Now I know there are those of you out there who are currently grimacing at your various devices, saying "That bloody etak [or for those of you with smarts, kate] Clogging up ff with her threads! Damn her!" I assure you it's not personal or intentional Here is three short stories from my vast collection of scribbles: #1 The danger of loving a rebel: "Assure me child, assure me now at my deathbed that you do not and have never harboured such vile thoughts, assure me. Assure me you had nothing to do with any of this mess, innocent child of mine, tell me honestly that you did not." What was I to do, but comply with her wishes? Forsake all thoughts of honesty for my dying mothers peace of mind? It was never meant to happen. Looking back with much regret on that day, I detest the young girl that was me, the young child that kneeled by her mothers side, hiding behind a veil of cowardice. An ever-flowing stream of lies flowing from her mouth, as she struggled to create a feeble shield around herself with the falsehood she created, spinning tales like a dishonest spinster. It was never meant to happen. It was never my fault, I try to justify, but the fault of Emeron Richards, the green-eyed, chestnut-haired rebel whom I was so hopelessly in love with. My mother had wanted me to admit that I had nothing to do with George Knightly's death, but she and I both knew it was more than that. She wanted me to lie and assure her I had never thought of running away and becoming Mrs. Richards instead of Mrs. Knightly. That I had never thought of dumping my corset, abandoning my governess and joining the rebel movement. But I had never been any good at lying. I remembered that night of George's death all too well, when Emeron and I had lay on the grass and looked at the stars. I told him how it was the third time now that George had proposed, and how I hated him so much. He nodded and replied that soon I would have no problems with him. Although I loved Emeron with every fibre of my being, he was very temperamental and influential within the rebel movement. I remember acutely that this worried me. So naturally, when news got around that George Knightly had passed away from food poisoning, it was the same green eyed rebel I turned to. It was never meant to happen. I remember looking sadly at my mother as she lay sick in her bedchamber and dreading the moment the lie would escape my lips. The things I did for love were unspeakable. "No, Mother, of course not."
#2 The Last Memory Myrn stared across the dusty dining room table at the umbrella that had been there since - well, it had been there a very long time. It was a small black inconspicuous umbrella. A shield from the rain and household item, or so said the dictionary. Only, it wasn't. Myrn tucked a loose silvery strand of hair back into her bun and sighed as only an old woman could. The soft pitter-patter of the rain on the roof reminded her of the time when she hadn't been so old, but young and carefree, and full of dreams and such nonsense. One moment especially came to mind, connected to the small black umbrella that lay unused across the mahogany table. It was a sad, sad day for all of England, this she remembered. The prime minister, Mr. Churchill, had announced that the country was at war with Germany, and even the sky cried, rain pouring down like tears from above. Myrn recalled running out the front door and hammering loudly on her neighbour's and best friend's door. "Mary! Mary open up!" She did. "Myrn! Oh, did you hear? Jack is going to be called up. Jack, Myrn! Jack! He's only a boy, Myrn, he's still a baby! What am I going to- oh!" The friends hugged under the porch, both tears and rain mixed together and streaming down their faces. Suddenly the rain above them stopped. Myrn looked up to see a familiar face holding a small black umbrella above both Mary and her. "Tis a sad day for everybody, Miss, and I just saw you two wet and well," he nodded sheepishly, blue eyes crinkling in embarrassment. That had been the first time they met, Myrn recalled, but the first time of many. Her and her blue-eyed Bert had then fallen in love, just like a fairytale. But then he was conscripted, and the fairytale turned into a tragedy, when Myrn heard of her beloved's noble end on the battlefield. It rained that day too, and that was the last time that Bert's small black umbrella was used. Myrn let herself drift back into the present. The pitter-patter of rain beat down relentlessly still. Myrn stood up and looked down the dining room table. All eight places were empty besides hers. She was alone on this world, there was nothing for her here. She walked into the hallway and stepped out through the front door into the garden. The rain seeped into her socks and trickled down her back. This was her last memory. A man with smiling blue eyes stood at the front door gate, holding out a small black umbrella. "Come on Myrn," said the ghost, "Let's go." "Yes Bert," Myrn replied, taking the umbrella, "Let's go."
There is. I was just waiting for someone to comment on it. #3 Reflections The church bells chime solemnly in the distance. Midnight. A man and a woman lie on the sand, gazing at the stars and laughing quietly, the waves gradually inching towards their barren feet, black as the night it reflects. They are alone, but for the moon in the sky and the stars in their eyes, the deserted field at their backs, and the sand at their feet. Only the woman has a worry, and her troubled mind cannot keep from dwelling on it as she tentatively twists the ring on her left hand. She is to be married tomorrow. But her partner clasps her hand and her worries ebb away with the tide, for she will not be alone... . **** A hunched over figure glared into the gloom. Her bones rattled as she got up from the wall and walked through the graveyard. Her fingers brushed the headstone of her beloved, and she sighed, glancing at the ring on her boney finger. Beside his grave was a space, reserved for her. There was no-one living within a kilometre from this place, but she was never lonely, for the ghosts of the family and friends she once had keep her company. Her mind had disappeared and was replaced by a dark void, and her heart was already six foot under. She awaits her death patiently, but she is now so far from human she wonders if it is possible. Blood still trickles through her frail body, but her soul has long since left her, and she wanders aimlessly through the desolate landscape that used to be her village. She is not the same person that once waited at the aisle to be married, to the man she never saw again. He had drowned in the sea he knew all about, after falling off the boat they had planned to sail away into the sunset on. She can picture that last night in her head, hear the church bells ringing even though the church is now but a few stones, and the graveyard a playground for ghosts, and her current residence. She is but a shell of her former self, and as she feels her life drawing to a close, she will not leave her beloved's side, not even now, at the twilight of her life. Her ghost has left her body already, and she watches as her and her fiancée's ghost dance together in the moonlight, oblivious to the fact they are dead. The ghost of a man and a woman lie on the sand, gazing at the stars and laughing quietly, the waves gradually inching towards their barren feet, black as the night it reflects...