Weeks 11-14, Season 2 The Bren LJ Idol
Dec. 25th, 2008 01:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dvampyrlestatThe Bren LJ Idol ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
thebrenljidol is a community, a Survivor-type of writing community.
There is a weekly prompt...everyone submits an entry for that prompt...the entries are posted anonymously and voted on anonymously. People give constructive criticism or "notes" on the entries. As people are voted out it is revealed who wrote what. In the end there will be one writer left standing...will it be you?!
I lasted 14 weeks....and in the Top 8. Not bad, eh, especially for someone as mediocre as me. I got lucky.
Continued from Weeks 1 to 5 and Weeks 6 to 10.
WEEK 11 is where the Top 20 start to 'battle-write' it out.
* * * * *
Week 11 Prompt: Quicksand
She should be smiling.
It’s her wedding day, after all. She has the perfect dress, the perfect hair, the perfect shoes, the perfect nails…
Outside the sun is merrily shining, heralding the union that is about to happen in a few minutes. Not a cloud in the sky, the air reverberates as the bells toll the call for celebration.
The door opens and her mother, well-coiffed and elegantly dressed, walks in, fanning herself with a gloved hand.
“It’s about to begin, my dear Marion,” she says, walking over to inspect her daughter, stepping over the train that sweeps the floor as Marion moves.
“Yes, Mother,” she mumbles. “I heard the bells.”
As always, her mother misses the sarcasm in Marion’s voice. She has always been like that, only hearing what she wants. It is bad vibes, she says, to pay attention to stuff that aren’t ‘agreeable’.
“Your father is already raring to walk you down the aisle, sweetheart! Oh, you should see the smile on his face! He looks like he won the lottery or something!”
Which is not far from the truth, Marion thinks silently.
“That is such a lovely dress, we picked well, didn’t we?” Marion watches the pride in her mother’s face, wishing she’d look her daughter in the eye and really see.
“Yes,” she says softly. “You pick very well, Mother.”
A part of her rebels at the thought of this day continuing. But it has already been decided. No turning back now. She cannot renege on the agreement. If she does, her father would be furious, her mother would be devastated, their family would be put to shame, and the company would go under.
Her entire life – and that of her family – rides on this day, and she could not do a thing to stop it.
The last tolling of the bells. Marion closes her eyes, praying for strength, that her legs might carry her where her heart would not. She opens them again when the bells stop their merry ringing, and she sees her Mother’s smile.
“Ready?”
No. Not really.
“Yes,” she whispers, clutching the bouquet of baby’s breath in her hands, gathering strength from the weak stems.
She follows her mother out of the room, through the wide corridor, and in front of the wide oak doors. She stops, knowing that a new world lies on the other side of this door.
The man she loves deeply waits on the other side. But it has never felt so painful, just to walk through a door.
It creaks open under her mother’s fingers, and Marion blinks as the light from the Church momentarily dazzles her eyes. It takes a few seconds before her eyes get accustomed to it, and when it does, the first thing she sees is her father, looking proud and expectant at her.
The place is packed, and Marion is willing to bet she does not even know half of them. But that does not matter, does it? Nothing matters, as long as she gets married.
By instinct, her eyes move to the side, to the end of the last pew, drawn to the tall man who watches her with an unfathomable expression on his face. Immediately Marion turns away, unwilling to see more, afraid to see more.
The man she will marry stands at the end of the aisle, and Marion wills herself to look at him with acceptance. Here she stands, regarding the man she will marry, while the man she loves stands still and lonely in the corner.
One step, she thinks to herself. Just one step and this will be sealed. Go to my future husband’s side and this will all be over. It will be fine. He is a good man. He will take care of me. He will save my family, our company. It will be alright.
I will be alright.
Marion swallows, noting in the corner of her eye the hand motions of her mother, urging her to go forward.
What will I feel, when I step through this threshold? Relieved? Hopeful? Pained?
Her father blinks uncertainly, a question in his eyes as he tilted his head to the side. It is like he’s saying, “You promised, didn’t you?”
Taking a deep breath, Marion steels herself, and takes the step over the invisible line dividing her old life to her new one.
And she instantly knew how she feels.
Trapped.
FIN.
...chooo depressing. But i'm a fun-fun-fun type of person....i think.
* * * * *
This is the prompt:
You have three ways you can interpret
1. Interpret as if you are the painter
2. Interpret as if you are the subject
3. Interpret as if you are the viewer
(Do one, do two, do all three...whatever works for you!)
* * * * *
He looked like a beacon of light, shining in the darkness of the riverbank. The icy, murky water licked his bare toes, but he showed no signs of the cold. Perhaps, he’s a good actor. Or, perhaps, he just ceased to feel.
As the boat slowed to a stop, a few meters away from where he stood, I rose to my feet and lifted the lamp. Completely unnecessary. The life pulsing in him was brighter than any light in the river, eclipsing this old lamp that had been my guide for centuries.
A flicker of recognition – and of fear? – crossed his young, beautiful face. I wondered how he crossed the divide, the line that separated wakefulness and sleep, how he found his way here.
But I never wondered what he wanted.
“Marcus.”
My voice, old and raspy, spoke the name out loud. Nothing, not even the air, stirred. The only other sounds were that of the water lapping the shoreline, and his shallow breathing, getting louder by the second.
“Marcus,” I repeated, knowing his name. These things just come to me, and it is not wisdom. They just do.
“You are not supposed to be here,” I say, hating the menace in my voice even as I meant it only as a gentle rebuke.
“You came,” he said, and my heart jumped at the sound of his voice. So young, so melodious, so…alive. “You heard my call.”
I wanted to say yes, I did hear his call. But that would be a lie, and I was never one for lies. I just do what I was tasked to, and fetching him wasn’t one of them.
“You summoned me?” I asked, noting for the first time how his eyes shone with anticipation.
Then it dawned on me. That was not fear that I thought I saw earlier. It was a flicker of hope.
I see.
My robes weighed heavily on me, and my cane throbbed underneath my fingertips. I peered at Marcus. From here, I could feel his desire, his longing.
His wish.
“Take me.”
Sadness descended upon me, darker than any cloud marring the brightness of the moon.
“This is rare,” I said, leaning on my cane. “This does not happen very often, you know. Someone wanting me to take them. The others…they beg for more time. But you…”
“There’s nothing left for me anymore.” Marcus’ voice was pleading, almost pitiful. “My family hates me, they think it was a mistake having me. You have no idea how hard - .”
I lifted my palm to stop him from talking, and he did. My eyes fell on the back of my hand, the gnarled fingers, the dry and wrinkled skin that showed my age. I closed it tight into a fist.
“I do not need to hear your life story, Marcus,” I said coldly, and it was the truth. Their pasts never mattered too much to me. That wasn’t my job. I was just meant to take them from the shore and bring them to the other side. Whether they wanted to or not.
But this, this young man…he wanted it. I could practically taste his thirst for it.
“Do you know what you are asking?” I asked him.
“I’m asking to be set free,” he replied, and my lips curled in amusement. I must look a terrible sight to him, even when smiling.
“Freedom?” I asked. “You think there is freedom where I shall take you? Over there,” I motioned to the dark horizon beyond the bridge, “on the other side?”
At this, he hesitated. No. He wasn’t truly sure.
“Anything would be better than what I have right now.” He said this with conviction, and for the first time in centuries I felt a bud of curiosity for a passenger’s past life. “Save me.”
“If you seek redemption, I am not who you are looking for. I am not an angel, Marcus,” I pointed out. “I cannot save you. Or anyone else.”
The air suddenly crackled with static electricity and I turned to the end of the riverbank, hearing the sound of shuffling footsteps in the underbrush just behind those trees. My passengers are about to arrive.
Marcus heard it, too, and he looked at me beseechingly. “Take me, please!”
I regarded him with pity. “You are not who I came here to pick up, Marcus. Your time isn’t up yet.”
Two people, a man and a woman, stepped out of the trees, looking utterly lost and terrified, their eyes darting everywhere.
Their eyes met mine.
And they knew.
The woman began to whimper, shaking her head, taking a step back. The man, helpless, sank to his knees, regarding me with resignation.
“Meanwhile,” I said, lifting a finger and pointing at the new arrivals, “their time is.”
Lightning flashed, momentarily turning the world blindingly white. A second later, everything was back to normal, with only the moon overhead illuminating the night. Marcus’ radiance had diminished, his anguish and desperation sucking the life out of him.
The man and the woman now sat at the bottom of the boat. She was clinging to her companion as she stared at the bones and skulls around her.
“Go back, Marcus,” I said. “We shall meet again, but not anytime soon. Not yet.”
“It’s my life!” He was shouting now. “I decide when my time is up!!”
“No.” My eyes fixed on him, and I felt him recoil. It hurt me, his reaction. But this wasn’t the first time. “It is I who shall decide.”
The boat turned and slowly made its way back the way it came. The only sounds that could be heard were the woman’s sobs, the man’s sighs of acceptance…
…and Marcus’ silent pleas.
I shut my ears. Not this time, Marcus. Not yet.
FIN.
...didn't like this, either.
* * * * *
Week 13 Prompt: The Soundtrack of my Life
“Can you hear that?”
The question, written in big bold letters on the board, as the first thing I saw as I entered the empty room. Earlier, I’ve seen the students file out of the room, their musical instruments tucked under their arms, musical sheets stuffed in their bags, their minds humming a tune only they could hear…
Soon that tune would be laid out for the world to hear, to savor.
But not me.
Silence welcomed me as I stepped further inside, my eyes riveted by that single question on the white board, imagining the hand that wrote it. A hand that, I am sure, could produce the very same tune I long to hear…the very same tune I could never hope to create. No, not even in my head.
I walked towards the grand piano on the elevated podium, its ivory keys seemingly beckoning me with a quiet pull. My fingers slid over the keys…pressed one…and then another.
I wondered what that sounded like.
Quickly, as if scalded, I snatched my hand back, my fingers curling inside my fists. I stared at them for a moment. No. These fingers weren’t made for ivory keys.
I turned away from the piano and noted the rows of seats before the podium. That’s where the students sat, cradling their instruments. I lost count of the many times I stood, unnoticed, at the doorway, silently watching them go about their business with intense concentration on their faces.
My hands fell once more on my fingers. No, these weren’t made for strings, either.
A movement at the doorway caught my eye, and I saw Ellen, my best friend, waving at me. I waved back. I’m supposed to meet her at the cafeteria later, in five minutes.
I raised five fingers at her, and she nodded, saying she’d wait for me at our table.
I watched her go, wondering if she saw the question written on the white board. Apparently not.
Or maybe she just pretended not to see.
I turned to look back at the board, this time wondering about the owner of the hand that wrote it. What was he thinking when he wrote that? Why was he asking such a question?
Of its own volition, my legs led me up to the podium, only coming to a stop before the board. I picked up the marker and uncapped it.
I’ve read somewhere that there’s supposed to be a pop, when one uncaps a marking pen. I didn’t hear it.
When one writes something on a board, there’s supposed to be this swish-swish sound as the words were slowly being formed. I knew I wouldn’t hear it.
In a music room such as this, symphonies and melodies were supposed to ring loud, high and beyond any other insignificant sounds. I’ve been outside this room every day for the past year, and I never heard a note of it.
It had always been…silence.
All my life, nothing but silence. No, not even the beating of my heart.
My hand lifted, with an answer ready to be written.
“I want to.”
FIN.
...for some reason, i think this is my personal favorite...
* * * * *
Week 14 Prompt: Blessings
Every inch of her body screamed with pain, as if she just came from days and days of endless walking.
She had no idea how long she had been out of it, and she had no recollection whatsoever of what happened right after she passed out. There were only cool, methodical hands, soothing voices even as orders were being given, and that antiseptic smell…
She remembered the stricken look on the hospital aides’ faces when she showed up at the glass doors, in pain and short of breath. There was no need for words. They immediately took her in with open arms.
It seemed, somewhere in this world, there were still some who would take her in, no questions asked.
That thought stayed with her even as she was wheeled into the dimly-lit room and face after face hovered above her. Somebody wiped the sweat from her brows, another cool hand kept stroking her forehead, whispering unintelligible words to her ear. She found them comforting nonetheless.
She did not feel it, but she knew they gave her something to dull the pain, to put her to sleep. And it was with a blissful sigh that she closed her eyes and left everything else to those hands.
But now that she woke up, the calm was gone, replaced by panic as she found herself alone in this room, immaculate in all its whiteness.
She turned her head this way and that, but there was no one else to be seen. Her heart beat faster against her chest. What if…?
The door opened and a female nurse, dressed all in white, stepped in, a clipboard in hand. Her middle-aged face wrinkled in a smile when she saw the patient awake.
“Hello there, Maree! How are you feeling?”
Maree opened her mouth to speak, and found it was too dry. In an instant, the nurse was handing her a glass of water, which Maree drank gratefully.
“There. Better now?”
Maree nodded, warily looking at the nurse. “H-how…how long was I…”
“You’ve been asleep for nine hours straight. It was quite a difficult procedure, we almost lost you.”
Maree felt her eyes prickling. “Wh-what about…”
She watched a shadow cross the nurse’s face. “He’s fighting, Maree. Very bravely so.”
He.
“A…boy?” She swallowed, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over.
The nurse smiled. “A lovely boy.”
“What…what’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him. He just decided to come out sooner than he was ready.” She reached and touched Maree’s trembling hands. “He is fighting, my dear. And so, far, he’s putting up a good one. He will be fine.”
Maree sucked in a breath, tamping down her emotions. She had never broken down in front of anyone before, not even when Jake decided to have nothing to do with her and their child. Not even when her parents angrily turned her away for the ‘shame’ she had brought to their family. Not even when she realized she would have to bring her child into the world all alone, and it would only be the two of them.
She was not about to cry in front of a stranger now.
The nurse patted her arm briefly. “You take some rest. The doctor will be making his rounds in a couple of hours.”
Maree wordlessly watched the kind nurse step out of the room, then fixed her gaze on the ceiling. This wasn’t where she should be.
Slowly, she sat up and got off the bed. Her eyes found the sweater she was wearing the previous night and wore it over the hospital dress. Carefully she pulled off the needles on her arm, wincing as she did so.
There was no one in sight when she walked out of her room. She had no idea where she was going, but she felt a certain pull, showing her the way.
Is this what they call the bond of a mother to her child?
A couple of turns later, she found herself standing before a wide glass window separating the hallway from a room filled with cribs of wailing and sleeping babies. Her eyes darted to the corner of the room, where she knew her child was.
Then she saw him.
He was inside an ovate glass, with tubes running through and from it. A young nurse was checking something beside the glass, but Maree only had eyes for her baby.
Something lodged in her throat. She swallowed it.
It persisted.
A sob escaped, and her hands flew to stifle it. Tears slid unchecked and soon her body was wracked with silent sobs.
The nurse looked up and spotted her. Instant recognition crossed her face and she walked out of the nursery to hold the crying young lady in her arms.
“Hush, there, there,” the nurse said. She couldn’t be any more than twenty-five years old…a good 7 years older than Maree.
Maree breathed in and out, in and out. With the sleeve of her sweater she wiped her face dry, feeling ashamed to have had someone witness her moment of weakness.
But the nurse was smiling, and Maree wondered if all the nurses in this place were all the same.
“You want to see him?”
Mutely, Maree nodded and let the other woman lead into the nursery. She ignored the other babies; her gaze was fixed straight ahead, to that glass.
“There he is,” the nurse whispered.
Maree let go of the nurse’s hand – unaware that she had been gripping it tight – and leaned towards the glass. Her fingers gingerly touched the glass, as though the warmth from her fingertips would miraculously seep through the thick glass and touch her son inside.
He moved.
Her breath caught in her throat as his tiny hands opened and closed, his tiny head slightly moved to the side, then settled back to his baby slumber. He had a thin mop of black hair.
Just like hers.
He was so tiny, his thin, frail body looking so fragile against the white sheets. His feet kicked slightly in his sleep, and Maree smiled. Many times she had felt those legs kick inside her.
Her gaze lifted and met the nurse’s smiling eyes.
“How is he?” she asked.
“The worst part is over. I think he will be fine. He just needs to stay there for at least a day or two.” She smiled. ‘You have one strong boy there, Miss.”
Pride welled within her.
Strong boy.
He is strong.
Just as she wanted him to be.
With only the two of them, they would need all the strength they can get, even from each other.
“Have you thought of a name?”
She did not bat an eyelid.
“Boone.” Maree gazed at the best gift she ever had…will EVER have. “His name is Boone.”
FIN.
...this is my least favorite. Why? I didn't feel like I put much thought into it....Anyway, at least I finished eighth. YAY!
I am so gonna join next season still.
thebrenljidol is a community, a Survivor-type of writing community. There is a weekly prompt...everyone submits an entry for that prompt...the entries are posted anonymously and voted on anonymously. People give constructive criticism or "notes" on the entries. As people are voted out it is revealed who wrote what. In the end there will be one writer left standing...will it be you?!
I lasted 14 weeks....and in the Top 8. Not bad, eh, especially for someone as mediocre as me. I got lucky.
Continued from Weeks 1 to 5 and Weeks 6 to 10.
WEEK 11 is where the Top 20 start to 'battle-write' it out.
* * * * *
Week 11 Prompt: Quicksand
She should be smiling.
It’s her wedding day, after all. She has the perfect dress, the perfect hair, the perfect shoes, the perfect nails…
Outside the sun is merrily shining, heralding the union that is about to happen in a few minutes. Not a cloud in the sky, the air reverberates as the bells toll the call for celebration.
The door opens and her mother, well-coiffed and elegantly dressed, walks in, fanning herself with a gloved hand.
“It’s about to begin, my dear Marion,” she says, walking over to inspect her daughter, stepping over the train that sweeps the floor as Marion moves.
“Yes, Mother,” she mumbles. “I heard the bells.”
As always, her mother misses the sarcasm in Marion’s voice. She has always been like that, only hearing what she wants. It is bad vibes, she says, to pay attention to stuff that aren’t ‘agreeable’.
“Your father is already raring to walk you down the aisle, sweetheart! Oh, you should see the smile on his face! He looks like he won the lottery or something!”
Which is not far from the truth, Marion thinks silently.
“That is such a lovely dress, we picked well, didn’t we?” Marion watches the pride in her mother’s face, wishing she’d look her daughter in the eye and really see.
“Yes,” she says softly. “You pick very well, Mother.”
A part of her rebels at the thought of this day continuing. But it has already been decided. No turning back now. She cannot renege on the agreement. If she does, her father would be furious, her mother would be devastated, their family would be put to shame, and the company would go under.
Her entire life – and that of her family – rides on this day, and she could not do a thing to stop it.
The last tolling of the bells. Marion closes her eyes, praying for strength, that her legs might carry her where her heart would not. She opens them again when the bells stop their merry ringing, and she sees her Mother’s smile.
“Ready?”
No. Not really.
“Yes,” she whispers, clutching the bouquet of baby’s breath in her hands, gathering strength from the weak stems.
She follows her mother out of the room, through the wide corridor, and in front of the wide oak doors. She stops, knowing that a new world lies on the other side of this door.
The man she loves deeply waits on the other side. But it has never felt so painful, just to walk through a door.
It creaks open under her mother’s fingers, and Marion blinks as the light from the Church momentarily dazzles her eyes. It takes a few seconds before her eyes get accustomed to it, and when it does, the first thing she sees is her father, looking proud and expectant at her.
The place is packed, and Marion is willing to bet she does not even know half of them. But that does not matter, does it? Nothing matters, as long as she gets married.
By instinct, her eyes move to the side, to the end of the last pew, drawn to the tall man who watches her with an unfathomable expression on his face. Immediately Marion turns away, unwilling to see more, afraid to see more.
The man she will marry stands at the end of the aisle, and Marion wills herself to look at him with acceptance. Here she stands, regarding the man she will marry, while the man she loves stands still and lonely in the corner.
One step, she thinks to herself. Just one step and this will be sealed. Go to my future husband’s side and this will all be over. It will be fine. He is a good man. He will take care of me. He will save my family, our company. It will be alright.
I will be alright.
Marion swallows, noting in the corner of her eye the hand motions of her mother, urging her to go forward.
What will I feel, when I step through this threshold? Relieved? Hopeful? Pained?
Her father blinks uncertainly, a question in his eyes as he tilted his head to the side. It is like he’s saying, “You promised, didn’t you?”
Taking a deep breath, Marion steels herself, and takes the step over the invisible line dividing her old life to her new one.
And she instantly knew how she feels.
Trapped.
FIN.
...chooo depressing. But i'm a fun-fun-fun type of person....i think.
* * * * *
This is the prompt:
You have three ways you can interpret
1. Interpret as if you are the painter
2. Interpret as if you are the subject
3. Interpret as if you are the viewer
(Do one, do two, do all three...whatever works for you!)
* * * * *
He looked like a beacon of light, shining in the darkness of the riverbank. The icy, murky water licked his bare toes, but he showed no signs of the cold. Perhaps, he’s a good actor. Or, perhaps, he just ceased to feel.
As the boat slowed to a stop, a few meters away from where he stood, I rose to my feet and lifted the lamp. Completely unnecessary. The life pulsing in him was brighter than any light in the river, eclipsing this old lamp that had been my guide for centuries.
A flicker of recognition – and of fear? – crossed his young, beautiful face. I wondered how he crossed the divide, the line that separated wakefulness and sleep, how he found his way here.
But I never wondered what he wanted.
“Marcus.”
My voice, old and raspy, spoke the name out loud. Nothing, not even the air, stirred. The only other sounds were that of the water lapping the shoreline, and his shallow breathing, getting louder by the second.
“Marcus,” I repeated, knowing his name. These things just come to me, and it is not wisdom. They just do.
“You are not supposed to be here,” I say, hating the menace in my voice even as I meant it only as a gentle rebuke.
“You came,” he said, and my heart jumped at the sound of his voice. So young, so melodious, so…alive. “You heard my call.”
I wanted to say yes, I did hear his call. But that would be a lie, and I was never one for lies. I just do what I was tasked to, and fetching him wasn’t one of them.
“You summoned me?” I asked, noting for the first time how his eyes shone with anticipation.
Then it dawned on me. That was not fear that I thought I saw earlier. It was a flicker of hope.
I see.
My robes weighed heavily on me, and my cane throbbed underneath my fingertips. I peered at Marcus. From here, I could feel his desire, his longing.
His wish.
“Take me.”
Sadness descended upon me, darker than any cloud marring the brightness of the moon.
“This is rare,” I said, leaning on my cane. “This does not happen very often, you know. Someone wanting me to take them. The others…they beg for more time. But you…”
“There’s nothing left for me anymore.” Marcus’ voice was pleading, almost pitiful. “My family hates me, they think it was a mistake having me. You have no idea how hard - .”
I lifted my palm to stop him from talking, and he did. My eyes fell on the back of my hand, the gnarled fingers, the dry and wrinkled skin that showed my age. I closed it tight into a fist.
“I do not need to hear your life story, Marcus,” I said coldly, and it was the truth. Their pasts never mattered too much to me. That wasn’t my job. I was just meant to take them from the shore and bring them to the other side. Whether they wanted to or not.
But this, this young man…he wanted it. I could practically taste his thirst for it.
“Do you know what you are asking?” I asked him.
“I’m asking to be set free,” he replied, and my lips curled in amusement. I must look a terrible sight to him, even when smiling.
“Freedom?” I asked. “You think there is freedom where I shall take you? Over there,” I motioned to the dark horizon beyond the bridge, “on the other side?”
At this, he hesitated. No. He wasn’t truly sure.
“Anything would be better than what I have right now.” He said this with conviction, and for the first time in centuries I felt a bud of curiosity for a passenger’s past life. “Save me.”
“If you seek redemption, I am not who you are looking for. I am not an angel, Marcus,” I pointed out. “I cannot save you. Or anyone else.”
The air suddenly crackled with static electricity and I turned to the end of the riverbank, hearing the sound of shuffling footsteps in the underbrush just behind those trees. My passengers are about to arrive.
Marcus heard it, too, and he looked at me beseechingly. “Take me, please!”
I regarded him with pity. “You are not who I came here to pick up, Marcus. Your time isn’t up yet.”
Two people, a man and a woman, stepped out of the trees, looking utterly lost and terrified, their eyes darting everywhere.
Their eyes met mine.
And they knew.
The woman began to whimper, shaking her head, taking a step back. The man, helpless, sank to his knees, regarding me with resignation.
“Meanwhile,” I said, lifting a finger and pointing at the new arrivals, “their time is.”
Lightning flashed, momentarily turning the world blindingly white. A second later, everything was back to normal, with only the moon overhead illuminating the night. Marcus’ radiance had diminished, his anguish and desperation sucking the life out of him.
The man and the woman now sat at the bottom of the boat. She was clinging to her companion as she stared at the bones and skulls around her.
“Go back, Marcus,” I said. “We shall meet again, but not anytime soon. Not yet.”
“It’s my life!” He was shouting now. “I decide when my time is up!!”
“No.” My eyes fixed on him, and I felt him recoil. It hurt me, his reaction. But this wasn’t the first time. “It is I who shall decide.”
The boat turned and slowly made its way back the way it came. The only sounds that could be heard were the woman’s sobs, the man’s sighs of acceptance…
…and Marcus’ silent pleas.
I shut my ears. Not this time, Marcus. Not yet.
FIN.
...didn't like this, either.
* * * * *
Week 13 Prompt: The Soundtrack of my Life
“Can you hear that?”
The question, written in big bold letters on the board, as the first thing I saw as I entered the empty room. Earlier, I’ve seen the students file out of the room, their musical instruments tucked under their arms, musical sheets stuffed in their bags, their minds humming a tune only they could hear…
Soon that tune would be laid out for the world to hear, to savor.
But not me.
Silence welcomed me as I stepped further inside, my eyes riveted by that single question on the white board, imagining the hand that wrote it. A hand that, I am sure, could produce the very same tune I long to hear…the very same tune I could never hope to create. No, not even in my head.
I walked towards the grand piano on the elevated podium, its ivory keys seemingly beckoning me with a quiet pull. My fingers slid over the keys…pressed one…and then another.
I wondered what that sounded like.
Quickly, as if scalded, I snatched my hand back, my fingers curling inside my fists. I stared at them for a moment. No. These fingers weren’t made for ivory keys.
I turned away from the piano and noted the rows of seats before the podium. That’s where the students sat, cradling their instruments. I lost count of the many times I stood, unnoticed, at the doorway, silently watching them go about their business with intense concentration on their faces.
My hands fell once more on my fingers. No, these weren’t made for strings, either.
A movement at the doorway caught my eye, and I saw Ellen, my best friend, waving at me. I waved back. I’m supposed to meet her at the cafeteria later, in five minutes.
I raised five fingers at her, and she nodded, saying she’d wait for me at our table.
I watched her go, wondering if she saw the question written on the white board. Apparently not.
Or maybe she just pretended not to see.
I turned to look back at the board, this time wondering about the owner of the hand that wrote it. What was he thinking when he wrote that? Why was he asking such a question?
Of its own volition, my legs led me up to the podium, only coming to a stop before the board. I picked up the marker and uncapped it.
I’ve read somewhere that there’s supposed to be a pop, when one uncaps a marking pen. I didn’t hear it.
When one writes something on a board, there’s supposed to be this swish-swish sound as the words were slowly being formed. I knew I wouldn’t hear it.
In a music room such as this, symphonies and melodies were supposed to ring loud, high and beyond any other insignificant sounds. I’ve been outside this room every day for the past year, and I never heard a note of it.
It had always been…silence.
All my life, nothing but silence. No, not even the beating of my heart.
My hand lifted, with an answer ready to be written.
“I want to.”
FIN.
...for some reason, i think this is my personal favorite...
* * * * *
Week 14 Prompt: Blessings
Every inch of her body screamed with pain, as if she just came from days and days of endless walking.
She had no idea how long she had been out of it, and she had no recollection whatsoever of what happened right after she passed out. There were only cool, methodical hands, soothing voices even as orders were being given, and that antiseptic smell…
She remembered the stricken look on the hospital aides’ faces when she showed up at the glass doors, in pain and short of breath. There was no need for words. They immediately took her in with open arms.
It seemed, somewhere in this world, there were still some who would take her in, no questions asked.
That thought stayed with her even as she was wheeled into the dimly-lit room and face after face hovered above her. Somebody wiped the sweat from her brows, another cool hand kept stroking her forehead, whispering unintelligible words to her ear. She found them comforting nonetheless.
She did not feel it, but she knew they gave her something to dull the pain, to put her to sleep. And it was with a blissful sigh that she closed her eyes and left everything else to those hands.
But now that she woke up, the calm was gone, replaced by panic as she found herself alone in this room, immaculate in all its whiteness.
She turned her head this way and that, but there was no one else to be seen. Her heart beat faster against her chest. What if…?
The door opened and a female nurse, dressed all in white, stepped in, a clipboard in hand. Her middle-aged face wrinkled in a smile when she saw the patient awake.
“Hello there, Maree! How are you feeling?”
Maree opened her mouth to speak, and found it was too dry. In an instant, the nurse was handing her a glass of water, which Maree drank gratefully.
“There. Better now?”
Maree nodded, warily looking at the nurse. “H-how…how long was I…”
“You’ve been asleep for nine hours straight. It was quite a difficult procedure, we almost lost you.”
Maree felt her eyes prickling. “Wh-what about…”
She watched a shadow cross the nurse’s face. “He’s fighting, Maree. Very bravely so.”
He.
“A…boy?” She swallowed, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over.
The nurse smiled. “A lovely boy.”
“What…what’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him. He just decided to come out sooner than he was ready.” She reached and touched Maree’s trembling hands. “He is fighting, my dear. And so, far, he’s putting up a good one. He will be fine.”
Maree sucked in a breath, tamping down her emotions. She had never broken down in front of anyone before, not even when Jake decided to have nothing to do with her and their child. Not even when her parents angrily turned her away for the ‘shame’ she had brought to their family. Not even when she realized she would have to bring her child into the world all alone, and it would only be the two of them.
She was not about to cry in front of a stranger now.
The nurse patted her arm briefly. “You take some rest. The doctor will be making his rounds in a couple of hours.”
Maree wordlessly watched the kind nurse step out of the room, then fixed her gaze on the ceiling. This wasn’t where she should be.
Slowly, she sat up and got off the bed. Her eyes found the sweater she was wearing the previous night and wore it over the hospital dress. Carefully she pulled off the needles on her arm, wincing as she did so.
There was no one in sight when she walked out of her room. She had no idea where she was going, but she felt a certain pull, showing her the way.
Is this what they call the bond of a mother to her child?
A couple of turns later, she found herself standing before a wide glass window separating the hallway from a room filled with cribs of wailing and sleeping babies. Her eyes darted to the corner of the room, where she knew her child was.
Then she saw him.
He was inside an ovate glass, with tubes running through and from it. A young nurse was checking something beside the glass, but Maree only had eyes for her baby.
Something lodged in her throat. She swallowed it.
It persisted.
A sob escaped, and her hands flew to stifle it. Tears slid unchecked and soon her body was wracked with silent sobs.
The nurse looked up and spotted her. Instant recognition crossed her face and she walked out of the nursery to hold the crying young lady in her arms.
“Hush, there, there,” the nurse said. She couldn’t be any more than twenty-five years old…a good 7 years older than Maree.
Maree breathed in and out, in and out. With the sleeve of her sweater she wiped her face dry, feeling ashamed to have had someone witness her moment of weakness.
But the nurse was smiling, and Maree wondered if all the nurses in this place were all the same.
“You want to see him?”
Mutely, Maree nodded and let the other woman lead into the nursery. She ignored the other babies; her gaze was fixed straight ahead, to that glass.
“There he is,” the nurse whispered.
Maree let go of the nurse’s hand – unaware that she had been gripping it tight – and leaned towards the glass. Her fingers gingerly touched the glass, as though the warmth from her fingertips would miraculously seep through the thick glass and touch her son inside.
He moved.
Her breath caught in her throat as his tiny hands opened and closed, his tiny head slightly moved to the side, then settled back to his baby slumber. He had a thin mop of black hair.
Just like hers.
He was so tiny, his thin, frail body looking so fragile against the white sheets. His feet kicked slightly in his sleep, and Maree smiled. Many times she had felt those legs kick inside her.
Her gaze lifted and met the nurse’s smiling eyes.
“How is he?” she asked.
“The worst part is over. I think he will be fine. He just needs to stay there for at least a day or two.” She smiled. ‘You have one strong boy there, Miss.”
Pride welled within her.
Strong boy.
He is strong.
Just as she wanted him to be.
With only the two of them, they would need all the strength they can get, even from each other.
“Have you thought of a name?”
She did not bat an eyelid.
“Boone.” Maree gazed at the best gift she ever had…will EVER have. “His name is Boone.”
FIN.
...this is my least favorite. Why? I didn't feel like I put much thought into it....Anyway, at least I finished eighth. YAY!
I am so gonna join next season still.
