For Magic to Survive Someone Must Sacrifice--Part III

She sunk into the straw mattress, her hair fanned on the pillow accentuating her pale skin: a dark angel.

“Father, is she...” Bailyn couldn’t pull himself away from the girl. He thought of Sleeping Beauty, and in spite of himself, he imagined bending down and placing a soft kiss on her rough lips.

Molina moved her brother aside, “She’s not dead,” she said. “Look her chest moves.” An unfamiliar feeling, it was a curious notion, crossed her consciousness. Goosebumps raced up her arms despite the warmth from the stove.

She needed to touch the mystifying girl, but she hesitated for fear of what it would do, and more than that, she was afraid.

“Children, Jon come away now,” the woman said. “Molina, fetch some blankets from the cupboard; Bailyn, run to the well for water; Jon, put the kettle on.” She took a slow deep breath; she could taste the bittersweet honey that mingled with the girl's aura. It had been years since she felt the magic stir within her but she felt the pull like an old friend come to visit.

Her family and their safety came first, though the last thing she desired to do was to hand over another witch. If The Destroyers came, she’d have no choice.

The floorboard behind her creaked with the weight of her husband and his shadow darkened the girl's pale features, “What should we do with her?”

Sighing, she shrugged.

For Magic to Survive...

(my second installment of the story, enjoy)

 

           “Bailyn, fetch the riffle for me.”

           “What is it father?” Bailyn asked, trying to see around his father’s broad shoulders.

“A thief in the garden. Quick now!”

“Jon,” the woman said.

“Bailyn follow me around back, you...”

“Jon.”

“...grab her on my mark,” he said taking the long barreled shot gun from Bailyn.”

Bailyn nodded the thrill of the hunt in his eyes.

“Jonathon!”

“What is it woman?”

“The garden is in the back of the house, Jon,” she said, putting her arm around her daughter, identical smiles revealing their amusement.

“Oh right, but then...” he stood there, unsure of what to do. Grunting he motioned for his son to follow.

Moonlight illuminated the small frame of a girl, hair swirled around her in a wind only she felt.

“Father this isn’t right. Listen.”

Jon understood he rubbed his ears: it felt like they needed to pop. “Here take the gun.” The closer they crept the greater the pressure in their ears became.

John grabbed the girl from behind, pinning her arms to her sides, and yanked. Bailyn circled around her; the gun limp in his hand threatened only the Earth.

“Boy, the gun!”

“I think she’s dead.”

For Magic to Survive She Must Sacrifice

The air was hot and dense; it pushed against her, breathing was laborious. Her hair hung limp down her back, usually, it swirled around her but not this night. Eve stood in the perpetual darkness with only a tattered dress, which used to brush the ground, but now stopped just below her knees, showing her bare feet. The noise of the woods and trees beat painfully in her ears.

There was a light on in the shack, illuminating the family within. They sat at a round table (playing a game) laughing. Just a moment ago, the boy had lifted up the youngest girl in his arms and spun her around. He looked to be about the same age as Eve: on the cusp of being an adult. The girl, shock red hair curled around her cherub face, rosy cheeks with dimples, eyes the color of ice, a perfect miniature to the mother.

It’s the glow of magic that surrounds the girl that makes her unique; no doubt it once enveloped the mother but not a trace could be seen any longer. Eve wondered if they knew that magic touched them. They would know soon.

The ground vibrated the energy, alerting The Destroyers. It was Eve’s job to avert them, so she set to it. Placing her one hand on the outside wall of the house, the other she dug into the soft soil. Pushing stones out of the way, using her nails to claw deeper down until she planted her arm (up to her elbow).

Tego texi tectum

Tego texi tectum

 She chanted, closing her eyes, she put all her energy into the concealment spell. The air warmed and lifted to her words, the fearful creatures of the woods became silent: Death could not find them.

Movements in Stillness

Perhaps it was my fault.

Always the quite one,

Moving with child steps

Through the room.

Unseen was how

The movements took me through the room,

To the corner:

Where the walls converge,

Steadying and supporting my bent spine.

The darkness concealing silent tears.

Heart and soul of it all

It’s a box.

It holds everything,

Nick-knacks collect from moments:

Some filled with pure joy

The hand craves to fondle them.

Others contain sorrow so penetrating,

Too consuming to gaze upon for more than a glance.

Instinctively tucking the darkness into the recesses:

Sheltered corners of the heart

Were it less painful on the soul.

muse come back...

I've suffered of an acute case of writer's block, the worst case I've encountered. Before I have rode it out, read lots of books, articles, blogs and such. It's not working. So, I'm trying a new tactic: forced writing. I've had a few things stirring, I know it's time to choose one and just write what ever comes out (even if it's crap).

 I pray it works.

Getting back in the swing of it...

It's been a busy summer, and little writing has been accomplished, but the kids head back to school in a few days. Which means my house will stay clean for longer than a few hours after my labors have ended; fall (my favorite time of year); and more time to devote to WRITING! Here is a little taste:

Tick-tock


Tick-tock

Tick-tock

Coo-coo, coo-coo

The scratch of the quill kept time. He never heard the tick or the tock. The sounds were there, forgotten until the day they ceased.

The quill held by a still hand, withered with old age. Much like the face, deep wells of time etched by heartbreak and loss surround clear gray eyes.

Thump-thump

Thump-thump

Scrap

A chill swells in his soul. Might the clock never tick again? Fore what could stop the beautiful sound of the coo coo, always on its mission to sound the hour?