Writing - Otter

Writing - Otter

About 3 months or so ago, Rachel challenged me to write something about an otter, or otters if that was my preference.  I don't remember but I don't think there was anything else stipulated beyond that.  I've written six stories now about otters, and most of them I don't like.  Today I wrote this one, the first sad one (write what you like) and I love the flow of it.  One hour, writing and thinking.  Unedited.  Otter.

Life - Dead Reckoning

Life - Dead Reckoning

n. to find yourself bothered by someone’s death more than you would have expected, as if you assumed they would always be part of the landscape, like a lighthouse you could pass by for years until the night it suddenly goes dark, leaving you with one less landmark to navigate by—still able to find your bearings, but feeling all that much more adrift.

#dictionaryofobscuresorrows

Life - Bullying

Life - Bullying

"Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can make me think I deserved it." -Today's XKCD

Sixed - Chapter 3 - NaNoWriMo

Sixed - Chapter 3 - NaNoWriMo

Chapter 3

“If we studied well the horrors we visit upon ourselves in waking moments, it’s a wonder that we might ever willingly close our eyes to sleep.”

Miranda stepped out of the shower. Her mind was already turning, pieces within pieces, things within moments. She stared at the reflection of herself, naked, through the mirror. She liked to think that perhaps a vicious, beautiful redhead started back at her. Tall, but definitely not the willowy damsels of yore fairytale. Miranda was iron for a spine, compact muscle and the physique of a dancer who knew it.

Sixed - Chapter 2 - NaNoWriMo

Sixed - Chapter 2 - NaNoWriMo

Writing - Dark and Stormy

It was

It was a dark

Dark and a stormy

It was a dark and

Stormy dark and

And stormed it

It was night

Night was dark, stormy

It was a stormy night

A stormy dark

A dark night was

It was

It was

It was dark

Claire sat in the darkness, it was a dark, it was a dark and stormy night.  She knew nothing of where or when, the particulars were uninteresting, ephemeral.  Rain slashed against glass before her face, her cheek was pressed against its surface and there was a measure of solidity there.  Of that she was aware.  Gradually feeling spread through herself, the rhythmic percussion of rain, there was a dull rattle against her face, the rush of wind trying to penetrate through the edges of her unmovable guardian.

Her brown hair matted against her face, breath pooled opalescent vapour across the surface of the glass.  Pulsing out with each exhale, and retreating before the chill of rain. 

Gradually Claire became aware of the tips of her fingers, her left hand was pressed into the baseboard, smooth grains of wood and the rough texture of drywall.  Her right hand held a rigid piece of steel, flat and fine.  Her feet were wet.  She hadn't the energy to raise her head from the place where it rested aside the glass.  Lazily, her eyes rolled in their sockets, seeking without knowing why.  Her feet were wet.  Her fingers too.  Sticky.

The smell of burned copper, and rain.  A charge of the dark, in the shadows which encapsulated Claire this night.  Her fingers clutched a razor to herself, and her mind replayed in slow sepia the moments of progression to the now.

She saw herself, forehead pressed against the glass.  Tears spilled from her eyes, but were not the source of wetness.  Rain flowed down, before her eyes, so close and so far.  She slumps, her voice is raw, it is as though all that motivated her motion has drained, a marionette with strings cut.  Boneless she slides to the floor, the only rigidity in her right hand, her fingers.  A flash of steel, a flicker that startles even her, so aware, so alert in the darkness.

Her heart breaks as she remembers the words.  Over and over they tumble in her mind, she imagines herself able to rebuild the memory, the words, the questions, the haunted look and the silent benediction.  And finally the back that was turned, the slam of a door and the silence.  It was a dark and stormy night.

The razor falls against her hands, and flecks of crimson cast themselves far, she thinks that her fingers will release the blade, but instead they tighten.  Where everything else becomes soft, and a slow haze creeps in over the stinging in her flesh, her fingers clutch the blade.

Claire bleeds out, silent and alone, her eyes become glassy like the rainwater reflected off the world outside.  And a dark storm rages unabated, uncaring, aloof.

It was a dark,

and stormy night.