Evolution of a Room

This is for The Red Dress Club.


The prompt: Think of a room from your past.  It can be any type of room at all.


This room. With fancy pocket doors. Just off the living room. 
It may have been considered a parlor once. Before my grandmother died. Before I was born. 

When I was growing up.  This was my grandfather's room. It smelled of old man and pipe tobacco. 
He put eye bolts through the beautiful pocket doors. So he could lock himself in at night. And lock everyone out when he left. It was an empty room after he died. 

 My brother moved back home after a serious illness. The room became his. Filled with computer and books and cigarette smoke. The doors were no longer locked. But often closed. 
He finally moved into his own home. 

Then my mother chose to make it her room. With her bed and television. The curtain closed.  It took on the smell of alcohol and old woman and urine. She broke her hip in  this room. She chose to stop living. After she died, the room was closed. 

For a while. 

Now. This room has a new purpose. The pocket doors are open. The eye bolts removed.  There is an entertainment center. There are chairs. And people. And pets. 
The curtains are open. Light pours in and out. It still smells of cigarette smoke. And pets. And in the spring, when the windows are open, fresh air.

This is where my husband and I talk. Read. Visit with family. 
Be. 

We don't call it a parlor now. 
We call it a Family Room. 

Available on Craigslist

This was written for The Red Dress Club ,the prompt was write a humorous listing for eBay or Craig's List. Talk about the history of the items, why they must go.



For Sale: $1500.00
One fenced in back yard suitable for dogs. 
Rarely used, (dog prefers to poop in house).  
Comes with one large tree, (dog prefers dining room table legs).  
Partial flower garden, (dog digs up flowers). 
Ratty lawn furniture, (dog ate chair cushions). 

Special offer! 
$1600.00 rebate!*






*to receive rebate requirement must be met.
Take the damn dog!

Practice

The prompt: Write a piece about a fight. What happened? Why? Who "won"? What were the repercussions?


All of the young Nadan trained, daily.  So daily, Naddnē was on the field with the young men. She had been there every day for eight years. Learning the arts of defense. With and without weapons. 

Today she works alone.  Works with her sword. 
Step. Swing. Turn. 
  
The blade sings through the air. She follows. 
Turn. Swing.   The blade, her arm. Step. Swing.
 
The blade plays currents of air like the strings of a harp. Swing. Turn. 

A flash at the edge of her vision. Turn. Swing. Blade on blade. Ring. Step. Swing.
 
Blade slides on blade. Turn, swing. Blade plays on blade.
 
Naddnē realizes it is Baundl.
 
Step. He has bullied her for years. 
Turn. The blade sings.
  
At six, the practice blade is too heavy. He taunts her. Too small. Too girl. 
Step, step, swing.

At ten, he is faster. He chases her with his new steel blade. He shatters her practice blade. 
Turn. Swing, step. 

Last year, she receives her steel blade. 
He laughs at it. The hilt is made for her smaller hand. It is balanced for her lesser weight.  He calls it a baby blade.
Step, swing. 
Step, sing. 
Bloodsong. 

The blade, her arm, her rage, one.    
His blood. 
Turn, swing, sing, step, swing. 
Blade, arm, one, bloodsong. 

Baundl sweats now. Retreats.
 
Naddnē swings her rage/blade/arm. One in  the song. The blades meet, sing.  Her blade demands.  His blade no more than a thin shield. 
Turn. Swing.
 
Baundl falls.  
Step. Swing. 

Blade on leather shield. Discordant. Rage.  

The shield belongs to Dænl, her kindred. He has thrown it over Baundl to protect him from the death blow.  The shield has split Baundl's lip. 

She takes a breath, closes her eyes.  The blade is quiet.  She approaches Baundl as he regains his feet. 
 
She speaks to him, "She sang for your blood."
He topples backward as Naddnē slams the flat of her blade against his swollen, dripping lip. 
"It's only fitting that she have it"


This is a little more of the character from Prologue.  Although this was originally posted in February, I've edited (a lot) for the prompt.

Darkness Tells

Walking in shadows
Avoiding the light
Truths hidden in the dark
At night
Where the mind wanders
Into blurry vistas
And words never said
Flit like moths
With no fear of fire
"hear me hear me hear me"
Hands over ears
No relief
From the truth
"fear me fear me fear me"

Dance

Hush!
The moon is calling. 
Will you answer tonight?
Will you dance in the field?

Shhh!
The stars are singing. 
Will you listen tonight?
Will you dance in the field?

Hush now!
The breeze is whispering. 
See me tonight. 
Come dance in the field.  

january

and the cold  
creeps under the skin
drilling deeper 
touching the marrow
shivering
never stops
crawling the blood
seeking out the source
invasion of the heart
to frost on eyes
no longer seeing
will the sun
never warm 

again

Prologue

Naddnē sat on her heels. Among the rubble of an ancient landslide. Hardy grasses trying to hold on at the high altitude, roots crumbling the broken stone into smaller broken stones. The valley below was her view. Treetops just visible above the milky haze.
The mist. The damn mist. There for almost one hundred years. Since the day she set it free. The day she broke it's bonds, and broke her bond with her people.
The day she left the valley, not by choice.

She remembered that day, and when she thought about it, her belly clenched. As if struck by a knife. Her people did not chase her away. Didn't tell her to go. They simply turned away. She didn't exist to them. This was no longer her home. They were no longer her people. Her family. Her friends.

And now. She had come back. To right her wrong. Return the mist to it's source. Return the valley to it's people.