How does one cure a bruised ego? Other’s skepticism pushed the sternum, causing that inner, rotten fruit sensation of weakness. She knew that was false: others would always doubt. This was inevitable. Others would always compare, letting her know, clearly, she did not measure up to their shaky standards. She knew the truth: deeds spoke, and trust in those who listened. Kellrose flayed their minds, they fled in terror, and cast her own shadow of doubt in their hearts. Shadows, like water, were patient. Her weapon of choice: showers of darkness, and let the rains come down. She could wait.
Note: Tuesday night after waking up from the most amazing anesthisiology sleep ever, Neo allowed my very green shadow priest Kellrose to join their ten-man. They completely understood this was a low-level character, and as well it’s been odd to be so ‘far away from home.’ With three cloaks, my own little guild, and every profession imaginable to craft whatever a new character needs, from enchants to gems, it’s been a little challenging to get her raid-ready. But Neo’s guild is wonderful– sweet and funny, and always a pleasure. In any friendship, (going to make a new word: “guildship” ) there is a honeymoon phase, and then the inevitable mistakes happen, and critiques. I do not mind criticism or guidance-it’s how adults handle group situations that are the defining moments. So far, I’ve really enjoyed getting to know them, and they’ve made me feel very welcome, and lessened my homesickness.
After a baby’s age, confidence demands attention and fostering. We lose more the higher we grow, it seems, and do not get back up. However, a little one will pull itself up, tumble, fall, and attempt to walk. While understanding defeat, she does not know surrender. Sheer pride in wobbly steps, buckling thighs, drooling grin: the priest felt this same joyous pride after healing with passion, and defending her host with power. She wished he could have seen her. He would have been so proud of her. However, Mrs. Whitworth wanted her to try it on four legs, not two.
She stole the heart and liver, and escaped, she believed. The one from whom she stole devised seamless revenge. The witch away in the woods spun a purple woolen thread, finger-thick, boiled it, and tied it in three knots. The witch away in the woods sat on the cushions, tummy rolling over, gurgling with hunger but full of fat, craving the stolen sweetbreads. The more she imagined the tastier they became. She would curse her stomach; too, make her stomach gurgle and bubble and fatty. She spoke the words over the tied thread, and the thief doubled over in pain.
Rain gurgled down spouts, like a stomach growling.Empty, hollow beats in the air, on the roof, through pipes and gullies, rivulets and divots. She asked the question, and he pretended not to hear.His silence deafened. She dug the hole, dug it deep, and filled it with her own beliefs, but nothing grew. Absence makes the heart grow doubtful. Why do women speak first? Sort through the words, and put them all in safe rows. Till it, protect it, keep them from harm. Patience. Silent patience. This was harder than she thought: cultivating truth.Don’t smother it. Walk away.
Something’s off, and not right. Tilt to the left and see a stain in the marble, imperfections snaking through the coils and folds of stone fluidity. The priestess chanted, prayed, and performed the ritual to perfection, but the spell failed to connect. If she started over nothing would change, the outcome would remain the same: echoes of light gave no shadow, or warmth. Uncatchable, and hollow on the inside: she hugged her middle, and held on, when no one else would. Sometimes she could only live in the hollow space of herself. Love had visited; of that she had faith.
At noon the warm cherry-faced sun kissed the back of her neck: lies. At midnight, the drafty-crack wind in the doorjamb crept up her arms, popping goose bumps: truth. She imagined warm skin under cloudy blankets, that not all lack of light meant cold. But tonight it did. The bored conversation in her mind sighed like two washerwomen hanging sheets by pins and hooks, gossiping over the line. She saw the linens, his shrouded face. Eye contact minimal, chattering teeth and thoughts: when he did come home, he would bring the cold with him, smelling of snow, soap, and sweat.
The brown velvet slopes gaped wide, just over the lip of the hill, into the maw: the inner eye seeing come one, come all. Sprinkling of toothy lights, biting the darkness, eating luck and chance. Ceniza knew today would be the day…or was it night? The light never changed here. She grew weary of Jeremy’s façade, the bastard. She noticed a small, poorly sewed patch on his backside. Someone tried to repair his waistcoat, but it was starting to show its age. So was he. Though the Eye saw come one, come all, she was beginning to see, too. Clearly.
Thunder: rare. Even undercooked in this forest. Its appearance, its voice, seems shy and insecure next to its western brothers. It is the youngest of the brood, nudging up against clouds, testing the raindrop waters. The house slept more deeply, more unapproachable, than she had remembered in years. Taking charge of the morning, forging on, clanging, she continued with her routine like nothing out of the ordinary took place, that the lightning illuminated a sheltered secret, and the thunder practiced scales. “I know this may not ever happen again,” she said to no one. “But once is all that’s needed.”
She pondered that when a promise is easy to make—no—easy to keep, is that where the Fates flourish? The promises had not been made in a grove, under the nodding heads of the Treants, however she had no regrets. He was hers, and she was his. The pledge spoken, words wrapped like ribbons, never to be cut. The promise urged them to speak, now, to not wait. If they were the sole witnesses, that was all that mattered.
Writer’s Note: June is a time for beginnings – named after Juno, the goddess of marriage and childbirth, it seems only fitting to write a drabble to honor her. Graduations, Father’s Day (the patron of the family, for without whom the brides would be alone…) and June brides comprise the month of fresh starts and growth…
“You know, sonny boy, I wasn’t always this way. Before the Stonemason’s Uprising, I had a heart, ya know. I had big dreams for you, lad. Big and grand. You were goin’ to be a captain in the king’s army, or an innkeeper. Respectable work. Not some filching rogue slumming the docks of Booty Bay. It’s not too late son. You’ve never disappointed me—just veered off the wrong path. Couldn’t be helped. Now be off with ye: take these crates to the man with the black hat. He’ll know what to do.”
Know how I think it would be awesome to spend a Mother’s Day? Go to Hooters for free food! Free BAD food! And see how young waitresses to whom gravity has not cursed yet feel about their abundant buoyancy versus most mothers’ lack thereof. Hey, but free is free.
Happy Mother’s Day, to one and all – want to be moms, grandmoms, moms, and those who have a mom, and especially those who have faces that only a mom could love.