Author: TheQuilledSister

Today I am Keening

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized
NOTE: This story is technically a Companion Story, as like 87% of it was written by the Blogging Brother. However I did put the “frame” around it and I’d like it to be canon for these characters, so it’s here in the main series. Without further ado…

The Story

“The song one!”

“Oh but you’ve already heard that one.”

“Tell us again!”

“Yeah, yeah, we want to hear it again!”

The four grandchildren at her feet began to chant “again, again!” Her daughter-in-law shot her a pleading look from the other end of the sofa. She dramatically hemmed and hawed, then closed her eyes for just a moment. She took a deep, happy sigh, glided her wrinkled fingers across the many crystals resting along her neck. When she opened her eyes again, the mischievous glint told them they’d won her over.

“It was a dreary evening…”

“Just like this one?!” “Anna, shhhhhhhh-“ “Don’t shove me!” “I didn’t, I jus-“

A raised silver eyebrow, then silence.

“Ahem. It was a dreary evening… maybe a little like this one. But this was a long time ago—back when the mountains were so tall you could climb up to touch the stars! When the ocean was so young the sea nymphs still had to show the waves which way to go! Back when the world still had mysteries in it… parts unknown, parts unseen…

In those days, there had been great battle. The fields where they fought, soaked in mud and blood, were still littered with fallen friend and foe. Warriors, grasping their steins—”

“What’s a stein?”

“It’s a beer mug, lovie. Like the one your daddy’s got there, but these were made out of wood, or bone, or minotaur horns.”

“Ohhhhhh, okay.”

“Grasping their steins with bruised knuckles, the backs of their necks still slick with salt and sweat. Lifeblood dripped from their brows and blades. Their eyes were tired, but bright with life. Their wounds were not yet cleaned or stitched or even counted. But they gathered. Warriors always gather after battle, if only to remind each other they are still alive.

The Keeper of the tavern poured generously. There would be no accounting of glasses or gallons tonight. Perhaps not tomorrow either. Perhaps not until fresh graves had been dug, been filled, been mourned. No, the rescued lives of her family and her village were enough to cover the cost of every barrel in her cellar tonight if need be.

But would drink be enough? To celebrate, to commiserate? Could mead and ale wash clean the sweat and scars? Could another round pay tribute enough, properly thank the gods for their favor?

As she poured, filling stein after stein for the warriors—men and women both, you know, who had gone out not knowing if they would return carrying their shields, or carried on them, or not at all—she began to hum, to court the hearth with a simple, old melody. Warm us, her heart whispered, hear us and heal us.

The murmurings between tables quieted to hear the gentle croon. Then from the bar came a husky basso voice, like honeyed bourbon over broken glass. One old warrior turned away from the Keeper and toward the gathered survivors huddled in the mead-hall. His face was strong and sharp; you could imagine he’d been handsome many frays ago.

Hear now, shield-fellows,

  How the worlds were wrought!

Worlds woken wide

  From the wound-dark night

Before spear-song started

  Before sword-teeth bit

Before iron answered

  The oath of flesh

There stood the Long Night

  And the Door-That-Endured

As he sang ancient words following the Keeper’s contralto melody, the corners of the mead-hall closed in, as if the living and the dead that night were gathered to hear the tale together once more.

No hand had hewn it

  No high god held it his

It waited, wind-worn

  Where war-roads cross

Where shield-broken slain

  Seek boast and bench

Where rain-gods rumble

  Over rainbows and roof-beams

The murmuring from the tables picked up again, on key this time, joining the old warrior in remembering what could never be lost, no matter the battles raged.

East-born came Harliot

  Hearth-ward and horn-ward

Keeper-of-Drink

  Cup-warden of the Door

She-who-stands-steady

  Storm-still, wound-wise

Her eyes held ashes

  Her hands never shook

She brewed not barley

  But battle-rest

“Why does she have so many names?”

“Because the one who tends the bar is sacred. She doesn’t just pour drinks; she offers safety and rest and companionship to anybody who stumbles into her inn. She’s a good listener, too, unlike you children. Let me tell my story.

The man kept singing with his companions and the mead-hall Keeper helped them stay in tune.

Then through the threshold

  Strode the Stranger

Blade-bare bairn-bearer

  Burdened with loss

No helm hid her

  No hawk-banner flew

Yet Sorrow sat near her

  Like a shield-sworn friend

Men say she smiled

  As seers smile seldom

Knowing how many heroes

  Would be hewn in time

Harliot horn-lifted!

  Hall-silence deepened

Set she the stein (“there’s that word again!”)

  On the counter-stone

“Drink, road-weary one

  The fight is long.”

“Now the tradition was, in those days, that when you sang this verse, you’d raise your drink as high as you could—good, like that—and keep it up until the song was over.” 

The Stranger drank

  Shuddered the Door

Nine Winds woke

  Wandering found ways

Stars seized shields

  From the ember-field

The whale-road of heaven

  Widened with fire

Worlds rose in foam

  Fates burned like sparks

And birth-bells rang

  Under battle-clouds

“Nana, what does all that even mean? What’s a whale-road?”

“Where did the world come from? And all the stars, and the moon and the sun? These people believed what the song said: the whole universe was born from a single, perfect act of hospitality. That means always treating your guests well, because one day you might be their guest, too, as we all are guests of this world.

‘Thus,– sang the gathered company, standing now despite their weary legs and wounded arms, deep rumbling voices joining high tenors and a few striking sopranos,

Thus began battle-turning

  With peace first poured

From that cup we drink

  Ere each storm and spear

No mind for mercy

  No heart for fear

Remember, remember

If the Keeper’s cup

  Ever falls from her fingers

If the Stranger

  Stays far from the Door

Then thunder flees and forgets

  The throat of the sky

The war-gods grow wakeful

  Wine-less, and cold

And the world-hall will darken

  Without drink, Door, or dawn.

They repeated the last bit once more, 

And the world-hall will darken

  Without drink, Door, or dawn.

There was a moment of quiet, the Keeper’s quiet hum the only sound.

The wind halted. The stars hushed. The sea stilled. All waited, just for a moment.

And then the old man downed the rest of his ale in one gulp, slammed it onto the bar, and roared with laughter! Soon the whole company was laughing, knowing they lived one more day and the world kept turning and the ale kept pouring, and the Door stood always open.

“ANOTHER!” shouted a voice, and the Keeper’s hands went back to work.

Soon every man’s horn was full again, the torches burning bright against the dark. The Keeper’s son produced a fiddle and struck up a livelier tune, and suddenly the night was not so empty, and the dawn was quite near indeed…”

A round of tiny applause was her reward. She cherished it.

“Nana, will you tell us about the Pour-lady?” “The pourer, Anna!” “That’s what I said!” “It’s not!” “Is too!” “Is not!” “Is-“

“Perhaps if we all brush our teeth and wash our face and tuck ourselves in, I will come around and give you each a little hint about the Pourer’s story, how about that?”

“OKAY!” chorused four voices, setting off the beat of four pairs of feet racing through halls and up stairs.

“Thank you, Pepper. They love your stories, though how you remember all those words every time is beyond me. Say, speaking of mead and ale… can I get you a refill?”

“Oh, that would be lovely, dear.”

The Word

Keening (noun): A traditional, mournful vocal lament for the dead, characterized by a high-pitched, wailing cry

One could argue that above you’ll find a ballad, not a keening, but if one said that to me, I would turn my nose up and say they missed what I feel is 1/3 of the point, though they would technically be correct.

The first draft of the song from the story above was texted to me just last night, a creative ear-worm that apparently attacked my brother while he was trying to work on something else. But that’s how writing (or really any creative endeavor) goes sometimes, isn’t it? Some part of you is working in the back of your mind on something it cannot or will not let go of, and when it’s ready, shoves itself to the front, refusing to be ignored! When I saw it I thought “well that’s officially part of the Grudgery world now for sure” and also, don’t we have someone known for passing down stories? Pepper always comes through for me.

It also felt so appropriate to the vibes the past couple days. Yesterday was Memorial Day, and it has been raining for a solid week. The world is… the world right now. Perhaps a little keening and sharing of ballads will restore us in the same way it restored our warriors.

Happy reading!

P.S. Said brother has pointed out that he did in fact say kenning last night, not keening. I like my note here though, so I’m going to keep it and steal kenning for a later time, even if it does fit this story perfectly well.

Today I am Unconquerable

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

He was finally feeling some relief. There was an odd scraping sound which was starting to stir up a headache, but he would take a simple headache over the fever and nausea that plagued so many of his days recently.

It was more irritating than anything. He would be in the middle of an important meeting and then suddenly soaked in sweat, with random itches in unreachable places. He let the advisors think he was overheating, perhaps even a bit nervous about the discussion. Whenever it happened he would dramatically call for more water and another fan for the room. Occasionally a fresh fruit platter. It was better he appeared sensational and demanding than any sort of weak.

The cough had made that more difficult. He quickly took up the practice of constant incense smoking, to better communicate with the beyond of course. It also provided a helpful haze around his person, making him appear ethereal while hiding paling skin.

It was just what was going around these days and it was his turn apparently, though he felt as he should have really been above such a thing. It was hard to avoid with so very many people around the residence at all times. He was lucky indeed to have been alone when the fainting spell happened. He was not sure how he would explain that away, though he was thinking perhaps something about being divinely visioned? But then he would have to spend more time with those aging priests. Something else then.

And he would think of it after he figured out what that scraping sound was and had whoever was making it killed. Hadn’t he suffered enough? Every time some foreign dignitary brought a new disease with them, he soldiered on with his duties with nary a pause. Sometimes literally soldiering- what other pharaoh had to defend their borders with three physicians breathing down his neck, trying to bleed him and stuff herbs down his throat while he commanded? None he knew of. Or at least none that had done it well enough to be carved into history.

By the GODS who was making that sound? So near his chamber! He stood, shaking off his bedsheets, and abruptly halted. Beneath his feet was not the smooth cool stone of his chambers. He wiggled his toes, in a rather undignified manner he admitted, to find that there were rough blocks here instead. He surveyed the room- it was his chamber indeed. Or at least arranged like his chamber. All his possessions as they were- except instead of the lovely acacia tables he’d had made for his wife, his things were piled on bejeweled chests, each painted more intricately than the last.

No, he decided, was not his chamber. His chamber had the melody of small fountains and the calming scents of herbed oils. Where his wide window to look upon his people and feel the sweet air of his land should be- another wall. Other than the terrible scraping, there was silence. He smelled only dry earth and something oddly sour.

A nightmare, surely. He spun towards each corner. His desk here, his water basin there. All pressed against rough carvings rather than where they belonged. Was he captured perhaps? Why would his captors have also brought his belongings? Some were valuable, yes, but others like his great aunt’s weavings, were only so to him.

He searched for any indication of who had brought him here. Was there already a ransom set? How had they gotten by the guards? That was IT. He would never let another foreigner in the residence until a physician had cleared them and would order for a second food taster as well. Ridiculous to be a kidnapped god. Who would dare?! Who could even-

He saw them. The four urns stood on a small bench at the end of his bed: Imsety, Hapy, Duamutef, and Qebehsenuef peering at him with gem-set eyes.

“Sons of Horus…” he whispered, “say you are not here to guard… me.”

They did not answer. With a steady hand and racing heart, he touched his fingers lightly to his chest. A cut. Raised slightly, it ran the length of his abdomen.

This was no nightmare.

Oh, but it was.

The Word

Unconquerable (adj): 1. Incapable of being conquered; indomitable, 2. Incapable of being surmounted

A little short and sweet today! Well, maybe not sweet for our pharaoh…

I’m on my character-study arc again, and I was thinking about “oh how the mighty have fallen” but not in a revenge or justice kind of way. What about after surviving everything, after winning, after out doing the foes and the rebels and everything else- just an everyday life thing, got’em.

If one were to follow my (imperfect) clues, one may deduce our fellow here was not actually taken by a foreign disease or poison as he suspected, but by a pretty common death for ancient Egypt: schistosomiasis (or in I’m-not-a-scientist-don’t-come-for-me terms, “drinking contaminated water from the Nile”). Apparently it can take weeks to fully set in! So even the Egyptians, who caught on to medicine stuff faster than the rest of the world, had a hard time with it.

Good news: It turns out he is immortal due to his god-like status! Bad news: The only door they left him is a metaphorical one painted on the wall for his soul.

I wonder what will become of him…

…happy reading!

Today I am Eleutheromania

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

She had never been held like this before.

So light, so tenderly, yet deeply secure. Breathless yet gulping the precious air. Warm, yet shivering. This was new in a way that made each cell of her body sing! She called out to the heavens to witness her joy! Yes- never before like this.

Oh some had tried.

There had been a little rough and tumble when she was quite young. Then there’d been a cozy, caring, almost careful. Even once held like a fragile jewel, to be examined at every angle. But there was no comparison to be made.

The strength flowing across her breast, the rushing in her ears.

She would never need another thing. Hunger nor thirst could penetrate such contentment.

Borne over waves of pleasure, what heights! What peace.

This was flying.

The Word

Eleutheromania (noun): A mania or frantic zeal for freedom

Look! It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s a wom- no wait, that’s defiantly a bird.

This one is so short that maybe I should file it with poems rather than stories. But as the chimes have ding-a-dong’ed this week, announcing a wind bringing warm weather into my neck of the woods, I couldn’t help but feel like an uncaged bird myself.

I am a different person come spring. I know I’m not alone in this. A joy that has hibernated through cold rains and yes, even beautiful snows, awakens to bloom in my chest and run down to my fingers and toes. There is nothing quite like being warm.

I joke to my friends and family that I was a flower in another life. That I wilt without sun and warmth. I even call those hard days (the ones with the anxiety or the migraines or the seasonal depression or like, the state of the world) gray days- because they are like a heavy cloud has settled between me and blue sky.

But spring is finally settling in. There are wrens and robins fighting over the bird feeder, singing their lungs out for seed. And no, the world’s problems are not any less, but at least there is a little sunshine.

Happy spring, and happy reading.

P.S. Isn’t this a great word? There are some real fascinating finds in the “mania”s. Would encourage diving into the “mania” word-family-rabbit-hole when you need a doom-scroll break.

Today I am Consult

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

“Hello my paranormal pals! Welcome back to Dead Talk – I’m your host River Morgan and you’re listening to the only podcast with interviews that are truly a blast from the past. This is the first episode of season two, so if you’re just joining us, we are happy to have you and be sure to hit that Subscribe button in whichever app you’re listening through, as well as pop on back to season 1 because there are some real gems there, folks.

“I hope everyone had a great summer, I sure did. My partner Nell, you all know Nell, and I did a roadtrip across eleven states to hit some of her bucket list foodie spots! We were eating good, y’all. I had my favorites- shout out Mickie’s Truffle Emporium in Portland. Mickie, you and your truffle fries are SO fine. My other worth-it spot was when Nell made ya boy dress up all nice and we hit the bar of Swan, a swanky lounge in Chicago’s diamond district and let me tell you, it’s a real jewel itself. Cocktails that brought me back to life after all that driving and made us feel like we belonged among the famous and fabulous, ya know?

“Now my very favorite spot was Loretta’s Bayou Bar, and I know what y’all are thinking- River, get to the goods! And that’s where I’m headed, I promise. Loretta’s had fried alligator that would make you walk on water – and that’s just how we met our first interview of the season. That’s right, y’all, Nell told me to go on and pack the recording equipment for our trip so y’all wouldn’t miss a thing.

“So let me set the scene for you- we’re sitting fat and happy on Loretta’s patio watching the sun go down, finishing a couple plates of alligator, a pound of deeeelicious crawfish, and had just ordered a couple bags of pralines to go when I said to Nell that I got to walk a bit to settle my stomach and lick the grease off my fingers before we head back to the hotel, and she, being the perfect woman she is, adds two lagers to the bill and our lovely waitress brought them to us in koozies and points to a little path by the river warning us not to get too close to the water. I said- ‘River ain’t afraid of no river!’ And the waitress gave me a look and says ‘Where do you think we get the gator from?’ so I doubled the tip and we wandered on outta there.

“We get down to the river and I’m talking all romantical to my lady ’cause the stars are out and there’s a sweet breeze coming off that water when Nell just freezes. I start to ask what’s up and she shushes me and points out to the water. I’m thinking I’m about to have to be a hero and tackle a freaking gator to save my wife! But no- there’s a mist rolling over the river and it starts to move upwards, shifting into the form of a woman in what I thought was a fancy dress with frills all around her neck and wrists, but what we later learned at a local museum was probably a ‘work’ dress- similar to what upper and middle class ladies of the time wore on their day-to-day running around. So the mist keeps moving around her, defining her features a bit and we see she looks pretty young, got some long wavy hair flying free and an almost serene look on her face- and is staring right at Nell. I tell y’all I just about dropped the recorder in the water getting it out of my pack as fast as I could, and well- y’all excuse a bit of fumbling in this one- maybe shouldn’t of had that last beer but oh well, here we go-“

A loud gong rings out followed by wind chimes.

“cshhhrt csht“

“Ope- you got it? Is it on?”

“Yeah there goes the light- hello madam!”

Wind blows, a chorus of frogs begins.

“Ma’am, we don’t mean to disturb your evening. I’m River Morgan, and this is my lovely wife Nell.”

The wind blows again, then a soft distant voice can be heard, “Is he a good man?”

“Yes,” Nell’s voice is slightly louder but gentle, “yes, he’s a good man. You can trust him. I trust him.”

“Are you? Are you a good man?”

“Well I do my best, ma’am.”

“Then why bring her here, into the night?”

“We like taking walks after dinner. A little promenade, you might say, heh heh. I’m being careful to keep her toes far from the water, I promise. They told us about the gators.”

“The caimans will have their way with you, should they like.”

“They won’t have my Nell, no ma’am. I was wondering if I might interview you? I’m a host for a podca- for a newspaper of sorts and I would just love to ask you a couple questions. You’re just the kind of lady my readers would want to know- who you are and how you came to be here, if you don’t mind.”

“You do not fear my visage?”

“No ma’am, River has spoken with many people in your circumstances. We have met many who are gone but still here.”

The chorus of frogs abruptly stops.

“Gone?”

“She doesn’t mean offense, ma’am. Simply that we have spoken to several wonderful people who wander similar places. And we’d just like to know more about you.”

“…My story is a common one. A woman trusted a man and it was her downfall.”

“I’m awfully sorry to hear that, ma’am. May I ask your name?”

“I am Louisa Fontenot. And I will tell you my story. And then I will let the caimans have you.”

A loud gong rings out followed by wind chimes.

“How about that folks! We found ourselves a real lady of the lake! Or river, I suppose. We’ll have her story after these short messages!”

-Nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea, waking nightmares, adult acne, depressed eyelids, trouble walking! Prepto-Scav is something Nell and I always make sure is packed for a road trip- you never know with today’s climate whether your adventures will bring heartburn or third-degree sunburns, so be ready for anything- with Prepto-Scav!-

-Bunker bedsores got you down? Don’t go to bed with a frown! Get Remi’s Cots- made from recycled memory foam and layered with rat-proof copper inserts to keep you comfortable and rodent-free all night long!-

-Choose BetterHealth. Mental Health assistance for anywhere, anytime. I use BetterHealth when an interview has left me feeling as wispy as my guests, and my certified assigned professional helps set me back on solid ground. Now available on most JETDS communication devices.-

“Thanks folks, now let’s dive back in with Miss Louisa Fontenot.”

The loud gong rings again, with wind chimes slowly fading away.

“Well Mrs. Fontenot-“

“Miss Fontenot. My father was of the Marseille Fontenots.”

“Miss Fontenot, I apologize. Before we get to the goods and the gators, how about you fill us in on life in your world?”

“What is it you wish to know? My family is not so different from the others.”

“How about- we just had an amazing dinner up the ways a bit, how was the food during your time?”

“Terrible’. It is not ladylike to eat the pretty sweets at dinners and parties, we are to pretend we are more interested in conversation or dance. At home, it was bland stews or plain bread and cheese as Papa believed food was for nourishment, not entertainment. Only when Papa was gone for business would Mama let Hettie cook from her own recipes. Then dinner was incroyable! Hettie could make little critters taste like spiced gold…”

Silence stretches. A lone brave toad croaks.

“I have not thought about Hettie in quite some time. She was good to me. Always kind. Tried to tell me to marry high and become the lady of my own home, stop chasing after dreams.”

“Was Hettie a sla- ow, Nell! Was she, uh, a local?”

“Yes. Our family moved here when Mama was pregnant with me, and brought on Hettie when I was born, as she was too tired to run the house on her own. I did not know life without Hettie.”

“Do you miss Hettie?”

“I do. She passed from this world a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Her daughters left magnolia blossoms on the river for me when they told me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry Miss Fontenot, I don’t understand, when they told you what?”

“That Hettie had died. They came to this river after her funeral and laid magnolias from her grave in the water so I would know. Kind girls, like their mother. Mr. River, I understand well that you, your lady, and I are of the same world yet not the same veil.”

“I didn’t realize you understood your… status. Not everyone does.”

“We all do, Mr. River. It is simply a matter of denial or acceptance.”

“And are you in denial?”

“Occasionally.”

“I see. So you mentioned Hettie tried to get you to marry a highborn gentleman? Did she have anyone in particular in mind?”

“She and my mother were in agreement that any of the local financiers or well-do merchants moving in would be practical choices, as the world was changing.”

“What was changing?”

“The war was starting, Mr. River. A smart girl married a man too wealthy to serve, but not so wealthy his land could be conscripted for the military.”

“That… does sound smart.”

“It did not keep my sisters and I from dancing with the officers at every ball. I wish it had.”

“Please, tell us why.”

“It did not take many rounds of the ballroom before I fell in love with Officer Hebert. He had steel eyes and a wide smile that made me breathless. But he did not fall in love with me.”

Another silence stretches across the lapping of the river.

“Miss Fon-“

“You see, Mr. River. Men can have what women cannot- and that is everything. A man can choose his wife yet not be limited to her. Should a woman do so, her reputation would become unsalvageable. Officer Hebert led many a lady to believe we were his choice. One hot evening, he led me out of the boiling ballroom of the Bordeaux manner, into the gardens for fresh air. Once among the topiaries, he kissed me until my heart thundered. I spent all night regaling my sisters with the taste of him and his promises of our future. The next morning he announced his engagement to Clara LeBlanc, whose father owned fifteen hundred acres.”

“I’m so sorry,” Nell’s voice cooed softly on the recording, “that must have been heartbreaking.”

“Oh I was young, so heartbreak came with more anger than my body could hold. I asked him to meet me here that very evening.”

“Here? Sorry ma’am, if you back away like that we won’t be able to record your voice so well, let me just-“

“Yes, sweet cheri. Come and hear me. I told him to meet me along this river, so I may taste his lips once more before he forever belonged to Clara. And he met me, because men are fools. He did not know I had arrived here earlier to throw chicken bones in the river, drawing the creatures near. He kissed me and I kissed him, and for just a moment I thought about simply staying there in his embrace. But I remembered his engagement and with all my fury and might, I rocked us both into the water! Oh how the caimans rushed on us, desperate for our fresh flesh! He screamed but I only laughed as they tore us apart, just as he had my heart! He wanted everything so I TOOK. EVERYTHING!”

“River- you’re too close to- RIVER!”

A splash, then several loud boney snaps resound as wicked laughter booms.

“Nell get away from the- Nell, go!”

“River, take my hand!”

“Grab the recorder!”

“RIVER! MOVE!”

The laughter fades as heavy breathing echoes over crunching leaves.

A loud gong rings out followed by wind chimes.

“Phew, how about that one, folks? I kept the last bit in so y’all remember- don’t try this at home! Not every subject is uh, polite, shall we say? Lucky for me, Nell was fast whipping that beer bottle at the first gator, stunned him enough for us to get back up the embankment. We hadn’t even realized we’d gotten so close to the water! Tricky little lady, that Louisa Fontenot. Once we got to the car, we ate the whole bag of pralines and a second one we’d meant to bring my in-laws, to settle the jitters.

“I do wish the interview hadn’t been cut short, we rarely get to talk to someone from so far back. Nell chided me for taking the bait about the officers when we could have asked about the start of the war, eased into her perspective on slavery from a French-leaning household, just gotten a bit more out of her maybe, before she set her water dogs on us! There are lot of potential interviewees in that area but not all of them want to relive what they already dealt with. We may travel there again but we may just leave them in peace.

“Still, I thought it was a good one to start the season with- get our heartbeats going! Join us next time where we talk with a gentleman who lived, or rather didn’t, through the Galveston hurricane and has some seriously stormy thoughts on it.

“Is there a spooky someone near you that you’d like us to interview? Remember to send in suggestions to deadtalkwithriver@podmail.com and we might just come see what they have to say! Thanks for listening, this has been Dead Talk! Goodnight!”

The Word

Consult: (verb) Seek information or advice from, generally someone with expertise in a particular area. (noun) An act of consulting a professional; a consultation.

After Today I am Devotion, I thought it would be interesting to see what other forms of media I could use for storytelling. Podcasts are a natural choice, as I think at this point we’ve all heard a couple or are regular subscribers. It’s also a good way for me to practice dialogue, as anyone who has been here a hot minute knows that’s something I’m working on. But it was a little difficult to decide how to write out the background sounds. I peeked around at a few other stories, in which authors had radio shows or podcasts or phone calls that made up the entirety to see how they did those little sounds. It seems there isn’t necessarily a standard but I do like some more than others. Do you have a favorite style? I think River Morgan and his Dead Talk will be a good one to come back to occasionally, find other subjects to chat with, and find out what best suits for me.

I also really like the word consult for this. It’s one I’ve had in my word-bank for a while and while there were other stories I thought maybe it would work for, I kept going back to an ancestral idea. What if we could consult someone who has already seen it all? What if we could have a therapist who has already lived their entire life and could give advice from that perspective? Pulling that thread led me to Dead Talk, where consults/interviews don’t always go as planned!

Hope you enjoyed our step into the spooky, happy reading!

–

P.S. Did you catch the easter egg from one of our other characters? 😉

Today I am Devotion

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized1 Comment

The Story

Dear Liza,

First I want to apologize that it has taken me so long to get your bowl returned to you! It somehow got packed in one of our kitchen boxes and I found it this morning (yes that does mean it’s taken me two full months to finish unpacking, but you know- setting up the kids for school took priority). I’ve filled it with pecan sandies (my mother’s recipe!) as an apology.

Second I want to thank you for attending my going-away party! Michelle was so sweet to throw it, and told me that it would not have happened at all if she had not roped in her “most reliable friend Liza.” So I’m sorry our first meeting was our last, as I trust Michelle’s good taste!

Thanks again,

Olivia

–

Olivia,

No need to thank me! I would do anything for Michelle, as she’s not only fantastic but also is the one who got my daughter into Lilling Academy- but also because it’s not my bowl.

I asked Michelle and she swears it is yours but that moving has you confused. I would never accuse a fellow woman of being confused, more like responsible for too many thoughts at once, right? But since we both trust her judgement, I’m sending it back. Also full, because my god were those pecan sandies delicious. You’ll have to give me the recipe, if your mother will allow. My return offering is apple turnovers, as I just recently graduated from apple strudel to the other folded bake with apples.

Hope you enjoy,

Liza

–

Dear Liza,

We are indeed in a battle of wills. Or a bowl of wills. I am certain THIS is the bowl those delicious apple strudels were presented in at the party! Though it is understandable that Michelle would think I have things mixed up. I do have a bowl similar, slightly smaller though and the edging is green. Also I have yet to pick my children up from school on time, so maybe I do have a few things still unsettled (who wouldn’t- it’s so cold here! Perhaps my thoughts have frozen). Why aren’t school hours a standard thing?

Your apple turnovers were a hit in this house- I barely scarfed down my own before the boys lit on them! I cannot fold anything so neatly, so please enjoy these cinnamon muffins that accompany the sandies recipe (my mother was always big on sharing- not one of those ‘it’s a family recipe’ types).

Hoping to bowl you over,

Olivia

–

Oliva,

I’m not sure you should challenge me to a battle of wills- I was born up in that cold! My late husband, who I don’t think you got the chance to meet, and I vowed to move to south together despite how sad/furious our moms were because we were talking about kids and I couldn’t imagine being pregnant and freezing. The Fall is hard, there’s no denying that, but you will see that the Winter is so beautiful and fun that it really makes up for it. Buy the boys some good parkas before the seasonal price-bump and schedule ski lessons for everyone, or ice skating if that’s your vibe- I never got the hang of it.

I asked around at Michelle’s card night- she says it is the first of a new monthly tradition for the ladies because we all should be bonding like our grandmothers did. I’m not completely bought on it yet but I’ll keep showing up if she keeps making me a gin fizz worthy of the babysitter cash. None of the girls there claimed the bowl when I mentioned it and I think it was a pretty similar invitee list as your party, though I don’t know everyone that well. There are few new ladies since my hiatus. So, obvious to you now, I am sending it back with hopes you’ll adopt it or realize there’s an unexpectedly empty spot in your cabinet.

My girl Pepper- and just to cut you off before you start no I will not be having a son named Salt, it’s a family name- was so happy with your muffins that it inspired me to ease my way into things without apples. Just a toe-dip though. These are no bake Energy Balls. I’ve included the recipe as I don’t know if your boys have any allergies. I discovered the secret to not adding any sugar and not too much honey is the coconut. It adds flavor and some good fats while preserving the idea that these might be good for you. Pepper enjoyed the very sticky experimentation and I hope you enjoy these even half as much.

Just unbelieva-bowl,

Liza

–

Dear Liza,

Happy Halloween! Or, almost Thanksgiving I guess. Should I take down the cobwebs or just stick the turkeys in them for a pilgrim-macabre effect? I remember my mother saying time flew for her during the school year and I always thought- you’re not the one with homework (but we are in a way, aren’t we?!). You’re an actual guardian angel about the parkas- I made Tom get all the boys fitted and set (a size up for James, he’s growing an inch a day I think) when they were almost sweating in them, but just this morning I checked the prices for fun and my God! It’s as bad as gas prices on a holiday!

Speaking of the boys- your Energy Bites (as I cannot call them Balls because James is at… THAT age where everything is a joke) are a life saver for lunch boxes. It is now officially part of the food prep on Sundays.

So I did something a little silly and went back and checked the pictures of the party but no one took one of the snacks table! I’m shocked- there were so many good things and cute (Jessica really needs to open a shop, her moving truck cake was amazing) and not one damn picture! We are bad Instagram millennials and I expect better of us. But I did remember that someone made caramels from scratch for that day- so I’ve had the boys try to help me recreate them (Tommy is going to be a chef one day, I know it but the other two I fear I’m going to be cooking for until they marry). The kitchen is a mess but I think we had some success, let me know what you think.

Now the part I have re-written three times (you’re worth the stationary): I never did get to meet your Peter formally, no. But I feel like I have because all of the couples in your neighborhood spoke so highly of him. That he was so fun, very reliable, and that the two of you were a sunny addition to the street. I fear that Tom and I became active in that group after Peter’s passing when you were still in mourning and moved away just as you were emerging. For every single reason out there I wish that had not been the case. Tom says that the husbands would brag about taking turns sneaking a sip of good bourbon into Peter’s tea at chemo sessions (and while I do not approve of them messing with medications) I do hope that brought some joy to Peter and to you. I pray that you and Pepper are doing well and that these sweet exchanges are as much as a balm to your day as they are to mine.

Thinking of you,

Olivia

–

Olivia,

My turkey decorations are now all wearing Santa hats, so there’s no judgment here whatever you decide.

And you’re right about Instagram- I will post a picture of Pep with a Maya Angelo quote about motherhood as penance. I am with you in the shock that there are no pictures of the snack table- this group is usually too good at taking food pictures, as I swear the one brunch I made it to my eggs went cold just so we could get the shot. Perhaps everyone was simply too distressed by your departure?

To comfort you though, Jessica has indeed started a cake business- her call sign is JessJustBakes. She made a firework cake this past summer with a sparkler on the end and that was that- everyone had to have a Jessica Original. If she has time, I’m hoping to commission a unicorn for Pep’s birthday party, as cakes are far from my speciality.

I did not know about the bourbon! Oh that makes me laugh, thank you for telling me. You didn’t need to worry about drafting, I love talking about Peter. It keeps him here. He would be helping you pack to get back to warmer climates! I too wish many things had been different, but I cannot get lost in that world. I’m just thankful that an actually rather ugly bowl has brought us together now. Speaking of which- caramels were great! One actually got a baby tooth out of Pep and so she’s off building a contraption to catch the Tooth Fairy. Pray for me.

I am not nearly so adventurous- but all the gals have started trying to make bread and it is hard not to get a little FOMO. Another toe-dip though- these are chive biscuits, as I thought it would be easier to watch smaller bits rise than one big thing. If you approve I will make them again for Cards Night, which I accidentally volunteered to host while Michelle has her dining room remodeled.

Yours,

Liza

–

Dear Liza,

I have the craziest news! (No, not moving back south, maybe one day!) Sandra Turnblow- do you still chat with her? Your seat in heaven is secured if you do, I have always found conversations with her very… trying. Anyway! So after not hearing a peep from her in God knows how many months, she calls me up and says “You have my mother in law’s bowl!” VERY accusatory! And I blanked on what she could possibly be talking about, as I was halfway out the door (it was a Tuesday, when Tom and I are playing clown car chauffeur to get the boys to choir and then James to football and Luke to piano and Tommy’s carpool to soccer and then find them all again in enough time to feed them before homework). So I say “What? Whose mother?” and she says “My mother in law’s BOWL, Liv. You have it!” (I hate when people call me Liv) I freeze when I realize what she’s talking about. THE bowl! But there I am with shinguards in one hand and a nasty protein bar in the other and I just clam up. She goes on about how she borrowed her mother in law’s bowl for my going away party and it had her onion-raisin mini muffins in it (an item I thought I had made up in a nightmare but apparently was indeed real). And now her mother in law is furious that the bowl has not been returned to her in over a year! Well is that on me? Sandra Turnblow seems to think so! I just couldn’t respond, I was fit to be tied at her attitude as I know I’d asked her at the beginning if it was hers and she ignored my text! I asked everyone and so did you! So I just couldn’t say anything because I was not going to be kind- I told her I was busy and would call her back later (which I have not done). Am I a terrible person? I’m so sad that this will be our last exchange. At least it ends on a good note- these lemon bars are double from a batch that finally got the other PTA moms to speak to me. Sugar really does unite us all. Tell Sandra I’m sorry. Or don’t (because I’m not).

Love,

Olivia

–

Olivia,

Saw Sandra at Michelle’s the other night, nose in air as usual, even when she lost Cribbage for the third time. Maybe she’s trying to sniff out her mother in law’s bowl. Shame we haven’t seen it.

Lemon squares were to die for. And also to put up with PTA moms for- you just show them who the hell you are and you’ll be the lead hen in no time. Enjoy these chocolate chunk cookies, Pep helped make them to get her Baking badge. Just a quick note as we are late for Girl Scouts but dropping this at the mail on the way. Might get us matching taxi hats until our kids can drive. Heard a rumor you might be visiting Tom’s parents in Greenville for New Years- let me know because we’re just half an hour away and have plenty of room!

Love,

Liza

The Word

Devotion (noun): 1. Love, loyalty, or enthusiasm for a person, activity, or cause. 2. Prayers or religious observances.

I could go on and on with Liza and Olivia chatting with each other (and might add on to this as I do my random re-reads and re-edits). In my “reading to write” research, I recently read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and loved it*. So I wanted to get a little practice in- not just with letters, but because authors Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows do such a wonderful job of creating the characters solely through the characters’ own voices. In letters there’s no “I look like this” unless weirdly asked (which does happen in the book by one eccentric character). The character has to LITERALLY speak for themself and I thought that would be good exercise.

And on the word itself, I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship the past couple weeks and what it means for those of us in our thirties and in this very “unprecedented times” laden world. Finding a person or people you can be devoted to is a precious gift. I’m very thankful for those friendships I am devoted to but also wouldn’t mind another popping up with a mysterious missing bowl.

Also, we haven’t heard from Liza in a while and I wanted to check in 😉

Happy reading!

*you may have already known I read this if you saw my poem about the movie on Micro blog!

Today I am Solastalgia

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Poem

Her arrival is proclaimed on the wind!

And each time I rush to the door

To see her beauty appear

And her accompanying champions roar.

I have thrown off all promises to others

And dedicate myself to her joy,

I shower the homestead in her colors

and her songs my tongue jumps to employ.

Her herald is up on the mountains!

Her steps glisten across the plain,

And my heart swells at the sight of her,

My love, my life does she rein.

But she wearies herself at my hearth,

Like shadows she moves through the home,

And I find myself hoping she’d leave here

Release me and off should she roam.

Take everything with her and quit me,

Take it all and quickly depart!

How much longer will I last in her presence?

How weary and wounded my heart.

She lingers and hatred builds in me

She must go! She must leave here at once!

But she denies me my freedom for longer,

Bent to her own final performance.

Finally she bows and deserts me,

Back onto her weary world travel

And I am left alone in the doorway,

Begging myself not to unravel.

Yet I hear on the breeze a glad tiding!

Her sister is nearby and coming!

My heart warms at the thought of her presence,

And the very earth begins humming.

The Word

Solastalgia (noun): a form of emotional or existential distress caused by negatively perceived environmental change

I believe this is the youngest word seen on Quilled Sister thus far. Wikipedia tells us that it was first coined in 2003. Its maker, Glenn Albrect, says it is “the homesickness you have when you are still at home” often brought on by a change in the climate (How many of you just thought “oh, yeaaaah I know that feeling”? Same.).

If you have been with me for a while, you know that these occasional hibernations of mine happen. I disappear for quite some time without a warning or even backwards wave. And they most often happen during winter. I’m just not a winter gal, I don’t LIKE being cold. And I am sorry I’m like this. It’s just, when I’m hunkering down under a blanket with a scalding cup of tea, the last thing I want to do is risk my fingers turning blue running them across a keyboard.* BUT my notes app is flooded with words and mini-thoughts that could not be suppressed by the freezing temperatures. Now that the East Coast’s first false-spring has brought me a little out of my dark cave, I return to you with renewed vigor. Like the daffodils, I appreciate your patience while I huddled under the earth and am now determined to blossom once more for your reading pleasure!

Happy New (warm time of) Year! And Happy Reading!

P.S. If this poem reminded you of a haughty version of that Trace Adkin’s “hate to see her go, but love to watch her leave!” song, then I’m pleased.

*This does make my day job difficult. Emerging from a fort of blankets and hot water bottles to take a zoom call is hellish.

Today I am Compost

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story… Essay?

Because I meant to make a story today. I really did. I had this grand idea about organic material and how it feeds into one another. In it, there was a cute little mushroom who grew up learning the strange, constant flow of information from his connected family through the electrical impulses they send one another.

It’s actually science, that one. Not me making stuff up again. Mushrooms and trees are probably talking behind our backs under our feet right now, say (paraphrased) Plant Pathologists and Microbiologists.

But the text response I send to my brother is “I’m currently sitting in front of 2415 words I kinda hate about a mushroom. Gonna take a break.“

And I am going to take a break. I’m so mad at this poor, innocent mushroom for not developing himself into something publishable, even after multiple chunks of paragraphs, that I’m instead writing about how much I hate it to just get some words out.

I feel like you understand. We are all crafty in our own way- whether your medium is words or clay or wire or dough or dungeon-ous minifigures. And sometimes those freaking things get away from us, becoming their own thing instead of molding under our fingertips as requested.

It feels rude! Are we not their creator?!

But alas. My mushroom pal is not to be. So I’m allowing myself to grab the rare mini Dr. Pepper from the fridge. They’re delicious, and I will make up for the calorie deficient somewhere else today. I always think of author John Green when I grab a Dr. Pepper. Not in a weird way, but he’s brought up his Dr. Pepper obsession in two of his books and at least every other podcast episode so I cannot help but associate the two. He drinks the diet kind though, and I would never do something so sacrilegious as disobey the good Doctor’s prescription by replacing real sugar with artificial (please don’t come at me, Diet Coke fanatics, I’m actually rather afraid of you).

I’m taking my mini Dr.Pepper outside. It’s damp and humid from all the rain yesterday, but so lusciously quiet. Normally my neighborhood teems with the happy sounds of toddlers screeching, old men yelling at their lawn mowers, and the teen across the street working on his basketball dribble: Thump thump thu-thump.

But the dampness has kept them all inside. Even the wrens, known accurately for their talkative ways, are quiet. I assume they’re mad I haven’t replaced the birdseed after the storm and are either pouting or, more likely, harassing a distant feeder instead. Only me and the occasional mourning dove, who does not mind a slightly moist sunflower seed.

I have two oak trees in my back yard that I’m very fond of. They are the kind of tall and aged that makes one wonder what things such elders have seen. I often think they are quite cinematic, photogenic. But my attempts to subject them in my “artsy” Instagram posts have not gone well.

The deck chairs are damp, so I figure why not go ahead and sit with one of these lovely trees? I’ll have to change pants once back inside either way, so let’s just confirm the weird-neighbor rumor if anyone looks outside.

How to choose? They’re both good sit-spots. This is when I notice a bright orange blight at the bottom of the larger oak. What’s this?! I work very hard to keep my yard tended and healthy! Alright, I work kinda hard. I work hard when there’s time. I try.

Stomping over, I find that it’s not a big orange blight, but instead a strange mound of peachy mushroom. How appropriate.

“Mocking me, are you?” I ask the mushroom.

It doesn’t respond.

I stare at it a bit, and decide proudly that this is a Jack-o-Lantern mushroom. If I wait a few hours, I can confirm this by the soft, unearthly glow it will give at dusk. I’m getting to know mushrooms better, watching a foraging YouTuber and reading several herb books. I figure if our various leaders are going to blow up the world, we’ll still need to eat afterwards and best to figure out now what’s poisonous and what’s yummy.

The Jack-o-Lantern is on the “no snacking” list. It feels like this should be obvious- one should not risk putting glowing forest objects into one’s mouth. But unfortunately, there are three other kinds of mushroom that are of similar color, grow in the same places, and are excellent sources of nutrients. I know my Jack-o-Lantern is none of these though because as I lean closer, I can see the moss surrounding it has begun to recede in a slow retreat. This guy is apparently poisonous to everyone, not just us vertebrates.

But not dangerous to sit next to. And I’m enough of a stereotypical writer that I think perhaps sitting with a mushroom will help me write about it better.

What do you think- Is this going well? Is it helping?

It’s better than the little gill-capped lad I was trying to create, I tell you that. Most anything would be better.

I set my Dr. Pepper down next to the mushroom on a flat bit of ground. Then, worrying about spores, I move it to the other side of me while giving the mushroom my best “don’t touch my stuff and I won’t dig you out and throw you on the stick pile” glare.

It doesn’t respond to this either.

A deep breath, that’s the ticket. Meditating has never been a skill of mine, but I do find a peace among the world’s natural sounds. The mourning dove is sending out an occasional curious “coorcoo?” wondering why it’s alone. The branches above me are playfully jostling in the wind. Something skitters in the back brush- probably one of the damn squirrels that digs in my flowerpots, little varmint- but I let that anger go and return to my breath.

A creak, probably the oak shifting, peering down at me. Perhaps it thinks Oh here’s the little one from the house leaning on me, how interesting. Perhaps I’m not interesting to the tree at all and the thought is more Lordy not another one, but I feel like we have an acquaintance at least. I pick up its leaves and fallen branches, spray it for invading bugs each spring. It shades my deck and holds up my bat house. We’re companions in a way.

This makes me look again at the mushroom, “Are you hurting my tree? Or just chilling?”

It shifts a little.

Had to be the wind but I huff a laugh, “Is that a yes or no, friend?”

It shifts a little more.

This would bother some people. But I am a certified Weirdo and am okay with the moving abouts of things that should not be moving about. Don’t get me started on the ghost that lived in my first apartment, for example. A mushroom shifting in the wind that… has actually stopped… blowing? Does not disturb me much. I do move my Dr. Pepper a little further away though, onto one of the rocks guarding my peony garden. Imagine a caffeinated poisonous mushroom!

Wait- is that my story? Do I add my little mushroom fella somehow getting his hands on a cup of coffee? Maybe I tie that into the new real world mushroom-coffee fad? And maybe say that mushrooms are trying to take over the world via our stimulant addiction??

No, no. Another deep breath. That’s far too much like the jellyfish story I’m writing. And that one is going better so I don’t want to sacrifice its good idea to fix today’s tale.

I look down again at the splayed pastels next to me. I wish I’d brought my phone out with me to take a picture of it, but I’m trying to do this new thing where I just walk away from my phone for a while. Probably good for my eyes.

Did I slide closer to it when I moved my soda? Odd. I give it a little more space. I don’t know for absolute certain that the only way it can kill you is if you eat it, I’m just pretty sure.

It is gorgeous though. Its caps look like spraying waves frozen in time. I wonder why this one, out of the multiple mushrooms that cosplay as nightlights, got the name Jack-o-Lantern. It’s not even the only orange one, if I’m remembering correctly. Maybe it was just discovered first?

It shifts again.

Third time doesn’t feel like the charm in this scenario and the little hairs on my neck stand in agreement. I’m about to head inside and talk myself out of my spooky thoughts (because really, it’s just thoughts, writers get carried away with our own fiction so often), when a black centipede shimmies out from under one of the caps.

“Oh it’s been you!” I address the bug, now glistening in a bit of sunlight, “You nearly scared me there, little guy.”

The centipede is not impressed with my musings and quickly makes his way up the tree without even a how do you do.

I shake my head. Out here for some air and I’ve not only personified a plant but made it eerie. Try to focus again. Deep breath. The dove coos again. Deeper breath. Close your eyes and feel the sun on your lids.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Ah, pavement must have dried up enough for the teen to come out for practice. Good for him.

Thump thump thu-thump.

If I focus on the bounces, which I must tell him next time I see him are defiantly getting more consistent, it’s almost like one of those drums meditation leaders use to help you hone in on a single thing.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The breath comes easier now, I can feel my own rhythmic system align itself, all my earlier frustration seeping out into the earth.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Something, perhaps a small bug, moves along my thigh, and I quickly flick it away and try to remain in the zone.

Thump thump thu-thump.

It’s lovely, really, out here in the damp moss, under a tree that has endured so much.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The bug lands on my thigh again. Did I spill some Dr. Pepper on it or something to attract him? Another flick, another deep breath.

Thump thump thu-thump.

This time when it lands, I let it. It’s too late in the season for mosquitos. Probably just a cranky fly. I won’t even dignify it with looking. I relax my eyebrows. If it wants to sit there while I breathe, fine.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I’m getting rather good at this meditation. Perhaps having that conscious thought means that I am actually not, but it feels like it. I can feel myself becoming less a bunch of limbs on the ground and more just space out in more space. Feels good.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The air smells alive. How nice to be alive with it. The sun seems to be moving away.

Thump thump thu-thump.

How long have I been out here if the sun is moving? I really am getting very good at this. In a moment though, I will have to open my eyes and go inside. Feed the cat, run the laundry, etc.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Just another moment though. This feels so nice. These breaths are so deep, entering my whole being.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I don’t feel the little bug anymore. In fact, I’m not quite sure I feel much at all.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I feel sedative. Feel pulsing as one with the soil.

Thump thump thu-thump.

We feel lovely down here.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Oh we do glow in the evening. Isn’t that fascinating.

The Word

Compost: (noun) Decayed organic material used as a plant fertilizer. (verb) Make (vegetable matter or manure into compost.

Gotcha! I’m okay- didn’t actually turn into a mushroom! That I’m aware of anyway. They do “communicate” via electrical impulses, and you’re reading this via a kind of electric impulse, so who’s to say?

This story did grow out of another one about a goofy mushroom. Maybe you’ll meet him someday, and maybe like many of his fungi brethren, he will never see the light of day. But today, I turned him back into the earth to come a new life- this spooky-ish story above. I don’t try stream-of-conscious often, partly because I’m a control freak and partly because it simple isn’t my forte. But how do we improve without practice?

And, Jack-o-Lanterns (the carved gourd, not the mushroom) were actually named from an Irish tale about a man named Jack who for makes a bad deal with the devil and has to carry around hell fire as his only light. So, Jack-o-Lanterns (the mushroom, not the carved gourd) are well suited for the realm of spooky.

And it’s very much becoming spooky season, isn’t it, dear readers?

Happy reading!

Today I am Radiance

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

“BURN THE WITCH!”

“SEND HER BACK TO HER DEVIL MASTER!”

“HELLISH SIREN!”

“CLEANSE HER SOUL!”

Ropes dug mercilessly into her wrists. The spare lumber she’d been pinned to scraped painfully on her raw back. Welts formed across the glistening lines a whip had mapped from her shoulder to her hip. They caused such a swelling ache to rise in her neck, she did not dare look at her feet to see the fire’s progress. Her chin to the air, she was pleased it would look like bravery in the face of death and not that it simply hurt to hold her head any other way.

Her mother would be proud had she not gone to eternal rest many moons ago.

Many moons. It was these sort of phrases instead of ‘yesteryear’ that her neighbors claimed proved her deep unholiness.

But she could not help speaking as her mother did. Don’t all children do the same? No more than she could change the bright streaks that appeared in her hair under the summer sun or the many freckles across her skin that accompanied them.

Constellations, her mother had called the tiny spots. Witch marks, the priest had screamed.

It was not lost on Margaret that such devilish signs of her evil ways had been so graciously ignored by the entire village until she had refused to marry the mayor’s gangly nephew.

Oh, to have her mother here now. Perhaps she could not have saved Margaret, as the older woman had been quite frail with illness in her last years, but she would have cooed softly from the edge of the wood pile. She would have told Margaret her favorite tales passed from her own mother, just as she did when Margaret was a child refusing to sleep. A sadness settled deep in her chest knowing that this time she must go into the dark without her mother’s voice.

She closed her eyes. There was no reason to look upon any of these people for longer. Friends had turned fools and acquaintances turned accusers. Instead she conjured a vision of her mother, when health still glowed in her sun-wrinkled face.

Tell me a story, Mother. I cannot sleep.

Silent words raced through her mind as memory pulled from distance. A dangerous warmth seeped into her ankles but she dove within herself.

“You must not repeat this, dear. Your grandmother told me and now I tell you: A story from the valleys of the old country…

…

Once there was a goddess. There are people who called her Diana or Selene and believed her to be the goddess of the moon. But these were warring men who do not know women. She was Fealuna, goddess of all the stars. The stars worshipped her with their shine and in return she guided lost wanderers and souls through the darkness. She and her bright warriors fought against all the evils that tried to lurk in the shadows. That’s why when you get lost in the woods, you follow the stars out before a bear eats you.

Here, Mother always pinched Margaret’s nose.

Her most dedicated soldier was Solghid, so bright a star and fierce in battle that she set him close to the earth to protect and warm the world.

And here, Margaret always laughed and whispered, “The SUN, Momma?”

“The very same, love. Now shhhhh…”

Fealuna and Solghid rode into battles against the darkness many times, and were held in high esteem by the other deities. But Fealuna was also beautiful, which for a lady can be both a blessing and a curse. Many of the gods wanted to take her for their wife. They argued viciously over who deserved her hand in marriage and they did not even bother to ask Fealuna who she would prefer!

If they had, she would have told them her heart belonged to Solghid. He was but a solider and yet she loved him almost as much as he loved her.

“As much as Father loved you?”

“Almost as much as he loved us.” And here, Mother would touch the cord around her wrist and be quiet a moment before she continued.

The gods’ quarreling turned to fighting and the great Aegreus, god of violent storms and deep seas, won out. Fealuna tried to protest but Aegreus in all his power was one of the god rulers and none dared oppose him. As he pulled her into the depths of his seas, she cried out for Solghid, who heard her and dipped low in the sky trying to reach her. But the other gods held him back so he would not scorch the earth. They chained him to the turning of the sky so he could not visit the night any longer. Fealuna was gone in the darkness.

The earth dimmed, as the other stars refused to leave the night searching for their goddess. Solghid wavered from furious to forlorn, searing the day or hiding behind the clouds to weep. The farmers and fishermen cried out to their own gods- the crops were dying, the animals of land and sea were confused and unruly, soon the people would be lost! The harvest goddess, for whom there are many names-

“Why does she have all the names?”

“Hush.”

-demanded the gods have her sister released back into her rightful place so the world could heal and the people could live. But the gods in their pride refused.

However. Women are clever, as we must be in this world, my love. There is always more than one way to complete a task.

So the harvest goddess whispered to the smaller spirits of the earth, her daughters- to those of the creek reeds and mud puddles, those of first blooms and saplings, of crystal stones and mountain shade. She asked them to save her sister anyway they could.

They knew they could not free Fealuna from the sea depths, but perhaps- they said- they could give her something that would help her survive in the darkness.

They gathered rocks and moss and crevasses, bits of last frost and firebug flight, slicking it together with the evening breeze and drops of morning dew, until they had a shield the size of ten villages! They lifted it into the night sky and called to Solghid. From his chained prison he heard them. A cry of hope for his love, which made him shine brighter than he had ever before. So bright was his light, that it sprang upon the shield and reflected on to all the earth, pulling back the sea so he could glimpse Fealuna in the depths. And Fealuna peered back at him. She saw his light on the great shield, saw her many stars. Overjoyed, she thanked her sister and the many spirits of the earth, bid the stars continue to protect the night, and made the great shield her sigil from there forward.

“Was it the moon, Momma?”

“Yes, it was the moon, smart girl. So each night when it is dark, Solghid’s light pulls back the sea to gaze on his love, and she smiles so tenderly up at him that the stars glitter with rejoicing. When their light is shining, you need not be afraid of the dark.”

And Margaret was not afraid of the dark.

The smoke began to billow and blocked out the sun, casting shifting shadows over her closed eyes. The skin of her thighs sizzled and ripped. She was fading out of day. But she knew in the dark there was light as well. She smiled and gave in, to the night.

The Word

Radiance (noun): Light or heat as emitted or reflected by something.

This is one of those stories that started somewhere, and ended somewhere else. I had wanted to make Margaret a siren, and have her lover save her and blah blah blah. Honestly, could still be cool to dive into siren-lore as spooky season is almost upon us.

But then I got really into the love is love and love is powerful of it all and so instead you get a new myth! Two women thrust into darkness because of choices they didn’t make (sounding too familiar, current world climate?). And our hero doesn’t always win. We don’t always get to escape. But we can survive, in whatever way we mean the word.

And yes yes, those of you who paid attention in History or English or watched any media in the past century know that I butchered some god and goddess names to create my own for what I wanted. But the Romans did it, why can’t I?

Happy reading!

Today I am Gifted

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

I can see.

This is one of those first not-thoughts a baby probably has. You spend nine (coughTENANDAHALF) months cooped up in a dark safe space and then AHHHH AHHHH shluuuurk there’s light and sound and some weirdo counting your offshoots. It’s no wonder we enter this world screaming.

It’s so damn bright.

The mammal eyeball is arguable among scientists to be the most complex evolved organ. There are some biologists, whose papers are still under review, who would like to argue that the jellyfish rhopalia is even more complex, and its mysteries are still hidden within the divine.

To this I resolutely say: So? That’s still an eye. Dang, why are we arguing about eyeballs? Or, excuse me, visual-interpretive physiology.

It’s all very complicated. Pupils and ocellis and gook. Yet not a single one of us: human, jellyfish, bat, butterfly, bird, even those mantis shrimp who can perceive all those extra colors, can adjust to see as fast as a light can shine.

We are all weak to the bursting illumination. It is so damn bright.

Conclusion being, I should not have felt too embarrassed to find out the deafening scream shaking my soul was coming from my own throat.

Because oh my actual God that was an angel.

“Be not afraid.”

“HOLY FUCK!”

“Be not afraid, Steven Winters, for we come with-“

“HOLY. FUCK. WHAT THE HELL.”

There was a long, silent pause. Perhaps they were trying to give me a moment. I needed far more than a moment.

“Steven Winters, we come to you with a-“

“OH MY GOD. SWEET JESUS.”

Perhaps it was the painfully intense rouge of the sunset, but in a short moment of awareness, it seemed that the hundreds of eyes squinted in irritation.

A hum moved through the air.

“Steven Winters, we come to you with a path-“

“OH. MY. GOD. ARE YOU FUCKING ANGELS?”

I was apparently still alive and in a timeline that had some sort of relevance to my own, because I did have a millisecond to recognize this was a stupid question.

Because if not angels, what else were they? Everything I’d heard or seen (admittedly, in amateur horror films) about demons were dark and/or red, and these… Beings? Were, well, I’m not entire sure what color pure light is. I’d like to say white, but it’s more so such a brightness that color bows out of the equation.

I swear I heard a sigh.

“Be not afraid, Steven Winters, we come with good news.”

Oh damn, maybe I was dead.

Because let me tell you- I am no shepherd. I mean, I shepherd a couple technical deployments for government branches who are planning on launching missiles before all the other government branches I also work for do, but I don’t feel like that’s the same as sheep, despite what some politicians say.

The only alive people I could think of that angels spoke to were shepherds and virgins. And thanks to Charlene Carol sophomore year, I wasn’t that either.

“AM I DEAD?”

I could not stop shouting. Honestly, I wished I could. I felt rude. But you see a being made from God’s first drafts and keep a level tone, then you can judge.

“Steven Winters, you shall live. You shall live on the path chosen for you alone, which we bring to you this day and-“

“HOW MANY LANGUAGES CAN YOU SPEAK?”

Where this question came from, I do not know. But I’d been working with our AI agent on understanding foreign characters so I could suggest turn it off and back on again to international spies researchers, so perhaps it was just on the brain.

There was the not-squint again. I was perhaps testing eternal patience.

“We can speak to all His Children, despite their language. You may hear us in your tongue.”

I nodded back as if this was normal. As if my backyard frequently hosted the divine. I glanced towards the grill, abandoned when a great thundering announced the presence of my current guests. Should I offer them a tuna steak? My mother had instilled host priorities deep into my bones, surely that applied to the other worldly. Or this worldly. Next worldly. Whatever.

Plus it would make an okay excuse to get take a second, get my heartbeat under control. I gestured with my tongs at the grill in a (what I hoped was) universal want some? conveyance.

The many eyes opened wider, and an orange shimmer skipped over the many encircling rings hovering a few feet above my bird feeder.

“Yes, Steven Winters. We would love a tuna steak.”

“Faaaaaantastic. Sauce?” Food was a language I understood.

The warm hum filtered through the air again. Then, “We will receive the offering spiced only.”

I pulled the fish from the grill. Despite the unique interlude, it was a perfect medium rare. I plucked a piece of cilantro from my scraggly herb garden and placed it atop the best looking slice.

Hesitantly, I placed the plate at the mossy ground before sticking a fork in the piece I prepared for myself. It had a little char, but I liked it that way.

I opened my mouth to ask how to better serve the angelic being (do they need cutlery?), but before I could, I saw the plate was already empty.

“Thou art kind and artful with the meat given of the waters, Steven Winters.”

“I, uh, thank you,” I said, navigating a large piece into my mouth with my shaking fingers to stop talking. It was indeed the best tuna I had ever cooked. I unashamedly moaned. Must remember to re-up my subscription to Penny’s Spices.

There were several moments of silence passed between us. The evening cooled, the dusk overturned to dark. A few bats soared out from the house I had set up for them, but spotting the bright being, scattered to the trees for shelter. My neighbor loudly strolled his garbage bin to the end of his driveway, waved casually at me, and returned inside.

“Steven Winters.”

“Yes. So sorry. Never had literal divine intervention before.”

“Mmm. Mmhmm. Be not afraid.”

“You very much hesitated that time,” I pointed at it with my fork, because I was clearly insane and apparently manners were the first thing to go, “so I feel like afraid is maybe something I should consider.”

“No, Steven Winters. Thou wilt receive a gift.”

“But is this like a genie gift? Where it seems like a gift but it’s really a curse?”

I knew I was pushing it. My soul ricocheted inside me from the tip of my forehead to my slippered toes, as if pacing itself through my horrible decisions. I couldn’t help myself. I had been a good kid in Sunday school! I knew Abraham had to psychologically torture his own kid. Mary had to leave her home and straight up had to watch her son get killed! Moses gets blocked from paradise, Hagar got lost in the desert, Jacob? maybe Job, it’s been a while, had to freaking wrestle divinity itself! I was not in comfortable angel-witnessing company. Yet I pushed.

“I’m just saying, y’all’s track record-“

“Steven. Winters.”

Oh yeah, I had upset them. Too bad shutting-up was not among my talents: “You have to be at the wrong place.”

Because I was a nobody. Not in the way Mary was a Nobody, quietly descended from King David and righteous in all her actions. No no- I was born a white, dirty blond, 5’9″ Presbyterian, barely baptized by unenthusiastic parents, drank too much and had not made it past a situationship with a reputable woman. These shiny things had landed in the wrong backyard. Or! Or. Or I was having a very hallucinative seizure. I hadn’t quite ruled that out yet.

“The Lord Your God does not lead astray.”

Oh okay, then explain Charlene Carol, but whatever. At least I had almost recovered control of my vocal cords.

“What can I… do for his… His. Lordship?”

The being seemed to shimmer with satisfaction. Cool cool cool.

“Steven Winters. You are shown a path into the wilderness. Your Lord God chooses you to lead His children into a place of safety until the storm hath passed you by.”

Oh good. A Noah-level task. I could barely put my Ikea furniture together with an automatic screwdriver and a six pack. I should really not be trusted with an ark.

Before I could object- and I was going to object- there was a noisy rustling around me. Cinnamon, a deer I had so named due to her gorgeous dusky copper fur, stepped out from my hydrangeas with her spotted twins and several unfamiliar siblings. A raccoon family pulled themselves from under my shed while two possums loaded with their litter skittered down from my half-dead oak trees. The few bats I had thought ran off settled next to the wrens on my fence, as multiple hummingbirds buzzed by my ears. I looked down at my leg to inspect a new sensation, seeing the mainecoon-ish stray cat I’d been calling Booger curling around my feet.

“These… children?”

I turned to set my plate down, but it was gone and my hands were free. Fine.

“Steven Winters.” I swear the voice that made my bones buzz sounded happily tempered now, “Much is to come. You are to go into the mountains. You are to lead His Children up the path. At the peak, where His sun rises and sets, you will find a home where you will remain until you are Called.”

I looked at all the creatures peeking nervously back at me. There were hooves and fangs and wings. I had placed feeders to lure them, traps to dissuade them, and now I was to lead them?

“Well. Alright then,” I felt suddenly solid, decision made, “can I… can I get a stick? A stick seems good.” All the best guys in stories had a stick.

A staff appeared in my right hand. It was twisted gray driftwood, yet sturdy in the soft ground.

“God be with you, Steven Winters.”

The Beings, the light, the tuna steak, were gone.

Just me and my new stick and a bunch of wide-eyed forest creatures.

Cool cool cool.

“Alright gang,” I said, feeling two of the bats settle on the hood of my sweatshirt, “let’s get going.”

The Word

Gifted (adj): having exceptional talent or natural ability.

How many of us were in the “gifted” program in Elementary/Middle/High school? How many of us thought that would do literally anything for us in the adult world?

Me. I did.

It’s several years too late to talk to Gen-X and Millennials about the trauma we accrued from Gifted Programs. But settling into the other side of young-adulthood, it’s really sinking in that no one is coming to deliver us from the regular class to play mathematical board games.

For me, this lesson came HARD in my first job- where my naturally bubbly personality was viewed as ignorant and flirtatious. It wasn’t enough to be right, I had to be right in the right way. I had to dull my gift to be seen as the correct kind of shiny. I hated it, I still hate it, and I feel deeply for a world we could have where we were actually ourselves and the work got done.

Today was a particularly hard day for “gifted doesn’t mean everything is a gift to you” lessons. I stared it in the face, and crumbled. I had to call for backup, I had to rally the reinforcements, I had to drink some wine and cry.

And from that turmoil came Steven Winters. Who is nobody. Who just happened to be exceptionally good at math in his younger years, and although it got him a scholarship, all it’s done since then is make his life monotony. Until he finds a much greater Gift than Gifted is upon him whether he likes it or not.

I hope the same for all us formally-Gifted kids. That, if we haven’t already, we might find that bearing of purpose in a tumultuous sea of expectations. Wouldn’t it be pleasant if someone just told us which way to go? Alas, we are not all Steven Winters.

Just a note- I am totally plugging Penzy’s Spice. Or I tried. But autocorrect kept making it “Penny’s” so I gave up and decided it was a sign about copywright or something. Anyway, Penzy’s Spices is awesome.

Happy reading, my dears. And may a compass always be nearby when you feel lost.

Today I am Lament

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

I take a deep breath, feeling my shoulders go up. I take another one, forcing my shoulders to retreat back down.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, I want to give a longwinded shoutout to my man, Mercutio.”

There are several snaps muffled through the crowd. A little “Woot!” is called from the left of the stage.

“ahem…

Could steal your girl

But he doesn’t want her,

Tarnish his honor

But don’t squander the love scholar.

The original bad bitch

A casual curse witch.

He’s the Greek chorus, does more for us

Than a priest could

And you’re down good

With a princehood.

If master M approves of you

Grooves with you

Chooses you

Makes rough good with you

Makes you what thou art,

Art,

to Mercutio’s tongue,

by his tongue,

Placed a curse

So I place a verse

And I hope it hurts

Less than a mistook

Across a sleeping soldier’s neck.

Lie back maiden,

Stay on track maiden.

There’s an opal, a diamond, a crack, maiden.

The horse jolted

The fool’s bolted

And I’m here with

my heart in my hand

blood on my man

your heart in my hand,

and it starts to fleet,

I can’t complete

a lack of heat

and silence.

The bard’s gone

It’s near dawn

And I’m lost

in a wilted rose garden

tilted too far then,

off the edge of the map

There’s monsters here

and I’m monstrous there,

Begging thin wings to hide me

fly me

Up to the silver lining

of the devil between us

of the heaven between us

came life between us

Came death.”

A round of polite clapping joined more snaps and a smattering of “here, here”s with a rare “yeaaaah.“

I nod appreciatively and make my way off the small platform, rounding the seated crowd towards the back.

Leaning against the scuffed pine bar, my long necklace tap-tapped against it, shooting a kaleidoscope across the ground as the soft overhead globes hit its sparkled spinning.

The poet who took my place on the stage has begun. Some sonnet about growth. Ugh.

I raise a few fingers in a greeting, but the bartender is already coming my way. He’s grinning into his dimples and flicking dark chocolate bangs out of his eyes. A silver shaker rocking madly in one hand, he sets the other one on the bar so I can fully appreciate his tanned muscles. Painfully beautiful. When I stare into his gray eyes, I feel like I’m staring into another’s from too long ago.

He comes in close, almost whispering, “What’ll it be, my rhyming mademoiselle?”

I grimace at the bad come-on but try to morph it quickly into an interested smirk. He is just doing his job.

“A friend of mine recommended something, but I can’t quite remember the name,” I purr, leaning in more than necessary, “it’s a bubbly one, with a country in it.”

“A whole country? I don’t know if I can fit that in a glass,” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

I afford him a small chuckle. He’s trying.

He finishes his shaking and pours something orange into a tall glass, sliding it out to an awaiting hand, “You’re looking for a French 75, I believe.”

“Yes! That’s the one.”

“Coming right up,” he winks at me, apparently unable to help himself.

There was a time when I would have just gobbled up one like that. He’s playing the heartbreaker well, but I know an eager dreamer when I see one. Can practically feel their heartbeats under my own skin.

Alas, it has been quite some time since I played my old part. It’s just not the same these days. And my own heart aches- some days less, some days more.

A tall glass is placed before me, golden bubbles racing towards the top to kiss a dainty lemon peel.

“There you go,” he pushes a black napkin towards me as well, “I’ll be back to hear how perfect it is,” he smirks again and saunters to the other end of the bar to make a group of heavy-eyed girls giggle.

They will all think of him later tonight. I am sure of it.

My first sip of the spritely concoction stuns me. It’s refreshing in an almost aggressive way. Perhaps I should have asked for something simpler, something dryer. I didn’t need to be making a fool of myself and everyone else in the room tonight.

My second, third, fourth sip convince me that it is indeed, delicious. And that I’ve always really loved fools. Wasn’t that part of my problem in the first place?

I turn to watch the intent crowd, leaning back against the cool, sticky bar.

There are several couples pulled close together at small tables- peering at each other over a fake candle, believing each verse their love song.

A few patrons sit alone, nodding their heads to the spoken verse or tapping a pen to half-filled notebooks. Those are some of my favorites. Are they artists searching for inspiration? Detectives on the hunt? Did they plan their whole day around sitting by themselves in a hazy bar or did they find their feet wandering in from the street without a care?

The groups of three or more are few, but present. These are the scholars on assignment, or students on a dare. These are the “we said we would go out more!” friendships, each pondering if they should have just stayed home.

So much potential. And I drink it in along with several more bubbles.

“You’re becoming a bit of regular,” He is near me again, and I turn to watch those dimples dance, “I can add you to the locals’ tab list if you’d like. Gets you a 10% off on Thursdays.”

The nerves finally show in his pale eyes as he waits for my answer. So much potential indeed.

I shrug as nonchalantly as possible. A local? Ha. But I do wander here from time to time, to shake out everything swirling in my mind. To give him my name though… well, what’s in a name?

“Sure, put me in there, big guy.”

His smile springs with his relief, “Lucky for us! And what’s the pretty name of the pretty lady?”

I answer just as the performer behind me yodels into a limerick.

“Mag?” He begs, tilting an ear towards me, “as in, Maggie?”

“Mab. As in Queen.”

The Word

Lament: (noun) A passionate expression of grief or sorrow. (verb) Mourn, esp. a person’s loss or death.

From when I was first forced to read Romeo and Juliet as a dispassionate middle schooler, to when I was hungrily pouring over it in my theater studies at college, I have always thought Mercutio was the best part.

Sure, I can get on my soapbox about how Juliet was both a victim and the main character (and have… probably too many times), but Mercutio is the man! He looms so large that plays, movies, re-tellings have given him a huge spectrum of personality. He is the ladies man, able to use that twisting tongue of his to lure innocent maidens! No, he is the goof of the group, trying to lighten a mood! No no, he has he seen things the others haven’t (as he is a tad older and the prince’s relation, so would have been required to lead men into battle). None of that, he’s a spoiled kid doing spoiled kid things like spoiling a party!

Shakespeare gives us hints here and there, but for much it he leaves it to interpretation (which is distinctly unusual for him when he usually takes multiple paragraphs to slap the audience in the face with his point). I very much wonder how the Mercutio actor would have been directed in the first rounds at The Rose. I myself have always followed the theory that Mercutio is a very complicated person. That Shakespeare slips a full grown being into what could easily be dismissed as a sidekick. And so what does that make of his strange fairy poem?

I have no idea. You could find hundreds, if not thousands, of multiple different interpretations: She’s a metaphor for seduction, she’s a real belief in an unworldly world, she’s Mercutio mocking Romeo for his yearnings, she’s just Mercutio’s fourth glass of good wine.

Then comes all the dying. The Bard always likes to make a point that when there is love- there’s also either fools or death, and probably both.

But what I ponder on myself is- what happens to such a legend as the fairies’ famous midwife when there is no bard left to sing of her deeds? Do myths still mystery when no one is pondering them? What is a queen whose favorite fool has been killed? Thus, what led me to play in today’s story.

Also it’s poem weather. Happy reading!