A Group of Authors Writing Stories for Your Entertainment
Children's folk tales
Charles sat in his favourite chair in the living room of his
house. It was basically an empty house
now. His wife Marie had been dead for
four years. The book he’d been reading
lay unnoticed on his lap as he remembered the first day he’d seen her.
It was in Paris in the spring a year before their
wedding. She was sitting by the lake in
one of the parks with some of her girlfriends.
The sun shone on her chestnut hair and her almond-shaped eyes sparkled
with laughter. She had looked up and
smiled at him from behind her parasol and he’d felt as if he could fly.
The next time he’d seen her was in December of that same
year. It was just before Christmas and
she was skating across the ice of the lake.
The same lake in the same park, he realized now. If his memory served him correctly, he’d
skated over to her then and, without a word spoken by either of them, became
her partner. They had spent the rest of
the day together. That evening she
introduced him to her parents and soon after, they announced their
engagement. In April of the following
year, they were married in Notre Dame Cathedral and went to Rome for their
honeymoon, where they stayed until July.
The next two months at the chateau in Orynx – the tiny
kingdom where Charles had been born and where they would always live – were
joyous for them. They spent every moment
together. In September, Marie had
celebrated her sixteenth birthday and what a party he gave her! The whole village had been invited! The ten-year difference in their ages went over
well with the local minister, who had come at Charles’s insistence, and
everyone thought they made a perfect couple.
A few weeks later, he was called to London on urgent
business. He was gone until the day
before Christmas Eve. When he arrived
home, he wrapped his bride in his arms and apologized for staying away so
long. She smiled at him and he noticed
there was a special glow in her eyes as she said –
“Don’t worry, my love, I know you’ll always come back.”
Two days later, while she unwrapped the numerous presents
he’d given her, she handed him a small package wrapped in blue tissue with a
pink ribbon.
“Open it,” she coaxed.
He obeyed but said the name of the object aloud in a puzzled
tone.
“It’s a silver spoon.”
“For our baby,” she said with a smile. “Granny says it’s due in May, either the
first or second week.”
“Is she sure?” he asked, for lack of something else to say.
Marie nodded. True to
her Granny’s word, on the eighth of May the following year, a girl was born to
the proud parents. On the day of her
christening, all the guests commented on how sweet and tender the child was,
with such a pleasant disposition. She
was baptized Ella Marie Elizabeth, but everyone called her Ella. As Ella grew and the years passed, these
early compliments held true. By the time
she turned five she was her parents’ pride and joy, but she wasn’t spoiled.
Shortly after her child’s birthday, Marie fell sick. The physician said it had something to do
with her lungs. He gave her all sorts of
medicines and potions to take, but nothing worked. By September she was so weak she couldn’t
lift her head without an effort. When
summer turned to fall, the Minister came and gave her the Last Rites. That night she’d sent for Ella and held her
in her arms for the last time.
“Always remember, my love, that if you need me I’ll be
there. I’ll always help you,” she told
her, but it was barely a whisper.
The next morning the physician came again but it was too
late. Marie had died in her sleep a week
before her twenty-second birthday, but there was a smile on her lips when
Charles found her as if she’d been having a pleasant dream. She was buried a week later behind the house,
in the yard she and Ella had played in and where they’d grown up together.
But all that had happened four years ago. Ella was nine now and growing more and more
beautiful every day. How she amazed
him! Even during the saddest of times,
she had the sunniest disposition of anyone he’d ever known. Marie’s death had taken a toll on him, yet
Ella took it all in stride. Of course,
she’d cried when her mother died, but it wasn’t long before the laughter was
back in her brown eyes. Nothing could
keep her sad long!
Charles wondered how she would react to the news he was
about to tell her – the news that in a month he’d be getting married
again. It wasn’t that Ella was a problem
because she wasn’t. She was the
sweetest, most obedient and good-natured child he’d ever encountered. But she was getting older and was nearing the
age where she would have to learn certain things that would be important in her
adult life; things that only a woman could teach her. And, besides, at least now she would have two
playmates; the woman he was going to marry had two young daughters just one and
two years older than Ella. Marguerita,
the elder, was eleven and her younger sister Ophelia was ten. He had seen them once and to him they
appeared a bit awkward, but in a few years, they’d most likely blossom into
elegant, proper ladies with the right training.
He looked now at his pocket watch – the watch Marie had
given him for their first anniversary.
It was engraved – “To my dearest Charles, I love you, Marie.” The hands, which now read 8:15, were gold, as
was the watch itself. After a moment, he
put the book aside, stood up and went to the semi-circular stair in the entry
hall.
“Ella!” he called, “Ella, would you come down here a moment
please. I have something I want to talk
to you about.”
In her room, Ella was playing with her dolls. For a child of nine, she had the largest doll
collection of any child in Orynx.
Wherever Charles went on his travels, he would bring her home a
doll. Then, for his reward, she’d
smother him with kisses and his heart overflowed with love. She was all he had left in the world, his
parents dying when he was a young man and then losing Marie when Ella was five.
She was a lovely child with long chestnut hair that hung in
soft curls about her shoulders and wide brown eyes that always sparkled with
laughter. She ran now to the head of the
stairs with one of the dolls in her arms.
“Coming, Papa,” she called back, “I’ll be right down.”
She ran back to her room, put the doll on the bed and
scampered down the semi-circular stair to her father’s side. By the time she got there, Charles had
already resumed his seat.
“What is it, Papa?” she asked when he remained silent.
He looked up after a moment and smiled and took her small
hand in his.
“Ella,” he said slowly, “I have a wonderful surprise for
you.”
“Oh, I love surprises!”
“I know you do.”
Again, he paused, trying to pick his words carefully, trying
not to upset her.
“And I know, too, how lonely you’ve been since your
mother….”
His voice trailed off as a lump rose in his throat. This will never do, Ella thought, I have to
cheer him up.
“I’m not lonely, Papa,” she said brightly, “and the only
time I am is when you have to go away…”
And she threw her arms around his neck to prove that she
meant it, then she continued.
“…but I know you’ll always come back.”
He gathered her in and held her tightly in his arms. It was the same thing Marie had told him
their first Christmas together. There
were tears in his eyes as he said –
“Oh, Ella, you are my greatest joy!”
“Truly, Papa?” she asked, teasing him.
“Truly,” he replied and nodded, then continued –
“But now for the surprise.
Next month I’ll be getting married and my
new wife has two daughters who are very close to you in
age.”
Her eyes grew wide with excitement.
“You mean I’m going to have sisters?!”
“Yes, indeed. Are you
pleased?” he asked.
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, “When can I meet them?”
“Not until the wedding.”
She pouted slightly.
“Not for a whole month?
What shall I do until then?”
“Why not plan what you’d like to do with them?” he
suggested, “As I said, they’re very close to you in age. Maybe you can find something you have in
common, eh?”
He paused slightly to look again at his watch – it read
8:30.
“Now,” he continued, “I think it’s about time you went to
bed, don’t you?”
“All right, Papa, but what are their names?”
“Your step-mother’s name is Vera,” he told her, “and your
step-sisters are Marguerita and Ophelia.”
They talked a few minutes more and then he carried her
upstairs and tucked her in bed.
Do you believe in a little magic?
A financial crisis is threatening to engulf the lives of two
farming families.
Jack and Dan Moore are being relentlessly pushed to the very
brink of dispair.
A strange animal enters their lives in a most improbable
way.
Is he their saviour or will they lose everything, including
their families?
The story provides a wonderful insight into the strong bonds
of love that is stretched to breaking point.
Set in Southern England with an American twist, an old tale
is visited, a vital secret shared, and a gift from yesteryear uncovered.
A little magic in your heart can go a long, long way!
A Strange Meeting
Lying full length on wet soil with the rain trickling down
the back of my Hoortex coat was not my idea of fun. Droplets of water were
finding their way into some very unusual and unwanted places. At 6.00 in the
morning, with the sun still absent, an early start was essential for me to
complete my mission. Even so, I found little satisfaction in it. I thought of
my quarry; unseen and silent in the early morning dawn. It had yet to come into
view as the fine rain drifted across my line of sight like lace curtains in a
breeze. Today would be difficult and to pass the time, I thought of other
things, like a warm fire and a hot drink. I let my mind wander rather than feel
sorry for myself. Visibility was poor and my eyes ached so I tried to be
positive. I caressed my powerful .22 calibre Air Arms Pro Sport rifle complete
with telescopic sights (range up to 100 yards) and thought of the successful
walk back. Unfortunately, negative thoughts overpowered the positive ones. Even
with my superb marksmanship, I felt hopeless about even considering seeing my
target let alone hitting it. The morning would be slow, unsuccessful, or both;
where was that sun?
The thought of patience being a virtue jumped into my head
so I hung onto it like a leech. I put up with the rain and remained where I
was.
Time passed slowly and I became wetter and wetter. The bird
song was welcoming as it emanated all around me. The winged wonders sought food
to break their fast, totally oblivious to the damp conditions as they flew from
branch to branch. The odd flash of plumage came into view as they passed and I
could hear the rustles of small animals in the trees and bushes. I wished I
could be as comfortable with the conditions as they, so I rubbed my weathered
hands together to at least create the illusion of warmth. I may be cold but my
hands had to have feeling in them. At this moment I would gladly buy a pint for
the person who invented woollen-lined waterproof gloves. It was such a pity
that my waterproof coat, together with my lovely warm gloves, had been stolen from
the back of my car. My big brother’s coat was just too big to prevent the water
incursion down my neck. Naturally, this exacerbated my miserable state. It was
madness to continue but to move meant failure. I never moved.
I looked at my cheap plastic digital watch that my wife
bought me some eight years before. It was scratched and battered and yet the
accuracy and durability of it never failed to amaze me. I gave myself another
five minutes maximum but within two, the sun’s rays at last began to clear the
mist.
Slowly the visibility changed. I took in the contours of the
pasture in front of me. The rain still dripped from the fronds as it cascaded
steadily to the wet earth, but my eyes focused on the fog. Or lack of it!
The mist slowly dissipated from view as if by a magician’s
command. I could now see. Thus all became clearer as I peered through the grass
and bracken, via the telescopic sight of my trusty rifle.
Suddenly I saw what I sought and a surge of adrenalin
coursed through my body.
A head briefly rose from a hollow about 45 yards away and my
concentration levels rose immediately. I knew that it would rise again and when
it did I would have more than enough time to make the kill. As expected, the
head lifted itself from the hollow and the body naturally followed. I took aim
and gently squeezed the trigger. The lifeless body hit the earth as I watched
through my telescopic sight. A thin smile spread across my face. Satisfaction
with regret ruled my feelings.
Dinner was now assured although I did need a few more
rabbits to feed all of us. Rabbits are very much creatures of habit. They need
to judge the distance of an object as the position of their eyes gives them a
poor depth of field. By bobbing up and down they can overcome this. Thus I knew
that once the first head popped up, our favourite stew would be a reality this
evening. Rabbits can become a real nuisance but I kept them in check and the
family received fresh meat. It was quick and humane, although it still saddened
me a little. At least I could never contemplate using traps, or even worse gas.
Without hesitation, I sought out more targets as rabbit
after rabbit came into view. My old rifle made little noise and I knew that I
should be able to take a good half dozen of them before they ran for cover.
With four bagged already my smile grew wide. I remembered my brothers teasing
me about me shooting nothing in this fog. I also recalled his parting comment
that we would all be eating beans on toast, with me being the hunter. The
memory of his bellyaching caused another smile to drift across my face. Unfortunately,
on congratulating myself, I lost concentration. I casually lined up my sights
on a large rabbit when something very unusual, or in this case unique,
happened.
I saw a flash of white and a blur of speed as something came hurtling towards me. I wrenched my eye from the rifle only just in time, as a bundle of white fur leapt through the foliage hitting me squarely between the eyes. Momentarily surprised and utterly confused I had fallen backwards into a bed of stinging nettles. I found that they were the least of my troubles as a pure white albino rabbit was sitting on my chest. It looked at me with large red piercing eyes. The hackles on its back were raised in alarm although it made no sound and no attempt to hop away. The whiskers twitched and I saw the hackles recede ever so slightly as it edged closer to my face. When it stopped it raised its back leg to scratch its face, all the while staring at me. Looking into its ruby-red eyes I saw fear with composure and confident scrutiny. I had an uneasiness about who was in charge of the situation as Mr. Rabbit looked far more confident than I.
Many of you may not know of drabbles. No, not those cute, furry little creatures from Star Trek—those are tribbles. A drabble is a form of fiction consisting of exactly 100 words. No, not 100 chapters nor paragraphs nor even lines. 100 words. Exactly. Needless to say, such stories are a very hard sell to publishers.
Even among authors, drabbles seem to be the “black sheep” of fiction as I’m aware of very few writers who, if I may be excused the pun, “dabble in drabbles.” And understandably so. It’s difficult. And yet, drabbles are where I feel most at home. Drabbles come far easier to me than allowing me the luxury of thousands of words to tell a story.And when it comes to fiction genres, horror is my other “home.” And so, collected here, you’ll find a good number of my 100-word “children of the night.” Along with three additional stories where I allowed myself to splurge and go wild with close to 200 and even 300 words!
Axe to Grind
The little girl played with her dolls in the serenity of the
barn.
The girl was never quite happy with the appearance of her
dolls, believing that the face of one was better suited upon the body of
another. And so, she would lop off heads and place elsewhere accordingly. She
held up her latest acquisition.
“Lizzie!” came a shout from the house.
The hated stepmother. “Someday…” the girl began, but left
the thought unfinished, instead bringing the axe down upon the doll’s neck,
sending its head spiraling.
“Coming, Mrs. Borden,” the girl muttered icily as she left
the barn…
A Single Teardrop
So this is how it ends, he bitterly thought, peering out
from the penthouse balcony. One nation’s tactical error and a bomb drops,
followed by retaliation after retaliation after …. “You fucking assholes!” he
screamed into the still air.
He gripped tighter onto the balcony railing. He was
grateful, at least, for his wife spared this final moment—being fitfully
asleep, unaware of having been slipped a sleeping draught.
There it is, he cried! He could see the shock wave! Like a
hundred-foot-high shimmering and translucent tidal wave it barreled,
annihilating all in its path.
A single teardrop fell before…
Look Up
The Wicked Witch of the East looked upon the groveling
Munchkins with contempt. The Witch would be rid of them completely if she
didn’t need them for the one thing she herself could not produce.
“24 hours to fill this with gold coins,” she bellowed,
holding up an empty pot. “Or else!”
“24 hours?” stuttered a terrified Munchkin. “We can’t…”
“24 hours!”
To the Witch’s surprise, the Munchkins, instead of remaining
cowered, instead turned incredulous eyes to the sky above.
Despite being a cloudless day, the Witch found herself
suddenly cast in a large shadow. She, too, looked up.
“Crap.”
Lean Into Your Light began as a mother’s handwritten notes to help her daughter rebuild confidence and trust herself again. Those notes became an award-winning personal growth book for anyone who feels stuck, overwhelmed, or disconnected from their inner voice.
Written “backwards”—starting with the outcome we all want—this book gently guides you toward clarity, calm, emotional resilience, and self-trust.
More than a book you read once, Lean Into Your Light is designed to be lived with.
Rooted in the power of language, self-awareness, and compassionate self-talk, this practical mindset book blends reflection with action—helping you shift how you think, speak to yourself, and move through life.
✨ A Book, Workbook, and Journal—All in OneGuided reflections, journaling prompts, and mindset exercises are woven throughout the pages, inviting you to slow down, write, reflect, and reconnect with yourself as you read.
Designed to be revisited again and again, this paperback workbook is ideal for:
• Release self-doubt and limiting beliefs
• Build confidence, self-trust, and emotional resilience
• Reframe negative self-talk and inner dialogue
• Navigate change with clarity and grace
• Create a calmer, more intentional, joyful life
Whether you’re standing at a crossroads, healing from burnout, or searching for a confidence book that feels grounded and real, Lean Into Your Light gently guides you back to yourself.
💫 This is not about fixing yourself—it’s about remembering who you are
The Power of Imagination
You can literally imagine your future into a reality. And,
as you begin to sincerely believe it, this releases resistance and opens you to
receiving, which is known as the Law of Allowing.
I love what the great motivational speaker Les Brown said,
“Operate out of your imagination, not your memory.” This is the secret to
acquiring whatever you desire to be, do, or have! It is the sweet spot where
you intersect your dreams, goals, and intentions with the feeling of already
having them.
Albert Einstein, the famous physicist, said, “Imagination
will take you everywhere. Imagination is everything. It is the preview of
life’s coming attractions.”
How do you do this? Simple…be a kid again! Imagine and
pre-tend you already have whatever you intend to be, do, or have. The
definition of “pretend” says it all: “Speak and act to make it appear that
something is the case when, in fact, it is not.”
Abraham/Esther Hicks says: “Never mind what is. Imagine it
the way you want it to be so that your vibration is a match to your desire.
When your vibration is a match to your desire, all things in your experience
will gravitate to meet that match every time.” She also reminds us that
“worrying is using your imagina-tion to create something you don’t want.” We
all worry. As soon as you catch yourself, gently move away from these thoughts.
For about the first seven years of life, our brain waves are
mainly in Theta, which is associated with imagination and a state of hypnosis.
It was our magical time. When we were kids imagining, we had no limiting
thoughts, doubts, or resistance. We lived in the moment of whatever we were
imagining or pretending. Our “pretend” became instantly real.
As adults, visualization is a term we often use. It means
the for-mation of a mental image of something. Either way you prefer to think
about it, be a kid again, and imagine, pretend, or visual-ize your future life.
Another term for the same idea is Mental Rehearsing, a
tech-nique often used by athletes. Swimmer Missy Franklin, who won four gold
medals at the 2012 London Games, uses visualization to reduce anxiety about the
unknown. She said, “When I get there, I’ve already pictured what’s going to
happen a million times, so I don’t actually have to think about it.”
Each technique works the same way: it carves a path in your
brain to your goal. Among other benefits, science shows us that positive
visualization can decrease stress, reduce anxiety, in-crease self-confidence,
and enhance motivation
Every moment that passed during that night after he left was
excruciating. The first hour was spent in silence. I lay slumped by the front
door, deflated, like a puppet who had lost its strings. I couldn’t bring myself
to move. I felt weighted down with the gravity of every sign that I’d missed.
Every clear signal that Kurt was unhappy. Any warning that we were doomed. How
had I not seen this coming? But I couldn’t bear to dissect our relationship
just yet.
It wasn’t even the bad memories that I wanted to avoid,
honestly. I would have welcomed feeling like this was for the best. What I
couldn’t survive was being swarmed with all the good ones. To think back to
those small moments with Kurt that made me feel warm – like the day that we
spent at the beach in the heat of the sun on rented scooters, zooming down the
loosened sand and racing the incoming tide. We had ended that perfectly golden
day with a six-pack of craft beer and sweet public intimacy that may have been
illegal. But, damn, it made for one hell of a story at parties. I was proud of
that moment and I loved the way that people smiled at us when we giggled at
that confession. We couldn’t keep our hands off of each other and that kind of
tenderness made people jealous. But that story was from the first year that we
met and the adventurous, love-soaked piece of us had crashed like the waves.
After what felt like an eternity, I finally pried myself
away from the inside of our front door. My two hands beneath me, I hoisted
myself up from the floor. One foot in front of the other, feeling heavy, I
collapsed onto our bed. My back to the covers, I stared at the ceiling.
“My kitchen table now, my bed,” I reminded myself aloud.
This space was no longer shared; it was now mine, and mine
alone. That thought was my breaking point, and I desperately searched for my
cellphone. I needed to call Phoebe.
Phoebe was my best friend. We met at university and hit it
off instantly, paired together in Spanish class and forced to create a disaster
of a project together. I spoke Spanish semi-fluently, it was a requirement I
take a language at the Catholic school I attended. Even though she did not,
lack of knowledge wasn’t the issue. We spent most of the time together smoking
weed in her hammock instead of working. We got a C+ on that assignment. That
day after class, we toasted our semi-passing grade with three pitchers of beer
at 2 p.m. We were inseparable ever since.
Since neither one of us had siblings of our own, as time
went on we began calling each other “twin.” We even looked alike with long,
blonde hair that sat wavy when we let it air-dry and piercing blue-green eyes,
a shade which could mimic either a calm, cloudless day or a vicious storm on
the sea, depending on our moods. Phoebe had been my beacon in life these past
eight years. And so once more, I called upon my guiding light to bring me back
to shore.
She picked up after one ring.
“Brettttt! Happy birthday, bitch! How hammered are you right
now – scale of one to ten? Anything less than nine and we’ve got
problems.”
Hearing her voice, I immediately began to cry again. The dam
I had been keeping closed for the last hour since he left had broken, and an
ocean of tears rained into the phone. I tried to speak through the cries. All
the words came out broken.
“Brett?! What the hell happened?! Are you okay?! What’s
going on? Take a breath, talk to me,” she said, alarm in her voice.
“He’s… gone, Pheebs. He… he left. It… it’s over.”
Sob after sob.
The pain wasn’t stopping, and I couldn’t keep it in.
It felt like I was decaying, slowing turning grey, from the
inside out.
Like everything would soon turn to ash, and I would blow
away with the smallest gust of wind.
“What do you mean? Who’s gone? Kurt?!” She asked with a
slight panic.
“Yeah, Pheebs,” I was pulling myself together just enough to try and explain, “he said he doesn’t want to get married. And he just… left. I don’t know what to do, I feel like I’m in a fucking nightmare.”
It all hurt too much.
“Okay, okay,
listen – you are going to get through this, Brett. I know it doesn’t seem like
it right this second, and you probably don’t want to hear it but you will. Can
you tell me what happened?”
“Honestly, I don’t think so. Shit, I don’t even fucking
know.”
“Well, did he tell you why?”
She was a science major. Prescriptive. She needed an answer.
Shit, so did I.
“No, Pheebs. I mean, not really. I know about as much as you
do, as fucked as that is.”
“Jesus,
Brett… I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say.” Her voice wavered. “What can I
do?”
“My head
hurts, my heart hurts, my fucking eyes hurt from crying. I just…wanted to hear
your voice. I’m going to drink this bottle of expensive-ass bullshit wine that
I bought us and go to bed. I’m fine, I just need this night to be over.”
I needed to get drunk.
I needed to forget.
Kurt.
“Yeah, I
totally understand. For sure, drink that bottle. Shit, drink another one. But I
want you to try your best to sleep at least a little bit. Tomorrow morning, I’m
driving to you. I’ll be there in the afternoon, okay? We can do whatever you
want. Cry, scream, eat, get high. Literally whatever you want, we can do it.
Just get some rest tonight. And if you can’t sleep – call me. I mean it, Brett.
Call me.”
She had always been this friend for me. Always ready to drop
anything to be by my side. I’d never known someone so selfless. I knew this
would be hard on her, to be comforting me through this. She was friends with
Kurt, too. They’d always been pretty close. They used to do mushrooms together
in college. On one truly ridiculous trip, they had decided to start a little
drug dealing business. It was nothing big time, just weed. It didn’t last long,
about one month in they realized they were spending more than they were making
because they kept giving deep discounts to their friends. I was their delivery
girl, and one-hundred percent part of the problem. I would smoke our product
with every “client” I visited.
Phoebe always said
that we were still her favorite people to spend time with and was quick to
accept any invitation to stay at our place. Some of my favorite memories were
with both of them next to me. I always counted myself so lucky that they were
close, too. It made everything so much easier. But I knew that no matter what,
she would feel an allegiance to me at the end of the day. We were sisters. I
didn’t want to be selfish, but I wanted that. I needed Phoebe to be on my side
in all of this.
I promised I would call if the night came to be too much,
and she promised to answer if I needed saving. We hung up the phone, and I
searched the room for the wine. That annoyingly over-priced bottle I had
purchased to celebrate my own birthday. Kurt wasn’t a big gift-giver, but I had
always looked past it. I just assumed he’d been too busy to buy me a present
this year, the card I’d received was the best indicator of that possibility. It
was the Christmas card he had forgotten to give me the past year. He had
crossed out ‘Merry Christmas’ and written ‘Happy Birthday’ over the scratches.
I thought it was funny when I had opened it before dinner, so like Kurt to
repurpose an abandoned gift. Now, looking at the haphazard writing on this
desperate, last-minute excuse for affection, I saw it for what it really
was—the perfect symbol of what our relationship had become. Lazy, lost and
lifeless.
I grabbed the wine and a bottle opener and sat back down onto the floor. I welcomed the cold sensation of the tiles on my skin. Suddenly, I was on my side, feeling the icy chill of the rock on my cheek. In that moment, I was looking under our bed. My bed. My gaze fell upon that weathered notebook I had seen in my fiancé’s arms so many times before.
My ex-fiancé.
A stranger.
I thought about how little I really knew about our relationship; how little I knew about him. The man who shared a bed with me for five years. It started to make me feel sick. For how long had he been wanting out of this relationship? Why did he want out of it? How many nights did he lay next to me thinking, “this is not the woman I want to spend my life with”? He never talked to me, he never let me know what he was thinking. He was always just writing.
Writing.
What if that little leather notebook held the answers?
Without taking another moment to consider what I was doing it was already in my
hands. Feeling the tattered edges, I was comforted. Kurt was in my hands.
I knew that what I was doing was the biggest form of
betrayal fathomable. I was, without permission, peering over the enormous walls
that Kurt had built from day one around his soul. I figured he had shattered my
soul and that was without my permission, as well. So, I unfastened the twine
that secured its pages, and I opened it. The sensation of the cover on my
fingers felt like I had something sacred in my hands¬—something that would
either bless me or curse me with what lie in its pages. Like it housed illicit
knowledge, the forbidden fruit. I may be naked for eternity after taking a
bite, but I couldn’t turn back now. I peeled back the front cover and couldn’t
believe what I read.
It was incredible. Every single word. Somehow both forceful
and delicate. It was like seeing Kurt, really seeing him, for the first time.
And that was a magical gift, one I had been craving since the night at that
hookah bar. Kurt may not have been able to communicate, verbally, all that he
felt. But give that man a pen and he spoke chronicles. His verses could move
mountains. And in this wonderfully elusive moment, his words moved me.
The first poem that caught my eye was about his love of escaping the world with whatever book he was devouring most recently. Entitled Paper World, the moniker he eventually gave the notebook itself, the poem was strikingly poignant. It was both beautiful and distressing.
paper world
i have read so many books
i have devoured so many words
i have dove into so many worlds.
each time I turn the final page
-i pause-
-i feel-
i relish the last moments of total submersion.
because these worlds explored
these lives lived
these tales told
are all a means of escaping my own.
and each time
I leave a paper-world
i am sure
that I will never detach
my soul from its pages
with each
book I read
i leave a
part of myself
within the binding.
I never knew how hard reality had become for him, or when he
had lost the lightness he once possessed. Why was the “real world” so hard to
enjoy now? When I met Kurt, I knew he loved to lose himself within a book. I
did, too. But he also enjoyed the life that surrounded him. We used to spend
summer days at the trails by our student apartment housing, with nothing but a
joint and our hiking boots. Some days, we would even leave our phones in the
car, just to be that much more removed from society. It would be so
overwhelmingly hot that we’d eventually strip down to our bare skin and soak
our bones in the cool, cleansing water of the nearest spring. That was how he
first got poison ivy, and I found my first tick hitching a ride on my upper
thigh.
I missed those days, and I missed Kurt
even more.
Kurt.
I turned a few more pages, attempting to soak in every letter, every touch of ink to paper. I yearned to know more about went on in his heart, and in exactly what moment I had left it. I found another one, about halfway through the notebook. And upon reading it, I realized: this one, these words were about me. It was short, but it spoke volumes.
fleeting
they shared their secrets
and their souls
with the fire of the sun
and the calm of the moon
that rested ever so out of reach that night.
but it graced their
every movement
with something so pure
he wouldn’t give it a name
for fear that it might gain wings
and leave forever.
My heart was so miserably full—it was
brief in words, but an epic in emotion. Until this evening, when he told me we
were so irreversibly broken, I felt that the most beautiful aspect of our
relationship was our ability to say so much without saying anything at all. I
knew when I was in his arms that he held me tightly because he loved me,
without any words needing to be said. And now I knew that he did so because he
was afraid I would one day fly away. He left because he was just scared of
having his own heart broken. That wasn’t something that was unfixable. I could
show him that I wouldn’t leave. We could stay in the light of the moon, sharing
secrets, forever.
Tears pooling in my eyes and silently streaming down my face, I turned another few pages. I had to read more about what he felt in the moments when his lips would not betray him. When his mind retreated as deeply as possible behind those towering, secure walls. I read another poem. This one gave me chills.
truth/lie
people tell a lot
of little white lies.
but this one isn’t light.
its dark.
so dark, in fact,
that it steals away
all the beauty
of so many things
you’d told me before.
steals and swallows
our memories
and rewrites them with a murky pen.
all because of one truth
that easily could have been a lie.
and we’d all be better for it.
What the hell could that possibly have
been about? What lie was Kurt struggling with, and why was the truth so much
harder to swallow? I tried to think back to any major life experiences that had
thrown him for a loop. I knew he had a rocky relationship with his parents.
They were both extremely religious and were overtly displeased with his
lifestyle, typical WASPs who drank constantly but turned their noses up to our
marijuana use. To add insult to injury, we were living together and unmarried.
They wanted us to fit into their box and “living in sin” wasn’t acceptable. But
they had been so overjoyed to find out we were engaged, and even happier to
hear that we had planned on having children. His mother even pulled me aside
during Thanksgiving to gently remind me that their table was big enough to pull
up another seat. Was this heated poem indicative of some new altercation that I
had somehow missed?
A bit more aggressively than I meant it, I turned the pages of his ‘paper world’. I ripped the edge of one of the pages. Oh no, Kurt. Cursing my panic, I attempted to tend to the tear. On this page, I found another poem he wrote, a bit more recently by its placement in the notebook. I stopped my frantic and entirely useless attempt to fix the page once I read its title. An Unsent Letter. It read:
No matter what stretch of time
or distance passes between us,
my heart knows one thing:
no one will ever know my soul
the way that you did.
not a day passes by
that this thought
doesn’t cross my mind.
our time can never be erased,
and the imprint you left on me
can never be lessened.
it would be easier if it could be
and I often wish for that relief.
but, as the days draw to a close,
i am constantly left with that same realization:
you were wholly mine
and I was wholly yours.
And it was beautiful.
It was a love letter. But it wasn’t to me.
My Dearest Lilia,
I am sure after these many years you have come to see the
error of your ways in choosing Theodric over me. I am willing to forgive your
transgressions and welcome you to my castle and my god, Sidramah. To make you
even more comfortable, you may bring one of your children with you. Waldrom
* * * * Seven Years Later:
Queen Lilia stood by the doorway of the aerie at the top of
the castle. A gentle breeze blew the scent of liliads through the open doors.
Tapestries depicting Asha covered the stone walls. It was sparsely furnished
with a wooden desk, chairs, a table, and bookshelves. Portraits of the princes
were interspersed between potted miniature rosas. She took off the ceremonial
day robe and tossed it on an armchair, leaving a simple white dressing gown.
She removed the petite crown and placed it on the desk. Finally, she pulled the
white ribbon out of a braid, freeing the hair to fall loose around her
shoulders.
Her lady in waiting delivered a letter. “My Queen.”
After the servant departed, Lilia closed the door and picked
up the letter. It was from her old school friend, King Waldrom. Slowly she read
it.
I will forever love you, but I find it hard to believe you
left me to spend your days in the drudgery of my enemy’s kingdom with his false
god. My lord would have given you more.
Soon you will know the pain I have felt these many years
since you went away.
There will be no peace for you, or Theodric, as long as you
remain with him.
Your only hope is to forsake him and come to me.
W
The letter dropped from her hand as a slow chill crept up
her spine. She grabbed her shawl and went to the crackling fireplace, but still
the chill would not go away. The evil message clawed at her heart until she
could stand it no longer. She snatched the page from the floor and flung it
into the hungry flames.
“I will protect my family from you and your evil, Waldrom,”
Lilia vowed, as the paper burned, hissing and twisting like a snake set on
fire. When the last of the charred paper floated up the chimney, she knew where
to turn for help. Lilia ran down the hall to find Rupert, the words of
Waldrom’s letter echoing in her head.
* * * *
Joachim stood and watched his twin brother, Brandan,
practice the re-growth spell Master Adept Croifan was teaching them. Why must
Brandan always be so difficult? Crack! The sapling exploded and fragments of
the pot and plant shot everywhere, showering the room’s three occupants with
ceramic shards and soil.
Prince and teacher ducked to avoid flying debris. Croifan
straightened up, dusted off his clothes. “Not a success, I think. Get another
plant, Brandan, and let’s try the spell again, but this time use all the
steps.”
Shaking his head at the short, stubby Kningrad, Brandan
said, “Master Croifan, this exercise isn’t necessary. We’ll never perform
re-growth spells. That’s all done by low-level adepts. We’re much more
important than they are.”
“You’re no more important than the lowest serf in your
father’s kingdom.
Besides, you never know when you might be alone and have to
perform one of these spells to survive.” Croifan pounded his staff on the
floor. “Do it again.” He pointed his staff, directing Brandan’s attention to
one of the lily pads in a fish bowl on the floor.
Brandan looked at Joachim and shrugged his shoulders as if
to say, “You asked for it,” and with his deep voice began the chant. “Powers of
Ramajadin quicken the streams of creation within your deepest regions and
enable this tree an increase in the life blood that feeds all living things and
frogs.” With a turn of his hand, Brandan then whispered, “Ignis.” The practice
trees erupted into flames and separated the twins from Croifan, now a small
green frog.
Glancing around the room in disbelief, Joachim yelled,
“Brandan what have you done?”
“Nothing. Now let’s get out of here while we have a chance.”
Brandan stalked to the door. “I have had enough of him and his lessons.” He
stormed out of the training room.
Joachim yelled, “Summergo,” and ran into the garden after
his brother.
Spring was blossoming in Crato, a country in the western
hemisphere of the planet Ramajadin. The royal gardens shimmered with the
variety of purples, golds, reds and blues of the flowers scattered across them,
giving the landscape a feel of rebirth…a rebirth in the faith of the people and
their love of the royal family.
Stepping into the courtyard, Joachim watched Brandan collide
with their parents, King Theodric and Queen Lilia, entering the gardens from
the royal family’s private quarters.
As Joachim reached the royal couple, the king grabbed his
arm. “Whoa, boys, slow down.”
Lilia brushed Brandan’s tunic, wiping away some invisible
dirt, and the king released Joachim.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Joachim responded as he brushed his
blond hair out of his eyes. “I didn’t watch where I was going.”
Smiling, the queen asked, “Where were you two going in such
a hurry?”
Grabbing his mother’s hands, Brandan said, “We finished our
lessons and were headed to the kitchen to get carrots from cook for the horses.
We were planning on riding. Would you and Father like to come with us?”
The king shook his head. “No, I can’t. I have to see Rupert
about the meeting with King Waldrom.”
“Mother, you should come.” Brandan looked at Lilia. “You
haven’t been riding in so long.”
“I wish I could but not today. I must speak to Rupert before
your father, and then I have some letter writing to do. Maybe tomorrow.” She
hugged the twins and then strolled with her husband toward the council
chambers. “I’ll see you boys at dinner,” Lilia called over her shoulder.
As Joachim headed toward the family’s kitchens and reached
the wooden gate in the center of the tall stone wall surrounding the courtyard
garden, Brandan caught up to him and patted him on the back.
“Thanks for not saying anything to Father. I would be seeing
the abbots for sure if he found out about my little spell.”
Turning, Joachim brushed Brandan’s hand away. “Maybe I
should have told Father. Haven’t you learned not to use your magic for evil,
especially during lessons?”
With a push from Brandan, Joachim fell to the hard ground.
“Well, aren’t you Sir High and Mighty, like you haven’t thought about doing the
same a time or two?”
He scrambled to his feet. “Yes, but I would never actually
do it. That’s the difference.”
“Well, maybe you should once in a while, and then you might
be more human.
Besides, who does it hurt?”
“It hurts you and tears your relationship with Asha. If you
have no self-control with Master Croifan, how can you ever expect to be an
Anointed One and a king?” Diving for his brother, Brandan caught his red tunic
on a nearby glingkol tree.
Joachim jumped aside, causing him to land with a solid thump
in a patch of blooming rosas.
“Setting that little fire won’t prevent me from being king.”
He stood and caught his breath. “Besides, who wants to be an Anointed One
anyway?” Brandan landed his fist on his brother’s jaw and then fell to his
knees on the small hillock between the garden and a stone wall behind Joachim,
exhausted and gasping for breath.
“Our final examinations are in a week.” Joachim stepped
forward. “When will we study?”
“You’ll have to figure that out yourselves.” He turned to
enter the High Council chamber.
* * * *
When Queen Lilia reached Rupert’s quarters, she found a
messenger leaving the room with Rupert not far behind. “Rupert, I need to talk
to you.”
“Sorry Your Majesty, but we just received a message, and I
must find the king to tell him of it.” He walked quickly down the hall, leaving
Lilia with her skirts lifted to run after him.
Lilia stopped to catch her breath when they reached her
husband and sons in the garden.
As he approached the king, Rupert bowed. “Sire, we just
received a message from Eyvindur. There has been a raid at Freiberg.” “Raid by
whom?” the king asked.
“The messenger was unclear who ordered the raid, but some
villagers saw King Shigeo, lurking in the forest during the attack.”
“Why would the Mantion king be leading the raid?” Brandan
stepped beside his father.
As he straightened his long gray beard, Rupert continued,
“There was another force leading the raiding party. The villagers reported
feeling evil that didn’t come from the attackers. Something or someone else was
in control.”
“Rupert, take eight men from my personal guard and see what
you can learn.”
“Sire, the Peace Summit is in a few days. We both need to be
here. One of the generals can take care of this. The raid is over.”
“Father, I can go with them,” Brandan interrupted.
Lilia put her hands on his shoulders and gently turned him
so she could look in his eyes. “Son, you haven’t been through your final
testing yet. How can you think about going?”
“The tests are a formality.” Brandan sighed. “You know I can
do this. When do I leave?”
“You aren’t going. Fifteen is too young to undertake such a
task. General Geurin, the leader of the Guard, and his squad will go. Be
assured, when you are ready, I will let you have your chance. Until that time
you must be patient.”
“Father, how can you say I’m not prepared for this? I’m
older than you were when you went on your first mission, and I have more
training than you had. If you can’t see that, then you don’t know me at all.”
Brandan turned and walked away.
“I’m ready for this. I’ll show them all.”
Joachim followed and overheard him mumbling under his
breath.
“Don’t be so angry. We’ll be doing this kind of thing soon
and probably wishing we could be at home instead.” He attempted to placate his
twin.
“What do you know about it? I bet if you asked, Father
would’ve let you go.”
“No, he wouldn’t. I’m smart enough not to ask.”
“Well, aren’t you the special one, maybe the Aga Adept?”
Brandan sneered before he pushed Joachim away and stormed into the palace.
