Tiny Story Time

Things I have learned: B is for Beginnings

Tue, 14 May 2013 10:34:00 -0400

(Left mostly unedited, for obvious reasons.)

I need to get better at first drafts. Because right now, I hate them. A lot.

As I type, the wrongness of the words, the phrasing and the composition itches at my brain. What I’m trying to say seems more like flashes of feeling than words. But I know what I have is just plain wrong. I write in jerks. A line forms and I stop to look at a website. I get out half a paragraph and then I’m distracted by a conversation. A few sentences appear on screen that are almost right and I get up and walk away.

Ultimately, I end up not wanting to wire anything at all. But I come back. Sit down. And try again.

And I STILL hate it.

Even though I know first drafts are supposed to be bad. The have to be. They are the place where the idea really comes to life. You have to get through them to get to a second and third draft. And I love third drafts. That is when it’s just about right.

Plus, I hate first drafts for the same reason why I hate tripping over cracks in the sidewalk. Or misplacing a buttons. Or pointing in the wrong direction. Or misjudging someone’s sense of humor. Or fucking TYPOS. Because it feels like a mistake. Or at least something I have done WRONG. And I’m afraid of even the THREAT of being wrong. So much of life can feel like a mistake when you’re constantly and desperately searching for The Right Answer.

Too bad in life there’s no such thing. And looking for them is a waste of time. So I’m trying to be better, one step at a time. So. I need to get better at first drafts. Because I’ve also noticed that when I free myself to make mistakes, I can find the thing that’s right for the assignment. Or better yet, whats really right for me.

The first draft isn’t wrong. It’s just the beginning.

Things I have learned: A is for Appearance

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 17:12:00 -0500

Things are never what they appear to be. Life in general has too many layers for anything to be as straightforward as we pretend it is. But even just beyond that, there is so much mental bias involved with everything we see. And that to me is one of the strangest things that no one talks about. Because that quirk of perception means that each of us is living in a slightly different reality from everyone else. Someone that’s looking for a cheating partner will see signs of infidelity around every corner. Whether or not cheating is gong on; that person will be convinced that it is. And the feelings based on our perceptions are so amazingly real. It can make us certain of horrible things or fundamentally incorrect conclusions. But sometimes, our bias can make the world a far more wonderful place.

Ever since I was little, I believed in magic. I believed with a calm unshakable faith that I held on to much longer than some would say I should have. Looking for magic worlds behind doors, creating plausible explanations for fairies and monsters, and defending the belief in Santa Clause were all things I did well into junior high school. And that belief bled over into things that I saw. Once, while sitting at a red light, I exclaimed over a truck that looked like it had lovingly rendered puffy clouds all over it. Frowning, my mother explained that the blue paint on the truck had chipped away to show the white and rust underneath. No one had painted it at all. To me, the world was a place always filled with wonder, even when it wasn’t.

Over time, my unshakable faith in the magic that you find in Fairy Tales and in Disney movies waned. And not due to my parent’s neglect or anything like that. Life just tends to creep in around the edges. The boring, every day bits just take up so much space in my mind that there isn’t a lot of room to believe in happy-go-lucky magic.

But. There was a spot of paint on the wall of my last apartment that looked just like a watchful Grim Reaper. Today, for just a moment, it looked like fog was seeping mysteriously from inside this man’s long dark coat as he crossed the street in front of me. And I’ve been keeping a key that I found in my pocket. Just incase it could open something secret and hidden.

Honestly? I don’t want to lose the ability to see things like that. Yes, life might be easier and less distracting if I didn’t. And I would certainly not miss wondering if I was crazy or not. But being able to see things like that is also the reason why I can believe in second chances, and that people are fundamentally good.

Appearances are never what they seem. They are always colored by our own perceptions. Thanks to that wonderful little miracle of the human condition, I have been able to grow up believing in magic. The magic I believe in as an adult just happens to be a little different from the magic I knew as a child.

Something New

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 16:48:23 -0500

In an effort to get myself writing more, I’m starting an alphabet challenge. Beginning now till the end of the year I want to write a “Tiny Story” or “Things I Have Learned” entry for every letter in the alphabet. Not sure if I’ll make it through the whole alphabet but at the very least I want to post something new each month. I’ll still post random Stores or TIHL as the mood strikes me though. So anything that is part of the challenge will be tagged “Alphabet Challenge.”

Hopefully this will be fun and productive :)

Smoke

Wed, 09 Jan 2013 11:42:00 -0500

There was something hypnotic about seeing people die this way.

They choked, vomited and writhed, fighting for breath, tinted violet and without sound. The crackling psychic bubble that sounded her protected her from the carnage and filled her ears with white noise.

She’d kept fields up around herself for days at a time before, filling her mind with static. By now the lack of sound was comforting.

Every now and again someone hit the field, sending angry sparks careening along its surface. Then she’d simply stop and let them exhaust themselves attempting to pierce her cocoon. In the end, their will or strength didn’t matter. No one had been able to break her fields yet.

She searched the complex, checking to make sure everyone was dead or well on the way to dying. People always depended on weapons or some security system, convinced an armory, the right security detail, or high tech cameras would save them. But they always forgot about gas.

Even her instructors had laughed at the idea at first. Gas wasn’t considered practical; too much risk to the operative. But she knew it would work, thanks to her brother. The brat’s childish stink bombs and horrible perfume experiments had helped her discoverer that her fields filtered the air around her.

And once he’d gotten over his need to torture her, the two ended up creating the most successful team in the service. Most with genius mutations went into the Extreme Sciences division, or private contractors. But he had joined the Enforcers with her. He’d even created the gas she was using now.

As if summoning him with her thoughts, her com buzzed and text projected in front of her.

All clear Viv?

She spoke, knowing he’d hear.

“Yeah, send the clean up team.”

Rodger. Any live specimens?

“Negative.”

She was pleased to have found nothing, even after a thorough search of the labs. Intel noted that the researchers had been a year away from live trials. But this group had been the closest to a viable drug that gave mutations to non-mutants. Unfortunately for them, just the thought of such a drug threatened all the powers of the world. Natural mutants were the highest class of society, and they were going to stay that way.

She looked around the lab, disgust on her face as she spotted the bodies of the scientists. Really, they should have known better. Mutations would have been lost on the masses. They all just wanted to be “normal” any way.

Things I have Learned: Comfort

Tue, 18 Sep 2012 18:41:14 -0400

A while ago, I walked passed a man and woman hugging on the sidewalk. I have no idea what their relationship was to one another. They were silent, their bags unwatched on the ground next to them. As I walked passed, I saw the man’s face. He seemed lost and some how resigned to being upset. The woman looked quietly angry and brave. They were not young, they didn’t look at one another, and they didn’t move. They just stood there; hugging one another like the rest of the world could go on without them for a moment. I looked away, feeling like I was intruding. Something about them together was heartbreaking and inspiring all at the same time.

After thinking about it, I decided why it was inspiring. We all hope that we can find someone, a friend, a family member, or whatever, that we can count on. So when our world breaks apart, someone will hold us, saying nothing but giving the perfect kind of comfort.

I’m glad that I looked away before they parted or spoke to one another. Because the image of her comforting him in the middle of a sidewalk on a windy day is now my perfect image of comfort, respect, and friendship.

A Bad Day

Tue, 07 Aug 2012 20:16:00 -0400

The saying goes “misery loves company,” but she doesn’t really.

Misery prefers the quiet, and like moss, she bloomed in small shadowed places. She could sour a moment with the lightest touch, or turn a thought inward at a pivotal moment. Her work was subtle and Misery thrived where no one was looking for her.

Now Rage, he loved company.

He was born in the middle of a mob, and there was never enough noise to satisfy him. He swept through life like a plague, catching people unaware and leaving them devastated. But for some reason, he liked Misery. Her presence seemed to comfort Rage, and she managed to put up with his chaos. So their strange companionship had grown, heedless of the destruction they caused together or to each other.

However, Misery had reached her limit. Today she sat alone, watching the night fog slowly lift. The sky was just starting to lighten when she heard leaves rustling behind her. She stood, wondering how he had found the park so quickly. But instead of Rage behind her, she came face to face with Doubt.

Doubt never kept any shape for long, but today it was male, tall and dark all over. For a while, the two avatars stared at one another, saying nothing. Finally, Misery sighed and hung her head.

“You know it’s not fair. It just isn’t.”

Doubt just shook its head and Misery heard its voice as if it came from far away.

“And You Know That Doesn’t Matter. But You Called Me Here Any Way.”

She hugged herself, trying to stay in what was left of the shadows.

“But it does matter. What if… What if I had wanted Happy? What if I could be happy?”

Doubt laughed. It was filled with every emotion imaginable, and it made Misery sink to her knees. Her sobs were so quiet, they could barely be heard over Doubt’s receding footsteps.

“No. You Know As Well As I That None Of Us Can Be That.”

The Box

Thu, 02 Aug 2012 17:57:50 -0400

Dora holds out the box, gripping the sides tightly.

It was little, not much bigger than a ring box. If you just glanced at it, you’d assume there wasn’t anything in there. The unfinished wood and flimsy gold latch all seemed to say “I’m nothing important” in a light, lilting kind of voice.

But Dora knew better.

She had looked at the box for a long time. Long enough for the grain on the wood to look like it was moving, creating strange patterns. She felt some kind of presence in the box. That’s why she had put it away, way back in the closet where she had found it.

She didn’t tell her mother or father about it because she knew they would open it. And she wasn’t sure yet if anyone should open the box. Even if someone did, she knew it shouldn’t be her mom. Her mother was all false smiles and hidden threats. Her dad couldn’t open it either. He was too filled with quiet questions and longing. She knew these things the same way she knew the box was something. Something important.

But then Sarah had come.

Sarah was her new baby sitter, and Dora thought nine was too old to have a sitter. She should have hated Sarah like all the others. But Sarah was all bright colors and bold ideas. Her smile was warm and filled with laughter, even though her black jackets had sharp spikes on them. Besides, the others hadn’t understood what Sarah did.

She saw when clouds were funny shapes, found secret places in parks, and gave Dora her fist nick name. But she also knew instantly that Dora liked big books with no pictures, that after eight was when everything fun happened, and a thousand other things. That’s why Dora decided to show Sarah the box.

Sarah studied the box, looking at it from every angle and being carful not to touch it. Then, nodding once, she looked up at Dora.

“Yup. That’s your box.”

Dora started to glare, convinced that the older girl thought it was a game, but Sarah shook her head and continued. “No little D, hear me out. That is YOUR box. We all have one. Well, most people have one any way.”

Dora frowned again, but this time in confusion while Sarah smiled.

“Ok, so. Everyone kind of has an idea about who they want to be yeah? Like how you want to be a librarian. But we all have a box that holds something else, kind of like another part of us. Sometimes it’s something amazing we didn’t know we could do. Other times it something really bad we wouldn’t have normally thought of. But most of the time, it’s just something different from what we expected.”

Gently, Sarah nudges Dora back towards her room.

“Some people open their box mad, and use whatever’s inside to change things. Others open it when they are sad and just use what’s inside to stay upset. But most people keep their box hidden inside themselves and never open it.”

They both stop at the door to Dora’s room, and the older girl kneels down to look Dora in the eye. She can tell Sarah’s trying to tell her something important, but something about this is slippery and strange. Sarah looks a bit sad too, but Dora can’t quite decide why.

“For now Dora you should put your box away. But never forget it ok? Because you might want to become someone else one day. And it doesn’t matter what you are doing or what you have done, because you have the box. You can open it, see what’s inside and then use that to become whoever you want. I already opened mine and inside was the best secret I could have found. I hope something just as good is in yours. The most important thing is when you fee like you want to open it, don’t be afraid ok? Because it could change everything in the best way.”

Standing back up, Sarah gives Dora’s shoulder a squeeze and heads back towards the kitchen.

“Now put that back Little D. It’s time for lunch any way. How does grilled cheese and carrots sound huh?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Eleven years later, when the world falls in love with the story of the shy little girl who became a boxing champion, Sarah just smiles.

Things I have learned: Calm Terror

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 11:42:20 -0400

There’s construction going on in my office.

Normally, this would not bother me. But it’s on both the floor above me and below me. And right now, as I am typing, the floor is shaking because someone is doing something directly below my feet.

I’m not sure if they are attaching a fixture to the ceiling below, or taking something off. All I know is the rumbling of the floor and the whine of some electronic drill is forcing it’s way into my brain. I want to get up. To leave. To work anywhere but here. Every wobble of my computer screen sends my lizard brain into screaming “Flight! FLIGHT!” mode.

But.

I keep reminding myself that the contractors must know what they are doing. That the destruction, breaking, and ultimately rebuilding of a building takes the work of several smart people. And they obviously know people are working above them. They couldn’t possibly do something that would put us in danger.

So while half of my mind yells to get away, and the other provides several reasons why I should just stay calm. And there is a tiny, strange part of my brain that seems to be reserved for my dumbest zen thoughts is just going “Huh. Being calm while terrified is just hella awkward.”

Prince

Thu, 21 Jun 2012 01:04:00 -0400

Air rushed from his lungs. His side felt like it was on fire. But none of that stopped him, and he rode in silence through the woods.

She couldn’t be dead. She just couldn’t be.

The hissing voice in his mind told him he was wrong. It dripped loathing, and awful satisfaction as it fed him lies. She was already gone. He rushed for nothing. All of it was for nothing. The witch, the apple, the lies. All of it failed.

He ignored it. That was not his story. It. could. not. be. his story.

She was alive and he was going to get there in time. She HAD to be here. All too quickly, he bust into the clearing, practically faling off his mount in his haste to get to the house.

Something was wrong. There was no sign of anyone. The only sounds were his stumbling steps and his horse’s ragged breaths.

But then, after a moment, there were new sounds.

The sound of metal as it clattered on wood.

The sound of sobbing.

The sound of a body being moved.

They had all been wrong. Him most of all. Because this was his story. There was noting pale about her anymore. Only red red red on everything. In everything. Even him. There was no magic here. No kiss of life. No elegance or hope.

Just the loss of everything and bright, mocking, ugly red.

Stream of consciousness*

Fri, 20 Apr 2012 17:02:00 -0400

*Note: Wrote this at work and having a weird week, so read with caution.

Have you ever had one of those moments when:

you feel so lonely you could cry? And then you gather your strength and you want to run. Run anywhere, everywhere and as fast as you can.

Then you want to do something mad like get a new tattoo that might mean everything and nothing. And every song you hear just seems to be shouting at you “Go! Do! Life is too short and you can change yours! you have forever to cry but only today to live.”

And then you think about it and realize that is wrong and nothing quite makes sense besides the thought that you are feeling too many feelings? Then you decided to pick one, and because life really is too short you pick Joy. But it comes from the depths of your stomach and is slippery, heavy and grimy. Like it’s covered in oil or something. But then you grit your teeth and tell yourself “GOD DAMN IT I AM GOING TO BE HAPPY TODAY BECAUSE FUCK EVERYTHING ELSE!”

For a second it works. Then all the other feelings come back and you do it all over again, except this time the crazy thing you want to do is kiss everyone you meet, or scream like the last banshie on earth, or dance with strangers watching, and just wishing you felt free enough to be ultimately ape shit crazy. Then you make yourself almost happy for real. But when you pull out of the mental whirl wind, you feel a bit empty. Like something is missing.

Suddenly, the boring part of the day calls and you do something else. Something simple that lets you ignore all of that crazy. So really when you look back on the moment you realize you were just daydreaming and not really thinking of anything that could be articulated. So you let it go. But secretly you know you’ll do the whole thing all over again later.

Or is it just me?

A Day in the Home of a Nightmare

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 15:39:00 -0400

Dawn

His hands shook as he made coffee.

It was the seventh day in the house. The nightmares hadn’t stopped. Every morning he woke, chilled to the bone, fighting nothing, and terrified of something he couldn’t name. That was the part that worried him the most. He never had any memories of the dreams.

The old house creaked and he twitched.

For six nights now he has simply gone to bed, and woken at dawn screaming. He never woke during the night, and never had any flashes of memory in the morning. He’d never had nightmares before, and after six nights he was starting to believe all those horror movies about evil houses.

He was starting to wonder how much more of this he could take.

Noon

The House wasn’t sure how it had started. It realized most of it’s kind weren’t “aware” as such. But it had been for some time. In fact, this House was not only aware, it could control its self. One would think that being the only one of its kind would make it lonely or angry. But that was the beauty of The House. It enjoyed being used. But The House, being aware and all, had developed preferences. This single, morose writer just would not do. Families were best. Yes, they were loud, unpredictable, and the children tended to have distressingly sticky fingers. But they stayed. The children always came to love the places they had been raised in, and watching couples grow old together was a delight. The House wanted a family. With this goal in mind, The House had set about getting rid of the man. And it was best to get these things done before all the boxes were unpacked. So, it had used the Guardian.

Midnight

She stretched all of herself. She was a she tonight and that took a moment to get use to. But as always, she was happy to start her work. This time it was Terror. She had done Hope, Joy, Doubt, Growth, and some Depression in the past, but Terror took finesse. True Terror had to be woven delicately and carefully guarded or it could morph to Hopelessness or Rage.

Her limbs made sounds like rubble encased in feathers as she slunk into the man’s room. The poor man. Tonight she would let him remember, because the memory would break him in the morning. She didn’t mind the man, but The House wanted him out. And she did what The House wanted.

They were symbiotic. The House needed to be lived in, and she needed emotions to feed. They were the perfect pair really. Besides, The House was right, a family would be better than one man alone.

Gently, she reached into the man’s mind, and smiled as he whimpered. Terror really was an art.

(This story was inspired by the song “1940” by The Submarines done 3 ways.

Dawn

Noon {choose Section Quarter Mix}

Midnight )

A Murder

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 16:44:22 -0400

“Umm…. Monday! It was monday when I saw him. Officer are you going to put him away? I mean a man like that in this day and age should be-“

Detective Chambers put up a hand, doing his best to make her stop.

“Mrs. Calloway, thank you for your testimony but you have to wait until the trial. Of course we will let you know when that is and if we need any further information.”

The woman pulled a sour face and took a breath to start yet another tirade.

“A trial?! I hardly think that’s necessary with this kind of irrefutable-“

Wiling himself to not roll his eyes, Chambers interrupted her again.

“Mrs. Calloway, we must follow the law in this matter. And the law has adapted for cases like these. But for now, I have to let you go. As a reminder, please do not leave this plain of existence or communicate with the press until the trial is closed. Again, thank you for your help and we’ll be in touch.”

With a curt gesture, he banished the ghost before she could say anything else. Running a hand through his hair, Chambers stood up from the table with a grunt. Sighing, he grabbed a bottle of water and placed it in front of the now convulsing man.

As the man gasped, Detective Chambers recited “Sir, thank you for volunteering for our Out of Body Testimonial Program. Your help in this investigation will be noted and presented to the parole board when your case is up for review. Possession effects us all differently and there may be some disorientation. Please make sure you are fully hydrated and aware of yourself before exiting.”

Nodding to the prison guard waiting to take the volunteer away, Chambers left the interview room. Murder cases were bad enough, but he hated the ones where the ghost stuck around to testify. It just made for too much paperwork.

Things I have learned: Creative Burn Out

Wed, 11 Jan 2012 20:33:00 -0500

Creative burn out is not fun.

It is the exact polar opposite of fun.

It’s like falling off a cliff into a dimly lit void. You can just make out the ground, and it’s a long way away. But all you can do is fall towards it, thinking about impact.

Occasionally, you see something that could stop your fall.

You reach for it. Touch it. But then, it slips out of your grasp and your back to falling.

The ground has gotten that much closer and all you can do is wait for the hit. Hopefully, when you land, you can pull all your pieces back together. Or, at least knocking your brain around will make you think of something almost new.

That’s how Creative Burn out works. And it sucks 99.9% of the time.

But then, there is the .1% of the time when you get lucky.

You remember you had something in your pocket that can save you. And you use that trinket, bit of obscure knowledge, or comfy old writing device to slowly stop your fall and climb out of the pit.

Today I told my boss “I feel like I couldn’t tell shit from diamonds today.” He then looked at me and said in all seriousness “Diamonds don’t smell.” Then he told me I had written a good line.

Science

Wed, 28 Dec 2011 01:33:00 -0500

The thing hissed, and Dan stepped back.

Until this very moment, Dan didn’t believe something could be as horrific and pitiable as this. He had seen attack dogs about to be put down and evil men beaten to breaking in prison. But nothing could prepare you for this.

The thing hissed again, and tired to move. But it’s legs wouldn’t oblige. All eighteen of them didn’t seem to want to go the same direction. And where the feathers ended and the scales began looked strange and painful. There were four to a cage, but none of the animals seemed to want to interact with one another.

It was almost like they knew they were an abomination, and were angry that they existed. Nothing about this was right, but hardly anyone knew about these things. Those that did slapped the mental label of “progress” on the creatures and ignored it.

It snapped it’s short sharp teeth at Dan, and he took another step back. The rage in the creatures bright eyes was almost palpable. He couldn’t look away.

A scientist paying too much attention to a file in his hands nearly tripped over Dan’s equipment.

“Hey! What are you-?”

Following Dan’s gaze the researcher let out a quick frustrated breath.

“You must be new. Those are the chicken lizards. Chicken parts, breed like lizards, better than both. It’s already revolutionizing the fast food industry. They can’t hurt you and you should really get back to work.”

Dan nodded once and moved his cart out of the man’s way. The scientist hurried on down the hall while Dan finished mopping the floor.

He had seen a lot of things as a janitor. But Dan didn’t think he would ever be able to eat a chicken nugget again. It would just remind him of that poor creature’s eyes.

Things I have learned: Cannabis

Tue, 27 Dec 2011 21:20:00 -0500

Watching a special on PBS on plants that have adapted to humans working with them. It never occurred to me that to grow Marijuana indoors, it had to be cross bread with another type of Cannabis. Apparently the weed that is grown in doors today was a cross blend of tropical plant that primarily came from Mexico and a blend of cannabis that comes from india. Also the bud size is made larger by separating female plants from male plants.

Huh.

The special also kind of alludes to plants making sentient decisions. I wonder if years from now we will figure out how plants communicate and discover they have been sentient this whole time. I bet then there will be a rash of people only wanting to eat food that has been created and produced in a lab, so no organic beings are hurt. :P

Edit: The show just started talking about potatoes. Apparently potatoes in the wild are poisonous.

Pain-Proof: Becoming the Lady Aye

Wed, 14 Dec 2011 23:56:07 -0500

You’re never supposed to tell, but the secret to a bed of nails is that it hurts. It hurts a lot. But generally speaking, you’re on your back for fewer than 90 seconds, and by the time the tender flesh of your back meets the cold, sharp tines of the nails, your brain has downshifted into pure animal machismo…. READ THE REST

This is the most heart wrenching story I have read today. It is also inspiring and made of pure amazing.

Loss

Thu, 17 Nov 2011 16:54:51 -0500

Oh no, not again.

tilt to the left!

no no no

more to the right!

oh no i’m loosing it!

no! nonononononoooo-

*splat*

The final bit of tortilla drooped mournfully as he looked down at the perfect chunk of meat, beans and rice now sitting mockingly on the floor.

I always loose the best part…..

(This was inspired by my lunch)

Silly Goose

Tue, 15 Nov 2011 01:45:00 -0500

“Ugh! It was all so much easier before!”

Across the table, Dottie pretended to agree and sipped her tea. Ignoring the other woman, Willow continued her weekly petulant rant.

“I mean all the dresses, and the perfect manners, and the utensils! It’s all just a disgustingly bureaucratic way to live! And it’s so useless in the end. Not a one of those fuddy-duddies knows how to have a good time!”

Pouting, Willow remembered to have some tea and Dottie finally got a word in edgewise.

“Well yes dear, it does take some getting use to. But once you do…”

With slight crack, Willow’s teacup returned to it’s saucer. Dottie looked a bit alarmed, but Willow ignored it in favor of waving dramatically.

“Getting use to?! Oh Dottie, that is all so easy for YOU to say! But I miss the open air, the stars at night, running without a care! It’s so lonely here, and these hands are positively beastly! I mean really…”

Dottie rolled her eyes internally and tuned Willow out. As a goose in her previous life, she had lived with humans before being changed. Plus her wizard, the Lord Fitzrory was quite kind to her. So yes, she missed her wings every now and again but it wasn’t so bad.

But good lord did she hope Lord Barnabus would stop picking predators to be his transformed familiars. They all just became prima donnas when taken out of their natural habitat, and complained bitterly. Eventually, something or other always drove them away and Barnabus would try again. Willow had been a young wolf, and Dottie sensed she was near her breaking point. With a mental grin, the transformed goose decided to help her along.

Interrupting her companion, Dottie pointed to the edge of the woods out the window.

“Oh my! I think I saw a wolf out there! Perhaps it is one of your pack-mates, come to find you? I dare say that….”

With a girlish squeal, Willow was out the door and away. Chucking quietly to herself, Dottie finished her tea.

This time she would ask if Lord Fitzroy could help poor Lord Barnabus pick a more reliable breed of familiar. The two wizards were the best of friends, and he just couldn’t keep wasting magic on things that would ultimately run off now could he? Perhaps a hen this time? Yes, a hen would do nicely.

fatandgeeky: thesulfurandthesigh: I am laughing so hard it hurts, I need this...

Sun, 13 Nov 2011 21:56:54 -0500

fatandgeeky:

thesulfurandthesigh:

I am laughing so hard it hurts,

I need this book in my life

Unseen

Sun, 13 Nov 2011 02:14:00 -0500

It moved.

She looked up, startled, forgetting that would make it go way. And just like always, it wasn’t there. It was never there when she looked. It was only ever around when she was barely focusing, hiding just where she couldn’t see it.

Some would explain it away; convince themselves it wasn’t real. But she knew it was there, watching her with cautious curiosity.

Others would be scared, terrified of the unknown being. Not her. She knew it didn’t want to hurt her. Besides, it must be lonely, existing where no one would notice you.

She couldn’t stand the thought anything being so alone. Perhaps next time she would remember not to look. And then, she could say hello.