A short vent

Okay. So hear it is. The naked, hard pressing truth. I am not a perfect writer and never will be a perfect writer. But to send a page and a half letter on how much I need to improve after reading a five page story of mine seems a bit......well, unusual. To do it repeatedly, never offering a positive remark is just cruel. I received that letter today. If it had come from a publishing company, magazine, other venue (not that I have ever submitted anything), or even someone whose opinion I trusted, I would be disheartened and ready to take action. From a stranger who appears to think he or she is God's gift to critiquing without any qualifications, well, that just puts me in a pissy mood.

I don't feel able to write anything tonight. I'm still too arrogantly argumentative.

Knight

Dark in body, cold in heart, eyes that shine as brilliant as the North star, he draws people to him. He romances shadows and the idea of danger even when neither is present. Women fall into open lover's arms, certain they are hidden by his arrival while children cower in fear, calling for their mothers to comfort them. He is an entity in and of himself.

The royal court calls for him. They ask to honor him and although he attends their call he always departs by morning, leaving their tokens behind and taking with him their vivid imaginations. He is the night.

And if he could be embodied, he would ride tall on a dark steed in a suit of pitch black with a lance as cold as deepest winter. A knight of a different sort.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

The King

The two sisters sat next to each other, their hands rough from being repeatedly submerged in water over the last 30 years. Theirs was a hard trade, but more disheartening was the fact that it was fading in importance to the public. Less need for their sort of expertise meant for hands that didn't crack and bleed, but left the girls with much too much time to idle away.

It was this freedom from duty that lead them to watching the King. Albeit from afar, they were more knowledgeable about the man and his motives than his best courtiers and most trusted friends. Placing their heads together, they watched him through the small bubbling circle in their cauldron.

"This is the moment, Sabrina," came the gruff voice of the younger sister.

Sabrina answered, "It will all begin to unravel when she takes her last breath, Sarah."

"We'll watch the child then, Sabrina." The two, being inseparable since their birth continued with their shared prediction.

"She will rise as a Princess unlike any before her, Sarah."

"And with her rise will come a new age of mankind, Sabrina."

Together, the sisters made one last observation before grasping hands and mourning the passing of the queen and the times. "Our time unravels with the King."

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

Serene

Water fell over individual boulders of the rock face as it made the long journey to the bottom. Looking down from the edge of the cliff, even a child could tell that a fall would be fatal. So, Miss Barton's death, as witnessed by the other 22 tourists in her group, was not unexpected or even surprising. It was the way her body lay so serenely next to the pool of water that made people gasp.

*** One Word ***

Continuing On

No matter what he did, the gun remained just out of his reach. The longer he struggled, the more hopeless he felt. It was fear that drove him on, keeping him lunging and twisting, grasping for control. His wife was crying behind him and screaming for help when she could catch her breath. But there were no other sounds. No feet pounding the ground or shush of a coat.

He found himself on his back, having lost his focus hearing the terror in his wife's voice. Something heavy hit him in the head. Blood dripped into his left eye. He looked up and saw his father's crystal blue eyes dancing wildly. It was clear, he was off his medication again.

"Fran, run!" he screamed before another heavy hit came and then unconsciousness.

*** Daily Writing Practice-- because this is such a fabulous site and because this prompt has a history of its own (precisely continuing a story where the last writer ended it), please use the link

here to read the rest. You may also need to go to the post from Sunday, October 24th ***

Weeks

She looked at the calendar and checked off another day. There were weeks of red X's already present and a few more weeks to be added. But the look on his handsome face would be worth the wait. She tapped the vanilla envelope containing the pictures of him with another woman and her obituary.

*** One Word ***

In all fairness, I changed the last sentence when posting it here. Oh, and fixed a couple of tiny grammatical errors.

White-Haired Woman

She floats effortlessly through my life, attached as if she were my right hand or left knee, an ear or an eye; a part of me never meant to be severed. I refer to her as my White Rabbit, and like Alice, I follow her into my own private Wonderland. Once there, I do not play croquet with the Queen or drink tea with the Mad Hatter or chat with the Cheshire Cat or nap with the Door Mouse, for I am each of them and none of them simultaneously and separately. As I struggle to understand my part in this chaotic life, I see her long locks of white hair and rush to ask her for a key only to find that she has lead me gently to the other side of my subconscious.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***