In Which More Free Time Is To Be Had

That's right, folks. Blog updates all over the place. Plus, entire novels written!

It's a new day!

Turn those frowns upside down, there's always a positive!


aha!

The Best of the Brine

"In a Field"

There was nothing between us but the night and the dulcet song of the cicadas.

It was like magic. The grass moved as the wind raked its invisible fingers through it. It swayed from side to side, creating a dark ocean of glinting waves for miles around. The stars were like pin pricks of light in the darkest sheet across the sky. It was as it had always been, a thousand times before. And as it always will be, a thousand times after.

Whoever said that romance was dead? They were wrong. We could prove them wrong.

I pulled my gaze away from the stars. Though they were seductive, they couldn't hold a candle to his eyes. Dark, mysteriously empty, yet full of something I could never identify. That must have been why I always came back to him. Even when we were so close, I could never tell what he was thinking.

The breeze picked up, sending a chill across my skin. I wondered if he was cold as well. His shirt had been lost on the way to the field, and his shoes were somewhere in the distant pond.

"Would you like a blanket?" I asked softly, reluctant to disturb his peace.

His expression remained unchanged, as if my words had been lost somewhere between my mouth and his ears.

The grass tickled at the back of my neck, and I longed for his kisses that had lingered in the same spot, spreading warmth throughout my body. I studied his mouth and admired how white his teeth were and how straight they would always be. Slowly, I slid my tongue along my own teeth, feeling the jagged edge of one that needed repairing. The chip had been his fault, and the memory still brought pain to the nerve endings in my mouth. He had been in the grass, hiding from me. I had tripped over his foot, because I had forgotten my flash light and couldn't see a thing. It had taken forever to find that little bit of chipped tooth; it couldn't stay in the field.

"What are you thinking?" I wondered out loud.

His only response was to remain silent, which perhaps was exactly where his mind was.

My eyes traced the outline of his profile. His cheekbones were so high, his jaw had always been so strong. I propped myself up, so that I could stare down into his inky black eyes. At the angle above him, it always seemed as if he was smiling at me. I liked that best.

Unblinking, he looked deep into my soul. He had always known me like no one else had. At that moment, I wished I could have stayed with him.

"I have to go soon," I cooed into his neck.

The coldness of him tingled against my skin, it sent a thrill to every limb.

Breathlessly, I leaned in, doing my best to keep my fingers away from his body. "You're so lucky that you can stay here."

His face was a brilliant white, like a beacon in the forest of night. I stood up, wrapping my arms around myself to shield me from the pain of leaving him. "You'll be here when I come back?"

Still smiling, he didn't move. I nodded. "I know. Of course you will be. They never look for you at night, do they?"

I walked a few paces away from him, then glanced back. I wondered how many times they had passed by this very spot over these past months and never noticed him there. It was only at night that you could see him. Even then, it was tricky...I had the chipped tooth to prove it.

Some day I would go look for his shoes, so that his feet weren't cold. But to disturb the place where he rested was something I just couldn't do. It was special, it was like magic.

I hated to leave, but the search for his lost shirt called to me. I had to be the one to find it, or the magic would cease to exist. I retraced my steps to the old dirt road until I found my car. Climbing in, I stole one more look in the direction where I knew he was, and always would be.

With him in the field of our dreams forever, nothing but the night and the dulcet song of cicadas could ever come between us again.

Whoever said that romance was dead? I had found a way to make it last forever.



aha!

The Best of the Brine

"The Malice In You"

His soul burned blood red, the color of his true intentions. And he would pay for it.

He sat across from me, but did not see me. I could see him perfectly well. Actually, I saw into him, which was how he had gotten here. All around him, the air sparked and flamed in deep reds, bleeding to the floor. It was frightening to look at him, even after I had seen so many others. Of course, no one else in the room could see his soul like I did. Because I was gifted with the sight.

At an early age it had been discovered that I possessed the ability to read a person's soul. I was always right, because the soul does not lie. When I was asked to judge someone, that was usually the end of the line. No more exits, only the empty room with a pane of glass and the chair.

The man with the sickening soul had been measured and had been sent to his end.

At first, people had assumed that when I read a soul I knew what the person had done. They asked me what the man had done to deserve such a punishment. I had simply told them that they did not want to know. It was the truth. No one should know, and no one ever will.

When they brought me to him, I had known without a doubt that he would die. It only took one nod, and he had been dragged away. He did not scream. But I knew what he was inside, and that was all the people needed to know.

I stared at him through the glass as he sat upon his chair. Wires had been connected to his body, his chest rose up and down in a panicked way. His dark eyes darted around the empty room while sweat rolled down the contours of his face.

Some of the others in the room seemed uncomfortable as they shifted in their seats, waiting for his end. I sat stone-still, anticipating the jerk of the lever. What waited inside the man needed to be snuffed out. His soul needed to stop burning with such an intensity.

I watched his mouth move, forming words that no one could hear. The glass that separated us was sound proofed, for good reason. In the first years, the men used to scream things that only made the spectacle more difficult. Then the silence had been installed, and we could be peaceful in our moment of finality.

But after watching so many of them scream, I had come to learn the words their lips formed. It was better that no one could hear him, it was better they had not known what he had done.

I gave a quick nod to the man shaded in shadow in the corner who tightened his grip on the lever. The lights flickered as the sentence was carried out. Some people chose to look away, but I watched. As I always did.

As the life left his body, and his soul dissipated into nothing I couldn't help but momentarily wish I had heard his last words. "Please," he had whispered "help me."

But there couldn't be any help for a man such as him. He hadn't screamed when they had taken him away, but cried. He had never admitted to the things I knew were inside of him, because he had not known they were there.

It didn't matter that he had never laid a hand on a single person. I had seen his soul and it burned blood red, the color of his true intentions.

As they hauled his body away I watched each person get up and leave. They felt as if they had seen justice carried out. Only I knew the truth.

When I was alone in the room, sitting at its center, I stared at my reflection in the pane of glass. The air around me sizzled with black fire. It was like a void that couldn't be filled, hissing and snarling at the emptiness of the chair behind the glass.

Slowly, I opened my appointment book. My schedule was full for the day. I decided then that each one would be guilty. I was always right, because a soul never lies.

I do.



aha!

The Best of the Brine

From this point on, each time a short story is posted, it will be labeled as such using the segment title above...


"The Letter Keeper"

I found a letter on my doorstep fifty-three minutes ago. I only opened my door because there was a draft coming from the hallway, and I wanted to make sure the building door leading up to the apartments had been closed properly. Sometimes, if one didn't use the correct finesse, the door would stick. Thereby, letting in unsavory people and, of course, the cold weather.

I did not recognize the handwriting. The words were small and cramped on the page, as if the person who wrote it felt as if it was the last sheet of paper on the planet. At first, I felt odd reading the letter, because it was not addressed to me, and going through someone else's mail is definitely some kind of offense. I didn't like breaking the rules, and I didn't like impeding on another person's business. But there was just something so desperate about the first few words which I couldn't help but read.

In my defense, it was left on my doorstep. So, theoretically, it was meant for me. So why shouldn't I have read it? But still, I had to ask the question, if I had accidentally left this note on the wrong doorstep would I want the unintended person to read it? After all, handwritten letters seem so private. Nobody takes the time to write like that anymore. Just type an email and it's delivered instantaneously. No post office, no waiting. Gratification at a moment's notice. But does that mean we also say less in those little notes?

I pondered that question as I fingered the crumpled paper. I tried to remember the last time I had received a real letter in the mail or otherwise. Not a bill, not a bank statement, but an honest-to-goodness letter. Nothing came to mind.

I knew the letter could not have been for me. No one I knew would have ever left it at my door, especially when I was home. It must have been for one of my neighbors. Of which, there were three to pick from. An elderly widow, a young Chinese couple, and a lonely man whose fondness for playing piano kept me up most nights.

Since the letter was in English, one could assume it had not been intended for the couple. I was fairly certain they only spoke a few words of English. The letter was much too complex for a non fluent speaker. That left the man and the widow. I had never seen another soul enter or leave the man's apartment. Which led me to believe he could not have been the recipient. He simply knew no one except Mozart, Beethoven and Bach. And they were dead.

So, it had to be for the widow. An odd letter for such a person, but my skills in deduction left me with no other options. Yes, I would give it to her. Because it could not have been for me.

Besides, there was no return address. No name written at the bottom. I had no way of finding the person who had left the letter. I could only deliver it.

I looked at the clock on the wall. It ticked along as it always did. The widow would be asleep at such a time of the night. I could always give it to her in the morning.

But the letter had been specific. It needed to be read by a certain time of a certain day by a certain person. And, as I had previously concluded, that person was not me. The requirements had not yet been met.

A New Trend?

Lately I have been spending some time over at this website, http://community.livejournal.com/merry_fates . It's a group of authors (one of them is Maggie Stiefvater, author if "Shiver"), and they have contests, write small blogs, and best of all contribute their short stories. I was never really a big fan of short stories. Why? Because I always want more, and I can't write them. Because my imagination cannot be tamed (unless I'm dreaming, but that's for another blog and another day), and my stories always grow and grow and grow until their bursting with 88,000 words. :sigh: It's actually exhausting just thinking about it. But, let's get back to the point.

After reading, and surprisingly liking, a few of these short stories, I decided to take a stab at my own. What did I have to lose? (besides my self confidence) At first, I couldn't think of a topic. Because, let's face it, when I want to write a story it's not because of something I thought of, it's because something dropped on my head. After some tortured minutes of staring at Baby Shut Up (also another blog for another day), I remembered that there was something I could write about. For the past few months I have been working on a project titled Remains, and there was a portion in my head that I knew would never make it into the manuscript, because it wouldn't fit and would make absolutely no sense (can you believe I edited myself? Perhaps the world is going to end). So, I decided upon making it my first short story ever (we're ignoring those short stories I authored before the age of fifteen which I found in a box while moving last weekend. Though, posting the workings of my seven year old mind might be hilarious one day).

So, without further ado, please enjoy. Oh, and don't laugh at me. Remember, this is my first try and I am absolutely NOT a master, nor will I ever become one.

"Skeletons In The Sand"

At first, all I saw were the fingers.

They were white. Not because they were bone, but because of the gloves that covered them. Ten fingers, interlacing and locked for eternity. Or at least until their bones turned to dust. Even then, the dust would mix with the ocean of sand surrounding it, resting in the arms of the wind forever.

Then, I saw the outline of the bodies. Their skeletons lay side by side, as if they had fallen asleep there. It was odd, seeing the dead so peaceful. I had heard about burials and coffins and tombs. But I had never seen them. No one was put to rest anymore. People were killed. They died. End of story.

There was something different about these two. It was to lie down and never get back up. To pass on while holding the hand of someone else. Impossible. Death couldn't be planned. It was sudden. It was violent. It was always unexpected, yet inexplicably assumed.

The traces of their lives had long been erased by the harsh environment. Their clothes, and skin, and belongings had all been taken. Stolen by time, the most greedy of all things.

Yet, something was still there. Their story had not ended. No. It was not over. Something remained. It was a feeling. To identify it was beyond what I was capable of. Because I had never felt it, only longed for it. A four letter word that had once gripped the world with its mystery and beauty. Most of us thought it was extinct. I had never questioned that theory.

I was so dreadfully alone and empty, that sometimes I felt as they looked. A vacant skeleton with no past and a future just as bleak. I was no one and I was going no where. My story would never be heard, because I had not a single soul to tell. I kept staring at the bones, for some reason they captivated me more than any others I had seen. And I had seen a lot in my life.

The gloves on their hands indicated fear, but these two had not been afraid. Only sad. What they had been was something else as well. There was another factor at work here, in this place. In the decades that had gone by since their deaths, something still lingered here. It was strong, yet comforting. Mutual, yet separate. Unconditional, yet restrained. It was everywhere. It held me to that spot as if I was trapped. I could feel it entering me, seeping into my soul. The empty places were no longer so empty.

I had heard many stories about the world-that-was since I was young. They told me of buildings that reached the sky, boxes of metal with wheels that flew over the ground, and of times when the sickly could take medicine to cure their diseases instead of making them into vicious creatures. I had a feeling that out of all the stories passed down, the one laying deathly still in front of me was different.

Because for some, the end of the world holds the beginning of their story.

A flitting from a few feet away made me jump. I walked to it and brushed the sand to the side, uncovering a small rectangular object. Picking it up, I realized what it was. Although it was weather worn and at least seventy years older than me, I could still see the letters, the pictures and blood. The feeling grew stronger, pulsating in my hands as I clutched the small book to my chest.

It was the most precious thing I had ever found. I would take it with me and never let it go. Somehow, I knew that inside of this thing -this journal- answers to a thousand questions would be revealed.

Because if I knew their story, then I might also know love.

I ran my hand along their fragile fingers. Then I spoke to them softly, trying my best to emulate the voice of a pregnant woman I had once heard as she caressed her swollen belly. "I don't know you yet. But I will soon. One day soon."

Then I had to leave, because I couldn't stay in one place too long. The ones who had made the world the way it was were still out there, still hunting. Their red eyes were always on my back. Regretfully, I lifted my feet and started towards the horizon.

Each step took me farther away from their skeletons, but closer to their story. Tonight, I would begin to read by the firelight. At the end, I would know them and they would be a part of me. Living, breathing, being. Whole once again.

I could fill in their remains, just as they had filled in mine.

..aha?

New Posts to Come...

Yes, you heard it right. We have been working on the site, and new posts will be coming soon...ish.

aha!