Falling Slowly

**This is my entry for week one of the July brigits_flame writing contest. This week's prompt was "Wings". Once again, I went for a depressing approach.**


The sports hall was buzzing with conversation. Parents mingled in small groups, exchanging pleasantries and generally getting acquainted with each other. The students formed tight knots in the various corners of the room, chattering excitedly and occasionally emitting a shriek of delight. Julia surveyed the room silently, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. She had to hand it to the decorating committee; if she hadn't attended the school she wouldn't have been able to tell that this part of the building normally housed tennis rackets, basket ball hoops and sweaty gym kits. They'd even managed to turn the locker room into a refreshments station, by no means an easy feat.


"Enjoying yourself?" an amused voice enquired behind her. Startled, she turned around to find herself facing her favourite teacher, Miss Havers, beaming at her.


"I just can't believe it...it doesn't seem real..." she replied, returning the older woman's smile. Miss Havers chuckled appreciatively.


"It doesn't seem real for you? How do you think I feel? One moment you're a little girl almost collapsing under the weight of your school bag and struggling up the stairs to the First Year corridor as though they were Mount Everest, your hair in one of those God-awful side ponytails that you girls deemed the height of fashion, the next I turn around and you're a beautiful young woman, ready to make her mark on the world. You girls, you never fail to make me feel old," she scolded good-naturedly. Julia adopted a suitable chastised manner. Miss Havers winked, then continued.


"Just don't forget us when you've made it to the top, alright? A clever girl like you will go far. Your speech tonight was excellent."


Julia flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and pride.


"Thank you Miss Havers," she murmured shyly. The teacher shook her head.


"No, no, none of that Miss Havers business. I'm not your teacher anymore. As from today, you and I are equals."


She squeezed Julia's arm lightly, tipped her a final wink, then hurried over to prevent a gaggle of hyper girls from knocking over the Birco boiler. Julia felt a wave of sadness wash over her. Taking a final look around the hall, she rummaged for her keys, then slipped quietly out the door.


***


The plan was flawless, really. Julia's mother thought that she was going to an after party at her friend's house. She hadn't realised that her daughter was the school outcast. This normally made Julia's blood boil with frustration, but tonight it suited her perfectly. She hummed along softly with the radio, keeping her concentration on the road in front of her. After a while, she pulled over and parked. Grinning, she got out and began to walk, drinking in the exhilirating scent of the fresh sea air.


She had always loved the cliffs, ever since her father had brought her there for a picnic when she was six. They used to go every week until Julia had become too grown up to spend time with him. Returning tonight made her regret all the lost time they could have spent together. She huddled into her cardigan and picked up the pace.


The sea was calm, inky black in the dim moonlight. Trawler ships bobbed like toy boats on the surface. For once the sea gulls were silent, sleeping in their rocky nests. Julia tiptoed nearer to the edge, until she could almost feel the ground crumbling under her feet. She closed her eyes tightly. Then she took a final step forward, and flew.

**This is my entry for week to of the brigits_flame writing competition for the month of May. The prompt was "Morning Glory".**


"Come on Granda, you promised this would only take ten minutes," I say exasperatedly, throwing an impatient glance at my watch. My grandfather remains transfixed by a huge sign advertising barbeques, and doesn't turn to face me. Instead he  waves my words away with is free hand while the other grips a shelf for support. 
 

"Patience is a virtue, Mutiny. Come look at this, it says that you can adjust the temperature of the flames. Imagine! In my day we would just fling whatever we had into a frying pan over the fire and be done with it!"


I half smile, half roll my eyes at the use of my childhood nickname, earned during the prolonged 'no' stage I went through as a toddler. "In your day dinosaurs roamed the earth, or so you'd have us believe. Come on, we have to go, I promised Mrs. Power I'd have you home in time for tea."


His back stiffens at the mention of his carer's name. "That woman," he mutters darkly, "might as well be working in Mountjoy prison, the way she treats me. If she had her way I'd be locked up in a cage and fed through a slot."


I laugh and link my arm through his. "Now who's the muntinous one," I tease. "We'll come back next weekend, I promise."


He gives a last grumble then reluctantly begins to shuffle towards the exit. I've almost managed to steer him out to the car park when something catches his attention. "Look at that," he exclaims gesturing, "I didn't know they even sold those still!"


I glance in the direction he's pointing to, and am surprised when I see the row of frail, delicate flowers in front of me. "Morning glories? I didn't know you liked those."


"They remind me of your Nanna," he says softly. "They were her favourites."


I hold my breath at this rare mention of my grandmother. She died when I was three years old, and my grandfather hasn't spoken of her since. Oblivious to my shock, he continues.


"I used to call her my morning glory, because to me she was always the most beautiful just after she had woken up. I'd pretend to be asleep as she brushed her hair, humming to herself. Raven black, it used to be, and as soft as velvet. Shining as bright as the sun. She could have been a princess, she was that beautiful. And I'd lie there wondering how a man like me could have found something so precious. And I'd thank God for her, and for the miracle that she loved me back."


His eyes are misted with a past only he can remember. I examine his face for moment, then squeeze his hand and pick up a tray of the flowers. "Come on," I order gently, " we're going to visit Nanna."


He shakes himself, bewildered. "But what about Mrs. Power?" he asks tentatively, hope creeping into his voice.


I undo the strap of my watch and put it in my bag. "We lost track of the time," I shrug, and head towards the checkout, leaving my grandfather gaping after me, mystified. Slowly, his face breaks into a smile. "That's my Mutiny," he declares affectionately, and hobbles to join me, placing his gnarled hand on my shoulder.
 

**Late, rushed and short. This week's prompt was "Aspirations". Yup, it's average at best..**


I hum absent-mindedly to myself as I turn on the taps. Almost immediately the bathroom begins to fill with steam as the water gurgles in the bathtub. I can feel the tension in my stomach beginning to unwind, and sigh contentedly to myself. I've been looking forward to this all day, a chance to get rid of the stress and pressure that have been building up for a while. Crouching down, I deliberate over my collection of pearly bubble baths. Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate - even reading the labels is enough to make my mouth water. Eventually I choose the soothing lavender. I carefully unscrew the bottle, briefly waft it under my nose and inhale the scent, then tilt my head back and begin to pour it down my throat.


It tastes disgusting. It always does. My stomach is churning in protest. Good.  In one seamlessly choreographed move, I sink to my knees and face the toilet bowl. Perfect timing. My mind goes blank, all that matters now is becoming as physically empty as I feel.


Hours later (at least it feels like hours, but it could have been minutes, seconds - time doesn't obey the rules anymore), and there's nothing left. I feel dizzy, light-headed, satisfied. Using the sink as a support, I heave myself upright. I peer anxiously at the mirror through the swirling fog. A ghost stares back, ashen-faced, beads of sweat clinging to her temples. Her lips are ringed with bile and blood. I touch my own with the back of my hand as she wipes at hers half-heartedly. The dark circles under her eyes seem to burn as she begins to speak. Her voice is a whisper. "Am I beautiful now?"

 

**Does exactly what it says on the tin. The prompt was "The Devil Is In The Details". Another rush job, gah.**


I used to have a sister. Papa never speaks of her, and the congregation follow his example. They think silence will erase her existence. They are wrong.


My mother died three days after my birth. She was a sickly woman, and it was a miracle that she had managed to carry me to term at all, especially after all the babies she had lost throughout the years. Yet even though I pray for her daily, I do not mourn her, even now. Why would I? I had Abra.


She was ten years older, with coltish legs, shimmering black hair and a laugh that gurgled like the stream behind our house. In the outside world she would have been considered beautiful, but beauty counts for little in our community. She was the one who reared me, who taught me how to gather my hair under my cap and arrange the finicky pins in such a way that they stayed in place all day, the one who read me my favourite stories from our family Bible every night before we curled up to sleep, the one who spent many patient hours teaching me how to stitch, our heads bent close like conspirators, the sun painting the backs of our necks pink. The last must have been especially tiresome for her as she was a gifted mistress with a needle, every stitch tiny and even, whereas to this day I still struggle to sew a button in place. My talent lies in the kitchen, and I think this relieves Papa. After all, if it hadn't had been for her embroidery, maybe Abra would still be with us.


I'm not supposed to know, let alone remember, what happened four years ago. I was twelve, a child, innocent and ignorant. Yet whoever makes these rules forgets how thin most walls are. At first the discussion was hushed, but then it rapidly grew more and more heated, boiling over like a stew left unattended for too long. Abra was crying, Papa was bellowing. I sat crouched in my bed, unable to breathe, straining to make sense of the fragments I heard: "market place", "marry", "abandon us", "faith", "sin", and, the chilling "not my daughter". I hugged my knees and shivered, torn between fear of the unknown and the prospect of having it confirmed. I didn't have to make the choice in the end. I heard Abra's footsteps bolting up the old wooden stairs, and when she entered the bedroom we shared, I could only gape. For the first time I saw her in clothes from the outside world, and they failed to conceal what her shapeless woolen dresses had. She saw my face and whispered as soothingly as she could through her own tears, "It will be alright, we are to be married." She embraced me, and I wiped the tears from her face. If I had known that it was the last time that we would be close, I would never have released her. She broke away to rummage in her drawer, then handed me a parcel. "For your wedding," she explained. My blood froze in my veins. A marriage quilt? Now? "You are coming back?" I demanded, my voice tight with panic. From downstairs Papa began to roar again. Abra kissed my cheek quickly, and then she was gone. She never answered my question.


No one ever mentioned Abra's sudden disappearance, though they must have wondered. Perhaps this was due to Papa's high standing in the community, or perhaps it had happened before, or perhaps our neighbours' walls are just as thin as our own. Whatever the reason, she was turned into a ghost, a piece of history best forgotten.


Papa found the quilt she had given to me just two weeks after she had left. He was burning it in the hearth when I returned from a sewing circle one day. I begged him to stop, tried to pull it out, but he subdued me easily. He claimed it was a source of sin, of vanity, pride and lust. My heart ached and I wept. In the detail of the intricate stitches, I saw my childhood, my home, a plea for reconciliation, hope for the future, enduring and never-ending love; but all Papa could see was the devil.

 

**This is my entry for week two of the February brigits_flamewriting competition. This week's prompt was "Flat". Between two weeks of stressful exams and a distinct lack of creativity of late, this was the best I could come up it. Comments and criticism are great :).**


In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue. In 1493, he proved the world was round as can be.


I first learned this rhyme when I was six years old, along with the rest of my Senior Infant class. Like the rest of the world, we accepted it without question. There's nothing to dispute, is there? We've travelled all over the globe without finding a single edge, circumnavigated it if you want to be eloquent. Thanks to the Space Age, we even have photos of it. Yet I know something science can't prove. I know that for some people, it's all a myth. For some of us, the world is still flat.


******


"Comfortable?"


I stare blankly, taking too long to register that the question was addressed to me. Of course it was - it's only the two of us in the room, and she's hardly the type to talk to herself. I nod curtly, using rudeness to cover up my embarrassment.


"Good. Let's get started then, shall we?"


Said with a smile. Service with a smile. Psychology with a smile. I think in alliteration these days, sometimes. It helps me focus. Her tone is soothing, I guess, but also commanding. I need to answer, it's really all too impolite of me. I settle for another nod; it feels mechanical. I can taste metal in my mouth. Bitter. Sharp. Such an effort to speak, my lips refuse to make the necessary shape. My brain is cloudy, my thoughts like cotton wool. I need to say something, anything.


"I....."


Useless. Can't finish. I start to tap my fingers against my thigh, spelling my name out soundlessly, one letter per digit, over and over again until I feel slightly less nervous, slightly more present, slightly more real. It's not working. Perhaps it never does. Just another bad habit. Rabbit. Sabbath. Inhabit.


*****


Have you ever felt the world grind to a halt? Have you ever found yourself standing at a red light, watching everyone else on green? Have you ever been paralysed inside, viewed life through a foggy lens as though you were underwater, and drowning, slowly drowning? Has it ever become impossible to remind yourself of the necessity of eating, of showering, because it all seems so pointless? Felt like you're floating away, yet trapped under a stifling weight? Do you feel alive? Do you?


Maybe you can teach me.


*****


"I....."


Swallow once, swallow twice. Thrice. Continue.


"I'm not.....sad."


She's still smiling, head tilted to one side, a symbol of her undivided attention. The water drips down my face, falling in my lap. It blooms in a pretty pattern on the dark grey material. Tears. Tears for fears. Not tears. You need to feel something for tears. Not tears, then. She's waiting, don't keep the lady waiting. Empty, so empty. No words to describe it. Try, you have to try. Push yourself. Break the mould. Dare to be different. Riverock: Purer than you.


"I'm just...flat..."

*This is my entry for the first week of the February brigits_flame competition. The prompt was "Beat". This is what I came up with.*

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.


Nuala closed the door behind her quietly. Exhaling slowly, she gave her throbbing temples a quick massage with her left hand to keep the inevitable migraine at bay for a little longer. Shaking herself, she stepped forward and plastered her most charming smile across her face. "Hey there, Amanda, how are you doing today?" she asked in a sing-song voice.


Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.


The little girl before her gave no sign that she had heard the greeting. She sat on the rainbow-covered bean bag, softly banging her head against the wall. Nuala sighed inwardly. It was the same routine every Thursday. At two o'clock Amanda's parents would arrive promptly to deposit her at Nuala's office, then return to collect her (albeit not so promptly) at five. For those three hours Nuala was expected to work miracles, to try to transform Amanda into the happy, bubbly, and, most importantly, normal little girl they felt that they had been cheated out of. Resignedly, she forced herself to begin a falsely upbeat conversation, knowing it was destined, as always, to be a burbling monologue.


Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.


Amanda reminded Nuala of the life-size rag doll she used to cart around when she was a child. In the seven months since she had agreed to become her psychologist, she had yet to hear Amanda utter a single word. She showed no interest in playing with the assortment of dolls and stuffed toys that inhabited the room. Her eyes remained glazed and unfocused no matter what enchanting fairytale was read to her. Once Nuala had placed a crayon in her starfish hand in an effort to encourage her to colour, but she refused to grip it and left it roll to the floor. She just sat in her favourite corner, banging her head against the wall, a tiny drummer keeping the beat to a tune only she could hear.


Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.


Discreetly, Nuala allowed herself to check her watch. Quarter to five. Another three hours wasted. She, too, had been hoping for a miracle today, but the session had only served to strengthen her decision. When Amanda's parents came to collect her, she ask them politely not to bring Amanda back again, as they were gaining nothing from her services only extra bills. The guilty feeling that she was abandoning the little girl gnawed at her stomach, but what could she do? She was just another invisible, inconsequential object in Amanda's world. Her presence made no impact on her life.


Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.


"Amanda," she began on impulse, "I have to say goodbye to you now. You can't....you won't be coming back to see me again for a long time. Maybe not at all. But if you ever want to come and eh...talk... to me....." She trailed off miserably. Telling the child she could come back to talk to her, that was a cruel joke. She forced herself to finish her last soliloquy. "Anyway....I'll miss you....be a good girl, ok?"


Silence.


Nuala gaped as the pixie in front of her raised her head, eyes alert, rosebud mouth pursed as if on the brink of speech...and then they heard footsteps in the corridor. As quickly as they had come to life, Amanda's features once again grew slack, and she returned to beating out the repetitive tattoo.


Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.


"Amanda?" Nuala coaxed hesitantly, "What is it, sweetheart?" No reply. Perhaps she had imagined that brief moment of lucidity, a sentimental happy ending. But the look on the girl's face haunted her. Was it fear? Anger? Disgust? Something else entirely? She didn't know.


Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. 


She would never know.


 

**This is my entry for the first week of the brigits_flame January competition. The prompt was "Angels". My brain has turned to mush lately so a thought-provoking, interesting piece was out of the question. Instead I have this story from my childhood. Comments and criticism are always good :).**


Like all trends, it started with Janice Riordan. She was a year older than the rest of us, a fact that earned her the envied position of most popular girl throughout her primary school life. Of course, at that age no boy wanted to be with her for fear of cooties and other dreaded imaginary diseases, but us girls most definitely wanted to be like her. So when she sauntered into the classroom one day sporting the pin, it was inevitable that it would catch on.


Looking back on it, the pin was probably one of the tackiest pieces of religious paraphernelia ever created. Sprayed to an all-over fake glitzy gold, it was molded in the shape of an angel, complete with awkward flailing pose and vacant, allegedly holy expression. In its outstretched right hand it clasped a small, round, deep blue gem - Janice's birth stone, as she delightedly and disdainfully informed us. It was sold with an accompanying book mark, emblazoned with the declaration "I'm a September Angel" and adorned with overgrown lilies and forget-me-nots. As six year old girls, it was the most beautiful thing we had ever seen - and we had to have one. By the end of the week, all of our parents had been suitably worn down, and we all had an angel pinned proudly to our chests.


Naturally enough, the influx of angels did not escape our teacher's notice. A young, enthusiastic, Catholic woman, she was pleased and surprised at what she interpreted as our new-found interest in our religion. In an effort to encourage us, she decided to teach us all about guardian angels. I imagine she congratulated herself at the sight of our enthralled faces, inwardly swelling with pride with the thought of the twenty six little souls she was helping to lead into the light, so much so that she failed to notice the sheer terror in our expressions.


That night, an epidemic of nightmares swept over the girls of the Senior Infant class. One by one bedroom lights were switched on, revealing hysterical children who refused to be comforted. Parents were alarmed to hear their precious darlings sob "She's watching me! She's always watching me! She knows everything I do and she's just waiting to tell Holy God that I (insert appropriate bad deed here) last week!". Under worried interrogation, we all revealed the "she" that inspired such horror to be our guardian angel. Relieved that we had not suddenly developed schizophrenia, our parents decided to remove the angels from our uniforms to remedy the situation. The next day in class, our teacher went to great pains to make us understand that our guardian angel was a good presence, one who would protect us from harm. After this reassurance, she dropped the subject, and the angel trend fizzled out as quickly as it had started.


Two weeks later, Janice arrived at school with a light-up yo yo.

**This is my entry for the brigits_flame writing community. This week's prompt was "Chaos". Comments and suggestions are always appreciated :). This piece is based on the last day of the 1916 Easter Rising, just before Pádraig Pearse, the leader, surrendered. I've taken a bit of poetic licence here, but the basic facts are true.**


Outside the barred window, bullets and shell casings fell like rain onto the cobbled ground. The occasional shouts of "Tiocfadh ár lá" and terrified shrieks punctuated the constant gun fire. Pádraig gripped the window sill until his knuckles turned white, trying desperately to focus on anything but the chaotic war waging outside. The war that he had started. "It was never meant to be like this," he whispered to himself.


He heard Connolly moan pitifully from the next room. They had brought him in on a stretcher yesterday, the best part of his left leg blown off by a stray shell, his voice ragged and hoarse from calling out for his wife over and over. He cursed under his breath and struck the wall. Another casualty on his conscience. Connolly had been one of their best men; he was not only a fine soldier, but an intelligent and compassionate teacher too. The younger members adored him, worshipped the ground he walked on. What would they say if they could see him now?


He had been hopelessly naive, had let himself be swept away by the passionate speeches and cries for change at the meetings. He had pledged to fight for the cause, regardless of the cost, but he had never envisioned this. The destruction. The fear. The blood. The Irish Republican Brotherhood, they had called themselves. He wondered what kind of brotherhood would be content to divide its members and to offer innocent civilians as sacrifices to the hands of the British.


The part that was slowly but incessantly gnawing at his soul, the part that prevented him from sleeping, from eating, was that he could not even claim ignorance. Could not write it off as a mistake. He had been warned this would happen. MacNeill had attempted to call the whole thing off when they had received the news about the Helga being captured off the coast of Galway, but he had refused to listen. When MacNeill posted a notice in the Saturday newspapers, urging the volunteers to remain at home and wait for another opportunity, he had posted a notice of his own in the Sunday papers, telling them to be ready to fight. He had set this mess in motion. He had destroyed the country he had wished to save.


Another blood-curdling scream. A child's frightened sob, "Mammy, mammy!". A gun shot. Silence. Pádraig retched, then forced himself to stand up straight. He couldn't repair the damage that had already been caused, but he could prevent future suffering. Slowly, he put his hat and coat on, throwing one last, wistful look at the Proclamation. Maybe one day, his descendants would live in the land he had dreamed of. He walked stiffly past Connolly's makeshift bed, grabbing a white sheet from the pile of rags. Opening the front door, he thrust it out and waved it, forcing his hand to remain steady.


"We surrender," he managed to choke out, ducking his head so no one would see his tears.

**This is my entry for the first week of the December brigits_flame writing competition. This week's prompt was "Unity". This entry is pretty much a gamble for me. Basically, I'm trying to describe an indescribable experience. Not the best idea in the entire world, but sure we'll give it a go :).**


Any second now, I'm going to drown. My chest is too tight, every breath catches and hitches in my throat. I can taste the tears forming, threatening to spill down my cheeks, tiny waves of sorrow. I try to concentrate on the fire to block Brother Ian out. I imagine the dancing flames scorching every syllable he utters until he is rendered dumb. I'm playing my favourite childhood game again: if I don't believe it, then it's not real.


This weekend I've found my home. I feel safe here, strong here. I can be me. But it's over now. Time to go back to reality. I cringe as I remember everything we've done here, sharing our stories, the letters, our speeches. I'll never be able to look these girls in the face again. I'm more of an outsider now than I was before.


A hand reaches over and squeezes mine gently. I snap my head up, startled out of my thoughts. Muireann is smiling, tears glistening in her eyes. "Look around," she whispers softly. I stare at her, puzzled, but she just nods encouragingly, continuing to smile. I survey the room, and the fist strangling my heart disappears.


Almost everyone in the room is upset, heads bent low. They're comforting each other; an arm on a shoulder here, a hug there. The best part of human nature being displayed. Nothing unusual there. I turn again to face Muireann, to ask her what I'm meant to be looking at, when I see it. It's not the fact that the girls are sympathising with each other that's miraculous, but the people they are doing it with. They are all sitting beside people they would never have given a second look to before this weekend, acting like sisters. I can't distinguish the cliques. They don't exist anymore.


Muireann sees my expression change, and her smile breaks into a grin. "We did that," she mouths, then squeezes my hand again. I squeeze back as Brother Ian lights the candles on the table in front of us. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, white. Love, freedom, joy, hope, peace, faith, unity. They flicker softly, their light illuminating the best in all of us. I hear the warbling notes rise from the CD player, and I can't suppress a laugh when I recognise the song. I raise my head and begin to join in. "The higher you build your barriers."


The tears flow freely, dissolving my fears. I belong. We belong.







 

**This is my entry for the final week of this month's brigits_flame writing competition. That's right, I managed to cling on in there *does crazy happy dance!*. Unfortunately, this week has been an absolute nightmare school-wise, so this is one of my tiny rushed pretty awful pieces. I need to do some serious organising, and I need to get some originality.. Anyways, this week's prompt was "Night Life". Comments are nice :).**


Áine stood on the bridge, her hands clutching nervously at her shawl. The wind whipped fiercely around her, pulling at her hair in rage and shrieking its disapproval. The rosary beads hung like a noose around her pale neck, the crucifix seemed to sear her chest, as if it could see the desire in her pounding heart. Beneath her she could feel the water, a river of liquid silver in the moonlight, thrash against the ancient stones. She shivered as she imagined the grim fate she would be bound to meet if the bridge collapsed. Perhaps they would say it was her punishment from God. Perhaps they would be right.


The stars glittered in the sky. She stared up at them, losing herself in their light. Her grandmother had once told her that when a person died, their soul would float up to the sky and pick a spot to shine in the darkness, to give hope to those they had left behind and to watch over and guide them. This thought used to give her comfort, but now it caused her cheeks to burn with shame. What she was about to do shouldn't be witnessed by anyone, least of all the angels.


"Áine...Áine, a chroí.."


She turned, startled, her breath catching in her throat. Father Ó Sé was standing in front of her, a concerned look growing across his gentle face as he reached out his hand to touch hers. It was only when she felt him brush away the tears that she realised she had been crying. She bowed her head. He protectively put an arm around her.  "What are you doing out at this time of night?"


She looked at him miserably. "I....I was waiting for someone". Her voice was barely a whisper. His eyes sparkled teasingly. "Is that so?" he queried, kissing her on the tip of her nose. She melted in his embrace, forgetting all her previous fears. In the distance, she heard the church bells announce the twelfth hour. A Naomh Mhuire, a mháthair Dé, guí orainn ár bpeacaí*, she prayed silently, before she began to kiss him back, giving herself over to sin.



*Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners

**This is my entry for week three of the brigits_flame</lj> writing community. This week's prompt was "Limelight". It was kind of rocky to write - although the final outcome is fiction - so it might upset some people to read I guess. Nothing graphic, but I'm putting a warning just in case. Comments and criticism are always appreciated :).**


I've always wanted to be on stage.


Not that you'd know to look at me. I'm the quiet, plain girl who is afraid of her own shadow. My party piece is shrinking so far back into the corners of a room that no one realises I'm even there. Yet every time I pass a poster advertising a new show, I can't help being envious of the glamorous lead, with her easy confidence and seductive smile. I'll spend the rest of the day picturing myself in her glittering stilettos, charming the crowd with every line, hypnotising them with each song, then graciously accepting their love and adoration at curtain call.


Ask any psychologist and I suppose they'd tell you that my fascination with performing has its roots in my childhood. I don't know if I buy into all of that. I can't remember a time when I didn't want to be under the glaring spotlights. At home, I would think up various dance routines and funny scenes and perform them for my mother, my devoted audience. She would clap and laugh dutifully, calling me her "little Shirley Temple". I never performed them for my Daddy. He was a great, hulking bear of a man, always covered in dust from the construction sites he worked on. He communicated chiefly through grunts, and I always tried to make myself invisible in his presence. He never wanted a girl. Sometimes I wondered if he ever wanted children full stop.


When I was four, our teacher told us that we would be putting on a Christmas play. It would be a Nativity, and I was to play the part of Mary. I was so excited I forgot how to breathe. I bowled my mother over when she came to collect me, chattering manically. When she understood what I was saying, she picked me up and swung me around, then hugged me tight, covering my head with kisses and promising to make me the best costume the school had ever seen. She told me she would arrive two hours early, just so she could get front row seats in the poky little sports hall. I asked her if she thought Daddy would come too. She stiffened momentarily, then replied gently that Daddy was a very busy man, and that maybe it would be best not to mention the play to him at all, as it would only make him sad that he couldn't be there to see me. My heart sank a little at that, but I agreed. I didn't want to make my Daddy sad. I decided I would ask my Ms. Dillon for a copy of the video, then give it to him as a surprise for Christmas. It seemed like the perfect solution to me.


I never got the chance to shine in front of the school. I never even got the chance to try on my costume. Daddy found the material my mother had bought. It was beautiful - two metres of shimmering blue and one of the purest white. Daddy didn't seem to notice how pretty they were though. He was angry. Very angry. He yelled at my mother for wasting his money on her own "stupid fucking whims" when he was slaving away for it. My mother was afraid. She was shaking, her arms like delicate twigs in his rough hands. I started to cry.


"Don't, Daddy, please don't. It's my costume. I'm going to be on stage!"


I don't remember what I thought telling him would do, especially when my mother had told me not to. I tell myself that it was just a desperate attempt to get him to stop, that fear took over my brain, but a part of me knows that that isn't entirely true. A sick, selfish part of me knows that the only reason I told him was because I wanted to brag. I had gotten the lead role, and I wanted the world to know it. At any cost.


I don't remember how I got the bruises. They were beautiful in a way, poisonous violet flowers. I used to trace my finger around them every night, wincing as I touched the most tender parts. I didn't go to school for a full week. It took that long for the worst of them to fade.


Daddy stayed at home from work that week, too. Maybe he was sick as well. I can't remember. What I do know is that he spent every moment with me, reading me stories, fixing me my favourite lunch (or at least what he thought was my favourite lunch, I didn't have the nerve to correct him), even playing with my Barbies with me. I was the apple of his eye for those seven days. I should have been savouring it, but instead I spent each second miserably picturing the play going ahead without me.


My mother spent those seven days in hospital, being treated for various broken bones. She said she fell down the stairs. I can't remember properly, but I think we lived in a bungalow then. 


I don't want to remember. It's best to forget some things. Not everyone is cut out for the limelight, you know.

Robbed from clionona as always:

You are feeling really miserable at this time and you'd like to form a relationship with someone with whom you could really communicate. At the same time, whoever it may be, that special 'someone' must not conflict with your own belief system or ideals. This makes for tough going - but it would seem that the situation is only transitory. It will soon pass.

You are a leader and possibly at this tine in a position of authority, but you are experiencing problems. You are not quite sure how to handle the present situation.

You are a rather inhibited sort of person. This could be the result of your upbringing or of your schooling, whatever. You are able to obtain satisfaction from various forms of physical or emotional activity but all in all you are inclined to be emotionally withdrawn. As a consequence of this you find it difficult to sustain any deep involvement.

Stresses resulting from a recent disappointment have led to considerable trepidation. It would seem that there seems to be so much left undone. Everything surrounds you with that air of uncertainty. You badly need to feel a sense of security and whatever it takes to protect you against further disappointment. At this particular time you doubt that things could be any better in the future but you are sticking to your guns and refusing to take advice from any source.

Sometimes one fears that its not worth formulating new ideas and projects because whatever you seem to have done in the past has never worked out and you are tired of, as they say, banging your head against a brick wall. No one seems to care. So now you are trying to get away from it all by withdrawing into a 'fantasy land' but unfortunately 'fantasy land' is just that and sooner or later you will have to return to reality so why delay the inevitable? When you do return, you will find that the situation is not as tough as perhaps you thought it was.

Take it for yourselves:

http://www.goldinuniverse.com/

*This is my entry for thebrigits_flame writing competition. This week's prompt was "Dine". I have to admit, I really struggled to come up with an idea for this one, so it's even more crappy than usual. However, at least I wrote something, right? Right. Comments and criticism are always appreciated :). Oh yeah, a bitta background: The story is set during the potato famine in Ireland in the 1840s. As a child, I was obsessed with this time. I couldn't get my head around the fact that the majority of the rich Protestant, British landlords were content to sit back and watch the poor, Catholic Irish starve to death. Watching how rich world leaders all over the world today watch their people suffer, I still can't.*

She licked her chapped lips nervously and swiped impatiently at a stray lock of lank, greasy hair with her free hand. The effort of this small gesture caused a sickly sheen of sweat to appear on her forehead. The ground was spinning. The hunger pains shot through her stomach like knives. She suppressed a low groan and struggled to remain upright. She tightened her grip on the baby. He was still the size of a newborn, despite having spent nine miserable months on this Earth. He had ceased to cry exactly three months ago, having learned that his desperate cries brought no milk, only exhaustion. He lay listless and weightless in her arms, silent tears of agony falling from his unblinking eyes.

She stole a glance at her other four children. Once they had been her pride and joy, healthy, rosy-cheeked and handsome. Now they drifted aimlessly like walking skeletons, their feverish eyes burning holes in their deathly pale faces. She couldn't remember when she had stopped being able to love them. They weren't her miracles anymore, they were monsters. She shivered in disgust every time they tried to embrace her with their stick thin arms. She didn't know whether to pray for salvation for them all, or to simply pray for death to take them sooner rather than later.

She could hear her husband stuttering in broken English through the door. She prayed he would keep calm. If they lost their farm they would have to go to the workhouse, where no one ever came out alive. A maid scurried passed them, a look of disgust on her face. Her face flushed. She didn't blame the girl for staring at them like that. Once going to visit their landlord had been a big occasion; she would wash and fine-comb the children's hair the night before, dress them in their Mass clothes, wear her mother's combs in her own hair. Michael, her husband, would wear his only suit and his soft black cap. They had sold those clothes long ago, after the second harvest had failed. She couldn't remember the last time she bathed the children.

The voices at the other side of the door had become raised. Her husband was swearing. She winced at the sound. She heard a bang, a surprised cry of pain. Their landlord's voice, hissing angrily. Then the door swung open. She gasped at Michael's bleeding, swollen face. The landlord spun and turned his attention to her. He smiled callously, his eyes hard.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. O'Malley, but as I've been trying to explain to your husband, times are hard for everyone. If you can't pay your rent, you cannot expect me to pay it for you, especially when you haven't even been producing the crops I hire you to grow. I have no choice but to evict you. I have written a letter for you to give to the officials at the workhouse. They will look after you, I'm sure."

She stared at him, mouthing wordlessly. She wanted to cry, to get down on her knees and plead with him, but she didn't have the energy. The children's expressions remained dull and uninterested. They hadn't understood the man; he had spoken in English. The maid passed by her again, this time carrying a tray laden with food. Half a roast chicken. A salad. A loaf of bread. Butter. Jam. Fruit cake. A jug of milk. A pot of tea.

"Lunch time, your grace," she announced brightly.














 

Today is the first anniversary of Encounter Seven. I can't believe it's already been a year. So much has happened since then, so many lives have been changed. Even now I can't think about it without feeling overwhelmed and longing to go back. We spent so long preparing for it that it's hard to let go. I'm going to try to tell the story from the beginning, to keep it written down so I won't forget, but since so much of it cannot be put into words, I don't know how well it's going to turn out (and it's long, by the way).

( Technically it started in February 2007... )</div>Encounter saved my life. It didn't magically make everything better, but it showed me that maybe it was possible to do so in time. I'll never forget it.

( Encounter Songs )

**This is my entry for week one of the brigits_flamemonthly writing competition. This week's prompt was "Wine". Once again, I'm adapting a piece from the Bible, so if you are offended by that type of thing I'd advise you not to read on any further. Comments and criticism are always appreciated :).**

He could feel her gaze on him. He silently pleaded with her to remain seated, but it seemed he had yet to learn the secrets of telepathy. He felt her hand rest gently on his shoulder, and a shiver ran down his spine. Please don't ask me to do this, he implored with his eyes as he turned to face her. Not here, not now.

She offered him a wan smile, then began to whisper so softly that her voice was nearly lost in the joyous din of merry-making and toasts to the happy couple.

"Your uncle fears his cellars may soon run dry. He has but one jug of wine left. To leave his guests wanting at his only son's wedding would bring him great shame."

He was tempted to act the fool, to deliberately miss the meaning of her subtle hint, but he knew in his heart that this was not an option. If he feigned ignorance, the embarrassment and guilt of seeing his uncle suffer and the knowledge that he could have prevented it would eat away at him. Besides, his mother asked for so little from him, how could he refuse her this request?

Sensing his distress, she squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.

"Your father would be proud to know you helped a man in need."

His father would be proud. Like any son, he always jumped at the chance to please his father. But who was his father? He was known as the carpenter's son, and indeed Joseph raised him and provided him with a place to stay, but he didn't show him the same affection as he did to his brothers and sisters. It wasn't that he was cruel to him, but he placed himself at a distance from him. How he longed to have him embrace him, to have him recognise him.

He had been just five years old the first time he had questioned his mother about Joseph's behaviour, old enough to pick up on the differences, but too young to understand them. His mother had told him that his real father was not of this world, that he was in fact the Creator. He supposed that this must be true, for how else could he know the things he did, or possess the skills he did? Every moment of the day he struggled to live a perfect, pure life like his Father surely must have expected him to do. He knew earthly achievements would not impress Him, but using his gifts may.

He knew this could be his moment, his opportunity to shine, and yet something told him not to do it. He had no concrete reason for his reluctance, only a strong feeling that in performing this 'miracle', he would be embarking on a downward, dangerous spiral. He did not know how it would end, but the uneasy fear throbbed through his veins like poison.

He opened his mouth to explain this to his mother, but quickly closed it. Her face was expectant, illuminated with hope. She trusted him to save the wedding. She had placed her faith in him. Sighing and doing his best to appear cheerful, he raised his hands and motioned them over a jug of water. Slowly the liquid turned bright red. Wine.

Except to him, it seemed more like blood.

*This is my entry for week three of the brigits_flame competition. This week's prompt was 'Besieged'. This is yet another horribly rushed job, sorry.*

Sylvie couldn't sleep. She had been tossing and turning for the last few hours, trying in vain to warm her icy limbs. Her younger brothers adored this new country with its alien climate, spending their afternoons building forts in the knee-deep snow, giggling as they watched their silvery breaths curl in the air like smoke from their Papa's pipe. She, on the other hand, detested the white powder that blanched the land of any colour, that froze her fingers until they became stupid and would not work as she instructed them to. How she longed for the long, balmy nights of Bordeaux, when the smell of ripening grapes perfumed the air.

Shivering miserably, she sat up and pulled her blankets around her. She considered lighting a candle, then thought better of it. Since they had moved here Maman constantly fretted about supplies. To waste an inch of precious wax when she was meant to be sleeping would surely incur her wrath. Besides, there was a full moon tonight, the pale rays illuminating the tiny room in a soft glow.

In the distance, the mournful cry of a lone wolf throbbed through the twilight. She huddled further into her blankets and glared enviously at her brothers' sleeping forms. Out of spite, she had frightened them with tales of evil spirits and forest monsters she had overheard the Indians talking about, hoping to give them nightmares, but now the tales were returning to haunt her. She glanced out the window, as if expecting to see a phantom, and her heart stopped. She had seen something flickering in the darkness. Fear began to paralyse her slowly. A twig snapped. Throat dry, blood pounding in her veins, she crept towards the window. She could see nothing. She breathed a sigh of relief, cursing herself for her stupidity. Then a pair of eyes met her own. Sylvie took in the hostile stare, the imposing rifle, and finally the red coat. Then she screamed, not caring whom she awoke. The nightmare had become reality. The British had come.

*Ok, by some miracle despite my shabby excuse for an entry last week I made it through. Thank you to everyone that took the time to read and/or to vote :). This week's piece is slightly better, promise. The prompt was 'Fuel'. The following is my interpretation. WARNING: It you are strongly religious and easily offended, you'd probably be better off not reading this. It's not shockingly controversial or anything, just sort of humanises a biblical character (Moses), but I'm sticking the warning here just in case.*

Sand. It coated his robes, blurred his vision, robbed his mouth of moisture. Even after three months he had forgotten how it felt not to have the tiny granules constantly rubbing against his skin. Of course there had been sand in Egypt too, but it had been a mere coating of dust over the land compared to this. Out here the sand was the land. There was no greenery, no cooling pools, no signs of life. Just mound after mound of golden grains glinting in the golden sun.

His people were growing restless. The intense heat of the desert was beginning to take its toll on them. Children fidgeted and whined. Babies cried and fussed. The women fretted and the men grew impatient. Even the livestock protested when their masters urged them to move on each morning. Though it remained unspoken for now, the nagging thought that they would have been better off to remain in slavery plagued each of them. Three months wandering with no direction, no knowledge of their destination. He didn't have the heart to tell them that their journey might very well last for years.

They would blame him, he knew. And how could he expect them to do otherwise? It was he who had started the chain in motion, he who had been chosen, he who had commanded them to rise against the Pharaoh and leave their homes, he who had promised to lead them. They had placed their faith in him. They trusted him to lead them to salvation. Well, he had trusted his God to guide him, but where was He now? His nightly prayers were invariably ignored. He had not spoken to the Lord since the miracle at the Red Sea. He had been abandoned. His people sensed something was wrong. The hope that had fuelled them in the beginning was dwindling with each dune they passed, with each sand storm they cowered from. Sooner or later they would discover the truth: their new-found God had already forgotten about them. They would turn back to their pagan ways. They would end their search for the Promised Land. And most certainly they would kill him for his part in their misery.

Out of frustration, he kicked at the arid ground. Two days ago he had climbed to the top of this mountain alone, declaring to his people that God had instructed him to do so. He had hoped that if he isolated himself, the Lord would reappear. So far, there had been no sign of His presence. He knew he couldn't wait much longer, yet the fear of what might happen if he returned to his people without divine guidance paralysed him. Even his own brother had begun to doubt him recently. He scanned the area wildly, searching for something, for anything. He strained his ears for that booming voice. Nothing. He fell to his knees in desperation, and almost cried out with pain and surprise. Gingerly, he stood back up to see what he had fallen on. Two perfect rectangles of stone. An idea began to form in his mind. His people wanted instruction, wanted to know how to please their God. He could, no he would, give it to them. Would it matter if they didn't come directly from the lips of their God? Would it hurt them to believe it was holy inspiration and not good human judgement? He whipped out his knife and feverishly began to carve. The Ten Commandments. The Lord's template for a good life. He would do it. He would refuel their dreams.

*Please excuse this, I was under so much pressure and didn't have time to produce anything decent, but I didn't want to drop out either.*

And there it goes, George thought to himself, the will to live. Shivering slightly, he huddled deeper into his suit jacket. Below him the traffic hissed along the streets like angry lack beetles, their headlamps glowing menacingly. Once again the weather forecast had revealed itself to be the stuff of myth - the night was crisp but astonishingly clear. In fact, had it not been for the permanent blanket of polluted smog that hung over the city, George was convinced he would have been able to see the stars, tiny pinpricks of false hope.

It would have been almost poetic to claim that the last earthly pleasure he had enjoyed was the beauty of nature, but poetry wasn't George's style. Instead he dislodged his frozen hands from his pockets long enough to light his first, and his last, Cuban cigar. His editor swore by them, describing them as pure ecstasy for the high flyer. Before now, George's practical mind had not allowed him to justify spending up to two hundred dollars on a single one, but tonight it didn't matter if he blew his life's savings on a trip to Cuba to pick them up himself. He took a long drag, savoured it for a second, then gagged. It was like inhaling his grandfather's home-made insect spray. He tossed the offending length of tobacco over the edge in disgust, and rummaged until he found his loyal companion - his battered box of Silkcut. He felt better instantly, and after a few puffs he could even examine why he was up here in the first place.

The problem with the world was that they loved their heroes. They needed some one to adore, dome one to make them feel secure, some one to convince them that there was still a shred of humanity left in the universe. The problem with George was that it was his job to expose these heroes as frauds. He guessed that made him the villain, but at least his column was honest and frank - something that had made him intensely unpopular with the die-hard fantasists. Normally George couldn't care less about what those idiots thought, but his latest coup had even shocked him. The article (now lurking on his editor's desk, inching closer to the printing press by the second) had stripped away the credibility of one of the world's favourite heroes: Mother Augusta. It was his duty to give the world the truth, but that didn't mean he had to stick around fog the fallout. Forcing himself to forget about the consequences, he sprinted to the edge of the roof and jumped. As he hurtled downwards, his only regret was that they'd never get the blood stains out of his Armani suit.

 

Sorry I haven't been posting lately. I finally figured out how to work private entries (yes I am THAT retarded at computers), so I've been keeping all my whining contained (you can sigh with relief now lol). I'll probably write a catch up bulletin yoke later, if you're interested :P.

You are The Moon

Hope, expectation, Bright promises.

The Moon is a card of magic and mystery - when prominent you know that nothing is as it seems, particularly when it concerns relationships. All logic is thrown out the window.

The Moon is all about visions and illusions, madness, genius and poetry. This is a card that has to do with sleep, and so with both dreams and nightmares. It is a scary card in that it warns that there might be hidden enemies, tricks and falsehoods. But it should also be remembered that this is a card of great creativity, of powerful magic, primal feelings and intuition. You may be going through a time of emotional and mental trial; if you have any past mental problems, you must be vigilant in taking your medication but avoid drugs or alcohol, as abuse of either will cause them irreparable damage. This time however, can also result in great creativity, psychic powers, visions and insight. You can and should trust your intuition.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.