Secrets

The prompt:  I gave you a tiny poem by Robert Frost to inspire you this week:

The Secret Sits

We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

Sionn of Clan MacGoulan kept his distrust of the old woman well hidden. He knew her power from experience, and she’d promised these would be the last tasks she’d require of him.

“Be here, the second full moon from today, boy. You'll take the child at birth.” Lillian told him.

“Does she know the child is being taken from her? What if it carries the same taint as its mother? She was clawed by those hell hounds, she’s cursed.”

Sionn couldn’t forget the scene inside the MacClarren clan chief’s house. Pools of blood, the mangled bodies of the clan. The mangled body of his twin brother, Taog, there for his wedding feast. His betrothed alone had survived, though not untouched.

Lillian’s sharp voice brought him back, “She’ll know when the child is gone. I’ll not have a squalling brat getting in my way.”

“But the curse…” Sionn started.

“I know my business boy! The child is clean, and of MacGoulan blood. She is your problem. The mother is mine.”

“It’s a girl child? Are you sure, witch?”

Lillian snorted, “you call me witch, yet question my knowledge?” She glanced sidelong at him. “You have three boys. Be here, take your wife the girl child she wants.”

**********

Annag knew Lillian would be angry that it was taking her so long to complete her errands. She’d make sure to fill both baskets well with the roots and herbs the old witch and sent her to gather.

Though her body was heavy with pregnancy, she felt surprisingly strong. Whatever brew the old woman had been forcing on her had been good for her. The limp from a childhood accident was nearly gone, though she still pretended it for Lillian.

She stayed for the sake of her unborn child. None of the neighboring clans would give her sanctuary. They all knew about her wounds and what they meant.

Annag prayed the end of her pregnancy would not mean the end of her immunity to that curse.

She’d been using the many errands to assemble a cache of supplies. When her child came, they’d escape this prison. She’d find a way to live clanless and raise her child.

As she approached the cottage, she heard voices. Her heart began to pound with fear as she recognized the voice of her once to be brother-in-law conversing with her captor.

“And what of Donnchadh’s blade? Have you found it yet? Is it with you?” Lilian demanded of sionn.

“I have not. Ive searched the ruins of MacClarren and the land around it. Perhaps the faerie reclaimed it.”

Lillian replied with scorn. “Faerie. Fool! Keep searching, I want that sword, it’s the only thing could have killed those beasts!”

Annag's eyes narrowed, she purposefully rustled the brush she had hidden behind. The voices stopped and she heard Sionn's feet hit the earth as he trotted away.

She limped heavily around the bushes, her baskets all but dragging the ground.

“What took you, girl? It can’t take all day to gather a few leaves.” Lillian was angry, and not entirely with Annag.

Annag dropped her eyes to the woman’s feet, “I’m sorry, milady. It’s hard, getting up and down. The babe is heavy in me.”

“You're weak. Perhaps more duties will strengthen you.” She sneered and turned away.

“Yes milady” Annag replied meekly. Her eyes glowed with hatred at the witch’s back as she thought, “You’ll never find my father’s blade.”








And a little more of Annag/Anne Marie's story....

Sleepless

     As sleep lounges in a corner refusing her invitation, Anne Marie's mind travels to the long ago.

     In the blush just before dawn, after a night of hunting those things that go bump, the memories taunt.

     Her daughter, born in a witches hut. A child she never held nor suckled. A child taken from her before her womb completed its business.

     All that she has to hold, is a silver thread wound tightly about a lock of hair.

     She has known her daughter's daughter, and the daughters after.

     Still, she'd trade the centuries for one touch of her newborn's hand.




I joined in the 100 Word Song, this week's track is "She Talks to Angels" by The Black Crowes.  This is another little snippet of Anne Marie/Annag's story.  There is more, I'm working on it...

Downtime

     The room was comfortably cool. The walls colored in shades of peacock blue. Three of four lined with shelves from dark wooden floor almost to the eggshell ceiling. A lacy candelabra adding more to the decor than lighting.

     The fourth wall rose over a long oaken desk, just inside the door, filled with electronic paraphernalia. The industrious hum of hard drive was punctuated with bursts of cooling fan.

     Scattered dots of LED lights winked in blues, reds, and greens as the equipment attended its various tasks. Searching for specific words and phrases across the World Wide Web. Bookmarking and flagging those that matched the criteria set for it.

     From the fog gray suede of her chair, Anne Marie MacClarren looked up from her reading. She breathed in the scent of the space. The musk of old paper spiced with a variety of inks, that was subtly interlaced with the ozone of electronic exhalation.

     She scanned the rows of scrolls carefully sealed in protective tubes, and old leather-bound books. All well worn yet meticulously maintained. She'd spent countless years finding them, acquiring them, translating them, studying them.

     In recent times, countless hours copying the contents to drive, file, and disk. She'd compiled a searchable database from hundreds of years of study and discovery. Now, compacted into silver platters of ones and zeroes.

     She leaned back into the cushions, her eyes drawn back to the book in her lap. She chuckled to herself as she indulged in the once forbidden joy of reading for pleasure. Title page:  "Fifty Shades of Grey"....






the prompt: You have 450 words to write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about the forbidden or the taboo.

Dry Day

The sky bleached to white by heat while the wind blows furnaced air

Drawing the last moisture from leaves and crisping the lawn

As we sit in machine conjured comfort searching the heavens for clouds

Wishing for rain to pull us outside and gleefully jump in puddles

Silhouette

photo courtesy of Cabochons By Bev

Anne Marie MacClarren wandered though the markets. She hadn't been to London in decades. As she held the heavy silk of her skirts out the stinking mud, she silently questioned her choice to visit now.


She had lost any intent to purchase anything offered as she passed tables of smelly fish, rancid fowl, and moldy produce. Not at all appealing, the vendors no more appealing than their wares.

One ramshackle booth was piled with likely stolen trinkets and crudely crafted jewelry. She took a moment to look over the clutter. Upon occasion, a true treasure could be found in such a pile if one knew what to look for.

A pendant caught Anne Marie's attention. A slice of muddy green stone, edged with a thin band of copper and hung on a ribbon. The shadowy image of a woman in the center.

Her breath stopped as she recognized the silhouette.

The dirty young woman behind the table saw her interest. "That be a special charm, milady, I can make a good deal..."

"Where did you get this? Where is the rest of this stone?"

"Its one o' a kind..."

"Do not lie to me. Where is the rest of the stone?" Her breath was coming in gasps. She could feel panic tightening her chest.

The vendor took her distress for anger. She produced three more slices of the stone from a tattered basket behind her. Each bearing the same figure.

"Just these,lady. These are all 'ats left! The rest was sold ."

Anne Marie ripped them from the girl's grubby fingers,"How many! How many more are there! Do you have any idea where they are!"

"There was 13 my da' cut. I been sellin' 'em some days. I dun know who buys. I just collect my coin for 'em."

Anne Marie muttered an ancient curse as threw more than enough coin for the three pieces at the shaken girl.

The young woman scooped the coins up, a bit braver than she had been. "Crazy foreign woman," she muttered.

Anne Marie grabbed the woman's wrist. "I'm not the foreigner here, girl. My blood was old in this land long before you fathers knew this isle existed." She threw the girl's arm down and turned from the stall.

She left the narrow street and its overpowering smells. When she reached the tiny room she had taken for the night, she laid the slices of stone on the table.

The image was unmistakable in each piece.

******

She'd returned to her homeland after years of wandering, hiding from the voice that was always in her head. Years searching for a way to free herself from Lillian's grasp. Years to find the answer now tucked in her pack.

She had barely touched the ground of her birthplace when the witch confronted her.

"Annag, you've finally come back to me. There was no other choice, you know. You must always come back to me."

Anne Marie almost lost the nerve she'd summoned at the old witch's voice. "I am called Anne Marie now", she told the woman.

Lillian sneered, "Anne. And how precious, Marie, for your dead mother Mara. Come, Annag of no clan MacClarren, I have chores for you. You must remember who you owe your life to, girl. Everything will be alright now."

Those last words triggered the desperation, the hatred and fear. She reached into her pack, her fingers gripped the dull green orb.

As she pulled it out, balanced on the palm of her hand,the chant she'd learned began to flow from her terror dried lips. The words in a language more ancient than the old Gaelic of her childhood.

Lillian looked at her with mild curiosity. "What game do you pretend to play, child? What gibberish is this?" Then her eyes widened in shock, her jaw opened to utter a scream of denial as the stone began to glow.

There came no scream, the old witch was still, frozen by the power of the conjure. The glow became a pulse, and with each beat Lillian began to fade.

When the words stopped, Lillian was gone. Anne Marie held the stone in shaking hands. She felt drained, almost as faded as the witch had been.

She finally looked hard at the surface of the orb. It was dull green once again. But as she studied it closer, she could see the ghostly image of a woman, her eyes wide, her mouth open in an eternal silent shriek.

*******

Anne Marie could still hear the voice. "It will be alright." But it never was. It was never alright again.






you can read more about Anne Marie/Annag here and here and here too

It's Friday

Its Friday.   That means I babysit my grandkids.  The grandson and granddaughter.  Different as night and day, and not just in gender.

The boy is three and a half, full of wonder and energy.  In love with big trucks and Thomas the Tank Engine and driving over bridges. And digging for treasure in the back yard.

 Even though I think he was running a fever as the day wore on, he still wanted to go outside with his grampa.  

Then he needed to come inside to play with gramma.  Which means hijacking my iPod and/or Kindle Fire.  Because Angry Birds is on both.  As well as Cars and several Abc,1,2,3 games I bought just for him.

 Or asking a million questions.  Including, "what is your name?"  And when I tell him Reneé, he cracks up and says, "no it's not, it's Gramma!"

 He was more subdued today.  I could feel the heat radiate from him as he leaned into me.  I may pay for that. 

Although, later was another round of running through the house giggling hysterically, being chased by his little sister.

 She?  Is a character.  A wee bit bow-legged right now at 18 months. Not that it slows her down.  She's demanding and headstrong.  A princess in army boots.  Stomping her foot if she's thwarted in any way.  If that doesn't work, she'll fall to the floor in a heap of rebellion.

 She's enamored of her big brother, following him relentlessly.  Her little legs hard pressed to keep up.  Sometimes he's okay with that. Sometimes not so much.  But she'd follow him to the moon and back if he'd let her.

 Where the boy will sit still with me, she seldom does.   She prefers being on the move.  If she's still, she's asleep.

 I'm in love with these children. I have patience and time I never found for my daughter, though I love her more than she can ever know.   She is the mommy I should have been.

 Perhaps its age and maturity, but this "gramma" gig?  Is the best time of my life.



 The Prompt: 500 words to write a piece, fiction or non-fiction, which includes the phrase “to the moon.”

Day 1: Declaration

I am a writer.

I am a woman, I am middle aged.
  
The eldest of five children, mother of one child, grandmother of two.
  
I spin yarn, crochet and knit. I have done some weaving.  Cross stitch and sewing.

 I am a crafter, a fiber artist.

And I am a writer. 

For writing is but another craft. I spin the thoughts in my head into words.  I weave those words into the fabric of a tale.  

 I crochet granny squares of fiction.   Each block a chapter or short story. Stacked,  awaiting the final stitching, the words that make the whole.     

Yes. I am a writer.