#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

 

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#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

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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

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#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://mjmallon.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.

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© 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

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#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://mjmallon.com/2015/08/04/blog-battle-week-21-writing-theme-eye/ and https://mjmallon.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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