Writing

Very Short Stories, Week 18

I lost my dog, Jasper, last night. Cancer took him from us in the blink of an eye.  We spoiled him as best we could in his last days.

I don’t have words right now, and I’m sorry my vss365s are a day late… I hope they are relatable reads despite the sadness in them.

 

August 13th

He taught us about #renegades, Vivian whispered to Damian in the back of the army transport. I didn’t understand why since they were rebellious, traitorous, you know? But I get it now.

You do? He asked, his nose wrinkled in confusion.

They always died, she replied.

 

August 14th

#Stubborn

is a word

I wear like a cloak.

Shields my Dreams

from the

Naysayers

and my heart

from the

Breakers.

If I’m Stubborn

as they say

I’ll stay

on

track

Push past the

Mountains

in my way

to succeed.

Stubborn

is a word

I embrace like a

sister.

 

August 15th

#Explosions of gunfire sounded in the distance, echoing off the buildings and nearby woods. Vivian paused for a moment, her eyes wide with worry, but she chased after her sister. They’ll be okay, she chanted in her mind. I have to believe that.

 

August 16th

Her pain was a #symphony played on ripped muscles and broken bones. Her sopranos whimpered and her altos moaned, whilst the male parts sang lists of what to do. She didn’t care for any of it, unwelcome in her body.

She greeted the sedation like a long lost lover. Grateful.

 

August 17th

Damian could only #imagine what Vivian was going through. Needles, scalpels, and a windowless room flooded his mind. His fists clenched, he dropped into a push-up. Raising time and again off bruised and bloody knuckles, a plan formed in his mind. I’ll find you, Vivian, he decided

 

August 18th

My #favourite memory is walking into the pet store and seeing his face. His eyes , one blue and one brown, staring at me as his tail wagged a mile a minute. I knew in that moment he would be my best friend. The least I can do is be by his side in the end.

 

August 19th

Happy memories still #linger though his struggling breaths draw her back to the present. She pets his soft fur, whispering love and sorries into his floppy ears. Pain stabs at her heart like a thousand needles. Tears run freely down her cheeks. But she’ll stand watch over him.

Setting Suns

Clouds crawl like vines across the darkening
sky absorbing hues of a setting sun
retreating past a foreign horizon.
A lone woman stands beneath its growing
mass with head tilted back to see its forms.
The wind dances around her legs and soars
towards the majesty of the Lady
in the Moon. She envisions a brighter
world just beyond her senses and soft touch.
Ignoring temptation, she wanders home.

Cosmic Scale

A galaxy is held in her glowing gaze
Its cosmic realities dance
like ballerinas on a planetary stage
telling a tale in a glance.
but she’s a spy hunting down lies
Creating peace to balance
the scale of an unforgiving universe
caught up in its brilliance
It kills its inner angels for what?
To satisfy violence.

Very Short Stories, Week 17

This past week has been amazing! It started off on a rocky foot, but I’ve managed to take the punches and bounce back.

My book is being edited again. No more excuses. I’m making the time and it’s moving fairly quickly since I’m eager to see it completed!

From the looks of things, I will probably self-publish, but I need to do some further research on it. I’ve had amazing alpha/beta readers, and Grammarly has helped me fix any other mistakes left unnoticed. Once it’s done, I’ll probably get them to do another read and hope it’s as polished as my hands could make it!

The Very Short Stories I’m writing, to me, have started to change since I use them as a sort of warm before I edit my novel. I’ve also allowed myself to play more than I normally do.

Plus, I’ve started adding my main character from my book, Vivian, to some of them to tempt. (Though who knows if that’s what it’s doing.) Those tidbits are more her past and backbone for her story. Thus, you get to see the antagonist, Dr Embridge, too.

Anyways, here they are! Hope you enjoy!

 

August 6th

Kisses burn

With passion’s flame

Spreading

Spreading

like #Wildfire

to her core

now fire herself

She threatens to consume

Him

and his body

Satisfy a woman’s needs

might cool

the heat

but embers catch

alight again

the Pattern repeats

until they’re One

in Lust’s hold

 

August 7th

Vivian’s eyes shifted colours, betraying her #emotions. The deep blues of the ocean formed in her gaze and she wept. Her sister, Ravenna, stared like an unmoving stone statue at her, cold.

Embridge’s voice called her attention, Deal with her, please.

Vivian’s world went black.

 

August 8th

The ocean spray reached for her white robes and dampened her hair before the early sun. The water kissed her pale feet, tugging at the fringe of her outfit. She heard it whisper, Join us….

But she couldn’t. The wet wilderness would #evaporate if she failed her task.

 

August 9th

Morning #glory grew beside the stone cottage. It climbed it, surrounded it like it had caged those inside. Flowers bloomed on its vines, dark violets and sapphires.

The young woman let out a calming breath and approached the only visible part of a door. Her knock rang out.

 

August 10th

Her body curved, dipped, and dived. Its subtle #peaks tempted him in every way. He grazed across her soft skin with the tip of his tongue until he reached the junction between her thighs. Tasting her sweet nectar, he groaned with need. Her moans encouraged him further.

 

August 11th

The walls were a bold #vermillion and screamed of hunger. Mind you, that could be the blood stains, he mused as he sat. As usual, he didn’t have to say a word for the waiter to bring him his meal. Thankful for the privacy, he pulled a thin blade from his pocket.

Gentle as a butterfly’s wing, he cut a sharp line an inch long in his human’s wrist. He used the crystal goblet he’d been given to collect it and licked the wound closed when he was done. Fangs appeared where his canines should be as he sipped the warmth of the blood.

 

August 12th

She wears a #shell to protect her thin skin. It’s lined with shelves filled with words collected through the day. At night, she sheds the second skin, dissects her collection. The sentences run on the treadmill of her mind until they are broken into every hurtful meaning.

Worlds and Realms

I dream of worlds

And dwell in realms

Of colours and magics

It leaves my thoughts manic.

 

I cast spells in letters

Catch minds with nets

Fashioned from phrases

Left on white page.

 

My fingers dance across keys

and tell tales of many veils

Pulled back and explored

More stories to adore.

 

My love is writing

And it strikes like lightning

Providing new sightings

That I hope are inviting.

#PicturePoetryPrompt: Gun Control

From North of the border,
I watch my American friends
suffer time and again.
A vicious cycle repeating.

Bullets fired from GUNS
are worth more than
LIVES
I hear again and again.

And yet there’s a growing chorus
Of voices.
Young
Old
Female
Male
Gay
Straight
Black
White.

They scream for CONTROL
United against a bigger threat.
They don’t want to hide
Afraid and alone
from angry people who take their rage
like tidal waves
and crash into innocents.

They want change.
Not to take all the GUNS away
But to restrict the types
Create stiffer rules.
What threat is this
to your freedoms,
My GUN owning friends?

They should be free
to feel SAFE
In a Grocery store
In a School
At a Concert
At a Hospital
At a Synagogue
At a Church

ANYWHERE.

But the NRA has friends
who view CONTROL
as an evil worse than plague
WHICH IT’S NOT.
When did your fellow Americans’ LIVES
come to mean so little?

I see this on my screens
In our papers.
As a Canadian,
I’m thankful for our GUN CONTROL.
I feel SAFE.
If only the change Americans need
would come on swift wings.
I wish you all could feel SAFE
On every day’s journeys.

You see,
I think no man, woman or child
should be afraid to leave their home
for fear of flying bullets
shot from vicious GUNS
hunting them down.

Wandering Woman

The bridge stood in splendour
Its moss free bricks
Clean and dutifully placed.

A lone woman wandered
through the forest sticks
In sturdy clothes, no lace.

Her light steps unheard
Her cloak left unseen
She approached the wooden gates.

Called to the armoured guard
Whose face was quite mean
Her fate now to wait.

She was shooed to the woods
To travel under her black hood
Taking her magic goods
Elsewhere.

Feverish Dreams

My dreams plague me with vivid realities so farfetched and daunting I’ve no choice, but to run. My feet pound against barren dirt, stirring dust into the air. Despite the burning feel of it, I must push on.
 
Glancing behind me, I see a pack of wolves. Scratch that. They’re much bigger than wolves. Much faster, too. Their snarls echo off the cave walls I’ve been placed in by my overactive imagination. I know it’s not real and yet my heart races.
 
Teeth sink into my calf and I fall forward with a scream. The wet, slickness of blood drips down my leg and sends these unknown creatures into a frenzy. Their bites shred my arms to ribbons.
 
Just when I’m about to pass out, I have been transported to the centre of a storm. No shelter in sight. But of course, I say to myself and will my sleeping self to rouse. It’s of no use.
 
The rain shifts from small drops to heavy bullets, or so it feels. My skin tingles and bruises under the assault. Thankfully my limbs are restored and I can run towards the edge of the clouds. The ground is wet and I slip with each step. Mud grabs my shoe off and I keep running, leaving it to the land. I can see the sun shining beyond the black clouds and I yearn for its serenity.
 
It’s too late, though. Hail the size of watermelons falls from the clouds. Lightning forks, stabbing at my tiny presence on the ground. The thunder sounds like laughter amidst the roar of the storm.
 
For the first time in years, I stop running. I stand in the centre of the chaos and let the storm strike me down. It doesn’t take long. Both hail and lightning hit me and it’s the most painful thing I’ve ever felt.
 
I wake with a shout and feel my head, inspect my pillows for blood. Everything’s wet from my sweating heat and my skin’s red. Upon closer inspection, I see white forks winding under my skin, following my veins.
 
Not again, I think and lapse back into darkness.
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Anxious Honesty

The voice in my head is telling me I’ve wasted two years on a dream that will never come true. I had a book idea and I ran with it. I didn’t fight hard enough for it though.

More and more, my husband seems to get mad that I’m not working on my book. That I’m not bringing in any money. That I’m just ‘lounging’ around the house.

It doesn’t matter that I clean the house top to bottom by myself. I weed the gardens and mow the lawn and whippersnip, by myself. I feed the cats and dogs day and night by myself. I do the laundry, by myself. I make the appointments for both of us. Keep a running list of things. Try to be the voice of reason more often than not. (I will admit he helps on occasion, but not near enough…)

I wish I was bringing in money. I wish I had fought harder for my book. It feels like the only choice is to abandon it entirely. It’s not what I want, but I always put everyone else ahead of me.

But then that leaves me with a blog and a twitter account that serve no real purpose anymore, right?

So, I’ve applied to part-time jobs in the mean time. I’ve started freelance transcribing again for Rev. I’ve created a Ko-Fi account in hopes of some additional help so that I can keep writing.

I want to keep writing, I really do, but this voice tells me there’s no point anymore. If I was really passionate about it, I’d be somewhere other than editing, right?

Anyways, that’s the end, (I think), of my self-pitying post. I had to say it before it ate me alive though I still think it might.

 

https://ko-fi.com/kemwriting is the link to donate to my creative path. I’m sure after a decent cry, I’ll be up to fighting again…