Heart shackles, Mind chains

Lynn stepped back, her bloody kai held in a loose grip.  She looked on, unmoved by the figure whimpering on the wet pavement before her; she would subjugate herself no longer.  The pall over her soul lifted a little more.  Every time she stepped away from her tortured past, moved to pull herself from the pit she allowed others to put her in, her soul grew from the struggles to take back her life.

Her psyche still carried a stain, like a gangrenous stench lingering unnoticed by those around her.  She would no longer allow what went before to dictate her choices however.  Life was effort, a battle to prove herself daily.  From here out, she would revel in the marvelous joys around her.  This was her life, her choice, and her mind.  Woes betide those who would take them from her.

Without rancor, she tossed the kai beside the man, turned her back, and walked away.  Her heart held no pity, sorrow, nor anger at he father; she forgave him.  He would have power over her no longer.  Her life was her own; she was on her way to live it, her way.  Finally unfettered, she smiled, for the first time.

Freedom

  

Journal: Day Three 

Bruises and scrapes cover my body.  My arm, thank God, is not broken.  I still do not know were I am, or even where the ship was headed.  Nevertheless, I have my life, and that is no small thing.  Chills rack my body intermittently; not an auspicious start to my journal, but it will have to do for now. 

Day Seven 

I am still weak from my fever, but the native’s have generously taken me in and seen to my comfort. 

Day Twelve 

The village is quiet.  Shadows dance across the huts, courting the orange glow of the bonfire.  Only twenty people survived the mysterious illness, the disease sweeping through them like wildfire.  Some died after a few hours, others lingered in agony for days before succumbing.  Hundreds of men, women, and children slain.  When the dead outnumbered the living, we cremated them. 

Most of the remaining natives shun me now.  The new Shaman rattles his bones at me whenever I pass and three young women sit on the ground outside my hut.  Our inability to communicate, as we do not speak the same language, hinders the human contact I am allowed.  Still, I must try. 

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Journal: Day Twenty-One 

Forced at spear-point to climb aboard the small boat—with the same three young women who guarded my hut—we traveled to the next island.  Standing on the shore I looked back across the intervening ocean.  The funeral pyre threw incandescent fireflies into the night sky.  Ghostly figures ran through the village lighting the huts, burying the necropolis along with its people. 

Day Two-Hundred-One 

Milli, Nina, and Olivia now speak English well enough to explain why we were sent to this island.  It came as quite a shock to find out I am married and living on the Isle of the Gods.  Quite funny really, now that I look back on it; my heroic attempt to resist their continued advances turned out to be a waste of time these six months.  No doubt I will laugh for a very long time, after I stop crying.  The Incarrii view me as a God—the God of Death and Disease—born to a mortal shell.  The only way to save their people was to send me here with the chosen sacrifice, three virgin sisters; who do not believe me when I tell them I am not a God.  

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Journal: Day Two-Hundred-Nine 

The girls will not leave me alone.  They badger me about completing my husbandly duties—ignoring my pleas and denials that we are not married.  Following me everywhere, giggling about the most innocuous things, and just making a general nuisance of themselves caused me to lose my temper six times already.  I must admit—if only to myself—that it is becoming harder a harder to resist them.  Sometimes I wonder why I do so at all.  There is no Mrs. Rodger Defoe back home and they are of proper age.  Is it because there are three of them?  I do not know anymore. 

Day Three-Hundred-Sixty-Six 

I am now—officially—a married man.  Last night my depression reached its peak.  I have now been on this God cursed rock for one year.  Trapped, surrounded by women, and condemned to death on this lonely Isle, I succumbed.  However, I also learned that I was not alone with my feelings.  For the past year I stood strong in my resistance of temptation.  My wives though, went through near constant rejection while I basked in my own self-congratulatory magnificence.  I need to earn their forgiveness. 

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Journal: Day Three-Thousand-Six-Hundred-Ninety-one 

The people of the surrounding islands are thriving now.  Only the priests visit the Isle, but they always bring tribute—food and treasure—and taking away wisdom.  Ironic how, I the God of Death, now bestows posterity upon them.  

My children are healthy and happy, running up and down the beach, climbing and clamoring over rocks, soaking in the love of their mothers.  The new clergy wanted to take the young ones away, but I forbid them until the childe in question reaches twenty.  Raised and worshiped as Gods, my offspring have already spawned fascinating new legends. 

Robert, whom the high priest named Ra, is the Sun God.  His twin Sister Liz, renamed Isis, is the Goddess of Love and Fertility.  My youngest son Hugh recently named my successor, Hu, the God of Death. 

I have wealth.  I have power.  Multitudes adore me and praise my name.  My family is safe and they want for nothing.  My whim is law.  Nevertheless, my days are always clouded.  A shadow hangs over me; a pall covers my soul, and will until the day I die.  

I have everything a man could wish for, but freedom.

What she doesn’t say

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I looked down into her dark eyes. It still amazed me how much she could communicate with them, and not say a word. Opened a little more than usual and she pleaded. The delicate arch of an eyebrow asked why not. A slow blink; I love you.

I nodded my head and her answering smile was like the sun coming up. It made my whole day better. It was easier to forget that she hadn’t spoken in two years. Not since mom died.

Looking at the display, she pointed out the dolls she wanted. When she tapped the dollhouse I frowned. She frowned right back up at me. I sighed and shrugged, nodding my acceptance to the sales woman. Sal nodded, and began to pick out furniture. This was going to a long shopping trip.

We stood at the checkout line, watching the clerk pick up and scan each item, wrap them, then put them in a bag. As the total displayed on the register I frowned, and looked down at Sal. She looked back up at me and smiled. I couldn’t help myself and smiled with her.

The clerk handed me my change and I thanked her, she thanked me in kind and told me what a beautiful daughter I had. I thanked her again, wondering how many more times we would thank each other when I felt a tug on my pants.

I looked down into Sal’s eyes and asked, “What is it dear?”

My heart beat faster and sweat broke out on my palms; I couldn’t read her eyes. I didn’t know what she was trying to say. My panic must have bled through because she reached up and patted my arm.

“Thank you daddy,” my daughter said.

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Warning: You are helping me become a better writer.

Only fool’s rush in

It sat on the shelf, calling to him.  Every time he turned his head, he would catch a flicker out the corner of his eye.  Its shadow haunted his soul, obscuring the light of all before him.  Food lost all taste.  Life leeched of color.

No more could he stand it, the dread of trying.  Hands shaking and cold with the thought failure, Stephen pushed his chair back and stood.  He turned and faced the bookcase.  He stood there, chest heaving and fists clenched at his sides, laboring to take that first step.  His body shook and tears trailed their way down his cheeks as he strove to overcome his fear.

Stephen turned his head away.  His pasty white cheeks burned with shame.  His own inadequacies dropped down into the pit of his stomach.  He had failed to try.

He pounded his fist into the table, bruising his knuckles.  Again and again he punched out, burying his humiliation in pain.  Bright blood splattered the table, flew across the desk in long slow arcs, shattering him from his haze of agony.

Stephen turned on his heel, knocking the chair out of his way, and raced his dread to the book.  Everything in the room seemed to stand in his way.  He tripped over the rug, slipped on a stool, crashed into the lamp, and slammed against the bookcase.  But he was there, he made it.

Reverently, he set the book down on the blood painted table.  He sat, sharpened his quill, unstopped the ink, and opened the book.  Blank pages filled with words.  Flowing over the virgin canvas, page after page swelled with life and love.

An eternity later, exhausted, beaten, and battered he reached the last page.  He wrote, THE END, and fell dead upon his work.  With a smile.

Quote writing prompt:  Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873) British politician, poet and critic.
The only living works are those which have drained much of the author’s own life into them.

Unexpected turns

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“Ma’am, are you okay?”  The strange man who held her asked.

“Wha—?  Who are you?”  Vivian asked, startled.

“It’s alright.  You started to fall and I caught you.  Do you have fainting spells often?”  He asked with quiet concern, still holding her.

“No.  I don’t know what came over me,” she whispered into his chest.

“Do you remember anything?”

“No, wait, yes I do!  He was sitting at that table, with her!”  She shouted, angry for showing them such weakness.

“Ah, do you want to sit down for a moment?”  He asked holding her shoulders.

“No, thank you, but my husband canceled all my accounts.  I have no money to sit at one of these tables,” she said turning away, her fists balled at her sides.

“Well I do.  If you would be so kind, I’d like to buy you lunch,” he replied catching her arm, turning her.

“I’m not sure I should be eating so soon if I fainted,” she said not daring to look him in the eye.

“It’s okay, you’ll be fine,” he reassured her, stoking her arm.

“How do you know?”  She asked demurely.

“Because I’m a Doctor.”

Taking her hand, she let him lead her over to a waiting table.

She fell in love with him all over again.  Her husband played his played part beautifully.  Who would have thought that he would have been willing to play the role of a Doctor seducing a distressed woman?

By:  Ben Pollard