Creative Writing: Contest!

[Caravan]

Spoiler:

Yeah!!

Also, are you posting the stories/poems of the weiners? I would like to give them a gander, myself!

[Cressy]

Chyep!

---

...And the winners are!

DAVEM -Poetry

Spoiler:

They celebrate spring:
High ideals of rebirth
And then there were eggs.

CARAVAN- SHORT STORY 1st Place

Spoiler:

A watched pot doesn’t boil. Xanthe knew that this adage was not true. She had carefully observed hundreds of pots over the years: pots with very little water, pots nearly overflowing, pots of salted water, pots of sugared water, pots filled with milk, pots filled with juice...a lot of pots. In its own time, everything would boil. It was best not to pressure the pot with too much heat, but observation did not detract from the process.

She perched diligently over the stove, her fingers wrapped lightly around a smooth white egg, as she established her truths in the kitchen. An egg, when placed in boiling water, will harden and become edible. The shell, when done, will crack and can be peeled without losing its shape. A watched pot will boil and a watched egg will harden.

When her aide had told her brother was dead, she did not cry because Thalion could not be dead. He had to be lost. She wrote, in painstakingly careful script, over fifty letters to be sent around the world: Thalion, please come home. I love you. If you are lost, I will find you. With each letter she included a small compass and hoped it would be enough. But, then, they brought his body back to the estate. It took six quivers of arrows (shot, one at a time, into a wall or into each other) to release the vice clenched around her chest.

It was a fact that what is alive will one day become dead. Animals, elves and plants die. Xanthe comforted herself with the knowledge that Thalion would become the ground and the grass in her world. One day, she knew, she would join him. It was a simple fact she could understand and accept. Zariel, however, could not and used every resource at his disposal to find a way to bring Thalion back.

She carefully spooned the cooked egg out of the water, set it on a cloth, and slowly began to peel away the shards of shell after it cooled. In the rumor of morning, the golden light creeping into the kitchen, Xanthe affirmed her truths. The sun rises in the morning. A strung bow will fire an arrow. Water boils. Eggs harden. What is dead cannot return.

THARISAYI- Short Story 2nd Place

Spoiler:

Tainja walked straight to the "Five Deadly Venoms" in Old Town of Stormwind. The neighborhood where the shop was located at wasn't the best, but that didn't bother her. She was here to visit a friend. Sometimes she wondered why everyone was so worried about the things she did. It wasn't like she got hurt doing them, right? It were those who attacked her out of the blue who were wrong. And those big cats which doesn't seem to like her. But maybe it wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t done what she did.
She sighed softly as she found the destroyed door the way she left it. Stone still wasn't back. It wasn't her fault what had happened, since she only had been a bystander. Still she wondered if he wouldn't have been arrested if she hadn't been there. It had been a chaotic event. And after it had started, everything happened quite fast. At least the arresting part.
Everything had been caused by some small man. A gnome probably. He had made Stone angry and suddenly someone blew the door up. Then guards had showed up and arrested everyone who had been there. Thanks to Stone she had been the only one who hadn’t been sent to jail. He had convinced one of the guards that she had nothing to do with all that. Well... it had been true, but still... it hadn't been his fault as well.
She put the kitten onto the ground and watched it running into the dark parts of the room before she carefully closed the broken door as good well as possible. She believed that Stone would come back here. And then she would ask him, if he would stop being a thief or not. Not that it matters. He was nice anyway. But it couldn't hurt to ask.
She climbed over the counter and picked the pillows on the ground behind it up. Gathering them all onto a pile, she lied down onto them. It felt safer behind there, even though it wasn't. She just wasn't visible from the door anymore.
Closing her eyes as the guy with the complicated name told her to, she wanted to look for the Light she could use to heal. He had been nice, except that he tried to convince her that Stone was bad and lied to her. She shook her head and tried to get rid of these thoughts. It was of no help right now as she had to concentrate.
What kind of light was she looking for? A white one? A yellow one? Orange-red like the one from fire? What shape did it have? A ball? A string of some sorts? Foggy like? Or was it some kind of animal? Her thoughts got sluggish while she tried her best.

A white kitten! It was a kitten! No... this kitten was familiar. It looked like Milk, didn't it? Wait Milk! Wait... She ran, following the kitten. The area around her changed slowly from black to some forest. She lost sight of the kitten and slowed down, looking around. The forest was strangely familiar. But whenever she tried to figure out why it did, it pulled away from her inspection.
It felt nostalgic as if she knew it well. No rays of sunlight got through the leaves of the trees, as it was a cloudy day. Rabbits jumped around where she was. They weren't shy at all. She brushed with her finger over the bark of a tree she passed. There was no way to follow, still she knew where to go. Strange. Why did she know where to go to?
She reached a small river. A bridge lead over it, made of glass or some other transparent material. It didn't fit here. Wasn't it Elwynn forest close to her home? But that bridge looked like one of those on the Draenei ship she visited. She looked closer to make sure. Now it was just a normal bridge, letting her shake her head in confusion. She forgot about it and headed further.
A house was visible through the trees. It was her home. She simply knew it was. She started running, seeing her mother standing in the open door with a warm smile and arms wide open to hug her.
"You are back, my little flower. You are back."
That feeling of warmth she had missed so much without knowing. "Oh... I saw a lot and made some friends. And I missed you. And..."
Her mother chuckled and interrupted her talking. "Alright. I'll listen later. Come with me behind the house. You forgot what day today is, didn't you?"
She frowned, thinking deeply. "Sunday? Is it a special Sunday? Like some birthday? Did I forget a birthday?"
The woman just laughed. "Look dear who came back!"
A man knelt in front of a bush, apparently searching for something. He turned around. "Tainja! Come here, let me see you. Are you a priest now?"
"Uhh... well... say dad, what kind of special day is today?"
Her father burst out laughing. "It is the same every year. Why don't you help me searching? There should be one in this bush. I am sure about it." He frowned and turned back to the bush, looking concentrated into it.
She went over to her father and glanced into it as well. "Uhm... dad, there is nothing in there. Oh..." A colorful egg appeared, even though she had been sure there had been nothing there before. "Noblegarden is? How could I forget that?" She looked around. Now there were eggs everywhere, where there had been none before.
Coming from a distance, she could hear the complaining meowing of a cat. "Milk? What is wrong?" A white kitten stood on the edge of the forest and walked into it. “Milk? Wait!" She ran after it.

Tainja's eyes fluttered open. "Milk?" She asked with a sleepy voice. "Is something wrong? What time is it? Did I fall asleep?" She put the pillow she had hugged to the side. Yawning and a little disorientated from sleeping she got up with the help of the counter. "It is time to eat something, isn't it?" She fixed her hair and climbed over the counter to go to the door where the kitten was already waiting.
"I think I was dreaming and I remembered something in my dream what I had forgotten. But I forgot what it was, weird huh? I wonder what it was that I remembered." She rubbed her eyes as she walked down the street heading for an inn. "Was it important or not? I guess you can't tell me that, can you Milk? Ohh... here we are. Let's get something to eat and then we will go do something else. How about looking for Salamance again? Or hm... I should write Jethro."
She entered the tavern to get something to eat, and maybe to do what she just thought of afterwards. If she didn't forget about it by then.

Please send me messages about who you would like the gold sent to and what item(within reason) you'd like to have!

[ImagenAshyun]

...I forgot to submit my poem, FFFFF.

Ah, well, it sucked anyway.

Congrats! :3

[Caravan]

This was fun; thanks, Cressy! :3

[Tharisayi]

Huh... didn't expect to win anything. I just joined because it sounded like fun. Well it was. Thanks Cressy

[Cressy]

May's subject is going to be..

Mothers!

Poems, short and long stories welcome! Due the first day of June. Hope we get entries!

Prizes will be the same.

[Cressy]

Bump! Come on children, you have a week or so left.

Prizes and gold for the weiners!

[ImagenAshyun]

Oh, there's another one! Okay, then!

[Caravan]

Challenge accepted...again!

[Cressy]

Bumping this!

You have three days!

[Cressy]

Today is the last day!

Tomorrow I will announce the weiners!

[Cressy]

The winners are...

Long Story

Dilly

Spoiler:

The Wishes of Normality
(Gone Beetroot)

She was our grandmother. She was. We were never able to see Her as anything – anyone – else. No, never. Our grandmother, our family, our blood, our kin. Nothing else. Perhaps they are right, the men with those glasses, the glasses that always gleam in the white sun – like snow in the sun, like sun in the snow. Perhaps it would have been easier – for us, for Her, for everyone – if that had not been the case, if we had been different. But it was the case, and we weren’t different. Don’t dwell too much on anything, especially not on the past, that is what they also say. Oh, if only they could make up their white – like wine in the sun, like sun in the snow – minds.

Well, perhaps She was rotten blood. Perhaps She was bad kin, perhaps She was a terrible grandmother. What of it? I will never understand. Forget what She was like; what matters is that She was. Our blood, our kin, our grandmother. And, well, despite everything, I – we – loved Her. We loved our family more than anything, our family was our willow, our Big Willow, and She was part of it. Despite everything, She was. She was. And I think She loved us, too; I saw the heartbroken sadness in Her eyes when we went – gonned beed-rooh was what She said, gonned beed-rooh – beetroot, when we apologised; I saw flowers of joy bloom on Her face when we were fine again, I saw the smile She wore when She watched us run and laugh, run and fall, fall and rise again.

Yes, She loved us. She wasn’t like Mummy – She loved us, but She felt no need to say it, She felt no need to make it obvious. And why is that so wrong? It isn’t, is it? There was no need, we knew it without Her saying it. What can words change? Words are nothing, words are wind in a willow, wind in the willow, wind in our Big Willow. It’s all about what’s beneath them, that’s what matters, no? Yes. She understood. She understood a lot of things. And now I understand, too. I understand that She had to be firm, and that it had nothing to do with Little Lisey or her angry men, the men that danced and laughed. Nothing at all. I understand everything and I am not angry. She kept us tucked away – where no one could see, where no one could smell, where no one could hear – and I’m not angry. She never let us run outside. She never let us talk to Matthew, or his brother, or even Sarah – the Others, the Bad Ones, the Lost Children, that was what they were. She did let us play, though. Most of the toys we could not touch, but She let us play with one particular doll – it was a broken doll, missing its hair and its eye (missing its heart and its soul, missing its love and--), but we loved it. We loved it. We loved Her.

And I’m not angry. I wasn’t angry. We weren’t angry.

She always kept us in line, and now I wish I could thank Her for it. When we did something wrong, we were punished; when we did something wrong, we had to apologise. She called them apologies. We never did understand what the sharp things were for. Why we had to go beetroot – except that was not how She said it. She said it like gowahn beedrooh, gow-ahn beed-rooooooh. And sometimes, when we had done something very, very bad, She would apologise for us. Those times were bad, I still remember. Those times made Little Lisey cry.

I’m not angry.

One of those times was especially bad. Especially – funny word, isn’t it? Eh-speh-shuh-ly. Yes, I still remember. Tip and tap, tap-tap went the little droplets; tip and tap and tap and tip went little red wine, happy red wine; tip and slip from the bench, nice and white – like snow in the sun, like sun in the snow – tap and slap on the floor, into a puddle by the door. Little Lisey sat where it slipped and slapped and twiddled her legs; Little Lisey sat and sobbed – huck and uck, uck and ahoo – and I wanted to sob too. But I didn’t. She had gone already; She had apologised for us – because we had been too bad, because we couldn’t make it right – and now She had more important things to do, but I knew that She would be back soon. She would be back with those flowers of joy blooming on her face, and I wanted to know that I deserved to look at their pretty blossoms. So I didn’t sob. I hugged Little Lisey and soon she stopped sobbing too, but it still went tip and tap, the happy red wine; it slipped and slapped in the hard light of the sun, the white light of the sun – the kind of light that made glasses gleam when caught between its sharp rays.

I wasn’t angry then, either.

Yes, She wasn’t like Mummy. Mummy wasn’t like Her; Mummy was nothing like her. Mummy was sweet and kind; Mummy loved us and we loved her. Mummy took us to sit under the willow, our Big Willow, and sometimes she took Daddy, too. She took us for long walks in the white sunlight, in her sunlight. In her sunlight, there was no happy red wine, nothing slipped and slapped, nothing went tip and tap. In her sunlight, there were willows – many, many willows, always green, always whispering, never weeping. And one of them was our willow, our Big Willow, our home and shelter. When there was a storm outside, Mummy let us sleep in her bed. When there was a storm outside, she put her arms around us and hugged us, she sang to us and laughed with us. She was warm. Yes, I still remember.

It had been pouring for many hours, but the real storm had just started. We stood just outside our room – the corridor was dimly lit, I remember, there was no snow in the sun – and the rain went tip and tap, tip-tip-tap-tap as it hit the roof outside. I held the candle because Little Lisey was shaking too badly – she jumped at each echo of thunder. I led her down the corridor to Mummy’s room – it was Daddy’s too, I suppose, but I had never thought of it like that – and knocked. They had been sleeping and we woke them, but they didn’t mind – Mummy smiled and told us to sit next to her. She put her arms around us and she hugged us; a little later she began to hum and we began to sing. The rain still went tap-tap-tap, but it didn’t sound anything like happy red wine; thunder still roared and the wind still howled, but there was nothing frightening about them anymore. I don’t know how long all that lasted, but the opening door seemed to cut it short. It was Her and She was furious – She yelled and screamed and shouted and She sent us back to our room. We didn’t want to go, but we had to – the rain went tip and tap like spilled wine – and we were frightened again. Mummy hadn’t said a word.

But she would still sit and sing with us when the next time came, and it always did. My sister was terrified of storms; Little Lisey trembled at the first breaking sound of thunder, at the first chilly flash of lightning. She trembled like a white – like wine in the sun – scrap of paper in a strong wind. Yes, she was terrified of them. I wasn’t. Not as long as it wasn’t too windy. I didn’t care about the rain, or the thunder, or the lightning; what I thought was scary was the wind that howled in the downspouts, the wind that howled in the pipes. Yes, that horrible, painful wail was what I found frightening. Sometimes I thought that it wasn’t really the wind at all; sometimes I thought that it was the house, screaming and weeping.

Daddy didn’t sit and sing with us when there was a storm outside and he didn’t take us for long walks in the white sunlight, but we knew that he loved us. He loved us and we loved him. Sometimes, worse things than wind frightened us, and Daddy helped us then; Daddy was a rock in a stormy sea – in a white and stormy sea, white like sun in the snow, like snow in the sun – and he made us feel safe. I remember that feeling of firmness – I don’t think I’ll ever forget. No, never. Never.

But then Daddy left. Daddy left to fight in the war. Little Lisey said he shouldn’t go, she said he couldn’t go – sweet Little Lisey. But Daddy left. Daddy left.

Sometimes I think I still hear him. Sometimes I think I still hear them. Sometimes I hear their voices in the corridors – in the darker parts, where the candles’ light turns dim, where the candles’ light turns soft black – but I know they’re not there. Yes, I know they’re not there. I know they’re not there. I know they’re not there, I know they’re not there, I KNOW THEY’RE NOT THERE, I KNOW THEY’RE NOT THERE, I – KNOW – THEY’RE—

***

You know, I think it was then that Mummy changed. That Mummy really changed. I could never describe it, really describe it – oh, I tried many times, trust me, I tried to describe it to Daddy a couple of times, to myself most of the time – but Little Lisey could. I think she could. I remember an afternoon – a quiet afternoon, I think it was, one with lots of white light, like wine in the sun, like sun in the snow – when she said something very scary and very true. She said Mummy was deteriorating. It’s a funny word, isn’t it? Dee-tee-ree-yo-ray-ting. I think it’s funny. Oh, I didn’t think it was funny then – I thought it was actually kind of frightening, you know, like white light can be frightening, or the tip-tap sound of rain on the roof – but now I giggle every time I think of it. I wonder where Lisey got it. I remember an afternoon – a different afternoon, I’m sure – when she said it to Mummy. She said it proudly, I think; she knew a funny word and she was proud. And it really was funny, even if I didn’t laugh at it then; I think Mummy giggled when she heard it, too.

But you know what is strange? Really strange? What’s strange is that I think Little Lisey was right. I can’t remember what I thought then – probably that Little Lisey was being scary, being strange, probably that she’d have to go beetroot if She ever heard her say that – but now I’m sure she was right. Mummy wasn’t changing, Mummy was deteriorating. Something – someone, something, someone – was having her for a fine meal, having her heart – her roots – for a fine meal; something a bit like the beetlies and the wormies that ate our Big Willow’s roots just before the end of it all. Yes, I’m sure something was eating her, something was making her deteriorate. I’m sure it wasn’t a good something. I’m sure it was a bad something, a very bad something.

Maybe a very bad someone.

I remember. I remember many things, have you noticed? I like that. You know, being able to remember. Having a good memory. But yes, I remember an afternoon – no, not an afternoon, the sun had just risen then – when we saw Mummy counting books in the sitting room downstairs. She was sobbing and she was shaking, and we helped her. We – Little Lisey and I – rolled down the corridor and into the drawing room, down the corridor and into white light – like sun in the snow, like wine in the sun. And Mummy was there, almost black in that sharp afternoon glow, sobbing and shaking. I think that glow made her look scary. She was there, standing by the bookshelf, caught in the hard light – a bit like gleaming glasses in sharp sunlight, except she wasn’t gleaming at all. She took a book out and she threw it over her shoulder, then she took another and threw it away. And then another, and another, and another – it was book after flying book. The books made a sound as they hit the ground. For a moment I thought they went tip-tap, slip and slap, but they really didn’t. No, I was wrong – the sound was bump—thump—bump. The sound they made when they hit the ground. I stood there as they bumped and thumped; I stood there and she was breathing heavily. I heard her breathe in and breathe out, out and in, breathe and gasp, gasp and breathe. I heard her sob, I heard her sob as she shook. I didn’t know what to do. Little Lisey did. Little Lisey took Mummy’s hand and got her to sit; Little Lisey took Mummy’s hand and told her to stop counting.

No, we didn’t help her. Little Lisey helped her.

I wasn’t mad at all.

Yes, Little Lisey helped her. Little Lisey actually helped her. Mummy got better and things seemed to be looking up for a while. But only for a while. I can’t tell you how sad I was when I saw her counting again. Not books that time – forks. Forks, or possibly spoons. I can’t remember. Funny. I have a good memory. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t, does it? I hope it doesn’t. What matters is that we helped her again, and she got better again, but only for a while. And then it happened again, and again, and again. And there were other times still. She kept counting and we kept helping her until it stopped working. Until we couldn’t help her anymore. Mummy just didn’t get better. Things changed, and nothing was the same ever again. That’s what matters.

What matters is that Mummy counted things more and more often.

***

Little Lisey was – no, is – my sister, did I tell you? My little sister. Little Lisey, the heart of my heart, the light of my life. Sweet Little Lisey. It was impossible to dislike her when she was little. I don’t think it’s possible to dislike her now. No, no it isn’t. When I think of her, I think of nice things. Only nice things. When I think of her, I can’t think of anything else. It’s a bit funny, isn’t it? Yes. Funny. But that’s how it is. I love her. I do. I love her and she loves me. I think she does.

Well, she used to love me at least.

Little Lisey was very sensitive. You know, when she was little. I know it now; I knew it then, too, I suppose, but I certainly didn’t realise it. Everyone else did, though – Mummy, Daddy, even She knew what Little Lisey was like. Sensitive. Yes, I don’t think there’s any other word. We never talked about it, but all of us were afraid of her a little – just a little. Just a little. I think even She was afraid of her – She made her apologise as often as she made me, but She rarely apologised for her. She was afraid. She was afraid of what could happen when Little Lisey went – gonned – beetroot – beeeeed-roooooh. She was afraid because Little Lisey was very sensitive.

Little Lisey always felt them. Well, when they were near, at least. The little angry men. I think that’s because she was so sensitive. She told me about them. She spoke about them a lot. She said they were always the same – they were always little, they were always angry, and somehow, they were always green. She said they danced around Her, the little angry men. She said that around Her, they were different – they were happy as well as angry, but it was a bad kind of joy. An evil kind of joy. The kind of joy that makes beetlies and wormies come out of the earth and tells them to eat a willow. To Little Lisey it felt like they were part of Her; it felt like they were Her. She and the little angry men were one thing in blinding white light – like wine in the sun, like sun in the snow. The kind of light that made glasses gleam when caught between its sharp rays. The bad kind of light.

Can you see it now? Little Lisey felt many things. Little Lisey was very sensitive.

I think Little Lisey saw something in Mummy, too. The thing that was having her roots for a fine meal, perhaps. Or perhaps something else. I don’t know – Little Lisey never told me. She spoke about a lot of things – she spoke about little angry men – but not about Mummy. Never about Mummy. But she didn’t need to – I saw the way Little Lisey looked at her, I heard compassion in her voice when they spoke to each other. I heard her cry Mummy’s name at night. Yes, Little Lisey definitely saw something in Mummy. She saw something bad, and I think she wanted to tell me. But she didn’t. She didn’t tell me, and I didn’t see it. Little Lisey saw something bad, and I didn’t.

Now I wish I’d been more... What, attentive? No, that’s not it. Sensitive? I don’t know. Little Lisey never knew when to bite her tongue, but I wish she hadn’t kept quiet then.

What I did see was how happy she was when storms came. When she could sleep with Mummy.

Oh, Little Lisey felt a lot of things. Mummy, Her little angry men – these are just drops in an ocean, as the saying goes. A funny saying, isn’t it? Many things are funny, things you see every day. Things you hear every day. You just have to learn to see them. Little Lisey could see them, there’s no doubt; Little Lisey could see a lot of things, Little Lisey could feel a lot of things. Sometimes they were scary – like the thing with the bad eye, the thing that brought the beetlies and the wormies – and sometimes they were nice. Sometimes they were pleasant, like the sun that shone below the sea at night, like the trees that hid below the hill. Like the willow, like our Big Willow. Little Lisey liked – really liked – our Big Willow.

Little Lisey liked a lot of things.

Little Lisey is my sister. I love her and she loved me.

Little Lisey was very sensitive.

***

Little Lisey liked – really liked – our Big Willow, did I tell you? She liked to sit under our Big Willow. We all did – except for Her, oh no, She never sat with us – but not quite as much as Little Lisey. Well, perhaps Mummy came close. She said it made her feel happy, she said that she was happier under those branches – the branches that were always green, the branches that swam in white sun, the branches that swam in white snow, the branches that never died – than anywhere else. Happy… No, I don’t think that was what she said. The word she used was funny; it was one of those funny things, the things Little Lisey and I could see. Yes. The word she used was whole. She felt whole under the willow. And you know what? I was never sensitive – not as sensitive my sister, my little sister, my Little Lisey – but I’ve always felt that our Big Willow danced around her. That our Big Willow was different around her – happy as well as calm, perhaps. I’ve always felt that its joy was a very high kind of joy. High joy – Mummy used to say that, I think. I’ve always liked the sound of it. It doesn’t sound anything like beetlies and wormies, does it?

No. It does not.

Can you see it now? Can you see our Big Willow?

Our Big Willow. Our Big Willow was strange. You know, sometimes – when sun rolls in the snow, when whine gleams in the sun, when candlelight turns soft black – I think that it was alive. Not in the way that plants are alive, no! There were many willows in Mummy’s sunlight, but ours was different. It was alive in the way that a heart is alive. It was knowing, it was understanding – in the way that a heart is knowing and understanding. It knew us. When we sat beneath its branches, it sang. When we hugged it, it made light – it was white light, but not the bad kind. No, never the bad kind. I think that light – that willow – understood us. I think it wanted us to be different. It wanted it to be easier – for us, for Her, for everyone.

I think our Big Willow understood us better than we understood ourselves.

And you know what’s also strange? Little Lisey said that the little angry men – the little green men, always green, always angry, always little – never danced around our Big Willow.

Until the thing with the bad eye came, that is.

***

She was our grandmother. She was rotten blood, but she was our blood. A dry branch of the willow.

Our willow.

We heard her shout at Mummy once. It was an afternoon – it always seems to be an afternoon, doesn’t it? – but without light this time. There was no wine in the sun, there was no sun in the snow – all there was was a sky painted grey, a sky that rolled, a sky that danced somehow. Its dance reminded me of the little angry men. I shared that with Little Lisey, and Little Lisey agreed with me. She said that it was a bad sky; she said that bad things hid above those thick clouds – things with bad eyes, things that ate willows, things that ate mothers. Those things were still distant, but they were coming closer, that’s what Little Lisey said. She was sensitive, and I was not; all I did was guess, but if she said, she knew. If she said, she felt.

Later, it turned out that she had been right, but it’s not time for that yet. The candles shine brightly still. The candles still glow, but I know their light will dim eventually. I know their light will turn soft black.

We were in the sitting room, and Mummy was outside. We were playing with our doll. The broken one, the one missing its hair and its eye (missing its heart and its soul, missing its love and--), the one that she let us play with. The one we loved. Too bad that it didn’t love us back. We were playing quietly – happy red wine had slipped and slapped earlier that day, She had apologised for us because we had been too bad, because we couldn’t make it right – enough to hear Mummy sing in the garden. We were quiet enough to hear Her go down the hallway – tip and tap, tip-tip-tap-tap was what Her footfalls sounded like, almost like rain on the roof, almost like happy red wine – and through the backdoor. We heard it slam, and then we heard Her shout – Her yells cut Mummy’s song – cut it in half, like white sunlight cuts gleaming glass – and then we heard Mummy weep. Mummy cried and Mummy wept, but She did not stop; Her shouts got louder, her shouts became screams.

Mummy wept and we wept with her.

A bit later, when the screaming had stopped, Little Lisey told me that Mummy was very sensitive; Little Lisey told me that Mummy could feel the little angry men, too. I can’t remember what I thought – probably that she was being funny, or perhaps frightening – but I know that I believed her. If Lisey said something, she felt it. But that was not what really scared me. What really scared me was something Little Lisey said much later – another day, another afternoon, but still before the thing came. She said they wanted to hurt Mummy, the little angry men. She said that when She screamed, they danced not around Her, but around Mummy. They danced around Mummy and their dance was ferocious. A funny word, isn’t it? But that’s what Lisey said.

That’s what Mummy felt. Mummy felt that, and Mummy wept.

That afternoon, I – we – didn’t love Her. I wasn’t mad. I didn’t want to apologise, I didn’t want to go beetroot. I didn’t to be anywhere near Her; I didn’t want her to be anywhere near Mummy. I didn’t care about Her flowers of joy; I – we – wanted them to burn, burn happily, burn until they wrinkled and died.

That afternoon, we wanted Her to die.

***

We could feel its eye. We could feel that bad eye. Even I could feel that. Little Lisey could do more – she could feel the thing, she could feel THE WHOLE THING, watching from far away, hiding in bad clouds, slowly moving towards us.

Soon after that grey afternoon, Mummy became distant. We hadn’t given up on trying to help her – oh no, we did not give up until the end – but things weren’t getting better, not even for a while. Things were only getting worse. Storms still came to howl around our house from time to time, but Mummy didn’t sit and sing with us when they did. Mummy didn’t let us sleep in her bed. We knocked on her door every time and every time it did not open. We just went back to our rooms – Little Lisey cried, but I didn’t. Little Lisey jumped at each echo of thunder. We were scared because the rain went tip and tap on the roof, but there was nothing we could do. We sat together and waited for those storms to pass.

It was a dark time, I remember. Little Lisey didn’t say any funny words and I didn’t see any funny things; there was no white light, not even the bad kind – not even the kind of light that looked like sun in the snow, like snow in the sun, not even the kind of light that made glasses gleam when caught between its sharp rays. Not even the bad kind of light.

What Mummy did do was work in the garden. I remember an afternoon – a grey one – when we saw her do it. We went – no, no, we rolled! – down the hall and out through the backdoor. And Mummy was there, scooping white dust – nothing like wine in the sun – off the paving stones, trying to put it back into the flowerbeds, but it kept slipping past her fingers, it fell and fell to where it had been. Mummy was shaking and she was sobbing and we helped her – we tried to help her. Little Lisey got her to sit, but we couldn’t get her to stop weeping.

Mummy worked in the garden often those days.

Mummy had changed so much – too much. She had been deteriorating – such a funny word, such a shame no one spoke it anymore – and something was having her for a fine meal. Perhaps something green, perhaps something dancing, or perhaps something with a not-quite-right eye. We didn’t know. We couldn’t know – Little Lisey couldn’t feel. Then, I fondly remembered years when things where different. When Mummy took us for long walks in her white sunlight, in a sunlight full of willows – and sometimes she would take Daddy, too; when Mummy took us to sit underneath them, underneath one of them, underneath our Big Willow. Yes, Mummy had liked to sit under our Big Willow.

She never did anymore, and it broke Little Lisey’s little heart. It broke the heart of my heart, the light of my life.

But I can’t say it was all bad. Mummy still came and spoke to us sometimes. Sometimes – very rarely – she hugged us tightly and sang a short song with us. Sometimes she gave us a kiss and a smile. A kiss and a smile. But even when she was with us, we saw something in her eyes. Something strange. A lot of things are strange, aren’t they? Yes, I think they are. Well, Mummy’s eyes had turned strange. Little Lisey said they’d turned bad; she said they were bad eyes. And beneath that, we saw something else. Something burning. And then we understood it.

Mummy hated Her.

***

You know, sometimes I think I still hear them. In the darker corridors, where the candles’ light turns dim. Sometimes I hear them whispering, but I know they’re not there. I know they’re never there.

Daddy fought in a war. I’ve told you this, haven’t I? Yes. Daddy fought in a war, and when he was done, when he was red and done, he came back. And so did our sunlight – our hard, white sunlight, like snowy wine in sunlight, like sunny snow in wine. It came back and the grey went away. We thought it went away for good, but we were wrong. I actually think that Little Lisey felt that it would come back; I think she didn’t want to tell us. I think it would’ve heart the willow – our Big Willow. I think it would’ve brought the beetlies, the beetlies and the wormies. Funny. It is, isn’t it?

Daddy came back, but not exactly – well, that’s what I thought, but I was never sensitive. I could never feel. I thought that something bad had happened – something had broken the rock, and now the white – like sun in the snow – and stormy sea washed and ate it, like certain things ate certain hearts. I think he was one foot here, sitting with us, holding us, making us feel safe, and one foot somewhere else. In a place where rain went tip and tap as it touched the roof, where spilled wine went slip and slap as it dripped from the bench. A place of apologies, perhaps, but not even that. Not quite. I was never – I am not – good with words, have you noticed? I have a great memory – I really like that, you know, remembering things – but I could never speak about things. I could never describe things. I could never describe Mummy. Little Lisey could, though – Little Lisey knew a lot of funny words, and she liked to use them. She said them proudly – she knew a funny word and she was proud. She wanted Mummy to be proud, too. But all this isn’t important, is it? No. It’s not. What’s important is that Little Lisey couldn’t describe Daddy either; what’s important is that Little Lisey agreed with me nevertheless. We both saw that Daddy never smiled, not anymore.

We saw that he was like Her, in a way.

And you know what? I think he brought Mummy back. She had gone away – gone to see the thing, gone to see THE WHOLE THING, gone to play with the wormies – she had become distant, but she came back. And she was right again – she never counted things anymore, and nothing burned in her eyes. Her eyes. Her eyes didn’t look bad at all. We – Little Lisey and I – even thought we had imagined it. Seen what we had wanted to see, as those men say – the men with those glasses, the glasses that gleam in the hard sunlight. The men of sun and wine and snow. But all that doesn’t matter either. Mummy came back, that’s what matters! Mummy came back and everything was right; Mummy let us sleep in her bed when there was a storm outside, Mummy took us for long walks in her sunlight, Mummy took us to sit under the willow. And one time, Mummy sang us a lullaby. I still remember what it sounded like, I still remember how it went. I remember a lot of things. I still remember the words. And the words were

Don’t cry, my babies,

Don’t, never cry,

I’ll hug you and love you

And kiss you goodnight.

Don’t cry, my babies,

Don’t, never cry.

Mummy will show you

The little doll’s eye.

And sometimes – sometimes! – I think I still hear her, singing that lullaby, singing that sweet melody. Sometimes I think I still hear them. I think I still hear their whispers – always in the corridors, always after dark, always where the candles’ light turns dim and soft black. Sometimes I still hear their voices, but I know they’re not there. I know they’re not there.

They’re never there.

Oh, my mother is dead, my father is dead, MY MUMMY IS—

***

Some things were always the same. Like the little angry men were always the same. Daddy wasn’t one of those things.

Daddy liked to sit under our Big Willow, too. He liked to sit with us, but he also liked to sit alone. Alone, under the willow tree – just sitting, thinking. I remember the blank look on his face when he did that. I had a feeling, I remember, that when he sat there alone, he could step in and out – he could free that trapped foot and beam away, he could leave us and go over. To that other place. The place of apologies, the place where rain rattled against the roof. The place where wine slipped and slapped from the bench and onto the floor, into a puddle by the door.

But we didn’t mind it. It was something we could stand. After all, he always stepped back in. He always came back. Though now I think that it might have been better – for him, for us, but mostly for him – if he had stayed there.

Mummy sat under the willow tree, and Daddy sat under the willow tree, and everything was right. Mummy loved the willow. We all did.

And everything was right.

And our Big Willow loved us.

***

Little Lisey was a brave girl, but she did fear one thing. Little Lisey was afraid of storms. Have I told you this? I think I have. Well, she was. Little Lisey jumped at each echo of thunder, shuddered at each flash of lightning, cried at each sound of rattling rain. Storms terrified her. Whenever there was a storm outside, she would pull me out of my bed and drag me to Mummy’s room, where we sat and sang and slept in her bed. Not that she really had to drag me – I wanted to go because I really liked all that. You know, sitting and singing. But I wasn’t afraid of storms, no. Rain, thunder, lightning – I didn’t care about those things. What frightened me was the wind, the wind that howled in the downspouts, the wind that howled in the pipes. Except sometimes, I thought it wasn’t actually the wind at all; sometimes I thought it was the house, crying and weeping.

Have I told you this? I can’t remember.

Funny.

And you know, I suppose the house really did weep. Except I don’t think it was really the wind that hurt it. I think it was Her. I think it cried under Her gaze, the gaze that was always burning white – almost like white sunlight, almost like snowy wine. I think it cried when her little angry men danced.

Under Her gaze, it eventually crumbled.

And now that I look back, I believe we almost crumbled, too. We were definitely close. She had to be firm and She had to keep us in line, I see that now – I wish I could tell her that – but that doesn’t really change anything, does it? She was making us crumble, a bit like the house. We grew older, and Her apologies grew more frequent. She made us go – beeeed-rooooh – beetroot, and we wept. Mummy knew, I think – Mummy wept, too.

We all wept.

Back then, I really didn’t understand how Grandpa could stand her. He was a bit like Daddy – he was a rock in a stormy sea, a white and stormy sea – but he was also different. Daddy liked to sit under the willow, under our Big Willow – he sat with us and he sat alone, stepping in and out, beaming away and coming back – but Grandpa didn’t. No, when it came to our Big Willow, Grandpa was a lot like Her and her little angry men. And like the little angry men, Grandpa never changed.

I’m not sure if he – Grandpa – loved us. We sure loved him, but did he love us back? He certainly never showed it. Oh yes, he was a lot like Her. He never made us apologise, he never made us go beetroot, but he still reminded me – us – of Her. If he really could stand Her, perhaps this was why.

I’m really not sure he could.

Grandpa loved Her, this much I am sure of. Perhaps they had their own willow, I don’t know – perhaps their willow held all kinds of things, perhaps their willow held little angry men and beetlies and wormies and perhaps even things with bad eyes – things that liked to hide behind clouds when the sky was grey. Perhaps, or perhaps not. He loved Her, that’s what’s important.

And we loved Her, too.

***

I’m not sure if there was only that one time or if there were more, and I don’t want to know. Little Lisey said she didn’t want to know either. But we knew what we knew, and we knew that we weren’t the only ones to go beetroot.

Mummy went beetroot, too. We saw it, once. Mummy had done something very, very bad and she couldn’t make it right, so She apologised for her. So she made her go beetroot.

One afternoon – back then, glasses still gleamed in white light, sunlight still rolled in the snow – we decided to sneak into the attic. She let us play with only one toy – a broken doll, missing its hair and its eye, missing its heart and its willow – and we knew that She kept the rest of them hidden up there. Don’t get me wrong – we loved our doll, even if it was broken, even if it was missing its willow, but it did get a little boring. So we decided to go up and play with the ones in the attic. We shouldn’t have, I see that now, but that’s unimportant. We were halfway up the staircase when we heard voices – that’s what matters. That didn’t frighten us. What frightened us was what they sounded like – there were no words, no, there were only sobs. Then we saw her. It was Mummy – Mummy was weeping and Mummy was sobbing, and we couldn’t help her. We couldn’t get her to sit – Little Lisey certainly tried – and we couldn’t get her stop. Mummy kept weeping and happy red wine kept slipping and slapping. Tip and tap went little red droplets; tip-tip and tap-tap went little red wine; tip and slip from the bench, tap and slap on the floor, in a puddle by the door. Mummy wept – huck-uck, huck and uck, uck and ahoo – but she didn’t twiddle her legs.

And there was nothing we could do.

Something changed that day. Mummy changed. Mummy had come back to us, but she started to deteriorate again – the beetlies and the wormies came back, and something – someone – painted the sky grey. Mummy became distant.

Mummy started counting books again.

The flowers of joy – Her flowers of joy – never bloomed again. Not for us, not for anyone.

***

Oh, I suppose the house did weep. Yes. It wasn’t the wind howling in the downspouts and the pipes that scared me, no; it was the house’s screams. It screamed because it was hurt, it screamed because She hated it. And so the house wept – it wept like Mummy, it wept like me and Little Lisey. It wept like Daddy, too, I think.

And sometimes, the willow – our Big Willow – wept too. I remember a time when I would have called the thought preposterous. That’s a funny word, isn’t it? Lisey – sweet Little Lisey – found it in a book – she called it a dictionary – and taught it to me.

But despite everything, it was true. Our Big Willow wept – it wept with us, it wept with the house. It wept because Her gaze was burning white, it wept because Her little angry men never changed, because they never stopped dancing.

And their dance was ferocious.

My mother is dead. My mother is dead, and my father is dead. My mummy is dead, my mummy, my Mummy, my MUMMY—

***

Grandpa was the first to pass, Grandpa was the first to go over, the first to beam away, really beam away. The first to step out for good. And he stepped out from beneath the willow tree; from beneath our Big Willow he beamed away. He had never sat with us there, but it was as it had to be. Our Big Willow held him, and the white air – like snow in the sun, like sun in the snow – took him. The white air took him away.

Grandpa was the first to pass.

I suppose he really couldn’t stand Her.

And you know what? I think that he really did love us, at least in the end. Grandpa loved us, Grandpa loved all of us. He loved us and we loved him.

And he loved Her, too.

It was as it had to be.

I never hear him.

***

Mummy stopped counting things. She had started again – yes, I’ve told you this – but it didn’t last long. She stopped. Things didn’t change, though – not even for a while. Nothing changed. Not for the better at least. We tried to help her, but we still couldn’t. She still didn’t sing with us; she still didn’t let us sit with her when there was a storm outside. She just slept.

Mummy slept a lot.

I didn’t really see much wrong with that, not back then. Now I wish I had, of course, but my – the – wishes – of, of, of – are small. Little Lisey disagreed with me, though. She rarely did, and still only when it was important. Little Lisey didn’t know when to be quiet, but she did know what was important. And she told me that something was wrong. She told me there was something off about Mummy, about the way she slept – sometimes for a day, sometimes for several – and I wish – my wishes, Her wishes – had listened to her. But I didn’t – I knew Little Lisey was sensitive, I knew that she felt many things, but I still didn’t listen. I don’t know why. I knew then, of course – I just can’t remember. Funny. I have a good memory. But, well, perhaps I was scared. Perhaps I didn’t want to think about what that could mean, about what could happen. That’s possible, or at least those men say so – the white men with white glasses, glasses that gleam between sunlight’s hard rays.

I should have listened to Little Lisey. Little Lisey was sad.

I remember the last time I heard Mummy’s voice. Mummy sang us a lullaby then. I remember the words, too. And the words were

Don’t cry, my babies,

Don’t, never cry,

I’ll hug you and love you

And kiss you goodnight.

Don’t cry my babies,

Don’t, never cry.

Mummy will show you

The little doll’s eye.

I wanted to stay with her a little longer – Mummy was in her bed – but then She came. She came and chased us out. She told us to go play.

All she let us play with was a broken doll.

***

It’s always been about them. About the men that never changed, about the men that were always the same. About the little angry men.

Little Lisey said they were everywhere.

Little Lisey said they loved Her.

Little Lisey said they were happy.

***

Mummy died.

Mummy died, and the skies were grey, and something came from behind the clouds. Something big, something bad, something with a face, something like a worm. It was a thing, it was the thing, THE WHOLE THING, the thing with the bad eye. It came, and Mummy died.

I suppose the house did weep. But it wasn’t its voice that came from the downspouts and the pipes. No, it wasn’t the house’s voice. It wasn’t the wind either. It was the thing, THE WHOLE THING, the thing with the bad eye. It built its nest – its nests, there had to be many – in the bowels of our house. It settled there; it slithered there and it howled – it howled like the wind, it cried like the thunder, and its eye was like dying lightning. No, I was wrong. It wasn’t just a thing. It was a storm, it was the storm, the storm that had always waited for us. The storm with a face, the storm that looked something like a worm. And that storm took everything at the end of it all.

Mummy died. Mummy died, and She went to swim – sleep – in the lake, in our lake. She took something with her, but when She came back, She was alone. Just like Daddy was alone now. He still had us, true, but I don’t think it was enough to keep him here, not enough to keep his foot in the trap. Little Lisey felt that Daddy would be doing a lot more stepping soon, and Little Lisey was right.

Mummy died, and She went to swim in the lake, and She came back, and we – I – never saw Mummy again.

Something had eaten Mummy’s roots.

Sometimes I still hear her, though. Sometimes – when the hour is none, when the night is dark, when the corridor is empty and when the candles’ light turns dim. Sometimes I hear whisper in the darker corners; sometimes I still hear her voice. Sometimes I hear her singing, singing me a lullaby – a lullaby about a loving mother – a loving Mummy – and a little – broken – doll. But I know she’s not there. I know she can’t be there, I know she’s never there, I know she’s not there. I know she’s dead. I know my mother is dead. My mother, my mother is dead, my mother is dead, MY MOTHER IS DEAD, MY MUMMY IS—

***

We could still see her in the mirror sometimes, Little Lisey and I. But that didn’t help. She was different there. Little Lisey said she felt cold, she felt strange, she felt gone. She didn’t feel real. Mummy was different in the mirror, so we gave up on that. We spent most of our days under the willow tree. When we weren’t – beed-rooh – beetroot, we sat under our Big Willow. We sat and we dreamt – about what it would be like to hear her sing us a lullaby – I couldn’t hear her then, oh no, not yet – about running away from there. We wanted to run away, but we knew we couldn’t. Not just because She wouldn’t let us, not because we felt the bad eye upon us; because we couldn’t leave Daddy. Daddy hardly ever spent time with us – he stepped out, went over very often – but we still said we wouldn’t leave him, not until the end of it all. And the end was coming, we knew – Little Lisey felt it, but she didn’t need to tell me. I could feel it too – I could feel it in the bad eye when it looked us, I could feel it written somewhere in its white – like sun in the snow, like snow in the sun – depths. I felt it the same way I could sometimes feel the thing, THE WHOLE THING. Little Lisey could see it, but feeling was enough – no, too much – for me. We knew the end was coming.

The end was coming, and we sat under our Big Willow. We wanted to leave, but we couldn’t. She was too strong, She was a mass, and we were two. We were alone, and we stood against a mass. We stood against great wishes, bad wishes, we stood against the wishes of normality. The wishes of normality came from white light, the good kind of white light – they came from the land of the willows, they came from the sun beneath the sea, they were the acorns of the trees beneath the hill. But then they burned. The wishes of normality burned happily, they burned until they were soft black.

And when they burned, our Big Willow wept.

***

Daddy stepped back in, and he didn’t step out again until the end.

Daddy sat under the willow tree again, but this time he took us with him. He sat with us, and he was our rock in a white and stormy sea. No, he was our sun, the sun beneath sea. A little like Grandpa, I suppose. Grandpa had been like that, I see now. Except he hadn’t been a sun, he had been a tree, and he hadn’t been beneath the sea, he had been beneath the hill.

I wonder if his acorns had ever burned.

Daddy loved us, we could see that. Daddy loved us and Daddy wept – for us, for Mummy, for everyone. He wasn’t with the masses. He wept because he hated Her. He wept because he wanted Her to die.

And the little angry men feared him, Little Lisey said.

***

She hated Daddy. She hated him no less than he hated Her. Perhaps more. She wanted everything to be as it had always been, but Daddy didn’t want that. She wanted to take our Big Willow, but he told Her he wouldn’t let Her.

She wished he were different. Her wishes were the wishes of normality.

The wishes of normality burn, burn until they’re soft black.

And you know, sometimes I still hear them. Mummy and Daddy. I hear them in the darker parts of the corridor, where the candles’ light burns until it’s soft black. I hear them, but I know they’re not there.

They’re never there.

***

Daddy died.

Daddy wanted to put a couple of boards back in their wall, and Daddy put up a ladder, and Daddy climbed, and the wall pushed it, and the ladder fell, and the wall pushed Daddy, and Daddy fell, and the ladder broke, and Daddy died. And then I could see thing too. I could see THE WHOLE THING, the thing with the bad eye, the thing that howled like the wind and cried like thunder, the thing that was the storm of the end.

The storm with a face, the storm that looked something like a worm.

I’d always known there was something off about that wall, and Little Lisey agreed with me.

Daddy fell, and Daddy died, and She went to swim in the lake, and She came back, and we never saw Daddy again.

I never saw Daddy again. I still hear him, though. I can still hear him sometimes – when the hour is none, when the night is dark, when the house is empty, when the candles’ light turns dim, when the candles’ light turns soft black. I hear him whisper when the wishes of normality burn, but I know he’s not there. I know he’s not there because he’s dead, because he has stepped out, gone over, beamed away. It was the white – like wine in the sun, like sun in the snow – air that took him, though. It was the hard ground – hard like sunlight, the kind of white sunlight that makes things gleam. He’s never there because he’s Daddy and because he’s dead. My father is dead, my father is dead, MY DADDY IS DEAD, MY – DADDY – IS—

***

Only we were left then. Well, She was there too, but she was different. She never sat under our Big Willow. I don’t think anything kept her from sitting there; I think she just didn’t want to. Her friends – her pets – really couldn’t, that much I know. None of them could sit under our Big Willow – not the little angry men, not the thing with the bad eye.

The thing with the bad eye could do much worse than sit there.

She wanted to take the willow away from us, and her wishes were the wishes of normality. We were two, and she was a mass, a bad mass, a mass that howled like the wind and cried like the thunder.

A mass that made us go beetroot. Because we were very bad, because we could never make it right again.

The wishes of normality burn, burn until they’re soft black.

And the wishes of normality – those bad, burning wishes – cut our willow – our Big Willow – down, and we never sat under its branches again, and it never wept again, and it never sang again, and it never made light again. The thing, THE WHOLE THING, the thing with the bad eye came out of the pipes – AND ITS EYE WAS LIKE LIGHTNING, LIKE DYING LIGHTNING, AND ITS HOWLS WERE THE WIND, THE WEEPING WIND, AND ITS CRIES WERE THE THUNDER, THE GLEAMING THUNDER – and cut it down. It was the thing, the thing that could call the beetlies and the wormies. And call them was what it did – it came out of the pipes, and it called the beetlies, and it called the wormies, and they ate our willow’s roots, and it cut our willow down, and we never sat under our willow again.

And we never sat under our Big Willow again.

And I wasn’t angry. I didn’t want Her to die. She was my grandmother (my terrible grandmother), my blood (my rotten blood), my kin (my bad kin). She was the only thing I had left – well, She and Little Lisey were the things I still had left. And I loved Little Lisey, and I loved Her.

And She loved us.

And we loved Her.

***

She won. She won, her wishes – the wishes of normality – cut our world, they made our world go beetroot. She won, and everything was the same again. The house stopped weeping. Well, it still wept, but rarely. Storms rarely came.

And the stump was sad, and the stump was quiet.

And Little Lisey said the little angry men were dead. She said they didn’t dance anymore. She said She had buried them.

And Little Lisey didn’t fear storms anymore. She didn’t jump at each echo of thunder, she didn’t wince at each chilly flash of lightning, she didn’t cry at each rattling sound of rain.

And I began to hear them. I could hear them in the darkness of the corridors, where the candles’ light turned dim, where the candles’ light turned soft black. But was it really them? Was it really my Mummy and my Daddy that I could hear? Were the voices theirs?

Or were they the little angry men’s?

***

About a week before She stepped out, went over, beamed away, She took my hand and spoke to me. She took my hand and She told me that She would never die. She told me that I was Her.

And ever since the roof above Her bedroom fell in and killed Her, I’ve been inclined to agree with Her.

Little Lisey is gone now. I think she loves me, but I’m not sure. I know that she used to love me at least. I know that I love her. And now I have these men to deal with. The men with glasses that gleam in the sunlight when caught between its sharp rays. The white men, as white as sun in the snow, as white as snow in the sun, as white as white wine. And the thing, too. The thing, THE WHOLE THING, the thing with the bad eye. I can see it now, in that corner where my vision begins to fade. I can feel it waiting, waiting for me to crack, waiting to have my roots for a fine meal.

But I won’t let it.

And when it dies, when it beams away and goes over to the place where happy red wine slips and slaps and rain goes tip and tap on the roof, I will sing it a lullaby. I already know the words. And the words are

Don’t cry, my lovely,

Don’t, never cry,

I’ll hug you and love you

And kiss you goodnight.

Don’t cry, my lovely,

Don’t, never cry.

Do you see what I see?

I see the little doll’s eye.

Short Story

Rigley

Spoiler:

Harleigh strolled along the fields of Westfall, accompanied by a flanking pair of riflemen. His eyes scanned up and down the rows for farmhouses ahead. One looked good for storage. The rest could house the men until they moved out next. Analytically he browsed over the pieces of property, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He slowed down some as they came to one home-- a small farmhouse, long abandoned.

“Looks like my old place, almost.” chimed Harleigh back to his escorts, of which had little to add. “If it were a blue roof I'd say it'd be the exact same. Don't mix things up too much with these things, do they?”

He glanced back, raising a brow at the flat expressions of the two watchmen, both scanning about.

“Y'know, you two really kill the mood, yeah? Scram, I'll call you over once I'm done here.” he ordered, waving them off. With a faint nod they dashed off, rifles at the ready as they took post on the cobbled road. Slowly Harleigh made his way to the door of the house, nudging the door open with a slight prod from his foot. Inside it showed its age; dank, and coated with dust. A tour of the farmhouse showed that it was ransacked; most remaining belongings strewn about recklessly on the floor. He eventually found his way into a bedroom; likely that of a child nearing adulthood, by what décor remained lingering about. After a short survey of the room Harleigh folded his arms behind his head, rather casually dropping back onto the bed.

His old room was a lot like this. It was pretty nostalgic, really.

...

“So, where are you heading all trussed up like that?”

“I ain't going anywhere new.”

“You didn't answer my question, Harleigh.”

Harleigh sat upright, brow furrowed as he cast a glare to the figure leaned in the doorway, arms folded. “'M goin' out.”

“I suppose you're going to want those cards I lifted off you?” quipped the woman in response, perking an eyebrow. “Or is this a dice night?”

“Ma!” groaned the man, pushing himself up. “I don't see how its any of your business on what I'm doin' for fun.”

“That's what your father said too, and look where all of his games got him. Sunk in debt, then offed by some cartel hand.” she snapped back, expression growing cross. “Listen, Harleigh. I don't mind about you having fun, but I don't want you ending up like him. You understand?”

Harleigh's enthusiasm waned slightly, his feet rocking idly against the ground beneath him.

“I understand.”

His mother would come up alongside him, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and patting his shoulder. “I don't think you do. But that's why I'm saying no.”

Harleigh folded his arms, glancing aside from her to divert his eyes. “...You really think I'll end up like pa?”

Her expression turned a bit darker at this, her reassuring pat stopping as her palm rested upon his shoulder.

“I just want you to make something out of yourself. Do something your pa and I never managed. And I don't see how you're gonna do that gambling all day and night. You've gotta do some proper work, Harleigh.”

He looked up to her, his stony gaze faltering slightly as her own eyes stared back into his own.

“...Yeah. I know.”

“Good. Just... make me proud, son. I've already got one man to mourn.”

“...Yeah, ma. I will.”


Make me proud.

Make. Me. Proud.

...


Harleigh frowned, slowly pulling himself upright as the phrase repeated in his head. He stared at the doorway; for a time able to vividly recall the scene. He could see his mother's face, a once youthful face with evidence of stress and work out underneath the burning sun staring back at him from the doorway. Her tattered rags of clothes, her unkempt hair-- after a moment he lowered the brim of his hat down to shroud his face, easing up from the old bed and dusting his jacket off. He scanned about the room, walking over to a shattered and ruined picture, righting it meticulously as he stared at his reflection in the dusty glass.

“...It's not like I meant t'a.” he murmered to himself, grip tightening. “Didn't have... much'a a choice. I... I didn't--”

A loud knock came from behind him. The glass of the picture frame shattered as Harleigh's hands clenched it in a vice grip, pieces of the jagged pane flying down to the rotten floorboards below. His shoulders jutted up, casting an irate gaze back to the doorway. A bellowing roar grew within him as he spotted the young minuteman inching back from the door frame, only to be quelled quickly as he saw the look of concern upon the boy's face.

Slow breaths.

Harleigh heaved, gently setting the picture back down as he nodded to the man in acknowledgment, turning his face away quickly as a burning sensation crept over him.

“Yeah?”

“M-marshal Arkenstone needs you, sir. We're going to be moving for the bridge soon. Remember?”

It took a moment to regain composure. When he responded he still did not look back to the young man. “Yeah, I do. Wait outside. I'll be out in a sec.”

The patter of feet resounded through the house. After a moment for certainty Harleigh's hand drew up, wiping tears away from his eyes as he nodded to the picture, now devoid of any discernible image beyond the smudged portrait that once lay upon the parchment.

“I'm sorry.”

Caravan

Spoiler:

“Madam, I don’t find this to be very funny.”

“Yer ears broke? I ain’t laughin’.”

“I have told you three times now: We don’t handle this sort of thing here.” The man gingerly adjusted his glasses and raised his voice so as to be heard over the screeching baby. The small bundle of blanket had been crying on the desk for the past fifteen minutes. It was hot in the large open-air office and even the fat flies hung lazily in the air.

“Yer a pos’ office. This here’s a bundle. That stork done made one big ol’ mistake.”

“Bundle? That’s a bab--- Excuse me, did you just say stork?” The clerk arched a brow, incredulous. “You don’t really believe that story, do you? Regardless: We’re not taking the baby.”

Caravan stood up on the chair and picked up the shrieking blanket. She snarled at him, “ ‘Course I don’t believe in no stork!” She scowled, “Wouldn’t surprise me muchaways! And what am I s’posed t’ do with a chillun!?”

“Not my problem, madam. May I suggest finding an orphanage? Or perhaps find your…motherly instincts.”

A slew of colorful choice words followed the gnome as she stormed out into the full morning sun of Ratchet. She adjusted her hat with one hand before staring down at the baby. It had suddenly stopped screaming and was just staring at her with its bright blue eyes. “Whaddya lookin’ at?” It sneezed as the sunlight brushed against its skin and Caravan adjusted the blanket so that it covered the baby’s eyes. It was just what she needed, really. A dang human baby! If she found its parents, or that dang stork, she was going to punch them fiveways to the nether. Or something.

The mother was nowhere to be found, very few humans traveled through Ratchet, and no one seemed to know where he – the baby – came from. She had taken to calling him ‘Chip’. It seemed as good a human name as any; she’d known a Chip working the docks some years back and if it were good enough for that lug it was good enough for this baby. The problem arose when there was no mage who would port them to Stormwind.

“There ain’t no height requirement!” Caravan shifted the baby to her other hip as she addressed the flustered mage. All of her two-foot-six-inches scowled at him, and it was quite the impressive sight: the gnome, the baby, and the flask she brandished at him.

“Well, no, not a height requirement, but Ms. Fairwinds, that’s a baby."

“If’n I knew nothin’ else in this whole confounded world, Square, it’s that this here is a baby. Ain’t heard the end of it since it came to me.”

“I just…I just don’t feel comfortable sending a baby along the ley lines.”

“And I ain’t much feelin’ comfortable lookin’ at yer face! C’mon, Chip!”

Chip did not like the boat.

It was going to be a very long boat ride.

Caravan tried everything. At first, she tried mixing rum in with the milk she bought on the ship. Chip lacked the refined palatte to properly appreciate rum. She tried puppets but the lackadaisical sockgnomes only made him cry harder. Eventually she found that a precise combination of shade, salty sea breezes, and her singing would bring hours of blissful silence mixed with delighted coos.

She hadn't sung -- really sung -- in decades, but she sang Chip every song she knew: Goblin sea-shanties, lovesick Dwarven ballads, and all the Gnomish lullabies she could remember. When she sang, Chip stared at her with his big human eyes as if he were looking at Love itself. At first, it made her uncomfortable and she used to cover his eyes with a bandana (but he was still looking through the fabric) but over the weeks she eventually stared back at the baby. Somewhere in the recesses of her heart, a little warmth sparked up.

It is a common-known fact of nature that Caravan detests Stormwind. And not just the capital city with its towering white walls, but the whole Kingdom. She never really got the taste for it. None of that abated as she toddled through with Chip the Baby on her hip. Women paused in the street to coo over the baby and the gnome affixed them with scowls and sarcastic phrases. They were on a mission: To get to Stormwind's Orphanage and get on with their normal lives.

The Matron stared at the pair in disbelief. "A...stork."

"Yes, ma'am. Stork. Stork done flew outta the sky and left this here baby in my room. It ain't mine an' 'e needs hisself a proper homeabouts to grow up in. I ain't a human."

"That is true, you're not a human..." She still seemed puzzled as she filled out paperwork and prepared to take Chip. Chip was playing with Caravan's hair or, rather, turning part of her ponytail into a rat's nest. Caravan stared at the Matron, unperturbed. "If you'll give me the baby, now, please?"

It would be an understatement to say that Chip cried when Caravan held him out to the orphanage Matron. Chip's entire body shuddered in gut-wrenching screams as he reached for the gnome. Caravan adjusted her hat low on her forehead and mumbled a goodbye, Chip as she turned to leave. The Matron was still trying to shush the screeching baby when the door shut behind Caravan.

She pressed her hand over her eyes for a moment against the late morning sun and found the nearest tavern. Three drinks later and she cradled the fourth between her hands as she mumbled a lullaby. Stupid stork. Stupid human. Stupid gnome for taking in a stupid human from a stupid stork. She hadn't been looked at with that much love in a long time. The way she lived her life, Caravan reckoned she'd never see that much love again. Chip deserved a plain human family. For once in her life, she'd done the right thing.

The sun was starting to set by the time she threw herself out of the tavern and wandered the streets aimlessly. She knew she should have told them where to go because before long she was staring at the sun-worn door she'd just closed earlier that morning. Her little fist hesitated above the wood, poised to know. People were going to their homes. The bells were chiming the time.

Her little fist hesitated.

Poetry

DaveM

Spoiler:

Moms, I'jus' kill'd a mon
Pull'd ma' voodoo, now he dead.
Moms, life is shrinky heads.


i c wut u did thar.

Congrats to the winners! Please send me a PM so that you can receive your prizes!

Also! This months contest is an open contest! Write whatever you'd like, as long as it is a part of the World of Warcraft setting. :3

It will be due July 1st! Make sure when you send in your writing, to title it [Cressy's Writing Contest] and which section you are putting it in! Thank you.

[Cressy]

Just a reminder!

[Cressy]

Bump!

[Caravan]

Should I apply to this again?
*cool shades*
Heck yes.