for the Writers, Showcasing other Creatives, Stories to Read Right Now

Stories on why we create

Creativity isn’t finite. The more you give, the more you have. That’s a philosophy I want to live by, and Ksenia does too.

Ksenia Anske sends cards with personalized stories to her readers. So when she sent one for my writers’ group, I volunteered to facilitate our writers prompt and had everyone write her a story back.

Ksenia

Because stories are meant to be shared, and a writer can only hide their stories for so long before some need to spill out, even if it’s in short form 🙂

And now we’re going to share those stories with you, stories to encourage you to create.

Jenn

“With this final bit of paper and fragment of graphite I beg of you to continue on what I can do no longer. I brought their gruesome reign into the world and now with these last meager strokes I must pass the mantle onto another. They came from my mind you see, in murderous retribution. The misshapen wolf-child led the way howling in agony that I had abandoned him. My mind had pulled the sparks of his essence together but I had trapped him there. But he escaped, and he brought the millions of forgotten characters with him. The creatures control my mind, and have managed to get a link to every human brain. If I stop writing (I haven’t much longer now) without another to take my place the world ends. Pick up your pen. Go.” – by Jenn Wieland

Kim

“There once was a woman who decided to try writing. At first she was thrilled and excited, but then she met the rejection monster who gnawed at her amazing manuscript.

The brave writer stabbed the dreaded monster with her mighty pen. The monster shrieked and died at her feet. The amazing writer skinned the beast and made a cloak that she wore in the frigid winter.

The amazing writer walked proudly down the published road with her rejection coat wrapped around her shoulders.” – by Kim Kouski

Andy

“Once upon a time a young girl named Ksenia yearned to be an author, a writer. Over the years she succeeded but oh, she grew so weary and discouraged. Then one night she had a dream. She seemed transported into fairyland, with castles and dragons, knights – and a blight – a blasted desert where nothing lived. She asked a handsome knight, ‘Why? Why is fairyland blighted?’ He said sadly, ‘Those are the regions of fairyland where our goddess Ksenia has never written about.’ The end.” – by Andy Zach

Yasmeen

“Once upon a time, there lived a sixteen-year-old girl who found a book buried beneath a pile of ruins… The girl had never seen a real book before, let alone written words and paper. This book had a red toy train on the cover.

Books were only something people have heard about – a distant memory for few. And here it is… the last book in existence wedged between her fingers. ‘Our race can be saved!’ the girl thought. ‘Finally our world will not be mute and the curse will be broken.'” – by Yasmeen

Amy

“As the dancer danced, flowers popped up around her toes and danced with her. They danced the words – the flowers and her – until a flower castle appeared. The dancer danced the word “wing”, and up sprouted the wings and lifted the word dancer to the tippy top. ‘I will make my home here,’ she danced.” – by Amy L Sauder – uhh, me 🙂

KseniaStoriesPhoto.jpg

So that’s the stories. Now go out and make your own creations! And then share it with the world, give it away in some form somewhere 🙂 Pass on Ksenia’s enchantment ❤

(Psst! If you want to know more about Ksenia who started this story card thing for me, you can see her website, social media, and read about all the ways I want to be like her when I writerly grow up.) 

 

My Creative Projects, Stories to Read Right Now

Shovels & Ash

Caila has travelled to and fro to scatter wishes. Village, city, forest and field, a wish in every place her feet would touch. She would wish on that first star every night, she would wish with a tap of her heels, and she would wish by meadows of clover and weeds. The wishes piled up, yet the fulfillments dwindled.

But then an idea quite greater than a wish presented itself – hope. Be it a whisper of fate, a cry of desperation, or another chasing after the wind, Caila added hope to her wishing, and her seeking altered. She sought, not for a far-off needle in a multiverse-spanning haystack, but for the tangible surrounding her. And hope gave her wings, literal wings that wishing had never granted. Who needs love and wealth and purpose when one has wings? It was a glorious sight, an angel on earth, and Caila adored herself and her long flowing wings that spanned the earth and sky alike.

Yet all was not perfection still. Large cities barred their gates, and villagers shook their heads at her audacity. Dreamer they called her now, the Dreamer who burdened the world. When she danced through the streets, the wings would knock over boxes, loads, even animals. She apologized in course, but is apology enough when the action continues?

So Caila took to the sky – she could with her wings – and as her body wearied of fighting gravity, she in time recalled a story. A boy with wings that flew to the sun. The ending, rather than a word of caution to her, was a word of possibility. So she flew up and up, until the sun set fire to her wings and she plummeted to the ground – the wings were mere ashes covering her body now. She had found freedom – no wings to hold her, so she danced through the streets once again.

The ashes tumbled from her sleeves, her hair, her shoulders, and began to cover the world following her travels. Caila, the ashen dreamer, roamed the earth, though neither Caila nor Dreamer was she named now. Ash, they called her, the whole world. Towns shooed her away with the brooms they swept up her ashes with.

Of course one day, Ash came upon a shovel – it was bound to happen after roaming the entire world. She scooped up a pile of dirt, reached out her hand and sifted the dirt through her fingers. Not unlike the ash, she thought. One scoop of dirt was not enough for the shovel nor Ash, and soon there was a gaping hole in the ground. The hole stretched through, all the way through, into the depths of the earth, out the other end, through the sky and stars and planets and galaxies, to a world that Ash wished she could know – a world full of shovels and wings and wishes.

Ash touched the ledge with her toes, then her heel, and finally she felt no ledge at all. Her body fell down the hole and found no end. Always plummeting, much like Alice, only never to stop. After a time unknown, she looked up the hole she’d made and saw that her body had not moved from its original leap. She reached up and climbed out of her determined hole, defeated. She plopped herself down next to the hole, and her mind roamed where her body no longer dared to go.

About the world she imagined, person after person scowling upon her dreaming. Her body may fit in a room, cabin, village, forest or sky, but her spirit was much too large to squeeze into the place. “Admit it,” Ash whispered. She was always at her essence the same person living the same life with simply a different way of striving – her name changed, yet always left the same dissatisfied her. Caila looked down at the hole that was no longer there – it had been filled over by her ashes as she sat.

She traced her fingers through the grey ashen circle that clashed with the surrounding brown dirt. Her fingers, then her hands, finally her arms joined with gentle strokes of her hair, until the whole story had been written in the ash, a tale of a dream. Haybales, sun, brooms, shovel, all of it lay before her a piece of art, while the breeze slowly tugged it out of legibility. For that moment though, no one could touch the truth that had been proclaimed here, none could deny the reality of a fairy’s tale.

Caila hinted a smile, then opened her mouth as agape as her jaw would allow, and screeched. All of the pain left, hidden in that screech, as it slowly transformed to a squeal, a joyous sound that scattered the ash – tumbling away in an instant, and all the ash, the wings, the desire, the dream – none of it mattered anymore. She laughed and, though it was no melodious laugh – yet neither was it a horrendous guffaw or braying – it was a song in its own right. She found something of far greater worth than her own name, her own tale. A song of a journey, a journey forward.

My Creative Projects, Stories to Read Right Now

Flash Fiction: The Sandman’s Falsehood

 
The Sandman is taking me. He unscrews my hands, my feet, my ears, my nose – whatever is in reach. Then the dreams – I enter my dreams and am falling apart. Why does everyone stare? What are they looking at? No, not a human. I’m nothing but an abomination now, an automaton. He did this, emptying my eye sockets, cleaning out my soul.
 
 
There was love, at least the option. I could have been the talk of the town in an entirely different way. People flocking and I had eyes for only one. That’s how it was. He wasn’t all the others were, but he worshipped me and that was enough.
 
 
Then the dreams came, falling always falling, drowning but in air not water, and tearing, ripping, gripping for the parts of me that fell away. My heart, see I still have my heart, in my grasp here. Pounding ‘til the drumbeat woke me to twisted sheets and twisted arms. I’m awake. I’m together. The falsehood of dream is gone.
The stares continue, but the glares escalate. My melodies are no longer a siren song, but an omen – first to strangers, my father, my love. No, I’m here, I’m still here, don’t you see. But that’s not my voice, listen to me, listen. Return my eyes and I can show you where I am. Please, the Sandman has me, it’s the Sandman, not me. I’m awake, I’m together, the falsehood of dream is gone ‘til the sun leaves.
 
 
The Sandman presented himself at last – a menacing beast of a creature, black of soul and body, but my eyes – he had my eyes! Don’t you see, those are mine, but there went my hands and feet next, and I was losing every piece little by little, and who am I, Klara, Olympia, I can’t remember, tell me who I am. And all that was left was my heart, pounding. I’m awake, I’m together, the falsehood of dream is gone….
 
 
The heart beat down the street, safe within my false body. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear, I couldn’t feel the touch of my distant love. Up the tower, higher and higher, I’m still here. I’m here, can you hear me? But now there is nothing to do but leap, into the air and let the ground prove my life as it takes it. Am I awake yet?
 
 

Stories to Read Right Now

Between

Everyone else thought she had escaped just in time, leaving them and their scoffings to the pain they now experienced. Or so she told herself. She wished her view confirmed their alleged thoughts, but really that was merely a hypothetical audience that could not exist. The people she actually saw through the impenetrable iron gate weren’t even an audience, for each glimpse back showed dancing and laughter. Joy. Life. Too occupied with their celebration to ponder her current state and how it compares to theirs. They’d moved on through the pain without her, and each brief glance they bestowed upon her resembled that of one given to someone diving wholeheartedly into a pool of vomit. No, looking back afforded no comfort.

Looking forward showed the flaw in her hypothetical audience’s beliefs. The door to the building was locked, and she could only peep through the window and observe all those that had left her behind. Dancing and laughter there, also. On occasion a person would smile towards her window, more out of pity than as if she was a participant in their festivities. Yet still the truth was evident – she’d left too late and too soon. She was alone and the road less travelled had grown back over since her friends had paved their way through.

The scream began in her stomach, then her throat, before forcing her mouth open. A clenched fist drew back and demanded entry to the glass. She could not stop here; she must make it through. A shattering, and blood painted the window remains. Tears streamed down to join the puddle of blood that she began to kneel down in, clutching her hand where the glass had ripped her skin more than she had shattered its center.

Alone.

 
 
 
 

for the Bookworms, for the Writers, Stories to Read Right Now

Flash Fiction: Freedom Freddie

[Say that blogpost title five times fast.]

Writing Prompt: Childhood Pet

While we’re all talking about independence, here’s my morbid memory of one of my family’s first pets. I wrote this for the Writer’s Prompt in A Year of Writing Dangerously that asks to write about a childhood pet.

 

 

Freedom Freddie

Freedom Freddie. A duckling full of hopes and dreams for the future.

He was skittish, worrisome. Who was this doting family who squeezed and coddled him, never a minute alone? His confident waddle assured the kids though that the shredded lettuce they showered upon him was reason enough to overlook the stifling attention.

And Freddie was happy. Freedom was a little subjective, but he enjoyed his cage for now and his heart fluttered when he would see the pouty lips and puppy eyes as the parents cautioned the kids that Freddie would one day be an independent duckie, released to a pond where he can splash and play and make his own home.

The kids liked to think that this manmade structure was Freddie’s home. But stories of the pond – how glorious it sounded. His mother and siblings must be there, awaiting his presence. The pounding rain, the hard concrete, the screech of tires, and the cold bare skin – those first memories would be washed away by the splashing and quacking. New stories, new memories recollected of a mother who did not abandon him, but lost him in a tragic mishap he would one day learn the details of.

This temporary family, they could not understand his expectations of this certain future, when all they said was, “Ducks were made for a pond, not for a bedroom.” And yet, perhaps this future was not so certain.

A mother lost forever. Siblings frozen on other obscure roads. Or this nurturing home his death sentence. His heart pounded and his feathers refused to warm him – now he was freezing as well – and Freddie squawked his pain to no avail.

One lone child held him close as his harsh screams filled the otherwise silent home. Offerings of more packaged lettuce, the gentle strokes of comfort, a warm towel – nothing could stop the pain, the chill of reality.

Finally, his body would not allow him to cower against the child’s middle. With unstoppable force, his body began to stretch out, straighter and straighter – “Not like a duckling,” he thought. “Too human.” All at once, his squawks were silenced, his shivers relinquished, and his eyes refused to blink as he lay in the warm towel, still and straight as a funeral corpse.

“It was the lettuce,” the parents would say. “We discovered that packaged lettuce has chemicals that are poisonous to ducklings.” And with those words, Freedom Freddie‘s need for sustenance wrenched the dreams of independence from his webbing.

 

What Say You?

What’s one of your memories of a childhood pet?