The Færie Ball

This week’s assignment was to write a piece inspired by pictures. You could chose either one or even do both.
What did the images mean to you?
(I chose the spiral staircase)


Soft steps upon the gilded stairs
The færie spiral down
Translucent, jeweled wings 
Mirrored in silken gown

With shining eye and glittered breath
They tiptoe through the door
Their men-folk wait within
Standing breathless on the floor

The lute and pipes and ancient drum
Invite them to begin
The melody hypnotic
Soon they're swaying wing to wing

Slender hips move with the strings
Wings keep time with drum
Haunting  pipes weave magic
Færie blood begins to hum

One by one, then pair by pair
Enrapt, the dancers rise 
Touches gentle as a kiss
Promised in their eyes

One pair departs unnoticed
Two, then three and four
To share their music elsewhere 
Far from the crowded floor

One couple left within the space
Their faces lined with age
Wingbeats slow,  hands caress
Memories in their gaze

Hand in hand, they leave on foot
The music fades away
Wing to wing they close the door
And let the memories play

Liar, Liar

Little spiderlings
Weaving fine deceitful webs
Too close together
They tangle and stick
Until none remember the truth

Flies buzz by compound eye-rolling
Not tempted by the snarl
As the little liars starve
Amidst their tales
They will soon devour each other

Three Textures

For this week’s memoir prompt, we’re going to let narrative take a backseat. Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.




Cat; Herself; Mistress of All She Surveys, at 14, the eldest of the three.  Steps into my lap with feather lightness.  She settles in before I know she's there. 
Black fur with bits of white now, smooth, sleek, and silky under my fingers.  As I move along her back, I feel the bones that have begun to protrude at her hips, showing her age. 
She rolls to her back in the crook of my arm for a belly rub.  Her purrs vibrate with pleasure, warm dampness against my arm where she's has drooled a bit.

Sir, my pretty boy, long haired silver tabby. Fifteen pounds of muscle and fur.  Fur so soft my work worn hands can hardly feel it.  I use my face to feel the cottony texture, he sniffs at my mouth, perhaps to make sure of who I am. 
His step is not light, he rocks the chair we share.  He revels in the scratching of my fingers.  Bites ever so gently with saber fangs when I rub his belly. 
Then he drops onto my lap.  He hides his head under his paws and heaves a sigh.  Soon he sleeps, his deep rumble of purrs dissolve into snores.  His weight puts my legs to sleep as well.  The warmth of his body transfers to my thighs as he gets heavier in sleep.

Wee, youngest, smallest, and most wary of the three.  Also black, but a deeper shade.  Fur that is full and coarser than the others. I bury my fingers in it, feeling the coolness of the fur against the heat of her small body.
She climbs full clawed to my lap.  Or leaps from somewhere, her speed and gravity making up for her lack of weight.  Insistent that her presence be known.  With needled feet she kneads my lap to her specifications. 
She sits tense, a bundle of action, looking for the next target.  She purrs and mews, stands to tap my face. Soft paws punctuated with claws.  Her nose to my nose, her sandpaper tongue scrapes my skin. 
As sudden and violently as she appears, so does she depart.  A parting mew, a loud thump as she uses speed and gravity once again.

The three takes their turns.  When one leaves, another soon takes their place.  I know each one with my eyes closed.  Their presence brings comfort, warmth, and the unconditional love that pets have in abundance. 




My cats grace both of my blogs.  Cat is on the button for Random Rants.  Sir and Wee share space on the button of this blog, Elsetime & Otherwhen.

Heartache

This week we’d like you to explore romantic heartbreak. For you fiction writers, here’s a chance to really delve into the psyche of your character. For you non-fiction folk, well, maybe it’s into your psyche you must delve. We all remember that first love, just like we all remember when our hearts broke for the first time.

Write a piece – 600 word limit – about the first heartbreak your character or you experienced.



Alone in the night.  Next to the empty pillow. Pleading for the escape of sleep. 
Dreams of better times, fade to bitter times.
Eyes open to the empty dark.
Soaking the blanket as the heart bleeds through them.

Rise feeling broken in the soft pastel of dawn. Crawling from sheets never warmed.  Leaving behind the pieces of heart, too heavy to gather. 

Meeting the day as half of one. Pretending to smile with stiffened lips.  Weaving through spaces between everyday voices and routines.  The day a blur of aching, empty light. 

Finally free of the need to feign normalcy. Returning to the house that is no longer home.  The silence full of remembered words. The cold kitchen greets no one.  

Sitting on the edge of the bed. Trying to be tired. Trying not to see the empty pillow, the pieces of heartbreak staining the blanket. As the darkness lay waiting. 

Has Anybody Seen Her?

If only I could find my Muse.  I used to have one.  She'd sneak up on me, force me to pick up a pen or pencil, even a crayon if that's all I could find.

She made me write stuff.  Dozens of silly poems, and several years of journals. Old words on paper as brittle as I feel , and faded as my dreams.

Old, because one day I finally ignored her.  Brittle, for I refused to write.  Faded, as I didn't have the time.  She kept putting words in my head, but I wouldn't make them solid anymore.

The thoughts, the characters, the stories.  They still ricochet around my brain.   They invade my dreams.  They try to breathe in the dark.  They beat at my forehead demanding to be freed. 

Suddenly I want to give them life.  I want to tell their stories.  I want others to know them.

I've forgotten how to make that happen.  I've lost the knowledge.  I doubt myself.  I can't do it.

I've lost my Muse.  I catch the occasional glimpse.  Under years of disuse.  Behind stacks of excuses. 

I traded the pens and pencils and crayons for a keyboard.  The paper has become a computer screen.  I wade through words and punctuation.  I try to remember how this is done.  I delete and backspace.  I walk away.  I come back.  I read my words out loud.  I delete.  Retype. 

Where is that Muse?  She knew how to paint with words.  Sprinkle punctuation like glitter.  She didn't need spell check.  Grammar was innate knowledge to her.  She knew how many words were enough and how to stack them.

I used to have a Muse, if only I could find her.




My entry for  Writer's Week Writing Contest  I used prompt #15.

I Miss...

This week’s prompt is to use this image for your inspiration and begin your post with those words…”I miss my childhood…”





I miss my childhood.
I miss sultry summer days with nothing to do but soak up sunshine and fresh air.
I miss laughing hysterically for no reason.
I miss sleeping soundly all night and waking up with energy to spare.
I miss snow days that meant staying indoors snug in a blanket.
I miss bumps and bruises that went away overnight.
I miss when tomorrow seemed to take forever to come.

I miss whole days spent playing outdoors with no worry of being abducted.
I miss not knowing how hard it is to choose between wants and needs.
I miss being clueless about hunger and poverty.
I miss never hearing about the terrible things people do to each other.

I miss the ignorance of innocence.

Paths Meeting

This week, with Labor Day and the end of summer rapidly approaching, we asked you to write about a season of change for your character or you. It can be literal or metaphorical

(Another bit in the Paths of  Beth/Lyabet's family. The human and the elemental. I've added a page with all the snippets) 


.
Chuck sat in uncomfortable silence observing his companion. Graleon was dressed in light gray slacks and a sky blue polo shirt. His hair was the lightest shade of blonde almost white. Along with his icy blue eyes, he looked cold as a winter dawn.

Graleon only gave Chuck a cursory look. He didn't care about Chuck's faded blue jeans or black T-shirt. He did care that Chuck was uncomfortable, he wanted to put him at ease. He wanted to make clear that he was not here as an enemy, but to be a friend.

Finally, Graleon broke the silence, "I come to speak to you because of your relationship with my daughter. I only want her to be happy. I'm concerned that she cannot be happy while denying who she is."

Chuck raised an eyebrow, "I have never heard her deny who she is, or what she is. It is you that have denied her children. You who have tried to talk her into leaving us, tried to talk her into coming back to you and living in the world she left behind."

Graleon sighed, "I have changed my feelings. I don’t pretend to understand why she made the choices she did. Yet, I have taken time to observe her interactions with the children and how you care for her, I would like to play a part in her life again. In your lives.”

Chuck listened to the words, trying to read the intent. He wasn't sure he trusted this man. He heard little from Beth, and nothing good from their new house guest, her mother, Tam.

Chuck looked steadily at Graleon, “I’ll give Beth your message. If she wants to renew her relationship with you, she’ll let you know. If she doesn’t, that is her choice.”

Graleon nodded, “That is all I ask.” He rose from his seat , nodded once again, then walked away.

There was an uneasiness in Chuck that he couldn’t define. He took a deep breath, the meeting had unnerved him more than he wanted to admit. He replayed the short talk in his mind. The words were benign, but they weren’t reflected in those icy eyes. Things were about to change, Chuck could feel it