( Broke down )

This story is how I imagined the first verse of this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2TXSklbFBpU would play out. I just saw Slaid Cleaves at an outdoor concert last night; he was sublime, and I came home and wrote this.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Ms. Ryan?” The voice was male, but that was all I could tell about the figure addressing me. The room was mostly dark. Not surprising, it being underground. I think.

“What do you mean? Of course I’m sure. Why?” This was sort of an unsettling question, now, when I had made my way past all their background checks, thorough their layers of security, to stand here in their headquarters.

“We need to make sure you’re not going to have a change of heart at an . . . inconvenient time. So, once again, I want to tell you: there is no returning from this task. Do you understand?”

I squeezed my eyes tight. There on the inside of my lids, were Jeremy, and Lia. Oh, God, Lia. “Yes,” I whispered.

“Good.” The man paused, and I could hear papers rustling. “Yes. You will be infiltrating an enemy barracks; I trust you’ve been fully briefed on the location?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Excellent. Your mission, then, is clear to you. If possible, wait until the majority of the enemy belonging to that barracks is present: approximately 7:00pm. However, if you are caught, you must execute the plan immediately.”

“Yes, sir, I understand.” I hoped this would be over soon; I was eager to get going. I was so ready for this all to be over.

“Good,” he strode out of his backlit corner, placed the heavy vest in my hands. I still could not see his face. “I’m sure you’ve been briefed on the operation of the vest. The detonator is in this pocket,” he tapped a small bulge on the vest’s front, “you just need to press the button when the time is right. Ms. Ryan, I don’t need to tell you what an important task you are performing for us. I want to thank you, not just for myself, or the Organization, but for all the innocent people, your countrymen and women, who are suffering under the rule of these invaders. Now, go to God, go to your family, your Lia, and send as many of those bastards to hell as you can.”

With a final squeeze to my arms, he pivoted on his heel, and strode out of the room, leaving me with my burden. I stumbled through the dark tunnels, led by another half-visible functionary out of their headquarters, towards my task, towards my final reward.

I'm really pleased with this one!

( stuffies and the shadow )

this is an eleventh-hour idea; I haven't had time to fully develop it, or, well, even run a spell check. Horrifying errors of grammer may be contained herin ;-D

( The Night Horses )

This is a variation on an old folk legend.

( Solomon Gale and the Lilac Wine )

Gen found the book quite by accident. She and Peter had been poking around the stalls at the Derry flea market, looking to kill a couple of hours before lunch. Peter had taken off upon spotting a table full of old planes and other woodworking equipment, leaving Gen to wander about, rooting in boxes of old table linens and glass doorknobs.

She almost missed the book; it was stuffed into a dusty old fruit crate with a bunch of ancient, filthy kitchen equipment that looked like it had been stored in with the chickens. It was an elderly copy of War and Peace and it had been a beautiful book once, bound in red leather with the title stamped in gold on the spine and the cover. Now the covers were spattered and cracked, and there was a nasty coating of grime on the top edge.

Gen blew on the cover, coughed in the cloud of greasy dust that resulted, and riffled through the pages to check the book’s condition. The text seemed more like a cookbook or a handbook, and there were lots of illustrations, which didn’t illustrate scenes from War and Peace. Gen frowned, and flipped to the title page, which read Granny Montagne’s Practical Guide to Useful Household Magic. She closed the book, and, sure enough, the title on the cover was War and Peace. She looked at the title page again, and there was the other title, along with an illustration of a wizened old woman smiling toothlessly off the page.

Gen thumbed through to the preface, which began: "Congratulations! If you can read this, you are one of a rare few who can put the information in this book to use. Contained herein are a wealth of useful spells, simples and other basic preparations that, when applied properly, will ease the burden of your housework immeasurably." She paged through the book more carefully; it was divided into sections, with headings like "Witchery for Washday" and "Preserves the Very Old Fashioned way".

“Can I help you, Miss?”

Gen jumped a mile; there at her elbow was old an lady who looked very much like the one from the illustration on the title page.

“Um, yes, uh, how much for this book? I’ve, uh, always wanted to read it. War and Peace.”

“Oh, dearie,” the old woman shook her head. “I’ve been watching you; we both know that book is not what it appears to be.” She smiled, her face becoming even wrinklier. “I’ll sell it to you for twenty-five dollars.”

“Um, well, don’t you need it? For your house?” Gen held the book out to the old woman, who chuckled and held up her hand.

“No, no, dearie, I learned everything there is in that book years ago; I don’t need it any longer. It needs to be passed on; someone else should get some use out of it, now. ”

The ancient lady waited patiently while Gen fished around in her purse and produced the twenty-five dollars. She wrapped the book up in spotty brown paper, tied it with twine, and handed it to Gen.

“Be careful with this, dearie. Read it through before you attempt any of it, don’t do it inside your house at first, and don’t try it on anything you value until you get the hang of things” She laid her hand on the book, “Please, be very careful with this, and always remember: the devil is in the details; it’s easy to make mistakes with these things if you're careless.”



Over the next few weeks, as soon as Peter left for work each morning, Gen read the book. It was filled with strange instructions: “if you see a neighbor approaching and don’t wish to visit with her, hide. If this doesn’t work, put a mixture of Mint and Cayenne Pepper in her tea; it will shorten the length of her visit.” And there was the truly outlandish: “For getting rid of mice, snakes are best, but they come with their own inconveniences and are hard to control. Pots of rancid oil with apples, lemons, and cinnamon floating in them work well, too. Place them behind the stove, amongst the dry goods, etc. Make sure they are deep enough for the mice to drown in.” Snakes! Gen was beginning to see how witches had gotten their evil reputation. She could just imagine what Mrs. Dearborn next door would think if she were served peppered tea, while snakes slithered about hunting after mice.

The first thing Gen decided to try was a simple ironing spell. She took her least favorite blouse out to the backyard and laid it on the grass. She focused her mind, concentrating on her breathing until the yard slid away, leaving her with nothing but the blouse. She spoke the nonsense words of the spell, and waved her hands as if she were smoothing cloth. The blouse burst into flames, producing a foul smelling bluish smoke.

Gen yelped, and stamped on the blouse until it was nothing but a mass of blackened goo, the remains of the polyester in it, smeared all over the grass and her shoe. She sighed; that was her favorite pair of sneakers. She poked at the melted poly with her toe; it was already cooling into a hard mass. Well, at least it would be easy to get rid of.

The phone rang while she was trying to pry the cooled plastic out of the grass. It was Mrs. Dearborn next door.

“Hello, Gen, how are you today?”

“Fine, thanks, Mrs. Dearborn, and you?”

“I am well, thank you. I just saw smoke coming out of your backyard; is everything all right over there?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Dearborn had seen! Gen grabbed the first excuse that came into her head. “I was burning papers. Old tax documents and such. In the barbecue. You know, you’re supposed to destroy that stuff after seven years.”

“Yes, I suppose you are. Isn’t burning a bit – extreme, though? Don’t you have a shredder?”

“Well, you know, those identity thieves are getting pretty clever. I read somewhere that they took some man’s garbage and taped his shredded documents back together. I just feel safer burning them.” Gen winced at her lame excuse, but Mrs. Dearborn seemed to buy it.

“Goodness! I guess you’re right. Well, don’t burn too many papers at once; you wouldn’t want the fire to get out of control. Have a nice day!”

“Thanks, you too, Mrs. Dearborn.” Gen hung up the phone and sagged against the wall. She was going to have to be way more careful with her experiments. Granny Montaign’s warning had not been idle; with magic, the devil really was in the details.

This is a bit of an experiment for me. Please let me know what you think.

( Not the Expected Reaction )

I know I don't post anymore, except for this contest, but that's 'cause my life's so boring, I would dull you to death.

Anyhow, this is my first entry for the February writing contest for Bridgets Flame, http://community.livejournal.com/brigits_flame/ (Some of you, f-list, would have fun with this; you should check it out).

( Beat )

true micro-fiction, it's fewer than 500 words!

The end of this was really difficult for me to write, so if anyone has any ideas for improving it, please tell me!

( What We Wait For )

This is something I wrote a long, long time ago. It was originally fanfiction; I dusted it off, took out all references to the work it was derived from, and here it is ...


( On Display )

Preparing dinner had always been Jeffrey’s favorite task of the day. He fantasized about it all day at work, and fidgeted impatiently in his seat on the bus, going over each step of the preparation in his mind on the way home.

As soon as he got through the door, he tossed his jacket on a chair, kicked off his shoes, put on his ‘kiss the cook’ apron, and got to work. He drew his favorite cleaver out of the drawer, ran the blade along a sharpening steel a few times, and tested it on an onion. Satisfied with the edge, he removed the main ingredient of tonight’s dinner from the refrigerator.

Jeffrey took a moment to study the sublime silhouette of his main course before he cut into it. It was getting difficult to obtain this sort of viand in the city; in fact, he had to travel out past the suburbs, into the less competitive countryside to get his hands on the smaller, more tender specimens he craved. Taking a deep breath, he placed his palm on the oblong delicacy to steady it, and brought his cleaver down with a practiced thwack, slicing off about one eighth of the top, neatly exposing the inner cavity.

He reached inside the hole he had just made, scooping out handfuls of the sticky contents until he had an almost empty shell. Taking up a large metal spoon, he methodically scraped the inside of the now hollow ovoid until the rest of the offal was removed. Setting the main part of his dinner upright in a deep baking dish, he commenced to fill it with the apple and sage stuffing he had prepared last night. After adding a small amount of water to the bottom of the dish, he popped it in the oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit and set the oven timer for two hours.

He thought for a minute about saving the innards for a snack later; he had heard that if you roasted them with a bit of oil and salt they were quite tasty, but right now they just looked like a big mess, so he stuffed them in the garbage disposal, grinding them up and washing them away. He continued to clean the kitchen until all evidence of his food preparation were erased.

Jeffrey checked the oven timer and found he still had an hour and forty five minutes left to go, so he opened a bottle of Chianti, put on his mix of his favorite Bach Toccatas, and sat down to do the crossword.


An hour and forty five minutes later, the unique aroma of his dinner filled the apartment. The timer went off, and he opened the oven, drawing out the rich looking, golden fleshed masterpiece. He set it on a trivet in the center of the table and admired it for a few minutes before he began eating. First, he took a heaping serving of fava beans and poured himself another glass of wine. To be truthful, he was putting off the moment when he would have to deface his opus by cutting into it, but the delectable smell finally overcame him, and he dug in, adding a steaming pile of flesh and stuffing to his plate alongside the beans. He watched the steam rise off his plate, and then scooped a forkful of food into his mouth.

“Ohhh, mmmmmm,” Jeff groaned orgasmically, “I just love roast stuffed pumpkin. Becoming a Vegan was the best thing I ever did.”

This is very rough; I finished writing it 30 seconds before the submission deadline. Not an excuse, just sain'.



The wine swirled in the glass, a tiny, oxblood whirlpool. I stuck my nose in and sniffed it: leather, cherries, tobacco. A sip revealed that the flavor lived up to the nose; it was deep, and rich, with dried fruit up front, smokiness in the middle, and just a hint of tannins in the background. Bob would love it. I hoped.

I smiled nervously at the Sommelier, and he filled my glass, placing the bottle on the table next to the empty space Bob would hopefully soon occupy. I was a bit nervous about choosing the correct wine, and the fact that Bob had not shown up yet. He had insisted that we have an early dinner tonight; I had to cancel a long-standing meeting to be here, and call in a couple of favors to get out of work early. He, however, sometimes could not get away early no matter how he tried. I guess that’s the price you pay when you’re the newest partner: you get stuck with the late meetings and handling the most difficult clients. I had thought that sort of thing was left to the associates, but evidently not.

I took another sip of the wine; it was really opening up well, Bob would be so pleased with my choice. He’d been working so hard lately, finding his stride as the “new kid on the block”, up on the seventh floor with the other partners. It had been a rough time, but now things were going to get easier. I was going to be able to quit my job and go back to school, finally get that PhD I’d been working on when I met Bob. The kids were in school, and we still had our au pair, Anna, to help out in the evenings, so my time would finally be my own. I was excited to go back to school, to show my daughter that mommy can do important work, just like daddy did. It would be a bright, new beginning.

I looked around the dining room; the tables were beginning to fill up, people were starting to come in to dinner after a few drinks at the bar. It was then I saw him. Bob was standing in the doorway, chatting with the hostess, who dimpled and flirted with him. Bob was so handsome and friendly, women were just naturally drawn to him. I felt a surge of pride as he approached the table with the hostess. He was mine, no one else’s; we’d been married for 15 years, rock solid when other marriages were falling apart.

“Thank you, Glenda,” Bob smiled charmingly at the hostess, who dimpled at him over her shoulder as she left the table.

“Hi, Sue, how was your day?” Bob said, as he settled into his chair, poured himself a glass of wine, and took a sip. “Mmm, good choice, by the way. You’re really improving at that.” he frowned, which didn't go with the compliment, but he'd probably had a rough day.

“Thank you!” I basked in his complement for a moment. “My day was fine, though it’s getting hard to stay focused on my work, when what I really should be doing is giving my notice. But that time will come. How was your day, darling?” I beamed at him

Bob frowned. “Please, not in public with the ‘darlings’!” He sighed, and put his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Bob; I forgot. Forgive me?” I must be getting tipsy, to forget that rule. I glanced at my wine glass; it was almost empty. I had better lay off.

“You know, Sue, you forget stuff like that all the time, lately. You’re behavior is starting to embarrass me. That joke you told at Doug’s dinner party the other night was so hokey-“

“Wait, Doug loved that joke!”

“Doug was drunk, and so, evidently, were you. Everyone else was uncomfortable.”

“I was not drunk; I had nothing to drink that night.” I was stung by Bob’s attack; why did he have to bring that up now, when we should be so happy? “I think you’re over reacting, dea- Bob. I didn’t notice anyone’s being uncomfortable. It was a lovely evening. It’s over anyhow; water under the bridge, let’s forget it. Now, what shall we eat?” I picked up my menu, determined to get this evening back on track.

“Actually, Sue, I can’t forget it. That’s why I asked you to meet me here so early.” Bob heaved a big sigh; he was clearly not ready to eat.

“What do you mean?” I put my menu down, and warily gave him my full attention. Something was up.

“Sue, when we got married, we were really young.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts.

“Yes, that’s true,” I hurried into the breach, “but we love each other, and we have a good marriage.” What on earth could he be getting at? I was afraid to think.

“Do we really, Sue? My work is taking up all my time, and your work, and Anna and the children, take up all of yours. We barely ever see each other, and that’s not fair to either of us.”

“But that’s going to-“

“Please, don’t interrupt me, Sue. I have to say this. We- I- haven’t been happy for a long, long time. I feel trapped, torn in two directions: there’s you and the kids, and there’s work. I need to devote myself to my work now, more than ever before, and it’s not going to be fair to you. So, I’ve decided to give you a divorce. It’s for the best; you’ll be free to do what you want, and so will I. You can keep the house, and I’ll pay for Anna and support the kids, and I’m sure you’ll still be able to pursue your PhD. It’s for the best.”

“But I don’t want to be free; I want you!” I was this close to crying, but I knew I had to hold it together. “Can’t we talk about this? It’s so sudden; can’t we have counseling, or something?”

“No, Sue, I’ve made up my mind.” He sighed again, and checked his watch. “I’ve got to go; I’m meeting some clients for dinner elsewhere. I’ll send someone around for my things, please just pack them up and have them ready. It’s really for the best.” He took out his wallet and threw a $100.00 bill on the table. “This is for the wine. Good luck, Sue.” And he got up and left.