My 2024 writing resolution is to honor “the deadline” and keep a steady pace of submitting for contests and open submission calls. Below is my third submission for a competition on Vocal. The challenge asked writers to create a short story told from the perspective of a misplaced object. Check out the beginning of my entry below. It’s titled, “Trust Is Key” .
Goodness me, this is exciting! It’s my first day on the job! Noah’s nervous, but that’s natural for a newly licensed driver.
Don’t worry, Noah. I promised your mom and dad I’d keep an eye on you.
Now, this other kid is different. What did Noah call him? Aiden? Yes, that’s Noah’s friend’s name. Aiden has been nothing but a distraction since climbing into the car. I had to holler forever until he put his seatbelt on. What a relief he still only has his practice driver’s permit. Heaven help us when he gets a license! His mouth just runs. Is he thinking before he speaks? Even I’m finding it hard to focus!
“You drive like my gramma. Can’t you go any faster?”
This kid’s got some nerve! He’s going to ruin Noah’s first outing!
Noah, this is a perfectly acceptable speed. Pay no attention to this rapscallion.
Ooh, I wish I could talk. That’s an upgrade to consider.
“Aiden, I don’t have much choice about it. My parents will revoke my driving privileges if they catch me speeding.”
They sure will, Buster, and don’t think I will lie on your account!
“How are they going to know?”
Oh, Aiden, think! It’s the twenty-first century. I’m collecting data points to compile a report for Noah’s parents.
“Big Brother’s watching.”
Wait, what? Is Noah referring to me? That’s not my name. I’m…well, I don’t have a name, how unfortunate.
“You’re joking. What? There’s a camera or something?”
Look at poor Aiden, craning his neck, searching for a camera! Ha! That’s rich! The level of surveillance I offer far exceeds anything a simple camera can do.
“No, my key.”
Ta-dah!No one ever suspects the key.
Click the Button Below to Read the Rest of the Story on Vocal
A piece of writing is never definitively done, and often, the author feels uncomfortable letting a story out for publishing. But, alas, the deadline always wins!
Below is a reworking of my story “The Barbarian and the Dishwasher (Part One: An Artist’s Sketch)” recently posted on Vocal. Enjoy.
“A Dishwasher and a Barbarian”
Plates shattered everywhere as George had a robust, whimsical imagination, which was fortuitous since most of his life revolved around an endless routine of wash, rinse, dry, and repeat.
He was a dishwasher.
George worked at a restaurant called Rodeo Ribs for a quick-tempered, penny-pinching man named Mr. Witherson, who flew into a rage any time the supply of clean dishes ran low.
“George! What the devil are you doing down there? Plates! I need plates!”
Gee, Mr. Witherson, maybe, I don’t know, spend some money to get more plates so we don’t constantly run out, the overworked dishwasher hollered silently to himself.
“On it, Mr. Witherson! Plates coming right up, Sir!”
George knew his current job, the latest in a long line of menial gigs, would only last for a while. He invariably quit or found himself fired within the first month or two.
Why am I still working here? I’m drenched down to my underwear every night, constantly smell like an old sponge, and the waterlogged skin on my hands is practically rotting off, George thought.
Despite being intelligent, college proved disastrous for George. When a class disinterested him, he simply didn’t do the work. He dropped out after one semester. But he wasn’t completely devoid of ambition. George had two passions: art and role-playing.
George had tried every gaming system and actively participated in several role-playing groups. When not playing, he endlessly sketched the fantasy characters he played.
Recently, a friend had initiated George into the world of live-action-roleplaying. LARPing, as most called it, made George feel authentic and alive. All his current time and attention went into detailing every aspect of his chosen role.
George imagined his LARPing alter-ego, a courageous barbarian named Jockular, taunting his adversaries gleefully with horrific puns. George took pride in inventing Jockular’s name, confident its pronunciation cleverly suggested the character’s ubiquitous laughter and prodigious sense of humor. At the same time, George felt its spelling emphasized the barbarian’s athletic prowess.
“George! Where are those plates?!”
George paused to envision the barbarian issuing a sassy retort, liquefying Mr. Witherson’s bowels with threats to destroy the restauranter’s beloved crockery.
“Blast it all! Now, I’m out of plates! George!”
Sighing, George scrabbled upstairs, shouldering a rack of clean dishes upstairs, asking himself, as ever, why anyone would put a restaurant dish sink in the basement.
“Here, Mr. Witherson,” George said.
“That’s it? This won’t last five minutes! More, George! I need more!”
George sputtered, eyes wide, face red, before fleeing the hectic kitchen. He skidded to a halt at the top of the wet stairs.
I really need some non-slip shoes, or I’m going to kill myself, George thought.
He clutched the banister and rushed back to the pile of dirty dishes waiting for him.
Scrapping food into the slop sink, George returned to daydreaming about the upcoming weekend. His LARPing group had volunteered to host this month’s regional adventure.
George thought happily about having two whole days of LARPing. He couldn’t wait to show off the new armor he’d constructed. If he could deliver the jokes and taunts he’d been rehearsing, he felt sure he’d have a good chance of winning MVP.
Look at all these dishes! Jockulur would never spend hours scrubbing like some kitchen wench, George fumed.
“Hey, George. Do you have those plates yet? Mr. Witherson’s legit going to have a coronary,” a waitress called down.
“For crying out loud, tell him I’m coming!”
Shouldering a fresh load of plates, George sped up the stairs, two at a time, until one foot failed to connect with the last step.
George landed with a sickening pop on the basement floor.
“George?! Are you ok?” the waitress clamored down.
Click the link below to read the full story on Vocal.
Below is the beginning of a story I submitted for Vocal’s #200 Challenge. I had fun daydreaming about what would happen if I entered my writing study to find all my characters waiting to lodge their complaints against me.
“An Author Intervention”
Everyone tells stories. It’s part of being human. But some of us feel called to share our stories with the world, wondering if we might earn a living writing. If you’re one of these types, I warn you, friend, once others learn about your aspirations, they will pepper you with endless questions about how your writing is going until inevitably someone asks the evil, boss-monster of all questions, “Have you published anything yet?”
When this happens, you’d be wise to procure a mighty magic sword. Be sure it bestows daily confidence while being sharp enough to cut a path of clear perspective through any miasma, no matter how thick and rank it is, with fear, doubt, and self-loathing. Be ruthless with this archvillain, the bane of writers everywhere! Don’t hesitate to smite its ruin at first chance, dispatching it back to the hell with which it came, or risk opening the door to a host of inner demons and critics who will thwart every attempt you make to write.
This is precisely what happened to me this past year. Paralyzed by an internalized sense of incompetency, my writing repeatedly stalled until it reached a near-complete stop by year’s end. Thank heaven for the time-honored tradition of making New Year’s resolutions.
There is something beautiful about a fresh start, a new day, a new week, a new month, and the beginning of a new year! Discovering the theme for Vocal’s 200th challenge couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. I dove eagerly into the project, drafting my list of things to accomplish in 2024. I excel at planning but often need help recognizing when to stop prepping and start. My list was long, but I feared it was incomplete, so I didn’t dare begin writing. Frustrated, knowing I was falling into the same old trap, I paused to stand and stretch. When I reached for another sip of that most blessed nectar of the gods of motivation and achievement, coffee, I found my mug empty.
I shuffled out of my study to the kitchen, put another pot of coffee on, went to the bathroom, took the dog for a walk, grabbed a bite, and downed a cup of coffee before filling another. As I inched slowly back to my desk, desperate not to spill the overfull mug, I became aware of hushed voices from my writing study.
I froze and panicked momentarily until I remembered yesterday’s notice on the community bulletin board reminding residents that maintenance was working on this side of the building. Concluding the crew was working outside my window, I relaxed. Turning the corner, I found the door to my study closed. I trembled, knowing I had left the door open.
Bravely or foolishly, I opened the door to find ….
Follow this link below to find out what happened next!
The craft of writing is a journey replete with unexpected ups and downs, and an author is obliged to walk such creative paths with the often unwelcome company of the inner critic.
This autumn, I’ve turned my focus to improving my editing skills. (No easy task for someone prone to obsessively overthinking everything!)
The first “Cracked Stucco” version appeared on this blog site in April of 2022.
I’ve addressed the use of dialogue tags and point of view and fashioned a more robust sense of setting with this new version.
Here is a link to “Cracked Stucco,” 1st version published earlier on this blog. I invite you to compare the two versions to see what I hope is growth in my writing. Please leave any comments regarding the effectiveness (or lack thereof) of my editing changes.
“Cracked Stucco” 2nd Edition
A hulking young man and a petite young woman stood at the end of a desolate road beneath a flickering streetlight. Before them, a rusty sign declared the surrounding area private and promised unlawful entries would be prosecuted. Empty nip bottles, tire tracks, and a well-worn trailhead into the woods spoke differently.
Shaking his head, the young man retreated a couple steps, turned, and adjusted a thick pair of glasses to gaze back down the road.
“Think we parked the car far enough away?”
The young woman gently turned him around again toward the path, taking his hand in hers.
“Yeah, relax,” she said. “Just focus on the pictures I showed you. You’re going to love the place. What do you call that décor again, the one you’re studying now in your design class? I’m sure this place was loaded with it.”
“Art Deco…. oh, Zoey! Stop trying to distract me from legitimate worry! You know my parents will kill me if we’re arrested for trespassing.”
“I think the cops have better things to worry about, Ben.”
“You know investigating the paranormal is considered pseudoscience.”
“Says who?”
“Real scientists.”
“That’s because no one’s captured convincing evidence.”
“I don’t want to be around anything convincingly paranormal, Zoey. Besides, isn’t this place surrounded by razor wire now. How do you expect to get in?”
To continue reading the 2nd edition of this story use the link below to visit Vocal, a story-sharing platform designed to discover, support and reward writers.
Despite Gerard’s encouragement, Sonia waited to hear her husband snoring before creeping into his study to fetch the book. Her furtiveness surprised her until she realized she had lied to her husband.
Sonia did believe.
Retreating to the sanctuary of her kitchen, Sonia sat and gazed at the book. Memories came of long summer days, playing with friends under the watchful eye of Auntie Paulina, who, in the heat of the afternoon, invited the children onto her shady porch for chilled tea, freshly baked sweetbread, and a story. Those were magical times, but nothing compared to the moments spent alone with Auntie Paulina when the old woman would whisper her secrets.
Sonia could still remember when her aunt first spoke about reading tea leaves.
How is it you know so much, Auntie?
The leaves tell me.
Do you talk to trees? I never hear them speaking.
Not the leaves on trees, tea leaves. I’ll show you. Have you learned to count to one hundred?
Yes.
Good. Think of a number between one and one hundred.
Ok. It’s…
Don’t tell me, dear. The tea will show me.
Sonia never forgot the thrill of watching the old woman close her eyes with a dramatic exhale, pausing briefly before loudly slurping her entire cup of tea.
Best if it’s hot enough to scald your mouth.
Then Sonia’s great-aunt put her saucer atop her cup, turned both upsides down, and set them on the table. After rapping the bottom of the cup three times with her hand, she lifted the cup to reveal a mess of tea leaves splattered across the saucer.
You chose twenty-seven.
Yes. But how…?
Just have to keep an open mind when you look.
Can I learn how to do this?
I wish you would.
The woman had clearly practiced some form of hedge witchery, and Sonia wondered what she would have learned if her aunt had lived longer. Yet, the old woman had died before having a chance to teach her anything.
Sonia soon discovered the rest of the family felt uneasy around the old woman, especially her mother, who warned Sonia of what happened to people who dabbled in the occult. Fear kept Sonia from crossing the line her mother had drawn, and her younger self burned with guilt every time she found herself pondering the dregs of her cup. But time had dulled the sting of her mother’s threats, and she now found herself willing to explore.
Sonia got up and put the kettle, vowing to pull it off before it whistled.
“Don’t need Gerard awake and asking questions.”
Returning to her seat, Sonia opened the book and began flipping pages until an illustration caught her eye. Exploring further, Sonia realized she had stumbled upon a glossary of imagery frequently found in the tea leaves left behind.
“Coins indicate money; that’s obvious. A heart suggests romance, of course. Oh, a wasp. What’s that mean? Ooh… a possible affair or rival lover!”
Losing herself momentarily in the book, Sonia failed to notice the quiet rumble of water building before it was too late. Swearing, she leaped, yanked the kettle from the burner, and paused to listen for her husband. But Gerard remained in bed, apparently still asleep.
Relieved, she threw a couple scoops of herbal tea into her cup. Sonia reflected as she poured the hot water, wondering how to pose her question. When satisfied with the wording, she picked her cup up and, mimicking her great-aunt’s actions from long ago, took a cleansing breath before speaking her question.
“What’s going on between Sabina and her boyfriend, Casimir?”
Sonia slurped her tea, immediately grimacing as the heat stung her tongue.
“Hot! Hot! Hot! How in the hell did Auntie gulp this down? It burns horribly!”
Taking a few deep breaths, Sonia prepared to try again but lost the nerve seeing the steam continue to rise.
“Crazy old woman.”
Frustrated, Sonia glowered at her cup until the sound of the refrigerator cycling on gave her an idea.
“Ha! That’s it! I’ll trade one burn for another.”
Sonia opened the freezer door, pulled out the ice bin, set it on the table before her, rolled a sleeve, and shoved a hand in. As the skin on her hand tingled, she raised the cup with her other hand and carefully blew on it.
“I’ll try again once my hand aches. Tea should be cool enough then.”
Feeling like she had solved an impossible riddle, Sonia waited. When all traces of steam had disappeared, she clutched the cup in both hands and drank.
Surprisingly, the tea still burned going down, warming her stomach and causing beads of perspiration to erupt on her forehead. But Sonia found the prickling discomfort in her chilled hand most satisfying.
Despite pursing her lips at the end to avoid swallowing tea leaves, she had to spit a few back into the cup before covering it with the saucer. She struggled to flip them, but once she got them safely on the table, she rapped the bottom of the cup with the heel of her hand, reiterating her question, and then reverently removed the cup to see what the leaves revealed. She gasped at the exquisite clarity of the arrangement before her.
“A circle? No, a necklace. That’s a string of pearls!”
A ring of dots, spaced equidistantly, ran along the saucer’s outer edge, encircling three other unrecognizable clumps of tea. Frustrated, Sonia rotated the saucer, carefully considering each shape.
“Hmm, a feather. Yes. And that’s an umbrella! Didn’t see that when it was upside down. Now this last thing looks like… a fork? But with only two tines. No, maybe a line dividing, or is it a road? Yes, a road. It’s a fork in the road!”
Sonia slumped against the back of the chair, mouth open, stunned by her success.
“What could all that mean?”
She laughed at her own question.
“Duh! Look it up in the book, silly.”
Rifling back to the list of examples presented in the book, Sonia found entries for; feathers, necklaces, and umbrellas. Jumping from page to page, Sonia slowly pieced together a story of new lovers struggling to save a relationship plagued by uncertainty and signs of insincerity. Her heart ached to imagine the turmoil her daughter would face if she continued to date Casimir, and Sonia resolved to find a way to break the icy silence between them.
The clock in the living room chimed. Startled, Sonia looked at the time on the stove.
“Midnight, already. Sabina should be home now.”
As if waiting for her mother’s cue, Sonia heard the distinct rumble of her daughter’s car.
“Ok, keep cool. Like Gerard says, don’t badger. Oh, this is going to be so difficult.”
She got up, rinsed the cup and saucer, and tucked them into the top rack of the dishwasher. Turning to gather the book and return it to Gerard’s desk, Sonia paused suddenly in doubt.
“Damn! I was going to look, circle, up. What if it isn’t a necklace? What if it’s just a circle. Crap! I don’t want Sabina to catch me with this.”
Unable to resist, Sonia scrambled to turn the pages to read the definition.
“Finding any circle most assuredly signals a time of successful completion or reaping the fruits from one’s toil. If the circle is dotted, this indicates the arrival of a baby.”
Sonia’s heart skipped a beat, calling to mind the line of tea leaves stretching across the saucer, forking at the end. The book contained no relevant entries about lines, forks, or roads. But, she could guess at its meaning. This last piece of information brought everything into focus. Her daughter had fallen in love with an unreliable man, thrown her lot in with his, and now Sabina found herself pregnant without a clue what to do next.
“A fork in the road. Oh, Sabina!”
Sonia closed the book, kissed it, and solemnly returned it to Gerard’s desk, hiding it in the middle of a pile of papers.
“Thank you, Auntie,” she whispered.
Sonia hurried to the kitchen, filled the kettle with more water, and relit the burner. Setting a couple of mugs on the table, she sat, barely managing to compose herself before hearing Sabina’s key scrape into the lock.
“Why are you still up?” Sabina asked.
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought some chamomile tea might help. Heard the car and pulled out a second mug if you want some.”
Not wanting to scare her daughter off, Sonia fought to keep her emotions in check.
“Why can’t you sleep?”
“I don’t know. Lot on my mind, I guess.”
“Like what?”
“Your brother’s confirmation party, your uncle’s operation, and I’m struggling to finish knitting this blanket for Anastazja’s new baby. She’s due any time now.”
“Baby? How…wait? Who’s having a baby?”
“Anastazja.”
“Who?”
“A new friend. It doesn’t matter. How are classes going? I suppose you were out with Casimir? You’re spending lots of time together. You really like him, huh?”
“Mom, I don’t have the energy to deal with your prying right now. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“Wait. Don’t go.”
Sabina sighed and turned around.
“What?”
“Your father and I had a discussion tonight.”
“About what?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“Well, actually, it was more about me.”
“Isn’t it always about you, Mom?”
“Please, Sabina. Can you just listen to what I have to say?”
“Fine.”
“I know you and I are very different….”
“That’s for sure.”
“I know I can be pushy, loud, and nosy.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Sabina, what I’m trying to say, is I’m sorry. My mother and I were so close….”
“Oh, not this again. Stop. I’m going to bed.”
“Sabina, wait. Let me finish.”
“You’ve said all this before. I know how this goes. You drone on and on, talking in circles, saying the same thing. Unless you have something new to say, I’m going to bed.”
“Ok. I get it. You’re tired. I’ll be quick.”
Sabina huffed but didn’t leave.
“I want you to know I’m going to try harder to respect boundaries, keep my nose out of your affairs and finally start treating you as an adult.”
Sabina stood, listening, appearing surprised.
“I have no idea how to begin changing my behavior, Sabina. But something needs to change because I feel like I’ve lost you, and I know that’s my fault.”
Shocked by her daughter’s silent attentiveness, Sonia continued cautiously.
“Your father thinks things will be better between us if I just let go and let you live your life on your own terms. I’m probably failing miserably at that even now, but I want to try. That’s all. Thank you for listening. I love you. Sleep well. Good night.”
Sonia stood abruptly, scooped the mugs from the table, and turned to put them back in the cupboard. She wanted to say more and ask the questions battering about inside her, but for the first time, Sonia managed to dam it all up.
“What are you doing?” Sabina asked.
Startled by the question, Sonia whirled around to see her daughter standing there.
“I’m not in the mood for tea anymore,” Sonia said.
“Well, I am.”
“You are?”
“Yeah.”
Sabina hugged her mother and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“I know how difficult that was for you, and I really appreciate it, Mom.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Well, good.”
“Mom?”
“What?”
“Would you make us some chamomile tea? I have a lot on my mind, and I’ll sleep better if I talk it out.”
This story is my response to the March picture prompt from the Writers Unite website. Visit their site to check out the cool stories others came up with for March.
Alas, I’ve been struggling with my writing for the past couple of months, and now I am ridiculously late with my submission because I fell prey to my inner critics. Better late than never!
Enjoy.
Part One
“Backtracking After a Wrong Turn”
The rhythm of Sonia’s knitting needles dominated the room without stopping. She smiled as her husband yawned.
“Gerard.”
“What?”
“You’re yawning.”
“So.”
“You’re yawning nonstop.”
Gerard looked up from his papers and studied his wife.
“Aren’t you getting tired? How much longer are you going to be?”
“Anastazja’s baby is due any day. I want to finish tonight if I can.”
Gerard frowned.
“Who’s Anastazja?”
“You remember the new couple that moved here last month from Warsaw.”
“No.”
“We met them at my uncle’s retirement party.”
“Did we?”
Sonia clucked, shaking her head. Gerard rolled his eyes and returned to editing.
“Imagine her husband losing his job when they’re expecting their first. Luckily, Walter and Anna took them in. They’re not even related. Wonder what the connection is?”
“None of my business, nor yours. Keep your nose out of it.”
“Gerard, some people don’t have family they can count on. I’m just being neighborly.”
“Living across town doesn’t make them neighbors.”
“Village, Gerard. Lipa isn’t big enough to be called a town.”
“Walter and Anna are a fifteen-minute drive away. This Anastazja is hardly our neighbor.”
“You know what I mean. They’re part of our community now. My family has….”
“Yes, I know. Your ancestors have lived in Lipa since its founding, weathering the tides of history from the Huns to the Nazis. Which makes you what, a baroness?”
“I’m just trying to be nice. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except when being nice leads to prying.”
“You never give me any credit.”
“Sonia, dear, you have a heart of gold. But you need to respect people’s privacy.”
“I do.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I try.”
“I know.”
“Curiosity’s a sign of intelligence, they say.”
“And an inquisitive cat usually kills the mouse it plays with.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“Look, I think you need to channel this need to know everything. Maybe write for the newspaper? I’d help with editing. Then when you’re indulging your curiosity, people would expect their dirty laundry to be broadcast across the county.”
“You make me sound like a monster. Am I really that bad?”
Gerard snorted.
“Afraid so.”
“Name one instance!”
“Conrad’s friend, Lukasz.”
“Poor thing never would have asked that girl out.”
“She snubbed him.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“And… Lukasz asked for your help?”
“Not in so many words.”
“I figured. Meaning, well, doesn’t give you license to interfere without asking.”
“One mistake.”
“I have a whole list if you want me to continue.”
“No. You’ve made your point.”
Sonia harrumphed, turning her back to her husband.
“Don’t pout.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Not everything’s a secret, Gerard. Besides, I know when to be discreet.”
“Sonia, your own children watch what they say around you.”
“Conrad confides in me.”
“He’s only thirteen. Keep meddling, and he won’t, just like Sabina.”
“It’s normal for a mother and daughter to squabble. You’re a man you don’t understand.”
“I understand enough to know she hides things from you.”
“Well, someone has to keep tabs on her. You’re too liberal. A father should be protective.”
“Sabina’s twenty with a level head on her shoulders.”
“Well, when I was her age, I told my mother everything.”
“Did you have a choice?”
“A mother’s experience can help her daughter avoid the same mistakes.”
“It can also drive her away.”
Sonia put her knitting down and sighed.
“That’s just it. Everything I do annoys Sabina. I’m too loud, too dramatic, too emotional. She’s like you, so serious and practical.”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”
“You know what I mean, Gerard. We just don’t have anything in common. You make fun of it, but my mother and I have always been close. I wish Sabina and I could have something like that.”
“First off, Sabina loves you in her own private way.”
“You really think so? Sometimes I just don’t know.”
“Try not to be so obvious. Don’t interrogate her. There are subtler ways to learn what you want to know.”
“Such as?”
“Listen for a change.”
“Ha! Listen to what, her silence?”
“It’ll take time, but she’ll open up. And when she does, don’t always let on you’ve figured something out. Respecting someone’s privacy also means avoiding topics they don’t want to discuss.”
“I don’t have the patience for that. Besides, talking is the best medicine.”
“When you’re invited to. Sabina is an adult now.”
“But, I worry, Gerard. She’s dating, off at university, making friends with strangers.”
“It’s good to explore the world.”
“I just don’t understand why she’s so secretive.”
“Secretive? I wouldn’t say that. She’s reserved.”
“Same thing. Besides, I’m her mother. Why should she be reserved? I’m not some disapproving, old woman. I’m hip.”
“Only people who aren’t hip say they’re hip.”
Sonia considered Gerard’s statement with a dazed expression. Looking up, she saw the smirk on her husband’s face and grinned.
“Point taken, again,” Sonia said.
“Look, you can’t expect to know everything. I don’t blather every thought that pops into my head.”
“Except when you’re tipsy,” Sonia said. “If I need to know something, I’ll ply you with vodka.”
“Is that so? I thought that was the cue; you wanted to get frisky.”
“That too.”
“So all I have to do is refuse to reveal my secrets?”
“Sorry, you’re plum out of secrets at the moment.”
“I’ll have to work on getting more,” Gerard said, standing up, “I’m going to bed alone, it seems.”
Sonia held her work up.
“See, I was paying attention when you read your article to me. I’ve included a red ribbon to protect the baby from evil.”
“Doubt they’ll appreciate the significance. That’s an old, rural superstition.”
“I’ll know, and that’s what matters.”
“Or explain the meaning to them.”
“I’ll show them your latest article. What’s the title?”
“Outwitting Evil; A Polish Obsession With Charms and Omens.”
“I like it.”
“You’re just trying to make up for turning me down tonight.”
“No, I mean it. It reminded me of my great-aunt, who lived behind the house I lived in as a little girl. She read tea leaves.”
“There’s a subtle form of divination for you. The Church never could stomp that practice out.”
“Don’t you have a book on that?”
“Reading tea leaves?”
“Yes.”
“It’s in the study, on my desk. I was referencing it for this article. Why? You planning to tell fortunes?”
“Maybe.”
“Article’s done, just a line edit to do before submitting. Take it. It’s an interesting read.”
“Thanks, love. I’ll read Sabina’s future.”
“Could be a good way to sate your curiosity without badgering her.” Gerard laughed. “But don’t take it seriously.”
When his vision returned, Crispus was sprawled on the ground, surrounded by his men. The signum lay beside him. Two soldiers helped him to his feet as someone asked if he felt unwell.
“Here, sir. The signum. You dropped it,” a soldier said.
Crispus shook his head, backing away. He turned to his second, the one ready to carry on if he fell.
“You carry it. The gods have given me a vision. There is something else I must do.”
Ignoring their questions, Crispus pushed through the ranks to find Valens. The battle had yet to start, but the barbarians hollered nearby, taunting the Romans. He could see the centurion hadn’t issued the command to attack, and Crispus wasted no time finding Valens.
“Why are you here?” Valens asked.
“We must flee!” Crispus whispered urgently.
“Where’s the signum? Who leads the charge?”
“Forget that! Did you hear me? We have to run!”
“What? Why? What are you saying?”
A few velites shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond to Valens arguing with an officer. Crispus hoped he had kept his voice low enough to prevent eavesdropping. If not, he knew it would only be a matter of time before someone tried to detain him.
“Venus, your patroness, Valens, has warned me not to fight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Do you love me?”
“Crispus. Now’s not the time.”
“Now is always the time because it’s impossible to know when you’ll be out of time.”
“Are you testing me? You think I’m too scared to fight?”
Shaking his head, Crispus moved closer.
“I should have said this sooner, but pride prevented me. I love you, Valens.”
Valens smiled cautiously, happy to hear Crispus’s words but unsure of what to make of his lover’s behavior.
“I love you.”
“We have to go.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“I refuse to lose you again.”
“Again?”
“Yes. Now, let’s go.”
“Ok, but I think it best to take you to the healers first.”
Crispus surprised Valens with a passionate kiss.
“No healers. Follow my lead. No one should challenge my rank with the centurion occupied. I’ll explain everything when we’re alone.”
“But, the battle?”
Realizing Valens didn’t believe anything he had said, Crispus started to panic.
Venus, how can I convince him?
Crispus laughed, recognizing the irony in his question. But the revelation gave him an idea. He knelt down and bowed his head.
“What are you doing?” Valens asked.
“Praying.”
“Come on, I really think you should see the healers.”
Crispus didn’t move, silently waiting. His response came quickly in the form of a dove bearing a sprig of myrtle in its beak. Valens gasped, seeing the bird alight on Crispus’s shoulder.
“Do you believe me, now?” Crispus asked.
“Yes…but why Venus favors you eludes me.”
“I needed to learn a lesson.”
Valens frowned.
“Desertion is a serious offense, Crispus.”
“Of that, I am well aware.”
“It’s not honorable.”
“What? Sacrificing yourself to save others? Keeping your promise?”
“No one will believe you.”
“Is honor dependent on fame and praise?”
“No. Such things can cheapen it. Replacing honor with hubris.”
“It’s now or never, Valens.”
“They could execute us.”
“Then we’ll die together.”
Valens nodded.
“Lead on. I’ll follow.”
Crispus pulled himself straight and barked a few orders causing Valens’s squad to snap to attention.
“I’ve had enough of your insolence, soldier!” Crispus shouted, pointing at Valens. “You think you’re special?”
“Ah…no, sir,” Valens said, genuinely caught off guard.
“Disgrace! You should be in chains for your cowardice! That’s it! You’re coming with me!”
Crispus ripped the wolf pelt off Valens’s head.
“Drop your shield, soldier.”
Valens didn’t need to act because Crispus’s demeanor truthfully spooked him. Valens’s squad watched in shock as he tossed his weapons to the ground before Crispus roughly seized him to escort him away.
“What are you looking at? Can’t you see a battle’s brewing?”
“Yes, sir!” the squad said in unison.
“Eyes forward, soldiers! You’re about to get a first crack at the enemy! Miss that signal, and you’ll have more to deal with than me!”
“Yes, sir!”
When the centurion finally signaled the velites to advance, Crispus and Valens ran the other way.
The Romans routed the barbarians, securing the bridge without Crispus, and his absence didn’t go unnoticed.
After receiving troubling reports, the centurion ordered a manhunt.
It didn’t take long to uncover discarded garments and gear bearing the signifer’s insignia and a ridiculous account of men transformed into doves.
Until now, Crispus had ignored the peculiar mists obscuring the river and fields beyond. Suddenly hearing his name again surprised him, drawing his attention to the bridge.
“Someone does still live,” Crispus said.
“Do you know who it is?” the god asked.
“How could I? I don’t recall these mists. Are they your creation?”
Crispus cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted.
“VALENS!”
“Ah, you do know who it is.”
“No, you’ve made me your puppet, and I’m tired of this game. Reveal the meaning of this word I utter; if not, just kill me. I don’t care anymore.”
Crispus paused to listen as the shouting grew louder.
“How do I know this isn’t another of your tricks?” Crispus asked.
“The man speaks your name, does he not? Surely, he knows you.” the god said.
“I’m the signifer, third in command. Every soldier in my century knows my name! My task is to lead the way. This man’s confused, seeking the signum for guidance. Your chains prevent that!”
“Then you recognize the voice?”
“A hundred men serve beneath me. How could I possibly know who it is?”
“I’ve heard mortals form strong bonds fighting together.”
“I’d know the centurion’s voice and recognize some veterans, but the others…probably not. Besides, all men sound the same on the battlefield.”
“Surely there must be someone precious to you?”
“No.”
The response felt wrong to Crispus.
“Wait. Maybe…I can’t remember.”
This realization troubled Crispus more.
“I know who calls you,” the god said.
“Then why are you asking me for his name?”
“You fascinate me, mortal. Answer this question truthfully, and I’ll release you.”
“I am no coward, no panderer of lies. Honor demands the truth. Ask me what you will.”
“Name what your heart holds most dear.”
Crispus wished he knew the god’s name; it might be easier to find the correct answer.
“You promise to free me?”
“You have my word.”
Crispus suspected nothing kept a god from breaking an oath, but he felt compelled to play along.
“Then I shall tell you.”
“But, before you answer, be sure to leave no door unopened within your heart, for I see a truth you hide from even yourself.”
“I know myself,” Crispus grumbled.
“Your answer?”
“Rome. I live and breathe to safeguard her.”
The god shook his head.
“Honor then. A good death won with bravery.”
“No.”
“I am my own man! Even the gods don’t see all! I speak the truth.”
“You do not.”
Crispus howled, yanking the chain, desperate to be free.
“My men! I’ve lost countless soldiers, many dear to me! I’ve since hardened my heart, hoping never to feel such a loss again.”
The god shook his head and began to fade away.
“Prepare yourself, Crispus, to behold the greatest power in the world.”
“Don’t leave me!”
A sudden commotion pulled Crispus’s attention back to the bridge. The lost soldier remained shrouded in the mist, but Crispus could hear the man’s desperate plight. He didn’t know what danger the man faced but felt certain a fierce passion compelled the soldier to confront his terror, enabling him to hold his ground. Crispus’s heart skipped, realizing the stranger fought to rescue him. Shame and anger gripped him as he wracked his brain, desperate to identify the man. A bizarre thought came suddenly to him.
That word! Could it be this soldier’s name? What was it? Valens? Yes, Valens!
“Valens! Follow my voice. Your signifer calls!”
Crispus waited, watching the bridge intently until he saw a host of shadowy figures materialize in the mist.
“Valens! Bravery brought you this far! Mars surely favors you! Your foes are but shadows! Strike, and they will flee before you!”
With a shout, the soldier burst free from the mists, and Crispus hollered, fists in the air in triumph.
“Here! Here! To me!” Crispus cried.
The man ran toward Crispus, slowed, then stopped, clearly confused. Crispus remembered seeing the soldier in the past but nothing else.
“Friend! Here! I’m here! A mighty chain binds me! Here!”
As the soldier silently approached, Crispus felt confident he knew the man, but the memory remained out of reach.
“I don’t understand. I feel nothing. Everything is blank. I was sure if I could only cross the bridge…find…someone I love? I’ve forgotten everything.”
The soldier’s legs crumpled beneath him as he fell to the ground.
“What’s your name?” Crispus asked.
“I don’t remember anymore.”
“Is it Valens?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know me?”
The man looked up, and Crispus’s heart leaped as their eyes met.
“No. Maybe? No, I don’t think so. Crossing the bridge was supposed to fix things.”
“I think I remember you. We were friends…close friends.”
“What’s your name?”
“Crispus.”
The soldier repeated the name slowly, testing its familiarity before shaking his head.
“Are you Valens?”
The man absent-mindedly toyed with a medallion dangling from a chain about his neck as he pondered Crispus’s question.
“I don’t know.”
Crispus knelt, holding his palm out.
“Can I see that?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve seen this before. Who is it?”
“Venus.”
Something clicked in his mind, and Crispus began to remember.
You are Valens. You’re the answer to the god’s question.”
“A question? From which god?”
“Eros.”
“What question?”
“Valens, it’s me, Crispus. Try to remember. You and me…we…you love me…and… I love you. It’s you I hold most dear. I’m sorry I couldn’t admit that. I had lost someone. I promised myself never again. Oh, it doesn’t matter. You just need to remember. Try to remember.”
A wind picked up, chasing the mists away, and Crispus sensed the presence of another behind him. He turned expecting to see Eros, but instead, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen approached.
Crispus bowed his head in reverence.
“Your chain is broken. You are free.” Venus said.
“My lady, forgive me. In my quest to honor Mars, I have insulted you.”
“Love is exceedingly powerful. Observe how Valens throws everything away to keep it. Even the gods fail to resist. Your scorn of love has put you in great peril, mortal. But your lover’s faith has saved you. Go before I have a change of heart.
“What of Valens?”
“A worthy devotee, Valens has proven to be. Immortality shall be his reward abiding with me.”
“No!”
“No?” Venus laughed.
“Please. Restore him. I beg you. I love him.”
“Do not sully the word, love! You know nothing of love, warrior. You may be free of my chain, but your heart remains bound to another, and Mars does not take kindly to meddling.”
“Surely, you of all the gods know how to change his mind? Please. I will do anything. A mortal life devoid of love is meaningless. I see that now.”
“But, what of honor and glory? Would you malign your own name to be with Valens?”
“Your test has changed me. I swear an oath to put love first. I’ll endure any hardship, any humiliation if I can spend my days with Valens.”
“Renounce war with its violence and death. Vow never to strike another mortal ever again.”
“I promise.”
“You will be called a coward.”
“I do not care. Return Valens to me. Please.”
Venus smiled as her laughter filled the air. Crispus’s vision clouded, and he felt himself falling.
Valens groaned and rolled over. His pounding head and the memory of a pleasant dream made him want to go back to sleep. Sitting up, he looked about to find himself in the grass, surrounded by thick mist. He wondered if a sudden change in weather had delayed their march.
Noting a soldier lying nearby, Valens sought to dispel his confusion.
“Hey, friend. What’s the hour?”
Valens spoke louder.
“What’s happened, friend? My head’s foggy.”
Valens shook the man gently.
“Rise, friend.”
Again, no reply came.
“Wake up!”
The silence made his skin crawl.
“Get up! Are you dead?”
Valens knew the answer.
Wobbling to his feet, he rolled the body and retched. He had to pause and steel himself before investigating further. But in every direction, he found only death.
Gods! How? How?
Numb, Valens staggered aimlessly in the mist, probing every corpse he found for signs of life.
“Am I the only one left?” he shouted.
Disorientated, leery of the swirling mists, Valens knelt weeping and prayed.
Beauteous Lady, Jewel of the Gods, I beseech your aide. If another survives, surely it must be Crispus. Please guide me, Venus.
Valens’s heart sank as the silence persisted. He rocked gently, mumbling to himself.
“Crispus. Crispus. Crispus.”
Crispus’s voice rang out, piercing the gloom as if waiting for Valens to utter his name.
“Valens!”
Valens leaped to his feet.
“Crispus?”
Silence hung in the air, making Valens fear he might be hallucinating. Despair swallowed him until he heard his name again.
“Crispus! Where are you?”
Not waiting for a reply, Valens charged blindly in the direction that felt sure right.
“Keep speaking! I’ll follow your voice!”
“Valens!”
“That’s it!”
Hope restored, Valens ran, dodging or leaping bodies as needed.
“Damn this mist! It’s not natural. Crispus?”
Valens stopped, concerned he had somehow turned himself around. He recognized the distinct trickle of flowing water and remembered the river. Valens had last seen Crispus holding the signum high on the bridge. Guessing the direction, he hoped to follow the river to the bridge.
“At the river! Don’t know which way the bridge is! I need you to yell again!”
“VALENS!”
The cry sounded close. With a quick dash, Valens saw massive stones materialize before him. Peering across the bridge, he thrilled as the mists thinned, revealing a figure far off on the other side.
“Crispus!”
Rushing across the bridge, Valens experienced an attack of vertigo right before stepping onto the other side. Pulling him up abruptly, the sensation knocked him to the ground. Dazed, he tried to collect his wits.
“Valens!”
“I’m… coming. I Must have run too fast. Whoo! Felt like I was falling. I’m coming.”
Crawling to his hands and knees, he looked to see how much further he had to go.
“Gods!”
Valens remembered crossing the river, yet somehow, he hadn’t moved. Crispus’s figure still stood across the bridge on the other side. Bewildered, Valens turned slowly, surveying his surroundings, gasping again at the slaughter as if seeing it for the first time.
“Gods! The legion’s gone!”
His hands flew to the sides of his face, inadvertently brushing a gash on his temple. He winced.
“Wounded? I… don’t remember.”
“Valens!”
“Crispus! Yes, he’ll know what to do. He’s on the other side waiting.”
Valens ran, nearly reaching the other side of the bridge until vertigo struck, and he found himself back where he had started. Something refused to let him cross; the thought frightened Valens.
The gods toy with me. Venus, help me.
Valens tried to cross repeatedly, only to end up at the beginning each time.
But he sensed something else happening. He increasingly had difficulty thinking clearly, and he struggled to remember things.
“Strange place. So cold! What was the name?”
Valens grip on sanity continued to deteriorate, and eventually, only the carnage and finding Crispus alive filled his mind.
“Dreadful. So many dead! They’ve sacked Rome, and their gods blight our lands with ice and snow. Crispus’s surely nearer death in this cold.”
The power of the bridge gnawed at his self-awareness.
“Why am I carrying this spear?”
Removing his cloak, Valens stared, trying to understand what he wore.
“A wolf pelt? Strange. Just cross the bridge. Crispus will explain.”
Valens suspected every attempt to reach the other side stripped another piece of him away, and suddenly it occurred to him the bridge could take his memory of Crispus too. The realization froze Valen in his tracks. Panicked, unsure if he should continue, he frantically deliberated about what to do. He stared longingly at the figure waiting on the other bank.
Why isn’t he coming to meet me?
Is he hurt? If so, how does he stand on his feet?
“Crispus?” he shouted.
Seemingly in response to his call, multiple shadowy figures coalesced in the mists at the other end of the bridge. Valens’s heart raced, and his bowels squirmed as the shadows solidified, barring his way.
Gods! Is this what destroyed the legion?
The shades crept closer, and Valens trembled, knowing he must face them. His spear felt heavy and dull in his hands.
I’m no warrior. Not yet, anyway. Venus beseech Mars to aid me.
The stench of death grew, and a sinister chill gripped Valens as he forced himself to confront the evil presence. He advanced with increasing difficulty. Monstrous features resolved more clearly with each step, sapping his courage.
The beasts have killed everyone except me. I’ve no chance.
No.Another survives.
Someone dear. A friend? No, one more than that.
That’s why I cross this bridge!
Caught between conflicting desires, Valens stood, feeling his resolve break.
“I’m sorry, whoever you are! Sorry, I can’t remember your name or even your face! I am weak! The terror is too great! Forgive me! I dare not cross!”
“VALENS!”
The shout engulfed him with a flood of harmonic noise. With his fears washed away, Valens felt his courage welling up in response to hearing his name. He stood a little taller and raised his spear with a firm grip.
“Love rushes to fortify me, impelling me forward whatever the cost! If reunion in this world eludes us, then know love will bring us together in death!”
Valens roared a battle cry, brandished his spear, and rushed headlong into the beasts blocking his way.
A shout caused Crispus to start, freeing him from troubled dreams. Instinct drew him into a defensive crouch as he reached for his sword. But his hand found the scabbard empty. Confused, he paused, straining to listen, but only an eerie silence greeted him. Glancing about, he noted the stonework of a bridge close by. A memory returned.
We fought to take the bridge.
Their numbers were sparse.
We flooded it with ease.
But something teased Crispus’s mind, and he wrestled with pinning down what he had forgotten.
We had carried the day.
Our victory, sure.
Lost in thought, his gaze drifted to the bridge. An inscription marked the distance to Rome. The words surprised Crispus. He appeared to be on the other side of the river, the side the enemy defended. He didn’t recall making it across the bridge.
This is all wrong. Something stopped us. Surprised us.
Crispus clamored to his feet, desperate to understand. A ghastly scene confronted him. Countless Roman and barbarian bodies lay twisted and torn everywhere he looked.
There were suddenly more of them. How? They came from nowhere.
Despair seized Crispus, fearing he alone survived until he remembered the shout that woke him. Someone else lives, he thought, straining again to listen.
“Valens!”
Despite his anticipation, the volume of the cry surprised him. Whoever called had to be near. Crispus hesitated, unsure of which direction the sound came from. Guessing, he lurched forward until a sharp pain pulled his feet out from under him. He wrenched his eyes to find his ankles clasped in a heavy chain.
“Valens!”
Crispus flailed on the ground, searching for the survivor in vain.
“VALENS!”
Crispus felt his mind slipping. The voice grew louder.
“Where are you? Show yourself!”
Only his ragged breath and pounding heart answered, taunting him.
“Perhaps, I am dead, and these are the shades of hell before me.”
Laughter, lively and bright, resounded from behind. Crispus turned to behold a beautiful man lounging atop a barbarian corpse. The man hadn’t been there before.
“Who are you?”
The stranger laughed again.
“Why laugh? Look at the horror about you!”
“What are mortals to one such as myself.” the man said.
“You are a god, then.”
“Indeed.”
“May I ask your name?”
“All you need to know, Crispus, is you are the cause of this slaughter.”
“What?”
“You heard me, mortal. All this death is your fault.”
“How?”
“That detail doesn’t concern you.”
“Why?”
“An appropriate question. The answer will come in good time. My task is nearly over. I merely linger to amuse myself.”
“So, it was you calling out?”
“No.”
“Who then? Do you know where they are? I can’t find anyone alive.”
His question elicited more laughter, and Crispus grew angry.
“What is so funny?”
“You! And your desperate search for a voice, unable to recognize it as your own.”
“I do not understand.”
“Pay attention, mortal. I will show you.”
The god stretched an arm as if fetching something slung on his back. Crispus gawked, seeing a bow made of light materialize in the god’s hands. With a pluck of his hand, the god pierced him with a radiant arrow.
“VALENS!” Crispus screamed.
His hands flew to his chest, but he found no wound and felt no pain.
“What is this word I utter? Please, be merciful! What have I done to incur your wrath?”
“Would you be fortunate if it were I you had offended.”
“Who then?”
“My mistress is a jealous god, and you have belittled that which is most dear to her. Behold the results.”
“We outnumbered the barbarians. How did their numbers multiply?”
“Rome is mighty but blinded by hubris. I easily supplied the savage beasts with the means to hide their numbers.”
“Why not slay only me?”
“You live to learn your error.”
“The barbarians litter the field too. Why?”
“Once engaged, it is difficult to contain the god of war’s lust for blood.”
“Faithfully, I served Mars.”
“No mortal meets his needs for long. But rest assured, plenty of fools are hungering for the glory found in battle. Death is always the price for such honor.”
“And now I am abandoned to live in dishonor.”
“Does life mean nothing to you, mortal?”
“Please, give me the means, and I’ll do it myself. A signifer dies with his men. It is cruel to let me live.”
“Honor is more important to you?
“It’s all mortals have. Without it, life is meaningless.”
The god picked up a sword from one of the dead and tossed the blade at the soldier’s feet. Crispus snatched the sword up.
“You have shown me kindness beyond measure. Thank you.” Crispus said.
The soldier didn’t know what reply he had expected, but the god’s smirk surprised him. It unnerved Crispus as if knowing a trap lay ready but unable to determine where and when.
“Your mistress…she wants me to learn something. I do not pretend to understand the ways of the gods, but surely you risk garnering her displeasure.”
The god grinned, shaking his head.
“I will do this. Honor must be restored.”
“Oh, I know you will.”
With a curt nod, Crispus angled the blade toward his heart, closed his eyes, and fell.
He felt no pain. Opening his eyes, Crispus watched the tip of the sword rise and fall as it rested gently against his chest. He had caught himself, stopping the fall. He tried again but failed even to prick his skin.
Crispus searched himself, satisfied to reaffirm he didn’t fear death. A part of him longed for it. But, he sensed something more substantial preventing him from ending his life. The feeling confused him. He couldn’t explain why, but Crispus knew something or someone laid a stronger claim to his heart than his fear of dishonor.
“Who is your mistress? What have you done to me? Release me!”
The god hummed merrily, drawing his bow to smite Crispus with another magical arrow.
“VALENS!” Crispus screamed.
Dropping to his knees, bewildered and defeated, he searched his mind to uncover the meaning of the word he felt compelled to speak.
Mythos Creative Writing 