Why Writing and Marriage Are Pretty Much the Same Thing

As someone who has never been married (and has conducted only minimal research), I can definitively conclude that writing is just like marriage.

Like marriage, stories start in the honeymoon phase: the idea. Your new idea outshines all your previous ideas combined. This is the best idea you’ve ever had, the best story you’ll ever write. You start planning excitedly, the opportunities infinite. The words and the characters and everything will work this time, you just feel it. The honeymoon phase is the glory of the initial idea, the sloppy love of the first draft, the adoration of words without the struggle. You immediately drop whatever you were working on last, in varying states of incompletion, and start working on your new story.

The inevitable fall happens when the illusion of the idea fails under your subpar abilities to capture your imagination. You see the story for what it really is: a dumpster fire. You read your first draft—which had seemed worthy of your favorite authors before—and cold dread makes its way through you. The plot holes, the awkward sentences, the grammar errors are circled in an imaginary red felt-tip pen, each glaring mistake a strike to your ego. The story did not go as you planned, and not in a good way. Was the idea too weak, or was it your writing abilities? Who’s to blame? This phase of the writing process is characterized by hopelessness. The story will never get better and you are a horrible writer. You don’t even deserve to try. The story gets locked away deep in a drawer where it will never see the light of day again. You move on to other loves. Maybe you’ll take up piano or art.

After a few weeks or months, after you’ve cleared your head, tried other things, you come back to the story and see it with fresh eyes. It isn’t quite as horrible as you remembered. It’s definitely not good; in fact, it’s still pretty terrible, but you think it could go somewhere with a lot of work. This phase is the most difficult as you systematically destroy and rebuild everything. You try to make the story at least vaguely presentable. You coax the words with cream and pretty ribbons to get them to work for you and align in a lovely way. It’s exhausting. It’s full of long nights critically analyzing every word, deleting huge swaths of text you’d spent hours writing the day before. For every step you take forward, it seems as though your taking a thousand back. Every patched plot hole introduces hundreds of cracks.

Eventually, your story becomes adequate, and you’re finally pleased with yourself. You’ve grown as a writer. You’ve created something better than anything you’ve ever written before, even if it’s not as good as you wanted it to be. It’s when you allow yourself to read the story for the first time as a reader instead of as a writer and you get to praise the lovely phrases, the characters, the plot, instead of looking for what’s broken. This is when the story is finally put away and it stops lingering in your mind every waking moment. The story is closed and filed away and you’re content, and you get to look forward to the next honeymoon phase with the next story.

It’d be lovely if that were the last phase, but for me, at least, it’s not. The stage of being happy with my story is uncomfortably short. It usually lasts a few days and then I’m back to hating the story. Which means that, yes, I say that I love writing, but I spend most of my time hating what I write. Maybe I should take up piano or art.

How to Write Efficiently

  1. Come up with an idea.
    1. This is best done during your waking hours. Notice everything. Your next slice of inspiration could come from anywhere. Constant vigilance.
    2. Keep running commentary about everything. Don’t let it be bland. For example (of what not to do), “Textbook. Pencil. Homework. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Meeeehhhhhh. *Stretch of silence* Bored. Bored. Bored. Chemistry. Bored.” Make it interesting. Make it explosive. This serves the double purpose of both giving you writing ideas and decimating boredom.
  2. Develop your idea.
    1. This is best done at night while trying to fall asleep as there are no outside distractions, such as homework, colors, or pretty books.
    2. Warning: This method will keep you up at night with ideas swirling through your head. Before you know it, it’s past midnight.
    3. Warning: if you happen to come up with a decent idea, you’ll need to turn on the blinding lights, get up while being half-asleep (which is an accident waiting to happen), and write down your idea. Crud, it’s 1:00 a.m.…
    4. Warning: this method will result in you being excessively sleepy the next day.
    5. Fuel yourself with caffeine instead of sleep.
  3. Blast music so you can forget that other humans exist.
  4. Your best writing happens in the evasive “zone”. So you should wait to do your hardcore writing until you have gotten into the zone.
    1. Start with flash fiction or a writing prompt or a blog post.
    2. Edit previous writings.
    3. Post the flash fiction/blog post.
    4. Get distracted and respond to comments on your blog.
    5. Get even more distracted and start reading Wikipedia posts loosely connected to your story, starting you on an inescapable trail of breadcrumbs and links leading you farther and farther away from your topic.
  5. Take a break and get a snack. You deserve it. You’ve been so efficient. Beware: you’re leaving the zone and you have to get back to it in order to work on your short story. But it must be done because your hunger would also call you out of the zone.
  6. Get back to the zone. This time it should happen faster, hopefully.
  7. Read through your notes on your story so you don’t forget anything and accidentally break your established background information.
  8. Read articles on writing because you’re a horrible writer and must discover the secret before you start because your first draft must obviously be as good as your favorite novel and one of these random internet articles must hold the key, despite them all saying the same things.
  9. Write a little.
  10. Delete it and try again.
  11. Reread what you wrote yesterday and redo it.
  12. Wonder at how your favorite authors magically think amazing thoughts and then somehow pull the right words in the right order from thin air and make a novel.
  13. Reread your favorite passages from your favorite novels and marvel at the words.
  14. Despair.
  15. Write a little more. Now you’re figuring it out. Hours pass and you don’t notice. Your characters and scenes and descriptions are perfect and everything is sunshine and roses and perfection. You don’t suck!
  16. Edit. Reread what you wrote. You do suck.
  17. Edit. Edit. Edit. Nothing may remain the same. Everything must be improved. The words awing, the story logical (or logically illogical). It’s unrecognizable from where you started. Seriously. It was supposed to be about a cupcake-zombie apocalypse and it’s morphed into a melodrama starring salmon.
  18. Be proud of yourself. You did it! It’s awesome and done and you don’t suck!
  19. Reread it. A little worm of dread wriggles inside of you as you realize it’s horrible. Delete.

Not Human

In early elementary school, up through third or fourth grade, I’d thoroughly convinced myself that I wasn’t human. Humans were far too mundane, to unmagical for my tastes. I was absolutely certain that one day I’d wake up and my true magical potential would emerge and I wouldn’t be a lowly human anymore. I was just waiting for that day to happen and simply passing the time in my human life. My humanity was a placeholder for my true magical self.

On top of believing that I wasn’t human, I would search for magical beings everywhere. I remember intently searching for leprechauns every St. Patrick’s Day with my friends. My house had a pond in the backyard, and of course there were mermaids in the shallow pond. They were lurking under the surface, biding their time and waiting for me to sprout my tail so I could join them.

All mythical creatures weren’t created equal. Mermaid, for instance, I’d take over human any day, but it wasn’t preferential. While mermaids did have their underwater cities, I didn’t want to leave land forever. Therefore, I would be a shapeshifting mermaid so I could still come to the surface and get ice cream on the weekends.

For fairy, which was mythical creature I most wanted to be (a human-sized one, not a small one. I didn’t want to be crushed underfoot.), I imagined having wings and practiced flapping them so I’d be prepared to fly whenever they grew. I practiced folding them away and fluttering them gently when I walked. I could feel them, and I could almost see them. I was so convinced they were real that I’d even briefly considered jumping off our second floor to test them.

In third grade, I was convinced that the existence of my canine teeth indicated that I was actually a vampire or a werewolf. I couldn’t decide between the two. I managed to persuade my friends that this was true as well. It turned out they were harboring doubts about their humanity too.

When I finally came to realize that I was a mere mortal and would never sprout magic powers or wings, I turned to writing. I wrote many “novels” about mythical creatures. I wish I still had them, but most I’ve lost and some I destroyed.

In third grade, during writing time, our teacher would give us a prompt. She usually wanted us to talk about our real lives and experiences, but I decided to do my own thing and write fiction. My novel was about these three cat-fairy sisters going on a quest of some sort to save their mother. I was so excited to reach twenty pages in my composition book.

I also wrote a picture book in third grade. It was about three friends at a vampire school going on an egg hunt for solid gold eggs. It was a competition between their whole school. A race. I remember one of the eggs was stuck on the roof of the school, so they decided to blow it down. And plot twist/cliff hanger: one of the characters is actually a werewolf. *Mind blown* This was revealed by one of the eggs having a werewolf engraved on it.

Slight detour from fairy tales: In fourth grade, I wrote about a fork who was terrified of being used. It’s about how fork are superior to spoons. I hold this belief strongly to this day.

Then back to fairy tales in fifth grade, I wrote a bunch of fairy tale retellings with the villain as the misunderstood protagonist.

I also wrote a “novel” about shape-shifting mermaids. I was super excited when I hit a thousand words. *Looks at ~800 word blog post written in half-an-hour. Looks at ~1,300 word essay written for English yesterday.* This novel was written in lieu of whatever assignment we had in the computer lab. It was also my first typed story. I deleted it after it devolved into overpowered characters, no real plot, and shell phones. I wish I hadn’t.

In sixth and seventh grade, I diverged from fantasy and wrote my first dystopian, which I didn’t finish. It was about a terrible war that destroyed human life. The main character was Annie, a normal citizen who struggled to make ends meet, whose parents just laid hopelessly in bed all day watching a blank TV, and only ate peanut butter & jelly sandwiches (except the bread was secretly cardboard). The other main character was Nikki, who was a privileged girl not really even aware of the war with an aloof, uncaring father. Plot twist: the father started the whole war. Annie and Nikki would band together to stop her father, but at the end, when it really counted, Nikki would choose her father over Annie and the war would continue. The end.

The Sleepwalker | Flash Fiction

Hello, peeps of the universe. Today, or tomorrow, or whenever I find the time (what is time, anyway?), I’ll be doing a writing prompt! (Is “doing” an accurate verb? I’m not really “doing” a writing prompt. I’m writing an explosion based on the fuse that is the writing prompt. But actually, I’m just rambling.)

This writing prompt will be done with no prior planning. Basically, it will be word vomit. But hopefully, it’ll be entertaining word vomit. Either way, it will help me sharpen my writing sword to a lethal point so I can viciously stab all the fictional villains. [Insert mental image of Arachnid trying to press buttons on her laptop with a ginormous sword.]


The prompt: What started off as a sleepwalking problem leads to a night of adventure when Dane gets behind the wheel and does what he was too afraid to do when he was awake. (This prompt was stolen from BookFox.)

Diana carefully watched Dane across the table from her in the small cafe. It was nearly closing time and there were no other customers, only a waiter cleaning up the nearby table and willing them to leave so he could go home.

“Look, I love you, Diana, but you have no idea what you’re talking about. So what if I sleepwalk? I don’t have a problem. It’s harmless.”

Diana leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper even as anger laced her words. “Harmless? Do you even know what happened last night? Have you seen the news?”

Dane slowly shook his head.

“An unidentified man let all the butterflies out of the zoo.”

Dane barked a laugh. He had braced for something terrible to come out of Diana’s lovely mouth, like vandalism or arson or murder. “That’s all? So what if a few more butterflies are flitting around the city? Let them be free.”

Diana shook her head in disgust. “You don’t understand. It always starts small, and you tell yourself it’s nothing, and maybe it is then. But it escalates and you don’t even notice. This is bad, Dane. You need help. You could do something you’d regret.”

He drank the rest of his tea while Diana’s words rolled around inside his head. “Diana, trust me, it’s nothing.”

She abruptly stood up. “It seems you don’t have to even be asleep to say things you’ll regret.”

***

Hours later, the night was blue and sleeping. Dane was only a lump under the covers, Diana’s scathing accusations forgotten in the fog of sleep. The world breathed softly, the wind brushing the curtains in greeting, and the floorboards creaked as Dane’s feet thudded softly against them.

He didn’t fit neatly in the world anymore. He was outside of the calm and his body outside the control of his mind.

***

The garage door rumbled open. A car rolled out, Dane behind the wheel. The car lurched onto the empty street, weaving in and out of the lane like it was drunk, occasionally careening onto the sidewalk.

The car coasted to a stop after a while, half on a lawn and leaning against a precariously tilting mailbox. Dane clumsily stepped onto the pavement and stumbled to the door. He rang the bell, and when no one answered, he rang it again. Again, the door remained closed, the night still and quiet. He broke the silence and pounded against the door.

A moment later, Diana opened the door, wearing purple pajamas and glaring both furiously and sleepily. She rubbed her eyes. “What do you want?” She noticed his glassy-eyed stare. “Dane.”

Dane dropped to his knees and pulled a slightly squished cinnamon bun out of his pocket and held it out to Diana in an offering. He mumbled, “I love you. Marry me?”

Diana, usually unshakeable, was shocked. This was unexpected, to say the least. She thought that his sleepwalking would culminate in various criminal activities, not a proposal. “What? No. Goodnight, Dane.” She closed her front door, rolled her eyes, and went back to bed. Dane could find his own way home, as he had every night for the past few weeks.

***

Diana slid into the chair across from Dane the next afternoon and folded her arms. “Do you know what you did last night?”

Dane looked surprised. “I sleepwalked again? But I woke up in bed this morning.”

“You proposed to me. With a cinnamon bun.”

Dane flushed. “I—You were dreaming,” he spluttered.

Quality vs. Quantity

I was thinking the other day, as I occasionally do, about the phrase “quality over quantity.” This saying is useful when describing friends or hours spent studying or blog posts, but it is not always true. Sometimes quantity can be more important than quality.

For example, let’s consider Fred. Fred wants to start a sock business. He has scoured the globe for the perfect sheep with the softest, most unscratchy wool. He’s searched oceans and galaxies, talked to wise wizards and wise librarians, searched under rocks and inside the bellies of various beasts. After many years of humiliating fruitless searching and exhaustion, Fred finally did it. He found the perfect sheep.

He spent months in isolation, knitting away as the clock’s hands spun until he had created the most perfect, wonderful sock. It was the softest, the most breathable, the comfiest sock in existence. The quality was brilliant.

However, Fred only had enough wool to create one sock. Only a sad half of a complete pair. There simply weren’t enough socks to start a business. As there was only one magic sock in existence, Fred could sell it at an outrageously high price if he so wished, but he did not so wish. Through the years spent devoted to the creation of this sock, Fred had grown quite attached to it and he couldn’t bear to sell the love of his life to be worn on some random geezer’s stinky foot.

And so Fred had wonderful quality, but his lack of quantity led to a failed sock business.

Fred did, however, have a business-minded younger sister, Bethy. Bethy and Fred were always competing as children for their parents’ love. So while Fred spent years failing to find a sheep, Bethy took the opportunity to be better than her brother. She was going to start a successful sock business that would make her brother look even more incompetent in comparison.

Bethy’s socks didn’t have nearly as much care put into them as Fred’s sock did. Bethy business plan was to sell her socks at an absurdly low, low price so people would compulsively purchase them. In order to make them at such a low price, Bethy had to be clever. Instead of using wool, she used dandelion fluff. People paid her to weed their lawns and then she used those same dandelions to make her socks, which the same people later purchased. She also hired highly trained mice instead of people to make her socks because mice accepted cheese as payment.

Bethy’s socks weren’t of the highest quality. Her customers often complained of the socks being too fragile to wear and smelling oddly like rodent. But her customers’ contentment didn’t particularly concern her as long as they continued to purchase her socks.

And so Bethy had poor quality, but she did have quantity and a successful sock business, unlike Fred.

Now the question is, was there a point to this whole rambling story? No, not particularly. But it was fun to write.

Mirror, Mirror || A Very Short Story

  1. Mirror, Mirror: What if your mirror started talking to you? What might the mirror say?

Jenny stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her makeup, when her reflection screamed. Jenny, of course, screamed in return. And cursed a bit as well.

“You look atrocious!” the mirror exclaimed.

Jenny, bewildered, couldn’t form a reply.

“Well, come on, don’t just stand there like a pebble or a lilypad or some other immovable object. Don’t tell me you’re incompetent as well as ugly!”

“What are you?” Jenny breathed, concerned that she might be going crazy.

“This is unbelievable. You really can’t recognize me?”

“Well, you look just like me…” Jenny replied.

“You’re very good at stating the obvious,” her reflection replied.

Jenny rolled her eyes. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“You still can’t guess? I’m your self-esteem.”

Arachnid Writes a Story

NARRATOR: Arachnid’s fingers dance over the keyboards as he weaves a story. Her fingers struggle to keep up as she records the symphony in her head.

ARACHNID slams her face into the keyboard after staring at a blank document for an embarrassing amount of time.

A lightbulb flashes into existence above her head as an idea comes to her. She furiously types.

She pummels the backspace bar, beating it bloody, then slams her face into the keyboard again. Random letters appear on the screen.

ARACHNID: Ugh! Why is this so hard?

LAPTOP: I’m sure it’s harder for me than it is for you. What with the beating my keys bloody and all that! (Glares)

ARACHNID: If only I chose to like something I was actually good at. Imagine how convenient it would be!

LAPTOP: And if you like something you were actually good at, you wouldn’t beat my keys bloody anymore! (Glares harder)

ARACHNID: Come on, Laptop, you’ve been with me through it all. Essays, stories, disgusting attempts at poetry… You must have some ideas!

LAPTOP (softening a bit): Well, you could try writing short, random pieces before you get back to the hard one. Just write whatever. Flex those writing muscles! Preferably without beating my keys bloody. Practice makes better, as a wise first-grade teacher once said.

ARACHNID: Whatever? As in anything I can think of? Like a scene where you give me writing advice?

LAPTOP: If you must. (Sighs)

ARACHNID: Aww. I love you, too.

Eye Contact: A Writing Prompt

  1. Eye Contact: Write about two people seeing each other for the first time.

 

The park’s loud, but the only thing I can hear is the scratch of my pen and the distant echo of an epic dragon war. There are knights with clashing swords and a blazing fire and medieval princesses that save themselves, and then the knights. It seems like most people need absolute quiet for their writing. And honestly, maybe if I was writing in a silent place, my stories wouldn’t be so horrid, but it’s not like I’ll find silence anywhere at my house. The park’s not quiet, but it’s the kind of loud where you can’t hear anything. Which is an improvement.

Currently, in my head, the hero is standing in the dragon’s jaws, about to retrieve the queen’s crown from its stomach (which is where the dragons in my story hide their hoards. It’s like a weird second stomach. More like a pouch or something, I suppose, since there aren’t any digestive juices.) But. However. My pen’s run out of ink.

I’m rooting around in my bag in the hopes that I brought another one (which I know for a fact that I didn’t) when a roller skater, screaming/laughing (I can’t really tell) jumps/falls/crashes into the bench. Like the comet in my book that started the fires the allowed the dragon population to explode. But on a smaller scale and less catastrophic.

But still kind of catastrophic because all of my papers fly everyone and rain all over the place. It’s not windy, luckily. But ughhh. It’s going to be a pain to reorder everything. I should’ve added page numbers.

She pulls herself off the bench and brushes some dirt from her shirt. There are grass stains on her knees. I don’t think this is the first time she’s fallen. She sticks out her hand to help me up. I wasn’t planning to stand up, but what is one to do? Be excessively rude and not take the offered hand?

“Sorry. You wouldn’t believe how many times this has happened. I must be setting some record. I’m exceptionally bad at skating, but I decide to do it anyway, all the time. I have no idea why. Am I talking too much? I feel like I’m talking too much, especially since I just ran you over. Sorry. I like talking. And skating. And writing. I just felt like putting a third thing in there because it seems evener. Even though three is an odd number. And you were writing, and I like writing. So I feel like we’re connecting. We’re basically best friends already.”

I don’t think she takes a single breath, and she talks in that too-much-sugar sort of way.

“Hi,” I say.

She’s picking out some leaves that got tangled up in her hair, but then she looks up and meets my eyes and I get kind of distracted. She has very big, very brown eyes.

She’s an exact replica of Naila, the knight-saving, dragon-fighting princess from my story.

Halloween Horror Story

Hi peoples!

Happy spooky day!

It’s my favorite holiday. I LOVE Halloween.

What are you going to be for Halloween? I’m a cactus.

SHORT STORY!


She woke with a choked gasp, her fingers clawing at her throat, before she fell back into her pillows, realizing that she was still in her bed. She waited for her heartbeat to settle, gloomily accepting that she likely wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. She curled up and tried to get warmer beneath the mound of blankets, the nightmare already slipping her mind.

She was in a daze, in that quiet space between waking and sleeping, when she heard a soft creak, like footsteps on old floorboards. It must’ve been imagined. It must’ve been the first whispers of a dream. But she was alert now, listening and tense beneath the sheets, her eyes still closed.

What am I doing? she thought, with a short burst of laughter that more resembled a sigh.

A door slammed.

Whispers rose.

The footsteps came faster. Quicker. Urgent.

She rose slowly out of bed, wrapping a quilt around her shoulders, letting it drag on the floor behind her. She went downstairs, listening looking terrified. She flicked on the light, prepared to find something sinister and relaxed a bit when there was nothing. She was about to go back upstairs, to write off the sounds as figments of her imagination, when she heard a voice in her bedroom and froze, her foot hovering over the stair.

The sound wasn’t in a language she could recognize. It flickered at the edges of her mind like she should’ve been able to comprehend it. Yet it didn’t sound completely right, either. Something was off. A hissing undertone that wasn’t possible on the human tongue.

She climbed up the stairs, softly, slowly, coiled up and ready to fight or flee as soon as the cue was given. She flipped the light switch in the hall. She breathed a soft curse as light didn’t flood the hall. A moment later, the light at her back from the kitchen plunged into darkness, leaving nothing but shadows and silvered moonlight.

The quilt drifted to the floor behind her as she used touch and memory to find the hall closet. She pulled out a flashlight, praying it to work as she switched it on, and a dull glow filled the hall.

She followed the sound of the whispers, the sound rising and falling in chaotic waves, to her bedroom. To her bed.

She fell to her knees and pressed her face to the floor. Her hand shook against her will as she directed the flashlight beam underneath the bed.

The darkness seemed to swallow the light.

A solid mass of shadows.

Roiling and swallowing and shuddering.

Consuming.

She squinted and pressed closer. It couldn’t be. The light. The darkness. Her imagination. Her eyes. They were lying.

Her eyes widened.

A gasp escaped her lips. What did she see? What did she see?

She scrambled backward, lunged for the door.

Something pulled her back.

Something took her.

Something swallowed.

Something consumed.


© ARACHNID WEAVER 2018

Everything Must Fall || Short Story

Heyo, peoples!

This is a short story I wrote last year for an English assignment about 9/11 from the Twin Towers’ point-of-view.

Also, the title sucks. Do you guys have better ideas?


I stand tall above the gridded streets of New York, breathing in the smoggy air weighted on the city like a smothering blanket. The roads are choked with dust and traffic and cars and litter. But this high up, I have an unobstructed view of the clouds roaming through the blue sky and the birds flapping about.

I am the tallest in the area and I truly scrape the sky. The others jut out of the ground beneath me, like sparkling stalagmites in an urban cave. Only my twin, the one who shares my design, comes close, six feet beneath me.

From my place leaps and bounds above the tiny people, I watch the city grow and breathe. The seasons come and go, snow covering the cityscape in a layer of frosty white powder, and the lone flower pushing its way through the concrete at my feet.

Towers rise and fall. The city is always changing. Always in perpetual motion.

I feel the wind blow against my sides, trying to pull me from the ground. And I feel the rain beating down, flushing the people from the streets of my city into the protective arms of inside.

The days are sparkling and bright, the sunlight bouncing off the cresting waves in the water and the glass city. The nights are effervescent, like a glass of champagne. The people are owls, never sleeping. They roam my streets.

New York at night is a city of starlight. Like the night sky itself had descended and decided to call my city its home.

***

The day of my Collapse was unfitting for the destruction of such a lovely creation of glass and steel. The skies were a perfect blue, like the color of dreams, with puffy white clouds floating through like the sails of ships flying somewhere far away.

It was the day of Collapse and Destruction and Fire and Death. The sky should have cried for us, the fallen.

But my faithful friend, the sky, didn’t cry. He stayed bright and beautiful, hovering over the city. It was a day that shouted that nothing could go wrong.

Until the sky was choked by smoke and ashes from the burning ruins of my city, the collapsing rubble smoking and burying my people alive.

***

I don’t know if I saw the plane coming. Or if I saw it, I didn’t notice it. It was nothing special. Another bird, another plane, another cloud in the big blue sky. Planes passing overhead was a normal occurrence. It had become mundane. A routine. A fact of life.

I didn’t see it until it came too close, its wingtips blazing in the morning sun. Even if I had seen it before it was far too late, there is nothing I could’ve done but await my Collapse, for I am rooted to the ground.

I think it would’ve been harder if I had known what awaited my fate. To stand there and know what was to happen and do nothing. To be helpless in the face of demise.

***

The plane was a pinprick in the sky. Nothing but a dollop of color in the painting of the city. But it grew larger and larger as it came closer and closer. It took on the sharp teeth and claws of monsters. The horns of demons. The shadow of death. And I took the fear it doled generously like candy at a fair.

I think the first impact was the worst. See, I cannot feel pain as humans do, for I am constructed of imagination and glass and steel and I am nothing but a building. A mere structure to raise and level. But I am so much more. The people make lives inside me. Lacing my insides with love and hate and joy and tears. And although I cannot feel pain, I can feel the horror that comes with the sight of a plane crashing into me.

I feel as the steel of my spine folds into itself, folding like a sheet of paper being made into a bird. My glass shattering, raining down on the people below.

I feel the screams as the people inside of me try to flee, but they are trapped in my too-narrow stairs. I feel as they are crushed by me, the building they trusted to keep them safe from the rain.

A pillar of smoke rises into the sky, ash raining from the sky like the tears of flame. I breathe in and dust coats my insides. I watch as pieces of me fall to the streets, shattering into a million pieces and disappearing forever.

People pour from my doors. I watch them leave in masses and think of the ones still trapped in me. I can feel their hurried footsteps, their quick and frightened breaths. I urge them to go on. To leave me behind and be saved. Saved the way I know that I cannot be.

Some of the courageous fight against the river of people, struggling to get inside me. To get others outside, to the idea of safety. Even though they know that the last sky that they will ever see was full of smoke.

The fire rages, and the glass of my windows warp and twist. The glass no longer crystal and beautiful.

I thought that I would never fall. One of the only buildings in the city that the people could never bear to part with. I would live in the city forever, watching as it changed around me. But the change never touching me.

But here I am, falling. I fall in stages. Great, shuddering gasps as gravity pulls me down to the ground, from which I was so far before.

My brother collapses first. Other buildings fall around us, eaten away by the fire.

I can still hear his screams as his last breath is taken and he is nothing but a pile of rubble littering the ground. I can still hear the screams of the people that were inside him.

***

The last thing that remains in my memory is the sound of fires blazing and the sight of sirens blaring and the dust drowning the sky.


© ARACHNID WEAVER 2018

Mellow Yellow Episode 29: Why Is It Called Mellow Yellow?

MASTER (skipping into LENA’s room): Guess what?

LENA: WHAT?! (pulls out her earbuds, annoyed, with her annoying annoyed face)

MASTER (his face lighting up, as well as his fluffy hat): It’s the 29th episode! Can you believe it?

LENA (rolling her eyes): How could I forget? (She drawls on with a sarcastic tone) The 29th episode of… (she pauses and her eyes widen)…Mellow Yellow?

MASTER is in an animal-like trance, his hat on his back like a turtle shell. He chuckles, ignoring LENA in his joy. LENA briefly wonders why it’s called Mellow Yellow.

LENA: Master? Are you okay?

KYR (suddenly appearing): Master’s favorite number is twenty-nine. He goes back to his caveman instincts on the 29th of each month.

LENA (raising an eyebrow): It’s the 22nd.

KYR: Precisely.

LENA (shaking her head and deciding to move on): Kyr…you’re pretty smart. Do you know why our show is called Mellow Yellow?

KYR: You don’t know? (laughs)

UNKNOWN VOICES: We know!

The unknown voices are revealed to be TICK and TOCK, the two sticking their heads out the door.

LENA (hungry for answers): Why?

TOCK: Precisely.

TICK falls asleep.

MASTER (revived from his trance): You guys don’t know anything?

LENA (screaming): PRECISELY! Now, why is it called Mellow Yellow?

MASTER: According to Wikipedia, Mello Yello is a highly caffeinated, sugar-filled, citrus drink. As a group we are also a highly caffeinated, sugar-filled citrus drink, so to avoid copyright violations I named this thing Mellow Yellow.

TICK, TOCK, LENA, and KYR: That makes sense.

Mellow Yellow Episode 28: The Stars of The Show

TOCK is on the couch in the living room. TICK is on the floor, leaning against the couch and sleeping.

TOCK: Hey Tick, have you noticed how we’ve become the stars of Mellow Yellow?

TICK snores in reply. TOCK doesn’t notice and continues speaking.

TOCK: I mean, it wasn’t really the intention, but we’re amazing, aren’t we?

TICK blinks sleepily, waking up.

TOCK: We’ve stolen the spotlight, just like the notorious criminals we are.

TICK: Have we ever done anything explicitly wrong?

TOCK: Shush. Yes, of course, we have.

TICK: … Sure.

TOCK ignores TICK’s obvious lies.

TOCK: Now the nonexistent readers can’t remember Rue or Kyr or Lur or Cyra or any of those wackos.

TICK: Who are they?

TOCK: Precisely. Mellow Yellow is ours. We are the rulers. The Dictators. We are the law.

TICK (whispering): World domination…

TOCK: That is our goal.

TICK: I want a bread sandwich.

TOCK: Everyone will bow before us. They will obey our commands with a snap of their bones. Tick, can you smell the victory?

TICK: Not really. I want to smell a bread sandwich.

TOCK: You’re insufferable.

TICK (beaming): Thank you! You too!

~~~END

Mellow Yellow Episode 27: The Theater

JOHN and LENA are in the living room. They are eating buttered popcorn.

LENA: I like pretzels better.

JOHN: We should go see a play!

LENA: I still like pretzels better.

JOHN: There’s this new one that everyone is talking about. It’s called “Dirt Garden.”

LENA: What’s it about?

JOHN: Uhhh… I’m not entirely sure. But everyone else raves about it. Therefore we’re going to love it, too. I heard the actors are supposed to be stunning.

LENA: (Plasters an obviously fake smile on her face): They can’t be a better actor than me.

 

***

 

LENA and JOHN are at the Beans Bunny Theater and the room is darkening and the curtains are lifting as the play begins.

JOHN: Is that…?

LENA: No!

JOHN: It can’t be…

STRANGER #1 stands up. The rest of the audience is silent.

STRANGER #1 (cheering): Tick and Tock! You’re my heroes. The best actors in the business. Will you both marry me at the same time?

TOCK: Be quiet!! The show’s starting. And turn off your cell phones.

The play begins.

TICK (sobbing): Oh, my garden! All my flowers have been killed by some mysterious force! Now it’s nothing but…

A moment passes.

TICK: Nothing but…

The audience waits, at the edge of their seats. The anticipation is palpable.

TICK: Line?

TOCK (Whispering furiously): Dirt. Now it’s nothing but dirt.

The crowd is silent. TICK is silent. The whole theater is silent. TICK has fallen asleep.

TOCK: Aw $#%&!!! Get up, you stupid clod.

The curtain is quickly closed on a raging TOCK kicking a sleeping TICK.

The audience breaks into wild applause and whistles. It’s a standing ovation.

 

***

 

LENA and JOHN are talking to each other on the way out of the theater.

LENA (angry): Remind me never to listen to you ever again!

LENA stomps off in a random direction angrily.

JOHN (to himself): I thought it was magnificent.

JOHN hurries to catch up to LENA.

A New Book!

Since I just came back from a trip in Madrid, Italy, I’m very, very tired, but today, I’ll share with you our newest book which just came out on Amazon! It has sold one copy so far and I’m very proud of the publication.

It’s called “Wholesome Poetry” and it’s very different from today’s contemporary mindset towards the genre. Our book may be fattening for some of you, hard to swallow, but take it with an open mind. I hope it flips your view of poetry in the future, as it breaks all the established conventions of our current day rhyme and riddle.

Also, it covers a topic that is very controversial, which is the item of food. Food is rarely written about and these “wholesome” foods contain some secret that is very vicious:  carbs.

By writing about bread, wheat, and other grainy products, we hope to open the eyes of the people who throw away the crust. If this book is successful, we will create a sequel about how hotdogs and chicken nuggets are conjured.

Now for a little sneak peek:

Oh, u were so thick, oatmeal

Looking back at ur surface, my eyes a soft teal

But, oh y, may I ask were u not gluten free?

Y u not the perfect food for me?

If you enjoyed that, please check out the link: https://www.amazon.com/s/bread/poetry

Poison Walruses

TICK: Come on! Please?

TOCK: Only if you get on your knees and beg.

TICK gets on her knees and prepares to beg. TOCK crosses her arms.

TICK: Please, please, please, can we go pet the wal—

TICK collapses sideways as she falls asleep. TOCK rolls her eyes and drinks some hot chocolate while using the sleeping TICK as a stool.

 

~~~ three hours later ~~~

 

TICK: —ruses

TOCK (sighs): I suppose that was sufficient begging. Let’s go.

TICK squeals in delight

TICK and TOCK head to the snowy northern coast of Eureka. After three seconds of intense hiking, they find a walrus. They proceed to pet the walrus vigorously.

 

~~~ three hours later ~~~

 

TICK (scratching TOCK): Why are you so itchy?!

TOCK (scratching TICK): Why are you so itchy!?

TICK and TOCK: Quinn!!!

QUINN (exasperated): What?!

TICK and TOCK: Why are we so itchy!?!

QUINN: (Shrugs) It was probably the walrus. Did you check the walrus for poison ivy?

TICK and TOCK look at each other skeptically.

 

~~~~ END

Liebster Award Part 2

Heyo nonexistent peeps!

I have been nominated for the Liebster Award again, so infinite thanks to Mavis Dee and Navigating Worlds.

I’m going to set this post up like a Q&A because I wasn’t planning on doing two posts for the same award, but their questions were irresistible.


Questions from Mavis Dee

  1.  What is your go-to takeaway order?
    • Muffins!
  2. If you could be any living creature, what would you be and why?
    • I’ve thought about this a lot for unrelated reasons. But I really can’t decide.
      • Crow cuz they can fly and they’re super awesome (and also Six of Crows).
      • Narwhal because they are the sea-version of unicorns.
      • A tree (specifically cedar tree) because they are saving the world.
      • Immortal Jellyfish because they’re super awesome and also immortal and I wouldn’t have to worry about confronting my own mortality anymore.
      • Kiwi Bird cuz I love kiwi birds.
  3. You have one wish. You’re not allowed to wish for anything for anyone else or for anything altruistic. What do you wish for?
    • I’d wish for either an abolishment of homework or an unlimited gift card for Barnes & Nobles.
  4. What is the greatest ever song?
  5. If you could banish one person from this planet, who would it be?
    • A lot of people definitely annoy me a lot, but I don’t think I’d be able to banish anyone. Hmm… Okay, I can think of one person.
  6. If you could travel in time to any point in history, when and where would you go?
    • I’d want to be there for the moon landing.
  7. If you could have any profession, what would you be?
    • An author or a comedian [joke]. Or a musician. But trust me, I cannot sing.
  8. Where would you like to live if you could live anywhere at all?
    • Michigan. Or New Zealand (cuz kiwi birds).
  9. If you were stranded on a desert island, who would you most like to find you?
    • Finally, an easy one. Spinette Spyder.
  10. If you were a fictional character, who would you be?
    • I would be the adorable best friend who is also the comedic relief. Otherwise known as Keefe Sencen.
  11. What’s your best feature of all?
    • I think this means physical feature, so I’m going to go with my eyeballs.

Questions from Navigating Worlds

  1. You need a team of 3 people to help you overthrow an emperor. Which fictional characters would you recruit and why?
    • Kaz Brekker from Six of Crows: The Planner
    • Celaena Sardothien from Throne of Glass: The Assassin
    • Keefe Sencen from Keeper of the Lost Cities: The Best Friend
  2. What is the most surprising twist you have come across in a novel?
    • The most surprising twist I’ve ever read was in We Were Liars by E. Lockhart. I didn’t see it coming at all and it was absolutely amazing. A close second is in Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard. Obviously, I’m not going to tell you what happened in the twists.
  3. You are hunting for a house to buy with your family. The only places available are Northern Westeros (north of the wall), Mordor, and Arrakis. At which location will you purchase a home?
    • Uhhh… I’ve never heard of any of these places. Pass?
  4. If you had to attend a fictional school of magic, which one would you select?
    • I think this question is set up so everyone will answer with Hogwarts. Hogwarts. Hogwarts is the fictional school of magic.
  5. You are the likable, but slightly useless, best friend to the main character. What one skill keeps you out of trouble?
    • My impeccable sense of humor. The Main Characters of the world tend to be unfailingly serious and my ability to lighten any situation makes me a necessary addition to their team to secure their sanities. That’s why the Main Character will sacrifice anything to get me out of any pickles I find myself in.
  6. If you had to read every single book by one author, which author would you pick?
    • Leigh Bardugo
  7. Which is the best country in the world?
    • I’m going to say the USA, but I’m probably biased. 😉
  8. You are on an epic quest to save the world. You can take either a phoenix, a dragon, or an old bearded man. Which do you choose?
    • Phoenixes are my favorite birds, but I’m going to have to go with the old bearded man, despite his inability to fly. Cuz beards. (Also, he’ll probably spout useful information when I’m in various pickles.)
  9. Wine or beer?
    • Hot chocolate!
  10. You have struck it lucky and book blogging is your full-time pursuit but you need a co-author for your blog. Who do you choose and why?
    • Spinette Spyder because she’s already my co-author and I really don’t want to go through the process of finding a new one.

Mellow Yellow Episode 24: Author’s Note!

THE WEBWEAVERS are in the office of Arachnid’s Arctic Paradise deciding on what to do next for Mellow Yellow.

ARACHNID: I don’t know what to do next for Mellow Yellow… Ever since that Peeps talked, I couldn’t find any ideas!

SPINETTE: We can do a documentary on eating Yo-Yos featuring the two silent mimes!

ARACHNID: (Rubbing her hands like an evil genius) No. We need something original, something fresh, some—

SPINETTE: (hammers table with fist) Something to give Rue a purpose!

ARACHNID: Not that, Spinette!

SPINETTE (dejected): Owwwieee…

ARACHNID (ignores SPINETTE): Maybe we can bring Attendant back!

SPINETTE: I’m bored! I’m going to go look at memes, I mean… edit Outside In now.

ARACHNID: NO, YOU AREN’T GOING ANYWHERE! (pulls on SPINETTE’s shirt)

ARACHNID and SPINETTE sit there for a very long time.

SPINETTE: What if we used memes?

ARACHNID: Great idea!

 

~~~~END

Jackie Part 2

Part 1


Jackie’s POV ~~~ 4 years later

I took a crumb of bread, threw it in the fire and watched it burn. Between bites, I saw the fire dance, tendrils of the flames swirling around the scraps of wood. The smoke breathed into my bones like a dragon, and my spirits raised up a bit higher like a knight’s war call.

I like watching the fire. My mother said I got that habit from my father, and he said I got it from her. My puzzling parents, as always.

I wish it was always now.

Two candles, in a shelf by the door, one extinguished and the other desperately holding onto its light represented them. The remaining flame climbed up the wick, and fell again, raising itself back up in a continuous cycle. My father’s flame, it was, still alive after the eight years he hasn’t came back, maybe more so than ever.

Suddenly, the fire puckered up, licking the corners of the paper behind. Cautiously, I fanned the paper out, but not before the last thing I wrote on it scorched, painted a dung colored brown. September 31,—- the year was gone.

Flustered, I crumpled up the paper, snowballing it into the fire. The white tumbled into the raging orange, as the red consumed both the colors.”Phoo!” I blew out my father’s last flame. “Bye bye, mother and father .” Memories flashed by, and as always, came back to stab me in the chest, the knife cold and hard.

I slammed the door, scrambling into the grass, blades brushing against my bare ankles.

Today, the grass was a bit pointed, frozen by last night’s frost. The ground was sparsely covered at this season, but nonetheless, this was the day that Jack fought the beast a hundred or so years ago. I was just waiting for the bells to ring, when the townspeople would gather around the beanstalk, fruitful with flowers and life.

“Heyo!” Christian greeted me, grinning widely. His limp brown noodle-like hair was in a ponytail, and he was wearing a tan scumbag shirt. A bandage was taped on his cheek, newly acquired. “What’s up? Such a normal day, isn’t it?” He was trying his best to be a charmer.

“Today is the hundred and eighth anniversary of Jack slaying the giant! Did you forget?” I pulled his ear.

“It’s today?” He seemed startled, scratching his head stupidly.

“It is, you dunce!” I let him go, and he hopped like a bunny, freed from my grasp.

He hollered, “Oh boy! I can’t wait! Let’s go, Jackie!” He held my hand, racing toward the middle of the city. He ran, almost tripping me off my feet. Tendrils of his hair flew in my eyes, as I blinked rapidly, in a bewildered flurry of hair and quick wind. Soon, we were at the Beanstalk. I could see why he was, in fact, the Running Champion of the Hallows.

“Come one, come all!” The village minister welcomed the swarms of people with open arms, his blubbery form, jolly, unfitting with his outfit of dark black, “Today, we preach the powers of Jack sent by God, hundreds and hundreds of years ago!” The good-hearted man was yelling his blessings, sitting on the circular structure of smooth stone, surrounding the green plant, sprouting into the clouds.

From my place below, I saw vines swirling around the stalk, light pink flowers blooming, and as my eyes eventually climbed up to where it seared the hefty layer of puffy clouds. The scent of vanilla coated the air, my most recent favorite smell of candles. Wanting to smell more of the delicious scent, I followed my nose, landing on a precious pink flower, on the lower vines of the Beanstalk. As I went down to smell it, the petals collapsed on each other, closing its doors to its sweet center. I turned my head, as another heavy waft of vanilla flooded my senses. The flower opened back up again! Rushingly, I bounded for it again, unceremoniously greeted by an explosion of mustard pollen dust. With my face caked in yellow, I dumbly looked onto my friends in front of me. What an embarrassment!

The group of raunchy boys laughed at me, including Christian.

“Look at Jackie, smelling the flowers! Such a girly-girl, isn’t she?” Tom, the big, strong one of the group teased.

“At least I’m not as dumb as you!” I annoyingly played with his hair, “Shut up!”

“Shut up?” He was outraged, “How about you shut up!” Tom punched me the stomach, sending me flying with the blow, “You weak little girl!”

I got up to my bearings, cracking my neck, ready for a fight. This guy was not messing with me again! Gritting my teeth, I kicked his shins, confusing him. He stole a single glance at his ankles, when I delivered a solid punch to his face. He ricocheted into the rock hard stone, grunting like a caveman as he got up to his feet. Tom stared me down, his expression like a bull chasing red. From the corner of my eye, I saw bloody teeth scattered behind his large body.

“Guys! Break it up!” Christian yelled, pushing Tom away from me. His heels screeched against the dirt, dust emitting from them.

“Yeah, Tom!” Kev was on his side, cheering him on, like a little rodent. He pumped his skinny arm into the air, screaming an almost incompressible war cry, “Kill her!”

“Stop it!” Christian stopped pushing Tom. He gave us both a sly smirk, “Do you guys really want to be fighting in front of the minister?” The minister, noticing Christian’s cue, frowned at us. It was the first time I’d ever saw a negative emotion on him, and like his cloak, it certainly didn’t fit him well.

“Or…” he added, “The minister’s daughter? You know her, Kev. It looks like you’ll be her man quite soon.” For good measure, he added a high whistle.

“Really?” Kev questioned. He didn’t quite get Christian’s plan to stop our fight.

Instantly, Tom straightened, a fragile blush forming on his cheeks. I sat down, fixing my hair and brushing the yellow pigment off my face. They aren’t anything but embarrassments! I thought to myself, I couldn’t believe what Maria would do if she saw me like that! I’m so stupid! I tossed the last of the dust off my clothes, scooting to the front. All the townspeople will be here soon, so I needed to get a good, frontward seat for the storytelling. Even if I heard the story a million times, the story of the boy who killed the giant, I never got tired of it.

“You’re so funny!” Maria tapped my nose, giggling. Neatly, she folded her legs, crisscross-applesauce, hands on her knees along with a playful smile splayed on her face. Her black hair curled carefully around her chest, covering one half of her schoolgirl tie. Her glasses were large saucers, and developed bifocals from when I saw her last. “I saw the little duel you had there. And the explosion with flower dust!” A mischievous daft shone from her voice, “You like flowers, don’t you?”

“Y-y-y—yeah.” I stuttered. Staying calm in front of a rich person wasn’t easy, especially when you eat candies from the bottoms of shoes. “I do.”

“What’s wron—” Maria was interrupted by the tolling of bells, always playing the tone they do at midnight. This morning, it marked not only the noon hour, but a special ceremony as well: The 108th Storytelling of Jack, the hero of our village.


©SPINETTE SPYDER

Mellow Yellow Episode 22: A Lovely Boat Ride

TICK and TOCK  are in a tree, watching LENA and JOHN go on a boat ride down a stream.

JOHN: California exists, Len! Can you believe it?

LENA: No.

JOHN: What do you mean?

LENA: No, I don’t believe in California.

JOHN: But it’s real!

LENA: No it’s not. It’s just a figment of some terrible songwriter’s imagination.

JOHN: But Tick said―

LENA: Since when has anything Tick said made any sense?

JOHN: Well, that one time, she said…

LENA: …

JOHN: …

LENA: …

JOHN: One time she said, “The night sky is nothing but a black bottle of milk with pinpricks of firefly juice.”

LENA: Exactly!

JOHN: Exactly what?

LENA: You’ve proven my point.

JOHN: No, I’ve proven my point.

LENA rolls her eyes, frustrated.

TOCK: Should we tell them?

TICK: I suppose…

TOCK: But “should” isn’t the same thing as “will”.

TICK: I love it when you finish my…

TOCK stares blankly at TICK.

TICK starts stripping leaves from the tree.

TOCK: What are you doing?

TICK: I’m making a song.

TOCK shrugs and starts watching LENA and JOHN with vulpine focus, who continue to argue incessantly over unimportant subjects.

TICK (singing in her strangely melodic voice): ♩ Row, row, row your boat/gently down the stream/when you hit the waterfall/then you’ll start to scream ♩

LENA and JOHN: AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

 

~~~~END

Jackie

I saw that Arachnid was putting her story A Dreamer in the Darkness up here, so I decided to put up my story Jackie here too. I hope you enjoy it!

Giant’s POV

-Have you ever seen a giant climb down a beanstalk? No? Well, this is what I did that night… so long ago.

Found one.

The little girl scuttled away, racing through the fields, her feet making these soft taps in the dirt. The dust billowed upon my face, as I stifled a cough, hoping desperately that she did not hear me in the still sound of the night. Choo! I sniffled. Not apprehending my presence, the adolescent ran off into the village, wearing a mask of urgency and with a slight crook in her thick eyebrows displaying swallowed, compressed fear.

I crawled through the forest of trees, my giant monstrous body causing them to rattle. Leaves crunched under my hands as I hastily tried to maneuver myself, every move a hideous crash. A few paces later, I perked up, surveying a villa. It was small, quaint, with wind slipping through the cracks of sleeping huts. Then I saw her. A blast of red, then the lock of the door. Click!

Circling around the suburb, I restlessly settled myself down near the home the adolescent sneakily slid into. I looked through a window, eager for the story I was about to unravel. The girl’s eyes were wide as she flinched at each minuscule squeak. I folded my fingers together, tight, as my eager thoughts flipped to dread, waiting for what was to come next for the poor girl.

She trudged down the hall, as my curiosity went along with her, my vision darting towards the next window, inside a kitchen. The teenager was haphazardly throwing damaged pieces of silverware, opening wooden cupboards and loudly calling for someone. Seamlessly, her tension softened into concern which, of course, quickly fastened into worry.

-Humans have crazy emotions.

Her ragged breath blew in and out, fixing itself with the rhythm that the house was bouncing along with the thumps of my heart. Ta-dum, ta-dum, tad-dum. It was the only constant thing among the chaos of her crashing, clashing and screams.

“Mother!” The call was adamant.

Nothing.

Immediately, like lighting, the girl’s boots clunked up the steps. With my curiosity on full blast, I grabbed the top of the house, pulling my face closer, almost so the very tip of my nose touched the window. This one uncovered a bedroom and an older woman sleeping peacefully. I hope her daughter doesn’t disrupt her calm tranquil dreams. I swiped a quiet , calculating finger across the window, feeling the texture of smooth glass. It was new to me—- I never had felt it before.

Then a red swish flew through the door. The girl, I thought, recalling when I saw the red haired teenager enter the hut. Her cheeks were red, her hair matted with sweat, as she climbed onto the bed. She whispered something, something I couldn’t hear from the outside, so without weighing the consequences, I pressed my ear against the wall. Warningly, the house wobbled, dirt and planks falling from the roof. The girl fell on her napping mother, somehow failing to wake her up, but didn’t even gaze in my direction. Thank goodness. My shoulders fell, as I blew a gust of air from my lips, fogging up the window.

The girl’s shrieking cry emanated from the room, an incredible, incoherent cry that shook me from my head to my toes. Tinglings of the shriek vibrated in my mind, as I wiped the fog off the window, slowly unclothing the scene, my eyes progressively dilating, my brows folded in disbelief. I gasped, my fingers fanning in front of my “o” of a mouth.

The mother’s chest was scarlet with blood, a knife glinting from the wound. The mother’s blanket was thrown to the floor, and with that a terrifying secret.

-Don’t ever ask me to describe “death” of those creatures.

I ran away. Up the Beanstalk, in the middle of the town. Giant goblets of water drooped along my long, narrow face, flicking themselves off my jaw, wetting my hair and chest. I clutched at my breasts, thankful that I still have mine. Remorsefully, I took one last look of the village. It was so beautiful, with eerie hidden horrors lurking inside, a world of stars never seen above the clouds. I was so sorry I had to leave so soon.

A early rising lumberjack yakked at my appearance. He withdrew his axe, quickening my departure.


Part 2


©SPINETTE SPYDER