Short Story

Writespiration#99: Burnt Edges – Suicide Burns

 

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I’m glad I came across this prompt via Sacha Black for her  Flash Writespiration – Burnt Edges, I was looking for a writing stimulus for a competition I’m thinking of entering and burnt edges was it. I read a very sad blog post on Cybele’s blog – In Memory of Her Beloved Brother  a very personal and moving tribute which got me reflecting on the preciousness of life, and this developed into a theme for my piece of flash fiction: Suicide. I have heard some shocking stories via family members and in the wider community that really got me thinking.. about the terrible suffering of family and friends of suicide victims.

Sometimes there’s a happy outcome when suicides are prevented but sadly this is not always the case. Sometimes dreadful injuries are sustained by the person attempting suicide which have a long term effect on the person’s future quality of life and/or underlying depression can still remain unchecked waiting to rear its head once again.

If only we could prevent more suicides from happening. Young people are so vulnerable. If only that were possible.

While I’m on this terribly sad topic I thought I’d mention that I read Me Before You by Jojo Moyes fairly recently.

Here’s the synopsis:

Lou Clark knows lots of things. She knows how many footsteps there are between the bus stop and home. She knows she likes working in The Buttered Bun tea shop and she knows she might not love her boyfriend Patrick.

What Lou doesn’t know is she’s about to lose her job or that knowing what’s coming is what keeps her sane.

Will Traynor knows his motorcycle accident took away his desire to live. He knows everything feels very small and rather joyless now and he knows exactly how he’s going to put a stop to that.

What Will doesn’t know is that Lou is about to burst into his world in a riot of colour. And neither of them knows they’re going to change the other for all time.

Here’s the link to my review: Review of Me Before You by Jojo Moyes

Lines can become blurred.  Assisted suicide is such an emotive topic – people tend to have very differing, and deeply felt viewpoints both for and against.  So my piece of creative writing flash fiction is exploring some of these thoughts in a very concise way – only 200 words, to consider what a person would or wouldn’t do to ease a loved one’s daily pain and suffering, when they are suffering from an incurable disease that has stripped them of all dignity, or perhaps have had a life changing horrendous accident, that has left them with constant pain and no quality of life. What cost would that be to the individual who assists their loved one to die? Guilt would always play a part in that decision.. and guilt can be a bit like a jailer..

Here’s my piece of flash, which I have entitled Suicide Burns. The far reaching effects of suicide are like a fire engulfing all in sadness who come near.

Suicide Burns

We all have burnt edges in our lives but mine exist as a form of evidence, a folded piece of paper scarred by a torched flame of memories. The suicide note had intentional burnt edges around the colourless paper creating a waving motion, a final goodbye. She’d wanted me to remember those precious smoke filled memories spent together, before her debilitating cruel illness burnt joy to dust. The note cast a warming glow each time I opened it. I smelt the aroma of logs, her sweet perfume rekindling long lost memories of our passionate love making, the embers of the open fire caressing our naked, youthful bodies.

After her suicide, I placed the folded note next to my heart. For days it remained untouched until I unfolded it’s sad, weary edges. How I longed to hear her thoughts, to say one last farewell, but her silent note told of the pills that I’d stockpiled. The note was no longer in my breast pocket. It was evidence of my confession: loving her too much. Her ghost danced alone, a pain free sparkle of brilliant illuminating light. The prison door claimed my guilt, a small price to pay, my sweet dearest love.

I’d recommend the following site if you are experiencing mental health issues or are feeling alone, lost or suicidal: https://www.betterhelp.com/advice/therapy/how-do-i-find-a-therapist-near-me/

© Marjorie Mallon 2016 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

Please pop over to Sacha’s blog for details how to take part in her Writespiration: Sacha Black’s Writespiration 90: Burnt Edges

Until the next time.. please do feel free to comment…

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Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

My fun (totally not serious but nevertheless 90% true,) author bio on Wattpad – Link below.

Marjorie Mallon was born in Lion City: Singapore. She grew up in a mountainous court in Hong Kong. Her crazy parents dragged her  spotty soul away from her exotic childhood and her much loved dog Topsy to the frozen wastelands of Scotland. There she mastered Scottish country dancing, haggis bashing, bagpipe playing and a whole new Och Aye lingo. 
As a teenager she travelled to many far flung destinations to visit her abacus wielding wayfarer dad. On one such occasion a  barracuda swam by. It stopped to view her  bikini clad body, longing to take a big bite. With dogs' fangs replacing barracudas' teeth, she returned to her mother's birthplace: Kuching, Cat City. There, Blackie, a black-hearted dog sniffed her frightened butt, whimpered and ran away! Shortly after this extraordinary event an angry female Orang-Utan chased her unfit ass out of the Malaysian jungle believing that she was a threat to her babies! She still monkeys about, would love to own a cat, or a replacement Topsy but refuses to entertain  murderous dogs, or over-protective monkeys.
It's rumoured that she lives in the Venice of Cambridge, with her six foot hunk of a Rock God husband, and her two enchanted daughters. 
After such an upbringing her author's mind has taken total leave of its senses. When she's not writing, she eats exotic delicacies while belly dancing, or surfs to the far reaches of the moon. To chill out she practises Tai Chi and Yoga on the crest of a wave. If the mood takes her she goes snorkelling with mermaids, or signs up for idyllic holidays with the Chinese Unicorn, whose magnificent voice sings like a thousand wind chimes. 

She is a child of the light and the dark. Her motto is simply this: Do what you love,  stay true to your heart's desires, remain young at heart, and  inspire others to do so, even if it appears that the odds are stacked like black hearted shadows against you...

 

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#BlogBattle: Week 59 – Voice

 

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It has been an age since I joined in #BlogBattle and I’ve missed it but I’ve been very busy editing my manuscript so I have a bit of an excuse! Anyway, this week the prompt word just seemed to speak to me: Voice. I have just the story in mind! It’s an idea inspired by my current WIP novel, The Curse of Time, which I’m currently sharing on Wattpad, (Prologue and first few chapters….)

My short story is a YA Fantasy…  with a touch of wacky humour. This short story takes a quirky look at what might have happened if the main character in my WIP: Amelina, had her missing dad return as a zombie!

The Knock At The Door – The Buried Voice.

I heard a knocking coming from the front door, a light tapping, but persistent sound. I ran downstairs. Through the frosted glass I saw a hazy silhouette. The knocking stopped. I opened the door a fraction and peered out.

I spied a half dead living body exhibit, a horror museum zombie. I staggered. This thing was gasping for breath, making terrible rasping sounds. His eyes were bleary, sad pools of stagnant misery. I clung to the door frame, seeking support, almost mimicking him. I wanted to run, to escape this visitor, but instead I let him in. I don’t know why I did. Somehow it seemed the right thing to do. One thought gave me comfort; I figured that if this stranger turned nasty I could run faster than he could. He hobbled into the house, each step a slow, painful shuffle. I pulled the dining chair out for him. He didn’t sit, he collapsed. I didn’t know what to do next. I hovered for a moment uncertain. His breathing continued to rattle in his rib cage, so I rushed off to get him a glass of water. When I returned he held the glass with his pinky extended, his hand shaking, the water spilling. He lifted the glass to his lips, drinking in gulps that tugged at my heart.

‘Amelina,’ he croaked, his eyes swimming out to reach mine.

The ocean currents of his sad lost eyes drew us together. The shock pummelled me with a force that I couldn’t begin to describe. His voice couldn’t say the words he longed to say, those syllables were lost on some faraway shore, yet I knew what was in his heart.

He had my name in his heart. Of course he had. I knew who he was, of course I did. That pinky told me before he did. He’d always had trouble bending that finger, ever since he’d broken it, mucking about on a family holiday in Cornwall.

I heard the sound of mum turning the key in the door; she didn’t have a clue what was coming. She was adrift in the sea and had no idea.

She walked into the hallway.

‘Amelina, I’m home,’ she yelled.

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t say a word. That pinky still had me transfixed.

Mum walked in and saw us. She staggered, and swayed.

‘What, the….. who… is….’

He lifted the glass with trembling hands and she saw the truth.

Poor mum. It was all too much for her; she swayed, and then fainted.

Mum was out cold. I didn’t know what to do. Zombie like dad took over; he picked up his glass and waved it in mum’s direction.  I got the parental message. Water. That’s when I heard it, this plaintive meowing coming from the patio. A black cat had his nose pressed against the glass. I rushed to get mum the water, passing by the patio door on the way to the kitchen I didn’t stop to think I let the strange cat in.

Before the water even reached mum’s lips, she came to, stirring. 

I gave the cat a bowl of milk. It seemed the thing to do. He supped it up as if he was starving. I gave mum the glass of water; she swallowed it down gulping back tears. 

By now Mum had clocked dad.  This second viewing couldn’t have been a pretty sight, but she braved it. She didn’t cry out. Instead the expression on her face almost hiccupped as if she was swallowing her shock, a bitter watery pill. She must have noticed the cat too but didn’t object. I expect she didn’t have the energy.

Much later that evening mum and dad were getting reacquainted. The reunion, if you could call it that must have been slow and painful. A chat with halting words, a slow shuffling to get to know each other again. I withdrew to my bedroom.

Nothing could quite match that first shock of seeing dad but what happened next came close. I saw a tiny person captured in my bedroom mirror. I thought I was hallucinating. So I tried to wipe her away with a flannel.

‘Hey, stop that,’ she scolded, ‘I don’t need a shower, you’re making me all smeary.’

I stepped back. This was crazy. First dad reappeared, then the cat fell in the door, and now I had a talking girl captured in my bedroom mirror. WTF. I recognised this tiny person; it was Esme, a girl from my school who’d vanished suddenly with no explanation.

I closed my eyes willing her away. I just couldn’t take anymore. Things like this just didn’t happen to an ordinary girl like me.

When I reopened my eyes, she was still there, frowning, as if I’d captured her and put her there, like I made it my habit to be her jailer. She scowled. I ran through the house and checked each mirror. She was in all of them. Every single one. Ugh.

I had scowling Esme on tap.

A dad, who kinda did the, kinda didn’t do the zombie dude scuffle.

And a black cat who craved attention.

Sometimes fate ladles out wicked blows. Our once happy family was a distant memory, and laughter became a cruel joke.

Now we’re an unhappy family of three plus a mirror girl and a strange black cat with a white handkerchief fur necktie. This cat dude knows how to dress. Yeah, he came house hunting in his Sunday best looking for loser owners. Our sad house remembered its past, shrunk, and became a reflection of our sorrow. Nothing was ever going to be the same, but one sad fact remained, the curse wasn’t trapped.

It lived.

© Marjorie Mallon. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

Rules:

1000 words max
fictional tale (or true if you really want)
PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
Go for the entertainment value!
State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
Have fun!

#Blogbattle is a wonderful community of short story writers via Rachael Ritchey, do pop over to her blog to find out more:

#BlogBattle

If you’d like to continue reading The Curse of Time or perhaps would like to read the prologue too here’s the link to my Wattpad page:

Wattpad: The Curse of Time

Wattpad

Hope you enjoyed my short story. Please do comment about my current WIP – The Curse of Time – here or on Wattpad, I’m looking for feedback – all opinions gratefully received.

Bye for now,

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Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

One Year Anniversary #BlogBattle: Blood Moon A Rip of A Ride

Rachael is doing things differently this week as it one year since she started #BlogbBattle so to celebrate this one year anniversary we have been asked to :

  1. Choose one of your #BlogBattle stories from the past year
  2. Edit it however you would like
  3. Reblog/repost it next week on Tuesday, March 15th.
  4. Make sure you specify the genre and the theme word

I just found out about this today so without further ado I’d like to repost one of my old stories which I originally wrote on September 29th. It features Ryder, my male protagonist in the Krystallos Cottage…  flexing his blood moon muscles.  Hope you enjoy…

Genre: Fantasy.

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Title: Blood Moon A Rip of A Ride

It began with a rocking horse, a child’s toy. Ryder discovered this antique treasure in a quirky street window, down ‘the lanes,’ in Brighton. He strolled along, his rocking horse in hand and joined the queue for the busy student bus back to campus. A couple of ladies stared at his greediness, his decadence, taking up two empty seats. Undeterred he smirked, patting the rocking horse’s head. The ladies glared. The corners of his mouth flattened into a sharp line, a knife edge of confrontation.

When he arrived back at his flat his flatmates exchanged knowing glances, cataloguing Ryder and his rocking horse even further in the oddity section. Only Olivia, his recent conquest gave him the benefit of the doubt. He appreciated that and made a mental note to reward her later. A midnight kiss perhaps.

The perhaps became a definite. When he left the warm embrace of slumbering Olivia the moon lay heavy in the sky, its orb a perfect circle of complete mysteriousness. Ryder hung out his bedroom window staring, pleading with the moon to notice him. He dangled precariously, goading the moon to come closer. The pumpkin moon glowed blood red, a bleeding heart, surrounded by an uncaring sky. The rocking horse began to move slowly absorbing the moon’s vital energy. Ryder could hear it’s creaking joints jarring to and fro behind him. Next he heard the sound of an ice cream van, its tune winding its way towards him. He hung further out of the window wondering about this strange phenomenon, an ice cream van in the middle of the night. He grabbed his jacket, rushing to catch the van before it disappeared.

Outside he dashed, his senses overflowing with midnight promises, a feast of sugary ice-cream. But, no van appeared. He waited. Displeased. Again he heard the jingle of the van teasing him, laughing at his foolish, childlike desires. The music grew louder and louder, he covered his ears about to turn away, now desperate to escape. The van came to a screeching halt just as he took his first step. Ryder smiled. The hatch opened, and a man peered out. He had a round face, the roundest face that Ryder had ever seen, vanilla white, pock marked, hair as black as the midnight sky.

There were no signs to indicate what kind of ice cream he sold.  So Ryder waited for him to speak.

“Well, I haven’t got all night, what do you want?” said the man, as his creamy white face turned a surly red.

“I’m not sure,” replied Ryder, “What ice creams do you have?”

“Ice creams? What? No ice creams here young man.”

“But you’re riding in an ice cream van, playing an ice-cream jingle .”

“That’s true, but that’s not what I do.”

“What do you do?” asked Ryder, frowning.

“Hop aboard, ride the van and you’ll find out,” said the man, his face returning to its original brilliant white.

Ryder hesitated. This was strange, but Ryder thrived on strange, so he agreed. The man opened the back of the van and Ryder climbed in.

Inside the van Ryder could see only darkness. Blackness drifted towards him filling his senses with a bleak sense of loss. The man handed him a tiny torch that gave off a brilliant light.

“Come,” he said.

The van was motionless, yet Ryder could swear that he felt movement. They walked and walked further into the darkness.

Suddenly they stopped.

A bright light shone from the torch on to a patch of turf. How curious. This van’s opened doors revealed a vast land which stretched its tendril like fingers, shadows extending everywhere.

Ryder recognised the land. He sighed.

“Home,” he said.

“Yes,” said the man.

“Why have you brought me here?”

“It’s nearly Halloween, lad. A time to visit the place of your birth.”

Ryder heard the sound of the fairground, the laughter, candy floss and excitement, but behind it all he knew there was the ride.

There was no point in pleading with the man, asking him to take him back. He had to accept his fate, whatever that might be.

“Come,” said the man.

Ryder lifted his heavy feet, a ghostly chill settling in his bones.

The man opened the door of the roller coaster and let him in. The rollercoaster groaned. Ryder’s soul cried.

A jingle began to play, a cheerful ditty, but Ryder that knew this would be short lived, soon he would hear a tune that would throw him into oblivion, and there was nothing he could do. Nothing at all.

The clamp locked around him. He gripped the sides of his seat, clenched his teeth, and prepared to ride. It started off slowly, a gentle teasing introduction, but soon the ride picked up pace, the jingle attempting to keep up with the speed of the ride.

The ride sped faster and faster, his heart pounded in his chest, sweat dripping from his brow, as his skin pulled and pushed as if dragged from his face by an ever increasing force.

The ride came to a sudden jarring, screeching, halt.  No gentle ending. No time to breathe. No time to think.

Ryder’s head spun. He could only see shadows. No light, no moon, no sun, no happiness only the bleakest most appalling darkness. A blanket of despair.

He shook his head, as if to dispel this vision.

Out of the shadows a person appeared.  At first he was uncertain whether it was male or female, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light he recognised this bearer of bad fortune.

“Hello mother,” he said.

His mother walked towards him, she unbuckled the clamp, but said nothing. It was not their way, emotion was not tolerated in this land of childlike dreams, and nightmares.

He touched his eye, but knew the answer already, the beautiful crystal had been wrenched, a rip caused by the ride. His eye wept. What price would he pay for its release? Only time would tell.

Hope you liked my story, you may have read it before…..

Do pop over to Rachael’s blog to wish her a happy one year #BlogBattle anniversary or to enter : http://rachaelritchey.com/2016/03/07/blogbattle-one-year-anniversary/

Bye for now,

 

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Marje @ Kyrosmagica.

 

 

#BlogBattle Week 42 Theme Gift

 

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Week 42 Theme will be Gift

Date to Post: Tuesday, December 29th, 2015


Rules:

  1. 1000 words max
  2. fictional tale (or true if you really want)
  3. PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
  4. Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
  5. Go for the entertainment value!
  6. State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
  7. Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
  8. Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
  9. Have fun!
The inspiration for this story came from a missing present on Christmas day, not an unusual event in our house as I tend to be a bit scatty and sometimes I forget where I have put all the presents! It eventually turned up, luckily I hadn’t thrown it into the rubbish by mistake but it just got me thinking……  what might happen in different circumstances if a touch of fantasy made its way into Christmas Day. Who knows where a missing present might lead you ?
Read on and find out…
Genre: Fantasy/Romance/Christmas

The Secret Santa Gift

The envelope was white, plain apart from the printed letters marking her name. Ellie opened it and found a white and gold gift tag inside bearing the words: Happy Christmas, love from your Secret Santa, followed by two golden criss-cross kisses. The envelope was empty, no present, no gift voucher, nothing.

Ellie didn’t mind that there was no present inside, that just made her even more curious. She lifted the envelope to her nose and inhaled the masculine scent within. This succeeded in making her knees go all weak.

She dropped the envelope and a flurry of gold dust appeared, scattering a trail that extended towards the front door. Ellie didn’t hesitate for a moment she liked an adventure so she followed the trail. The gold dust continued for several feet and then vanished. She spotted another tiny envelope. Ellie leant down and picked it up. Inside she found the tiniest folded envelope that she had ever seen, and within this envelope there was an even tinier painting of a heart. Ellie blushed.

She paused, wondering what to do next. The tiny folded envelope began to spiral round and round twirling, lengthening and widening, flattening and folding into a succession of beautiful origami flowers. First, an exquisite rose, then a vibrant lotus flower, followed by a proud orchid, and then the origami flower took flight turning into a bird of paradise that flew up into the air and finally flattened out, folding into a pocket heart than lingered like a tender caress within the palm of her hand.  Ellie couldn’t believe her eyes, how extraordinary!

She unfolded the origami pocket heart and saw that within it there were three paper puzzle pieces with the words:

Love and kisses!

From your …..

Secret admirer.

How strange! She heard a rustling sound and looked up, just above her sat a tiny elf on a branch of an overhanging tree. He smiled at her, and blushed so much that he turned the tips of his pointed ears a spectacular candy floss pink.

Ellie realised that her secret admirer was in fact one of Santa’s elves. He was tiny, but had the most handsome face that she had ever seen. He was dressed to impress, his clothes were smart and shiny, his hair sleeked back. He jumped down from the tree with the agility of a dancer and bowed down so low that it looked like he might scrape his nose on the ground.

“So pleased that my gift reached you Ellie; I’ve been saving up Santa points for good behaviour for years so that I could be your Secret Santa!”

“Goodness, that’s so sweet of you… ”

“Eddy the elf, at your sweet service,” he said bowing again, even more theatrically than he had done before.

“I’ve never met an elf before,” said Ellie, reflecting that she had never met such an imposing fellow in such a tiny but perfect muscular frame.

“Well, you’ll have lots of opportunity to meet all of my elf friends,” said Eddy, “We’re off to help Santa with the last minute wrapping.”

“You’re kidding me,” said Ellie, wide eyed with excitement. She couldn’t believe her ears. She thought she must be dreaming, this couldn’t possibly be real.

“No, I most certainly am not kidding! You are to be my new bride, so I must make a special elf speech. Here goes,” he cleared his throat for special effect, several times before continuing, “Every year one elf must choose a human bride so that we will be on the pulse of what youngsters want today. Will you marry me, sweet, beautiful, exquisite, Ellie? ”

“Your bride!” said Ellie in surprise, “But I’m still in secondary school, I’m way too young to marry.”

“Not in Elfland. Elves marry really young, you’re the perfect age for a love match,” said Eddy with a grin, “We seal the match with a very special kiss. That is how we show love in Elfland, we kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss! We are the kissing champions!”

Eddy took a massive leap catapulting himself up to land a kiss in a million on Ellie’s lips before she could even think to reply.

The kiss was beyond magical. It lingered for ages, long after he had landed back on the ground, tingling and caressing her lips. At the same time Ellie felt a strange sensation, as if someone was pressing firmly, but gently down on her head, squeezing her oversized body into her shoes. She looked at Eddy. Eddy’s nose and her nose were on a level, Eddy’s lips and her lips were at exactly the right point, and she was now the exact same height and proportions as him.

He gave her a huge hug. “Welcome to Elfhood my love,” he said.

Ellie no longer had the feeling that she didn’t belong in her tall, gangly human body. She wanted to screech with joy but she thought that might not be the best example of elfish etiquette.

So instead she said, “Thanks for rescuing me Eddy,” and with a demure lady like smile, she continued,” I always felt out of sorts, a stranger in my gigantic, gangly, human body.”

“I know,” said Eddy, jumping up and down with excitement, as if he was on a super charged pogo stick. “I have always been sure that you are the one for me.”

Eddy and Ellie danced around and around, twirling faster and faster until Ellie’s head felt as light as the lightest Chocolate Whip.

“Hurry, Santa’s nose will be getting redder by the moment, his nose goes as red as his Santa’s top when he’s cross, we’d better go, or we’ll be late for the present wrapping ceremony.”

Off they went, their hands swaying together in perfect joyous unison. Ellie grinned, squeezing Eddie’s hand. Eddie tickled her hand, and Ellie laughed, an unrestrained elfish laugh that started deep in her soul and never ended just like those tasty Elfish lingering kisses!

 

I hope you liked my story, a bit of a Christmas theme!

 

Bye for now,

 

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Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

Do share your views I’d love to hear your opinion on my #BlogBattle story.

 

If you’d like to join in with BlogBattle or vote for your favourite entry here’s the link to Rachael’s blog:

http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

#Blog Battle Week 37: Arrival

 

 

 

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It’s a while since I’ve done a #Blog Battle so today seems a good day to remedy that, the theme this week is  Arrival and my story genre is: Science Fiction, Human Interest. I don’t usually write Science Fiction so this is a bit of a change for me.   I read an article on my plane journey to Glasgow about the advances in technology expected by the year 2035, I found it fascinating so this is why I decided to write a story with a Science Fiction slant, I coupled this with an idea that arose from the recent events and loss of life that tragically occurred  on the weekend of Friday the 13th of November.

So the message behind the story is simply this: if only life could be simpler, perhaps we could live in harmony with each other. This is my dedication to the victims and families of the victims of recent atrocities, my heart goes out to you.

 

 

My Sweet Arrival

I stepped into the True-life booth. The empty booth had no visuals or sound to begin with it, it was dark and devoid of life, but then a cry filled the small booth, tugging at my heart strings; it claimed my heart and set it fluttering with sheer joy. Such a needy cry, a cry I remembered so well. The baby shrieked, its newborn lungs filling the booth with its plaintive cries. I held my baby shielding her from the world, crying into her newborn eyes, sharing my story with her.

Her due date had been the ninth of January but of course this strong minded individual had other ideas, a Christmas baby sounded much more exciting! She arrived early, two weeks before her time, greedy to meet the world. A perfect unexpected gift born on Christmas day, her birth recorded in the local newspaper, already she was a celebrity! The first of many sacrifices began, my schedule was no longer mine to organise, and instead a tiny child stole my heart and my day. I ate mouthfuls of Christmas dinner on the ward instead of a hearty meal with all the trimmings at a neighbour’s house! Yet, this unexpected celebration was altogether more wonderful. Her floppy body, and inability to feed would have fooled many but I was not fooled. A mother always knows her child. From that moment on her strength of character was apparent. She started her quest for liberation, stepping away from me whenever she could, this whirlwind toddler chatted to strangers, hid in shops, sang on stage, and when no stage was to be found she sang wherever she could, airports being her favourite gig. Our holidays away were spent chasing after her, as she scoured the beach searching for mysteries in each and every grain of sand. Her future was mapped, like her grandfather before her, she would travel to the furthest shore, see each and every delight of the world. She knew how to wake us up, shake us into taking notice of her, such power in those tiny lungs, that delicate body. The love was overwhelming, immediate, and everlasting.

But now I fear for every step that she takes, I long for her to stay by my side, because the world has become a volcano of smouldering hate. I return to the booth often to sooth my nerves, to try to take me back to that time when life seemed simpler, kinder, and altogether gentler. Hate roams the world voyaging far and wide it seeks to destroy us all with its evil kiss. We live in dangerous times, the target is our youth, our children who we have nurtured, whom we love.

In this time of unmatched technology, human accomplishments are phenomenal, yet we cannot live in peace. Our intelligence and progress has been our undoing, we have no purpose in life anymore, robots, our very own creation, manufactured to be articulate, clever, and purposeful have ensured that there are no jobs for us. So with nothing to occupy us we set out to destroy what we have built, piece by piece, bit by bit, the earth crumbles. We have been so blinded by our own capabilities, now we must pay the highest price, the loss of our dear children.

Last week my friend’s daughter was murdered. Her demise was bloody, and sudden. So cruel, she had been an angel, a sweet young woman just starting her life. A piece of me died that day, and can never be resurrected, so I go to the booth often to try to remember what it was like twenty years ago before the atrocities began. But try as I might it only gives me temporary comfort, and I leave feeling sadder than before. No advances in technology can sooth my friend, her heart is broken, fragmented by loss, and nothing can restore her to the person she was before. I see it in her eyes, now they stare, holding her suffering in blank pools of sorrow when once they used to sparkle.

They say that life is sweet but for me it has lost its gloss, and this shiny gloss has been replaced by clenched sorrow for my dear friend. The stark line of her tragic lips hold an unspoken story of a living nightmare that no booth however advanced, can ever erase. If this is progress then I long for mankind to return to the simple moments that we have lost, but technology is forever advancing taking us further and further into the abyss. It will be our undoing, I whisper into the booth, but the booth doesn’t respond. I look down at this computer generated baby and realise that we have no true enemies but ourselves, my sweet, dearest, child.

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

Do share your views I’d love to hear your opinion on my #BlogBattle story.

 

If you’d like to join in with BlogBattle or vote for your favourite entry here’s the link to Rachael’s blog:

http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

Bye for now, do come by Kyrosmagica again, I love visitors.

 

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Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

 

#Blog Battle: Blood Moon A Rip Of A Ride

Week 29 Theme is Ride

Date to Post: Tuesday, September 29th, 2015

My entry for Rachael Ritchey’s Blog Battle this week is returning to a character I have visited in previous blog battles. This is an idea I am developing as a continuation from the first manuscript I have written, Krystallos.  I intend the sequel to Krystallos to be darker.  I am struggling with where to go with this so this is me flexing my writing muscles. Somehow writing this short story has really helped me solidify some ideas I have so I hope you like it. The focus is on the male character Ryder, and the inspiration this week has come from the Blood Moon!!

This sits very well with my blog theme this month which happens to be Halloween!!

If you’d like to join in #Blogbattle, I’d recommend that you do, it’s fun, here’s the link: http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

Genre: Paranormal/Fantasy

blood-moon-521892__180

Title: Blood Moon A Rip of A Ride

It began with a rocking horse, a child’s toy, its springs were old and needed replacing. Ryder discovered this antique wonder in a quirky street in the lanes in Brighton. He carried it down the colourful street, and joined the queue for the busy student bus back to campus. A couple of ladies stared at his greediness, his decadence, taking up two seats on the bus. Ryder smirked, and patted the rocking horse’s head. The ladies glared. The corner of his mouth twisted, a smile with obvious intent.

When he brought the rocking horse back to his flat, his flatmates exchanged glances, it did much to catalogue Ryder even further into the depths of the oddity section. Only Olivia, his recent conquest gave him the benefit of the doubt. He appreciated that and made a mental note to reward her later. A midnight kiss would be in order.

After he left the warm embrace of slumbering Olivia the moon lay heavy in the sky, its orb red against the blackness. Ryder hung out his bedroom window staring, pleading with the moon to notice him. He dangled precariously, goading the moon to come closer. The pumpkin moon glowed red, blood red, a bleeding heart. The rocking horse began to move slowly absorbing the moon’s vital blood energy. Ryder could hear it behind him, creaking joints jarring to and fro. Then he heard the sound of an ice cream van, its tune winding its way towards him. He hung further out of the window wondering about this strange phenomenon, an ice cream van in the middle of the night. He grabbed his jacket, rushing to catch the van before it disappeared.

Outside he dashed, his senses filled with the promise of a midnight feast of sugary ice-cream. But, no van appeared. He waited. Displeased. Again he heard the jingle of the van teasing him, laughing at his foolish, childlike desires. The music grew louder and louder, he covered his ears and turned away, now desperate to escape. The van came to a screeching halt just as he took his first step. Ryder smiled. The hatch opened, a man peered out. He had a round face, the roundest face that Ryder had ever seen, vanilla white, pock marked, hair as black as the midnight sky.

There were no signs to state what kind of ice cream he sold.  Ryder waited for him to speak.

“Well, I haven’t got all night, what do you want?” said the man, as his creamy white face turned a surly red.

“I’m not sure,” replied Ryder, “What ice creams do you sell?”

“Ice creams? What? No ice creams here young man.”

“But you’re riding in an ice cream van, playing the jingle calling hungry kids.”

“That’s true, but that’s not what I do.”

“What do you do?” asked Ryder, frowning.

“Hop aboard, ride the van and you’ll find out,” said the man, his face returning to its original brilliant white.

Ryder hesitated. This was strange, but Ryder thrived on strange, so he agreed. The man opened the back of the van and Ryder climbed in.

Inside the van Ryder could see only darkness. A blackness drifted towards him filling his senses with a bleak sense of loss. The man handed him a tiny torch that gave off brilliant light.

“Come, this way,” he said.

The van was motionless, yet Ryder could swear that he felt movement. They walked and walked further into the darkness.

Suddenly they stopped.

A bright light shone from the torch on to a patch of turf. How curious. This van was playing with Ryder’s senses, revealing a vast land which stretched its tendril like fingers, shadows extending everywhere.

Ryder recognised the land. It was no picnic venue. He sighed.

“Home,” he said.

“Yes,” said the man.

“Why have you brought me here?”

“It’s nearly Halloween lad, when tainted creatures must visit the place of their birth.”

He heard the sound of the fairground, the laughter, candy floss and excitement beckoning, but behind it all he knew there was the ride.

There was no point in pleading with the man, asking him to take him back. He had to accept his fate, whatever that might be.

“Come your ride awaits you,” said the man.

Ryder lifted heavy feet, a ghostly chill settling in his bones.

The man opened the door of the roller coaster and let him in. The rollercoaster groaned. Ryder’s soul cried.

A jingle began to play, a cheerful ditty, but Ryder knew this would be short lived, soon he would hear a tune that would throw him into oblivion, and there was nothing he could do. Nothing at all.

The clamp locked around him. He gripped the sides of his seat, clenched his teeth, and prepared to ride. It started off slowly, a gentle teasing introduction, but soon the ride picked up pace, the jingle attempting to keep up with the speed of the ride.

Ryder’s face and body took a vicious pounding, his flesh almost ripping from him, his heart exploding, sweat dripping from his brow.

Then it stopped. No gentle ending. Just abrupt, no time to think.

Ryder could only see shadows. No light, no moon, no sun, no happiness only the bleakest most appalling darkness. A blanket of despair.

Then he focused.

A figure appeared. Hazy. At first he was uncertain whether it was male or female, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the light he knew who it was.

“Hello mother,” he said.

His mother walked towards him, she unbuckled the clamp, but said nothing. It was not their way, emotion was not tolerated in this land of childlike dreams, and nightmares.

He touched his eye, but knew the answer already, the beautiful crystal had been wrenched, a rip caused by the ride. His eye wept.  What price would he pay for its release? Only time would tell.

Rules:

  1. 1000 words max
  2. fictional tale (or true if you really want)
  3. PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
  4. Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
  5. Go for the entertainment value!
  6. State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
  7. Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
  8. Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
  9. Have fun!

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

Hope you enjoyed my story, do comment, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Bye for now. My cartoon character takes this battling so seriously!!

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Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

#Blog Battle. An Exercise in Fun: Orchid Girl

This is my entry for Rachael Ritchey’s writing Blog Battle: http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

Week 28 Theme is Orchid and the genre of my short story is Paranormal Romance.

Date to Post: Tuesday, September 29th, 2015

Rules:
1.1000 words max
2.fictional tale (or true if you really want)
3.PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
4.Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
5.Go for the entertainment value!
6.State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
7.Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
8.Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
9.Have fun!

Orchid Girl

The heady exotic scent of the orchids reminded him of a time long ago. On that particular day he had filled his living room with a floral tribute to a past life which he celebrated each year without fail. But this time it was different, he had made special plans and now they were about to come to fruition. He waited nervously for the clock to announce that it was time for him to pick Suzie up. He could hardly contain his excitement; he set about making his house as beautiful as he could so that it would meet Suzie’s expectations. But would Suzie meet his?

He had been met with derision when he told his friends and family about his plans, a mail order bride how ridiculous! A middle aged, lonely old man, exhibiting signs of desperation that’s what they’d said, or intimidated.

He greeted his bride at the airport with a shy hug. An almost perfect vision of beauty, her petite frame, and jet black hair gleamed with a glossy, playful youthfulness but her delicate features couldn’t conceal a tragic expression that seemed irreversible.

He wondered how he was to bear looking at such a sad face for the rest of his life. He prayed that he could turn the sharp downwards turn of her lips to a smile.

The journey back to his house was more or less silent apart from short bursts of conversation, in which she replied with a yes or a no.

But when she walked into the living room, she couldn’t contain her enthusiasm.
“This pretty,” she said, pointing at the orchids, a hint of a smile playing seductively on the edge of her lovely lips.

The orchids had won a tiny place in her heart, orchids always did.

As the day departed and evening began to suggest itself Alfred’s nervousness increased. It was such a long time since he had gone to bed with a woman. So many years, he did not care to count how many. He worried about his wobbly tummy, his hairy chest smattered with tiny grey hairs. Would this young woman cry and sob into his sheets, would he be the cause of a further sharp downturn of her sweet lips?

He gave her privacy to get undressed, imagined her placing a silky negligee on the bed, slipping into it, and laying her head on his pillow. He imagined her black hair fanned out on the pillow, a sharp contrast to the crisp whiteness of the sheets. He plucked one of the orchids from its stem, and took it up to her intending to pop it into her hair.

When he walked into the bedroom the humid room reminded him of a stifling greenhouse. He opened the window to let in some fresh air. He daren’t look at her, not yet, that magical moment would come later. As the fresh air drifted into the room, he turned to undress her with his gaze, but he saw his foolishness straight away.

He sat on the edge of the crisp bed, his eyes brimming with tears. He deserved this. It was always the same, she never came. He wept, picking up his wedding picture, his wife Grace stared back at him. Grace’s smiling face could match the most beautiful of sunsets. He couldn’t bear it, why did he torture himself this way? She had died without his saying goodbye. No final farewell.

Every year it was the same, on the anniversary of her death, he always bought orchids, her favourite flower and he filled their home with them. But she didn’t come. He had resorted to shock tactics, imagining a fantasy to bring her back to him one last time. His fantasy scenarios never worked, he sensed her presence in their room, but she didn’t return to him. Why would she?

He didn’t deserve her. He cried, and cried. He lifted up the tiny bottle of pills, his hands trembled as he tipped them out. Such tiny pills, he thought, so harmless looking. The water next, one big gulp and it would be all over, no more suffering. But as he turned the lid of the bottle, he thought he saw a tiny movement. The glass had moved, it was no longer on his bedside table but appeared to be hovering before him. As he looked at the glass more closely he saw the sweet semblance of his wife, a shimmering sunset glow, holding death away from him. The water tipped, evaporating as it splashed.

Alfred couldn’t believe his eyes. She had come back, his Grace, his love. “It’s you,” he said, his voice cracked, breaking with emotion.
“Yes.”
“My Gracie, I’ve missed you so much. Why have you taken so long to come back to me?”

“Hurt lay heavy in my heart, so my friend time, became my healer. Now the time is right for you to live and love again. Now I can rest forever.”

  “No, Grace, please, there’s something I must tell you.”

“There’s no need, it has taken me a long while, but I forgive you Alfred. I always knew that you didn’t mean those hurtful words.”

“I’m so sorry Grace, I was stressed. I lost my temper, shouted at you, when I shouldn’t have. I blamed myself for your heart attack.”

“You’re not to blame Alfred. My heart attack wasn’t caused by anything you said. But all this crazy fantasising is giving me a ghost of a second heart attack! Promise me this Alfred, live your life. Let your fantasies become realities. Maybe not that mail order bride, that’s preposterous, but you know what I mean.”

“I promise, Grace.”

He tucked the living orchid in the wispy suggestion of her sunlit hair. She gifted him one last sunset smile, a whispered farewell, and the sweetest hint of a lover’s kiss.

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

Thanks for reading my blog battle entry I hope you enjoyed it. Do comment and let me know what you think.

Bye for now,

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Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

 

#Blog Battle: The Sunken Statue

I’m taking part in Rachel Ritchey’s writing #BlogBattle this week’s theme is Head. Apparently this is Rachel’s 6th month of doing BlogBattles!!!

Week 25 Theme is Head

Date to Post: Tuesday, September 8th, 2015.

http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

This was the perfect prompt for me as I have been intending to write a short story about a visit I had to The Edinburgh Modern Gallery of Art, where a particular head greets you as you enter the grounds of the gallery. Here’s the link to my post: https://kyrosmagica.wordpress.com/2015/08/26/edinburgh-festival-photographs-of-my-art-gallery-visit/

So I wrote this very quickly this morning, rush, rush, rush, so hope it meets with your approval!

Genre: Fantasy

The Sunken Statue

He hadn’t always been concrete. He had lived once, an ordinary life, nothing spectacular you understand. Art had been his life, he called himself a sculptor, a very poor one, unknown, and undervalued. He lived alone, had no pets, no friends, no family, just his art. It wasn’t surprising that he became bitter, angry that his works of art were being ignored. His favourite art gallery was in Edinburgh, the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art on Belford Road, he went there often to fume. He was aghast when he saw the pathetic nature of some of the exhibits, the nonsensicalness of them. That particular day in August, he scowled as he saw the blocks of square colour that were meant to constitute art. Who were they kidding? A child could have drawn this.

That’s how it began, the answer to him seemed to be simple, a child, he needed a child to rekindle his child-like eye for art, to transport him to great heights of prowess. But how could he even begin to achieve this? He had no wife, no lover to provide him with a son or daughter. The seed of yearning planted deep within his soul he set out to find a child, an artistic child. Where better to look than the art gallery itself?

In the gallery the shop and the café provided him with the perfect place to find a child who had slipped past their parents’ watchful eyes. But how could he justify this? He didn’t consider himself to be a criminal. His conscience was like an uncharted piece of paper but surely what tiny remnants remained would not allow him to behave in such a despicable way? To snatch a young child from the loving hands of a parent? His justification had to be his love of art; art was his wife, his lover. He knew this action, if he carried it out, would be the ultimate heinous act, and though his heart was empty he sensed there would be a dreadful, most shocking price to pay.

He tortured himself for days and days drinking, smoking and ranting. Nobody heard him, apart from his own ears which devoured his angst and his forgotten sculptures, that sighed.  Finally his anguished soul gave in. So with this terrible plan in place he went to the gallery, and waited and waited for an opportunity. The girl was pretty, her rosy cheeks, blonde hair and colourful skirt caught his eye. He imagined her as a watercolour painting, a rainbow of sun drenched colours. She kept wandering off from her mother, exploring, chatting to strangers, her mother didn’t seem to notice or mind. Perhaps she was used to it. This was the sort of girl who could not be confined; she was a wanderer, a free spirit, an artistic soul, so that knowledge more than justified his actions.

‘Hi, that’s a pretty postcard,” he said, standing beside her.

She smiled, a dimple on her innocent face winked at him.

“Yes it is thank you, but this is my favourite.”

She held up a postcard of a statue, an exhibit that he knew was outside in the gardens. A short walk away. How easy could it be? A gift. Not from God, but he was not a believer.

“Would you like to see it? It’s just outside in the gardens I could show you if you’d like?” he asked.

He hadn’t thought what her reaction would be. So when she smiled and said, “Yes please,” he didn’t show any emotion.

He left the art gallery with her by his side, he felt proud that he had found such a wonderful child, his artistic angel. Now he believed that his sculpting ambitions would be fully realised.

She appeared thrilled by the Miró sculpture. She ran her small hands around the circular top as if she was experiencing her own personal ride through life.

She stroked it fondly as if she wished to gain an insight into the artist’s mind.

He knew then without a shadow of a doubt that she was the one.

An opportunity presented itself to him, sneaking into the silent grounds, on tiptoes of devilment it crept. No other soul was about, to witness its wicked arrival. So he grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the exit. She began to shriek. He hadn’t expected that.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, confused by her sudden change of sunny mood.

“You’re making me scared,”

“Scared of what?” he asked, frowning.

“You!” she replied in a small uncertain voice, trembling.

“I just want to take you across the road to the art gallery opposite; there are more wonderful exhibits there too.’

“No, I don’t want to go,” she said, tiny tears began to make a sad appearance on her rosy face.

He dragged her until they approached the crossing; he heard her cries but divorced himself from the monster that he was becoming. Then he stopped. It was sudden, the loss of sensation in his body, the terrible sinking feeling. Was this the price to be paid? He let go of her hand, he didn’t need her anymore. He had never needed anyone. Least of all a child. This was no price, this was the perfect solution. For the first time in his life he felt pure contentment. He was art, he was the Sunken statue. He would be seen and revered by all the art lovers in the world. Nobody would ever dare to forget him again.

WP_20150822_005

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

Rules:

  1. 1000 words max
  2. fictional tale (or true if you really want)
  3. PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
  4. Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
  5. Go for the entertainment value!
  6. State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
  7. Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
  8. Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
  9. Have fun!

I hope you liked my entry to BlogBattle, and it didn’t alarm you too much! Apologies to the woman and child in the photo I’m sure no harm came to you on your visit to the art gallery!

Do leave a comment I’d love to know what you think of my short story.

Bye for now.

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Marje @ Kyrosmagica. xx

#Blog Battle: Ryder’s Feast of Unsuspecting Legumes

This week I’m taking part in Rachael Ritchey’s Short Story Writing Blog Battle. Here’s a link to her blog if you’d like to take part in this fun community of writers: http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

Week 25 Theme is Legumes

Date to Post: Tuesday, September 1st, 2015

This was a tough one, Legumes, huh, not the easiest of themes but I enjoy a challenge so why not?

The Genre of my entry is a New Adult Fantasy story, (for the purposes of this post I will try to keep it PG friendly!) This is a continuation of an idea which I have already started to develop on #Blog battle if you’d like to see the previous posts I’ve done then follow the following links: https://kyrosmagica.wordpress.com/2015/08/04/blog-battle-week-21-writing-theme-eye/ and https://kyrosmagica.wordpress.com/2015/08/11/blogbattle-week-22-time/

Ryder’s Feast Of Unsuspecting Legumes

The cupboards were practically empty apart from a few sorry almost forgotten tins of vegetables. Ryder picked them up, checked their sell by dates, and shrugged. A week or two past their sell by date wouldn’t kill him! He set them out on the kitchen counter and proceeded to open all of his flatmate’s cupboards looking for a large enough frying pan to create his imagined feast. He opened and shut the doors slamming them without any thought for his sleeping flatmates. He found a large wok that didn’t belong to him, but no matter, he decided that no one would notice if he borrowed it for this early morning feast. He set the flame to full throttle, flooding the pan with a cascade of vibrant vegetables, and loud legumes. The sizzling sound made him smile he loved the buzz of riotous noise in the silence of the early morning.

He waited patiently for the moment when someone would burst through the door and discover his antics and somebody always did, today was no exception. Olivia burst into the kitchen, a bleary-eyed look lay crumpled on her face. She scowled at him. Ryder couldn’t help but smile; Olivia was wearing her skimpy pyjamas again. Olivia must have clocked his lecherous look, but it was apparent from the dirty look that she gave him that she wasn’t in the mood for Ryder’s attempts at four a.m. flirting.

“What are you doing Ryder? It’s four o’clock in the morning, I’ve got a lecture at nine.”

Making you breakfast,” said Ryder with a grin.

“Huh, that’s not funny, Ryder you’re driving everyone crazy with your early morning stir fries.”

“Oh, you’re too pent-up Olivia, you need to learn how to relax. Let me give your shoulders a rub.”

Olivia gave him a look that said that sounds about as appealing as a  torturous Chinese burn. “Get lost Ryder, stop being such a creep.”

“I’m only trying to make it up to you Olivia, sit down, I’ll prepare you a very special VIP breakfast.”

Olivia looked at the legumes in the frying pan and pulled a face.

“I don’t eat out of date rabbit food.”

“Ah, but you haven’t eaten my rabbit food, trust me it will be amazing,” said Ryder, his eyes momentarily lifted their attention from the flambéed frying pan, and lingered on Olivia. There was something elemental in that look, Ryder knew it, it came naturally to him, he could turn on charm like a blazing uncontrollable flame.

Olivia’s barriers began to melt; little by little she began to return his look, now it was easy, all he needed to do was stare back, to penetrate the layers of Olivia’s resistance with his wicked eyes. He just hoped she didn’t faint, that would be annoying. He liked girls to be awake; they were far more interesting that way. He’d have to be careful not to employ too much Ryder charm, just the right amount of gentle coercion had to be used, a few words would help too.

“It’s not Rabbit food, Olivia it’s a feast fit for a king.”

Ryder set the food out on the table. It did not bear any resemblance to the simple dish of legumes he had just been cooking. Its centrepiece was an enormous, flat, round Indian delicacy resembling a chapatis pancake, and on the side was a bowl of richly spiced curry sauce with a side dish of fragrant legumes. The aroma would make you feel as if you’d been re-born in curry heaven.

Olivia gasped. Curry was her favourite, Ryder knew that.

“Sit down, Olivia join me,” Ryder said, his words gently caressing Olivia’s unsuspecting ears.

Olivia practically dived to sit down. She acted like she’d been on an enforced hunger strike and was now able to eat again.

But something stopped her from touching a bite. She just sat there staring at the food, her outstretched hand hung in the air as if she was about to pick up a chapatti. The reel of her life waited temporarily suspended for a second.

“Do help yourself,” said Ryder with a smirk.

There were no plates on the table, no cutlery, or napkins. Olivia picked up the chapatti, filled it with curry sauce and legumes and rolled it on the table as if this was the most natural thing to do. She downed that chapatti in a few ferocious bites and licked her lips.

“Don’t you want a plate?’ asked Ryder raising an eyebrow in mock horror.

Olivia blushed. It was obvious from her reaction that she was mortified by her own behaviour. This was so unlike Olivia. Olivia had a reputation for being neat and tidy, and would normally never eat off a table, particularly one in a messy student flat.

She glanced at the table, and her expression said it all. Poor Olivia turned a nasty shade of green, the exact colour of the curry that she had just wolfed down. She ran to the toilet to be sick.

As soon as she fled out the door, Ryder laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. He could hear her retching, but he did nothing to help her. When he stopped laughing a wretched feeling came over him, what had he done? He felt the crystal in his eye smarting, it was vibrating, sending spasms of guilt throughout his body. That wretched crystal, he wished he could dive a dagger into his eye and rip it out.

But he couldn’t do that, not without blinding himself, the crystal was there for keeps. He had no choice, the crystal fragment acted like a conscience making him want to help Olivia. So he tucked her into bed, and crept in next to her, she didn’t seem to mind. She thought he was a nice guy, but he and the the crystal knew otherwise. Afterwards he shed crystal tears; a deep feeling of disgust filled his being. He was tainted, a lost soul, blinded by the splendour of his own shadow, with no way of being saved.  

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

Rules:
1.1000 words max
2.fictional tale (or true if you really want)
3.PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
4.Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
5.Go for the entertainment value!
6.State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
7.Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
8.Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
9.Have fun!

I hope you liked my contribution to this week’s blog battle. Do let me know what you think. Don’t forget to vote for your favourite story.

Bye for now.

kk

Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

 

 

 

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