#FridayFlash 51: The Call

I stared at my phone, willing it to ring. And obligingly it did -- but it was just Amy texting me to see if I wanted to meet her for lunch. I fired off a brief message, hands shaking. Wondering if I'd be any sort of company for her that day; knowing she'd forgive me if I wasn't.

The job of a lifetime; a cumulation of years of work and study and scrapping my way up from the know-nothing errand kid. And it was within reach -- they told me I'd find out today.

When I was in highschool my girlfriends waiting anxiously for the phone for some boy to call, and I never entirely respected them for it. If I wanted to talk to some boy, I called him; this was pretty much a non-issue in my world. I'd never before been subject to the power of a silent phone. But now I got it -- the balance between hope they'd call and fear they wouldn't and the wicked emotional shifts that entailed. Only in my case, I knew they'd call, but what worried me was what they'd say. The other candidate was as qualified as I; the job would be based on those intangibles. Who's a "good fit" for the company? Who do they like better? Who'll look best representing them in front of the cameras? I was not a girly-girl, but I definitely took my time preparing for that interview!

The phone buzzed and my heart leapt. And then hope faded as I saw the text icon. "Any news yet?" -- the sender deserved to be shot. It's a shame; he was a good friend till that moment.

My heart settled back to its normal rhythm as I stared at the screen I'd already read eight times that morning and still had not registered, my mind full of those two powerful words: "what if".

I knew I was being ridiculous -- either it would happen or it wouldn't, but nothing I could do at this point would influence it so I may as well be productive. Sadly logic lost the war to emotion, and I continued to stare blankly at my screen, with occasional glances at my phone. My hands were cold, and I could hear my heart pounding. It didn't even usually do that on a 5k run. I looked around at my co-workers -- did any of them notice something was not-quite-right? For all of them, it was just another day. But for me, it might be THE day. But I wouldn't know until they called.

I sat, as the seconds past like hours. Every once in a while moving the mouse so my screen would stay lit. Always thinking of what could be... And what might not.

The phone buzzed again; a quick look at the screen showed a number I hoped would one day be mine. My hands shook and I nearly dropped the phone as I tried to answer it, but I was proud that my voice came out calmly and professionally,

"Good afternoon, Sarah speaking."

#FridayFlash 50 and Thursday Tales 1: Who says you can’t go home?

Woohoo! FridayFlash 50! *insert happy dance* Ok so I've separated out stories from the rest of my blog so as to make it more appealing for those who are not so interested in the horse world. Please feel free to follow! The list is looking very sad and empty at the moment. hahaha

This story inspired by the photo below as presented by Thursday Tales. As always, comments very welcome!

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Photo courtesy of Deviant Art

She stood at the foot of the rickety old bridge with her heart in her throat. The mist rose off the water adding an eeriness to an already tense situation. She had left, 20 years earlier, swearing never to return. And having done so, she was dead to them.

She wondered if time would’ve changed them. Her friends. Her family. Whom she’d left behind out of a desperate need to see what lay beyond the bridge. She vividly recalled her mother watching her go. Sad and unable to understand, but willing to accept that the strange girl she’d raised would never fit in. Crossing the bridge was taboo, and strangers from the other side were never accepted.

She’d travelled and she’d learned. She’d seen things the village shaman would never allow her to speak of and discovered that the world was made up of villages not unlike her own. Oh sure, the behaviours and rules changed from place to place. Some welcomed foreigners while others killed them. Some valued strength and courage while others revered wisdom and intelligence. But really, each town set its rules to whatever standards it deemed important, and each town expected its inhabitants to follow them. That basic fact never changed. And try though she would, she never found a town she felt at home in.

She worried that the village so large in her memory, would seem small in comparison. And she wondered if she was making the right decision. She hadn’t even intended to come here. She didn’t recognize the woods around her – it had been another lifetime when she had walked through them as a young girl on a search for a new life. But she knew the bridge. She’d spent her childhood staring at it and wondering. And she knew her one-time home lay on the other side. Where travellers were not welcome.

She knew she should leave. That she had to turn from the village as she had once before. That crossing the bridge would mean death. But never had a family member returned. Surely that would be treated differently from a stranger. She was no threat to them. They had known and loved her as she had them. As she wanted to again.

She crossed the bridge. A feeling she barely recognized as hope propelling her to the place she once called home. She looked thorough the mist to the trees and saw a man she recognized. The shaman had changed little from her memories, and as her second foot hit the ground on the village side of the bridge he spoke:

“You should never have returned.”

Thursday Tales 1: Who says you can't go home?

Ok so I realize it's not Thursday, but I accidentally got a day off and I just found this group and apparently it's still open for a few days and I liked the image so I thought I'd give it a go. As always, comments very welcome!

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Photo courtesy of Deviant Art

She stood at the foot of the rickety old bridge with her heart in her throat. The mist rose off the water adding an eeriness to an already tense situation. She had left, 20 years earlier, swearing never to return. And having done so, she was dead to them.

She wondered if time would’ve changed them. Her friends. Her family. Whom she’d left behind out of a desperate need to see what lay beyond the bridge. She vividly recalled her mother watching her go. Sad and unable to understand, but willing to accept that the strange girl she’d raised would never fit in. Crossing the bridge was taboo, and strangers from the other side were never accepted.

She’d travelled and she’d learned. She’d seen things the village shaman would never allow her to speak of and discovered that the world was made up of villages not unlike her own. Oh sure, the behaviours and rules changed from place to place. Some welcomed foreigners while others killed them. Some valued strength and courage while others revered wisdom and intelligence. But really, each town set its rules to whatever standards it deemed important, and each town expected its inhabitants to follow them. That basic fact never changed. And try though she would, she never found a town she felt at home in.

She worried that the village so large in her memory, would seem small in comparison. And she wondered if she was making the right decision. She hadn’t even intended to come here. She didn’t recognize the woods around her – it had been another lifetime when she had walked through them as a young girl on a search for a new life. But she knew the bridge. She’d spent her childhood staring at it and wondering. And she knew her one-time home lay on the other side. Where travellers were not welcome.

She knew she should leave. That she had to turn from the village as she had once before. That crossing the bridge would mean death. But never had a family member returned. Surely that would be treated differently from a stranger. She was no threat to them. They had known and loved her as she had them. As she wanted to again.

She crossed the bridge. A feeling she barely recognized as hope propelling her to the place she once called home. She looked thorough the mist to the trees and saw a man she recognized. The shaman had changed little from her memories, and as her second foot hit the ground on the villiage side of the bridge he spoke:

“You should never have returned.”

#FridayFlash 48: The Shadows of the Night

They say Shakespeare is a plagiarist because most of his stories were first told by somebody else. What they don't usually mention is that until very recently the art in story-telling was to tell a tale everybody knew in a new way. And let me tell you, it's *way* easier to just invent something new! hahaha This is my first attempt at retelling a known tale, and I hope I've given it a life of its own. Let me know what you think!

Thanks for reading :)

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The Shadows of the Night

They say it's always darkest just before the dawn, but I know that's not true.

It's really darkest at that point when you become exhausted from counting sheep, when you realize sleep will elude you, no matter how hard you try. And in that moment, when night is at its darkest, is when your mind registers the shadows the eye cannot see. The horrors of the night – those that instinct would have us fear. Those that science has committed to the realm of myth. But they remain.

For you see, myths are merely truths that time has all but forgotten.

I know this because I am one. And I hope you’ll forgive me for it. My name is Anesidora, Nesi to my friends, and I was born in a time when the Gods wandered amongst the men, playing with them as though they were little more than toys. I was born of the earth out of revenge. The first of my kind. A woman, granted Aphrodite’s powers of beauty and seduction, Athena’s wisdom, and Apollo’s gift for music.

And I have to admit, I loved my life. I wasn’t a myth, or even a legend. I was a girl, blessed by the gods, and in love with a boy. Fortunately for me, in the happy way of fairy stories, he loved me back. My world was a wonderful place to live.

We had a wedding the equal of which has never been seen. Attended by Gods and mortals alike, the wine flowed freely, the crystal sparkled, and the people celebrated. It was a night never to be forgotten. And as was tradition at the time, Epim and I were granted gifts by the attendees. My favourite was a stunning vase – painted with vibrant colours on a smooth surface. You could almost, but not quite, see through it. As I went to pull the stopper out, I was warned – the vase must never be opened. You can’t imagine my disappointment. I was such a silly child. But all my life I’d had anything I wanted, yet now I couldn’t use the one gift I was most interested in.

It sat in our front entrance – too stunning to be hidden from sight. I came to believe it had powers – when I was upset, merely laying a hand on it would calm me. If I was sad, it would reflect the light in a way that would insist on a smile. When it turned out my husband was even more a child than I, being near the vase gave me the patience to deal with him. And, years later, our children.

For years that vase captivated me. And gradually, the warning I’d been given faded in my mind. Epim claimed to have forgotten – he always had some excuse or another, but I knew. I always knew. It just seemed, after so many years, how important could it be? And when, for our anniversary, he gave me that perfect, exotic, stunning flower that seemed to light up next to the vase, I knew it was meant to be. Clearly *this* was why I was not to use the vase; I had to wait for perfection. And maybe the vase did have magic. Maybe it would make the flower live forever. It would be foolish of me not to use it. Or so I convinced myself.

A middle aged woman, yet still a silly child, a plaything of the gods, even after all those years.

The second the stopper moved – I swear it wasn’t even all the way out, only just moved – there was a horrific shriek that chilled my blood and froze me into place. It was only a second, but it was long enough for the shadows to escape. When I regained control I quickly restopped the vase, but it was too late. All the horrors and terror of the world had been unleashed. Plagues and sorrows, crime and pestilence, war and famine, and innumerable others all escaped in the heartbeat before I could stop them.

And my children’s world, and their children’s world, and the world of their children’s children, would never be the same. They would grow up in times of horrible violence and sadness. And I would watch it happen, knowing their pain was my fault.

So in the darkness of the night when you see the shadows move, know I’ve spent a thousand lifetimes trying to recapture them, forever paying for a second’s mistake. And that I know of what I speak when I tell you that myths are merely truths that time has all but forgotten. And I hope you’ll forgive me.