Category: original fiction

En Pointe She's watching me from behind the glass, jealous, desperate. It's her turn to watch, alone, unloved. I spent so long, tucked away, hidden, my voice silenced, my dance stopped. Now I'm in in the spotlight. I move to the center of my large, mostly empty room, and continue to work. Plié, arms raised in a graceful curve. Chaînés, turning again and again as I travel across the floor. A slow stretch, raising my leg straight and high. The fouettés, quicker, harder. I push myself until I'm exhausted and I fall into the armchair. My long pale hair is damp with sweat,  but I feel exhilarated. I untie the satin ribbon of my shoes, unwrap them and slip them off. I take the pad off my toes. She had never truly cared about the ballet, had never put her whole heart and soul into it, as I was willing to. I hear her crying out again, a shriek of pain, but I ignore...

Dreaming of Xanadu She dreamed of Xanadu, with its gilded palaces, a lush paradise full of possibilities. Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. If she could just break free from this house, this ivy-covered prison. When he had brought her here, she had been thrilled. The manor was peaceful, a fair mile from the village, and so solid she didn't hear the winds that barreled across the plains and the storms that regularly blew in felt distanced. The thunder rumbled and lightning filled the sky, but she was safe to watch the spectacle, framed by the huge window in her studio, a room set aside for her to create, paint, dream, imagine, a room he never entered except by her request, hers...

Becoming The wind picked up, the heavy earthy scent she knew so well overpowering the cloying sweet aroma of the roses. "Please," she whispered. "Not now, not yet." The breeze ignored her plea, pulling at her long, tangled hair and the gold ribbons entwined in it, grasping her dress, whipping around her until she was lifted up in it's embrace. She felt the miles flowing beneath her, exotic smells drifting up from villages and cities. The gale released her at the edge of a jungle. She stepped through the trees to the bank of the river, her short black hair covered by a wide, flattened cone hat made of straw. It kept the blistering heat off her face as she stepped into the long, flat bottomed wodden canoe waiting for her. She picked up the paddle, dipped it in the water and helped propel the small, fragile craft, the old woman behind her mumbling as they passed through canopies of deep green leaves. Small villages grew...

Alone The witch was dead. I could see the piles of ashes, bones, bits of flesh, still smoldering in the town square. Her heart-wrenching screams had carried across the small town as the flames first licked the hem of her dark dress, then climbed higher and higher, burning, blistering, devouring. Finally she fell silent and I could breathe again, but my tears didn't stop. I wasn't crying for that evil woman. Her death was hideous and painful, no doubt, but she deserved to be tied to the stake, to be burnt, make no mistake. She was a witch, not a healer, not a wise woman. She ruined Farmer Brown's crop and caused Sissy's cow to go dry. Yes, she gave Alice the love spell, but look at Alice's life now, married to that oaf who beats her religiously, three rotten children who never give her a moment's peace. And my dear Geoffrey. He has waded out of the water to join me on the bank. His feathers...

"The Haunted Bend" No wonder they call this place haunted, Sir Richard thought to himself. He looked down at the body lying on the ground. The knight had quite obviously been thrown from his horse, breaking his neck when he hit the hard ground, but if Sir Richard had been a fanciful man he would have commented on the horror that filled the knight's eyes. Being a reasonable man, a physician, he kept his thoughts to himself and merely stated the obvious. "Third body this month." "I wonder where his horse has wandered off to," Sir Richard's companion muttered, looking around nervously. "Frightened no doubt. He'll wander back to the stable eventually." Together, the two men wrapped the body in burlap and loaded it into the cart, along with the sword and helmet that had fallen to the ground. "His sword was drawn then." "Aye," Sir Richard replied briefly, not wanting to encourage the direction of the conversation. If the knight had drawn his sword, it followed that...

Image credit: Irulanan  Mistress of the Mountains He kissed her swiftly, mounted his horse, and rode down the path. She stood still, watching him go, the cool breeze from the mountains ruffling her soft blonde hair. He had begged her to come with him, to offer her condolences to the Queen of Ryland. It was her duty, he argued, as the Mistress of the Mountains, the ruler of the kingdom's northernmost edge, the stronghold. She demurred, advising him that his presence at the royal funeral would be enough, hers was not needed nor expected. A tear slipped down her cheek as he rounded a corner and disappeared from view. She had longed to tell him the truth, that she couldn't leave this valley, that beyond it's border she would die as surely as the daisies die with the first frost. Only once had she seen what lay past the mountains, the plains that seemed to extend forever full of flowers and warmed by a sun that didn't...