There isn’t a right or wrong way to write a story. If you have an idea, you can approach it any way you want, but it might be helpful to have direction. Here are a few tips that might be helpful as you explore the inner workings of fiction! But before I being, I don’t know everything about writing. I'm still learning because there is always something new to discover in the world of writing. I’m just providing some tips that have helped me become a better writer. I hope they help you on your writing journey :) Point of viewSo you have an idea, what now? Firstly, wait to name your piece. Whether it’s a short story, novel, or poem it’s best to wait until draft one is complete. But for now—don’t worry, I’ll come back to titles—you need to figure out your point of view (POV). During this stage, you will want to know who tells your story. Here is a quick breakdown of the four POV’s: First Person POV: Your main character tells the story from their perspective, and mostly uses “I” to describe themselves and the world around them. The reader will see everything through this character’s eyes. Stick with one character if you’re working on a short story because having multiple first-person perspectives in a short piece can get confusing. But, if you’re working with a longer piece you can have more than one character’s first-person perspective. Second Person POV: This perspective is difficult because it relies on the word “you.” That’s why it’s not used often because the character or narrator directly address the reader. I wrote The Realm of Stories in the second-person POV, and it was challenging but I wanted to dive into that challenge. If you’re interested in this POV style I would suggest reading Italo Calvino’s work. The two books I read that helped me are Invisible Cities and If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler. Third Person POV: You describe characters from the outside with words like, “he, she, they, him, her, them, etc.” Think of a camera recording the characters actions and emotions—it doesn’t have an internal perspective, but it has that external view point. This can make showing vs. telling hard, but those key details will bring your character to life! There are two sub-types in third-person POV: 1) Limited - You mostly focus on the main character’s story. You objectively write what happens and you don’t cross over to other characters. It works well for short stories and longer pieces. 2) Third Person Omniscient - You have full access to all characters and can switch between them when you want. This POV works better with a longer piece as it might get muddled in a short story, but hey, it’s your story! Go with what works for you. charactersAll right, you have your idea and your POV, now it’s time to figure out who your characters are. When working with a short story it’s important not to overload the piece with too many characters. You want all of your them to be distinct and memorable, but whose story do you want to tell? What motivates them? What do they want? Does something or someone stand in their way of obtaining their goal? Understanding the answers to these questions will help you plan events and interactions within your piece. And, it will create tension which will prompt the reader to keep going. SettingOkay, we’re entering a fun topic! Actually, all of this is fun, but setting makes your story pop because it’s meant to transport you reader into the world your characters inhabit. The world in your story can be completely fictional, or it can come from real life. It’s up to you and the story you’re writing. But the most important part about your setting are those concrete details that bring the image to life. You can add details throughout your first draft, but when it comes to different drafting and editing stages these details may change—for the better! And again, you want that detail to make the setting pop. Some writers wait until later drafts to include their setting. They want to focus on story, plot, character, dialogue, and prose before adding those concrete details. Why? It’s like placing the cherry on top of a loaded ice-cream sundae! TitleAll right, now that you’ve finished draft one, it’s time to give this baby a title. As you read your piece over, the title may be within the text, or it may be inspired by the content. Warning: You don’t want to hit your reader over the head with your title. Instead, the title should hint at or subtly underscore the main idea. Finding the right title for your story (or poem) is challenging, but pay attention to themes, motifs, images, character, and setting. You may find your title within them. And, you can always use a place-holder title for the time being. Sometimes it takes a couple of drafts to pick out the right words that highlight your piece. EditingNow it’s editing and drafting time. Step away for a bit, get some feedback from people you trust, and go crazy for the next draft! Writing is drafting…and editing…and rewriting. And, it’s also creating. It’s a long and in-depth process, but it’s completely rewarding when you have a finished piece. And that process can go on, and on, and on, and on, and on. (Believe me, I know!) But at some point, you need to stop and say, “This is as far as I can take it.” It will be hard, but that’s okay. We don’t always want to let go of our written babies, but they deserve to be shared with the world. Happy Writing! ~ Mady
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Hey Reader's and Writers! Writing Prompt: “A mythical character tries to make it ‘big’ in the modern world with their abilities.” Go! Ten minutes. Seven dead and no lead. The clues and evidence strewn about the desk and pinned to cork boards taunt me. I'm a Banshee, for God sake. Why can’t I solve this? “Here’s another list, Merry.” “It’s Merrywyn.” I snatch the paper from him. “Aren’t you going to look at it?” I sigh and begrudgingly move my gaze from the list of seven names to glance at the document Sterling handed me. “Shit – another list?” He nods. “Damn it!” I slam it on top of the other lists. “The Captain is getting worried.” “I know.” “He’s starting to question your abilities.” “Thank you, Sterling.” “Let me help you.” “No.” “Please. If someone else dies that means—” “I’m fired,” I say. His eyes soften. “Merrywyn, I want you to stay. So please, for the love of whatever God you believe in, figure this one out.” Sterling leaves, and the door closes behind him with a soft click. I make myself another coffee and begin organizing the materials on my desk. I sip my coffee as I read over the names on the new list. Divided into three columns, each list contained a total of twenty-one names in alphabetical order. One person on each list was murdered twenty-four hours after the station received the list. I knew the location and time within hours of looking at the lists, yet the victim was dead every time we tried to save them. Seven lists, seven dead. So why did they make an eighth? I skim the names. Each person felt normal and undeserving of the fate our murderer has chosen for them. Towards the bottom of the list, my eyes snag on a name. Greg Sterling. Well, shit. ~ Mady
Well Readers and Writers, you might be surprised that I'm posting a Halloween story today, but I needed an extra day to make sure the piece felt right. And, as you'll presently see there's a reason for posting it today. I hope you enjoy this mildly spooky tale! You might have heard the gates between our world and the spirit world reaches its thinnest point every Halloween night. You might have heard of him, too. The Trick or Treater’s who begin at 5:30pm are afraid of the dark so they have nothing to fear. But the ones who go after nightfall in search of spooky activities are bound to come across him. You’ll know he’s there once you hear the far-off sound of clicking dice, until behind you a chillingly smooth voice asks, “Do you want to play a game?” Some advice: say no. Don’t play the game. Just keep walking. Don’t pause, don’t look at him for too long. Just keep walking. Too many people have stopped. And too many have lost. The plastic clicks of each die as he tosses them hand-to-hand are going to lure you in. His grin may seem mischievous and entirely harmless, but that’s how he casts his spell. The clicking will get louder and louder in your ears, drowning out the wicked screams of the blow-up Ghost decoration just down the street. Don’t worry. You’ll know if you fell under his spell. Can’t you remember the rest of the night? Can’t you remember where you placed that important item? Are you sure it’s still there? What about any leftover candy? Have you noticed fewer pieces than before? You may think your kids or yourself enjoyed the candy, but you’ll never truly know. Not yet, anyway. And how about the game? Did you say yes or no? That’s the thing about him—he takes away your memories once you meet. If you did say yes, can you recall if you won? Well, can you? ~ Mady
When I attended my University's creative writing group, we would write for ten minutes at a time before workshopping someone's story. Well, as the prompt hat came to me (pre-covid times, of course), I chose a very weird topic: A pregnant deer, stuck in the mountains, sentient laptop. I hope you enjoy the weird, but surprisingly good story that came from this prompt! “Lizzie, are you all right?” Silence. “Hello? Are you ignoring me again?” A huff this time. “Well, it’s not my fault you’re starting to—” She moans, breathing heavily through her nostrils. “Yes, right, well, I don’t know how to help you. I’m only a—” She screeches this time. I sigh. “Okay, fine. You’re not in a talking mood right now. I get it. I’ll just be over here, minding my own business.” Another huff in response. I bend down, the joints in my legs groaning. Life’s quite hard. Especially when you have a mammal as a friend. Especially when you aren’t human. “You know, Lizzie,” I stare at my hands. “I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be flesh and blood. I need to find meaning, a purpose, if you will. But how can I achieve this, if I don’t even know who my maker is?” She snorts. “Right, sorry. Not supposed to be talking.” I sit there for a moment, silent. “I just can’t wrap my mind—do I have a mind?—around my sentience. My head is a laptop, for god’s sake! How am I to blend in with Human Society if I look like this?” Another long moan comes from the grove. “Wait, if I am sentient, does this mean I have a soul? Do sentient beings have a soul? Oh, Lizzie, what am I to do?” No sounds, this time. “Lizzie?” I stand, metal grinding. Walking into the grove, Lizzie lays down with a small being. “Oh, my! Lizzie, you did it! It’s, um—it’s, how do I put this without offending you, in case you’re a sentient being, too? Ah, I know. She’s lovely.” The baby fawn gazes at me with big, brown eyes. “Yes, very lovely. Aren’t you glad I found this spot in the mountains?” She licks her child. If I had eyes, I would have rolled them. “Yes, I know. I got us stuck here in the first place. You don’t have to keep reminding me. This is what happens when I don’t have access to Wi-Fi.” She huffs a snort. “Of, course. That’s all you have to say.” ~ Mady
I am proud to present a short story I wrote during one of my creative writing classes. Our course focused on setting and a sense of place, and I wanted to challenge myself. I had a lot of fun writing this story, and I truly believe it shines as a representation of myself as a writer. I have believed in this story's potential and power ever since I created it which is why I submitted it to a special Award offered at my University. My belief in this story proved itself when I received an email in December 2020 congratulating me on winning the Monica Miller Creative Writing Award. It showed me others believe in my writing as much as I do, and it reminded me why I didn't give up all of those times nay-sayers said I couldn't be a writer. I sincerely hope you enjoy this story as much as I do. The Realm of Stories If I tell you the room is composed of dark wooden panels, each carved in intricate designs, including the ceiling, that only gives you part of the picture. If I tell you the room is a classroom, it gives you slightly more. If I tell you there are twelve desks made of oak, the space of the room, while rather large, fills. The chairs are well-made and solid, ready to stand in perfect alignment behind the desks for eternity. Windows line the left wall, which faces west, and along the south wall at the back are shelves filled with books. Most of these books have remained untouched for years. On the north wall hangs a chalk board. Sticks of yellow and white chalk fill the metal runnel below. In front of the board and to the left stands a large mahogany desk with numerous drawers filled with files and pens and bottles of ink. The east wall is just a wall. Sunlight streaming through the windows has bleached the wooden floor in particular spots. The chairs, having been pushed backwards and forwards countless times, have carved grooves into the wood. The floor creaks every time someone takes a step. This place has not seen a person for years, and if you look closely you can see a layer of dust covering the room like dirty snow. However, if you sit in total silence at one of the desks you will begin to hear the whispers: soft shuffle of clothes, slight scrape of a chair, screech of chalk, scratch of fountain pens on paper, and maybe even distant yells of “O’ Captain! My Captain!” Scholars, students, poets, and storytellers owned this room. The masters taught their pupils, passing along the hidden knowledge of the greats. The space was thought to be sacred, like the confessional at Church. The air always smelled of layers of ink, old books, and wood. But if I tell you something remains hidden within the walls of this place, you’ll want to know what it is and where it is. I don’t know if I should tell you. Although, if I were to draw your attention back to the bookshelf, tall and proud against the back wall, I might say that it holds some of the greatest tales created by story-tellers around the world, collected in secret and hidden here in plain view. The teachers, long since gone, knew of their presence, but not their importance; and the students were warned never to touch them. The men and women, who brought these stories here no longer exist. Their job was to watch over the books, to protect them and then pass on their legacy to the next Guardian. If I tell you no one watches over the stories today, would you believe me? If I tell you the bound purple volume with gold stamped letters on the middle shelf is a key to a door, would you want to open it and discover the treasures within? Suppose I tell you there is a chamber behind this door, and inside this chamber smelling of cinnamon and cloves is a letter written in gorgeous cursive on a piece of parchment that sits on another mahogany desk. Beside it is a bottle of blue ink and a feathered quill and a polished silver skeleton key. Each item has been laid precisely and perfectly in an oak box lined with deep purple satin. If no Guardian remains, then the key shouldn’t be polished, the ink long since dried, the feather withered, and everything should be covered in dust. But these items are pristine. Even the books meticulously placed on their shelves deep within the chamber are immaculate, and the separate rooms designated for the pleasure of reading have shelves for walls and even more books. The fireplace is stoked, the ashes cleaned, and the red chair awaits those who wish to learn. I assume you’ve had those moments where you stare off into space, not quite here, but not quite there. Have you ever wondered why you can’t remember what’s happened during these moments, or what you were thinking about? You forget for a reason, and I know why. If I tell you the classroom remains dusty and uninhabited for one purpose, know that it is a distraction. People assume it’s not important, but it is. And the Guardians know why, too. Whenever someone drifts off to that place between imagination and reality, time is lost. Days, months, years are spent in this space, this chamber behind the classroom façade. It’s here that the Guardians continue to protect the numerous stories created by the weavers of language. And you are one of them. You just can’t remember because in order to protect the stories you can’t remember the stories or this place. You never will remember either, at least not until you pass into the chamber once more where you will take the silver skeleton key from its place in the box and bring it to the Keeper of Stories who will open a carved chest made from polished redwood to choose the next Guardian. You shall then become one of the many stories within the walls of this in-between place, protected and remembered forever. If I tell you the Guardians are the only ones who know these things, you might be wondering why I’m telling you all of this if you’re not going to remember. Many secrets are folded within the cursive script of my words. Know that I have given you the keys. ~ Mady
Grey.
An ocean of grey, spanning for miles. A cool, crisp breeze caresses my face, sneaking under my clothes to kiss the hidden skin underneath. Shivers dance along my spine, the hair on my arms rising on end, prickling. Leaves dance in the breeze, some breaking free and fluttering about before landing softly on the pavement of the damp sidewalk. I step on some of the leaves lying on the ground, their crunch music to my ears. The smell of rot and death permeating the air, with the faint undertone of rain. I break through the trees, onto a plateau overlooking the city. There, on the horizon—a slice of blue in the grey. A gash in the sky. It existed, then. My knees barked in pain—I had fallen—but my eyes stayed glued to that line of blue. Wind tore through the trees, a torrent of leaves cascading around me. Reds, golds, and oranges. Their rustling filled my ears, but I didn’t care about those colours or the leaves. I only cared about the blue, what it symbolized. Hope. And freedom. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. Nikolai didn’t have a brother. Most importantly, Nikolai didn’t have a twin. “Mind if I come in?” He steps over the threshold, power and confidence exuding from him. “I realize this is quite unexpected, but-” “You’re not supposed to be here.” Nikolai says flatly. “On the contrary, brother,” the man replies with a small smile. He meets my gaze. “I’m here for a very important person.” “We had a deal!” Nikolai shouts. His brother faces him, amused. “Yes, and those twenty-four hours are up, Nikolai. I held up my end of the bargain, now hold up yours.” I turn my attention to Nikolai, his face ashen and drawn. He hadn’t looked like that when I’d kissed him. Clearing my throat, I stand straighter. “I’m afraid to be the bearer of bad news, but since I wasn’t aware a deal had been made about me, it’s off.” “What draws you to that conclusion?” the man asks. “You were at the restaurant that night,” I reply. “It took me a bit to figure it out, but that consistent tapping you made was Morse code.” He smiles. “Very good. Not many can distinguish Morse code.” I shrug. “I have many talents,” He shifts, spinning to Nikolai. “She doesn’t know, does she?” Oh God, what now? Nikolai shakes his head, looking as if he’d be sick. “No, she doesn’t,” he whispers. “I thought so,” the man runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it into an unkempt mop. He then massages his jaw, angling his head to me. “My name,” he begins, “is Nikolas. I’m here to take you to safety.” “Safety? What’s safe if you’re with them?” I spit. “Ah,” comprehension dawns on Nikolas’s face. “You’ve been stalling, have you, brother?” I look to my friend, my lover, who seems ready to pass out any moment. “You would too, if you were in my position.” “All right,” I hold up my hands. “I’ve had enough with this bullshit. Tell me what the hell is going on!” The two brothers look at each other, communicating through their facial expressions. “We need to go, Edith,” is Nikolas’s only answer. “Not until someone tells me what’s going on.” I grit between clenched teeth. Meeting Nikolai’s gaze, I bare my teeth at him. “Tell. Me. Now.” He swallows, his colour turning ashen. He swallows again. “I am with them.” His eyes burn with tears. “I am with them,” he repeats. “What? You can’t be. Rolfe would have known. He would have—” “He doesn’t, but he’s about to.” Nikolai says. “But that doesn’t make any sense.” “I know it doesn’t, Edith. I know.” He’s silent. “I know, believe me, I know.” It’s my turn to swallow. “But...Us?” His face crumples and he falls to the couch. “Was any of it real?” I ask, my stomach flipping. “Were we real, Nikolai?” “Of course, we were,” He reassures. “I love you, Alexandria—” “Don’t use my name!” I yell clenching my fists. “I love you, Edith.” He corrects. “What we had was real. What we have, is real.” “How can it be if you’re with them?” I ask. Hurt flashes across his face, but he had no idea—not even an inkling of what he was doing to me. “When I first joined Rolfe, it was strictly as a spy.” “Don’t you dare pull that ‘Then I saw you,’ crap.” I snarl. He smiles. “Of course not. I hated you, but then that one day when you rightfully wiped the floor with my ass...that’s when I fell in love with you, Edith.” Nikolas clears his throat. “Such romantics, but I’m afraid we must go, Alexandria.” I turn a death glare on him. “Don’t. Call. Me. Alexandria.” “My apologies,” “He’s right, Edith.” Nikolai says. “You need to go. Now.” “Why?” “Time is of the essence,” Nikolas removes his hands from his pockets. “I can explain the rest while we’re on the move.” I cross my arms. God, twins were infuriating! “Before we go,” I drawl, “I want to know one thing.” “Of course. Anything,” Nikolai replies for his brother. “What’s happening to you?” I inquire. He freezes. My stomach drops out of me. He wasn’t coming with us. He wasn’t going to Rolfe. That left one other option. “You’re going back to them, aren’t you?” Nikolai looks to his brother, pleading. “I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than that, my dear.” Nikolas says. “Please, elaborate,” He hesitates. “We really must be goi—” “I’m not going back to them, no.” Nikolai tells me. “Then where are you going?” What other options are there? “I’m staying here to—” There’s a knock at the door. Nikolas swears softly under his breath. “I told you, we had to go!” He whispers. “Who is it?” I hiss. The two brothers glance at each other when there’s another knock. This one’s more forceful. A large warm hand grasps mine, pulling me towards the window. “Goodbye, brother.” Nikolas claps Nikolai on the shoulder. “Stay safe,” He leans in and whispers something before jumping out of the window, and onto the fire escape. Nikolai faces me, his hand still in mine. “I am so sorry, Edith.” He murmurs. “Believe me when I say it; I love you.” He kisses me, deep and passionate. The knock turns to a fist pounding on the door. He pulls away taking a huge breath. “I love you, Alexandria,” He whispers, those grey eyes glowing. “I love you, too, Nikolai.” I reply. The End?
I gasp, my eyes opening like shutters at the stab of pain sparking in my arm and leg. I sit up faster than I intend to, blood rushing to my head causing pinpricks to swarm throughout my body, and my vision to become dotted with black and pink spots.
“Hold still, Edith,” a male voice says in exasperation. “It’s just the antidote.” Antidote? Right, poison coursed through my veins. How could I forget? Upon opening my mouth to talk, I find my tongue and throat are parchment paper. “Here,” a gold tanned hand offers me a glass of water. “Drink this,” I take it gratefully, gulping down the glass in three mouthfuls. Another glass appears before me and I down it even faster than the one before. “Careful, or you’ll be sick. You haven’t had anything to eat since that day,” the voice warns handing me another glass. I glance to the man kneeling at my feet, taking in his face before choking on the water. “Nikolai?” I gasp in utter disbelief. He smiles. “Thought you’d be happy to see me,” I stare at him—I was happy to see him, but I was also furious. I slap him. “What the hell was that for?” His grey eyes are storm clouds as he glowers at me. “That was for using my real name!” I snap. Then I kiss him. “And what was that for?” He asks quietly. “That,” I breathe, “was for coming when you did.” “I think I should do it more often, then,” “Would be nice from time to time,” I grin. “Good to know,” He returns the grin, a red hand print already noticeable on his tan cheek. My stomach twists at the sight of it, at the thought that I hurt him, but I had a reputation to uphold. Leaning back, I stare at him unabashedly. I take in the lines of his face, those dark grey eyes, and muscles beneath his navy blue long sleeve shirt. “Does he know?” I inquire, looking at the needles in my arm and leg. Pinching the one in my arm between my thumb and forefinger, I pull it out slowly, feeling the slim metal slide out of my skin. “Not yet,” Nikolai replies. “Good,” I say, removing the needle in my leg before meeting his eyes. “Let’s keep it that way.” “If they’ve found you, Edith, then he needs to know.” he tells me. I already knew that, but I didn’t want Rolfe to find out I’d been duped. He’d be a raging monster, dealing wrath like it was child's play. “I’ve always covered my tracks, Nikolai. You know I do and so does he.” I break his stare. “Someone must have tipped them off. I’m too good.” “Are you that egotistical?” He challenges. It’s my turn to glower. He huffs a sigh. “There’s been talk about a mole in the unit,” He murmurs. “Nobody’s really listened, or believed it for that matter, but if Rolfe gets wind of this incident, he’ll know for sure.” “Do you have any idea what he’ll do to me if he finds out?” I snap. “Yes,” He chokes out. “Then you know I’d rather let them have me,” “I know.” Nikolai looks down, his sandy blonde hair falling into his eyes. I sit up. “I’m always careful, Nikolai. Always,” I say softly. “You’ve seen me work, and so has he. We both know it wasn’t a mistake on my part.” “I know,” he repeats. My blood runs cold. “You told him, didn’t you?” He stays silent. “Bloody Hell!” I yell. “What’s wrong with you? I had it under control—” His head snaps up. “If you had it under control, Edith, then how did they slip poison into your drink? If you had it under control, why were you stupid enough to drink it?” I press my lips into a thin line, biting my cheek. He had a point, but I wasn’t about to admit that to his face. “Exactly,” he confirms, as if he already knew what I was thinking. “You have to understand, I had to tell him. There was no other way, and you know it as well as I do.” “I need to get some air,” I stand abruptly. “You can’t leave with them out there,” Nikolai protests, rising two feet above me. I stare up at him, my neck at an awkward angle. “Just watch me,” I snarl, baring my teeth. I side-step him, and throw open his apartment door. Standing in the door frame is a man in a periwinkle and heather suit, tinged with grey. Underneath is a lavender dress shirt. His hair is a shock of chocolate brown, and eyes of silver-blue clash with the suit and shirt. He’s about the same height as Nikolai, maybe a foot shorter. I knew this man. How could I forget him? How could I forget those eyes analyzing me like a hawk? “Hello, Alexandria,” He’s soft spoken, voice smooth like velvet. The man glances behind me, to Nikolai. “Brother,” he greets. To Be Continued... The drink was dark amber, gold swirling inside. It smelled excellent. Bitter when it first touches the tongue, but becomes sweeter with every sip. This is my favourite drink to order whenever I come here.
At least it had a bit of alcohol, a little bit of a kick so I can keep trudging through tonight’s celebration. Don’t get me wrong, I love dinners and celebrations, but something felt off about this one. Really off. Then again, it could just be me. And I may have had a few drinks before I came here, but from experience, I become more of a bubbly person when I consume alcohol, so no one will know. A toast is made, and cheers ring out. Everyone sitting at the table is dressed up. I, myself, did, but not very much. I had a fluffy white sweater on, dark brown dress pants, and my mother’s brooch. It was a flower made of sterling silver, inlaid with rubies. I never left my house without it. This brooch has become a part of me, a physical embodiment of what I do for a living. Every year, I added a new petal, with perhaps ten to eleven jewels. My platinum gold hair is swept off of my face in a braided plait. Strawberry red lipstick paints my lips, accenting the brooch, and black eye-liner emphasizes my eyes. I excuse myself from the table, empty plate in hand. The dinner had been organized for one of my co-workers who got a promotion. They get to fly to Africa in three days’ time. Everyone was happy for the diligent and persistent person. As I make my way to the buffet table for seconds, I notice a man sitting in a couples’ booth at the corner, half of his face in shadows. He’s donned a well-tailored metallic silver-grey suit. The tie around his neck is shades of dark and light purple, orange placed here and there in a checkered pattern. The color of his suit made the tie pop out. From my view point and the dim lighting, I can’t tell what colour his hair is, but guess it’s a chocolate brown bordering on black. Before him is a plate of food stacked high, and across from him is the same. The man smiled showing off glittering white teeth and laughed, then started talking. I guess he’s on a date with a beautiful woman. Was I beautiful? I considered myself so, but never like those girls out there. Those slim, blonde, tanned, blue eyed beauties that were of average height. I wasn’t slim, I wasn’t tanned but a bleached pearl color, my hair mostly looked like straw, and I had brown eyes. I didn’t fit into the stereotypical ‘perfect girl’. I’d been on dates before, but they never turned into anything. My dates came to my house, and never went through the front door again. The table erupts in laughter when I sit down, my plate overflowing. I smile like I had heard what had been said. Hopefully people don’t realize it’s fake. I hate dinner parties. I put a forkful of lumpy mashed potatoes and Spicy Tikka Masala into my mouth—I love spicy food—as Rayne, the woman who got the promotion, remarks about my second plate as if she hadn’t already had three heaping servings herself. I’ve never liked her. I hope she gets a parasite. Or eaten by a lion. My eyes flick over to the man. I find him intriguing. His food hasn’t been touched, and a smile is on his lips, his eyes focused on the seat across from him. Gingerly, he takes a sip of water, then taps methodically on the table. The way he went about the tapping seemed purposeful and consistent. It would be a tap and then a space periodically. He’s cute, but there’s something about the way he’s watching me, I think. After a few minutes, I glance at him again. He’s staring at me. A smile plays at his lips. There’s a glass of wine is in his hand, the color of garnet crimson. I shift in my seat, my facing beginning to burn. His eyes, a striking silver-blue, are searing into my skin, into my body, peeling every layer of my being until there is nothing left but a giant gaping hole which reveals everything – every dirty little secret I’ve kept and every dirty deed I’ve done. Now, no mystery is left between us. Now, all that’s left, is the cold hard truth. Abruptly, I leave the table. I can feel numerous eyes bore into my back, but his I can pick out from the rest. His are watching me carefully, observantly, analytically. Like a hawk monitoring its prey. Shoving the bathroom door open, I slip inside, and lean against it. Had they finally found me? No, that’s absurd, I think. I’ve covered my tracks too well. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m just imagining it. But there definitely had been something predatory in that gaze, and something familiar about the contours of his face. My palms are sweaty, chills gliding along my spine. I check my reflection, finding my eyes are wide, pupils large, hair a tad mussed. My heart is pounding, a drum in my ears. I can’t walk out of here looking like this. If it is them, I’ll be suspect number one. Hopefully they don’t know what I look like. I attempt to compose myself with deep breaths—inhale, exhale. Brushing my fingers through my hair, I tame the golden beast. I check my reflection, scanning every detail of my features. Calm, cool, and collected. Perfect. Striding out of the washroom, I add a little swish to my hips. One had to look confident when a man of a handsome nature kept staring at you. A smile twitched at my lips, and with great difficulty, I hid it. This was going to be fun. The moment I take my seat a waiter appears, platter in hand. A top it is a glass of red wine and a note. With a sensuous twist of the lips, I give him a viper’s smile. I received some looks from my colleagues, but omit them from my mind. Taking a small sip, I open the note. If you do not want to make a scene, get out now while there is still a chance. I choke on the wine, swallowing hard. Shit, I think, barely registering people asking if I’m alright. They had found me, and I had fallen into their trap the moment I went to the washroom. How the hell was I going to get out of this? Stay with the group, I plan. The moment a chance comes to break off, leave and get a ticket for a bus. Head out of state and find Rolfe. He’ll know how to help. But I had been doing this for how long without his help? I can manage by myself, even though it may be risky with the stakes so high this time. Get bus ticket and head out of state. Find Edna and get a new identity. Lay low for a few months, before getting back into the routine. With my plan amended, I throw back the rest of the wine, finding it sickly sweet, too much for my taste buds to bear. “Bloody hell,” I mutter under my breath. Poison only tastes like poison once it’s been ingested. Goddamn It! “Hey, are you ready to go?” Rayne asks. “Yes,” I grit out. I shouldn’t have been so stupid, so careless. I had to get somewhere safe, had to call Rolfe now this had happened. I knew he’d be pissed, but what other choice did I have? “I’ll meet you at the after party,” I say. “I have something to take care of.” “Sure, no problem. Here’s the key to get inside.” I slip on my jacket, the wool soft as it brushes against my cheek, the key cold on my burning skin. Crap, the poison must be kicking in now. I had to get somewhere safe, somewhere where I could then call Rolfe. Stumbling out the doors to the restaurant, I rest a hand against the rough brick, glancing at it to find them coloured pink and blue. Oh no. This was not good. At all. Pushing my legs of lead forward one step at a time, I pray I can make it far from the restaurant before they attack me while I’m in this state. A state in which they put me. My legs give out so suddenly, my knees barking in pain from colliding with concrete, my hand slicing on the bricks. I have to get my phone out, I have to dial Rolfe before it’s too late. Digging in my pocket is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. My sense of touch has been lost. What kind of poison did they use on me to evoke the destruction of my senses? A hand at my elbow has me cursing blindly in my head, for my lips feel swollen—big and puffy. “Get up, you need to get up,” someone hisses in my ear. Recognition is distant in my brain, a face and name right there, but staying hidden behind a wall of fog. Whoever the person is, hauls me to my feet, letting me lean against them. “Come on, Edith,” they growl. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, choking the words past my swollen lips, my swollen throat. Thirsty, I think, I’m so thirsty. “Snap out of it, Alexandria!” I meet the person’s eyes —those familiar grey eyes filled with worry and anger and love. When was the last time I’d seen those eyes? I couldn’t remember, the fog in my mind too thick and unyielding. Without warning, my legs give out—my entire body gives out. Darkness envelopes me, dragging me into a deep sleep. To Be Continued... |
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In the end, we'll all become stories. ~ Margaret Atwood
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