Entries from The Dead Muse

[asianmommy]

Well, I thought I'd actually put something up since this section exists. These are some things I wrote quickly. They're not completely edited. But... I'm part of a LJ community that does weekly challenges, and I thought I'd share a few of them because I actually liked the way a few of them turned out. If you're interested in joining the community its called The_Dead_Muse.


Here's the guidelines for the Lyrical Thoughts Challenge

We challenge you to pick a song (be it your favorite song or whatnot). You must then choose a section of the lyrics to create a thought or saying in your work!

and here's my entry
(I got second place on this challenge - its a community vote)

Challenge Name: Lyrical Thoughts
Lyrics Link: Nails for Breakfasts, Tacks for Snacks (Panic at the Disco) (http://www.plyrics.com/lyrics/panicatthedisco/nailsforbreakfasttacksforsnacks.html)
Rating/Warnings: Uh... i have no idea about this story's rating. it's kinda strange, someone wanna rate this for me?


My appointment is at ten. The morning had already passed me by and my mother was screaming at me from the other side of town, I knew it, even though I couldn’t hear her. She was always yelling at someone, and I knew that it was my name she was cursing as she talked to her shrink with the toupee that liked to get high between clients. He and my mother had sex once on his stupid green carpet. He groped her lustily while she moaned. I was fifteen at the time, and I heard them because she rolled over on her phone, which auto dialed me. I still have nightmares about it, and my phone is always off when I have sex.

My shrink had a nice big plant in his office and I like to stare at it while he tells me what my dreams mean. His voice drones on and on like bees, and I keep wondering if that’s what he sounds like during sex, but I would never want to find out for sure. He’s squat and kind of ugly, and the only thing that isn’t a dull color is the green in his plant. That plant, I love it.

My shoes are green today, to match my shirt which is for Slytherin. I loved those Harry Potter Books, they were really good. I always wanted to be a writer, but could never find the time. My jeans have holes in them, not in any interesting places, just on the knees and thighs. I catch guys trying to look at my ass as I walk by, which is why sometimes I turn around when I walk, just to catch them looking. I can’t help my figure, though I wish I could, but it’s another one of those things.

The building where my shrink is has brown paint and blue paint in different themes and shades. I think it looks like someone scrambled one of those little Amazon poison frogs, but no one listens to me, and believe me I’ve tried to tell them. I walk into the lobby and say hi to Denise. She’s very nice, brown hair, brown eyes, very normal except that she likes to watch people go to the bathroom. Denise smiles at me with crooked teeth and I walk into the elevator with perfect timing. The elevator has blue tile, it’s worn with a million steps. I look at my watch.

It’s ten. I’m late! I can’t be late, I always leave at the same time, and i always arrive in the office at 9:56, with four minutes to spare. It can’t be. I check my cell phone, it’s silver face blinks the time at me, 10:00. The walls are coming into a point, like a pyramid with six planes and I keep thinking, “what will they think of me?”

I imagine walking in late, my breathing rushed, and the girl at the desk thinks, “that’s odd, she’s never late.” I try to smile but I can only fake it this time. Then I get into the office, and the doctor stares at me, “You were late today. You’re usually right on time.” He might think it’s funny but really he’s judging me, thinking that I’ve become irresponsible. And I am, why didn’t I leave earlier?

I get to the floor, number ten, just like the time, I like the symmetry only now it’s 10:01 and my heart is racing. I smile at the desk girl, fake just like always and she says, “Hi, the doctor will be right with you.” I try to get a cup of coffee but my hand is trembling slightly and I don’t want anyone to see it so I decide to sit instead. The light is coming in through those big windows and it’s in my eyes. I want to move but I don’t want to seem like I’m fidgiting so I sit there and try not to stare into the sun, which is hard to do when you’re thinking about it. Finally it’s 10:02, and the doctor opens his door. He smiles at me and I feel like I’m going to throw up all over his stupid red sweater. The man always wears red, but he looks like a tomato.

“I’m sorry I was late.” I mumble to his hand as I shake it.

“Were you late?” He tries to act like he didn’t notice, but I’ve never been late.

“I was,” I say nervously. That sounds stupid though and I automatically regret it.

“Well, that’s not so bad, a minute or two is understandable. Did you get held up on your walk here?”

“No, no muggers or anything,” I try to make it a joke. I laugh to loud and then wince listening to my own laughter. He tries to chuckle. I’m such an idiot. People are late all the time and it’s no big deal. I don’t know why I am freaking out so much.

“That’s good, but I didn’t mean held at gun point. Did anything happen on the way here?” I knew that, it was a joke, I curse and I get so frustrated with him, he always says those things like I don’t understand him and his tomato red sweaters, then I tell him what happened, or what I wanted to talk about, or what I dreamed about. I talk, he drones, and I think about the plant. There’s a cycle, it’s predictable. Fine, I’ll just answer him.

“No, just a typical walk here, I did have to wait for the light to change today though, usually I manage to catch it and just cross, but today I had to wait. I’m sure that’s probably the reason.” I say. It’s a perfectly good reason as well. I bet he thinks I’m lying, that something happened and I don’t want to tell him.
“Is that it?” See I knew it. I knew he thought I was lying to him.

“Yes.” He thinks I’m lying. Jesus I hate being late, there’s so much to deal with, this is why I’m never late. I bet Jesus was never late, and even if he was, he never got shit about it. He was the savior, if he was late no one questioned it because he was probably late for a reason, even if that reason was snorting crack off a hooker I’m sure they thought he was late for curing someone’s blindness or lameness or something.

“Do you think Jesus was ever late?” I ask him, I don’t think I really meant to.

“No, I think whenever Jesus arrived he was on time, no matter what time he said he’d be there.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous. I think Jesus cared about being punctual. He was on a schedule.” Christ where do I come up with this stuff?

“I don’t think people cared if he was late.”

“I think he cared if he was late, or was it God who chokes in these situations... running late. No, no, he called in , I’m sure. He probably said something like, “Sorry, but I’ll be a few minutes late. Who is this? This is GOD. Yes, THE GOD. Sheesh!”

My shrink laughs and starts to tell me something about theological humor. It’s time for me to study the plant except its not in the room. Damn him. I look about the room. Nothing in here has changed except the plant. God, I want the plant back, this is too weird, now I feel like I have to listen to him drone.

“What happened to the plant?”

“I’m sorry,what?”

“The plant, there was a plant here.” I get up to him and put myself where the plant was, thinking leafy thoughts.

“ Oh, I went away last week and they forgot to water it. When I came back it was pretty much dead. I had to throw it out.” His voice is still plain, no remorse. That plant was like a companion, here for me when I had to tune him out. I want to cry. I try to breathe and sit back down, but as I’m coming back to the table I lose it.

“I can’t believe it’s dead.” I cry. His eyes are round and, I never noticed before, a hazel color. “I can’t believe it’s dead.” I say again, and bury my head in my hands, which ar trembling again. I don’t even try to control the shakes. I breathe in hard and can’t control it, the tears are coming, and I reach into my bag. I know they’re in here somewhere. Panic is setting in. There it is, I pull open the little pill case. I dump out a klonopin wafer, quick dissolving to alleviate your anxiety. I breathe in and out and put it on my tongue. This is crazy, isn’t it? I’m crazy. I’m staring at my green shoes trying to calm down and my shrink is just watching me, like a zoo animal for him to observe or soemthing, Christ.

“I’m going to call Dr. Marcini at the Hospital, isn’t he your psychiatrist?” He asks me, with my head between my knees.

“Yeah, Albert. He’s good. Not like the last guy, Richard, he was really a dick.” Whitticism comes at the worst time. I’m never funny when I want to be. “When I was staying there, this doctor, Urich, he was really nice to me. He specializes in personaility disorders though, so we didn’t see each other much. And then there was Frank Hayburt. Frankie was so good to me, he was my shrink when you were out of town.”

“I see,” says my shrink, having noticed that the change in topic has brought me around. Personally I think it was the drugs, but what do I know, right?

We talk for about another half hour when my mother calls me. I leave early to talk to her, something that always happens. She’s upset, which means I was right, it was my day to be ranted and raved about. I wave goodbye to the lady at the desk and head back into the elevator, not really listening to my mother’s tears about how sorry she is she failed me as a parent but how distraught she is that I’m failing her as a child. My mother is no saint. What would God think?

I go back through the lobby, waving goodbye to Denise, who is probably ready to go to the bathroom with her little hand mirror. The day is still pretty bright, despite my mother’s insistant upset attitude. I tell her not to worry. They have pills for everything now a days. She whines and finally I tell her I just have to go, I’m ordering coffee, which I’m not.

I’m feeling a lot better this week after my weekend stay in the hospital , I tried to take too many pills again and they had to pump my stomach and watch me for twenty four hours. I think sometimes I only do it for the attention, but I know at the time I really wanted to die. My cat found me on the floor. She meowed in my face but I couldn’t lift my arms to bat her out of the way. I tried too, then I just started screaming at her to shut up, she ran away, but someone came, eventually. Someone always comes, and they took me. Today is a good day, however, and the color of my shoes matches the color of my shirt, in memory of that plant in my shrink’s office that’s dead now.

I just take everything a day at a time.

[asianmommy]

The Vile Villains challenge, this one also placed. :D

So this is a bit of a twist on perceptions; as most of the time we like to write from the "hero's" perspective, what would life be like if you were seeing through the eyes of someone who wasn't so good? A big challenge for most writers is perspectives; challenging ourselves to see through eyes not quite our own with experiences we've never had. So this week's challenge is to choose your villain; any type really from your psychopaths, to your sociopaths, to the Disney villains, to anything you want. You must write through their perspective, help us see through their eyes and into their minds.

Challenge Name: Vile Villains
Rating/Warnings: R
Chosen Villain: Original Character
I ended up leaving in a few details at the end because, even though they sound kind of strange, i feel they are necessary to the characterization. :)


I knew, when I looked at you, what thoughts were running across your mind. You scented her, and like a hound and a hare I could read what you wanted.It was plain enough in your eyes, round and excited. I almost expected saliva to drip down your chin and pool at your feet on the floor. The way you stared after her. You were thinking about how good she would look with blood coming out of her mouth, staining the carpet that you would maim her on. The one you would leave her to die with out in the woods, or floating down a river. You were thinking about how pouty her lips seemed, and how good they would feel as you swallowed them. The lust, naked and hot on your face excited her and you told her, in your shy unseeming voice, “I’m sorry, I don’t usually stare, but you’re just so beautiful.”
Disgusting, mostly because she fell for it, and tonight you’re supposed to meet her, aren’t you? You’re going to fall in love with her, just like you always do, and then when you try to give her the ultimate act of love, they’ll never see her again.

Love. It’s your favorite game. Like the blonde with the green eyes and the small breasts. She had a shy smile and awkward way of walking, like she was trying to hide in the middle of the day. Lisa, wasn’t that her name? I saw you watching her that day in the coffee shop, and I knew how much you wanted her, wanted to hold her, wanted to love her, and wanted to rip off her nose and devour her lips. And you did, didn’t you? You were with her for what, a month, maybe two. There was an engagement ring and china patterns. You took her out to dinner, and to movies. Sometimes you stayed in and just watched her. And then one night, your love for her was so strong. How did her lips taste? Was her blood very satisfying? They found her, two weeks later in a river bed three towns away. They don’t know it was you, I didn’t tell them either. No, I kept your secret, let you stay safe.
I was watching you when you killed Maria, the cute little read head with the brown sweaters and Birkenstocks. The way she swung her hips, like she was always dancing - even when there was no music. You took her dancing every night, even when it was raining you both danced under the stars. Her fire was bright and you warmed yourself with her for a year. Her beautiful dancing filled you with such passion. When you made her sway beneath you before you left her in that ditch, did her laughter still tinkle like bells?
When you left, I went to her. I gave her mercy and sat with her in the rain as the light faded from her eyes. You left her, bleeding out your love, her lips torn away, her eyelids consumed in your desire, and her guts splattered all over the side of the highway. I put my hand over the place where her nose used to be, and i stuffed her shirt in her mouth, and I held on until she was gone. She didn’t even struggle. And still, I kept your secret. There was a butterfly pin on her sweater, the one you bought her. I wear it now in my brown hair. You never said anything.
Veronica. She was pretty, another red head wasn’t she? She was mousy and shy to most, but in the bedroom, didn’t she open up? I thought I heard her screaming your name. She took you to new heights, and taught you some tricks of her own. The way to tie someone up so that they didn’t go numb in the wrists and arms while you pleasured them. The best way to take someone while you were trying to hide your face, or disguise parts of your body. She was talented, and nearly as twisted as you. The two of you, it seemed, formed a perfect bond. You even took her out one night to kill under the stars. That prostitue never saw you two coming. To her you were a strange, kinky couple who wanted to watch each other get off with someone else but your fun was a little too kinky. Veronica reveled in it, didn’t she? But then she was dead, choking on her own blood in the bottom of a pit, gravel stuck in her torn out stomach. She cried until you smashed her face in with a shovel.
Then, in two days you discovered someone new. And when I mentioned the red headed vixen that you’d been with for almost two years, what did you say?
“Who? Do I know her?” You played ignorant so well. I wanted to crush you. Lying is something I cannot abide by. I hate liars. I pressed further, and you evaded me so well. Me, the person who has kept your secrets. Then, I realized that you really had forgotten her. Isn’t that it? Everytime they’re gone, it’s like you never met them. Your innocence is always in tact as you move onto the next one. Each time it’s the first time for you.You love them, and destroy them, and if that wasn’t bad enough, you forget them, as if they were nothing more than gas you passed or a penny you dropped.
And this is why we’re here now, you bastard. This is why I am going to kill you with this gun and this anger in my heart. This is why I hate you, not because you couldn’t love me, crazy me, but because you loved them and forgot them, as if they were nothing. But they were not nothing, I saw them die, and I know them, all of them. And now, I’ll take your life, but I won’t forget them. I won’t forget you.

The body of a young man was found today in the river outside of the Glensdale Park. Sandy brown haired Adam Taylor was discovered to day by Sarah Glossman, 8, and Daniel Glossman, 6, as they were playing hide and seek with their mother. Adam Taylor, the captain of the University Soccer team, President of the Habitat for Humanity, and Homecoming King, will be mourned today at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Main Street where he was a volunteer on weekends.

[asianmommy]

And then I was proud of this one but it didn't place.

This was The Twisted Tales challenge
Your challenge is to take a fairy tale and bend it to your will. Twist it to the point that it is no longer the same tale that you once knew. Perhaps the villian is now the hero or the princess was not the sleeping beauty we thought her to be. Twist up that tale.


Twisted Tales
Rating/Warnings: R for mature ending
Fairy Tale Used: The Frog Prince


Once upon a time in the Kingdom of Rio-Vale there was a great meadow outside the King’s Garden in which many animals made their homes. The lush green grass and slightly rolling hills were ideal for all kinds of animal families. In particular there was a kingdom of frogs who lived in this meadow and were often found hanging around the King’s well.

The Frog Kingdom had three princes. The eldest prince was most responsible, he spent time with his father the King. The middle prince was most musical and often sang for anyone who would listen, at any time in the day. The youngest prince was, as is typical in these stories, most handsome and most clever. Our story today is about this prince and his wager with the rabbit.

Now rabbits lived in their warren under one of the hills on the meadow. In fact, they lived under a great tree growing in the middle, and their family was vast in number. Rabbits are, as you may know, tricksters by nature, and often looking for the best way to have fun and get a little bit of the King’s Lettuce. The particular chocolate colored rabbit in our story is named Zepha, and he is the littlest rabbit in his family, and happens to be the trickiest as well.

Now, our youngest frog prince, who we shall call QuickTongue (though his frog nickname is something quite worse), was sitting one fine summer morning on the side of the King’s well with his friend Zepha. They were discussing all manner of things as the sun climbed high in the cloudless sky. There were bells ringing in the distance and Zepha spotted the King’s youngest daughter, coming out of the palace.

“Look, QuickTongue,” said Zepha. “It is the King’s youngest daughter. She is lovely, is she not?”

“She is alright, for a human,” replied QuickTongue, catching a fly in one strike and devouring it noisily.

“Surely a handsome frog like you would have no trouble getting a fair maiden such as that to kiss you.” The rabbit smiled an irksome smile and winked at his friend.

“I would not have much trouble, no, but why would I want to, Zepha. Humans have all manner of diseases.” Crunch went another fly. “Why don’t you kiss her, then, if you think she’s so special.”

“Alright,” Zepha said, and walked off to get a kiss from the princess.

It took no cunning at all to get the princess to kiss the cute and fuzzy rabbit on the nose, for if a rabbit asked, wouldn’t you kiss it too? Zepha blinked his adorable wide eyes and twitched his small brown nose, and politely asked for a kiss.

As he hopped back to his companion, he made sure to take in the moment so as to make QuickTongue jealous. “You see, QuickTongue, no problem at all, and no diseases either.”

“Well, I could do that.” QuickTounge humphed.

“Oh?” And with the bait set, the rabbit asked, “and what else could you do?

“I bet I could lay with that princess as a male lays with any female.”

“But surely you could not, for you are not human.” The rabbit gasped in astonishment.

“I can, and I will.” The great frog prince inflated himself and set off to devising a plan. The rabbit merely smiled and watched his friend in action.

In an hour or so the princess had produced a plain gold ball which she was amuzing herself by throwing up and down in the air. QuickTongue saw his chance and dove into the well, snapping the ball with his tongue as he went. It fell in behind him, and the princess, thinking she dropped it, looked longingly in after it.

“Oh my ball, my precious little ball,” cried the princess. She sat by the well crying until she heard a voice.

“Princess, don’t cry,” it said. “I can retrieve your ball if you will bring me to your house and be my friend, if I can share your plate, and sit wit you at the table, and sleep on your pillow.”

“Oh, anything, anything you want, is yours if you’ll only help me get back my ball.”

“Alright.” The frog sent the ball speeding to the top of the well and then asked, “Princess, will you not take me up in the bucket?” But she had already gone away.

The frog fumed as the rabbit laughed and lowered down the bucket for his friend. “It didn’t go so well, I think.”

“No, it didn’t, but I am not beaten,” QuickTongue smiled. He left Zepha in a lurch and hopped off toward the palace.

It was a long hop, and the King and his family were seated at dinner when the frog finally reached the palace doors. He used his tongue to bang the knocker. There was no answer, so he banged again and then, in his sweetest and most pathetic voice said, “Oh princess, it is your friend the frog, you left me in the well, but I managed to climb my way to the top. I only ask that you keep your promise to me.”

It was another long while before the princess finally came to the door, having been persuaded by her father to keep her promises, even if it was only to a frog. “That frog is one of our neighbors, and if you made him a promise, daughter, you will keep it.” The beautiful daughter was red with distress and wet with tears as she brought the frog into the house and set him on the floor beside her chair.

“Won’t you please let me eat with you, friend?” He said, making his eyes wide and large. The princess’ slightly older sister looked down at the frog’s sad and pathetic expression and scolded her sister. The frog was lifted and ate from the princess’ plate, though nothing on it was truly appetizing to him. He would not disgust the humans by eating bugs in front of them.

He spent the whole evening with the princess and her sisters, being fawned over, and pet, getting much attention from them, as the youngest princess sulked at being made to keep this frog around. “Tonight,” she told the frog as they went to her chamber, “is the only night you get, frog. Tomorrow you go back to the meadow.”

This suited the frog fine, so he said nothing. She put him on her floor as she got herself ready for bed. He hopped to the window and lifted the rabbit in with his tongue so that he could see his friend succeed. “I’ve eaten from her plate, and been fondled by her sisters, and tonight I shall succeed in our little wa ger.” The rabbit took his place under the bed and waited. The princess did not take the frog to bed with her, but left him lying on the floor. He called up to her, “Princess, can I not lay on your pillow as you promised?”

“No, you cannot!” She cried. “I will not sleep with a frog.”

“It is cold here on the floor,” he whinned. “May I not have your night gown at least to wrap myself in.”

“No!” For she did not want to be cold herself, but she took off her under garments and threw them to him. You can have my underwear, frog, and be happy about it. The frog wrapped himself in her underwear and proceeded to wait for her to fall asleep. He winked at the rabbit, who rolled his eyes.

While she slept the frog lept onto the bed and got under the covers, enjoying the warmth of her body. He crawled down underneath her nightgown and tried to mate with her as if she was a female frog, inserting himself inside her and slowly thrusting against her as he would with a female. Now, I don’t know if you can imagine what a shock that was the the princess who flung the covers back, picked up the frog and hurled him against the wall, where he splatted with a long croak. As he slid down the wall, he called out to the rabbit, “see, I did it.”

The rabbit laughed, and laughed and out the window he said to the night, “see, I told you I could make him do it, now I get my end of the bargain, all the King's lettuce, and he gets what he's earned." A fairy came in and transformed the frog into a real prince, a man with beautiful eyes and long blond hair. The daughter began to scream and the rabbit and the fairy jumped from the window sill into the night to collect his lettuce.

The king came rushing in and QuickTongue, being quick with his tongue, told the King that he had been trapped in the body of a frog for his whole life, and with the devious dealings of his daughter the princess was set free. His only wish was to marry her and be with his savior forever. After hearing this tale from the handsome young prince, the King was only too glad to marry off his youngest daughter, who sputtered and protested the entire time, trying to claim that the frog had tried to mate with her.

“Raped by a frog?” Her sisters laughed, “but his little thing would not even be long enough to enter you.” They thought she was just making up stories to keep from marrying the prince and being forced to move away from their father who spoiled her rotten.

And the frog prince, no longer a frog, married the king’s youngest daughter, and during their honeymoon the frog lay with the princess as a man.

The End

(I know it was kind of a weird grim twist...)

[asianmommy]

Challenge Name: Worth 1000
Ratings/Warnings: R
Link to image(s): http://www.flickr.com/photos/itsgreg/2561135388/
Word Count (Optional): 1000 even
Author's Note (Optional):
This is a great challenge, guys! I really enjoyed it.


Things Left Unsaid at a Motel Six

Alex tries to forget that he left his sunglasses next to the phone in his motel room. He put them down when he got back from dinner. She was in his arms in moments, Shera - the woman with the auburn hair and green eyes, wearing the black, velvet cocktail dress. They met in front of “Aloha”, the new restaurant on Eighth Street. She was standing with a handsome, but starchy looking banker-type. Their eyes met as Alex squeezed by them, brushing her shoulder with light fingertips. Alex, a slightly punky, self-employed solo artist, with strong features, soft skin, black hair and cornflower blue eyes, strides up and steals her away as they sip drinks at the bar. Casually, he brings himself to her, and says, “Hi, would you care to join me for dinner? My table is ready.”

She leans into him, her soft scent wafting up to meet his nose. “Sure, this is a blind date,” she whispers. She whispers, looking him up and down. “And you look like you’ll be a lot more fun than he is.”

“Right this way.” He leads her away with a smile and a wink to her abandoned date. They’re seated with his connection in a fraction of the wait time, and they’re sipping sweet wine before the phone call Jackson (the banker) was having with the co-worker that set them up was over.

They had pleasant, if not sexual conversation over dinner. It was softly spoken with stolen glances from under batted eyelids and deep looks with strong gestures. They danced an intricate dance of sexual intimacy with each other in perfect, matched step, as if neither of them had any fear. She played her hand along his as they shared a dessert. He kissed her fingertips gently as he lifted her hand away from the check, sliding his credit card inside the black folding book.

The ride to his motel was a soft play of fingers over black velvet and charcoal pinstripe. Her eyes full of heat, his eyes sure of the evening to come. As they enter the motel room he throws his sunglasses on the table. He turns on the light, and slides her onto the bed. They dance a complicated tango and then a sophisticaed samba over the covers. For hours, they explore each others bodies, quickly, slowly, with passion and speed, lazily, until the sun starts to climb back over the horizon. She leaves quietly while he is in the bathroom, using the toilet and cleaning his hands, properly, rubbing them together for thirty seconds, covered in white lather.

She slips out without a sound, and she removes all the money in his wallet, almost four hundred dollars. It’s six in the morning, and she takes a cab back home. He comes out, ready to talk to her, ready to tell her how enjoyable it had been, and couldn’t he call her when he came back into town. She was gone though. So he packed up his bag. Rolling up his pants fromt he previous night, and finding her card next to the night table. She was a designer, a dress designer. She had her own store. Shera’s Gowns. Not a very original name, but quite an original woman.

He was in the taxi before he realized that he’d left his sunglasses, under the light that he didn’t turn off. The table in the corner, near where the dark blinds were pulled to the light of the day, held only the phone and now Alex’s lonely glasses. Alex growled under his breath about how expensive they were. He should have grabbed them but he didn’t think about where they had disappeared to.

On the plane it nagged at him all through the movie, more than the fact that she left without a word. It bothered him as he drove from the airport back to his house, more than that she took the money from his wallet. Making himself something to eat, he started getting angry about leaving them, but he began to ask himself why. Why did she take the money? Why did she leave? Why did he have to leave his damned sunglasses?

He looked at her business card. Should he call the mysterious woman from his one night stand? He turned it over once, twice, looking at the way it reflected the light. He thought about his money, his sunglasses, and the sex. He smirks. It was worth four hundred dollars and the sunglasses.

In the motel room, the sunglasses were reflecting the light of the lamp he left on. There were particles of dust floating down on top of the lenses, and the cleaning staff was about to come pick them up.

Shera was spending the four hundred dollars on herself, a new emerald velvet for the gown she’d been wanting to work on, new shoes, champagne, dinner, and some left over for splurging on junk food and movies. She had enjoyed the sex, but it was easy to take advantage of the young, rich men who seemed to find her the most attractive. Alex was the most attractive of them all, and the sex was phenomenal, but this was how she had fun. Her husband was none the wiser.

Shera’s husband, a boring stuffed shirt of a man with a small penis and too much fat, worked at a brokerage firm. He was always gone, working, drinking, trying to get his too small dick sucked by secretaries and temp workers - settling for whores and strippers. She went away for weekends where she would get herself hooked up with rich, young men, have long nights of passionate sex, and then take all that they had on them. She usually left one for another, taking every opportunity that came her way. It was a game.

Alex, the money, the sex, the nagging sensation, the question why, the sunglasses, all caught up in Shera, her husband, his too small penis, and her game.

[KiaKat]

Suggestion: your characters are fascinating (so flawed, I love that) - try lengthening your sentences. The short ones make the flow a bit choppy, and your descriptions deserve more.

Very creative settings, though. I love the concept of a woman being married, and yet ditching a blind date for someone more attractive. It's a wonderful sense of desperation. Any chance you'll explore her more?

[asianmommy]

Suggestion: your characters are fascinating (so flawed, I love that) - try lengthening your sentences. The short ones make the flow a bit choppy, and your descriptions deserve more.

Very creative settings, though. I love the concept of a woman being married, and yet ditching a blind date for someone more attractive. It's a wonderful sense of desperation. Any chance you'll explore her more?

Thanks. Choppy seems to be my style, hehe, I've ben trying to manipulate it a bit but i always fall back into the same pattern, thanks!

um, i guess i could do more with shera. She's interesting. :P thanks for the feedback.

Maybe if you gave me a prompt, I could continue more of the story???

[asianmommy]

Challenge Name: Playing in Reverse
Rating/Warning:
Word Count(Optional):
Author's Notes(Optional): the last "section" is long and brings the character "closest" to the present but it is backwards in sections.
Title:Unmet Goals


Kefala lay in the snow, violet eyes wide, catching flakes on her upturned lashes. The last breath fled her lips with the name of her father, a curse. The tangerine silk dress ruffled slightly from her fall to earth. Aurey, the hunted, wrapped his olive fingers through her black hair and cut off a lock using the silver knife that she had put in his side. His red eyes glowed as he held up the single lock and smiled.

“Too late, Fala, too late to avenge your mother.” He pocketed the hair and walked out of the courtyard.

Kefala De Raganoth, daughter of Bergion, was not born a warrior, but a perfect model of the role of women. As an only child, she was dutiful and obedient to her loving parents. Bergion, noble and wealthy, showed off his daughter with pride. Her fragile look concieled her abilities with a blade and a staff, taught to her by her mother during their time alone. Her mother, Elisa, was a tamed warrior.

Elisakau was part of the Bu-arak clan, a people who had warred with the Nunas for hundreds of years. The Nunas gained the technological advantage because of Bergion’s genius, and to show how they had conqured and tamed the wild peoples, he took one as his wife. So Kefala was raised to be the perfect Nuna woman, taught in secret by her mother the ways of her ancestors.

That is the training she used to fight Aurey in the courtyard of her grandfather’s estate. She’d been hunting for her father for three years now, across the countryside. When she reached the old homestead, a homely place compared to her father’s mansion. It was a simple, beautiful piece of land. She stepped into the courtyard, decorated with stone fountains and lightly falling snow and instantly knew that Aurey was waiting for her. She bent, holding the hem of her dress, slit up the side for comfort during a fight and covered in frolicking serpents. She knelt and drank from one of the fountains, acting casually.

“Aurey, show yourself. I could smell you the moment I stepped in this place. Where is my father?”

He stepped out of the shadow of the house. “They have fled this place. They fear you, child. They fear your savagery, which has now become legendary.” His lips curled to reveal pointed teeth. A bounty hunter from an unknown land, his olive skin, red eyes, and sharp features made him feared by any who had the chance to behold him. “I do not fear you, I know from whence your skills came, and I know how to beat them.”

“We shall see, warrior.” She bent into a fighting stance and attacked him before his bearings were there. In one swift move her knife was buried in his side. He looked down at it, ruby eyes wide with shock. She retreated swiftly and stared at him.

“Why not just kill me?” He sneered, as he pulled the knife from his side. His breath came out in a hiss. The knife came out with black slime coating the blade. 


“Black blood,” she murmered. “Because I don’t want to kill you if I don’t have to.”

“You have to.” Between the blinking of her eyes he was on top of her, knife in his hand. She brought her second blade up between them causing him to reaim his attack. They slashed and danced in and out of each other’s personal space, avoiding the tip and blade, knocking each other with the blunt handles.

“Why are you working for them?” She growled.

“They paid.”

“I’ll pay more.”

“Too afraid to finish the fight?”

“Never, I want to spare your life.”

“I won’t spare yours.” He brought his fist down inside her defense and knocked her elbow. She
snarled and brought her blade around. In an instant he used the move against her, bringing the blade under her throat. Kefala kicked his leg out and they both rolled apart to the ground.

They rose holding each other’s gaze and then Fala stumbled. Her leg went from under her. Her violet eyes flew wide in shock.

“Shouldn’t have drank the water, Fala.” He smiled. His eyes actually twinkled with delight.

She choked and fell to the ground. Her life fled staring up into his laughing eyes, wishing she’d passed her grandfather’s place for the plains beyond.

She’d been hunting for years. Ever since she’d seen her father rape and murder her mother, Fala stalked across city, town, and country to kill the man she had called “papa” when she was young. Recently she’d picked up his trail again crossing through the forest to the great plains. Instead of resting, Fala tracked him through the night, without stopping, until she came to her grandfather’s place. She hadn’t been there since she was a very young girl. The old man never approved of Kefala’s mother, and even less of his mixed-breed granddaughter. She was tired when she finally crested the last hill overlooking the modest estate, the moon light shining on the shingled roof. She found a sheltered spot to rest until morning.

As the sun rose, she labored to take in food and what little water she had left. Only a few drops fell between her dry lips. She would have to find water before hunting down her father. She slipped down the hill and into the courtyard. As she entered, she knew that the hunter was there watching her. The water drew her attention and she tried to stay casual even though her body was screaming for water. She drank, and though the water tasted stale it was wonderful. She drank until she felt him move against the house. Then she stood.

She usually would have checked the water for poision. She was never the type to just drink without care, especially knowing the hunter waited for her. Kefala was more cautious than that, but she was almost sick with need when she drank from the fountain. The poision slipped inside her and disabled her, and she didn’t know until it was too late to stop it.

Her mother taught her better than that, and with her last breath she cursed her father for taking Elisa from their lives, destroying their family. When she was younger she remembered spending time with her mother, learning about poisions, their smells, tastes, and how to recognize them. Kefala built up a slow immunity to most of the poisons that were common, and a few not so common ones as well. Her body was resistant to most toxins.

“Fala,” her mother said once, handing her a small bottle of a clear posion. “This is Kestral, it is from a land far from here. You will probably never see it, but it is more deadly than anything I have shown you. It will stop all of your muscles and finally it will stop your heart.”

That evening Fala heard screams. She raced upstairs, blade in hand, Bursting into her father’s room she saw him stratling her mother. “You are wife, and you will obey.” He growled. Though Kefala did not know this, the only time that her parents had any physical contact it was by her father’s force and her mother’s submission. He took her, and she gave into him because he threatened Fala’s safety.

As Kefala burst into the room her father’s eyes went wide. “Fala!”

“Get off of her! She doesn’t want to!” Fala screamed, and charged him.

“No, Fala!” Her mother screamed.

Being more agile than she realized, her father rolled away from her attack, taking her mother with him, holding her by the throat.

“Go, Fala, just go away.” Her mother shouted.

“Do as your mother tells you, dear.” Her father growled through his teeth.

Fala gave her mother one final look and fled.

Fala took the poison from her bag that night and put it in her father’s brandy, but before he could get to drink it he killed Elisakau and fled his home.


 They fought.

“You taught her, didn’t you? You taught her in secret! You corrupted my only daughter with your savagery.”

“I did what I thought was best by my child. Yes, I taught her, and she is better and stronger than any warrior.”

“It will be the last mistake you ever make.” In one quick movement his knife was buried in her chest. She was prepared to fight him, but not for a quick blow to the chest. She died instantly. He knew his daughter was a threat, so he ran. When she found her mother, Kefala vowed to kill him.

Fala hunted him, fighting him when she found him, fighting men he’d hired when she didn’t, killing people to find him, bribing people who he bribed to get more information. She tracked him through every season across every stretch of familiar land and into unfamiliar territory, anger boiling in her blood.

On a tip recieved by a barmaid who had contact with her father, she started out to her grandfather’s place. He was going there as a last resort. They hated each other, but family always helps family. Kefala knew her father was getting desperate. She did not stay for more than an hour to eat before charging out into the forest. Kefala was ready for it to end. She wanted her father, dead before her, and then she was going home to rebuild it all, to unfreeze the accounts and take up the running of her family’s estate.

Until the end, she’d keep fighting. For days she ran through brush, ate and slept with one goal. When she got to the edge of the woods her body was tired, her mouth dry, her breath ragged. She was so happy to see a familiar sight, even if that sight made her angry, even if it brought bile into her throat. She put on her last good dress and slit the sides. She walked to the top of the hill and looked at the house in the moonlight. Standing in there she could feel it all coming to an end. Tomorrow.

“Tomorrow,” she thought. “It will end tomorrow.”

[sableagle]

It's good, but grammar school training compels me to put red circles around "poision" and "from whence". Poison (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/poison) and potion (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/potion) may have become mixed up, and whence (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/whence) means "from where".

[asianmommy]

i meant poison, as there are no potions in this story and I also meant the "from where" implied in that sentence.

Thanks for reading. :D

[Sabertooth Kitten]

Great work!
I enjoy your writings as much as I do Dad's

[asianmommy]

Great work!
I enjoy your writings as much as I do Dad's

Thanks! :D
I'm glad you like it. Your dad's stuff is awesome and to be so favorably compared is a real compliment.

[Crazeyal]

I like it too. The villans story could have used a bit more atmosphere to give it some foreboding.