see him anymore. He sleeps most of the day. No more automatons of the female persuasion disappear from the storerooms. 


One morning I am drinking water. It is unnecessary, but something about the filtered, synthetic fluid seems....natural. It is interesting, and I like the way it is smooth and soft and cool in my mouth.
I see a control panel by the wall, and I step over, curious. It is covered with dust, but the words read 'Observatory Controls'. I frown. This seems odd. We never had..windows.

Or did we? I press the startup button, enter the passcode now completely unneeded with a total of two employees on board, and fiddle. 
A low hum fills the room, and I am motionless as light, no, darkness, fills the room. The white walls, dimly lit by old fluorescent lights, are lifting, and I am speechless, stunned, and enthralled. Endless. It is endless black, pinpricks of stars that look no closer than from a planet. It is nothingness. Emptiness.

"Put those down." A haggard voice turns my head, and I look back at James. He is sick. I can see it and hear it in him. 
Not ill. But sick all the same. I feel pity and refuse. "No. I need to see it all. Come here." He doesn't. He sits at a computer and closes his eyes. And I see something in my periphery. I turn, press my perfectly proportioned features to the pane of window. Not SiliGlass. I don't know what it is. It must be archaic. Maybe even real glass. But this ship is old. I frown. There is something there. I move around the room, till I reach controls for propulsion. We haven't used them in years, though not for lack of fuel. For lack of hope. 
He looks up briefly, eyes red rimmed and tired. "What are you--" "Hush." I say sharply, and let my programmed fingers dance across the keys, throwing the ship to life. We are moving, turning, and James, thrown by my attitude, stands, then sits with a thud. It's there. In front of us. A planet. He is breathing quickly, and I smile. We will land. We will land. We will land.

But our ship is old. It does not know how to survive the atmosphere, and as we are hurtling down, I do not know what to do to save it.

Then I wake up.

James stands above me, wearing an eyepatch and a loose t-shirt. "You made it." He smiles.

I sit up. "We...--"He cuts me off. "We landed. You landed us. I don't know where you learned to do that, Sten. You were like a computer."

"I try." I murmur, suddenly uncomfortable. I am a computer, and he knows that. 
But I don't like being remi--"Sorry, I'm sorry." He says. "I shouldn't have said that. Now...get up. Come on. They said you'd be fine." Who? But I obey, unused to this commanding nature, and follow him out. Out of what I realize is a hut. An honest-to-goodness, mud and reed hut. And as I exit, I am flooded with scent, sound, and sights: A plain, tall grasses, trees in the distance, and people. People everywhere, with four legs, with two, with...seven? Huh.
"Where are we?" I venture, and he shakes his head. "I have no idea. They call it Fayl. They have some way of communicating with any language...technology I've never seen. I don't even know what they are..But we are staying." I look at him, surprised at the sound in his voice. Determination. And happiness.

"Why? It's life, Jim..but not as we know it." He pauses. "Because any life is better than no life, Sten."

Good Mo--Afternoon, people of the web! No new writing today, my muse has left me. On the bright side, I'm considering taking some photos of the garden. Like so:

 This is a coreopsis from the garden.

 And right here....I don't know what it is. Help?

Anyway, I do have an old story for ya, right here: Simon. It's Over.

"Simon. It's Over."
Those words echo in my head. I don't know why, in fact, I don't know how, either. It sounds quiet, in the back of my mind, almost like an endless loop, I can't forget it.
Simon. It's a name, commonly male, originating from ancient Greece, I believe. I would be certain if those words stopped repeating and clogging my concentration.
It's Over. What is?
To my eyes, nothing is obviously the answer. I have learned to look for answers in the world around me, not solely in the words.
It is a human thing to do, judging context. Not that it is easy for someone like me, someone who knows every fact in the universe but nothing of intuition or guessing. Infinite probability permutations, but having the brain make that sudden click of understanding is a mystery to me.
But I am learning. I always am. And I always seek to explain everything I am experiencing. And right now, there is only one mystery. Those words.
They are emotional, I realize, and I try to pinpoint the exact type. Calm, definitely. But kind. I hear a warmth of which I was unaware of until only a few--
I do not know.
Another mystery. I cannot recall when I am. Where I was before. I have a definite knowledge of who, what I am, but I cannot recall how I got to this point.

So I am here. It is dark, because my eyes are shut. I am unable to open them, and now I wonder why. Very quickly the mysteries and questions are growing.
I do not feel emotion typically, but now I am overwhelmed. Confused. I do not know how to proceed, how to fix this situation. Why?

What is happening to me?

"Simon. It's Almost Over."

I am struck silent, or would have been if I were speaking. They have changed. It is not a loop. These words are present; here, nearby. Before, they were thoughts, present only in my mind, but now I hear them. The voice is the same, kind; calming. I am less confused, though none of my questions are answered.
I am still unable to move. But I am able to feel. Slowly, some touch, fingers, lift my eyelids, and my optical nerves are flooded with light. A face, the pale color reflecting into my iris, it is old, human, and I am awash with memory. Slow to retrieve, I recall the man prodding me, smiling. He has been my only companion, for as long as I know. I do not know how long that is, only that he is the man I am always with.

"Simon. There is nothing to be afraid of."

I am reassured. He would not lie to me. He has not; his rate of pulse is the same, his every movement reflecting the truth. His hands are on my face, tilting my head, and my spherically sculpted orbs spin, till their vision rests on what is below my face. My body.
It is not as I remember it, though I cannot say what I remember it as. Blackened, flesh stimulated no longer by nerves that appear to have been fried, my legs are not human.
I was always meant to be human.

A 'person'. My movements are halting. His hands guide me smoothly until I fell comfort; an emotion mixed with sensation. This man is kindness itself, kindness and genius. But my questions are unanswe--

"Simon. You cannot understand why I am doing this to you."

He is correct. Perhaps, if he were to explain what he is doing to me in the first place, I could. My hands move, and I see them--ten perfectly crafted digits, each one jointed, but also blackened. Also shutting down.

"Simon. S--"

I do not understand.
It is over. His hands fall. His eyes are open. The iris reflects the light and sends it to un-receiving nerves.
He is over. I--I do not see it. I do not know how. I do not know what has happened. 

I do. 
I do not want to.
He is over. 
And in a day, when the black in my body spreads,
I will be over as well.

 For Flash Fiction Month, this one was supposed to have the end of the world. It does, sort of, and it makes me sad. I've actually toyed with this character for a long time.

Well, I'm sorry. Four in a day is a lot. But I really want to catch up, so..yup. I promise I'll slow down soon. Anyway, this one is actually the first installment of a really old story. I lied when I said I wouldn't go farther back than last month. But I won't do it much. I just like this one. I doubt I'll ever finish it...but whatever.

An Old Story.

Here's the text, if your mouse is broken and you can't click the link. I know otherwise you definitely would, am I right????

In the swirling black mists of night, two hunters pause. The first, a young woman with short, cropped black hair and eyes gray as the mist mountains, sheathed her bloodstained knife. this knife, in case you were wondering, was not a slim, lethal knife with a carved bone handle and perfectly balanced for throwing. No, this was a cabbage knife, perfectly balanced for cutting cabbage, and not much else. But beggars can’t be choosers, thought the woman with a grimace, as she surveyed her victim. The victim, or, in this case, the bandit charged with stealing her Liege's  crown, seal ring, ceremonial knife, and many other such valuables, lay dead on her back, with a slit throat. The assassin, for that was of course, what she was, looked down at the woman. she was a perfectly average looking woman, with short brown hair and gray/blue eyes. Tyra Silt felt a stab of pity for her. she shook herself. This woman, Shawna Lee, was a spy for the Lortanian empire. Tyra turned her back and returned to the city.

The second hunter, a boy named Lark Avis, crouched in the bracken. His goal was of more mundane purpose. He stealthily crept through the under growth, as silent as a leopard stalking impala. A rabbit, big as a house cat, sat twitching it’s ears at the wind and nibbling grass.
Lark shifted, and the rabbit sat up, eyes wide, nose twitching, trying to detect enemies.
At that moment, Lark sprang, his small, strong body twisting like a cat’s as he landed with his hands on the rabbits neck. He twisted, and the rabbit went limp. Sighing, Lark got up, slung the rabbit over his shoulder, and headed toward home, the small village of Arin. On the outskirts of the city, Arin was populated with hunters from all over, as the surrounding woods held all kinds of prey, such as white stags, owlbears, and worgs. The area where Lark hunted, and most of the villagers who were simply hunting for food, was relatively safe. As he headed home, Lark was singing.
That night, after dinner,(stewed rabbit with potatoes) Lark was up in his room, practicing his voice.  Tomorrow was the day he would be chosen by a mentor for his apprenticeship to the city.
there were lots of choices; this year had had few children, and all the mentors needed a new apprentice. He was hoping to be chosen by Sir Balgor, the music master. Lark had always admired him, and had wanted to be his apprentice since he knew what music was. Lark was mostly a singer, he knew how to play piano, and flute, but was best at singing in his soft, crooning tenor. Sadly, he thought, he was probably going to be chosen by Lord Foldar, The lord of the city, and head of the king’s army. Lord Foldar had to take the children who didn’t qualify for anyone else, so as compensation, he also got first pick. Lark’s parents were both military officers stationed outside the city as an elite police force. Lark had inherited his mothers
Were cat reflexes, and his fathers ruthlessness when fighting. He actually didn’t have any interest in fighting. He was good at it though, and would almost certainly not be picked for Bolgar when he was so good at fighting. restlessly tossing, he fell asleep. Tyra sat and watched the moon make it’s way across the star-crossed sky.




Right, that's it. Done for today....I hope.

Third post, and it's still Thursday? Heavens to Betsy! Speaking of which, isn't that an odd expression? Who's Betsy? Anyway....here is just a little thing I wrote. Not really a story, just something.

Running Late!

Late night, as usual.
Cautionary words,
'You don't want to be late'
Stumble into bed; big thing tomorrow.
Work..right?
Dream world, a few hours of peace then
the alarm. Not awake yet, fall out 
of bed. Clothes.
Socks, then shoes. 
Food? No time.
Half-closed eyes, groggy words to the cashier.
Black, scalding coffee and

HOLY CRAP I GOTTA GO OUTTA MY WAY OUTTA MY WAY---

Now, who hasn't felt this way at least once?

So, why am I posting again? Like, a few minutes after the first? I'll tell you why. I hate starting fresh. Which means I have a butt-load of stories, and other stuff that I have stored up. Luckily for you, I'm only reaching back to the past few weeks. Maybe a month. That's where I'm drawing the line.

This second piece is actually also from the first day--I liked the prompts(they give you a selection to choose from) so much that I did a second. Using this image as a prompt: Amnesia by Essilou--warning, some nudity

Siren, the second story.
Again, if you don't want to just click the link...here. but I'll warn you it's got the word 'breast' in it, if you can't handle that sort of thing.

I hate mannequins. I hate shopping. And when I asked my friend to go shopping with me, I don't know why she agreed. Surely she knew I was possessed?

Honestly.

But I woke up on Tuesday with it staring me in the face. Ever since, it stays in my closet. I can't touch it. I think it would hurt, if I did. Not that I tried, you think I'm crazy? Good god.

But every morning I look at it. I don't want to. I have to. And every morning, she--I mean it--is dressed, in a new outfit.

My credit card is running low. I need to go shopping for food, but I don't want to go, leaving the mannequin alone. Who knows what it might do?

It's hungry. I can hear it's stomach growling my dreams.

I feed it. My friend doesn't know where I am. She comes knocking, and calling me, but I can't answer--what if my new friend doesn't like it? I think she's jealous....

She only eats chocolate. I telecommute now, so I know when to feed her. Maggie. That's her name.

She's wearing a red dress. God, it's beautiful....I touch her now. Sometimes she feels like skin, not fabric. I trace my fingers down her shoulders, down, down to her breast....


She touched me. A fleeting grasp with her long fingers, brought my cheek to hers, and for a moment I felt eyelashes where, when I look, there is only fabric. No face.

It is time. I know now, it is time to see her face to face. Kiss her. be with her.

I am in the closet. I close the door. Her eyes glow, like a cat's. Her lips caress mine, and I rest her on my lap. It is hot in here. I cannot breathe.

My eyes are closed, it is stifling but I cannot leave her here. My skin is pale, wet, her touch ceaseless.

I hear nothing but her words in my ears.

The door opens, my eyes burn and I scream.

Humans take me out, I cannot leave her, but they tear and burn me away.

I am alone. I am gone. People watch me, through a window, their faces shining. Ugly.


I feel my breath catch. I turn. I see her. Legs,silky, approach me. 
Her teeth, opalescent, bear down on me.

Crimson bejewels my white, and I am with her at last.