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Sunday, July 06, 2008

Sun, 06 Jul 2008 20:50:45 GMT

I was dreaming of that sound again. Even in my dream my eyes were closed but I could hear the flutter of wings. I could feel the air move in wisps across my face as the wings brushed past. Then in my dream or in a moment of lucid thought I opened my eyes. I saw him. As plain as I see the words I write now. He stood at the foot of my bed a shadow of a figure of a dark entity. His face was hidden from the light, his dark clothes doing little to give him definition. But I know him. And because I know him what I see doesn’t matter. I could close my eyes again and he would still be him, he would still be there. I just know him.

When I was a child he would visit often. Come to stand at the foot of my bed in the darkness of the deepest night. Until I was told of the Boogie Man and the monsters that lurked in the shadows, I didn’t know to fear him. Even after my childhood fears were formed, he never scared me. There was always something soothing about his presence, my mind told me to fear, while my heart knew better.

I tried once to tell my family about him. Can you imagine? Telling rational adults there is a man who lurks at the foot of your bed every night, but you aren’t scared of him. It was of course dismissed as fanciful nonsense, the stuff of a child’s imagination. Until my grandmother asked, “Do you hear his wings flapping before he arrives?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted, “Sometimes I don’t though.”

“The angels don’t always fly to us,” I remember the warmth of her hands covering mine. “Sometimes they just walk into the room.”

Years have passed since my Grandmother’s death and I have difficulty remembering her voice. But I cannot forget her hands. My grandmother would often comment that she didn’t mind growing old, except for what it did to her hands. She would take my downy smooth child’s fingers into her warm grasp admiring them in contrast to her own. Her hands reflected the experience of her life. Bones twisted by arthritis, skin as thin as parchment stretched across blue and violet veins, dotted with dark spots- age freckles she called them, nails perfectly manicured with red polish to hide the yellowing; you would expect them to be cold but they were always warm even in the harsh winters she survived alone in the country.

I knew the exact moment of her passing because she came to tell me about it in a dream. I had been away, unaware of her illness and came back only for the funeral. My mother and I had needed the distance to be whole again, we ripped each other to shreds if we spent too much time in close proximity. I was packing my bag when she called to tell me her mother had passed. I knew logically Grandmother was gone, I could see her body in the casket. But it wasn’t until I held her hand, felt the cold lifeless flesh against my own that I was convinced it wasn’t just a bad dream. I knew better of course, but even I needed proof.

My grandmother has always worn the same three rings her entire life. One was an emerald ring her father had given her at her high school graduation. He had promised her another ring when she graduated from teacher’s college, but life and circumstances kept that from happening. My great-grandfather died during the great depression never fulfilling his promise, while my grandmother chose a different path than teaching. My cousin Josie inherited the emerald. The second was an opal wrapped in delicate gold filigree that she had bought for herself years ago because she liked the design. She thought that buying it made her an independent woman of means. My cousin Serena was given that one. The third ring was a diamond engagement ring a boy before my grandfather had given to her upon proposing marriage. The boy had died in the War and Grandmother had later met Grandfather. It wasn’t the only tragedy in her life, losing that first love. She had lost a child to polio and a husband to his mistress. She gave me the diamond in her will. She had given me so much more in life though.

She had been my ally in all things, the only adult who had believed in my angel. She taught me about the voices and the dreams. She knew how to make sense of the images that I could see and no one else believed. She had explained it all in such a way that the nonsensical had made sense finally. It wasn’t in my head, it was real. I wasn’t crazy, I was gifted. She made me believe in the one true thing that governed us all- death. She made me believe that death was just a rite of passage to another existence, a higher plane of consciousness. So when I heard the angel’s wings and I opened my eyes to see the dark figure at the end of my bed, I just knew. I knew that death would follow soon enough.

The phone rang jolting me completely awake. I knew it would be one of two people before I even picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Anna,” Josie’s voice came through the line. “Did you see him? Do you know what this means?”

How could she even ask me that stupid of a question after all this time? “Has Serena seen him?”

“I dunno, I called you first.”

“Well, yes… I saw him. And if Serena has seen him too, then we should probably meet at the cabin by Thursday. Tell her to clear her schedule there’s work to be done.”

I hung up the receiver knowing the next few days would be filled with more questions than answers. I had excuses to make, commitments to dodge for an unspecified amount of time. The three of us had learned long ago how to lie well to hide what we knew, hide who are. Josie and Serena were the only two living people I could trust with my secrets because we shared the same one. But that was the way of things, when you work with the dead there is always more secrets to cover the truth. Let’s face it, would you want to know the truth if you were going to die soon? Let me answer that for you… no. And in case you’re wondering, not many people want to hear messages from the other side either. No the truth is sometimes an angel just has to walk into a room, because flying tends to upset the status quo.

Writing Exercise for Smokey-

Sun, 22 Jun 2008 21:07:23 GMT

I was tasked to do a writing exercise the rules were; 100 words, use a vegetable, a place and a power tool. Here is what my imagination led me to... go figure!

Bunny eyed her unnatural reflection in the stage lit mirror. The aroma of stale beer, hairspray, marijuana, makeup and faux Chanel did nothing to break the unnatural atmosphere of Chainsaw Alley. Even it had been something else before a strip club; giving the MC an act to excite the degenerates. Bunny told her reflection, “When you hit rock bottom you can’t complain about the view.”

Doing things with a carrot that made Elmer Fudd drool, she wasn’t proud. Promising herself tonight was it- at last. Familiar roar of the MC’s blade signaled her last performance. Until easy money called again.

Chapter 5

Sun, 18 May 2008 19:09:08 GMT

Chapter 5

Brianna made her way by crook and by hook through the castle to the courtyard and fresh air. If one could consider the air to be fresh with all the livestock, unwashed bodies and rotten foods ripening in the sunlight. Brianna began to wish that her senses were more ethereal in this case. But there was no time to bemoan her circumstances when she had only seven days to accomplish the impossible. She tried hard to remember the beginning of the fairy tale.

“Once upon a time,” she repeated to herself as if to jog some latent memory. “That’s how they usually start.”

She walked through mud and muck unnoticed by everyone aside from the very young and slightly dubious. Eventually she made her way out of the castle grounds into the nearby village. She carried with her the ring the Queen had given her, still warm to her touch. She couldn’t concentrate much beyond pondering the Queen’s fate come seven days from now. Then a sliver of hope began to take root, and Brianna began to think perhaps there was a way to save the Queen, and get back home. Nothing was improbable at this point.

“Once upon a time,” she repeated again. “There lived a beautiful girl who would become a beautiful Queen.”

Brianna began to feel the fog lifting from her memory as an amnesiac would when regaining a lost lifetime. “She was visited on three separate occasions by three fairy Godmothers, each one giving her counsel that would eventually save her life.

The first fairy Godmother taught her the lesson of kindness and compassion to all creatures. It was this kindness that endeared her to the future King, and the man who would be her husband.

The second fairy Godmother taught her of magic and how to see the future. It was this skill that warned her of the evil Cardinal who poisoned her King and would kill their son if she did not keep him hidden.

The Queen had escaped from the King’s madness, brought on by the poison the Cardinal put in his morning tea, just long enough to hide their son and save him from certain death. Then she herself was caught and sentenced to death.

It was the arrival of the third fairy Godmother, just before her sentence was passed that brought with it a good omen, that all would end well. For it fell to the third fairy Godmother to deliver the talisman to the Prince in hiding, signifying the defeat of the evil Cardinal’s plans to end the royal bloodline.”

“Oh, my God,” Brianna stopped in her tracks. “I’m the third fairy Godmother! Okay, think…think. Where would I go to hide a prince?”

As Brianna contemplated the fate of her entire family line resting solely on her shoulders, she tried not to panic. It was then the Queen’s voice came to her…”use the story like a map.”

“A map to where?” she asked no one in particular. “Think. Think.”

“The fairy Godmother had great magic to bestow upon the young Prince. But the Queen had hidden him so well the youngest fairy Godmother knew not where to look. So she looked within the circle, and there she saw the young Prince. Knowing she had only seven days to find the Prince and return to the castle, she wasted not a moment and flew to the Prince.”

“Flew? Seriously? And what circle? Where is this circle?”

Brianna could feel the frustration growing in strides with her panic. “Calm down,” she told herself. “Prince Demetrius, Prince Demetrius, Prince Demetrious.”

She said his name as if to conjure him from thin air- but nothing happened. She did notice the Queen’s ring grew steadily warmer when she said his name. She raised the ring to eye level to examine it. In the small void the circle of the ring created she saw him. She saw a baby in a cradle, cooing softly. “Prince Demetrius?”

“Take me to Prince Demetrius-“she no sooner had the words out of her mouth than she felt a pulling like being sucked through a straw. She found herself going from the strong light of mid day, to near dusk in a completely unfamiliar village. The ground was covered with a light dusting of snow, and everyone around her was dressed in simple garments covered with the skins of a long haired animal she didn’t recognize. Everyone looked to be light skinned, blonde and blue eyed. The people around her even spoke a different language. What was stranger still was many of them seemed to be able to see her.

“We’ve been expecting you, Brianna,” said a gentle feminine voice from behind her. “Prince Demetrius awaits you inside.”

Brianna turned and saw a tall blond woman enter what can only be described as a mud hut with an animal hide door. Brianna followed as she entered her eyes had trouble adjusting to the darkness. She heard his cooing before she was able to see him. She followed the sound to stand before the dark haired child laying in a crib who was for all intents and purposes her great, great, many times great grandfather. This baby was the beginning of her family line. There were not words to describe the surrealistic events of the moment she was living through.

“He’ll be wanting his supper,” the tall woman spoke again. “Would you like to feed him?”

Before Brianna could protest the woman had placed her ancestral grandfather in her arms. She then guided Brianna to a chair, setting before her a crude bowl and spoon with some kind of gray looking gruel. Seeing that she had no other choice in the matter, Brianna set about the process of getting more of the porridge into the baby Prince than onto him. Not an easy task. As she fed the Prince, the woman began to talk.

“I’m sure you’ll be having a million questions for me,” the woman’s voice was kind in contrast to her formidable physique. She stood six feet tall if she were an inch. Her body was lean with a musculature that was suggestive of a life lived working the land. Yet the rest of her appearance seemed to suggest otherwise. Her hair was well kept and clean. Her hands didn’t look rough or calloused. And unlike most of the people Brianna had briefly encountered here her teeth were perfect and white. “Shall we start with how you got here, and then how you can get home?”

“You know about all of this?” Brianna could do little to hide her amazement.

“Well of course we do,” she laughed a guttural laugh from deep within her chest. We’re the ones who made it happen after all.”

“You did? But why?”

“The why of it would take more time to explain than the how, I fear.”

“But there is a way home, right?”

“There is a possibility of a way home, yes.”

“A possibility doesn’t sound as sure as an actual way-“

“Well technically for you the way home hasn’t happened yet. Just as you haven’t been born yet. We believe all of these things will happen, but sometimes belief is little more than that. Just a belief it can happen- no assurance it will.”

“Remind me the next time I have any questions to ask someone else,” Brianna’s amazement was beginning to wear off. “Please tell me I can get home. You must know how.”

“You will, and I do,” she stated before continuing. “It's all very simple in theory. You must think of it simply as coming through a doorway in time. That doorway can take you to any place and time in which you or an ancestor exists. Without the connection of a bloodline you simply can’t go there in time. We think that as soon as you are aware of the ability that you can chose for yourself in which time to appear, but when you are unaware that is when we guide you. This particular doorway has been opened to allow you access to the very spot where your family line began. Provided we can keep your family line in existence by keeping your great ancestral grandfather alive to begin it at all.”

“How would you know all of this?”

“We’re a race of people who are able to travel through those doorways regardless of bloodlines. As a race of people we have been given the knowledge of the ancient ways, we can live in this time or any other we chose simply by opening a doorway in time. We use this skill to keep the balance of good and evil equal in the world.”

“And my great, great… however many greats he is grandfather,” Brianna looked down into the face of her ancestor not able to imagine this sweet baby could be so ancient to her. “Is somehow involved in the balance of good and evil?”

“Well not directly,” she said as if it were common knowledge. “But your child will greatly influence the balance.”

“Mine?” Brianna’s amazement returned. Not only could she not imagine having a child, but really couldn’t fathom having one that would influence the balance of good and evil in the world. “My child? I’m going to have a child that is going to influence the balance between good and evil? Is it going to be a demon?”

The tall blonde woman laughed again, heartily and with gusto. “I was told you would doubt your abilities-“the laughter overtook her again. “I cannot tell you much for fear it will influence our future decisions, but no- your child will be no demon. Quite the opposite actually.”

“Really,” Brianna’s curiosity or motherly instinct took over. Holding her ancestral grandfather in her arms she could only assume it was the natural maternal disposition to be curious. “Will it be a boy or a girl?”

“I have said,” the woman repeated. “That I cannot tell you of your future. Please don’t ask.”

“What good is it to know someone,” Brianna groused. “Who knows your future if they won’t even tell you something about it?”

“As I said,” she corrected. “I know of many possible outcomes to your future, to influence you will change it perhaps for the worse. We have rules my people and me. I must not disregard centuries of your history or your future to satisfy your curiosity.”

“I won’t ask again,” Brianna conceded. “So how do I get home then?”

“Well first the Queen must die,” was not the answer Brianna was expecting.

Chapter 4

Fri, 16 May 2008 23:05:33 GMT

The kiss seemed to end as abruptly as it began. Brianna was caught under the cot wondering what would happen next. The Queen stood in front of her King, her back to Brianna. Their emotions boiling to the surface put off a heat even Brianna could feel against the cold stone of the cell floor. She wondered if the Queen was blushing as she felt the rise of it against her own cheeks. The King grasped the Queen with both hands, holding her at arm’s length. The expressions that crossed his face were a mixture of adoration, bafflement and fear, concluding with vehemence. If the Queen expected what came next she showed no sign of it from Brianna’s vantage point. He used his grip on her arms to push her onto the cot. She fell with a thud, which echoed through the small cell. Brianna’s view was obstructed by the Queen’s garments, which also served to hide her from view. What she heard next made her thankful she couldn’t see or be seen.

“He was right,” the King seethed. “You have bewitched me. Why do I still desire you?”

“I have not bewitched you,” she said in a whisper that could do little to mask the pain of the last blow. “Love is stronger than any magic or prayer. I am yours my King, body and soul. You have only to grant your forgiveness and we can once again be happy.”

“You would have me grant you forgiveness? After all you have done?” Brianna could hear him advancing across the stone floor.

“I would have you grant me mercy,” she replied. “Mercy so that my life could be spared, and lived in recompense for my sins against you.”

“Or,” he began in a menacing tone. “I could just take my damages from you in kind.”

“No,” she whispered as Brianna heard the sounds rustling of clothes just above her head. “I beg you my King, please… no.”

Nothing was said for the next few moments. Brianna could hear movement, but couldn’t tell what was happening until suddenly there was an outburst from the King. She couldn’t tell if it were from pain or guilt, until he spoke.

“You are maddening woman!” he screamed. “I want nothing better than to see you tortured for the pain you have caused me.”

Brianna could hear his footsteps getting further and further away from where she hid.

“Yet when I touch you,” he whispered hoarsely. “All of my pain seems to ebb away like the tide against the shore. I want nothing more than to hold you in my arms.”

“Then do,” she said. She crossed the room to where he was standing, Brianna’s vision of them no longer impaired. “Give me that my King. If only for a few days time, allow me that last request. Allow me one week’s time to show you my regret and to earn your forgiveness.”

Brianna watched as the Queen moved slowly closer and closer to this volatile man, with more courage than she herself would have. She watched as the Queen placed small kisses across his face, neck and then his mouth. He stood immobile against her onslaught of gentle ardor. When her lips reached his mouth he took hold of her embracing her with a great passion. The Queen surrendered to his embrace, and once again Brianna could feel the heat rising in her own cheeks.

“Not here,” the Queen whispered. “I want to lay with you in our marriage bed. Take me to our chambers, my love.”

As if driven by an unseen force the King moved to the cell door. He knocked upon it gaining entrance to the corridor beyond. The guard in the hallway opened the door wide enough to allow the King and Queen to depart. Brianna knew this would be her only chance to leave the cell, but feared being seen. She scooted out from under the cot, hoping the King would not turn around to look. The Queen gave her a moment by stopping in the doorway, feigning that her garment was caught. She gave Brianna a gesture to indicate that she should move quickly. Brianna knew she would be trapped if the door closed before she could escape. With the grace of a cat she slipped through the door just as the Queen moved across the threshold. Brianna slipped unseen into a small alcove near the cell where they had just exited. She watched from her perch as the King took his Queen away, not as if it were her last days on earth, but as if they were simply walking to a state function with all the regal nobility of their station. Brianna wondered for a moment if she would ever see the Queen alive again. She began to think about the journey ahead and where it would lead her. She had a million questions and no answers to guide her. As if reading her very thoughts, the Queen stopped in her progress with the King, and touched the very stone that had lead Brianna there.

“Seven days,” she said touching the stone. Her voice was low spoken in English for Brianna’s sake; to the King it would sound like a strange prayer. Brianna leaned forward from her hiding place looking for a gesture or clue from the Queen. The King turned toward where Brianna was standing, forcing her to shrink back into the shadows. Undeterred the Queen continued, “Seven days you must come again to this very spot to return home. Godspeed, my child, Godspeed.”

chapter 3

Mon, 12 May 2008 23:35:37 GMT

Funning thing happened to me last night. This simple story that I thought was just going to be 3 chapters long came to visit me in a dream and create a whole new aspect of itself. I thought originally this could be a simple- girl gets lost, girl learns something valueable about family and love, girl gets home, kind of story. Simple- 3 chapters at most. Then this damn King character shows up in my dreams last night- and well I just can't say no to a handsome man in my dreams... no matter how ill mannered and villianous he is! So I lied... its going to be a little longer than 3 chapters... which for sure puts me out of the running for the contest. The contest rules require it to be 1000 words- I'm well over that by now! The good thing though is that even if I'm not eligible for the contest... it got me writing again and that's what I really needed to do- so thanks Lady Songbird and RedhairedCelt by suggestion. And I hope the rest of you enjoy how this unfolds!

Chapter 3

“All of you leave me to my peace,” the Queen said in a low heavy tone bringing the uproar to a halt. “I must pray.”

Brianna expected someone to object; instead every person in the room simply bowed and left the room. The door was bolted behind them with a finality that sent a shiver down Brianna’s spine. The Queen stood with a stately grace moving toward a makeshift altar near the fire. She positioned herself upon the kneeler and gave the illusion of praying. What she did instead was speak directly to Brianna in English.

“Are you Brianna?” the Queen asked.

“How do you know-“

“There isn’t much time to explain,” she began in perfect English, with only a hint of her native accent. “But you being here… it portends that all is well. You have his eyes, they said you would- but I couldn’t believe it until now.”

“I don’t understand,” Brianna paced the length of the tiny cell in less than four strides. “How is it that you can see me, but no one else can?”

“Not only can I see you,” she nearly burst with excitement and happiness, the first emotions Brianna had seen her express. She extended a pale hand toward Brianna. Upon the ring finger of her extended hand was the exact replica of Brianna’s great grandmother’s ring. “But I can touch you as well.”

Brianna extended her own hand toward the Queen’s much smaller one. When their hands touched both rings began to glow with an inner light. All she could manage was an awed, “Wow.”

“I’m sure you must have many questions of me,” the Queen continued. “But there is no time to explain it all. When you have taken the ring to my son, the woman caring for him will answer them for you. We have no time to delay.”

“I don’t understand,” Brianna shook her head hoping to wake herself from this bizarre dream. But she remained solidly where she was. “You have to explain why I’m here at least… and where exactly here is.”

“You don’t know?” the Queen was suddenly agitated. As if Brianna’s confusion was the very noose around her neck she faced with certainty by dawn. “But she told me you would remember the story. She promised me, that when you came to me you would know exactly what to do. She swore to me that she would tell you all the story of the lost Prince and the magical rings. That you would remember, that you alone would be the proof my son survived. That without the ring our entire family line might perish. You must remember!”

“Who told you this?” Brianna began to feel just as agitated as the Queen. The Lost Prince and the Golden Rings was a fairy tale her father used to tell her nights when she couldn’t sleep. In the final days of her great grandmother’s life Brianna recited the tale to her, as a last request on her death bed. Her great grandmother made her promise to remember that story, and pass it on to her own children someday. She told her that someday she may have to remember the tale to save her own life. She insisted Brianna remember it, keep it close to her heart- at the time everyone believed it was the delusions of near death that made her so insistent. Brianna was 8 when she made that promise. And as all promises a child makes with time the memory of it had faded. She had outgrown bedtime fairy tales years ago. Life had been full of new memories and new experiences. An old fairy tale had never seemed worth remembering, until now. “How do you know that story?”

“I am that story,” the Queen said with calm assurance. “And you are the Fairy Godmother who bestows the ring upon the lost Prince. The lost Prince is my son, Demetrius. He is the beginning of your father’s family line. Without him, and without this ring, the one upon my own finger- you and all who came before you will not exist.”

“This is way too bizarre for me,” Brianna began backing away from the Queen. She moved toward the door of the cell intending to escape. But the Queen’s words stopped her.

“You will never return to your own time,” she said in a low, almost threatening whisper. “Until you have bestowed this ring upon my son, you will be trapped here out of time and space. I have told you there isn’t time enough to explain it all. But if you wish to return to your time, to your mother and your father… you will take this ring to my son.”

“I don’t even know who your son is,” Brianna began to protest. “And how could I…. how would I… how would I even begin to find him?”

A voice from outside the cell echoed through the corridor. “The King approaches. Long live the King!”

“Promise me,” the Queen seethed. She removed the ring from her finger and placed it in Brianna’s hand. The gold felt warm to her touch, as if the Queen’s own heat were transferred with it. She moved from her kneeler toward Brianna grasping her hand, pulling her toward the cot. The Queen then began forcefully pushing Brianna under the cot to hide her. “Promise me you will find him. Everything you need to know is in the fairy tale. Remember the tale. Use the tale as you would a map. I cannot tell you anymore. You’re only chance to leave this cell is when the King leaves. You are bound by the same physical laws in this time as you are in your own. If the place exists in your time, as it does here, you are bound by the same physical limitations. Likewise only those of us who are bound to your bloodline and a few select others such as witches and children can see you or hear. You must hide now. The King is of our bloodline, and he may be able to see you. Use caution and remain silent.”

Brianna scuttled under the wooden frame of the cot, barely able to fit. She watched from her hiding place as the cell door opened, the Queen had just enough time to settle back onto her kneeler. She bowed her head as the King and his entourage entered filling the room. No one spoke a word, until after the Queen had genuflect ending her silent meditation.

A man in a long scarlet robes with a strange tall hat adorned with a cross, was the first to speak as the Queen rose to her full height. “Do you not kneel before your husband the King?”

“Would you have me kneel in the same breath of prayer, Cardinal,” the Queen’s tone was angry but controlled. “Before my King as I would my God?”

“And what Pagan God do you worship today, heathen?” His tone was vicious as it seethed from him.

Undeterred she answered, “The same God in whose service gives you license to poison my husband in body and soul against those who would only serve to love him.”

The Cardinal open his mouth to speak, but was silenced by another voice. A voice coming from a man, who very much looked like Brianna’s father, ended the strife. “Enough! I didn’t not come here to listen to you discount the truth against you. I did not come to listen to your lies; I have come to offer you mercy.”

“At what cost will you grant this mercy?” The Queen turned and faced the man, toe to toe. Her tone was not angry, but pleading. There was a gesture between them that suggested a love, perhaps a love gone awry, but a love nonetheless. The Queen placed her hand gently on the center of his chest, as if by instinct he gently placed his own larger hand over hers. His eyes betrayed him. His eyes were filled with such sadness and remorse, and he knew it. He looked away hiding it he hoped from the Queen. But she saw it and it was reflected in her own eyes.

“You know the costs,” he said without looking back at her. “I want my son back.”

Brianna inhaled sharply. Did he know his son was alive? What would he do if he knew? Would he stop her, would it stop her from getting home?

“My darling husband,” she placed her other hand on his face. “If I had the power to raise the dead, I would place him in your arms.”

His reaction was sudden and erratic, pushing the Queen with such force that she landed on the floor facing Brianna under the bed. The look of terror in the Queen’s face scared even Brianna in her hiding place. He crossed the room in two strides lifting the Queen by the braid in her hair to stand before him. “LIAR! LIAR!”

“No, Nickolas, stop!” The Queen was pleading. No one moved aside from the King Nickolas and the Queen as a puppet controlled by him. Brianna was sure she saw a smile crease the lips of the Cardinal as the Queen dangled by her hair in the King’s grasp. As if coming awake from a bad dream, the King stopped. He released the Queen who fell once again to the floor in a heap, sobbing.

“Leave us,” the King ordered. Brianna couldn’t read his tone but felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

The Cardinal protested in a low whisper to the King himself,”Your majesty, I do not trust that this witch will not bewitch you. Send the others away, but allow me to remain.”

“I said leave us,” the King’s force was now directed to the Cardinal. The Cardinal wisely picked his battle, bowing as he left the cell with the others.

The King crossed toward the Queen, who intuitively put as much distance as allowed in such a small room between herself and her husband. He did not touch her this time as he kneeled down in front of her. His voice was pleading, yet tinged with a madness even Brianna could recognize. “Why do you cause me to hurt you so? All that I desire is you, and my son. Why must you betray me by keeping him from me?”

“I have told you my love,” the Queen spoke in a soothing voice as if to a small petulant child. But it was she that looked child like cowering in the corner of the room. “When I took Demetrius from the castle-“he inhaled as if to strike out again so she corrected herself. “In my madness, in my uncertainty for which I am penitent, I took our only son from you. I did not wish to betray you by allowing him to die in my flight of insanity… it is a deep grief of which I share with you.”

“You share nothing of my grief!” He stood railing his fists skyward. “For I have most certainly lost more than you. My son murdered, my wife and Queen deceived and betrayed me for which she must now be put to death.” He moved to face her yet again on the ground. “Do you hate me so much to wish the suffering you have bestowed upon me?”

“No my darling,” she took his hand in hers and began kissing it. “It is for love that I have returned to face my sins.”

Brianna looked away feeling a voyeur as the King gathered his Queen into his arms and kissed her passionately.

Chapter 2

Sat, 10 May 2008 18:54:54 GMT

Not really happy about this part... but its necessary to set up the ending. The ending is coming- its only going to be 3 chapters long, I promise. I spent most of the day in a coffee shop writing this- I think it changes my style. I'm pretty sure I need less distraction and should be at home where I can talk to myself without getting looked at like I've lost my mind. The only difference is my coffee isn't as good as theirs. Ah, well- its obvious that the coffee isn't essential to the creative process, and might even hinder it slightly.

Enjoy anyway-

Chapter 2-

She was only permitted a glimpse as the door opened allowing the servant girl entrance. But what Brianna saw was enough to know this woman was the epitome of strength and nobility. She sat ramrod straight on a simple wooden bench, no visible emotions crossing her porcelain features. Her long dark hair was being plaited into a simple braid by another servant who was openly weeping. Several other women surrounded her each in various stages of mourning, some openly lamenting while others wept silently. Surrounded by so much grief she merely sat as a silent sentinel, as if she alone knew a secret peace. As the door fully opened Brianna caught what she thought was a glance from the dark haired beauty. Emerald green eyes, like Brianna’s father’s eyes, seemed to stare directly at her. Then the door closed leaving Brianna in the corridor with the guard.

“She saw me,” Brianna said to herself believing no one could hear her. Judging from the guard’s reaction it was more likely that no one did hear or see her, and she was just grasping at straws. She tested her theory on the guard by jumping up and down in front of him- nothing, not even a flinch. Brianna began reasoning out loud, “Maybe he’s like those London Tower guards and can’t react upon pain of death.”

“Is that what it is?” Brianna shouted. “Or can you just not see me?”

Brianna tried waving her hands directly in front of his face, he didn’t even blink. Then she thought of pushing him, only to find her hand crossed through him like a strange mist. The sensation she had felt when the servant girl passed through her was similar but not as intense when she put her arm through the guard. Brianna had never liked roller coasters that feeling of floating as they crested each rise and fall left her disoriented. That same feeling was intense when the servant girl passed through her, and still present in a milder form as her hand passed through the guard. She stood on tip toes and blew a raspberry into his ear. Still she garnered no reaction from him. Her theory that he was purposely ignoring her was dispelled as he obviously thought no one was in the corridor besides himself. He didn't stand at attention, and relaxed his stance the longer he stood there. At one point he even farted, which echoed down the long corridor like a clap of thunder. Brianna laughed the frustration vented momentarily.

She compossed herself after the release, taking stock of what she could and couldn’t do in this new state of existence. Brianna realized that in this situation she needed a plan. It would do no good and probably not get her back if she wasted much time trying to get the guard to react to her. She knew she could pass through people, as much as she hated it, it was something she could do. “I wonder if I can cross through walls.”

She lifted her hand and placed it solidly on the rough hewn surface of the oak door leading to the cell. No mist, no feeling of floating- “Well, good thing I didn’t go running toward it, that would have hurt.”

She took stock of her situation. No one could see her. No one could hear her. She could pass through people, but not solid walls. And the woman in the cell was apparently the Queen whose life was about to be tragically ended by view of the progress on the gallows in the courtyard. But Brianna still couldn’t shake the feeling that although so far no one could see her, the Queen seemed able to see her. Frustrated she banged her fist against the oak door. The sound jolted the guard from his post.

He had been standing with his back against the locked cell door, at the sound of Brianna’s knock, he turned abruptly. His face turned white as a sheet, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He looked around as if not believing what he had heard. The small window opened near the top of the door, a woman spoke in a language Brianna didn’t understand. She seemed to be asking if the guard had knocked upon the door. His answer was in the same language a clear denial that he would do such an unreasonable thing. Then something strange began to happen to Brianna. The guard and the servant continued their conversation in the same strange language, but Brianna began to understand it.

One of them would speak clearly, audibly in their native tongue, and then Brianna would hear a translation in English in her own mind. It was similar to watching a news report interviewing a foreign diplomat with a voice over in English dubbed over his native tongue. She understood everything that was being said.

“I would never,” the guard said. “Disrupt her majesty in her preparations.”

“I would not think it to be so,” the servant continued. “But clearly we heard a knock upon the door. If not you then who would dare disturb the Queen’s repose?”

“I cannot say, my Lady,” he was genuinely apologetic. Brianna knew he had no explanation beyond the supernatural. Brianna felt like laughing at the sheer irony of it all, a supernatural force that was Brianna herself. She began to believe her mother wasn’t so crazy after all.

“Well,” the servant was openly irritated at his lack of explanation. “Do not allow such disruption again.”

“I will do my best,” the guard conceded.

Brianna realized the ability might be her only chance to get herself into the cell with the Queen, which might be her only chance to get home, or back to her time if that were possible. She tried once again to get their attention, and hopefully get someone to open the door. She began knocking; banging, kicking and creating as much noise as she could against the door. The commotion she was making created its own commotion inside the cell. Women’s screams could be heard through the solid oak of the door, echoing down the hallway. The guard drew his sword swinging wildly at the air around Brianna. A blow came dangerously close to Brianna scratching her hand. Blood pooled in a hairline scratch down the surface of her left hand, the pain made Brianna recoil far enough away to not be hit again. She verbally reminded herself, “Ouch! Okay, solid objects- stay away from solid objects.”

When the guard realized there was nothing around him he sheathed his sword. The women’s screams became shouts of distress. Just as she had hoped, he opened the door wide enough for Brianna to enter. She slipped in while everyone was distracted, everyone but the Queen. Whether she was imagining it or it was really happening the Queen watched Brianna enter the room, following her with her eyes as she came to stand near the far wall. She couldn’t help herself, Brianna had to test her. She waved at the Queen.

The Queen was still sitting regally in the center of the room on the small bench. No other furniture adorned the room aside from a threadbare mattress suspended by a simple wooden frame and a kneeler adorned with a silk pillow. A fire was crackling in the fireplace, lending little warmth to the cold damp room. As everyone was yelling and crying the Queen sat completely still, no emotion, no surprise. A slow smile crept across her face as she waved back at Brianna.

The Corridor

Sat, 10 May 2008 01:18:35 GMT

Lady Songbird has a contest going- http://weblog.xanga.com/Lady_Songbird/655819277/the-entries.html the brief was to write something using a picture as inspiration. I chose number three, The Corridor. Here is what I have thus far... because as you all know me... I tend to write long winded stories. I hope you enjoy. Part 2 will continue soon.

The white bearded man that reminded Brianna of Santa Claus, but without the twinkle in his eye or the belly that shook like a bowl full of jelly, was droning on and on about stones. It wasn’t that the subject matter was boring; it was that it was unbearably boring for a girl of 14 who longed to be elsewhere. The monotone murmur of his voice with an affected British accent tinged by the drawl of his native tongue was enough to drive an insomniac to slumber. Brianna distracted herself briefly with the math. If he gave this tour twice a day, every day for the seasonal capacity of this region, well he’d be as bored as he was making Brianna. She did her level best to register apathy by turning up the volume of her IPOD.

Even the thumping bass of her favorite band didn’t keep bits of useless information from seeping in. She still ascertained that the stones that made up this very corridor had to be mined and hauled from miles away over rough forest terrain, often by the sheer strength of the peasant slaves forced into labor by the vicious King. Many died by simply working to death. Some of the stones that made up the castle weighed in excess of a ton, lifted by simple leveraging devices made from the tallest trees. Even the most scintillating particulars of a King who’s vanity and arrogance lead him not only to kill the architect of the castle but to claim divine inspiration of the design, was muttered without any dramatic nuance. The monotony continued as he described the King’s decent into madness ending with the killing of his beloved Queen by hanging; the charge lay against her being witchcraft. Scholars theorized that the Queen suspecting her impending death escaped first with their only son, eventually being caught by peasants petrified of aiding in her flight. When she was returned to the castle she claimed the King’s only heir was killed in their escape. This is what fueled the King’s rage; leading to her hanging with no last moment’s pardon. Brianna gazed out the turret window of the lengthy corridor wishing to be anywhere but here. An escape for her would not come so easily either. She made no effort to hide her disdain for musty castles and damp monuments her mother typically dragged her through every summer, by turning up the volume on her IPOD even more.

She expected to get a look from her mother, instead she got indifference. Brianna’s mother Lillian listened to the tour guide with rapt attention. Yet another aspect of her personality that Brianna found embarrassing. Lillian had an obsessive fascination with history. Every summer she would drag Brianna away from her friends to spend weeks trekking through castles, museums, sacred monuments, and burial ground in the far corners of the world. One year was a 5 week camping trip to the Badlands of South Dakota to visit Native American burial sites. Another year was a visit to a Tibetan monastery to seek the wisdom of the monks who reincarnated from a past life. The worst by far for Brianna was the Mid-Summer night’s festival at Stonehenge, where Lillian had danced naked under the full moon. Lillian’s behavior seemed always an attempt at how greatly she could humiliate Brianna by doing or saying the oddest, least socially acceptable thing in her presence. Brianna had begun to think of her mother as less of a maternal figure and more as an albatross of questionable sanity. Brianna’s greatest wish was for the day she would be old enough to be left behind to enjoy the summer with her friends. Sitting by the pool, sunbathing, gossiping with the other girls her age was Brianna’s greatest desire- still unfulfilled.

Worse even still was most of Brianna’s friends liked and even respected Lillian. They thought of her eccentricities as a cute quirk of character. ‘At least she’s not your mother,’ Brianna often complained to friends too smitten with Lillian’s novelty to consider Brianna’s feelings. Many of her girlfriends even seemed to treat Lillian as a peer, confiding in her their deepest thoughts and longings. It was hard to rebel against a mother figure that was already rebellious. Lillian was a born-again child of nature. Not being raised in that environment Lillian had adopted her earthy, free-spirited, anti-establishment lifestyle in response to overprotective zealot parents. She often remarked that she would never oppress Brianna in the same way she had been oppressed as a child. This in practice had left Brianna without much understanding of boundaries and limits. Brianna’s father had always been the disciplinarian in the family, a loving but strict parental figure. This fundamental difference in life philosophy had lead to her parents’ eventual divorce, causing Brianna to spend most of the school year between households and long summer quests with her mother around the world. When people asked what had caused her parents’ divorce Brianna lied by omission. What Brianna had never spoken of was the fact that her mother was a witch.

A spell casting, Goddess worshiping, psychic medium, who envisions ghosts as clearly as another living person standing before her; this was the unspoken truth of Brianna’s mother. A family secret she dare not share with anyone. When she and her father Tom talked about Lillian, who seemed often to be the subject, they would commiserate over her eccentricities. Yet somehow it always seemed as if Brianna’s father missed her mother, despite the hardship her peculiarity endured, he seemed to regret the divorce. Brianna on the other hand almost wished it was possible to divorce a parent. “Someday you’ll see what I see,” Lillian would tell her.

“I hope not,” Brianna would mutter to herself. The last thing Brianna wanted was to end up as crazy as her loon of a mother.

“Brie,” her mother pulled one of the ear pieces from her ear. It hadn’t hurt, but she was unwilling to deprive her mother of any chance at feeling guilty for dragging Brianna along on her latest quest. “Do you see that?”

“Ouch!” Brianna feigned injury. Her mother wasn’t buying into it with any sympathy. This made her even more petulant. “See what?”

“This handprint,” Lillian was engrossed in tracing of what could only be described as concrete impression of a handprint. “This looks exactly like your hand.”

“It can’t be,” Brianna examined it carefully. At the midpoint of the long darkened corridor about shoulder height was a stone in the wall that had a precise imprint of a hand. Logic would dictate that a handprint couldn’t be left behind like poured concrete into a solid stone. It reminded Brianna of those kindergarten handprints every child makes to give their mother on Mother’s Day. The teacher pressing your hand into clay, allowing it to dry and then letting you paint it for posterity. Given the time frame it would have to have been carved or chiseled, yet the detail of it was so precise she couldn’t imagine any sculptor making such a rendering. Brianna absently examined her own hand against the one in the stone. The handprint was the same size as Brianna’s. The essential lines of her hand, the life line, the love line and the knowledge line she knew from palmistry her mother had often practiced on her were exact matches. Even this coincidence she could dismiss if it weren’t for one absolute element that couldn’t be dismissed. Brianna always wore on the ring finger of her right hand her great grandmother’s engagement ring. The band of the ring had some very distinctive Celtic knots that were also on the impression of the handprint carved into the stone. “It can’t be my hand-“

“That is your great grandmother’s ring,” Lillian observed also. “Unless a long lost descendent of ours made this impression- I’d say that is your hand!”

Brianna lifted her hand toward the impression intending to disprove it as coincidence when it wouldn’t fit perfectly. Instead she felt it before skin even touched rock an electric charge of energy that she heard, felt and saw. First the loud popping noise came like an airplane breaking the sound barrier. Her mother’s voice was a distant utterance asking if she was alright, followed by the monotone accent of the tour guide asking if she needed a doctor. Then silence. Whatever happened next was painful. Only to be described as being vacuumed out of your own skin. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. Then darkness overtook her sight, she didn’t feel as though she had lost consciousness, only that she was blind for the moment. When her sight returned what she saw next confused and alarmed her even more- the corridor moments ago filled with tourists, the tour guide and her mother was completely empty. Where had everyone gone she wondered?

She listened to hear voices unable to imagine her mother leaving her side in this condition for any reason. She felt dizzy but slowly stood bracing herself with one hand against the cool smooth stone. In her confusion she laid her hand on the same stone where the handprint had been imbedded. The handprint was gone! She tried not to panic, but could feel it rising in her like a tidal wave. She listened again. She listened for her mother’s voice. What she heard instead was hammering, sawing and men’s voices in a language she didn’t understand. When she looked outside the turret window there were men building wooden scaffolding with a long arm that someone was tying a noose at the end of, a hangmen’s noose. The men were dressed in what looked like period costume. “This has to be some kind of joke,” she told herself, but realized she wasn’t laughing.

She stood there for what seemed like an eternity looking for the handprint up and down the wall. Then a young woman appeared at the end of the hallway walking toward her. Finally, she thought, I’ll get some answers.

“Hi,” Brianna began as the girl drew closer. She was dressed in a simple wool chemise looking garment, her hair completely covered with a scarf. She was carrying what looked like fur robes in her outstretched arms, her eyes red from crying. As she approached Brianna stood to block her way. “I seem to have lost my tour. Did you see a group of people walk that way?”

Oddly she kept walking even as Brianna spoke. “Hey! I asked you a question.”

Brianna lifted a hand to stop the oblivious girl in her tracks. She kept coming as though Brianna wasn’t even there. Brianna shouted to get her attention, still nothing. Brianna put her hand up intending to stop the girl only to find her hand wasn’t corporal. Like a scene from a movie Brianna watched helplessly as her hand went through the girl. The girl stopped for a brief moment looking around her as if she expected to see something that wasn’t there, shuddering from an unseen chill. Then she walked on. Disconcerting as it was the girl walked through Brianna to a doorway at the end of the corridor. Brianna followed mindlessly not knowing what else to do... one of us she decided was a ghost and Brianna intended to find out whom.

At the end of the corridor a guard stood watch. He was dressed in the very same tabard and carried the exact replica of sword Brianna had seen earlier on the tour- only his version didn’t appear as worn or ancient as the ones behind glass in the display. Brianna tried to reassure herself that this was all a strange dream she would be waking from very soon. The guard opened the door to the cell allowing the servant girl with the swollen eyes into it, and that’s when Brianna got a glimpse of her. The woman inside the cell at the end of the corridor could only be one person, the martyred Queen.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 01:29:59 GMT

"Its not as if I've never been loved, you know."

"I know."

"Because I have been... maybe once."

"Did you love them back?"

"Of course not-" a laugh that becomes a snort. "Love is weak. Love makes you weak."

"And you'd never be weakened by love."

"I'm never weakened by anything," a snarl too close for comfort.

"Well then I guess I'm weak."

"Pathetic." A turn away. Lighting a cigarette with one slow drag.

"Maybe I am." my turn to move away. "But at least I know what I am."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Love makes me understand the pieces of myself I thought were missing."

"Oh, my Gods- you are pathetic," another snarl this time with the cigarette hanging from the lip. "What did you read that in some pseudo-psychology book?"

"No, I just know."

"YOU... you just know."

"I always have known." I walk away, without looking back.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Fri, 22 Feb 2008 00:52:57 GMT

There are days, few and sometimes far between when the madness doesn't threaten to overtake my sanity. But when you live on the edge of humanity its difficult to find the courage of a peaceful existence. Violence begets violence. Anger begets anger. Rage becomes the constant companion of your dreams because in any conscious state of awareness you only feel numb. You don't see beauty, and laughter is a foreign language.

The blood is everywhere, on the floors, the sheets, your clothes. When you slip and fall its always into a pool of blood. The orderlies try to mop it away, but it just creates larger thinner puddles of blood pooling into every crevice, making the floors look like pink swirling tiles. Those few moments between the wounded and dying when you find the time to shower, you never feel cleansed of the blood. Yet you know you're clean when the water finally runs clear into the rusted drains. You get so used to the sickly sweet smell of it that when a new doctor or nurse arrives from the world, clean and perfumed the smell of it makes you cringe a little.

Night is the worst time. The darkness surrounds the unearthly moans of the dying. It makes you recall those childhood Sunday school descriptions of Hell, with the sinful enmass reaching out to drag you down to the depths of fire and brimstone. Because it could be Hell, it isn't like the heat subsides in the darkness it only becomes more suffocating in its stillness. You walk the wards stopping only occasionally to ease the suffering with kind words and a gentle touch. Its what you do, what is expected of you, but it feels as though it is just rehearsed lines from a pathetic play- a comedy of errors. You tell them they will be alright, but to the moment they take their last breath. Then you move on to the next one, saying the same soothing words knowing its a lie, but hoping to ease the transition from life into death. The hands are always there reaching out for you, because you're something solid in this world of pain and fevered dreams. But there is no part of you that feels solid wandering like a daze through each corridor.

You don't think about home until a letter arrives. From mom or a friend untouched by this place. Then you escape for a moment back to the world where the worst fear you had was not having a date on a Saturday night, rather than wondering if the artillery shelling will hit your hooch next and if it does if there will be enough for them to bury when its over. Home becomes a fantasy, like Heaven or a comfortable pair of shoes. You escape back into the fantasy when you write home about this place. They don't need to know about the baby faced soldier who called you mom the night before, waiting until morning before bleeding out into his abdomen. They don't get to know about the young girl who's leg looks like hamburger because she was playing tag in a mine field, with her sister who didn't survive- and the one who didn't survive to you is the lucky one. No- they get to hear about the party Saturday night at the officer's club, or how much you enjoyed the cookies they sent last time. You can barely tolerate the truth, how could you expect them to believe anything but a lie.

You count down the days until the nightmare ends, and when it does you go home. You go home to revisit the nightmare in your dreams, and wonder if what you did mattered at all. Because with or without you this place keeps killing, dying and destroying itself. What matters is that you allowed it to destroy a part of you... and you'll never heal that wound.