3WW #CXLIII
 Fickle
Sparkle
Wrinkle
= = =
The melee in the courtyard slowed, all noise seemingly muted as combatants' eyes followed the arc of the ring as it flew -- no, leisurely floated -- up and up, spinning ever so deliberately in the bright blue sky, emitting sparkle after sparkle as the mid-morning sun's rays reflected off its gleaming surface.
King Philliam, in plush purple robes astride his magnificent midnight-black stallion, was just as dumbstruck as the rest of his gaping men decked in scarlet uniforms, as the gawking rebels with many a wrinkle and hole riddling their dirty peasant attire.
So dumbstruck was he that he didn't even complete the spell he had been casting, the one that required a flourish of the hand infused with his Will, the one that would have laid the rebels to waste in an instant. He didn't even think to invoke a simple Pull spell to get the ring back in hand. Instead, all that ran through his mind was Huh. I must have lost some weight.
Then up jumped Young Master Tyrus.
His too-long arms now seemed works of art as they stretched skywards, ringwards; the band's elegant journey interrupted by the boy's calloused hands. Landing nimbly, Tyrus shook a ring-clutching fist in the air and screamed "I've got it! I've got it! Let's go!" The rebels were quick to react, disengaging from the still-gaping soldiers, emptying the courtyard, disappearing into the many alleyways and downwards into the tunnels.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, King Philliam let out a bellow of incompetent rage. Spell broken, wide-eyed soldiers scurried after the rebels, even though they knew no trace would be found of them: better to vacate the courtyard, however, than to face the wrath of the king.
Alone in the courtyard, King Philliam slid off his horse, unaccustomed dread starting to insinuate itself throughout his very being. Of all the days to have been moved to wear a ring, it had to be today. King Philliam shook his head in disbelief as he led the war stallion to the stables. Of all the rings to have been moved to wear, it had to be that one. Fate surely was the most fickle of mistresses.
[Fiction] Friday Challenge for June 19, 2009:
 Include this line in your story:
...(your character) closed his/her eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped
= = =
Young Master Tyrus whimpered as he curled up as tightly as possible, the sound too loud in his sensitive ears. He continued to rock back and forth, working himself into the springy layer of twigs and leaves that covered the the forest floor, and that of the cave in which he sought shelter. Well, not so much cave as just a little alcove formed by an outcropping of rock just a foot or two from the ground.
His insides were on fire. Was it hunger, or effects of the water he'd gulped down at that deserted well? He whimpered again as another spasm threatened to rip his guts into shreds: this time his eyesight and hearing throbbed in time to the uneven rhythm of his stomach and intestines.
A twig must have worked its way to the seat of his pants with all that rocking. Young Master Tyrus reached down with a trembling hand to brush it away, but the shock of cold metal had him on his knees in an instant, scrabbling in the dirt to unearth the offending object.
Oh ironies of ironies.
He'd been sitting on it all along! Grinding his behind into it over the past two hours! How Vincent would have been amused.
How Vincent would be amused, when I tell him! he corrected himself, his mind shying away from the battle scene, refusing to lock on anything except the crimson blood spray that had covered every person on that battlefield. Hadn't Vincent joked about having blue blood? Young Master Tyrus had only seen red yesterday. Surely Vincent was still alive?
Forcing his tortured mind back to the task at hand, Young Master Tyrus managed to twitch the corners of his mouth in a ghost of a smile. The trapdoor. He'd been sitting right on its handle, buried under decades of forest detritus, unearthed only because he had this habit of half-rocking half-burrowing into the ground when needing comfort, a habit his poor departed Ma had tried to rid him of so long ago, and in the end gave up on, deciding it was just easier to just reinforce the seat of his pants than get him to not wear a hole in them every week or so.
Pulling with all his remaining strength, flaming guts forgotten for the moment, the trapdoor reluctantly, but silently, opened up, emitting surprisingly fresh-smelling air and the sound of ... water. Moving water. An underground stream? What a precious resource! Vincent would have been, no, would be overjoyed! The legend was true!
But of the realm's guardian? It was supposed to be Vincent's duty to confront the beast, to tame it the way the legends foretold. All Young Master Tyrus had with him was the ring he'd stolen from King Philliam, the theft that on hindsight had probably precipitated this whole mess.
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, whispered Young Master Tyrus to himself, smiling as he imagined Vincent's gruff voice, not his own barely cracked one, filling his ears. He reached down to grasp for a ladder, or to locate stairs, but didn't find any: either they had rotted away, had been destroyed, or they had never existed. Well then, only one way down, isn't there?
Young Master Tyrus closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped.
If only he had thought to somehow close the trapdoor behind him.
He lurched along the sidewalk like Frankenstein's monster.
Frankenstein's monster on inline skates, that is.
They were black, with purple and green laces. 
Purple and green.
Wimbledon colors.
How 'bout that.
I gaze at the skates wonderingly: if I'd gotten a pair for myself when they'd first come out, when they were all the rage, about fifteen years ago, I know chances are high I would have gotten something very similar for myself.
I mean, come on! Wimbledon colors?! ~plus~ black??!!
I smile to myself, happy at the coincidence -- if you want to call it that -- that Elm so long ago would have picked a pair of rollerblades that please my eye, now, over fifteen years later.
I also am aware of this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. A regret of sorts, or a memory of a regret, perhaps. I recall drooling over and coveting rollerblades when they were all the rage, that summer a decade and a half ago, that summer I stayed in the US to take summer classes, which prompted my parents to visit me since I wasn't going back "home" halfway around the world for once.
I think I was turning 21 that summer.
"What do you want for your birthday?"
"That," I say, pointing to one of many passing rollerbladers.
"Oh." "Isn't that dangerous?"
I'd like to think I protested, or at least pointed out the safety gear many 'bladers were wearing. I'd like to think I was able to do more than immediately be defeated by her reluctance, her disapproval. Chances are, however, that none of that happened. She didn't like the idea, so I didn't push it.
(I also vaguely remember talking about getting one of those mini-fridges to have in my room, so that I could have my drinks cold and theft-free, instead of storing them on my assigned shelf in the common fridge downstairs, at the mercy of unscrupulous fellow lodgers. Again with the reluctance.)
I have no idea what, if anything, I did choose/get that year.
I do know that I could have gotten a pair of rollerblades for myself at any time.
But I didn't.
And so as I accompanied Elm on foot as he skated down the street a few days ago, I wondered what it was about Willow-that-was that had her so ... captive ... to her mother's wishes that she was content -- for lack of a better word -- to continue observing rollerbladers with a muted longing, but never making that move to get a pair for herself.
I'd been defeated a long time ago.
I remember being complimented by my tennis coach, him recommending that I join a few other of his students to play friendly matches against other kids from other clubs. I so wanted to. But. Never did I ever bring this possibility up with my parents. Never ever.
Why not?
I look back and see someone who lived totally in her head, overthinking scenarios into defeatist endings and concluding somehow that that was the probable outcome therefore no use even trying anything.
My blood no longer boils at the memory of Willow-who-was, and how she came to be.
Instead, I am sad more than anything else.
How I wish I could go to her now, eleven-year-old Willow-that-was, and tell her to believe in herself, that she is capable of so many great things, just as she knows deep inside yet can't bring herself to believe because of all the programming, the put-downs, the dare-I-say-it mental abuse she had suffered -- and would continue to suffer -- at the hands of her mother, she who should have known better, she who now is reaping what she sowed, she who is all hurt and confused at the bitter fruits available to her today.
Don't define yourself by your mother's approval, or lack thereof.
Ten words that would have made a huge difference to me back then.
Back in college.
Back in high school.
Heck, back as far as I can remember.
Oh well.
I'm all better now.
Better-er, anyway.
And I've decided: (once Elm and I get to a better financial situation) I'mma gettin' me a pair o' them rollerblades!
Better late than never.
Presenting the finest of the writer?s blogs by the bloggers who write them. Highlighting the top posts as chosen by the May 8, 2009 WOOF Contest participants. Want in to join the next WOOF? The next contest ends May 15. Submit a link to your best writing post of the last 3 weeks using the form on this page. Participants, repost the winning link list within a week and you?re all set.
WOOF Contest ? Top Picks
Fiction / Short Story / Flash Fiction
- Zorlone ? ?Insanity Road? - An Urban Legend about the outcome of trespassing a private road.
- Webbielady ? ?Isn't Life Supposed To Be Meaningful?? - He was in the process of taking his own life... he's ready to die until some strange melody played over the air that made him do something....
About Writing
- Izzy Daniels ? ?5 things you should learn before starting a blog? - Some beginning bloggers have a view common ideas that they think blogging is linked to. In this post, I let people know how to avoid these common issues.
- Writing Nag ? ?A Perfect Day? - Can writing about what you want make it happen? Writing with intention and writing about your perfect day.
Poetry
- Christable Anon ? ?Memories? - Where did moths steal their wings from?
- Dragon Blogger ? ?Honorless Man? - Rhyming poem made from random words about a man living a double life.
- Jennifer M Scott ? ?four horsepowered heart? - A surreal poem includes a drawing by as well, welcome to my weird world.
- Roy ? ?Man... I am? - A poem about why real men shouldn't hide their own emotions...
Other WOOF Contestants for 05/08/09
Fiction / Short Story / Flash Fiction
Poetry
- Dragon Blogger ? ?Lord of Pain? - What can I say, a poetic interpretation over someone?s misery.
- Christable Anon ? ?A room for Messie? - About every teenage girl who see her life in a mess yet love it the way it is...
- Siddhartha Banerjee ? ?Stranger? - A traveler's tale.
- Gaurav Saxena ? ?The evening pair? - Man who looks at the world through the spectacles of love.
- ~willow~ - ?... what goes around, comes around?" - A ruler expresses his displeasure, and metes out some apt justice.
- Gabriel Gadfly ? ?Teetering? - Teetering on the border between good and evil.
- Zorlone ? ?Recovery? - There are times we get lured by the broken promises of addiction. Yet, we struggle to rise above it and move on with what was left f the life it stole from us.
- Jennifer M Scott ? ?Such is Our Story? - A poem of focusing on dreams with a cold heart and tears to get the sugar.
- Jennifer M Scott ? ?Saunter and Sashay? - I wrote this poem after a bad day at work with someone she acts like she is god and I should bow down before yeah freaking right.
- Jena Isle ? ?A Gentle Touch? ? What would be the gentlest of touch?
Non-Fiction / Prose
3WW #CXXXVI
Cryptic
Flash
Malign
= = =
... what goes around, comes around?
How dare you malign me,
me, your master,
me, your life,
me, your king.
Don't plead innocence.
Your cryptic words
and hidden snickers
are
- not so cryptic
- not so hidden
as you may think.
Don't bother to flash your smile;
after all,
according to you
I am too blind to see it.
Don't bother pleading either;
after all,
according to you
I am too deaf to hear.
Don't expect any deliberation;
after all,
according to you
I am too doddering a fool.
Expect no mercy then;
after all,
according to you
am I not too heartless to rule?
[Fiction] Friday Challenge for April 3rd, 2009:
A married couple sets out on a six-month adventure, living on their boat while sailing from port city to port city. By the fifth city, they are thoroughly sick of each other and their relationship takes a serious turn for the worse.
= = =
3WW #CXXXI
Crush
Knack
Varied
= = =
"You really have a knack for doing things wrong, don't you?" accused Sheila as she hunkered down in the all-too-small cabin, nursing her already rapidly bruising left forearm, her face pulled so long it was a miracle the downward-pointing corners of her mouth weren't dangling past her chin. It was all Carl could do to just look on helplessly. He was so out of his element. There was no denying it any longer. The past five days were a testament to just how much he DIDN'T like being at sea.
His stomach had yet to keep anything down longer than ten minutes, and the jests about bad food or cooking had gone down so well the first day he knew he might be thrown overboard if he ever brought that up again. He still had land legs, and kept tumbling this way and that with the slightest lurch of the boat. He had certainly not meant to crush Sheila's arm against the cabin wall, but the sea was rather choppy, and after all, wasn't she supposed to be on deck, keeping a lookout?
"Let's go back." Carl's ears pricked up. He looked back at Sheila, who was watching him expectantly, fearfully, hopefully. "Neither of us knew just how difficult, just how bad this was going to be." Carl nodded, expression neutral. Sheila continued: "Maybe we should have listened to the folk at the marina. I really thought a 6 month voyage would be a piece of cake..." her voice tapered off as she gazed forlornly at Carl, while her right arm still cradled the left. He noticed the silver-white gleam of the wedding band on her finger. He smiled, fingering the matching braided band on his hand.
"You do recall, I tried to dissuade you from this, but you insisted? You do recall, you went and bought the boat and arranged this itinerary behind my back, using money that wasn't yours but mine?" Carl's gentle tone was in total contrast with the rising anger boiling within. Oblivious to the danger, Sheila turned defensive. "I only used the money that you stole when you closed out our joint account last year! It was as much mine as it was yours!"
There was a moment of stillness as the words hung in the air between them, as their gazes locked: hers moving from defiant to fearful, his from shock to fury. In the next instant, Carl let out a loud roar, moving rapidly towards Sheila with fists clenched, ready to mete out the only punishment he knew for such insolence, when suddenly the fists opened and arms windmilled as Carl desperately sought to regain his balance lost from yet another lurch of the boat.
Sheila looked on disbelievingly as Carl fell in slow motion before her eyes, one of his hands gently slapping her foot as his head hit the sharp corner of the stowable table Carl had never bothered to stow away.
She might have prayed to a multitude of deities, but the prayer Sheila muttered for the next five minutes varied not one bit: "Let this be the end, oh please, let this be the end. Let me be finally free!"
Sliding slowly off the bunk onto the floor, Sheila extended a trembling hand to Carl's neck and rested it there for a minute.
Was he, or wasn't he?
Oh!
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Blog URL: http://noweepingallowed.blogspot.com/
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Blog Description: Willow Tree is the name, and ranting about my past WAS the game. This site quickly evolved into an outlet that also explores my life journey *and* helps me flex my writing muscles. Please drop by, have a seat, in the shade of my weep-free willow tree.
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Blog Owner: Willow Tree
Blog Added: June 21, 2007 10:02:16 AM
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