Dear Martin—

I’m writing you this letter because there’s something I need to tell you.  I should have told you years ago, but I was too scared. I was terrified, but I’ve decided I don’t care anymore what people say, or what people think.

So I’m writing you this letter to tell you how I feel about you.  I can’t help but notice the way you treat people—you are so, so kind.  And funny. Really, truly funny. You always make me laugh. And you haven’t noticed (that I’m in love with you).  ‘Cause you are blind as heck, by the way. And wise—wiser than me, wiser than our twenty-five years. I could listen to you for hours.  You probably never noticed the way I look at you. You are so oblivious, but somehow you are also conscientious?

Which, by the way, is why I’m burning this as soon as I finish it.  Why you can’t actually read it.

Because I don’t care what people think, but you still do.  If you read this, it would make you miserable. I know you well enough to know that, and I still love you enough to burn this stupid letter.

She’s lovely, by the way.  I hope you make her happy.

And I think I’m wiser, and kinder, and funnier, because of you.  So thanks for everything.

Sincerely yours (always yours),

-Juliet

The girl was with the child every day.  She said, “I will protect you.”

She said, “You are worthless.”

The girl came to the child everyday and tormented her.  She came with fine-tipped brushes and paint, and she covered the small, pock-marked face with cosmetics.  “You are ugly.”  She dyed her hair, and covered her fragile body with silk. “You are plain.” The fat fingers were ringed with gold–the misshapen ears with diamonds.  “You are not enough.”

And every night she went away disappointed.  And every morning she came back.

She would say, “You are fat.”  She starved the child, and drilled her in exercises, until she was spent and gasping for breath, but never let her rest until, “You are scrawny,” she would say, and then she would make the child eat until she was bloated and sick.

She lied to her, and scolded her, and threatened her, and cursed her.  She told her she was ugly and lazy.  “But I will help you,” she said.

“I am everything you need,” she told the child.  “We will do it alone. We are strong.”

But she never let the girl go free.

~*~

And the child sat in the dark.  And waited.

She waited in the room with the mirror, for the girl to come.  The child frowned at her torturer and said, “I am everything I need.  I will do it alone. I am strong.”

And everyday the girl stood in the dark before the mirror and waited, for the eternity that is wrapped up in a split second.  For an eternity the girl-child waited for the flip of the light-switch, and the appearance of her tormenter–in the mirror.

The last fiery sliver of the sun disappears behind the Arceis Mountains.  The sunset is burning itself out in the eastern sky, touching every dim thing with a bloody rose hue.

My leather boots slide on the wet grass.  I adjust my grip on my bow, and try to tuck renegade strands of hair back into my bun with one cold hand, squinting at my trail in the waning light.  The sound of a soft, squelching step jerks my attention away from the muddy prints on the ground, and I glance nervously at the nearby belt of trees, trying to tug my grey woolen cloak over my scarlet shirt. Of all the foolish things to wear. . .

There most certainly is someone lurking beyond the trees.  I slip closer. Several people. What’s going on? I feel for my dagger.  Why did something have to go wrong?  Avoiding the heaps of dry, crinkly leaves, I slide between the trees.

My blood freezes as I recognize Taral out of the group, and I freeze with it.  His jet black mantel is tinted red in the evening light. His hood is up, but no matter how many years it’s been, I know it’s him; that confident swagger, still marred slightly by a nagging limp from old wounds–the arrogant poise of those broad shoulders?  They belong to only one man.

Continue reading The Seventh Short Story: Nightfall →

I don’t believe in family anymore.

Mother would kill me if she heard me say something like that.  But I can’t believe. Not anymore. Not now. Not ever again. How could I possibly after this?  I can’t blindly keep believing in second chances.  Maybe I still believe in them, but we’re far beyond second chances now.  It must be the hundredth by now, and I’m done.  It’s not that I don’t love her anymore; of course I do.  But I can’t believe this will work out. Her and us–it’s just not possible.  It can’t be. This can’t be what family is.

I can’t believe.

Maybe some families are whole.  Maybe some brothers and sisters are happy and healthy.  But that’s not us. I don’t have hope for us anymore. Isn’t it time we stopped hoping?  Isn’t it time we stopped deceiving people? Isn’t it time we stopped getting all our hopes up, just to watch them get dashed?

Father always told me about him.  He said he hated family, and every time a family was forged, he would do everything in his power to ruin it.  I cannot believe that anymore either. He does not hate everyone, he only hates us.  We are the only ones he ever attacks.  We are the only family who suffers.

I won’t believe.

Continue reading The Seventh Short Story: My Sister →

Hello, readers!  Welcome to the Seventh Short Story!  Over the years I have written several single-page (ish) stories that were tucked away somewhere and forgotten.  I decided to dig them up, start a blog series, and post one of them on the seventh of every month for. . . as many months as I can find stories, honestly.  This one is rather long, but I wanted to kick off the series with it.  Enjoy!

~*~

The Hunter