Challenge 4 - Reflections

She stares at me, curious. Her fine, mousy-brown hair a frizzy halo about her round face. Some of those spots are freckles, others are red and sore from where she’s been squeezing pimples. When she smiles, her eyes crinkle at the corners. Her teeth are mostly straight, except for the big canine on the left which stands out crooked and ruins the whole effect.

No, she isn’t beautiful, not in a traditional way.

I stare back, confused. Is this really how people see me? She looks nothing like the girl I imagine - slim and sexy, with an infectious smile and great hair.

“I don’t like you,” I say to the mirror girl.

Her eyes narrow, throwing the words back at me even as I say them.

“Why can’t you be pretty?” I murmur.

A dark part of me wants to erase her; replace her with someone else. For a moment I understand how the evil Queen felt.

Mirror, mirror, lie to me please.

Nothing changes. Nothing ever will. She’s me and I’m her.

I reach out, our fingers separated by nothing more than a thin sliver of glass. Is it compassion or sadness in her big blue eyes as I whisper, “I’m such a hypocrite, aren’t I?”

She nods, knowing exactly what I mean. There’s so much love in my life, crazy, generous, wonderful people I'm honoured to call friends and family. Who have I ever disowned for failing to be pretty?

No-one, of course. What a stupid question. I don’t care what they look like.

“Then why am I so mean to you?”

The corners of her mouth twitch up; the beginnings of a knowing smile. Perhaps I’ll never be a movie star or a celebrity, but I could strike ‘symmetrical teeth’ and ‘silky locks’ off the list of prerequisites to loving and accepting myself.

Challenge 2: Run!

I have posted my response to challenge two over here: http://beaulahpragg.com/2012/09/25/run-a-3-a-m-epiphany-challenge-2/

Challenge 35: A Place to Call Our Own

I can smell his musk on the breeze, a warm enveloping sense of calm. He is close. Through the muddy undergrowth, I run, savouring the kiss of afternoon sunshine as it pours down into the clearing I have chanced upon. Beauty is unspoilt in our wilderness. Here, anything is possible.

On the far side of the field of wildflowers, I pause beside a trickling creek. There are prints in the dirt, the shape of his toes as he leaped. The rain has just begun to drizzle down the back of my neck. In the distance, a hawk screeches as it swoops down to snatch up its prey. Where has he gone? The imprint of his passing begins to fill with water. Worms wriggle their way to the surface as the spitting becomes a torrent.

Sheltering in the hollow of our favourite tree, I feel like this circle, made by the umbrella of her drooping branches, is my whole world. I am safe and warm, wrapped up in his fur-lined leather coat and listening to the pounding of water outside. It was he who taught me where to go in a storm, how to build a fire of the dry twigs and logs we keep hidden here. I know I will find him, once this wild weather passes on. He can’t have gone far.

I drift into a gentle slumber, unfazed by the howl of the wolves. It is full moon tonight, but they will not bother me. I have my knife and know how to use it. Yet another thing he taught me.

My cheek resting against the rough bark, I dream of other days. Two miles north of here, at the base of the canyon, is a cave where we hid my new spear and a pile of nets I wove last autumn. He promised he would teach me to fish with it in spring, and Verdi’s eye is low on the horizon now, so winter is almost over. If I cannot find him by tomorrow, I will go there and wait. He always keeps his promises.

Dawn brings a frost. Blades of new grass crackle underfoot as I tip-toe out, not wanting to disturb the lively birdsong. Scanning the ground brings me new clues as to his direction. He’s headed west, judging by the lay of sticks beside the thorny brickle bush. It is a heady crawl, over a dead oak bough spanning the crevasse. He found it last year, after the big storm. It will be good as a bridge for many years to come.

He has left a bunch of wild blueberries on the other side, a reward for keeping up with him this far. I am eager to catch him up, though I know it is unlikely. I have never managed it yet, though he insists there’s a first for everything. Another day and my nose aches from the cold. My eyes are watering as I lie on my belly, peering over the cliff at the edge of the wastes. Is this what he wanted me to see? They are closer now than last I remember; dark, snaking pipes seeping black ooze as they suck the life from our wilderness. An owl hoots and I frown. It is not yet dusk, there should be no owls. I glance to my left and grin. There, tied to a low swung branch is a braided leather cord laced through a jade riverstone; a gift from my brother for completing his latest challenge. As I pull it over my head, I look for him, but there is, of course, no sign. I am a big girl now and there are many things I must do alone.

Wordcount: 619

Yay! I think this one is a bit closer to the brief - except for the part about using your own characters. I just made these two up on the spot.

Challenge 35: The Grace of Gods

Space.

Between tiny moments of brilliance when I wonder at the art of creation, there is only the black. It has been a long journey for my ship and I. There are no borders out here, no sense that the hours or days are ticking by. There is only purpose.

You.

I see traces of you in the solar winds. Your eyes sparkling like the corona of that distant blue sun. Free, formless, you are dancing out here in the vacuum. Angel, I have lost you. You have gone where I cannot follow, my dearest.

Sister.

How long has it been since those days? We were so young, so naïve. We saw the fall of everything we held dear, watched our people tear themselves apart. You dreamed of a better life, of a new hope.

Immortality.

Together we lifted those we loved. You and I found the cure for death. Machines and technology, healing, repairing, rebuilding our shells, we were forever young, forever learning. We thought we had left all that sadness behind, but we were still so young. Not ready for the power that came with forever.

War.

I pass now and then, through old battlegrounds. I skirt around drifting debris, rocks that were once planets and suns, shards of great ships and weapons of death. There you are again, in my memory, weeping at the pain, the mad rush to possess, to be right. They were our children, you said. We did this.

Guilt.

You stopped them the only way you knew how. Machines could be turned off, could be modified. You held life and death in your hands and they were forced to listen. When it was done, you fled and I followed. Here, a small blue planet orbiting an insignificant star.

Hope.

The planet turned, the plates crashed and fought, forming mountains and trenches, but still you worked. I wandered those lands alone, waiting for you to find an answer.

Evolution.

Then one day you were gone, a thousand sparkling lights, expanding to touch every part of what is known. I have not the courage to follow. Not yet. For now I am content in my search.

Wordcount: 361 (Way too short i know, but then I don't think this is really a wilderness piece in the way the challenge describes it, so I will do another one anyway)

Challenge 91: Losing Denver...

"Hi sweetie, how was your day?"

"Fine," Denver grunted.

Mrs Lebowski pulled a tray of cookies out of the oven and slid them off onto a plate. Denver, who had been half way up the stairs, paused and sniffed.

"Smells good."

"Chocolate chip and raisin," she laughed. "I'll trade you a cookie for a story about your day?"

Denver slouched in the doorway, school bag heavy on one shoulder. "That guy in shop - Mitchell Lewis. He stopped Anthony Biggs from hitting me today."

Mrs Lebowski's eyes flashed. "Why would Anthony want to hit you?"

"I dunno, because he's a retard."

"Well it was nice of that boy to stand up for you."

Denver shrugged. "Not like we're really friends or anything."

"Ah." Her overly bright smile returned. "You should try a little harder to make friends, sweetie."

"I have friends." Denver said between mouthfuls of cookie. Half the tray was gone before Mrs Lebowski confiscated the rest "for your father."

"So why don't I ever get to meet your friends?" she asked with a pout.

Denver shrugged the school bag back on and said, "Most of them are on the other side of the world. Online gaming and all that."

"Do you have an online... girlfriend?" Mrs Lebowski took a moment to decide on that last word.

Denver's eyes narrowed. "You know what? That's none of your business, Clare."

She looked like she'd been slapped in the face. Footsteps pounded up the stairs and a door slammed shut. Clare flinched, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

Denver didn't emerge again until much later, after George got home.

"Mmm, roast." George gave Clare a kiss. "You know me too well."

Denver made a face behind shoulder length black hair.

"How was your day honey?" Clare asked as George carved the lamb. "Any new developments?"

"The Jefferson Estate looks like it might be a good catch, if I can get my hands on it." George put a slice of lamb on Denver's plate.

"That's lovely darling." Clare smiled.

They ate in silence for a while. Then Clare said, "Someone tried to hit Denver today."

Denver groaned. "Why did you have to bring that up? Makes me sound like a wuss. It's not like he succeeded."

"I wish you wouldn't keep getting into fights, Denny," George said quietly. "That's not how you were brought up..."

Denver scoffed a whole baby potato to keep from responding.

"Maybe you should go easy on the potatoes, Denny." George poured gravy over his own meat. "You are starting to look a bit pudgy."

Denver gave him a scathing look and shoveled another huge spoonful.

"Denver Lebowski." George growled. "Cut the attitude."

Denver stabbed a steak knife into the untouched meat and stood up. "Seriously dad, you call that attitude? I didn't say fuck you for calling me fat. I didn't scream at Clare for thinking I'm gay... even though it's written all over her face every damn fucking day."

"Shut your mouth before I shut it for you." George put his cutlery down slowly.

"George," Clare put a hand over her husband's. "I think Denver has had a hard day. Why don't we deal with this tomorrow after you both have had time to cool down."

George let out a breath and rested his head on his palm. Denver was already gone; motorbike screeching down the drive.

"I don't know what to do about that kid," he said.

"Being a teenager is rough," Clare said. "Losing a mother triply so."

"Denver used to be such a sweetheart though." George asked. "Other kids have lost their mothers and they don't go and... change that much. We should never have allowed that bike..."

"Wasn't our money," Clare replied. "Denver has been working in shop for three years to be able to afford that bike."

"I prefer the online games," George admitted. "At least then I know she's not out getting herself pregnant."

Challenge 179: The middle of Nowhen.

I live in Nowhen, an attic above a clock tower. I stare out my window sometimes, watching the people of my city, frozen in the middle of their conversations - or supping cups of tea. Moments, like pictures, hover every 'where' I look, but the when is all up to me. It takes some practice.

Blink.

There is Mrs. Harper and her old black poodle Tabitha, wandering down main street.

Blink.

Oh, there she is at her house - Christmas Day - her daughter holds wee Tabitha as a puppy.

Blink.

And there is Mrs Harper at her daughter's funeral. Tabitha is only a few years old, head on her paws in the drenching rain.

Nowhen is a lonely place. Sometimes I wish I could return...

See, there I am. Over there in the school yard, waiting to go into bat. Or there, sitting at the edge of the school dance, hoping someone will notice me. And there I am, staring up at the clock tower, wondering why the hands have never moved. If only I could tell myself to turn around. Go home, Lily. There is so much of life to live.

I could have been like Kiera, down at the lake, head on Michael's shoulder watching the sun set. Or Susan, trading a frozen moment of pure agony in the hospital over by the theatre for a family full of smiling faces.

There are more than a hundred thousand paving stones in the street below my window. Go back far enough, it is mud. Go forward and it is overgrown with weeds. People leave and never come back. The clock tower stands all alone, hiding its secret. Hiding me.

Mama never knew where I went.

Blink.

There is Tabitha, sniffing. She barked up at the clock, once. Mrs Harper had stopped to buy tomatoes at the grocer in central park. That was when she lost her dog, and I stopped being quite so alone.

Tabitha and I will never get any older. She is a terrible conversationalist, but then I am not that attentive. Mostly we sit, and I wonder. Maybe I can leave. After all, this is Nowhen, not Nowhere. If I can be here, I can be not here, but how?

Perhaps it is as simple as walking out the door. But that would mean accepting that my 'when' will some day end. I don't know if I am ready... maybe I will watch just a little longer.

Challenge 111: Earthquake House

This house is unfamiliar... eerie at night. Up here in the attic room, I huddle against the wall, sitting on a bed that feels like it was built in the eighteen hundreds. I listen to the wind blowing outside my window and wonder when the next shock will hit. Will I go running to him? Will the roof fall in on my head? I think of my sisters, asleep on the floor below. Will the floor cave in and crush them? It doesn't seem to matter that this house has survived the last three major quakes with barely even surface damage... I am still scared.

I slip out the window onto the balcony. Not the safest place, but I need air. I am suffocating in there. From here you can see the lights of LA, beautiful and yet also a stark reminder of what I left behind today. My own house is down there somewhere, red-stickered and scheduled for demolition. Power is still out in some suburbs - I can see the black patches.

My fingers pick at the peeling paint on the banister. The Howards obviously have not spent much time thinking about maintenance lately... That's cruel, I know. Their father works all the time and the boys have no reason to be thinking about the state of the paint job on the upper balconies. It's not like they ever come out here anyway.

The is a screech of wheels on the gravel and I notice that Dylan is home. I would recognize that bike anywhere. I duck back into my attic room before he notices me watching.

Back to the squeaky bed then. This isn't so bad. I could paint the walls... No. I am not going to get comfortable here. It's not my house.

There is a deep rumble. I tense, knowing it is coming... where do I go? Under the bed? In the doorway? I shrink back into the corner of my bed and watch the window sway in my vision. I will not cry, but I can't seem to stop shaking. Eventually, the house calms down, only shivering a little. I clamber off the bed and feel something akin to sea-sickness. Dammit, why can't you just stand still, you stupid house?

I make myself climb down the ladder. I am not staying up there tonight, I don't care if I have to sleep in Angelette's corvette. I don't want to be in the house any more.

It's on the second story that I see him.

Motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, his eyes lock with mine and I flush. I am not really dressed to be seen in public.

"Hey," he says in a soft, deep voice. "You okay?"

I nod furiously. Admitting that I'm scared to Dylan is unthinkable...

The tears on my cheeks give me away.

"You want to go out?"

I nod, betraying my own resolve before it has a chance to cement.

"Come on." He doesn't even smirk or try to make fun of me. "You'll want to grab a jacket."

Challenge 30: Absentee Father

The sky is blue again.

A real blue, not like the shimmering electric blue we have lived with for the last three years. I look at it and breathe in the fresh air, savouring the taste.

Freedom.

Then I think of his absence and I have to sit down. There is a stout wall behind me, bordering the brown lawn that once was C-Block. People are milling there, staring at the sky and exchanging low whispers. His name is ready on their lips. They speak it in reverence still. Perhaps they haven't worked out that he's gone, they don't know that it is safe to speak their minds. Maybe they really feel that way about him, even after everything he did.

I can't stay here.

I walk away, push through the growing crowds, disappear into the old Biology building. There is an entrance to the tunnels there, disguised as a dangerous electrical maintenance room. I remember the day the bubble went up. My lockpick is not needed today. The door hangs open on one hinge. The tunnels are no longer his secret lair. I push past the rubble, not caring that it could all come crashing down on my head. I only go about fifty metres before it's all caved in. The bomb did its work well enough.

It's sad. I would have like to see his lab. He never did let me in there. He didn't trust anyone with his secrets. Not even the man who took mother's place... There are some things I guess I will never know about my father now.

I leave the tunnels, wander home in a daze. I haven't been here since papa kicked me out - or was it me? Did I sneak out and just never work out how to come back?

The front lawn is dead, just like C-Block. We have been without rain for three years and he wouldn't let us waste the water on things like grass. The front door is gone. Half lies in splinters in the hallway, the other half creaks in the unfamiliar wind as it swings open and shut.

Paintings lie on the floor, surrounded by shattered glass. My mother's photograph is the only thing still untouched, framed above the unused fireplace. Maybe he forgot to take it down? I can't imagine he cared for it. When mother lay dying in hospital, he didn't even come.

The stairs creak, but that is not new. I always heard him coming home from work in the middle of the night, no matter how he tried to tread lightly. He didn't hear me leave. He was arguing with Simon, just like mother, just like all the others who tried to take her place. They couldn't see past his dream-filled eyes and words of hope, his way of making you feel like everything would be alright. They didn't wonder why my little brother cringed when papa raised his hand. No. They were all blind.

My room looks just as I left it. Strange, because I would have thought Simon... No, I suppose Simon slept somewhere else. Papa's room is torn to shreds. Clothing and furniture all scattered without definable pattern. His office too. Recycled paper everywhere - written on both sides in miniscule print. I pick up a sheet but cannot make any sense of the equations. The diagram looks something like the machine he built on top of the University library to project the bubble. On the wall, on the roof, everywhere, there is writing. On a whim, I turn and close the door. He has written on the back too - verses from the bible, only strange. I barely recognize them, despite being forced to recite them as pennance for my wrong-doings. Papa would not hit a girl.

The window looks out on the back yard, paved in one of papa's fits of home maintenance. We all slaved over those stones. It makes me smile to see the crooked lines, here and there. They were probably mine. Papa could not abide disorder. Everything was so clear, so well planned. There was not room in his world for dissention. Perhaps that is why we all flocked to become his sheep, trusting him to lead us through the darkness. Perhaps that is why, now that he is gone, we all feel so lost.

I leave the house behind, knowing I can never go back there. I have said my goodbyes. Still, every street in this small city bears his mark. Buildings, simply by standing, are a testament to his vision. I cross the boundary sooner than I expected. Outside the rim of what was once the bubble, the buildings are rubble, overgrown in only three shorts years. Skeletons still lie where they fell on the cracking streets. I cannot look back, because if I do, I will see him there, hovering far above us with a sad, knowing smile in his eyes. How I hated you. But you forgave me that a long time ago, didn't you?

And We're Back

After much time spent apart, our merry band of mad midnight writers has agreed to return to this project with a few modified rules. We still intend to complete every exercise - at some point - but now there will be a week between new exercise uploads. These new exercises may be chosen at random from anywhere in the book. This means we get to mix things up and I (almight dictator that I am) can do exactly what I feel like.

Mwhahahaha.

All rules about missing out on a challenge if you miss the deadline are scrapped (if there ever were any). We really just want this to be a fun project where people have a go and contribute no matter how crap their work may seem. No judges here, just fun!
So, you fellow members who think you've fallen behind, just pick an exercise at random and post something up. Let's get our momentum going again.

*hugs*

Love you all
- Ani

Challenge 23: Closet Secrets

Darren couldn't believe his luck when the lock clicked open. How many times had he come here? Never before as an intruder.
The wooden 'A' on her bedroom door was a little crooked. He reached out to straighten it, out of habit, but then pulled back.
A small pile of dirty washing sat on the chair, awaiting her attention. The thin silver laptop on her desk hummed and he flipped the lid up, hoping to find a clue to her decision. The desktop was dark with inky swirls. Like Sara's artwork, full of questions.
“I can't believe he did that!”
Darren's heart plummeted. Amber was home and not alone. He scanned the room. There was only one window, behind the desk on a security latch. The only one other option was the closet.
The sliding door clicked shut as Amber's rich laugh filled the room.
Darren's breath caught as he recognized the second giggle. His sister Sara. “Yeah, he used to be such a prat, but then we both were as kids.”
The closet door creaked open. Darren flinched. Amber shoved a coat inside as she said, “He isn't such a bad guy... maybe you should try talking to him again.”
The footfalls moved away from the closet again and the bed squeaked some more.
Someone sniffed.
“Oh hon, I'm sorry. You haven't told him yet, have you?”
“No,” Sara squealed. “He can't ever, ever know.”
“How do you plan to keep it a secret?”
Darren felt like he was suffocating on the pong of camphor. He thought only old grandmothers still used camphor in their wardrobes.
“Do we have to talk about this now?” Sara sighed heavily. “I missed you...”
A lump grew in Darren's throat as the bed springs echoed a new flurry of disturbingly familiar sounds. Amber would always moan, just like that, a little groan in the back of her throat, when he kissed her. He was powerless to block them out as the moans grew louder, interspersed with indecipherable whispers. His fist clenched around the hem of Amber's summer dress, head leaned back against the cool smooth wood of the closet.
Darren had no idea how much time passed, filled with creaks and squeaks and groans. His entire body had cramped up, but still, he dared not make any noise. His imagination ran wild with thoughts of the two young woman entwined, fingers tracing skin. His stomach heaved and his dick hardened in turn. Amber had never let him touch her below the waist, claiming she was saving herself for marriage. As for Sara, she lost her voice completely around boys. He thought she was just shy.
Eventually, the sounds crescendoed, then faded to puppy-like whimpers.
“I'm here, hon,” Amber whispered. “It's okay. You're safe.”
Safe? Darren almost jolted at the word. What could Sara possibly be afraid of.
“I get so close,” she sobbed, “but then that face rears up and I freeze. I'm sorry. I just can't do it.”
“Healing takes time... I would know.”
Darren's hand slipped from her summer dress and banged onto his knee, hard. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. They had both been drunk that night and she had looked so beautiful, his Amber. All he wanted was to feel those gorgeous tits, but then one thing led to another. Her dress slid so easily up her thigh. Her knickers were white and so thin. He could feel the heat of her butt through the fabric. God, he had wanted to much to touch her, he couldn't hear her crying for him to stop. Why wouldn't she let him.
His nose still ached from where she had punched him. Darren woke up the next day with the worst hangover and an even worse message on his cellphone. It was over.
Snores made him think he was safe, but then the closet inched open, silently, and Amber looked down at him, wearing only her pink fluffy bathrobe.
“You can come out now.”
Darren winced at the thought, as much as being discovered. It hurt too much to move. Amber grabbed his wrist and helped him to his feet. He stumbled out of the closet and into her waiting arms.
“I'm so sorry,” he murmured into her neck. He wasn't sure if he was apologizing to her, or Sara.
“I know.” Amber patted the back of his head. “I know...”
The scent of her made him want to cry. He glanced up to see his little sister sprawled on his ex-girlfriend's bed, her messy black hair sprawled around her pale face. Cotton sheets discreetly covered her naked body.
“Why...”
“We need each other, Darren,” she sighed. “Maybe one day, she will tell you.”

Challenge 22: Dreams of Ducks

The little yellow duckling perches on the edge of the river bank, wanting to follow his siblings into the water, but too scared to make the leap. I know how he feels.

It's funny how, when you're little, people think you don't understand anything. They have to tell you what to do. That little duck's mother is chirping at him, telling him to hurry up and do as he's told. It's very naughty to hesitate. My papa says that if I hesitate to follow his commands, it might kill me.

Twittering, the duckling pleads with mama to help him, he can't push himself over the edge. He backs up and tries to take a running jump, but at the edge, he stops. Mama turns around and paddles away, the line of ducklings following, not looking back. That is all the encouragement he needs. He can stand the thought of being left behind. He jumps. A splash, a surprised cheep and he's swimming furiously to catch up. Tough love.

When I close my eyes, I can still see Sonja, my big sister, paying for her disobedience. She has fat tears sticking to her cheeks as she leans over me to kiss my hair, then they drag her away and toss her through the blue wall of safety to the wilderness beyond. She is engulfed by the clouds of ash. A big hole opens up in my heart, but I can't let on, or papa my throw me out with her. I'm perched at the edge of a huge gulf and I'm too scared to jump.

The siren wakes me and I sit up straight away. I'm really good at pulling my boots on, then my jacket. I'm standing outside the door before my mind starts wondering what's wrong this time. The next thing, Simon comes running up the corridor. That's pretty normal, actually. Papa is too busy to come get me in emergencies. Simon scoops me up without saying anything. His face is really white, except for the huge bruise under his right eye. I don't struggle, not me.

We go down the stairs, through all the busy corridors. Everyone is scrambling about. No one notices me and Simon. Out through the mechanical-engineering wing and up the road past the big building people call Erskine. I asked Jack why once. She said some old guy gave the University a lot of money, but Jack makes up answers when she doesn't know them, so maybe she's lying.

There is a motorbike in the stand which looks like it hasn't been used for a very long time. Simon heaves me onto the front and revs it up. I am really surprised that it has any fuel. Things like that are rationed these days. I can't hold back a squeal of joy as we zoom off down the empty streets. I have no idea where we are going, but this is the funnest adventure in a long time.

There is a big supermarket about half way to the edge of the blue bubble. It's always under guard, but it's where papa keeps all the supplies organized. It has more than just food there now. Jack goes shopping for computer bits in the underground carpark, since no one drives these days. Simon grabs me off the bike and goes over to the grate. She's in there, arguing with some dude with floppy brown hair. The guy by the switch stares Simon down. “Whatcha want.”

“I need Jack,” he replies simply, not reacting to the hatred I can see in the man's face.

The guy grimaces and the turns on his heel.

“Oi, Jack,” he yells. “Michael's whore wants to talk to you.”

Jack's head snaps up and her eyes lock onto Simon's face through the grate. Slowly, she crosses the carpark to stand on the other side, but she doesn't open the grate. She looks at me in Simon's arms and says, “Aren't you old enough to walk, kiddo?”

“I need to talk to you,” Simon whispers. He lets me down and I crouch, pulling at my jacket. It's really cold.

Jack folds her arms, but doesn't walk away. In grown up's talk, that means she's listening.

“I need you to take James for a couple of days.”

I stand up at that, looking between Simon and Jack.

“You need me to, or Michael does?” She is pretty pissed off. “You're the one that's practically married to the bastard. I don't intend to be his pawn much longer.”

“Good,” Simon hisses. “Then take the kid with you for God's sake. I don't trust Michael around him anymore.”

“Oh merde.” She shoves her hands in her pockets. “You should come too, Simon. Just walk away.”

“I can't, Jack.” His voice is barely a whisper. He and Jack used to be about to get married but then Simon started working for my dad and Jack threw her ring in the trash compacter. “He depends on me.”

“Fine,” she says, turning her back on him so he can't see how sad she is. “Leave him with me. Sonja and Robbie will be glad to have him back.”

My breath catches. My brother and sister are out there, waiting for me, but I still have to jump. I won't let anyone just drag me over that ledge.

Simon walks away without saying anything and I run after him, crying. “Why are you sending me away. Papa will be so angry.”

Simon turns and kneels in front of me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “I'm sorry James, but it's not right, what your daddy does. I am going to try and make him stop, but if I don't succeed, I need to know you are safe.”

Simon got on the bike again and drove away. He didn't even look back. Tough love. I sat down on the pavement in the cold and cried. There was no choice now. I didn't want to be alone. I couldn't go back and get Simon in trouble. I would go with Jack into the unknown and maybe there would be a family of Collins out there to snuggle up to and make me feel a little bit braver.

Challenge 21: Butterfly Shoes

July 17th was the day I fell in love. Opening the box and peeling back those layers of paper, I caught my first glimpse of the soft velvety crimson, lined in black and topped with delicate little butterflies. Jimmy Choos spring collection had never been so heartbreakingly adorable. That entire day, I gushed to co-workers and customers alike. I sold fifteen pairs before closing time, which was a personal record, especially given their three hundred and seventy five dollar price tag. The next day was the same. Of course, people wanted them in different colors – blue, green, black and pink – but my heart belonged to the red ones. There was a box in my size sitting on the bottom shelf of our stock room and I had put an angel face on the label. Saving ten dollars a week from my pay, I would own those beautiful shoes in only thirty seven weeks.

The days went by and my love turned to a quiet obsession. I began to covet the display model. My smile was still wide and my enthusiasm genuine, but I found myself wondering what force of fate had given those doll-like girls such rich and handsome benefactors when I was all alone. My cheeks would heat at the thoughtless swipe of plastic, as if three hundred and seventy five dollars were as inconsequential as a three dollar bagel from Bagelman's across the street.

Weeks turned to months. Our supplies of the butterfly spring sandal dwindled to one pair of black size tens, a blue size eight and my red size seven. The supervisor came to me the morning before my birthday and said, “Emma, we can't hold these for you any longer. They have to go out on display.”

I nodded automatically, then hurried to the staff bathroom, still holding my breath. I stared at my face in the mirror, pale, eyes wide. Breathe, I thought. It's okay. I breathed, then a tear slipped out the corner of my eye. I brushed it away fiercely, hating myself for being so immature. I was twenty-four for God's sake! They were only shoes. Who cared if I had saved three hundred and twelve dollars, including interest? What did it matter if the shoes ended up on the feet of yet another faceless blonde bimbo with a rich sugar daddy? When would I ever wear such stupid impractical shoes anyway?

I dried my eyes and forced myself back out onto the floor. I smiled and nodded at all the right moments, even summoning appropriate enthusiasm when ladies eyed the last butterfly sandals. I couldn't stop the flood of relief, however, when the shop closed and the red ones were still sitting there, at the top of the plastic pyramid.

At home that night, I made myself a hot cup of peppermint tea. My cellphone went off just as I sat down on the couch to watch the news. My hand jerked in surprise and half a cup of scalding water ended up on my jeans.

“Hello?” I half-yelped into the phone as I searched for something to mop up the mess.

“Emma?”

“Jassie? I thought you were in the Himalayas. Do they have cell phone reception up there?”

“Oh god, Emma,” she sobbed. “I am in so much shit. The border guys in China caught me with coke in my bags. I swear I was set up, but if I don't pay them a lot of money, I don't know what they're going to do.”

“How much do you need?” I didn't even contemplate the possibility that Jassie was lying. My sister was a crazy thrill seeker, but she would never do anything to put herself or her friends in real danger.

“Two thousand, maybe more...”

“Do they take pay pal?” My joke sounded pathetic, even to me. “Look, I'll send a bank cheque or something. Let me check it out tomorrow morning and I'll have you out of there as soon as I can.”

Morning came and I realized I hadn't slept all night. My cellphone reminded me it was my birthday. I rolled out of bed and called my workmate Karla to tell her what had happened. About half an hour later, I trudged down the road in a zombie-like stupor to catch the eight a.m. bus.

“Two thousand yuan?” the lady behind the counter raised an eyebrow. “And this is to be sent to the China State penitentiary? Very well. That will be three hundred and five dollars including exchange fees.”

I just nodded.

At work that day, the red butterfly shoes seemed to taunt me. I knew I had done the right thing. I was even glad for my long obsession, because it had caused me to save some money, money that may well have saved Jassie's life. When I came back from my fifteen minute afternoon break, the shoes were gone. I figured it was better if I didn't know who had bought them.

My till balanced perfectly at the end of that day, though it had an unusual amount of small change. Seventy five five dollar notes, in fact.

The yell of 'surprise' startled me as I entered the staff room to collect my satchel. So many faces staring eagerly into mine. Birthday streamers and balloons lined the walls. Karla, my best friend, stood in the middle, grinning at me. The crowd parted then, and I could see the box sitting on the coffee table. It was wrapped with lacy red ribbons, but I could still see the angel face I had drawn on the label. Fresh tears came to my eyes as I pulled Karla into a fierce hug.

“It's from all of us,” she whispered.

“Thanks.”

I could feel their hands on my arms and shoulders. Suddenly I didn't feel so alone.

Challenge 21: The Jacket with Wings

Just got my very first 'yes' from a publisher ever!! The Jacket with Wings will be appearing in the Summer edition of Black Lantern (http://blacklanternpublishing3.blogspot.com/2009/12/jacket-with-wings.html). For that reason, it is no longer available here.

*hugs and grins all round*

- Love Ani

Challenge 20: Leaving home

“You don’t understand, I have to be packed and ready to go inside the next hour!”

“But Jimmy will be home by himself otherwise.”

“Mom! I’m going to Australia so you’re going to have to figure that one out for yourself in future.”

Her eyes went all sparkly, like she might start crying.

One, two, three ruby roses on her necklace. Don’t think about making mum cry. They looked expensive, probably a loan from work since she definitely didn’t earn enough to buy something like that. Just turn around and walk away, she’ll be okay. Mum looked amazing in her slinky scarlet gown and ruby slippers. She probably would have been the prettiest one at the company Christmas party. Well it wasn’t my fault she couldn’t go any more. I had already warned her three weeks ago that I was going to be spending Christmas with Dad and Grandma in Aussie. She could have arranged a babysitter for James, but instead she did what she always did, pretend that the things she didn’t like weren’t happening at all.

I left her standing all mute and gummed up in the lounge and retreated upstairs to my room. Sitting on the edge of my underwater bedspread, I wondered if I would miss her when I moved to Australia more permanently next year. That was another thing she was pretending wouldn’t happen. I hauled my aqua Barbie suitcase out from under all the junk in my wardrobe and made a face, promising myself a new suitcase as soon as I got a descent summer job. It was just embarrassing, trundling this thing behind me through the Sydney Airport every time I wanted to visit dad. I think it was mum’s punishment for my betrayal, every time I went over there.

I pushed that thought aside. Focus on packing. There couldn’t be that much to take. Christmas was in the middle of summer in Australia and people wore as little as possible. I chucked in my navy swim-team one-piece, hoping dad might shout me a new, flashier bikini as a Christmas present, but wanting to be prepared just in case. A couple of pairs of blue and white boardies and a t-shirt advertising diet Pepsi and I was pretty much set in the clothing department. I remembered my phone charger and toothbrush, but I didn’t need much more than that. Grandma’s philosophy around my visits was to come with an empty suitcase and go home with a full one and that suited me just fine.

I trundled the bag out into the corridor, tensing again as soon as I left my room. Crossing from my soothing steel-gray carpet into the fiery red of the hallway was like giving away any illusion of having my own space. I was in her world from here to the front door. I just hoped the taxi wasn’t late.

Wordcount: 480

Challenge 19: Queen of the Desert

In the dark heat of the Tyrian summer’s evening, a gang of black-clad desert raiders slip over the border to wreak havoc on the sleepy town of Rika. The sky is lit up by their fires. A cacophony of screams follow in their wake. By morning, they are gone, along with twenty-four new slaves, bound in chains and led out into the blinding white of the desert. Bloodied bodies and a single whimpering babe are all that is left of a once happy village.

Years blur like the hazy desert mirage and soon the Rika orphan is a young woman, Emmy (Sienna Guillory), struggling to survive in the bustling slums of the House Capitol, Varna. When she learns of her tragic past from a craggy old man claiming to be her uncle (Jeremy Irons), she gives up everything to follow him into the desert in search of revenge for a stolen childhood and a mother she never knew.

Beyond the barren sands of the desert, she goes undercover, allowing her uncle to ‘sell’ her to the royal harem for a handful of blood rubies. Now all that is left is to find out what happened to her mother, without falling foul of either of the volatile Princes of the Desert. Unfortunately, her beauty and stubbornness has made her the subject of their latest competition. Her attempts to escape them lead her to making a wrong turn and coming face to face with the Queen, a meeting just as shocking for Emmy as it is for the other woman…

A gripping fantasy film directed by Natasha Arthy (Fighter, Mirakel), Queen of the Desert is a dark and powerful tribute to the bonds between mother and daughter and the things we will do for the ones we love.

Wordcount: 296

Challenge 18: A brother's jealousy

Sorry this one is way over the word limit, but it didn't make much sense otherwise.

“Where the hell have you been, Dylan?” James said. “Do you know what time it is?”

Dylan looked at his bare wrist and said, “Nope.”

Charlie was curled up, asleep on the couch and the television was still blaring in the corner.

James folded his arms, leaning back against the archway between the dining room and the lounge, just staring at his younger brother. Dylan was a mess. His school uniform was torn and grimy and half of the buttons were missing. James could smell the smoke as Dylan stormed past him towards the stairs.

“Hold it,” he growled.

“Fuck off, James. It’s none of your business.” Dylan stopped but he didn’t turn around.

"J’taime amour," a silky smooth voice purred from the television set. Distracted for a moment, James glanced at the screen to see a young French woman whispering in the ear of a much older business man inside a smoky club.

“Dad left me in charge, so yeah, it is my business,” James said, trying to ignore the way the woman on the television set reminded him of Danielle.

Dylan did turn around then, his eyes stormy as he said, “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

He glanced at the television just as the older man walked out of the bar, leaving the young woman by herself.

“Look,” James said. “I know I’m not dad, and you don’t have to tell me anything, but you are scaring me Dylan… I don’t want you to be the latest dead kid on the news.”

Dylan snorted. “I can look after myself.”

James tried to consciously relax the tension in his shoulders. The French woman disappeared into the bathroom, her mascara staining her cheeks. If Danielle cried, she would look a hundred times worse. Goth chicks always wore way too much black eyeliner.

Dylan noticed. He was always the more observant one.

“You were a bastard today,” he said softly. All traces of his normal anger were gone as he sat down on the couch, shifting Charlie so that the kid’s head was on his lap. “It’s funny, I thought maybe you had changed.”

James sat on the other couch, staring at the television. Toothpaste and coca-cola competed with Viagra and the Ab-buster 2000, but all he saw was the look on Danielle’s face as he told her she had overestimated the strength of his affection for her. He had been trying to be chivalrous. That was what he told himself. No point letting the poor girl fantasize that there was any chance… Perhaps he didn’t have to do it in front of so many people… but it was just the truth.

“You really were just messing with her, eh.” Dylan shook his head. The French woman dialled someone on her cell phone but no one picked up. She slammed the phone shut and splashed her face with water.

James clenched and unclenched his fists. This was none of Dylan’s business. “What does it matter? If I screw up my relationships, you can laugh. It’s not like you are doing any better.”

“It’s not just you you’re hurting though, is it?”

“What do you care? You hate her.”

“I never said that.”

James blinked, trying to remember why he was so sure that his brother had hated the Goth girl in his class.

“I said she hates me,” Dylan clarified. “Until today, I hadn’t bothered having an opinion.”

The French woman put on some more lipstick, puffed up her hair and pasted on a vindictive smile. She opened her shirt a few buttons and hiked up her mini skirt until the bottoms of her stocking suspenders were visible. Out in the bar, she sidled up to one man after another on the dance floor, searching for someone who would take the bait.

James made a face, unimpressed with her sluttish behaviour. Dylan leaned over Charlie and grabbed the remote, turning off the television. James glanced at him, surprised. Dylan extricated himself carefully and then lifted Charlie into his arms, heading for the stairs. James followed like a lost puppy. When had Dylan, the troubled teen delinquent, turned into the mature one in this family?

Once Charlie was tucked up in bed, Dylan said, “There is a reason why Goths are a minority group.”

“Huh?” James followed him down the hall. “Did you see Dee tonight? Is that why you were out so late?”

Dylan walked into his room and shut the door in James’ face. James just stood there, stunned, trying to process his brother’s words. Minority group. Goths. Suicide. SHIT. He turned the handle, but Dylan had locked the door.

“Is she okay?” he hissed, not wanting to wake Charlie up with a yell.

Dylan didn’t answer. James turned away and began to pace the hall. Surely someone would have told him if Danielle had gone and done something stupid. Angelica would have… No, Angelica only thought about herself and Kitten didn’t speak at all, so she was hardly going to use a telephone. There was nothing for it. He would have to call her.

James pulled out his cell phone and then realized he had deleted Danielle’s number. Idiot. He tried the phone book, but they weren’t listed. Of course not. Their mother was the Head of Security at the Bank of America, she wasn’t going to have a listed number. It was three a.m., but James knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep without knowing that Dee was okay. He raced down the stairs, two at a time, and hauled his Tiger motorcycle out of the garage and then glanced up to see Dylan watching him from the second story with a smirk. Damn him. He knew just how to push James’ buttons. Danielle was probably fine. For all James knew, she and Dylan had cooked up this story to make him feel guilty. Despite that, he knew he had to check on her.

Wordcount: 987

Challenge 17: Moving in

It was strange to think, as we pulled up outside the Howard mansion, that I was actually going to live here. I clambered out of mom’s Ferrari and waded through the heat, hoping the place would have air conditioning. A butler hurried down the stairs to greet us, but I insisted on hauling my own luggage out of the trunk. My little sister Kitty needed more help with her bags anyway.

“Danielle?” There he was, standing in the doorway of his very own palace. Prince Charming himself – James Howard. His voice tasted like chocolate and strawberries. I squinted up at him, an awkward half-grin on my lips.

“What are you doing here?” a second voice said.

My smile fell. Dylan had just joined his older brother and I could almost smell his scorn. Barbara, my mom, tackled the stairs with a bag in each hand. By the top, Dylan looked like a frozen crème puff, sweating in the knowledge he was about to be eaten.

“Not a chance,” he said desperately. “They are definitely not moving in!”

My mom lifted her massive sunglasses and gave the bastard her best ‘I’m going to be your new mother,’ smile. Arthur emerged then and gave mom a massive hug. They actually kissed in front of all of us… Ew!

Mom and Arthur had suddenly sprung their engagement on us all about a week ago and now here we were, saving money in this recession by moving out of our four bedroom house right next to school and shifting into a bloody 10 bedroom mansion in the middle of nowhere. Great.

When I finally made it inside, I was taken aback by how clean and shiny everything was. This place even smelled white. As a dedicated Goth, I officially considered myself to be in hell.

James’ fingers whispered over my hand, making my heart wobble excitedly. Oh, this was so wrong. James took my bag and I didn’t even think of stopping him.

“Come on,” he said, winking. “I’ll show you your room.”

Gods above, I almost melted on the spot. I followed him, doll-like, up the wide colonial staircase and away down a corridor.

“I made sure you got the darkest room in the tallest tower,” he said with a delectable, syrupy laugh. “If you ever open your curtains, you’ve got a great view of the estate.”

He put my bag down on the bed, the duvet cushioning the impact. I didn’t even hear the clink of my crystals crashing into each other, but then I had packed them inside five oversized socks each. I crossed over to the window and peered outside, breathless with the awareness of him, still there, sitting on the edge of my bed.

“So ah…” I said, not brave enough to look around. “Where is your room?”

“On the other side of the house,” he said, a slight tang of regret in his voice. “My dad’s not a complete idiot.”

I did glance at him then. His smile was a sunbeam, breaking through all my shadowy walls.

“I’m here now,” was all he needed to say. In the next moment, he was standing and I was wrapped up in his arms, losing myself in the aria of his kisses. How could I have been so lucky? He should never have even noticed me, hiding in the shadows everywhere I went. How could I be so unlucky? Sure, now we were living together, which was great, except that in three months, when mom and Arthur married, what we were doing was going to be so very illegal.

Wordcount: 607

This is a continuation of New York Girls (my challenge 7), and is part of a story Nightfire and I are developing which has been code named 'The Brady Bunch'

Challenge 15: Dead walking

White is the colour of purity, the colour of my dress, tight with too many pearl buttons. Red is the colour of passion and of sin, the colour of his blood on my hands, wet from the tears as he dies in my arms. Black is the colour of death, the colour of the gun in my hand, loaded and cocked as I turn away to hunt down his murderer.

My almost-husband died that night, the moon shining through the windows of the church where none but the angels of God should have been able to touch us. I thought I had left that life behind me, but now its siren song was calling me back. Out into the cemetery where the bones were whispering, yearning for me to hear their stories, to grant them peace. How could I give something I have never known?

On, into the night, tripping on the hem of my lace gown, stained with his blood and the mud. I rip away as much as I can, discard the useless shoes, run with the ground pressing between my toes. I reach the beach and do not pause for the waves. The one I hunt is barely a shadow in the moonlight, drawing me out, onto the ocean. What a fool I was, thinking to marry in Bermuda; there are too many ghosts here.

Deep beneath the surface lie the wrecks of ancient ships, forgotten by people, hidden by coral and seaweed. One of those shipwrecks is called the Cyclops and the brave men who once crewed her lie now as smooth white shards of bone between her many rotting decks. I can feel them stirring, my foe calling them to his aid. The light of the moon, touching the sea at just the right angle, those bones begin to knit together and the dead walk once again.

Long ago, in the heady perfumed night of Paris, I made the mistake of giving my love to a man, powerful but dark – a necromancer to my ghost whisperer. Such a pair we made, he said, as we danced through the wild streets, defying death and laughing in his face. But my punishment fit the crime. The Black Plague ripped all humanity from my once-lover but I was not so lucky. My heart shattered, seeing the suffering of children, the loss of whole families, lives wasted, dead whispering, blaming me. Incapable of dying, I walked like a ghost through the streets, desperate for any offer of redemption. I could hear the voices. But the dead were always silent to him, pawns in a game without heart, only lust.

Now he had ripped me from the illusion that I could escape my mistakes. My pretence at a normal life was gone, along with a man who loved me in innocence. The dead were walking again and I was the only one capable of sending them back to sleep.

Black is the colour of death, the colour of the inky sea, bubbling with the rising dead. Red is the colour of passion and sin, my life laid bare before God, a small price to end this madness. White is the colour of purity, the colour of the moon on the quiet Bermuda waters as the dead return to the depths and our souls committed into God’s keeping.

Wordcount: 558

Image 1 was:
White is the colour of purity, the colour of my dress, tight with too many pearl buttons. Red is the colour of passion and of sin, the colour of his blood on my hands, wet from the tears as he dies in my arms. Black is the colour of death, the colour of the gun in my hand, loaded and cocked as I turn away to hunt down his murderer.

Image 2 was:
Deep beneath the surface lie the wrecks of ancient ships, forgotten by people, hidden by coral and seaweed. One of those shipwrecks is called the Cyclops and the brave men who once crewed her lie now as smooth white shards of bone between her many rotting decks. I can feel them stirring, my foe calling them to his aid. The light of the moon, touching the sea at just the right angle, those bones begin to knit together and the dead walk once again.

Challenge 14: Adoration of the Cat

He walked into the room and smiled. A black cat lay curled on the couch beside the window. He sat down on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the ball of fur. The cat stretched, yawned, turned around on the spot, digging at the leather with his paws before plopping himself back down and closing his eyes. The young man continued to watch, eyes soft and smiling.

A woman came into the room and, catching sight of him, frowned. She did not disturb him, but walked out again. A minute later she returned with a wine glass in either hand. She sat down beside him, slipping one of the glasses into his hand. She took a sip of the sparkling red liquid, looking between him and the sleeping animal. He wrapped his fingers around the stem of his glass, but did not drink. His tongue slid over his top lip as he let out the barest whisper of a sigh. The woman put glass aside, kneeling forward onto the carpet before the couch. Her long pale fingers smoothed fur, stroking always in the same direction, from behind the cat’s ears around to its curled up tail. The cat woke, purring, stretched and then pouched off the couch, disappearing beneath the bed.

The young man took a sip then, meeting the woman’s eyes. Her cheeks were flushed. She hurriedly peered beneath the bed, cheek pressed against the carpet. He laughed and touched her shoulder. She stood up again, taking another sip of wine. They kissed, apology in her eyes. Beneath the bed, the cat had gone back to sleep.

Wordcount: 270

Challenge 9: Empress Zhangsun

In the year 613, somewhere in the north of China, the young Lady Zhangsun peers through the shutters of her study at commotion in the courtyard below. Her uncle is home, and he has brought guests. She does not recognize them, nor does she expect to, but rumour among the servants for several days has been ripe. Uncle is impressed with one of the young men training under him. He has given her to him as wife.

She watches the men dismount, the servants leading away those fierce looking stallions. Four men, besides her Uncle, are left. The older is at least her uncle’s age, large around the middle with an easy laugh. He is surely the young man’s father. The next is a man, tall and proud. He has seen more than twenty summers compared with her mere twelve. Her hands clasp together, hidden beneath the sleeves of her silk shawl. The sight of him sends a tremor of fear through her and she pulls back from the window, scolding herself under her breath.

“You must be a good wife to whomever Uncle picks.”

She returns to her desk and retrieves a piece of paper from the drawer. She smoothes it down, holding it in place with the special rods, and then, slowly, dips her brush into the well of ink. Holding back her sleeve, she practices her words of the day.

僩

Xian. Courageous and valiant.

孝道

Xiao dao. Filial piety.

She looks up from the page when one of her ladies, Xiaoyu, arrives, curtsies, and announces that the Lady has been summoned. Lady Zhangsun gives the girl her warmest nod, carefully setting down her brush and leaving the words to dry.

The pavilion she has been summoned to is vast, floors of polished wood, walls open to the surrounding garden and lakes. Beautiful lakes with herons and golden trout are the pride of the Gao household. Before she arrived, Gao was concluding his negotiations with the general Li Yuan, his honoured guest, and entertaining Li’s three sons. Now, they are gone and the young Lady Zhangsun and her mother kneel, prostrate, before Gao Shilian, awaiting news of his decision.

“I am impressed by Li Yuan’s boy, Li Shimin,” Gao speaks, almost to himself. “He has shown great courage and piety. He has the heart of a leader. You will marry him, my niece. Bring honor to your family and please him, and he will care for you well. He is an honourable man.”

Zhangsun bows, her head pressing against the floor, heart pounding, but no one can hear it. What does he look like? Is he kind? It will be a month, perhaps more, before the wedding is held. A long time to practice patience.

Mother and daughter rise, bowing their way out of the pavilion. Alone again, Zhangsun prepares tea for her mother, holding back the questions burning within. When she is ready, the Lady Gao says, “My brother has been kind to us and you have blossomed under his roof. Continue to act as I have taught and you will bring great honor to your family. Always obey your husband and respect him, and he will treat you well. Respect and treat your servants well and they will love you. Live within your means, and no one shall have power over you or your house.”

Zhangsun pours the tea, focusing on the flow of liquid into the cups, allowing the scent and the steam to fill her lungs.

“It will be as you say, mother.”

The wedding comes far sooner than she expects, a blur or anticipation, colour, music heard through veils and curtains until that one final moment when she sees him for the first time. He is not the man she was expecting. This boy is fourteen, fifteen perhaps, with shimmering, deep brown eyes, terrified, just like her. All at once, her back straightens and she allows the hint of a smile.

It will be all right. She says with her eyes. He almost smiles back, slipping his hand over hers, claiming her as his own. It will be another thirteen years before they rule China. He will have many other concubines, gifts from families and countries paying tribute to the Golden Empire, but he will never love them as fiercely as he loves her. No other death will devastate him as much as losing her.

Lady Zhangsun was, and still is, one of the kindest and most loved Empresses of China.

Wordcount: 752