Ok, so... maybe committing to the A to Z challenge on three blogs was a little crazy. I do find it interesting that my lowest priority seems to be on the one that should be my HIGHEST priority. What does that say about my approach to writing. Also, this blog has the highest hit to comment ratio and for that I would like to say "THANK YOU VERY MUCH, WONDERFUL PEOPLE OF THE BLOGSPHERE!!!" It's very nice to get responses on my creative writing and contemplations about writing.
Thanks for coming by and hope everyone is having a great A to Z Challenge!
"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith
Showing posts with label Flash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flash. Show all posts
Thursday, April 07, 2011
Saturday, April 02, 2011
B is for Banana Splits
I'm using the April A to Z Blog Challenge as an opportunity to come up with prompts for flash fiction.
Growing up the best thing that Cassidy shared with her father was banana splits. At least once a month, even the cold months, they would find their way to the local Dip n' Do to share a banana split and talk. Cassidy's conversational skills had advanced from purple ponies to rock bands to philosophy. Her father always peppered the conversation with anecdotes about his students but seemed happy enough to indulge his chatty, excitable daughter. She found that sitting here now, looking across at the empty booth seat, was harder than the funeral.
"Why didn't I let you talk, Papa?" she whispered. There was so much she didn't know, so much she wanted to ask now. She looked down at the ice cream, the little boat set on the table the way it had always been, the chocolate on her side and the vanilla on his, strawberry between the two. She had only managed one bite and the flavors were melting together into a cold creamy soup. Looking at it she realized she didn't know if he had even liked vanilla.
Growing up the best thing that Cassidy shared with her father was banana splits. At least once a month, even the cold months, they would find their way to the local Dip n' Do to share a banana split and talk. Cassidy's conversational skills had advanced from purple ponies to rock bands to philosophy. Her father always peppered the conversation with anecdotes about his students but seemed happy enough to indulge his chatty, excitable daughter. She found that sitting here now, looking across at the empty booth seat, was harder than the funeral.
"Why didn't I let you talk, Papa?" she whispered. There was so much she didn't know, so much she wanted to ask now. She looked down at the ice cream, the little boat set on the table the way it had always been, the chocolate on her side and the vanilla on his, strawberry between the two. She had only managed one bite and the flavors were melting together into a cold creamy soup. Looking at it she realized she didn't know if he had even liked vanilla.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Another Day, Another Dollar
Dim light started to creep into the warehouse. It had snuck down the alleyway when no one was looking, and now it gave the inside of the metal building a soft gray glow, lighting the dust in the air. The day was hot already, sticky and still. Inside the building was little escape from the heat. Forms were strewn about the place, half hidden in the mess. One form slept leaning against a crate, head on her chest and arm resting lightly across the automatic in her lap. A shock of pale yellow hair covered her forehead. A booted foot came out of the darkness and nudged her thigh persistently.
"Wake up, Frankie."
One startling blue eye opened and glared up into the darkness. "What do you want, Merc?"
The form knelt next to her, black eyes narrowed in the dark face. Long black, curly hair was pulled back, accenting the angularity of his features. He wore black leather, as usual. "There's something going on today down at the Company. I want to check it out. I want you to go with me."
She sighed and leaned back. "I was out all night. Get somebody else."
"The is nobody else for me. You know that, Frankie," his smile made him look like a cobra.
"I'm not going out to the Company during the day. Get over it."
He cupped her chin in his palm. "Come on, Frankie."
She knocked his hand away with the stock of her gun. "Don't touch me."
"Come with me. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Frankie regarded him with a skeptical look. “How are you going to do that?”
His eyes shifted to look at the other forms in the dim light. “Let’s talk outside.”
"Wake up, Frankie."
One startling blue eye opened and glared up into the darkness. "What do you want, Merc?"
The form knelt next to her, black eyes narrowed in the dark face. Long black, curly hair was pulled back, accenting the angularity of his features. He wore black leather, as usual. "There's something going on today down at the Company. I want to check it out. I want you to go with me."
She sighed and leaned back. "I was out all night. Get somebody else."
"The is nobody else for me. You know that, Frankie," his smile made him look like a cobra.
"I'm not going out to the Company during the day. Get over it."
He cupped her chin in his palm. "Come on, Frankie."
She knocked his hand away with the stock of her gun. "Don't touch me."
"Come with me. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Frankie regarded him with a skeptical look. “How are you going to do that?”
His eyes shifted to look at the other forms in the dim light. “Let’s talk outside.”
Friday, August 06, 2010
Do You Ever...?
“Are you one of the fortunate kind, alone but not lonely?”
Jessie tapped her thumb on her knee in time to the music as she drove through the night. The window was open and a hot prairie breeze blew her hair into tangles, but her mind was already on the town ahead. The hunt and the feasting. She had let the hunger grow too strong again.
She knew that others of her kind grew to hate the dark or found the solitary existence too desolate. They sought relief in depraved societies of their own creation. She had seen bright, garish lights in an underground city filled with cows who willingly gave away what should rightly be hunted on dark streets or in fragrant, damp forests.
She wasn’t ashamed of what she was. She didn’t resist it. But her two strongest desires were ultimately at odds. The need for solitude. The need to feed. What drove her away from the cities always, inexorably, brought her back. People. An enchanting, intoxicating smorgasbord of people.
Soon she would be in Broken Bow. And she would feed.
"Do You Ever...?" was a Lyric Challenge ficlet originally published at 01:22AM on Sunday, October 28, 2007. Thanks to the ficlet memorial I was able to find it again. Memorial story link. The lyric is from “Alone But Not Lonely” by Mary Ann Redmond (Album: Here I Am). I picked the song randomly but think it worked well. Had only listened 40 seconds in when I picked the lyric and wrote up the Ficlet, so was surprised when I went back to listen to the rest of the song and caught the line “Which one are you tonight? Do you change with the morning light?” How perfect for a little vampire story.
Jessie tapped her thumb on her knee in time to the music as she drove through the night. The window was open and a hot prairie breeze blew her hair into tangles, but her mind was already on the town ahead. The hunt and the feasting. She had let the hunger grow too strong again.
She knew that others of her kind grew to hate the dark or found the solitary existence too desolate. They sought relief in depraved societies of their own creation. She had seen bright, garish lights in an underground city filled with cows who willingly gave away what should rightly be hunted on dark streets or in fragrant, damp forests.
She wasn’t ashamed of what she was. She didn’t resist it. But her two strongest desires were ultimately at odds. The need for solitude. The need to feed. What drove her away from the cities always, inexorably, brought her back. People. An enchanting, intoxicating smorgasbord of people.
Soon she would be in Broken Bow. And she would feed.
"Do You Ever...?" was a Lyric Challenge ficlet originally published at 01:22AM on Sunday, October 28, 2007. Thanks to the ficlet memorial I was able to find it again. Memorial story link. The lyric is from “Alone But Not Lonely” by Mary Ann Redmond (Album: Here I Am). I picked the song randomly but think it worked well. Had only listened 40 seconds in when I picked the lyric and wrote up the Ficlet, so was surprised when I went back to listen to the rest of the song and caught the line “Which one are you tonight? Do you change with the morning light?” How perfect for a little vampire story.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wedding Jitters
Leisha affixed the boutonniere to her eldest son’s jacket while he fidgeted nervously and looked pale. “Does that look right?” she called over her shoulder to her huband, hoping that some conversation would help to calm them all down.
“I can’t tell if you don’t get your fat butt out of the way.”
The corner of Leisha’s mouth quirked. She and Larry were definitely a case of East meets West. Boston and Houston in their case. “Let’s not discuss my avoirdupois, shall we?”
“Heck, girl, you had much more of it when we got married and I woulda needed a cowcatcher to haul you over the threshold.”
Leisha gave him her best quelling look, which just made him grin wider.
Austin, their youngest, came tearing into the room with lapels and cuffs flapping.
Leisha raised an amused brow. “Our darling arrives, in medias res, as it were, to tell us what?”
“Great-grandpa is in your office. He says he’s looking for his gramophone!”
Larry sighed. “Aw, hell. He break anything yet?”
“Not yet. What’s a gramophone?”
"Wedding Jitters" was a ficlet for the Stovohobo Challenge originally published at 12:47AM on Sunday, October 28, 2007. Thanks to the ficlet memorial I was able to find it again. Memorial story link.
“I can’t tell if you don’t get your fat butt out of the way.”
The corner of Leisha’s mouth quirked. She and Larry were definitely a case of East meets West. Boston and Houston in their case. “Let’s not discuss my avoirdupois, shall we?”
“Heck, girl, you had much more of it when we got married and I woulda needed a cowcatcher to haul you over the threshold.”
Leisha gave him her best quelling look, which just made him grin wider.
Austin, their youngest, came tearing into the room with lapels and cuffs flapping.
Leisha raised an amused brow. “Our darling arrives, in medias res, as it were, to tell us what?”
“Great-grandpa is in your office. He says he’s looking for his gramophone!”
Larry sighed. “Aw, hell. He break anything yet?”
“Not yet. What’s a gramophone?”
"Wedding Jitters" was a ficlet for the Stovohobo Challenge originally published at 12:47AM on Sunday, October 28, 2007. Thanks to the ficlet memorial I was able to find it again. Memorial story link.
Friday, July 23, 2010
What a Doll
Lara dropped a stack of papers on her boss’s desk and quirked her blonde eyebrow at him. “Gotten any further on the Cobs case yet, Mr. Michaels?” Her voice sounded like satin sheets and champagne on a dark night.
Jack Michaels mumbled something and held up a finger while scratching notes in his journal. Without looking up he said, “Hey, Doll, how about a drink?”
Lara was already setting the tumblers down. “Way ahead of you, Michaels.” She poured the Scotch and settled on the edge of his desk while she took a sip. He gave her a wry smile.
Lara Hanegan had walked into his office last year and asked for the job of secretary. He had explained that he couldn’t afford one and she had said he didn’t need to pay her. It had taken a month for him to get past her blonde bombshell looks and figure out why she wanted to work for a down on his luck gumshoe. What she hid behind that high society veneer was a mind and instincts sharper than any cops. And he was the only one who had ever given her the chance to use them.
"What a Doll" was a ficlet originally published at 12:17AM on Sunday, October 28, 2007 as part of the Gumshoe Challenge. Thanks to the ficlet memorial I was able to find it again. Memorial story link.
Jack Michaels mumbled something and held up a finger while scratching notes in his journal. Without looking up he said, “Hey, Doll, how about a drink?”
Lara was already setting the tumblers down. “Way ahead of you, Michaels.” She poured the Scotch and settled on the edge of his desk while she took a sip. He gave her a wry smile.
Lara Hanegan had walked into his office last year and asked for the job of secretary. He had explained that he couldn’t afford one and she had said he didn’t need to pay her. It had taken a month for him to get past her blonde bombshell looks and figure out why she wanted to work for a down on his luck gumshoe. What she hid behind that high society veneer was a mind and instincts sharper than any cops. And he was the only one who had ever given her the chance to use them.
"What a Doll" was a ficlet originally published at 12:17AM on Sunday, October 28, 2007 as part of the Gumshoe Challenge. Thanks to the ficlet memorial I was able to find it again. Memorial story link.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Yellow
Her keening sob settled into a watery, bleary dullness. She couldn’t feel anything. She wasn’t sure if it was spiritual death or a kind of peace. Her eyes were drawn back to the bedroom. That warm, yellow bedroom. Harry’s unabashed favorite color.
“Really? You want to paint the bedroom...” Rita peered at the tiny print below the color, “Duckling?”
Standing behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lowered his chin to her shoulder. “That way, when it’s all cold and dark and nasty outside we can be snug and warm in the sunshine. It can be spring any day of the year in our bedroom.”
That had been her Harry. His brother had nicknamed him Sunny Side Up. Never unrealistic, never saintly by any means, but always with an aptitude for finding the bright side. Or making one. He had given her that so many times when she had needed it.
She let out a deep breath, stood up, and pulled a dress from the crowded rod. Soft yellow with pale spring flowers. Why observe his death when she could love his life?
"Yellow" was a ficlet originally published at 11:52PM on Saturday, October 27, 2007. Thanks to the ficlet memorial I was able to find it again. Memorial story link.
“Really? You want to paint the bedroom...” Rita peered at the tiny print below the color, “Duckling?”
Standing behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lowered his chin to her shoulder. “That way, when it’s all cold and dark and nasty outside we can be snug and warm in the sunshine. It can be spring any day of the year in our bedroom.”
That had been her Harry. His brother had nicknamed him Sunny Side Up. Never unrealistic, never saintly by any means, but always with an aptitude for finding the bright side. Or making one. He had given her that so many times when she had needed it.
She let out a deep breath, stood up, and pulled a dress from the crowded rod. Soft yellow with pale spring flowers. Why observe his death when she could love his life?
"Yellow" was a ficlet originally published at 11:52PM on Saturday, October 27, 2007. Thanks to the ficlet memorial I was able to find it again. Memorial story link.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Here Sidhe Comes
The Rock Rag
(Cover Article)
by Sue London
This interviewer had a chance to sit down with the rock band “Sidhe Walks In Beauty” before the kick-off of the North American tour for their album “Unseelie Court”. In case you’ve been living under a mushroom cap while this British sensation has taken off, Sidhe is pronounced “Shee” and is the Gaelic word for fey or fairy.
I met the three guy, one girl band at New York’s swank Casablanca Hotel. Leanan looked amazing in a little flowing blue number, while the boys Pooka, Spriggan and Boggie were all decked out in black grunge finery. The first thing I asked was, of course, “Why Sidhe?”
Spriggan replied, “Why the [expletive] do you [expletive] think, you [expletive]? We’re [expletive] fey!”
Leanan broke in with her usual charm, “And the band name is a reference to a Lord Byron poem. Since Byron is a personal friend it seemed like a nice tribute.” (When I mentioned that Byron had been dead for some time the band reassured me that he was in fact enjoying time with some friends at a fairie ring in Northern Ireland where time passes slowly and was in quite good health.)
Pooka, who had been glowering at me, spoke up. “We looked at those rock bands tearing up their hotel rooms, luring young people away from their homes to follow them, having sex with everyone within five feet of them, and we thought, what a rip-off! We’ve been acting like that for thousands of years and now some mortal brats are going to come along and make money at it? [Expletive]!”
Of course, over the years there has been the odd fairy to gain popularity in entertainment. Bryan Ferry, the son of a dryad, was a 1980s pop sensation and right now Tina Fey, a nymph, is quite successful.
When I asked her about this, Leanan mused, “Tina has done a good job of toning down her natural allure even though you can see it shine through by accident from time to time. There is a real pressure as a sidhe where you wonder if you can make it without your glamour – if you can just succeed on your own hard work.”
Well, it’s certain that this great band is making it on their own hard work. Check out Sidhe Walks in Beauty coming soon to a town near you!
(Cover Article)
by Sue London
This interviewer had a chance to sit down with the rock band “Sidhe Walks In Beauty” before the kick-off of the North American tour for their album “Unseelie Court”. In case you’ve been living under a mushroom cap while this British sensation has taken off, Sidhe is pronounced “Shee” and is the Gaelic word for fey or fairy.
I met the three guy, one girl band at New York’s swank Casablanca Hotel. Leanan looked amazing in a little flowing blue number, while the boys Pooka, Spriggan and Boggie were all decked out in black grunge finery. The first thing I asked was, of course, “Why Sidhe?”
Spriggan replied, “Why the [expletive] do you [expletive] think, you [expletive]? We’re [expletive] fey!”
Leanan broke in with her usual charm, “And the band name is a reference to a Lord Byron poem. Since Byron is a personal friend it seemed like a nice tribute.” (When I mentioned that Byron had been dead for some time the band reassured me that he was in fact enjoying time with some friends at a fairie ring in Northern Ireland where time passes slowly and was in quite good health.)
Pooka, who had been glowering at me, spoke up. “We looked at those rock bands tearing up their hotel rooms, luring young people away from their homes to follow them, having sex with everyone within five feet of them, and we thought, what a rip-off! We’ve been acting like that for thousands of years and now some mortal brats are going to come along and make money at it? [Expletive]!”
Of course, over the years there has been the odd fairy to gain popularity in entertainment. Bryan Ferry, the son of a dryad, was a 1980s pop sensation and right now Tina Fey, a nymph, is quite successful.
When I asked her about this, Leanan mused, “Tina has done a good job of toning down her natural allure even though you can see it shine through by accident from time to time. There is a real pressure as a sidhe where you wonder if you can make it without your glamour – if you can just succeed on your own hard work.”
Well, it’s certain that this great band is making it on their own hard work. Check out Sidhe Walks in Beauty coming soon to a town near you!
Friday, April 23, 2010
Blood Will Tell
It’s in the blood, they say. Landel blood. This obsessive drive towards perfection, with fourteen generations supported by patrons and moving ever closer to the ultimate masterpiece. That was how I came to be here, hunched over my workbench with sweat beading at my brow and running in rivulets down my back. I was now the last of the Landel line. A puny female of average countenance, and the most sought after weaponsmith in all the Provinces of Beleir T’an on the eve of the Tenth War.
Throughout the last thousand years the dark mage Isthair and his unholy minions have ravaged our people and lands. The mystics say that the approaching turn of the millennium bodes ill, that as Ithsair came upon us at the beginning of this millennium, so his power will grow in the beginning of the next. That soon he will have no need to retreat into his lair for a hundred years between wars. Mystics, with their ragged, soiled clothes and bedazzled eyes, clutching talismans as they wander our streets, call doom down upon us all. And who can say nay? Who can look upon our broken, filthy streets, look at our dirty starving children, and not think that the end approaches? Who among us would not almost welcome death, an end to our worthless toil of wars, and eking out an existence in the bare scrub of land still protected from the warlock’s hellfire? So what is left to the people of the Provinces besides a life of going to war with empty bellies?
At one time the Provinces flourished. Before Ithsair, before wars and plagues and city burnings, there were rich farmlands stretching farther than the eye could see, clear flowing rivers and streams unpolluted by the grime and blood of war. Walking through my city Verlan you can see a shadow of that former age. Look here at a crafted arch that bespeaks wealth and artistry. Look there at a finely laid section of road, created when work was a source of pride and not something that had to be rushed because the worker was needed for strengthening the walls.
The mystics rave that if Ithsair chose, he could pluck the sun from the sky and leave us in eternal darkness. That on certain nights he pulls the moon from her path and wears her as a ring on his finger. It could be the ravening of mad men, or the sad foretelling of our destiny. But I can tell you what is known. That Ithsair is stirring from his slumber. Thus for the last hundred years my family has worked to create swords of such superior craftsmanship that many say they are charmed. Tonight I am preparing my last sword before battle. The huge blood ruby set in the pommel glows with its own inner light and when I touch the blade I can feel the steel writhe with life under my thumb. The balance, which feels so light in my own palm, will seem to a warrior as light and natural as a reed dancing in the wind. This sword is my best work, and I could no more give my life to my Province if I died on the battlefield. The exhaustion that steals upon me reminds me why I am the last. The flame of inspiration which had burned brighter and brighter in our family has left only myself as its last bright flicker. With that thought I lower myself to the stone floor and lay my head on the bench near the sword. My fingers curl possessively on the handle as I take a few hours rest before I present the sword to Lord Braenall and he takes it to the battlefield.
I awaken to the sound of scuffing feet. My eyes open, but I cannot see. I move my arms to wipe my face, but I cannot seem to touch my own skin. It is an odd sensation to move my arms, like trying to fight rushing water.
“There is the wee lass,” I hear Alain, the castellan, say. “She’s worked herself into a slumber.”
“So long as she’s finished the sword.” That was the voice of Braenall, the young and snide lord that had decreed a Landel sword as being the only one worthy of his carrying into battle. Suddenly I feel myself grasped fully about the waist and I’m being bodily moved. I hear a scraping sound and once I have light to see, I shudder. My first sight is my own face, composed in sleep with dark lashes swept down on my cheeks and red tendrils of hair loose, and I am being lifted up and away from myself. I try to reach my arms out again towards myself and feel that strange resistance. I see Alain kneel next to my body.
“Come now, love, wake up.” He shakes my shoulder and my body slumps down towards the floor. Alain acts quickly to check my breath and my pulse. He sits back on his heels and shakes his head.
“The Landel curse has claimed her,” he announces.
“That is… unfortunate,” Braenall says. “Prepare a burial for her in my family grounds. A stone must mark that this is the last of the Landel line.”
“Aye, milord.”
I try to see Braenall but cannot see above his thigh. I feel strangely disoriented and cannot move my head. Not wanting to see myself on the floor anymore, I begin to look around the room at my tools. How I long to touch them. I feel myself shifting again, then I am eye to eye with Braenall. But he is looking over my gaze.
“The weight is good and the blade is true,” Braenall is saying. “The balance seems a bit off, though. It almost feels like the blade is fighting me.”
With that I feel myself swept through the air, dancing a figure eight. And with it I must accept the impossible. That somehow I have not put only my talent into this sword, but myself as well.
This is an entry in the Life Fantastic Blog Hop.
Quick link: http://tinyurl.com/landelblood
Throughout the last thousand years the dark mage Isthair and his unholy minions have ravaged our people and lands. The mystics say that the approaching turn of the millennium bodes ill, that as Ithsair came upon us at the beginning of this millennium, so his power will grow in the beginning of the next. That soon he will have no need to retreat into his lair for a hundred years between wars. Mystics, with their ragged, soiled clothes and bedazzled eyes, clutching talismans as they wander our streets, call doom down upon us all. And who can say nay? Who can look upon our broken, filthy streets, look at our dirty starving children, and not think that the end approaches? Who among us would not almost welcome death, an end to our worthless toil of wars, and eking out an existence in the bare scrub of land still protected from the warlock’s hellfire? So what is left to the people of the Provinces besides a life of going to war with empty bellies?
At one time the Provinces flourished. Before Ithsair, before wars and plagues and city burnings, there were rich farmlands stretching farther than the eye could see, clear flowing rivers and streams unpolluted by the grime and blood of war. Walking through my city Verlan you can see a shadow of that former age. Look here at a crafted arch that bespeaks wealth and artistry. Look there at a finely laid section of road, created when work was a source of pride and not something that had to be rushed because the worker was needed for strengthening the walls.
The mystics rave that if Ithsair chose, he could pluck the sun from the sky and leave us in eternal darkness. That on certain nights he pulls the moon from her path and wears her as a ring on his finger. It could be the ravening of mad men, or the sad foretelling of our destiny. But I can tell you what is known. That Ithsair is stirring from his slumber. Thus for the last hundred years my family has worked to create swords of such superior craftsmanship that many say they are charmed. Tonight I am preparing my last sword before battle. The huge blood ruby set in the pommel glows with its own inner light and when I touch the blade I can feel the steel writhe with life under my thumb. The balance, which feels so light in my own palm, will seem to a warrior as light and natural as a reed dancing in the wind. This sword is my best work, and I could no more give my life to my Province if I died on the battlefield. The exhaustion that steals upon me reminds me why I am the last. The flame of inspiration which had burned brighter and brighter in our family has left only myself as its last bright flicker. With that thought I lower myself to the stone floor and lay my head on the bench near the sword. My fingers curl possessively on the handle as I take a few hours rest before I present the sword to Lord Braenall and he takes it to the battlefield.
I awaken to the sound of scuffing feet. My eyes open, but I cannot see. I move my arms to wipe my face, but I cannot seem to touch my own skin. It is an odd sensation to move my arms, like trying to fight rushing water.
“There is the wee lass,” I hear Alain, the castellan, say. “She’s worked herself into a slumber.”
“So long as she’s finished the sword.” That was the voice of Braenall, the young and snide lord that had decreed a Landel sword as being the only one worthy of his carrying into battle. Suddenly I feel myself grasped fully about the waist and I’m being bodily moved. I hear a scraping sound and once I have light to see, I shudder. My first sight is my own face, composed in sleep with dark lashes swept down on my cheeks and red tendrils of hair loose, and I am being lifted up and away from myself. I try to reach my arms out again towards myself and feel that strange resistance. I see Alain kneel next to my body.
“Come now, love, wake up.” He shakes my shoulder and my body slumps down towards the floor. Alain acts quickly to check my breath and my pulse. He sits back on his heels and shakes his head.
“The Landel curse has claimed her,” he announces.
“That is… unfortunate,” Braenall says. “Prepare a burial for her in my family grounds. A stone must mark that this is the last of the Landel line.”
“Aye, milord.”
I try to see Braenall but cannot see above his thigh. I feel strangely disoriented and cannot move my head. Not wanting to see myself on the floor anymore, I begin to look around the room at my tools. How I long to touch them. I feel myself shifting again, then I am eye to eye with Braenall. But he is looking over my gaze.
“The weight is good and the blade is true,” Braenall is saying. “The balance seems a bit off, though. It almost feels like the blade is fighting me.”
With that I feel myself swept through the air, dancing a figure eight. And with it I must accept the impossible. That somehow I have not put only my talent into this sword, but myself as well.
This is an entry in the Life Fantastic Blog Hop.
Quick link: http://tinyurl.com/landelblood
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