Wanna Feel Better? Then Love on Yourself!
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Joy is juice. Pleasure is the nectar that keeps us going.
Yet there are lots of excellent reasons to feel like f***ing s*** these days. And feeling like crud is bad for writers. It blocks us from flowing when we really need to keep going.
Getting dumped; getting fired (another kind of dumped); losing your friend group in a break up (yet another kind of dumped); fights with anybody important to you — family/partner/spouse/offspring/sibling/co-worker; toxic work environment; narcissistic anything and narcissists everywhere; asking somebody out only to get turned down; asking somebody out who only strings you along without a clean and honest rejection; one-sided friendships; moving to a new place where you know nobody and the culture is not friendly; realizing that the good buddy you lent money to will never pay you back; getting into a car accident; lousy customer service; deliberate rudeness…this list could go on for eternity.
Unfortunately, there is an abundance of unkindness in the world. People treat each other with disrespect all the time, and many of us are stressed and unhappy as a result.
That being the case, can we always rely on outside sources — like supportive friends and healthy relationships — for our contentment and happiness?
In my opinion, the answer is no. We need to get really, really good at filling our own wells.
How do we do that?
Again, this is an opinion: we can do that through the pursuit of pleasure, particularly the kinds that bring us to joy.
This may sound frivolous to some. Pleasure is dessert, not dinner.
And can we honestly say that the concept of joy receives the cultural respect it deserves? I came across a Ted Talk that addresses this topic, which I’ll post at the end of this article — because I want you to finish reading this. Of course.
Pleasure is extremely important. I think it’s far more crucial than people want to admit.
Stop and think about those stellar moments, when you feel amazing and your being is in a delicious state of lightness, when all your cares fall away, and you settle fully in the present. What comes not only to your mind, but to your heart?
Joy.
It doesn’t matter how you got there. What matters is that every single one of those pleasurable moments adds joy to your well, to your inner reserves that give you strength and resilience.
Those moments of pleasure remind you that life is worth living. So later, when one of the miseries strikes you, that nourishment will be there to sustain you.
Joy is juice. Pleasure is the nectar that keeps us going.
As we all know, loving, healthy relationships and true friends are the main source of juice and nectar.
But life happens. There are times when we don’t have that loving partner or our healthy friends are caught up in their own lives. Or both. Sometimes there’s nobody available to help you feel better.
These are the times to love on yourself.
Allow me to share a few of my go-to’s when it comes to bringing on the bliss. I’ll start with something simple.
Get thee to a waterfall.
I can’t encourage this enough. The powerful force of falling water does something to us on a cellular level. The negative hydrogen ions released from the splitting water molecules enter our bloodstream and increase our levels of serotonin — which relieves stress and depression.
Trust me. It works.
I’ve sat before a waterfall in a state of raging despair. When I left an hour or so later, no matter how devastated I was when I arrived, I left feeling serene.
My problems hadn’t gone away, but I wasn’t in a pretzel over them either.
Of course, not everybody can get to a waterfall readily without some kind of road trip involved. But if you can, do it.
If a waterfall is not readily available, any source of running water — such as rivers, creeks, or the ocean — will still be helpful. Even an indoor water fountain that makes that gurgling sound that’s agreeable to your ears will do some good.
Here’s another bliss blast that is not dependent on nature. This is not for the faint of heart. But damn, it works.
HOT Sauna followed with COLD plunge. Run HOT and COLD for several rounds.
Work up to this however you want.
Sauna for as long as you can stand it and submerge in a chill tub (I think this is far more powerful than a cold shower) for as many seconds as you can take it. Increase your time with each round. Take the heat until the sweat pours off of you, then immerse your torso, hands, feet, and head in a cold tub. The longer you do each, the more you get out of it.
Physically, this is amazing for lymphatic drainage. But emotionally, it pushes the ICK right out of you. It is impossible to feel depressed, anxious, or angry after going HOT and COLD for several rounds.
Once you get accustomed to this, you’ll find yourself craving the cold. You will find intense pleasure in the COLD the longer you stay in it.
The bliss is indescribable. You’re buzzing and floating and overwhelmed with well-being. You have to experience it for yourself to know how awesome it is.
And you’ll feel like a badass.
But there’s another juicy benefit of the practice of HOT Sauna followed with COLD Plunge.
Better Orgasms.
Which brings me to my last go-to.
Make love to yourself.
I mean that literally. What better way to love on yourself than to…well, really love on yourself?
I recommend this to everybody, even those with awesome sex lives with loving sweeties.
Who can truly be your own best lover more than you?
Use your imagination and get creative. There’s no excuse not to explore variety, because there are all kinds of books, methods, and sex toys to play with.
It’s win, Win, and WIN for anybody who takes the time and makes the effort.
Besides creating your own ecstasy with self-love and orgasms, masturbation will make you a better lover.
Beyond the obvious reasons of knowing your body and telling your inner shame monster to get lost, you’ll be more present in your body — not your head — the next time you have a lover in your bed.
So there you have some go-to’s for getting your bliss on. So get busy and love on yourself. You’ll feel better.
Oh, and wear bright colors. Click here that Ted Talk I mentioned earlier.
Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 4 - Healing Through Winter Swimming
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Photo credit: StockSnap on Pixabay
This is my second season of winter swimming.
I’m much tougher than I was last year 2020/2021. I’m able to stay in the cold far longer.
But that’s not even the least of it.
2021 was a motherfucker of a year.
Abandonment, betrayal, heartbreak, and even one death for good measure, 2021 was a year of grief. I lost my core people, my first tier relationships - my former roommate, my late brother’s best friend, a lover, and one of my favorite people.
It doesn’t matter that I made my choice to let go. All of it sucked.
We sure do live in interesting times. I’m hardly alone in this.
I find comfort that most people I know have also left behind close people. Because everybody is doing the friendship shuffle, it’s been fairly easy to restructure my community. Yet every relationship and friendship is unique in and of itself, and those connections can never be replaced. Loss still brings pain.
But through it all, the river is always there. Nothing forces me into the present moment with the immediacy of cold water immersion.
That got me through some of my worst moments of last year.
At the end of September, I found out that a friend who had always inspired deep respect, died suddenly from blood clots in her lungs.
The next day, I went to the river.
The water was not in the winter temps yet, but dropping fast. The cold was just enough to wear down the numbness of shock, leaving my heart free to ache. It hardly felt like relief, but it was necessary.
A couple of days after that, I cut ties with somebody I once considered my closest friend, somebody I had loved as if she had been my family. Our friendship had eroded slowly. Our connection didn’t survive the chaos of shifting values due to the pandemic, or the insidious influence of a needy relationship.
I believe friend breakups need more time to heal. Personally, I never thought this would happen with this friend, and there’s no one swim that will make that kind of heartbreak go away, no matter how excruciating the water is.
But each swim renews me a little more, as the cold river cleanses.
A few months after an acrimonious parting of the ways, I found out that my swim buddy and lover from my first season pretty much left me for somebody else. At the time of the split, she had made me out as the villain, because she hadn’t the backbone or courage to be honest. I couldn’t sleep at all that night after seeing pictures of her with the new girlfriend for whom she had declared her love a month after we had broken up.
The next day, I went to the river.
The season was late November. The water was in the upper 40’s, the temperature when the river really starts to hurt.
It would have been so easy to make excuses, to fall into apathy, depression, with hints of anguish and despair. It didn’t help that the river was a reminder of my ex-lover.
I had to force myself to go in.
As usual, I grimaced and groaned when I walked in to my waist. When I stuck my hands in, I probably cussed somewhere between a little and a lot.
I questioned my sanity when I finally dove under water to get fully submerged from head to toe. Then I gasped in desperation while trading off between breast stroke and side stroke, dunking my head under from time to time until I grew accustomed to the brain freeze.
As always, I thought the frantic panic would last forever. But it was only a few minutes before the torture was over, and I was in the here and now of that sliver of time.
On that late November evening, the sky had been overcast, and I had gone to the river around sundown. The sky was dark, but not yet black. I remember the planes flying low overhead right after take off from the nearby airport.
I remember thinking: I feel fucking amazing. I can do this, and she can’t. (My former swim buddy had been a weak swimmer.) This is MINE.
That shift to acclimation has always been a miracle. The instant the bitter cold of the water transformed into vicious pleasure, I was staggered yet again that I had been able to cross the threshold from agony to ecstasy.
That moment was pure grace.
There’s exquisite freedom to that. Freedom of choice. Knowing that I can bring myself to euphoria whenever I want - even after my heart takes a hard knock.
I can’t even go there about my late brother’s best friend. Suffice to say, it will be a long time before I can get past my enmity of him.
But I have the river. I will always have the river.
Wim Hof is right.
The cold is our friend. Relief for just about any pain can be found there.
Every time I bury myself in the freezing temperatures of a river that could kill me, I come out a little different.
After a betrayal, a death, a shock to my system, a break in my heart, I go swimming in the cold and the world disappears. I am reborn. Even if this release lasts only for those few moments, that counts. Those moments add up.
Today I am grateful.
I am grateful that 2021 is behind me. Really, who isn’t?
I am grateful for the cold water.
I’m sure as hell grateful that I kept swimming.
As I write this, it’s the 1st day of 2022. The water is about 38.75 degrees. It’s not as cold as the coldest day I shared with my ex-lover, but the season’s not over. We might get there yet.
But it’s the coldest water of this season thus far, and it’s definitely cold enough for the baptism of rebirth.
I’m meeting one of my favorite swim buddies for this, a new friendship that is very satisfying.
We crossed paths two weeks after I cut ties with my former roommate.
The season was mid-October. The Columbia had dropped below 60 degrees, and I had just finished a 40+ minute swim in 58 degree water. My body numb and my brain frozen, I had rushed to the truck to get changed as fast as I could.
A blonde woman had just gotten out of her car with her nephew.
“How’s the water?” she asked. “Gorgeous evening for a swim. I’m about to get in.”
I was so out of it, I could barely talk. I remember slurring my words as I answered – as one often does at the edge of hypothermia. The bliss of popping endorphins made me cheery, even though I only had a grace period of 5-10 minutes to get dressed.
The conversation was brief and the exchange of phone numbers immediate. She knew I didn’t have the bandwidth for conversation. She had been winter swimming for 5 years, and had a lot more experience at this than I did.
The old saying: “When one door closes, another opens” has never been more true for me than it had been in 2021. As I let go of old friends, I made new friends very easily.
True blessings I don’t take lightly.
I met a lot of nice folks last autumn while the water temps started their seasonal drop.
I also made new friends through other avenues, I’ve deepened my connections with friends I didn’t have enough of the time and energy needed to get closer. These friends are MUCH HEALTHIER in mind and body and heart, and thus, are far less problematic than the ones I had to leave behind.
This season is a different pleasure than the season last year. There is a lot less drama. Or no drama. The vibe is more relaxed, and these new connections have potential to sink deeper roots, and perhaps last over time.
Yet through all these changes, the river has been there. The water is always ready to cleanse me, freeze off the old skin of who I had been, so I can grow into who I will be. Who I want to be.
The first thought I awaken to on this first morning of 2022 is the awareness that I am a much stronger woman than I was on the first day of 2021.
That’s something to feel good about.
I’m ready to conquer that cold.
I’m ready to conquer myself.
If anybody would like to read Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 3, please click HERE.
Give Yourself Something to Write About - More Prompts!
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Well, those writing prompts…they just keep on coming! I’m fairly pleased with these, kind of nice to use photographs as inspiration. I hope you get much inspiration from these. Something for everybody, really.
There’s an erotic novel in here somewhere. What do you think? Should Narcissus and Vanity have a go at it?
“Tell me I’m pretty.”
Tired of Vanity’s never-ending demands, the mirror remained silent.
“Tell me I’m pretty!”
Vanity slapped her reflective surface.
The mirror cracked.
Vanity stopped and leaned in to embrace her reflection.
She was beautiful.
The Bridge of Serenity is always there for us.
Cross the Bridge into the realm, find a comfortable seat, take a few deep breaths, and ask yourself these questions:
“What does peace look like to me?”
“What brings me peace?”
When you’re ready, write down what you found inside yourself.
“I was not one of those personable peasant girls…No possibility of a fairy tale twist of fate for me.”
Claire surrenders to the water. She is filled up with air, but already the pressure squeezes her lungs. From the depths, she hears people screaming from the pier.
They think she jumped in for tragic reasons.
Nothing could further from the truth.
Claire waits for her lover to claim her.
What’s the best way to make friends with your shadow?
Go hang where your shadow is invisible.
In the darkness.
Follow the path into the deepest recesses of the tunnel of your mind.
Invite your shadow to join you and just listen.
Your shadow has a lot to say.
Enter the Benevolent Intruder
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Image by ImaArtist on Pixabay
The Patron found him in the garden he planted for his beloved before they wed.
He had created an Eden of her favorite flowers to welcome his bride home, surrounding the house with lilies in every size and color.
Narrow paths wove through the blooms; some were the color of wine, while others were golden and streaked with black, and still others blushed deep magenta. Pure white callas made regal sentinels that lined the path along the way to the pillars of the portico at the front door.
The garden of lilies became more splendid with every passing year after his wife died.
Their stalks grew taller and the bulbs thickened until the blooms were the largest he’d ever seen, perfuming the air with sweet musk as they opened.
The Vagabond came in early spring, just after the girl’s thirteenth birthday.
A light rain fell that morning, sun shining through clouds and drizzle, making ribbons of light and water over the house and garden when he saw the young man among the lilies. Dressed in patchwork clothes, with the heavy rucksack of a wanderer at his feet, his mouth was agape as he stared around the garden.
“I beg your pardon,” the Patron said, “but are you lost?”
“Not this time,” the stranger answered, turning in circles and shaking his head at the profusion of blooms growing taller than he. “But everybody’s a bit lost, don’t you think?”
His voice had the smooth texture of aged cognac, but he was a vagabond for certain. His command of language was that of a citizen, but his accent drawled of faraway places.
“Can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought,” the Patron replied.
The Vagabond faced him then and smiled.
His teeth were brilliant against his tan skin, golden brown eyes sparkling as he removed his worn hat. Instead of bowing to introduce himself, he leaned his head back to allow droplets of rain on his face. He closed his lids, the flares of his nose puckering from the long swallow of air.
“Smells like heaven here,” he sighed. “I’ve been just about everywhere, but I’ve never come across anything like this.”
“Is that what you’re doing here? Coming across something new?”
“No,” the Vagabond said, pulling his head up and peering at the Patron. “I’ve come to work and they tell me you have a more generous heart than most.”
“Did they? I guess that depends on what you can do.”
“I can do lots of things, but I like to work with horses whenever I can. I have a nice way with them.”
“Oh really?” the Patron said, cocking one brow.
“Yeah. Really.”
The Patron chuckled and shook his head, unable to resist the urge to lead the young man to the barn. He heard the gasp of his visitor and grinned, knowing the sudden change in smell from the garden to the sharp pungency of the stables shocked his senses.
But the Vagabond followed him to the last stall, whistling when he looked inside.
“What a beauty!”
“That he is,” said the Patron. “Still a colt and absolutely uncontrollable.”
His coat was deep gray and his mane and tail could have been spun from silver. The long strands cascaded along the curve of his neck and reached to the ground from his hindquarters. His torso had the same girth, his limbs the same length as most adult stallions.
The Vagabond tapped on the door to bring him closer.
But the colt stayed at the far side of the stall, looking at the visitor with one eye and snuffling.
“Think you could have a way with him?” the Patron asked.
“Sure.”
“Two of my best stable hands are unable to work for a month after trying to break him in. Both men have worked with horses since they could walk and you believe you can do better?”
“I know I can.”
“I don’t think so.”
The Patron beckoned the Vagabond to accompany him back to the garden, feeling foolish and even a bit cruel for misleading him.
“It’s too dangerous,” he continued. “I know nothing about you, but I know that colt. I’ve never seen anything like him and he’s not even full grown.”
The Vagabond grinned and shrugged, yet the Patron sensed bitterness as his handsome features tightened for a moment.
But the Vagabond took in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh, and any signs of wrath disappeared.
Then he looked the Patron in the eye with a directness bordering the offensive. He had never seen a destitute meet him as an equal.
“Sounds like that colt is one that’ll choose his master,” the Vagabond said. “Maybe you should just let him go.”
He chuckled then, with a richness that can only come from the belly.
The sound of the young adventurer’s laughter was infectious, yet brought to mind the warnings the Patron had heard all his life about those who follow no law but their own.
He’d always tried to be generous and fair to those restless souls who showed up at his door, most of them diminished to half-starved wretches. The Patron always gave them decent wages and a good meal.
But out of prudence, he never allowed them stay.
“Thief…”
“Never-do-well…causing trouble wherever he goes…”
“Beware the vagabond and send him on his way…”
The litany of cautions echoed in his memory until the Vagabond interrupted.
“I can handle your colt, Patron. And if I’m wrong, then it’s my tragedy. But what do you stand to lose giving me a chance?”
The Power of the Pan
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Then I hurled through the trees to the creek bed where I intruded on the Pan in the F*ck.
That stopped me in my tracks.
The girl was splayed on her back on top of a boulder. Her legs bent at the knees and dropped aside to form the portal of the Divine Harlot, where the Pan gripped her hips with his meaty hands and f*cked her mercilessly.
I could see the outline of taut muscles through his furry thighs as the Pan rolled his pelvis. Her full breasts bounced in rhythm to the beat of the beast thrusting in and out of her. Her lips were black cherry red and her cheeks flushed roses, her pale straw-colored hair streaming around her head.
I had never seen anything more beautiful.
This girl was absolutely exquisite in the F*ck.
From her writhing, moaning bliss, I could tell she was no virgin when she had crossed paths with the Pan. But she might as well have been. Chances were she had never been pummeled like this, and she clearly loved it. She arched her back and gyrated her pelvis while reaching for her peak.
The girl’s flesh quivered, her body quaked as she dove into an explosive climax that consumed her in waves. Shrieking ecstatically, the girl was already begging for more.
What a magnificent little whore. She had to have descended from a nymph.
I was so enthralled with watching her I didn’t realize the Pan was watching me.
His hair was so thick, I could barely make out the horns and flying ears. His beard was the same ruddy chestnut as the hair on his head. His features were brutish, with deep set murky eyes and a blunt nose.
The Pan was still hard when he pulled out of the girl. The sight of that huge, engorged c*ck made the blood drain from my face.
I recoiled.
This was not the way things usually happened with the Pans.
According to all the stories I’ve ever heard, I should have been overcome with a searing lust.
Of course, he noticed.
“Huh,” he muttered.
I backed away from him.
The Pan peered intently into my eyes, tilted his head, and grinned.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You belong to Sappho.”
“What’s that mean?”
Suddenly, I was neither afraid nor repelled.
The Pan chuckled.
“Unless you don’t know who Sappho is, you know exactly what I mean. You like girls.”
As soon as he said it, I knew it was true.
Suddenly, my longing for Adele and her vicious torment made far more sense. She probably suspected that about me, and fed off my yearning to pump her vanity.
The girl pulled herself upright on the boulder, still quivering.
The Pan picked her up by the rump, and she tried to wrap her legs around him. Instead, he set her on the ground, and directed her towards me.
Once she was closer, I noticed she was a few years older than I. Her eyes still bleary from the F*ck, but her gaze cleared and brightened when she saw me.
The girl looked me up and down slowly, and smiled.
It took every bit of self-control I had to hold still. Every part of me wanted to tremble.
Even with her hair tangled and her skin flushed from the F*ck, she looked more like a Madonna than the wanton slut I’d just seen getting pounded and relishing it.
“Oh my,” she said breathlessly, and turned her face to the Pan. “Is she going to join us?”
“Do you want her to?” he asked.
The girl moaned and threw her head back. She had a lovely, long throat and her deep red lips curved in a smile.
“I do,” she murmured. “I want to play with her while you f*ck me.”
I blazed when she said that.
“And then I want to watch while you fuck her.”
I froze.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” the Pan said.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t think she wants me.”
“How is that possible?”
“Because she wants you,” the Pan replied. “I think she wants you really bad. As bad as you want me so bad you’re dripping for me right now.”
“Really?” the girl murmured, her mossy green eyes intent on me. “If you’re right, maybe I can change her mind.”
I’ve never been at a loss for words at any time in my life before or after that moment. The wetness between my legs made me blush.
The girl giggled at the expression on my face.
“Hello there,” she called out. “I’m Heather. What’s your name?”
I paused, still unable to speak.
“You have a name, don’t you?”
“Dusky.”
“I like that. It’s sexy. Do you like to play with girls, Dusky?”
“I don’t know. I never have.”
“Have you ever messed around with boys?”
“No.”
“So you’re a total virgin?”
I blushed so hard, I thought I’d pass out.
“I guess so. Yeah.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen. Most people think I’m older.”
Heather nodded slowly and smiled, as she perused me up and down again.
I had seen that rakish expression before. On the faces of men and boys, that look made my skin crawl.
But coming from a slutty Madonna like Heather, that look made my knees shake.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “You have such a strong, womanly body. Do you want me like Pan says you do?”
I nodded before I could stop myself. It was impossible for me in that moment to deny how I felt.
Such was the power of a Pan.
What Happens After One Breaks Free
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Image by Sasin Tipchai from Pixabay
I had just turned sixteen the first time I met a Pan.
I was also a virgin at the start of that adventure, and I wasn’t by its end.
But things didn’t go as they usually did, maybe because the Pan was in the middle of the F*ck when I came across him.
I saw him in the deepest parts of the forest. Of course, that’s where I found him.
Most of the stories about Pans took place in the natural wild – in the woods, near rocks and cliffs, beside rivers and creeks, and even under waterfalls.
Where else could Pans feel most comfortable shedding their human forms, to don their animal selves, and let the horny half goat live, breathe, and f*ck?
Autumn was at its peak. Not just the trees, but the foliage exploded with the madness vivid color, so vivid that our home was famous for it.
Tourists from all over the world crowded the more famous forests, leaving the more secretive and private woods known only to the locals.
I was in one of these havens, hiking with the girl I considered my best friend at the time.
Adele was a pretty girl, who I both loved and hated in equal measure. I always yearned for more of her, more of her time, more of her attention than she was willing to give.
My treacherous best friend liked the shape of triangles, especially of the human variety. I rarely had the pleasure of enjoying Adele to myself. There was always another best friend or her boyfriend joining us.
On this particular day, we had gotten an early start to go hiking.
Her new best friend of the moment – and my least favorite – was with us.
Adele insisted Lise was necessary, for although we were all sixteen, Lise was the one who had both a license and a car.
She could take us to the oldest parts of the secret woods, far from the tramp and stomp of oblivious tourists who made our larger forests rather unpleasant this time of year.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
I found her personality close to unbearable, and I didn’t understand what Adele saw in Lise, with her simpering smirks, and a grating voice with an insipid tone that worked on my last nerve.
But like most people, Adele had a case of hidden ugly-nasty, which expressed itself through malice. Girls like Lise were made for that kind of poisonous indulgence.
Since triangles are always two sides against one, it was hardly surprising I was on the outs that morning.
Adele and Lise walked arm in arm, either in front of me or behind me, whispering secrets in each other’s ears, and giggling.
I fumed, which is exactly what they wanted. I even realized that at the time, which made my impotent wrath even more palpable.
The forest saved me that day.
To keep from losing my temper and my dignity, I forced my attention on the beauty around me.
The woods were particularly exquisite.
There had been a recent rain. Leaves, a myriad of golden passion and exploding fire, covered the trees; the ground was resplendent and heavy with ample moisture, along with the warmth of changing color as well.
The powerful softness of morning light highlighted the forest canopy, and the colors were most vivid right after the rains.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply through my nostrils. The smoky aroma of autumn permeated the air along with a hint of spice.
I also heard the creek running in the distance. The sound of riotous peace of a waterbed streaming fat with fresh, luscious water brought me back to myself.
As the great-great-granddaughter of a water nymph, this was my favorite element. Water was my savior that gave me strength and power during times of stress.
I opened my eyes again.
I could finally notice the flurry of squirrels, the wing-flap and songs of the birds.
Everything pulsed with life, in this season right before the death of winter.
My heart beat strong inside my breast.
I turned around and faced the not-so-hidden ugly-nasty of Adele and Lise, sniggering at my expense.
The malice gleaming from their eyes was undeniable.
Suddenly, I knew I had been played for a fool to accept the role they gave me.
It was incredible how quickly love-hate dissolved in an instant.
Adele caught on to my indifference immediately. The vicious glee in her face disappeared and her brow furrowed.
If I had possessed less inborn composure, I probably would have laughed out loud. Adele and Lise seemed so dull and ordinary in that moment.
Really, what was I doing with these silly girls? I was borne from magic. I was a descendant of a nymph.
“I’m done,” I said.
“What are you talking about, Dusky?”
“I don’t want to hike with you and Lise anymore. I’m going my own way.”
“Are you nuts?” protested Lise. “We’re more than an hour’s drive from town.”
“Then I’ll be home by nightfall.”
I took off at a violent run.
I became giddy with each stride that took me away from them.
The delirious freedom borne from liberating myself from invisible shackles that rendered me powerless only because I had allowed it to be so.
Adele and Lise didn’t bother chasing after me, because what was the point of futility?
My father was tall and lean, with far more physical power in his physique than his appearance implied. I took after my father in that way.
I was several inches taller than Adele, with longer, stronger limbs. There was no way either she or Lise could keep up, much less catch me.
They shrieked after my departing back.
I didn’t hear all of what Adele said, something innocuous like calling her when I got home.
The euphoria of freedom kept me running hard for nearly twenty minutes.
The forest was a blur of green, while leaping over rocks, cracking twigs, and the earthy spice in the air.
Then I hurled through the trees to the creek bed where I intruded on the Pan in the F*ck.
The Girl Who Didn't Need Anybody
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Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay
The Patron always put off business for as long as he could.
He never confined himself to his study until the leaves changed color, and only then would he engage in the duties he found so tedious.
This was the time of year when he reacquainted himself with the sounds of his household.
He could recognize the Cook from her heavy shuffle and the maids from their light-footed trots; his daughter’s personal maid and his manservant had similar glides, the tread of the latter heavier than the former.
Their paces made a mesmerizing rhythm, making the dullness of his work more tolerable.
Late one afternoon, his concentration was interrupted by an unfamiliar tread coming from his daughter’s rooms.
The Patron looked to the ceiling and frowned.
This gait was long and steady with a firm step to the floor, its resonance echoing through the ceiling.
His daughter’s footfall was a whisper, so soft to be almost silent. Many times, a servant or merchant would be startled to turn around and find her standing there, for they hadn’t heard her approach.
The Patron looked at his watch.
The girl was usually on a ride at this time before dinner. Whoever he heard walking above him couldn’t be his daughter.
Stunned that an intruder should be in his home, the Patron rushed from his study and up the stairs.
Her skirts and petticoats swirled around breeches cuffed at her boots. Thus reminded of his daughter’s refusal to ride in a lady’s saddle, the Patron knew it was she who now had the firm tread of a stranger.
In his haste, the Patron almost collided with his daughter at the top of the stairs.
But the girl reeled away from her father, her face pale.
Yet she recovered quickly and stepped back, crossing one foot behind the other and sweeping one side of her skirts to her waist. The girl’s composure restored, color returned to her cheeks as she came out of her curtsy, waiting for her father to allow her to pass.
Embarrassed, the Patron stepped aside.
His daughter descended to the landing.
To his surprise, she stopped before the portrait of his wife. The girl kissed her fingers and then pressed them on the lips in the portrait.
His daughter glanced to the top of the staircase, and flushed when she saw the Patron still watching her.
Yet all the Patron noticed was that she now stood a shade taller than the woman in the painting.
His daughter was now the same exact age as his wife when he had met her.
He looked at her again.
The girl was actually glaring at him, the defiance in her eyes unnerving, even as she curtsied to him once more.
The Patron didn’t return to his study.
He stayed upstairs, listening to the fade of his daughter’s gait as she left for the stables.
He came down a step and sat down, staring at the portrait, while the same question ran through his mind.
When had their daughter grown up?
There he stayed until his manservant startled him out of his reverie with a hint to get ready for dinner.
The Patron watched his daughter closely after that day.
He found it wasn’t just her walk that had changed.
All her life, people whispered what a tragic shame it was the girl didn’t take after her mother. The Patron agreed, although he tried to hide it. The girl’s presence would have been easier to bear if she could have reminded him of his wife.
But he never saw anything, no matter how much he wanted to.
Time had not refined the girl’s features, and she never acquired the languid poise of her mother.
Yet after that day, the Patron noticed the girl radiated an assurance that was unusual for women, and she possessed her own grace, moving with animal freedom.
The Patron also noticed his daughter had grown more animated.
He found she chose satires and comedic novels for her reading, often biting her lower lip to suppress her chuckles.
She also began painting for the first time since her formal education came to an end, singing or humming while working watercolors onto canvas. The Patron often found her on the back portico of the house, where she had a splendid view of the young forest to the east.
The girl always stopped her brushstroke when he came, confusion clouding her features every time she saw him. But the coolness in her eyes was unsettling.
His daughter’s transformation intrigued the Patron.
How had this happened? For nothing had changed.
The girl was still despised everywhere she went.
Rooms fell silent on her entrance.
People stared at her or ignored her, just as they had for years.
But the girl was no longer stricken by it.
Instead, her indifference to what others thought of her was clear as crystal, even though she went through her day as alone as ever. Yet she now had an air of contentment about her, happiness even.
After years of ostracism, his daughter had become the rarest of human mysteries, somebody who didn’t need anybody.
7 New Writing Prompts!
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Hey y’all,
It never ceases to amaze me the variety of stories that can spur from a few lines.
I’m sharing some lovely graphics complete with excerpts from my novels and blogs that could potentially inspire you to a work of your own. Usually, I come up with original prompts that are not connected to my writing, but I’ve done something similar to this before and I’ve never seen anybody come close to what I wrote. I’m not saying it couldn’t happen, so I’m not worried about plagiarism, at least not really.
Give it a try. You never know what you might come up with.
Enjoy!
The Power of the F*ck
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Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
As wonderful as it was to grow up without shame, the lack of it had its annoying consequences.
Ordinary people thought us a bunch of whores.
It grew tedious to be stared at through narrowed eyes and whispered about from prim lips.
Except for me, of course. I was pointed at for other reasons. But I’ll get to that in due time.
The good-looking rogue didn’t prove he was a Pan by shapeshifting. I think Mamie had always been disappointed by that.
Perhaps he wanted to stay handsome as he f*cked Mamie.
Shapeshifting into a half goat would have distorted his face enough to wipe it clean of beauty.
Or perhaps Great-Aunt Dottie was right that he was second or third generation Pan, and thus less likely or less able to shapeshift.
As Pans always did, whoever seduced my grandmother left her after a full night of the raucous, unrestrained F*ck.
Mamie tried desperately to stay awake to make the night last as long as possible. But eventually, the F*ck exhausted her and she passed out.
As was the usual way, she woke up to an aching c***, shaking limbs, and very alone beside the riverbank where she had enthusiastically given up her maidenhead.
But Mamie never got over her night with the maybe Pan.
Most women didn’t.
Pans were notorious for the siren call of animal lust they awakened in women, as well as their ability to satiate the hunger hidden between a woman’s legs.
No woman who ever crossed their paths was able to resist the sudden urge to f*ck and be f*cked senseless.
The only problem was that stirred up a lifelong craving. For the women would never know such carnal satisfaction again.
They only got to have that one night.
I was sixteen years old the first time I met a Pan.
I was also a virgin at the start of that adventure, and I wasn’t by its end.
But things didn’t go as they usually did, maybe because the Pan was in the middle of the F*ck when I came across him.
I saw him in the oldest parts of the forest. Of course, that’s where I found him.
Most of the stories about Pans took place in the natural wild – in the woods, near rocks and cliffs, beside rivers and creeks, and even under waterfalls.
Where else could Pans feel most comfortable shedding their human forms, to don their animal selves, and let the horny half goat live, breathe, and f*ck?
I was in the woods hiking with the girl I considered my best friend at the time.
Adele was a pretty girl, who I both loved and hated in equal measure.
I always yearned for more of her, more of her time, more of her attention than she was willing to give.
My treacherous best friend liked the shape of triangles, especially of the human variety. I rarely had the pleasure of enjoying Adele to myself. There was always another best friend or her boyfriend joining us.
On this particular day, we had gotten an early start to go hiking.
Her new best friend of the moment – and my least favorite – was with us. Adele insisted Lise was necessary, for she was the one who had a license and a car, and could take us to the oldest part of the woods.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
I found her personality close to unbearable, and I didn’t understand what Adele saw in Lise, with her simpering smirks, and a grating voice with an insipid tone that worked on my last nerve.
But Adele had a taste for malice, and girls like Lise were made for that kind of poisonous indulgence.
Since triangles are always two sides against one, it was hardly surprising I was on the outs that morning.
Adele and Lise walked arm in arm, either in front of me or behind me, whispering secrets in each other’s ears, and giggling.
I fumed, which is exactly what they wanted. I even realized that at the time, which made my impotent wrath even more palpable.
The forest saved me that day.
To keep from losing my temper and my dignity, I forced my attention on the beauty around me.
The woods were particularly exquisite.
It was the middle of spring, right after the rainy season. The moss covering the trees and ground was resplendent and heavy with ample moisture.
The powerful softness of morning light highlighted the forest canopy of dark green, yellow green, bright green, the colors most vivid right after the rains.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply through my nostrils.
The aroma of the last rainfall permeated the earth below, and fed the leaves and budding blossoms, the hint of spice in the air around me.
I also heard the creek in the distance. The sound of riotous peace of a waterbed streaming fat with fresh, luscious water brought me back to myself.
As the great-great-granddaughter of a water nymph, this was my favorite element.
Water was my savior that gave me strength and power during times of stress.
I opened my eyes again. I could finally notice the flurry of squirrels, the wing-flap and songs of the birds.
Everything pulsed with life and my heart beat strong inside my breast.
I turned around and faced the ugly nasty of Adele and Lise, sniggering at my expense. The malice gleaming from their eyes was undeniable.
Suddenly, I knew I was played for a fool to accept the role they gave me.
It’s incredible how quickly love-hate can dissolve in an instant.
Adele caught on to my indifference immediately. The vicious glee in her face disappeared and her brow furrowed.
If I had possessed less inborn composure, I probably would have laughed out loud.
Adele and Lise seemed so dull and ordinary in that moment.
Really, what was I doing with these silly girls? I’m descended from the magic of nymphs.
“I’m done,” I said.
“What are you talking about, Dusky?”
“I don’t want to hike with you and Lise anymore. I’m going my own way.”
“Are you nuts?” protested Lise. “We’re more than an hour’s drive from town.”
“Then I’ll be home by nightfall.”
I took off at a violent run.
I became giddy with each stride that took me away from them.
The delirious freedom borne from liberating myself from invisible shackles that rendered me powerless only because I had allowed it to be so.
Adele and Lise didn’t bother chasing after me, because what’s the point of futility?
My father was tall and lean, with far more physical power in his physique than his appearance implied.
I took after my father in that way. I was several inches taller than Adele, with longer, stronger limbs. There was no way either she or Lise could keep up, much less catch me.
They shrieked after my departing back.
I didn’t hear all of what Adele said, something innocuous like calling her when I got home.
The euphoria of freedom kept me running hard for nearly twenty minutes.
The forest was a blur of green, while leaping over rocks, cracking twigs, and the earthy spice in the air.
Then I hurled through the trees to the creek bed where I intruded on the Pan in the F*ck.
That stopped me in my tracks.
Writing Prompts for Creative Introspection and Journaling!
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So I’ve been writing often for Medium, which has been an experience.
Of course, this has taken my focus away from my blog, Give Yourself Something to Write About.
Obviously since it’s taken me until the end of the month to get any writing prompts out here, whereas before I was cranking out prompts at least 4 times per month for a while there.
Anyway, these have more of a journaling flavor because my inner world and process is where my mind and heart is right now.
But a couple of them could transform or even inspire fiction.
Anyway, disillusionment has begun and I’ll likely to give some love back to the blog.
In the meantime, enjoy these prompts!
The Sons of Pan and the Daughters of Nymph
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Image by Pablo Elices from Pixabay
Pans were the sons of the God Pan, His Profane Holiness of the F*ck.
So long as Pan followed the rules of the gods, and kept his c*ck for the c*nt of nymphs, balance was maintained. Those demigoddesses had enough magic to copulate endlessly without Pan’s seed fattening their bellies with child.
Most nymphs chose eternal maidenhood, savoring the delicious pleasure found in their lithe, nubile forms and the nectar of their sweet juices.
Every once in a while, there would be an exception.
A nymph would grow bored of the endless revelry of giggles and romps. Then they allowed Pan’s seed to plant as they willingly passed into the phase of the Mother and brought to life more gods into the heavens.
Or so it went most of the time.
Every so often, things happened a little differently.
According to my grandmother, her grandmother - my great-great-grandmother Nonny - had been a water nymph until the day she met a hunter, and unexpectedly and inextricably fell in love with him.
Nonny was even more deviant than the other nymphs.
Instead of the God Pan, she chose a mortal man to wife her down and begat upon her womb the mortal children of humanity. With her husband, Nonny birthed many babies. My grandmother’s father was the tenth of Nonny’s eleven children.
I have memories of her.
Nonny was the one who gave me my name.
I was born in that evening hour after the sun drops below the horizon, when the fire of evening sky gives way to the deep lavender of twilight before night falls and darkness rises.
“Dusky,” Nonny declared, as soon as she saw me. “No other name will do.”
My mother had wanted to name me Rose.
But she didn’t dare argue with her great-grandmother. Nonny was a true matriarch, and her word was law.
Even though Nonny gave up immortality, she had enough left that she long outlived her husband. I never knew my great-great grandfather. Nobody ever knew Nonny’s true age, but she didn’t leave this world until she was well past a century.
She joyfully embodied the phase of the Crone. Her face wrinkled and wizened from decades of joy and suffering, triumphs and defeats, births and deaths.
Until the day she died, her faded eyes gleamed with mischief as if Nonny had enjoyed the grandest joke on us all.
Perhaps she had.
There was not a vestige left of the maiden nymph she had once been; yet there was not a sliver of regret in her.
But to get back to Pan and his nymphs. Even the most lascivious nymph needed a rest from time to time.
And that left enough empty spaces for Pan and his voracious lust to break the rules of the gods, and seduce mere mortal women like me.
Well, not exactly like me. But I’ll get to that soon enough.
As His Profane Holiness of the F*ck, how could he not break the rules, not want to spread his seed in many kinds of soil?
And human women, we’ve always been so easily caught off guard and so limited in our options to protect our wombs from inconvenient progeny.
So His Profane Holiness of the F*ck spread his seed far and wide, and thus, the mortal Pans were born.
They took after their father, lotharios of the f*ck and duck.
Although mostly human, the mortal Pans could still shapeshift to horny half goats with furry haunches, hooved feet, hirsute faces, and horns protruding from their skulls.
Their transformation was happenstance, however. Sometimes their forms shifted before the F*ck or during the F*ck, but never after.
I had heard stories about them all my life. My grandmother, Mamie, was obsessed with the Pans, and collected tales of their intrigues and seductions.
She had quite the collection too.
Mamie swears she gave her maidenhead to a Pan.
Mamie was never one to take unnecessary risks if the lost gamble would cost too much. She took pennyroyal to prevent pregnancy from the virile seed planted in her. In case the pennyroyal didn’t work, Mamie married my grandfather.
It was absurdly easy for Mamie to find a husband. As the descendants of a water nymph, the women in my family are very alluring, and thus have no trouble attracting suitors and ardent devotion.
I spent a lot of time with Mamie when I grew up, to the point that I pretty much lived with her. I felt more at ease with her than with my parents.
My parents had an easy-going, mild-mannered style of love that I would later come to realize was extremely rare. They allowed me to stay where I wished without a fuss. I appreciated that about them. In the long run, they made my life so much easier.
Mamie lived with her older sister, my Great-Aunt Dottie. For some mysterious reason that was never explained, Great-Aunt Dottie never married, and Mamie moved in with her after my grandfather died.
Mamie told me the story of her seduction many times as I grew up. The older I became, the more explicit her descriptions. By the time I was fourteen, I knew every detail of how she had been seduced.
Many people thought that somewhat odd and quite perverse, but we’ve always been very open about the F*ck in my family.
Great-Aunt Dottie always shook her head and rolled her eyes whenever she overheard Mamie’s stories about her night with the Pan.
“He wasn’t a Pan,” she drawled. “You didn’t get pregnant.”
“I took pennyroyal!” Mamie protested. “Pans can’t resist women descended from nymphs, you know that!”
“Pans can’t resist women, period. He was too slick and good-looking to be a Pan. He was just a rogue.”
This was a long-standing argument between them. Good natured bickering like this often occurred in our family. But there was never any judgment. We embraced the Power of the F*ck.
6 Writing Prompts!
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Writing Prompt Original by Montgomery Mahaffey from Free Flying Press
Show me the love, Stacy!
You know I <3 U 4ever!
Evan
“Well Isn’t that sweet of Evan?”
Stacy shook her head and rolled her eyes.
"Sure it is,” Stacy scoffed. “That is, if you find desperation endearing. Come on, Andrew. Let’s get a drink.”
The Writing Prompts, they keep on coming. Some smaller images and pithy excerpts, I hope they get your creative juices flowing.
I do love doing these, and it’s easy when I can’t think of any big theme to put out there, and I hope to get to offer some inspiration for my sister and brother creatives and writers who may find themselves stuck or stumped or simply like to collect ideas for new stories. So happy to oblige.
Writing Prompt Original by Montgomery Mahaffey from Free Flying Press
Dino pressed his ear against the moss covered brick and tapped with one hand.
“What are you doing?” Belka asked.
“Listening and feeling for the hollow spaces.”
“Why?”
“Because I can.”
“That’s bull. You’re after something.”
“Of course, I am. But I don’t have to tell you, Belka.”
Francisco loved Adina as much as a hot taco on a cold, damp Seattle day.
Adina was not impressed.
Her mind was filled with Roberto, who made the most delicious tacos.
Writing Prompt Original by Montgomery Mahaffey from Free Flying Press
“Show me the magic!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re too greedy. You’ll only use it for ill.”
“But when you do, it’s ok?”
Writing Prompt Original by Montgomery Mahaffey from Free Flying Press
“Space Traveler? That’s what you’re dropping out of school for!”
“Yes.”
“Why would you do a stupid thing like that? Everybody knows Space Travelers get devoured by the Cosmos!”
“That’s why I want to go.”
Writing Prompt Original by Montgomery Mahaffey from Free Flying Press
“It’s been a long time coming. But we’re finally in the pink.”
“I’m so relieved.”
“Don’t be. By next week, we have to be in the red or we’re out.”
“We’ll get there.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because Marco is going to help us.”
Sweat Your Prayers - That'll Give You Something to Write About
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Image by Gerhard Lipold from Pixabay
Given the intense heat wave that is taking over the Pacific Northwest right now, I thought it appropriate to re-post this blog from early June, last year.
What’s happening now is a far cry from a sweat lodge; but in its own way, this may be another opportune time to sweat my prayers. Hear ye!
Since cultural appropriation has been a hot topic for a few years, I start with the disclaimer that there was none of that here.
A Blackfoot Native taught his tradition, along with songs and prayers in his language to this community of copacetic and lovely Caucasian humans.
The story he told of being a watchdog as a child truly made clear the significance of what I was about to do. He said he was forced to go to the Native boarding school, and that their traditional sweat lodges were deemed illegal by the US government.
But the Blackfoot continued them anyway.
Dillon (name changed to protect his privacy) said that his job, along with the other kids, was to hide in the tall grass while their parents snuck the rocks, sticks, wood, canvas, and everything else needed to make a temporary sweat lodge in baskets to look as if they were going out for a picnic or something.
If the kids saw any government officials coming, they were to blow their whistles to warn the elders of coming trouble, who would then stop what they were doing and hide the evidence.
It’s unbelievable that such a practice was ever illegal. There was no reason for that beyond oppression.
I would have thought that as a Blackfoot, Dillon would take offense at the white people who wanted to use his spiritual traditions for themselves.
But nothing could have been further from the truth.
Dillon made it very clear that he was grateful for communities like this one, where the Caucasian nation wanted to form sweat lodges and do the spiritual practice as it was meant to be practiced.
“With your participation,” he said to us assembled there, “the practice of praying in a sweat lodge stays alive. And that’s crucial for us to keep it going.”
This was my first sweat lodge and I really couldn’t have chosen any better.
I used to be scared of sweat lodges.
Until a couple of years ago, I always avoided saunas, and preferred steam. But then one of my best friends and I started a daily sauna marathon after a retreat we attended together a couple of times.
Maybe the retreat was more arduous than most. All I know was that the saunas I shared with my former roommate burst through any resistance to heat and sweating.
Because now I love the feeling of rivers of sweat pouring down my body.
It’s both cleansing and kind of dirty.
There is something primal about it. It’s even more primal within the womb-like darkness of a sweat lodge.
The heat is even more intense and your sweat pours, all while crammed into a confined space with a lot people who are also drenched with body fluid. Throughout we’re singing, calling out prayers, and setting intentions.
This year, I went to the retreat alone.
A new friend I made there invited me to the sweat lodge the following Sunday, after I told him I was staying in the area for a few days longer after the end of the retreat.
“I’m intimidated by sweat lodges.”
“You should be,” he said. “So are you coming or not?”
I did.
I went to the Wal Mart parking lot early that Sunday morning to meet my friend from the retreat and get a ride to the sweat lodge.
I figured the bearded hippie dude doing tai chi in the empty parking lot was likely headed for there.
I was right.
“Just you wait until the water hits the rocks,” he said. “That’s always my favorite part. There’s something ancient and primitive about it that runs deep for me.”
This particular sweat was special in that it was the inauguration of a new lodge. I found out afterwards that these monthly sweat lodges had been suspended for about a year and a half.
The previous hosts were in their late 70’s, and got tired. They insisted that the next generation pick up the ball, and it was a while before somebody did.
The lodge was already assembled with various sticks and branches nailed together and covered with canvas to make a mound. In the center, a hole was dug out.
This held the rocks — aka the Grandfathers — and we carried them to the edge of the pyre that would later become the fire that would heat them up.
There was an air of excited anticipation as we prepared for the sweat lodge. Doing the work of building up the sweat was a crucial part of being here.
The strongest and hardiest of us split logs of varying lengths, while the rest of us carried them to the pile where others built up the pyre. The fire would burn directly in front of the opening to the lodge.
“That’s the fire line. It’s very important to not cross it when you’re coming in and out of the lodge.”
A woman explained to me the points of significance once she knew this was my first time.
Pointing to a small mound to the right of the entrance to the sweat lodge, she explained to me that was where we leave our offerings and prayers, and that the four sticks with long, narrow ribbons in different colors represented the four nations of the races of the world.
“Yellow is for the Asian nations, white for Caucasian nations, Red for Indigenous nations, and black for African nations.”
That lady was very kind to tell me all this.
“The rocks are the Grandfathers, whereas the fire and the lodge are the Grandmothers. The lodge in particular is the womb of the Grandmother, and the heated rocks are the Grandfathers and Grandmothers united.”
“How long does it take for the rocks to get hot enough?”
“At least an hour.”
Finally, it was time to light the fire to marry the Grandfathers with the Grandmothers.
The air was festive on this Sunday. More than 70 people showed up to this and I couldn’t believe it when most of them were able to fit inside that sweat lodge.
Their elation and joy was palpable as the people chatted and waited for the grandfathers to get hot enough and the first round to begin.
“There will be 4 rounds of about 15–20 minutes each,” the kind lady explained. “Each round has a theme.”
During the 1st round, we called in the Great Spirit.
During the 2nd round, we called out our Intentions.
During the 3rd round, we asked for Healing.
During the 4th round, we offered our Gratitude.
There were only a few minutes between rounds to leave the lodge — which a lot of people didn’t — to stretch, pee, and drink more water before going back in for more.
Each sweat got more intense than the last.
I’ll never forget my awe when I saw those fiery rocks, smoldering like wood embers in those moments the Grandfathers united with the Grandmothers came into the womb of the sweat lodge.
They came in one by one, in groups of eleven, at the end of a pitchfork to be dropped in the hole in the middle of the sweat lodge.
We called out each time:
“Welcome, Grandfather.”
Once the eleven for that round was gathered, the door to the sweat lodge was dropped, all was dark. The water poured and the steam rose.
The time had come to sweat our prayers.
The Night the Children Came
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Image by Enkhtamir Enkhdavaa from Pixabay
In the dusky lavender of twilight, the village young filed into the cabin built at the edge of the forest.
As the children were settling down, the Bard came home from the woods with his grandson.
His hands boasted the marks of time.
One of his hands made a cradle for the small hand of the boy, which the old man held with great tenderness.
In the other, he carried a basket filled with gifts found in the trees. The woods had been generous with its abundance of mushrooms, berries, nuts, and herbs.
The Bard would fry up a savory hash that night while he talked, sharing a tiny feast with his audience before they went home to bed.
Nobody knew better than he how to forage in the woods, and he was already passing his knowledge to his grandson.
A thrill of excitement crackled through the cabin when they came inside.
Tonight was the night for stories.
The Bard would talk late into the night, and the children would make their way home in the light of moon and stars.
But even if night were black as pitch, they wouldn’t mind.
They piled the leaves, sticks, and logs in the massive hearth the way the Bard taught them.
The older boys blew the sparks in the logs, their cheeks bellowing to hurry the blaze.
The Bard never began until there was an inferno burning.
His love of heat was legendary.
He had built this cabin as a young man.
The villagers who had been alive during that time said his home started with the fireplace.
They said the Bard needed almost ten years to finish his cabin because of that massive hearth.
He allowed himself this one indulgence in life and he wanted it to be special.
The only stones the Bard laid for his fireplace were favorites he found on his walks.
He explored for years, his black eyes searching for rocks with the unique patterns and subtle hues of earth: deep gray, pale green, earthy red, and soft pink.
The stones were layered to make the back wall of the cabin. The deep pit stretched wide and tall with iron mesh so it would contain the spits of flaming wood.
His hearth was a masterpiece.
During this time, the Bard had fallen in love, gotten married, and had a child. His wife was a hearty soul and their daughter had an independent spirit even as an infant.
Until the log cabin was built, they were content to live in a canvas tent held from ropes tied amongst the trees.
The young husband and father told stories to his family every night, talking in front of the blaze burning behind him.
He drew the notice of villagers who were fascinated by the spectacle of a family gathered around a fireplace in the open air.
The villagers would stroll by the unfinished cabin with lingering glances.
One relaxed evening in early winter, the small family invited their neighbors to join them.
And that was how it began.
After that first night, all the villagers came to hear the Bard.
Once the cabin was built, the parents listened from the outside while their young gathered inside.
As the years passed, only the children came.
They gathered every week no matter the weather or the event.
The children came the night after the Bard’s daughter married and left home.
They came after he was widowed.
The Bard assured the villagers that the the children were more than welcome.
Many in the village shook their heads at the strength of his will. The old man kept to his routine, lending a hand to his neighbors.
The more difficult their project, the more he preferred it.
He especially loved to build, for hard work that required concentration gave him relief from his mourning.
A year later, the Bard thought his heart would perish.
He was grateful his wife didn’t live to suffer through the murder of their daughter and her husband by a band of thieves.
Whenever the Bard thought of their last moments, he couldn’t escape the anguish coursing through his veins.
However, he kept his demons to himself.
The cutthroats had spared the life of his grandson, but his innocence was under assault from night terrors that pulled him screaming from his sleep, his dark eyes vacant and staring into nothing.
The child was only four when he came to live with his grandfather.
The Bard was determined to redeem his grandson from the torment of his soul, casting his own grief aside to care for this child who needed him desperately.
Through it all, on the same night every week, the children always arrived at the Bard’s cabin to listen to his stories.
The Bard was forever thankful to them because their presence brought innocence, normalcy, and harmony that was lacking.
His grandson sat amongst them, but his large black eyes were vacant, staring into nothing, his face unresponsive.
The Bard prayed every night that the little boy would find his way back from the abyss of frozen terror, and return to childhood.
And every week, the children came.
It was a year before the nightmares stopped.
Light returned to the boy’s eyes and he was finally able to see the world he was living in, a world made of nothing but love.
As fire climbed the mountain of logs, the youngest child moved to sit with the little boy who had the same eyes as his grandfather.
It was time.
The Bard took his place before the hearth, his figure a dark silhouette in front of the fiery mound.
The children heard the soft hiss of deep breathing.
Before he spoke, the Bard always claimed a moment to enjoy the fragrance of wood burning.
Then his voice rang clear, rising from the depths of his belly and rolling in subtle cadence as the Bard began another tale about his favorite villainess, the woman known as the Thief of Hearts.
The Beginning of a Long Walk Home
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Image by Lars_Nissen from Pixabay
For years, I have heard Ella Bandita described as the ugly seductress no man could resist.
I always thought that strange, and not simply because she had always been so lovely to me. Beyond the beauty held in my eyes, the vagabond seductress never had to be beautiful and her savage features made her a legend.
Woman was the most fascinating creature I had ever known. She was also the most dangerous, even in that time I knew her before she became the Thief of Hearts.
So to reduce her to a lack of prettiness always seemed to me the pettiness of an empty mind.
And then there is Adrianna.
Adrianna the Beautiful, the most legendary Courtesan of the Capital City, and they say she grows more beautiful with time.
Thank you for understanding and for your grace, Wanderer.
The time has long passed that I should tell you the story of my Woman who would become your Ella Bandita. But I can no longer do that without sharing the extraordinary stories of the Courtesan who wanted to destroy her.
So much has happened since we parted that this tale will take many days and nights to unfold.
I must start from the beginning, in which you played a crucial role.
I hope you forgive me if I talk about your part in this as if you hadn’t been there. I know it’s irritating, but I need that kind of distance to make sense of the stories I lived through and the stories I heard during these past few months.
So…Wanderer, may I walk with you on your long journey home?
****
The Courtesan’s beauty was staggering.
I had never seen so much flesh in my life as I did in the massive portraits on these walls.
Standing, reclining, full front on, in profile, her back to the artist, the Courtesan was naked in every pose, her silhouette that of an hourglass.
Her full breasts stood high on her chest, her torso curved to a slender waist above rounded hips, her legs were long and tapered. Her skin was creamy and luminous; and black hair cascaded to her waist. Her features were noble; hers was the classical beauty of the highborn class.
But her eyes made her unforgettable.
Beneath arched brows, her large eyes angled on a tilt and mingled the hues of gold and amber. Her steady gaze held the controlled ferocity of a wildcat.
Such fierce scrutiny replicated in portrait after portrait overpowered my senses for a moment.
I turned my back to gather my bearings, only to come back to the incessant pink of the foyer.
How in the devil did I come here?
That’s what I wondered as I encountered again the cavernous entry into the home of Adrianna the Beautiful.
The atrium had soaring ceilings with pale pink satin lining the walls, while mottled pink marble stretched along the floor and up the steps of the sweeping staircase in the middle.
Maybe even the ceiling was pink.
It was impossible to tell because the massive chandelier hanging in the space between the ceiling and the floor reflected pink everywhere.
Hundreds of candles and thousands of crystal droplets married fire and ice when the tiny flames coupled with the glimmering teardrops, then flickered along the marble floor, the stairs, and the walls.
Such a pairing had cast rosy radiance throughout the foyer to render everybody inside timeless and ageless.
Instead of gaining my balance, the glowing majesty of the entryway stirred the memory from that afternoon, which made me light-headed.
I turned back to the paintings.
This time, I found it easier to focus on the portraits lined along the wall north of the wide elegant staircase that cut a dramatic swathe in the center of the foyer.
The woman peered intently at the artist who had painted her.
The loving attention to detail made me wonder if the artist had caressed his lover with each stroke of the brush. Carnality and lawlessness emanated from the Courtesan’s portraits. I could easily imagine a handsome, tormented soul painting with fevered intensity, a creator hopelessly in love with his libertine muse who would only cherish him in the moment.
Perhaps they had made love in between sittings?
Before me were nine paintings displaying the glory of a legendary Courtesan in all the phases of her life.
About five years must have passed in between each portrait.
Her features matured and grew more defined with each painting, as she left the plump bloom of youth behind. Her body ripened to her prime, then past it; silver streaked her glossy black hair more and more in each portrait.
Yet in all the paintings, her expression was much the same.
Those golden eyes sparkled with defiance and unrepentant joy.
Her generous mouth curved in a knowing smirk.
Had she anticipated her future audience when she posed for her portraits? Did she see past the artist, looking to those who would later gaze upon her?
Her stare was relentless.
She dared me to judge her, the scarlet woman who should have been an outcast.
The Bounty Hunter's Last Track
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The Charmer was found with the same witless expression and glazed eyes of her other conquests, muttering just as those who fell before him.
“Eh…eh…la bandita stole my heart.”
A few days later, the most exclusive courtesan in the city waited for the lover who never came.
Adrianna had not heard the fate that befell the Charmer, and she was livid he dared not keep their appointment.
She had never suffered this indignity before.
She was as notorious for her temper as she was renowned for her allure, and her fury was at its peak when another courtesan came with the dreadful news about her favorite lover.
Then the wrath of Adrianna the Beautiful was all for Ella Bandita.
It was the legendary Courtesan who gathered the women together.
Adrianna the Beautiful made her first visit with her lover’s near widow.
They had a long meeting, Adrianna staying for the better part of the day until she made a rival into a friend. The wife and the mistress sacrificed their most precious jewels to start a reward for the capture of the woman who had felled the Charmer.
Word spread fast.
The other wives and courtesans didn’t need much convincing to join them.
This sisterhood seemed incredible at first, but once the women set their grievances aside, it made sense.
Deprived of widowhood, the Charmer was committed to an asylum where he would be for the rest of his life, and his wife would never be free to marry again. Plenty of ladies shared her fate and courtesans lost some measure of comfort when their lovers were destroyed.
Ella Bandita was a genuine threat to them all, and she had to be stopped.
The women were confident they would find their hero amongst those hired to use outlaw ways to bring outlaws to justice.
Bounty hunters had the freedom to use methods forbidden to lawmen, and theirs was a lonesome calling. Since they gained in wages what they lost in respect, these men dreamed of earning enough to buy a modest estate and retire as a Patron.
The fortune of the women’s jewels was enough to realize this dream for the man who captured or killed the Thief of Hearts.
It wasn’t long before the price on Ella Bandita was the highest ever for a single fugitive.
But to the ladies’ surprise, not one bounty hunter came forth, even though all of them were tempted.
The bounty was unsavory, the first put on the life of a woman and not just any woman.
Perhaps it was fortunate coincidence, but entire villages were liberated from oppression whenever she conquered a tyrant. Many were grateful when she destroyed a Patron who had made their lives a misery.
Ella Bandita was universally feared, but she also had her admirers.
The last to hear about the reward was the man who accepted, the one most despised in his profession.
This Bounty Hunter was a roughneck to his core, devoid of scruples and full of greed. He almost looked a dwarf with short limbs and a powerful torso, his large head and wide face covered with shaggy black hair and beard.
The Bounty Hunter seemed absurd to the women when he promised them relief from their distress within weeks. He hardly looked their picture of a hero.
But he was the only man who came forth, so they were cordial to him.
Not that the Bounty Hunter would have cared if the ladies had been rude. The fortune was all that mattered to him. The thought of it made his mouth water.
Ella Bandita formally became an outlaw once the bounty was accepted.
The lawmen announced she was to be brought to them alive. She was wanted in several countries and failure to cooperate would reap severe consequences.
The Bounty Hunter started in early spring, at the outset of fashionable seasons that would last through the summer, when the Thief of Hearts would be on the prowl. He was confident he’d find her within weeks.
But his prey proved more elusive.
The Bounty Hunter tracked her haunts as he heard about them. He scoured the country and depleted most of his modest fortune for a fresh track that would lead him to her.
Like most greedy people, the Bounty Hunter was miserly.
He probably would have quit if his search hadn’t cost him everything. He had never come across a quarry so elusive. So much so that he became obsessed.
And the lighter his purse became, the more his obsession grew.
The fashion seasons were coming to an end and he had spent almost everything he had.
The ladies were impatient, and almost as bitter as the Bounty Hunter.
Then he found his first real lead.
Ella Bandita had struck several days before in the last of a series of fashion towns. But the witnesses there gave the same answers they had everywhere else.
The interviews was tedious, and the Bounty Hunter was no closer to his mark.
His frustration got the better of him one day and he ignored the appointments made for that afternoon to run his mare through the woods.
That’s when he found it.
During his ride, the Bounty Hunter came to a bald spot in the trees.
The undergrowth had been brushed away, leaving raw earth dotted with tufts of small green shoots.
He pulled his horse to a stop and sniffed.
The Bounty Hunter could almost swear that smoke still lingered in the air as he dismounted.
Plowing the earth with one foot, he dragged the clearing until he found what he was looking for, bits of charred wood. Digging deeper, he found larger pieces with ashes mixed in the dirt where her fire pit was buried.
When he found a scrap of cloth, likely torn from a tent, the Bounty Hunter knew he had found her shelter.
He scanned the site, imagining how it must have looked a month before when Ella Bandita had made her camp there.
The Bounty Hunter shook his head over the money he spent on lodgings where he assumed a lone woman would reside.
What a fool he had been.
Everybody he spoke with said she had the grubby look of a vagabond.
Yet he had never considered the woods.
And if he had, he would have found her months ago.
All the cities and villages she traveled had a forest beyond the town walls, usually just outside the gates.
His heart pounded. The Bounty Hunter imagined the fortune that would be his now that he finally knew where to hunt his prey.
He found Ella Bandita two weeks later.
The Bard's Favorite Villainess
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Illustration by BANE, Dennis McElroy
Three days of snow covered the village, draping the roofs and windows with blazing white. Flaky chunks fell from the sky on the night for stories, but the children still came.
The older boys helped the Bard’s grandson plow a path to the cabin. He had grown much since the previous summer. He was thin and lanky, with limbs now longer than he was accustomed.
The doors and windows of the cabin glowed from the fire built up in the hearth.
The Bard was in his place, his silhouette black against the crackling tongues of flame shooting up behind him.
The heat soothed the young until the room grew crowded with them sitting, lying, and leaning against each other for comfort and the cabin became hotter than summer, their sweat gluing them to each other.
But tonight the young would bear with the heat.
They were more excited than usual for this night’s tale.
The week before, his own grandson challenged the Bard that Ella Bandita was not truly a seductress, but a vicious trickster.
The Bard sighed and was silent for a few minutes.
Then he promised to prove the seductive prowess of the Thief of Hearts the following week.
His grandson was laughing when he entered the cabin with his friends.
The boys remembered to stop in the cold storage shed and brought with them bags of nuts, frozen berries, ground spices, dried herbs, and jars of mushrooms preserved from summer and autumn.
The Bard watched the boy pull two large skillets down from the hearth and three village girls approaching him before he got to work. The Bard didn’t hear their talk, but he frowned when he saw his grandson’s eyes glint and his mouth curve in a smirking grin.
The boy glanced at his grandfather and flushed.
With more warmth in his smile, he told the girls he had to get supper ready.
Reluctantly they walked away.
The Bard shook his head.
Girls liked that boy more than was good for him and he was becoming precocious[jwwz1] .
A few minutes later, he caught the scent of garlic and cayenne and smiled.
His grandson had a nice touch when it came to cooking. The hash would be spicy tonight, perfect for winter and warming the blood.
The children rumbled, impatient to hear tonight’s story.
The Bard stared into the sea of young faces and hoped tonight’s tale scared the devil out of his grandson.
“Things change when one crosses the line between countries,” he began.
“Our neighbors are different on the other side of No Man’s Land, the woods that separate us from the nation to the west. Their language is not ours, their customs aren’t the same, and their society is more intricate. Here, one is either Patron or peasant. To be Patron is to be noble, to be peasant is to be humble.”
“But there, the highborn are ranked according to their title, and to come from humble origins is to be less than common. Such a society is cruel, often mercenary and always lacking in heart.
“Such a society is a rich hunting ground for Ella Bandita.”
*****
The hunt for Ella Bandita began with the women.
They raged with each new tale about the notorious seductress, these women who spent their lives caring for their beauty and enhancing their manners to appeal to the most desirable men in society.
Wives and courtesans worked hard for their pampered lives, fine gowns, and sparkling jewels.
Ella Bandita was a spit in the face of their world. Ugly in face and grubby in dress, how could this be a woman no man can resist?
To be left as only shadows of their former selves once the Thief of Hearts moved on, her conquests would never be the same again.
The wrath of the women grew alongside the terror of the men.
I’ve never heard of a time when married ladies and harlots of easy living cast their rivalries aside, but they did to stand against her.
Ironically enough, the man who brought them together was more akin to a courtesan than a Patron. He was an easy conquest, not worth a mention if it weren’t for what happened afterwards.
He was a charmer, the one who set all the women against Ella Bandita.
He lived in the city, having arrived in society through a marriage of convenience.
In some ways, the Charmer was blessed amongst fortune hunters.
His wife was lovely, with fair hair and creamy skin. Her beauty would have been almost as appealing as her generous dowry had she not been a malcontent.
Her dreary accent and petulant nature challenged his polished manners every day, and her company grated desperately on his nerves.
The Charmer hadn’t been married a year before he pursued a courtesan who was as exciting as his wife was irritating.
He must have spent quite a bit of her fortune, for he stopped at nothing until he gained the favor of the most sought-after woman of her profession.
She was known as Adrianna the Beautiful.
Dark, fiery, and with a formidable lust, her appetite for pleasure was insatiable, her salons legendary. Her guests were the handsomest, the wealthiest, the most powerful, and the most brilliant men in the city.
She had her pick of lovers from only the best, and she was selective.
The Charmer was far beneath her usual choices, but he was witty and his courtship was relentless. He made himself irresistible enough that Adrianna allowed herself to be seduced.
But the Thief of Hearts ensnared his notice at the opera.
The Charmer was with his wife in a balcony above the stage. His mistress was also present, escorted by a handsome young prince.
They sat across from the Charmer and his wife.
Adrianna the Beautiful even winked at her other lover when neither of their companions was looking.
The Charmer smiled and winked back just before his wife turned to him with a complaint. He made his face a mask of attentive concern, caressing her hand and whispering gentle words until she was quiet.
He saw Ella Bandita as soon as he could look away, his regard drawn to the common seats on the floor where she sat.
The Charmer found her gaze startling and riveting, reminding him of the way a predator stares at prey.
But his attention was diverted when the lights faded and the velvet curtains lifted.
The Charmer forgot about that strange woman in the common seats below, once the performance was under way, for opera was one of the few things he cherished.
Really, the Charmer was a satisfied man, so it was surprising he fell under her spell.
He had a wealthy wife who seemed a Madonna in those blessed moments of silence, a decadent temptress for a mistress, and a life of elegance and leisure.
He was still enjoying himself, the gift of privilege too fresh to take for granted.
Yet perhaps his wife was especially tiresome that evening, or the sight of Adrianna in a blazing red gown made the reality of what she was painfully apparent.
Maybe the Charmer sensed the boredom that would come.
How to Structure Short Stories, Chapters, and Novels
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Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
One of the greatest gifts I ever received as a writer was the most basic story structure that could be as simple or as complex as the tale needed. This worked for novels, screenplays, short stories, and even poems.
Welcome to the journey of the Inverted “C” - Cage, Escape, Quest, Dragons, and Home.
At the time, that I learned this valuable lesson, I desperately wanted to become a novelist and had no idea how to get started.
Being a voracious reader of novels did not make me adept at writing them.
The Inverted C is very similar to the Joseph Campbell’s narrative structure that is known as the Hero’s Journey.
I like the Inverted C because it is simple and flexible.
However, if anybody struggles with a Quest cursed with a sagging middle, the Hero’s Journey would help to flesh out the meat of the story.
The Inverted C is perfect for beginners.
Over the years, I’ve shared this in 5-10 minutes with friends who were natural writers, but didn’t know what to do when it came to structuring a story.
When it comes to the Inverted C:
1. The arc of the entire novel is to fit the curve of the Inverted C;
2. Every chapter is to be structured on the Inverted C;
3. Every character should have an inverted C storyline, even the minor players.
For the purposes of simplicity, I’ll stick with the protagonist.
Cage: This is where the Protagonist begins.
The Cage could be attractive, the protagonist a Lucky Dude who has everything – beautiful and loving wife/girlfriend (or both), exciting career, beautiful home, Master of the Universe status, etc.
Or the cage could be the prison of misery. A Wretched Dude has a broken spirit, broken bank, addiction, depression, despair, etc.
Escape: Enter the Intruder and the Protagonist leaves the Cage.
The Intruder can be a friend or a foe. A murderer could kill the Lucky Dude’s beautiful wife/girlfriend (or both), and the character is now kicked out of his Cage of a wonderful life.
Or Wretched Dude could be visited by an angel or a demon (or both) and be challenged to change, heal, grow, or perish. Thus Wretched Dude leaves his miserable life to start the Quest.
Quest: What does Protagonist want?
What does Protagonist yearn for?
No Longer Lucky Dude wants vengeance for his dead and beautiful wife/girlfriend (or both). So he has to find the killer, find why the killer chose him and his loved ones, figure out the best revenge for killer, and meet all kinds of characters along the way, one of whom is a Comely Lady Cop.
Wretched But Wanting a Better Life Dude yearns for wholeness, healing, abundance, and redemption. Wretched Dude is in a battle against himself and his inner demons that lead him to make such bad decisions. He still meets friends and foes along the way, those who would help him grow and heal, and those who would keep him stuck, addicted, and toxic. These adventures and journeys make up the bulk of the novel story.
Dragons: The moment of truth.
Challenges/confrontations lead to the Crucial Choice.
Not Lucky Dude finds the killer of his wife/girlfriend (or both), and they battle. He has his chance to torture and kill the killer, and avenge her death (or their deaths). But he has met the Comely Lady Cop is on his tail, knowing that he is on the killer’s tail. Does he let Comely Lady Cop bring killer to justice or does he take it in his own hands?
Not So Wretched Dude has conquered his addictions and is feeling renewed hope in life. He goes to a party to celebrate his acceptance into school, but there are cocaine and a Hooker there. The Hooker’s Pimp is a dealer and it is her job to get Not So Wretched Dude back into his addictions. She pressures him to snort and swallow. Wretched Dude feels an uprising of his self-loathing and takes that silver straw to snort. But then he thinks of all he could have ahead of him. Does he give in to habit and the temptation of his weaknesses, or does he choose redemption and the unknown of a sweeter life?
Home: The destination at the end of the Quest.
Back to the original Cage, on to an open wide Vista, or descending into a deeper and darker Cage.
Has the protagonist changed? Or did the protagonist remain the same?
What did the protagonist learn? Did the protagonist find liberation or did the protagonist die?
Home can be anything from a happy ending to the abyss of despair to emptiness.
Lucky Dude could become Transcendent Dude if he forgives killer enough and chooses a second chance at joy and love with Comely Lady Cop. Or Lucky Dude could become Convict Dude in the Cage of prison by killing killer and getting caught by Comely Lady Cop who lives by her Cop-ly duties even with a man she’s fallen in love with.
Wretched Dude could become Healer Dude if he says no to cocaine and the Hooker, goes on to school, and becomes a therapist. Or Wretched Dude could become Homeless Dude because he succumbs, and goes down the spiral until he loses absolutely everything.
If every chapter and every character has the story curved on an Inverted C, and you’re golden.
This works for short stories, novellas, plays, screenplays, novels, and it would probably work well with poems too.
This is a structure, not a formula.
And it is ancient.
Myths and fairy tales are structured along the Inverted C.
Even Pulp Fiction was told along the Inverted C. Every character in that crazy movie had an Inverted C storyline that was spliced up and rearranged.
Hope this helps. Thank you for reading and happy writing!
A Clever Piece of Blackmail
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Image by press 👍 and ⭐ from Pixabay
“If you speak a word about tonight,” the Patron’s Daughter hissed, “I will destroy you!”
“If I talk, your ruin will come before you could get at me. There’s sure to be some deep and dark bruises on your bottom. That’ll prove the truth I’d be telling.”
I couldn’t resist mocking her a little.
“You filthy little grubber! I hate you!”
Underneath her viciousness, I heard the tremor of fear in the Patron’s Daughter voice. She would never be able to bring me to shame or rage again.
That was when I understood how much power I now had over the nemesis who had cast my life in shadow.
That moment has always been the most exquisite intoxication I would ever know. I’ve enjoyed much power since that night. But nothing has compared to how I felt in that moment because it was my first taste of power.
“Likewise.”
With one word I was free from the bondage of hypocrisy, and the relief sent another luscious shiver through me.
“Don’t you dare tell anybody about tonight!”
“What are you going to do to shut me up?”
“What!”
“Don’t play dumb. How many times has your father paid for silence? If you want mine, you also have to pay.”
She stared at me, her mouth agape.
Honestly, I was as shocked as she was because those words were out before I knew what I was saying. Fortunately for me, years of stoicism enduring brutality and overwork made it easy for me to hide my feelings.
“What did you bring for the Brute?”
Her eyes widened as understanding set in.
“You set me up!”
“There was no way I could have set that up,” I retorted. “If I had known you had a yummy for taking a beating, I would have taken it upon myself long ago.”
“You ugly, repugnant, little tripe!”
“If you think I’m ugly, do you see the Brute as handsome? You sure cleaved your pin pretty good rutting up against him.”
She slapped me hard across my face.
It was everything I could do to not slap her in return. If I had, I would have left my mark on her for certain.
Instead, I pushed her down hard.
“Either give me what you meant to give the Brute, or there will be lots of exciting conversation to be had after morning worship.”
She practically snarled at me.
“No! You rot with the devil!”
“I think you’re likely to meet him before I do,” I said, and turned my back. “It’s your ruin.”
I took five steps before she relented.
“Wait!”
I stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“I brought three gold coins and two jeweled rings I never wear.”
I came back and held out my hand.
“I am not giving you all that!” she protested. “That’s what I brought to marry the Noble Son! What you saw is not worth that much.”
“The gold coins will keep me quiet. On my honor.”
“You have no honor, you greedy little snipe.”
“Takes one to know one,” I repeated the Brute’s retort.
I had no choice but to admit she was right.
My connection with her was dishonorable from the very beginning.
But I didn’t care.
As soon as the cold gold touched my palm, a shiver went down my spine. In my hand was more money than my family had ever possessed in our miserable lives.
I almost fainted from the thrill of it. The sacrifice of integrity was worth it.
“Next week, I suggest you be fully prepared to guarantee my silence.”
“I won’t be coming next week.”
“If you insist,” I replied. “You know where to find me when you change your mind.”
Her response to my audacity was spit to the face when we came out of the woods.
But I knew the Brute was right.
I also knew the Patron’s Daughter would never be able to strip me of my dignity again.
At last, I looked into my palm.
The coins were larger than I expected and I had no idea what they were worth.
I was buoyant, skipping through the woods to go back to the cabin as the Sorcerer and I had previously agreed upon.
I expected the Brute to be there when I walked inside. Instead, the Sorcerer waited.
His ancient face looked almost pleasant when he saw me.
“That was a clever piece of blackmail,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“You practically handed it to me. Thank you, by the way.”
“Perhaps I made it easy, but you were intelligent enough to take advantage of the opportunity. Most people don’t. You have a sharp instinct.”
He peered into my palm and whistled.
“I think you will do supremely well in the next phase of your life, Addie.”
“I don’t even know what these are worth,” I admitted.
“With the money you have in your hand right now, you could live in very elegant apartments with a servant or two in the Capital City for three months.”