Cassandra: A Short Story

Hello, my lovelies!

I realized I haven't shared much of my fiction writing lately so I thought today I would share with you a short story I wrote this summer.

A friend of mine was hosting a short story contest based on a number of different photo prompts. I forgot until the last minute and in a panic I looked through the prompts until I came to the one I based this story on. I didn't know what I was doing when I started writing, I just knew that was the one I wanted to write. So for the next hour I just typed and let the story roll off my fingers.

Here are the results (which I'm pretty proud of even though I didn't win):

They called her the Keeper.

            It’s a cliché name, I know. I laughed the first time I heard it, somewhere in the midst of all my travels, scoffing at the idea of one with a name so obviously pretentious.

            And yet even I, ever the skeptic, found myself in need of her wisdom.

            I didn’t want to go to her. After all, I had already made up my mind about her and the legends that were told of her abilities. They were nothing more than fanciful tales told to pass the time on those long dirigible voyages, sailing through the skies where hot tempers and boredom reigned. Fantastical tales about gorgeous blondes were a way of keeping the peace and nothing more.

            So I didn’t know why I was there, standing on the steps of her library, that evening in October. The wind blew the fallen leaves about, tossing them all around me as I drew my coat closer to keep the chill from setting in. There I stood on the steps wondering whether I ought to go in after all.

            I had exhausted all my other options up until this point and if this failed me- which it was sure to- I would have nothing left. My hesitation made little sense, given this fact, and so with a resolute breath I stepped inside the building.

            It looked much as I would have expected, but felt so much different. I know, I know, I’m not a man to talk much about feelings and atmosphere and ambiance and what have you. But I’m telling you, there was something about this place, a presence, that one could not deny when they stepped inside.

            There were floor to ceiling bookshelves crowded together, so many of them, each filled with volumes upon volumes of old books with worn and weathered spines. Each book looked well-read, as if it had been pulled from the shelf time and again for use. None of that was a surprise.

            No, I expected that. What I did not expect was to feel like each and every book was looking at me, judging me, as if my very soul had been pulled from my body and was now sitting there in plain sight for all to read.

            I could turn back now, I reminded myself. I could turn and leave this place forever and forget that I even came. I did not need to stay.

            And yet something kept me there. I found myself drawn further in, my boots giving a muffled thud with each step I took on the carpeted floors. Moving through the narrow aisles of books, I listened to their whispers as I walked past. I could not make out what they were saying, the sound so faint it was surely all in my head. Books did not talk, after all. Books did not whisper or judge. They were inanimate objects read by rational and illogical people alike. They were tools and their use was determined by the user; they had no life outside of us.

            This I told myself as I walked, weaving through the shelves, finding the place deserted. It never crossed my mind to pull books from the shelves and look for the information I sought, not on my own. I was here in search of the Keeper, and so it was she who I continued to seek.

            After wandering the library a good many minutes only to discover it just continued on and on, larger than the building outside seem to reasonably be able to contain, I finally worked up the courage to break the carnal rules of libraries. Opening my mouth, I called out, “Hello? Is there anyone here?”

            I was met with those faint whispers again along with the hollow echo of my own voice- which seemed odd, given how packed the room was. Surely my voice should not have echoed.

            “Hello?” I called again.

            Still I was met with nothing but the whispers and the echoes and the dull thud of my boots that rang out with each step.

            I ought to have turned back, ought to have left. But at this point I was unsure whether I would even be able to find my way out of here, I had taken so many twists and turns to get to the place I was now.

            Still, I considered it, thinking surely if I could navigate the skies on a stormy summer night, I could find my way out of a library. And I had just made up my mind to turn and leave when I heard it.

            The humming.

            It was not the musical humming that one makes when they do not know the words to a song or else do not wish to sing it. No, this was a humming of energy, an electrical hum of some sort. It was loud though and with each step I took toward it the sound grew louder until it was almost deafening.

            “Hello?” I called again, rounding a corner. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw it- when I saw her.

            The Keeper.

            It was she who was the source of the energy, crouched on the ground, a large volume in her hands that hide a good deal of her. But there was a good deal left to see, all illuminated by a glow that seemed to come from her and around her all at once. Her skin was pale and translucent, much like the strings of pearls that draped cross her forehead and twisted into her platinum blonde hair, swept into an elegant updo. A little red flower was tucked into its folds.

            She wore boots that were weathered and aged, well-loved and well-worn. Her legs were covered in crocheted stockings that might have been from a yarn not of this world, the way it shimmered and glowed in the low light. Her arms were covered in fingerless gloves that went to her elbows and beyond, of a gossamer fabric, sheer and lacy. Her skirt floofed out around her legs, spilling over them with all their layers and flounces as she crouched there beside the bookshelves.

            I stood there for a little while- a minute or more, perhaps?- not daring to speak before she looked up at me, her eyes meeting mine. I believed then that the books could in fact whisper, that they could in fact judge. Just as I knew for a fact in that moment that she could see into my very soul.

            Perhaps the tales of her were true after all. And somewhere deep inside me swelled with hope, though that hope was covered by a good deal of awe that kept me frozen there in my place, unable to do anything but stare.

            She frowned at me, closing the book and setting it on her lap as her lips pursed tightly. She drummed her long, elegant fingers on the cover a moment before she said, “You’ve come for advice.”

            Her voice broke the spell, quite simply because there was nothing magical about it. It was so unassuming, so normal, that I found myself disconcerted by it. It was as if it made me disenchanted and yet all the more enchanted with her at the same time.

            “I have,” I said and her frown deepened.

            “That wasn’t a question,” she said. “I know why you’ve come.”

            She rose then, lifting the book and slipping it onto the shelf. Her skirt fell into place, the skirt and many underskirts bouncing as she moved. With the book gone I could see the rest of her outfit- a shirt with short ruffled sleeves over which she wore a vest that buckled up the front. It wasn’t a tight shirt or vest but it fit her well and I wasn’t able to quite ignore how nicely it accentuated her curves.

            “I can’t help you,” she said, turning away, as if she was going to just walk away from me then, as if the conversation were over before it had even begun.

            “You can’t walk away!” I cried out, taking a step toward her but then drawing back as the fear struck. She was glowing, after all. I am a man who takes many risks in life but touching a glowing, otherworldly human just seemed like not a wise option.

            She whirled around, a glare on her pale face. There was rage and fury in those translucent blue eyes of hers and she fairly spat as she spoke to me. “I can do whatever I please. And what I please is to no longer give advice to fools like you who seek a bandage when it is surgery that is required.”

            She spoke in riddles, in metaphors and the like. I was in excellent condition, after all, and it was not a bandage I had come here to seek.

            “I need a-”

            “I know what you need!” she interrupted, not letting me get the words out. “And I know what you think you need. But trust me, finding him won’t do any good. And no map I give you will change what has happened. I want no part of your mission of revenge. Now, if you turn around and keep going straight you will find the door. Good day.”

            She turned again, started to walk away. My mind was reeling with so many thoughts- about the revenge she spoke of, of the map I did in fact need and the person I hoped it would lead me to, of the fact that I had taken so many twists and turns that it seemed unlikely that turning around and going straight would in fact bring me to the door, that she was actually walking away and did not plan to help me.

            All this went through my mind in a matter of seconds before I came back to this world and that around me. She had already made it a good way, cruising faster than I would have thought her short legs capable.

            “Wait, please!” I called out. She did not stop. I broke into a jog, chasing after her. I reached her but she did not turn around. I did not think this time, my rationality gone in the face of the panic that was settling in. She was my last hope, my last breath of a chance in finding the man who took so much from me.

            I touched her, reached out on put my hand on her shoulder. And the moment we made contact my whole world shifted.

            My head began to spin and it was as if time stood still. The energy that surrounded her, that illuminated her and filled her, I could feel it entering me, coursing through my veins and filling me as well. I saw flashes of things, memories that were not my own, that were shady at best, more shadows than anything else. But they left me with feelings I could not deny- of loneliness and hopelessness and despair so great it filled me like none has ever filled me before.

            My life has not been an easy one. I have seen things, experienced things, been exposed to things that are not to be shared. I have never thought myself lucky with the life I have been given, have always known it to be a hard one. But never have I felt pain on this level. Never in my life have I ever thought that perhaps, just perhaps, my life is not so bad after all, not if there are emotions like this in the world.

            The connection was broken almost as soon as it was made but I could not shake the feelings that filled me a moment before.

            The Keeper had stepped back, for it was she who broke our connection. She looked as one wounded, as if in touching her I did something wrong.

            And it was then that I knew.

            I knew those feelings, those flashes of memories, those shadows, they all belonged to her. For all the wisdom and energy and light she contained, she was broken. She was alone.

            And I knew what she meant when she had snapped at me. How it must feel to spend one’s life giving advice, to be sought out for your wisdom only to be left once more, alone. How it must feel to know everything about a person just by looking into their eyes and knowing that you yourself will never truly be known.

            “Please leave,” she said, her voice shaking a bit as she spoke. She cowered just a bit, her light fading, less bright, less luminescent.

            I stood there, not moving toward her but not moving away either. She looked scared and I wondered if she was scared I would stay or scared that I would listen to her and leave.

            I couldn’t shake the feelings. I couldn’t walk away. So I looked into her eyes, deep into her eyes, though I knew she could see more about me from the looking than I could about her.

            Her defiance faltered a bit, her mask of anger and hardness slipping slightly out of place. Her voice was a whisper as she said, “What do you want from me?”

            She knew what I wanted. Or did she? In those moments what I wanted had changed. I still wanted the answers she could give me, but I had also realized I could spare her some time. After all, why should she give me what I wanted if I did not give her what she wanted in return?

            So drawing in a breath to gather my courage I ventured to ask, “What is your name? Surely the Keeper is but your title.”

            Her brow furrowed and I thought a moment that perhaps I had perceived wrongly, for my judgement in divining desires and the like was not what hers was, after all. But then she offered me the faintest hint of a smile, shy and delicate.

            “My name is Cassandra,” she said. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?”

            I had a man to find, a man most vile and evil who needed to be stopped. But this was the woman who could help me, this was the woman who could give me the answers I needed. And she was asking for but an evening of my life. That I could give her, that I could afford.

            “I do,” I told her.

            Her shyness fell away and she smiled at me then, full and bright. And as I followed the Keeper- Cassandra- to where she was surely to make that cup of tea she had promised me, I thought perhaps this evening would pass far too quickly.

~Jennifer Sauer, the Ivory Palace Princess

What are Your Writing?: NaNoWriMo 2017 Edition

Hello, my lovelies!

Two weeks ago I explained what all is involved in participating in NaNoWriMo. I also mentioned how incredibly excited I am to be participating.

November starts today so I thought I’d share with you the story I’m so excited to be working on. No commentary on life or writing, no ranting or offering insight, no showing you the world through my eyes. Just a post about what I’ll be writing this month.

Title: The Merry Adventures of Snow and Robin

This is a working title. I don’t know that I’ll keep it but at the moment I love it so at the moment it stays. When it’s actually written and edited and I’m considering publishing it is when I’ll start thinking about whether I want to change it or not.

Logline (what’s it about in a very short amount of words): Snow White/Robin Hood retelling which Robin is supposed to kill Snow on the eve of her eighteenth birthday but they decide to become outlaws instead.

The book is going to focus on Robin and Snow’s adventures as they form their band of outlaws and work to reclaim the throne for Snow from her stepmother.

Genre: Medieval Adventure Comedy

I want to keep the medieval setting from both of the original tales. The tone of the story will be lighthearted and funny but also have plenty of action and excitement (hopefully…)

Projected Word Count: Around 55,000

I usually have some idea before I start writing of how long I want the story to be. Sometimes I end up coming up short, sometimes the book ends up longer. But usually it stays within 5,000/10,000 words of my originally projected goal.

I think this one is going to hit the official “novel” mark of 50,000 words (I hope so, because if it doesn’t, I don’t win NaNoWriMo!). But I also don’t think it’s going to be a whole lot longer than that.

Main Characters:

I know I’m going to write in third person so I’m not sure if I’ll stay in Snow’s perspective or if you’ll get some of Robin’s perspective as well. I’ll probably just start with Snow and see what happens as I write. I usually don’t plan these sorts of things in advance and like to discover what is right for my story as I tell it.

But whether or not we get inside his head, Robin will definitely be a major character in the story (his name is in the title, after all). He’s the strong, warrior sort, while Snow is more clever and cunning. They balance each other out nicely and once they team up it becomes clear that together they’re a force to be reckoned with.

The other major characters are the Merry Men/Dwarves, who aren’t actually dwarves in this story. They’re a family of miners who take the two main characters in and end up getting roped into their quest. Each one is based off a different one of the Merry Men from Robin Hood and I love them all so much. I won’t say more though because while I have an idea of who I want them each to be they’re probably going to change over the course of the story as it’s written.

Preparation:
I don’t have a set way that I prepare to write a story and usually just do what I feel that individual story needs.

I generally always make a Pinterest board for inspiration and a Spotify playlist. I did those for this book and I’ll share them with you a little later on. I also have my short little character sketches that just summarize who each character is in a paragraph or two. This helps me remember what exactly I had in mind when I created the characters so that I have a standard to hold them to as I write (though they are certain to change as the month goes on and I start to get to know them better and develop them more).

And beyond that I’ve done some rereading of the original tales the story will be based off of. There were a couple elements of Snow White that I’d never noticed before that I’m excited to include in my story. Robin Hood is a little harder since there are so many stories to read but I’m pretty excited about the ideas I have as to how to incorporate the original legends into this story and world.

I’ve also been getting a lot of other stuff off my plate in terms of writing- I finished the novella I was working on and wrote a good number of my blog posts for November this month. That way when I do have writing time it can all be devoted to my NaNo word count.

The Links:
As promised: Pinterest Board and Playlist

If you want to add me as a writing buddy, here’s my NaNoWriMo profile.

And if you want to stay connected this month about NaNoWriMo be sure to like my Facebook page as that’s where I’ll be posting that sort of stuff.

I hope to see you in Friday for the giveaway winner announcement! There’s still time to enter if you haven’t already.

Until the next time we meet, don’t forget to live happily ever after <3

~Jennifer Sauer, the Ivory Palace Princess

P.S. Let’s Chat! Whether you’re doing NaNoWriMo or not let me know what your November looks like. What are you planning to work on?

Coffee Shop Musings

Hello my lovelies!

I went to write at a coffee shop for the first time in August and then I recently went and wrote with a friend at the Panera Bread in our local mall.

I’m not going to lie- the experience was a strange one for me. I have written in many different places before, scattered throughout my house, at parks, at other friends’ houses. But I’ve never gone somewhere so public and worked on something so personal. 

I didn’t realize that I held my writing so close until I started delving into its world somewhere other than a friend’s living room or the bedroom I pretend doubles as my office; even the libraries I've written at felt different because of the homey connection I have to them. It was so weird to take my main character with me somewhere that wasn’t “safe.”

I sat in the Panera Bread and watched people walking by- people who I didn’t know and who didn’t know me. They were in their own little worlds; rushing to tasks they hoped to complete, chatting easily with those with them, happy, sad, indifferent. And there I was, trying to write the scene in which Cinderella does in fact get to go to the ball but trying to make it fit into the science fiction setting I had already established for this world.

It was then that I realized how vulnerable I am when I write. How personal the very act of writing is for me. I can talk about my stories to anyone who wants to listen- and even some who don’t, like my poor parents at times- but I don’t often write in the presence of people I don’t know. And for me, that act was a growing experience I didn’t know I needed.

I’m an introvert. While I strive to not let that word define me I make no secret of the fact that being in public drains me. And to add to that working on something so personal was an added layer of something I wasn’t quite prepared for.

And it got me thinking. Someday this story isn’t going to be just mine anymore. I won’t be able to control who reads it, to limit it to the one trusted friend who is kind enough not to point out its flaws because I’m not ready to hear them yet.

But someday I have to be. I want to share this book with the world and I can’t even handle writing it somewhere other than my bedroom. I want people to read it and love it but I realized I’m really, really scared of people hating it.

This is my baby. This is a story born out of a game I played as a child, alone in my basement with a broken electronic typewriter and a wild imagination. It’s a story I set aside as nothing more than a game until last January I realized I could make it something more.

It was then that it turned into a Cinderella retelling, the premise and characters given a plot that actually made sense and included more than just the main character jamming buttons on the radio yelling important information; though that did make it into this version, in case you’re wondering. I finished the rough draft by the end of February and started editing it in July. At the end of August I figured out some major changes I needed to make and started draft three this September.

My characters have grown and changed throughout these edits. El has become more complex than I could have ever imagined, growing into her own person rather than a version of myself I created for the purpose of play. The supporting characters have also all taken on lives of their own- the captain, the pilot, the medic, the security officer. I didn’t even originally plan on some of them being a part of this story but they grew into it naturally, created to fit roles as they appeared.

My plot has expanded into one I actually find exciting (and my plot-driven bestie even approves of!) and the politics of my world are messy and complicated in all the right ways- an area I always struggle with.

I’m proud of this world. Proud of this plot. Proud of these incredible people who call themselves my characters.

I feel like this might be the one. This draft might actually be good enough to let other writers read and critique. From there I might actually hire someone to edit it and then work toward publishing it. This could be it. By this time next year I could be tracking my sales to see how many copies of this book I’ve sold.

And I don’t even want to write it somewhere unfamiliar.

I don’t like being vulnerable. I know what people see when they look at my writing; I am an idealist and a romantic and it shines through so brightly in my stories. Are people going to judge me for that?

I let my own insecurities hold me back. I judge myself so I assume everyone else will judge me too. I feel like people can read my mind, can see inside of me to my weakest, ugliest parts. My mask slips when I write. Things show through that I never meant to let people see. My writing and I are one, my stories an extension of myself, my insecurities, and my dreams.

I want people to read my stories without seeing that. I want them to see fiction and disregard the facts. I don’t want people to judge me. Or, if they are going to see something personal, I want people to read it and see the heart of the little girl who played in the basement with her big, big imagination and see how far she’s come. I want this book to be as special to other people as it is to me.

But it can’t be. It shouldn’t be. No one else is that little girl in the basement and so this story can never mean the same things to them that it does to me. It has to mean something different, something unique to them and their own experiences.

And that’s okay. As much as I don’t want to admit it, it’s okay if people come at my story from different perspectives and view it through their own lenses.

I think I’m ready. Ready enough to push past my vulnerability and prepare to share this story with the world. I can only hope the world is ready for it. But if not, that’s okay too. And it isn’t a judgement on me. My job is to put my stories into the world and trust there’s a plan for whatever happens to them that I don’t need to be in control of.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a Cinderella retelling to write.

I hope to see you on Friday for another review. I'll be taking a break from the Princess Tales series to share something special with you and I hope you'll check it out. Until the next time we meet, don’t forget to live happily ever after <3

~Jennifer Sauer, the Ivory Palace Princess

P.S. Let’s chat! What are some ways in which you feel vulnerable with your writing? What are some ways you have of dealing with these insecurities?

Acceptance Doesn't Equal Love

Hello, readers!!

At this point, I am sure some of you are wondering if I am in fact still alive. I am. And, I still very much love this blog. I am even working on getting things organized to make it even better!! So stay tuned for that....

In the meantime, this has been on my heart lately, and while it isn't a post about writing, it is a post I have written, so it counts, right?

As I grow older, the more people I talk to, the more I am hit with the idea that love and acceptance go together. Even when people don’t mean it that way, it comes across as “because I love you, I accept you.”

And, as I grow older and talk to more people, the more I am convinced that this is completely wrong.

I crave love more than anything else. I want people to love me. I want people to want me in their lives. I want to be special to people. When my kiddoes tell me I’m the best babysitter ever, that craving is fed and it is the most amazing feeling in the world.

But that doesn’t mean I want to be accepted. I don’t. I don’t want people to simply accept me. As much as I hate it, I want to be called out when I do something wrong. I want people to tell me how I can improve.

I want them to love me, yes. But if they truly love me, they won’t let me stay the way I am.

In our culture today we are hit with this wave of thinking that if you love me, you won’t ever disagree with me. You won’t ever express that you think I am wrong, that you know I’m wrong. You won’t ever ask me to change. I am who I am. If you don’t accept that, you don’t love me. I can push anyone away, call them judgmental, because we do not see eye to eye. And that is socially acceptable.

Acceptance is equal to love, we’re told. Challenging someone, questioning them, is equal to hate.

That is so wrong.

The people in my life who have made the biggest impact on me are the ones who loved me enough to keep me from simply staying where I was. They pushed me to be a better person. They refused to accept me. One of my closet friends in high school had a way of always knowing which questions to ask to make me admit what was wrong. She never allowed me to bottle things up because she knew that wasn’t healthy for me.

But I like bottling things up. I want nothing more than to avoid conflict and I hate talking about how I’m feeling because I do not want to burden people. But that wasn’t good enough for this friend. She pushed me. Harder than I wanted to be pushed. And she made me talk about things I didn’t want to talk about because I knew once they were voiced I would have to deal with them.

And then, guess what? She made me deal with them.

I didn’t want to. Never. That’s why I kept them hidden. But this friend loved me enough to push me past my breaking point, to challenge me. That’s not hate. That’s not judgment. I don’t think this friend is capable of hating or judging me. She is the sweetest, most loving person with the biggest heart. But if she can’t accept me, she’s just a bigot, right?

Or how about my mom? She’s not a writer. And a lot of times, I know she doesn’t understand the things I say or feel or do. So she questions them. Not out of hate or malice or a desire to hurt me, but because she does not understand. And even when I can explain it, even when I make it make sense, I still have to take a step back and examine myself. If she simply accepted me, chalked up everything she didn’t understand to me being a writer, I would never have to take a closer look at myself. I would never have to wonder if my obsession with my current story was healthy or not or if I am spending too much of my time in made up places and not enough in reality. I would be accepted, yes. But is that really love?

Alternately, when I was deciding whether I should get my nose pierced or not, I asked a few moms if my doing this would cause a stumbling block to their daughters in anyway. I know the girls look up to me and I didn’t want to do anything that would cause their moms to want to take them out of contact with me or make them think any less of me (again, because I want to be loved). All of the moms were super supportive and assured me that they saw nothing wrong with it.

But one of the moms added something else. She told me she was fine with it, that it would not affect her daughter in any way. But then she asked me why I was doing it. She challenged me in the most beautiful way to think about whether I was doing it just because I thought it would be a fun change or if I was doing it because of an unrest in my soul. She reminded me that only God can fill that sort of an unrest, that my completion is in Him not a piece of jewelry. And while I simply wanted to get my nose done because I thought it was cute and have for a very, very long time, I still greatly respect this mom because of what she said. She made me examine myself, ask myself if I did need to change or if I was looking for it in the wrong places. She accepted me, yes. But then she loved me enough to challenge me to be a better person.

I could go on and on. I have so many stories about people who have made me a better person because they loved me too much not to.

Love is something that finds you in the place you are. It envelops you in an embrace and tells you everything is going to be all right.

But love doesn’t leave you there. That’s acceptance. Acceptance is saying “Where you are is fine.”

But it’s not. As Christians, we are always working toward being more like Christ, so there is always room for improvement. And, those who believe evolution believe that we are constantly evolving, so we are always changing and growing. Improving.

So, if those two worldviews make up a good portion on the population, why is acceptance so widely taught?

I don’t want people to give me positive affirmation unless they mean it. Please don’t tell me “Good job” unless I actually did a good job. Don’t tell me I’m fine where I am, when I know I am not. Don’t tell me I’m fine even if I think I am.

Positivity is getting in our way. We’re so busy trying to build people up that it becomes a false sense of encouragement. It’s like building a wall with Styrofoam bricks instead of concrete ones. They look great, they seem to be doing the job. But they’re gonna crumble under the least bit of pressure.

What if instead we stopped being positive for the sake of being positive? What if we truly built people up by equipping them to be better people? What if instead of telling people they’re fine we pushed them to be even better?

Because I’m sure I am fine. But I don’t want to be fine. I want to be extraordinary. And not in the way your teachers teach in elementary school, where everyone is special. I mean I want to be pushed to be the very best person I can possibly be.

I want to be challenged. I want to be called out on my crap. I want to be given advice. I want to be told when I do something wrong.

Please speak to me with love. Please be kind. Please be gentle. But please, please, please, don’t accept me for who I am when you know full well that I can be better.

I know I am capable of extraordinary things. I know I can move mountains, I can change the world, I can start a revolution.

But being told those things, they don’t mean anything. Stop telling me I can make a difference, start challenging me about what sort of a difference I am making.

I think my best friend and I get along so well because we can be honest with each other. When she’s being ridiculous, I can tell her. When I’m overreacting, she tells me. I don’t need to be told that my feelings are justified. Believe me, I think that without your help. I need someone to say “Take a step back and breathe. Maybe the other person was just having a bad day.”

I have issues. Major ones. I know this better than anyone. And being told I am okay, being told it’s just who I am, it doesn’t help. It doesn’t make me a better person, it doesn’t help me in anyway. In fact, you’re hindering me when you say that.

Don’t affirm what I say. I don’t want a yes man. Don’t repeat back to me what I just said. Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me ‘no’ if that’s what I need to hear. Tell me to calm down. Tell me to relax. Tell me to take a step back and examine myself. Challenge me. Push me. Love me.

But don’t accept me.

I never want to settle for mediocrity. And if you are someone who is okay with me settling, no matter how positive you are about it, it’s still a negativity I do not need in my life.

A Short Story...

My poor blog!

It must feel so unloved...

I don't have a post, but I haven't posted anything lately, so y'all get a short story. I don't have a title for it, so I originally called this post the first thing I could think of that applied, which was "The Goodbye Letter"

Then I pictured that popping up in your inbox and all of you freaking out. Super misleading!!

So, I went with the simple "Short Story." Because that's what it is. It's just something I wrote off a writing prompt, so I hope you enjoy it!

I wrote you a letter you’ll never read. If you look closely at the pages you’ll find the stains where my tears fell as I wrote. The handwriting gets sloppier with each sentence as I became so caught up in the words I forgot to keep my mind on writing legibly. By the end, you probably wouldn’t be able to read what I wrote anyway.

                Not that it matters anymore.

                I baked a cake you’ll never eat. I set it out and the guests all helped themselves, talking in hushed tones as they ate the thin slices. Pineapple pound cake. Your favorite. I jumped every time the door opened, but you never came through it. The cake is gone and the guests left but you never came home.

                I drove past your work every day for a month, but your car was never there. I looked every time I drove by but your blue impala was never in the parking lot, in its usual space. I suppose you don’t drive it anymore, so I don’t know why I would expect to see it.

                I saw you every time I went out, saw you in every crowd, saw you in the face of every stranger I past. But they were never really you. I kept an eye out. I really did. I always thought I would see you, always expected to run into you. But it never happened.

                I still have your voicemail, but it’s not enough. I wanted to see you one last time, wanted a chance to talk, wanted a chance to say goodbye. Why didn’t you give me that chance? You really think leaving a phone message is good enough? You’d really do that to the woman you claimed to love?

                I didn’t get out of bed for days after I got your message. I didn’t eat and my sleep was fitful and full of dreams. More like nightmares. When I did start eating again, I ate my way through six pizzas, three jars of pickles, and nine pints of ice cream. I threw up three times.

                I cried for months. I cried on the way to work and on the way home, and in the shower, and while I sat alone on the couch every night. I blamed you. And then I blamed me. And then I blamed them. I missed you and I hated you. I wanted you back and never wanted to see you again.

                I had to explain it to my friends and family. Only, what was I supposed to tell them? I dreaded facing them and avoided it whenever possible. How could I explain to them when I didn’t even understand it myself?

                You left me. And, I couldn’t even call you. You left me and I didn’t know why. Was it me? Did I do something? Was I not good enough for you? If I had done something differently would we be together today? If I had done things differently would you have stayed?

                I got rid of everything that reminded me of you. I went through the house and did a complete overhaul, throwing everything away, cleaning it all out. I felt so good about myself, actually getting something done. I removed all traces of you, fueled by my anger.

                And then I regretted it and collapsed on the kitchen floor, sobbing, pleading with you to come back to me.

                I waited for you. All those parties I skipped out on, all the people I kept at arms’ length. You were coming back. And I wanted to be available when you did. I waited. I waited so long, put my life on hold, hoping, praying, begging you to come back.

                But, you never did.

                I’ve moved on now. Just like you asked me to. I don’t know when it happened, but it did. One day I realized I could laugh without forcing myself. I could walk past a couple holding hands without wanting to hurt one of them. I actually wanted to go out with my friends.

                I still miss you. There are some days when it hits me all at once and I am struck with the overwhelming urge to cry. But, it doesn’t last. I’m doing better. I can live without you.

                I met someone. He’s so different than you, it’s almost funny. But we fit so perfectly together. I felt guilty at first, like I was cheating on you. I felt like I was doing something wrong, like I was being unfaithful.

                But, you’re not coming back. I’ve accepted that now. And, I’ve forgiven you. I understand now. You didn’t choose to leave me. You chose to fight for something bigger than us, chose to stand up for what you believed in.

                It wasn’t your fault you had to leave me.

                I’m not angry anymore. My life is good, just as you hoped it would be. Just as you asked me to make it. Robert’s a wonderful guy. You would like him. And, you would be proud of me. Proud of the things I’m doing, proud of me for doing so well. But, it’s time for me to let you go. To truly say goodbye. So, here it is:

                Good bye, Ethan.

                Rest in peace.

And, there you have it!! Let me know what you thought in comments below!!! :D

Nollie Benson- Another Blast from My Writing Past

I started writing this just after I wrote The Crimson Banner. I never finished it (obviously) and I honestly only really like this scene out of everything I've got written.

I hope to write more someday, because Nollie's actually kind of special to me. And, her story is different from what I usually write (I can't say how, because SPOILERS!). Plus, she lives on a sheep farm and sheep are really cool. I like sheep.

It's a bit like The Crimson Banner in that it's set in a made up kingdom, but the world is realistic enough it's not really a fantasy. Her country is slightly based off of Australia in the 1800's, except the whole deal with there being a king who lives in the country instead of the country being a colony thing thrown in.

And, you should know before you even start reading it that Riff and Nollie are not a couple. They're like siblings, basically, except with the fact that she's his employer to complicate things the tiniest bit. But, only a tiny bit. They're basically brother and sister. So, don't try set them up with each other, because then when I write more your hearts will be broken.

And, I'd rather not break your heart over something so silly.

So, I'll stop talking now and let you read. Here you go, Chapter One of Nollie's story:

“Nollie, come on!” Riff’s voice came up the stairs. I could hear the annoyance that tinged it and felt sorry for having risen a little later than usual. Riff’s father- who was also my foreman, Brahms- was away at market, selling our sheep and wouldn’t be home for another few weeks. Riff had taken it upon himself to see that Benson Heights thrived in his absence and, nobility or not, I had my fair share of work to do, from which he wasn’t about to let me slack.

“I’m coming, Riff,” I called back. “Hold your horses.”

“Stop worrying about the horses and get down here!”

I hurriedly plaited my dark hair into a simple braid. “Come up and get me,” I challenged, tying a scarf over my head.

“Don’t tempt me,” he grumbled.

I grinned as I moved quietly toward the casement. I heard Riff’s boots on the stairs as I eased the window open. Swinging my legs over the sill, I climbed onto the lean-to roof and slid the window closed. I heard Riff pound on my door as I moved across the roof.

“Nollie, come on. We haven’t got all day, you know.”

The pounding and pleas grew quieter and died as I eased toward the roof’s edge. Thankful that Brahms saw fit to let me wear jeans, I grabbed the edge and slipped over. I dangled for a second before I let myself drop and fell with a small thud.

Rising to my feet, I dusted myself off and went inside. Riff wasn’t in the kitchen or main room, meaning he was still up trying to coax me from my room.

“Riff,” I called up the stairs. “Are you coming or not?”

I heard his boots on the wood as he came down the stairs, each step making a solid, ringing thump.

His stern green eyes took me in when he reached the bottom. “How?”

I grinned impishly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Nollie Benson, I’m going to get you,” he muttered.

I darted out the back door toward the barn and he followed.

“You can’t catch me,” I called over my shoulder, as I rounded the corner of the barn. I stopped in my tracks. In the short time it had taken me to go into the kitchen and tease Riff, the yard had filled with men on horseback. There were about fifteen of them, all of who save one wore blue uniforms with yellow sashes tied around their waists. Royal Guards?

The other man was dressed richly in clothes of deep red with golden trim. He wore a thin circlet of gold around his head.

He couldn’t be who I thought he was.

Riff came around the side of the barn and his grin faded. He moved to stand beside me and tower over me protectively. That’s what I loved about Riff- one minute he was chasing me, intent on making me pay for my tricks, and the next he was my gallant protector. Yes, Riff Ramsey was definitely the ultimate older brother figure.

 “Can I help you?” I asked.

The lead rider stepped off his horse and gave me a judgmental sniff. I suddenly realized how terrible I must look in my jeans and t-shirt. “A female laborer,” he said. “How… modern. Please inform your master that His Highness the king of Stratus is here.”

He was who I thought he was. The king. In my yard. I felt a little faint.

“I’m Lady Magnolia Benson of Benson Heights,” I told the lead man. He eyed me again and raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“I really am,” I felt the need to add.

The un-uniformed man dismounted and approached us. I curtsied as best I could in pants.

“Your Majesty.”

“I’m very sorry, Lady Benson, if this is an inconvenient time,” he said. “I was passing by and I thought perhaps I might trouble you for a drink of water.”

Seriously? The king stopped by for some water? Wow…

“I am very sorry to have bothered you,” he continued. “This is obviously not a good time and I apologize for-”

“Oh, it’s fine,” I hurried to tell him before considering that perhaps it was unwise to interrupt one’s king. “That is, it’s no inconvenience at all, Your Majesty. The- the well’s just over there.”

Riff looked at me like I was insane. “You don’t offer a king well water,” he hissed. “At least, not like that. You could at least offer him a cup.”

But, it was too late. King William had already moved to the well and had his man draw a bucket. Unlatching the dipper from the well’s side, he dipped it in the bucket and took a swig before handing it to his man.

“That was the very best water I’ve had in years,” he said, coming back to where Riff and I stood. He smiled a very charming smile. “Thank you most kindly, milady.”

My heart did a strange pitter-patter and I smiled back shyly. “You are most welcome, Your Majesty.”

He took my hand and kissed it. “Good day, milady,” he said, before turning and remounting his horse.

We watched him and his men ride away before Riff turned to me and said, as if none of that had just happened, “So, where did we leave off?”

With a squeal, I darted for the barn, Riff close behind.

And there you have it! The only decent scene of the whole book. I hope you enjoyed it because, as I said, I would love to write more about Nollie someday. Especially Riff. I adore Riff.

Scripted- Another Excerpt from the Past

I adore this story. I have no idea if it's any good. But I love it.

It's the only time I have written in 1st person from of boy's perspective. At least, written anything worth noting. A few sentences here and there don't really count.

But, this is David's story. Scripted. About the boy who lives in a small town and how his life got turned upside down.

I got the idea when I was reading a book (I don't even remember which one now...). I thought I knew where the story was going and what the plot twist was going to be at the end. But, that wasn't what happened in the story and I was like "Yeah, I'm going to take that and write it." So, David and Violet were born.

I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One: The Thursday Something Happened

Nothing ever happened in the little no-account town where I grew up.

Especially on Thursdays.

Thursdays were the slowest, most boring days of the entire week. And, it’s not just that nothing good ever happened; nothing bad ever happened either. Thursdays were the days when there were no school holidays and no math tests; no surprise snowfalls to play in and no heavy rainstorms to damage your crops; no getting word that Uncle Harry died and left you a thousand dollars and no getting word that Uncle Harry died and didn’t leave you anything at all.

No, nothing ever happened in Lovejoy. Not on a Thursday. And, if anything ever did happen in Lovejoy on a Thursday, it wouldn’t be a girl with strange tattoos falling out of a tree. It wouldn’t be a mysterious woman coming and asking all sorts of nosy questions. And, it certainly wouldn’t be anything that would change my life. No, nothing like that could ever happen in Lovejoy. Not on a Thursday.

At least, that’s what I thought, until that Thursday in May when the girl with the strange tattoos fell right out of the tree, landing smack-dab on the ground directly in front of me. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I was walking home from school that day- because, being a Thursday, it wasn’t a holiday. I was muttering to myself, muttering about how boring school was, about all the homework I had to do when I got home, and most of all, about how nothing- and I mean nothing- ever happened in my life.

I took the shortcut through Mr. MacTolliver’s orchard. It cut four miles off my walk going that way, rather than by the road and Mr. MacTolliver had told me before that he didn’t mind. I walked through the rows of apple trees, all blossomed and smelly, the fallen petals crunched under my feet. I continued muttering.

“Boring old town. Boring old people. Boring old school. Boring old Thursdays. Boring old homework. Boring old life. Boring old-”

That’s when it happened. Right there in the middle of my muttering, a girl fell right out of an apple tree, landing on the ground in front of me. A few inches more and she’d have been on top of me.

My first instinct was to stare at her. I mean, it wasn’t every day a girl fell at my feet. Especially on a Thursday. Needless to say, I was in shock.

“Are-are you all right,” I managed to stammer after a minute.

Nothing.

There didn’t appear to be any blood, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t hurt. Besides, she wasn’t moving. For all I knew, she could be dead.

I sort of knelt beside her a little and gave her a small shake. “Are you okay?”

She groaned and stirred.

Well, at least she wasn’t dead.

She rolled over a little and I got a look at her face. I drew back in surprise, gasping.

I’d seen tattoos in my life, but never any like this. Her entire face was covered in a strange script, almost as if there were words and sentences written on her face, only I couldn’t actually read what it said.

That really weirded me out. As I tried to shake the feeling, I glanced around me, wanting something else to focus on until my mind cleared. Then it hit me that she couldn’t have actually fallen from the tree. There was no way she could have been in the tree; it was too puny for that. I glanced around for a ladder or something of that sort that she could have fallen from but saw nothing.

She groaned again. I turned my attention back to her. Her eyes fluttered open and she stirred a little.

“Where…?”

“You’re in Mr. MacTolliver’s orchard,” I replied. “You fell from… uh… somewhere…”

She sat up quickly and glanced around, fear in her wide green eyes. Her breathing came in small panting breaths. “How long have I been here?”

I shrugged and shook my head. “Just a minute or two. Are you feeling okay?”

She pushed herself up, wobbling a little as she did so. Once on her feet, she leaned against the tree to steady herself.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked.

She snorted. Her hand moved to her forehead, like my sister’s did when she had a headache. She looked a little pale under all her tattoos.

“I’d like to help you if I can,” I told her. I really should have been getting home to my homework, but this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me and it wasn’t likely to happen again anytime soon.

She looked at me in surprise, as if seeing me for the first time, fear written in her eyes.

 “Are you related to Mr. MacTolliver?” I pressed. I’d never heard of him having any family besides his son, but it seemed a reasonable explanation as to why she was in his orchard.

“Um… uh… um… Wh-what’s the name of this place?”

I figured she couldn’t mean Mr. MacTolliver’s orchard, since I’d said that a few times now. “Lovejoy,” I told her. “You’re in Lovejoy.”

She repeated the name to herself. “I-is there a woman by the name of Camilla Deveraux around here?”

I shook my head. “No, not that I know of.” And, since the town was so small, I knew of everyone in it.

“Are you sure?” Her green eyes narrowed, and she glared at me.

“Positive.”

She breathed a relieved sigh. “Well, that’s something.” She pushed away from the tree until she was standing by herself. “Well, thanks for the help.”

“Sure,” I said. “So, where’d you fall from?”

“The tree,” she replied.

“The tree’s too little, you’ve have damaged it,” I said.

She gave me a shaky smile. “Are you calling me fat?”

My eyes widened. “No!”

“I was just teasing,” she said. “Don’t sweat it.”

“Oh… so… um… who are you?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asked. “Something better to do than ask a lot of pesky questions?”

I shrugged. “I was going home but if you need help, I can stay and help you.”

“I’m fine,” she told me. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t need any help.” Her eyes darted all around her, taking in every little thing.

“Are you sure? You fell pretty hard.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.” I shrugged again. “So, who are you? What are you doing here in Mr. MacTolliver’s orchard?”

She shrugged. “Just cutting through.”

“In the trees?”

“Boy, you’re nosy,” she said.

I shrugged once more. “Just curious. You’re the most exciting thing that’s happened around here. So, do you have a name?”

“Sure I do,” she snapped. “Everyone has a name.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

She shook her head. “I don’t give my name out to strangers. Now, weren’t you going home?”

“Yeah.” I turned to go and then turned back to her. “I’m David, by the way. I live in the green house just south of here, it’s the one with the sign out front for the Pillow Puffs. If you decide you do need help, that’s where you can find me most days.”

I turned again and started to walk away.

“David!”

I turned back to her again. “Yeah?”

“You won’t tell anyone you saw me, will you?” Her huge green eyes pleaded with me.

I shrugged. “I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.”

She offered me another shaky smile. “Thanks.”

And there you have it! There'll be a short little snippet of another story I adore on Friday. Hope you'll be back!