Tag Archives: Killing It

Shadow Girl Reflects V: Silent

So, you may have noticed that I’ve been rather silent this week. Or, maybe you haven’t….

Anyway, the reason why Shadow Girl has been on the down-low these past few days is because she is currently–and unfortunately–without a reliable mode of access to the digitalscape ūüė¶

Last Wednesday, in fact, my laptop decided to–moment of silence–die. At least, that’s the official diagnosis till I hear back from the repair techs. (And, tbh, they’re outlook was not very encouraging.) Since, I’ve been relegated to an ancient–see, shitty–tablet that I haven’t used for a while. As you can imagine, my internet travels have been quite slow. I wish I could say I’m taking the, uh, scenic route but, I can’t really see the images yet. They’re still loading….

To make a long story short, I was unable to play around on Audacity this week or with using sounds to create a narrative. Hopefully, I will be able to do that soon but now was a really bad time for my laptop to pull a kamikaze. (See, financially) But, I will figure something out.

Sorry to ditch once more on an opportunity for me to share my voice. Keeps seeming to happen…. First on the Studio Visit and now with Audacity T_T For some reason, the universe is conspiring against me, it seems. (Vengeance shall be wreaked, mark my words. My revenge will be inevitable, Universe.)

Creative Enterprise

Despite my difficulties–see, struggles with ancient relics of the technological age–I was able to add to my own creative pursuits. A poem and a story.

Attrition~ poem I posted to YWP about how hard hope can be to welcome inside, more, how hard it can be to accept an invitation out. (Look out for more posts from me on YWP!)

Split Girl~ Another twisted tale ^.^ This one may be a little disturbing for anyone struggling with their gender identity–may evoke gender dysphoria–so fair warning.

**My writing is never meant to offend but I am aware that it still¬†can. And, I’m sorry if that happens. Let me know if there are any Tags I can add to help that be less of an issue :)**

Aside from these new works, I’ve a few others I’m rather proud of (All can be found under the Killing It¬†tag):

Bone Girl~ If they could be read, what fortune would your bones hold for you?

Bone Girl .V~ Every bird hatches from some egg…

Wasteland Girl~ How dangerous can you be?

Dream Girl~ How much can you take before you crack?

It Will Be Satisfied~ Bad karma’s a b*tch.

Ghost Girl~ Loss like dust on glass always lingers…

And, my long-running series (which should be back to weekly updates by next week, fingers crossed….)

Living Dead Girl

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV,

**All are inspired in some way by random, bot posts. Some more closely, other loosely. In my opinion, using bot posts for writing prompts is an easy way to incorporate technology into the classroom in a meaningful way and, it is lots of fun ^.^ Unexpected and nonsensical but full of endless creative, well, enterprise.

Speaking of….

Not digital storytelling related exactly but, remember that scalex analogy I gave at the end of this post? Remember that scalex protects one side of a metal piece while the other is enameled? Well, I’ve finally¬†finished¬†that piece I was working on!

 

Untitled (Working On It) Copper, enamel, epoxy & resin

Like I said, this isn’t related to digital storytelling, per say, as it is to creativity itself. But, all of my work is related in some way to my writing and this piece will certainly be a part of my future combined-thesis-&-show ^.^ Does it look like how I write?

Final Thoughts

I’ve had a rough week. Productive in some ways but disheartening and aggravating in others. Hopefully, next week will be something worth writing home about!

Catch you all on the flip side!
 

 

 


Tagged: digital storytelling, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, reflection, rough week, storytelling, thinking out loud, weeklies, word weaving alchemist

Shadow Girl Reflects V: Silent

So, you may have noticed that I’ve been rather silent this week. Or, maybe you haven’t….

Anyway, the reason why Shadow Girl has been on the down-low these past few days is because she is currently–and unfortunately–without a reliable mode of access to the digitalscape ūüė¶

Last Wednesday, in fact, my laptop decided to–moment of silence–die. At least, that’s the official diagnosis till I hear back from the repair techs. (And, tbh, they’re outlook was not very encouraging.) Since, I’ve been relegated to an ancient–see, shitty–tablet that I haven’t used for a while. As you can imagine, my internet travels have been quite slow. I wish I could say I’m taking the, uh, scenic route but, I can’t really see the images yet. They’re still loading….

To make a long story short, I was unable to play around on Audacity this week or with using sounds to create a narrative. Hopefully, I will be able to do that soon but now was a really bad time for my laptop to pull a kamikaze. (See, financially) But, I will figure something out.

Sorry to ditch once more on an opportunity for me to share my voice. Keeps seeming to happen…. First on the Studio Visit and now with Audacity T_T For some reason, the universe is conspiring against me, it seems. (Vengeance shall be wreaked, mark my words. My revenge will be inevitable, Universe.)

Creative Enterprise

Despite my difficulties–see, struggles with ancient relics of the technological age–I was able to add to my own creative pursuits. A poem and a story.

Attrition~ poem I posted to YWP about how hard hope can be to welcome inside, more, how hard it can be to accept an invitation out. (Look out for more posts from me on YWP!)

Split Girl~ Another twisted tale ^.^ This one may be a little disturbing for anyone struggling with their gender identity–may evoke gender dysphoria–so fair warning.

**My writing is never meant to offend but I am aware that it still¬†can. And, I’m sorry if that happens. Let me know if there are any Tags I can add to help that be less of an issue :)**

Aside from these new works, I’ve a few others I’m rather proud of (All can be found under the Killing It¬†tag):

Bone Girl~ If they could be read, what fortune would your bones hold for you?

Bone Girl .V~ Every bird hatches from some egg…

Wasteland Girl~ How dangerous can you be?

Dream Girl~ How much can you take before you crack?

It Will Be Satisfied~ Bad karma’s a b*tch.

Ghost Girl~ Loss like dust on glass always lingers…

And, my long-running series (which should be back to weekly updates by next week, fingers crossed….)

Living Dead Girl

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV,

**All are inspired in some way by random, bot posts. Some more closely, other loosely. In my opinion, using bot posts for writing prompts is an easy way to incorporate technology into the classroom in a meaningful way and, it is lots of fun ^.^ Unexpected and nonsensical but full of endless creative, well, enterprise.

Speaking of….

Not digital storytelling related exactly but, remember that scalex analogy I gave at the end of this post? Remember that scalex protects one side of a metal piece while the other is enameled? Well, I’ve finally¬†finished¬†that piece I was working on!

 

Untitled (Working On It) Copper, enamel, epoxy & resin

Like I said, this isn’t related to digital storytelling, per say, as it is to creativity itself. But, all of my work is related in some way to my writing and this piece will certainly be a part of my future combined-thesis-&-show ^.^ Does it look like how I write?

Final Thoughts

I’ve had a rough week. Productive in some ways but disheartening and aggravating in others. Hopefully, next week will be something worth writing home about!

Catch you all on the flip side!
 

 

 


Tagged: digital storytelling, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, reflection, rough week, storytelling, thinking out loud, weeklies, word weaving alchemist

Attrition

Behind the barrier are bits and pieces,
shards of shattered glass, fragments of battered bone, a girl

in slices of herself, writing

each down, committing the splinterings to memory

through word weaving,

through cathartic construction of confession into bite-size commodity for consumption–predominantly hers.
Beyond the threshold is Pandora’s reverse–curse–a home for holdout hope who couldn’t escape so stashed her whole self away.¬†Endlessness

encapsulated. The opposite

of liminal space. Comprehension rendered obsolete in the face

of an open door,

an invitation to extend yourself, to hope for more than

brokenness.

~KJH

****

You can find this poem on YWP here ^.^ It was written in response to this challenge on the site. Obviously, I went for a more, shall we say,¬†abstracted¬†approach. What can I say, I’m a bits n’ pieces kind of gal. No duh.

Hope you enjoyed~

(Share your own responses to the challenges in the comments below is you want)


Tagged: anguish, creative writing, hope, mine, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, poem, poetry, sad, YWP

Attrition

Behind the barrier are bits and pieces,
shards of shattered glass, fragments of battered bone, a girl

in slices of herself, writing

each down, committing the splinterings to memory

through word weaving,

through cathartic construction of confession into bite-size commodity for consumption–predominantly hers.
Beyond the threshold is Pandora’s reverse–curse–a home for holdout hope who couldn’t escape so stashed her whole self away.¬†Endlessness

encapsulated. The opposite

of liminal space. Comprehension rendered obsolete in the face

of an open door,

an invitation to extend yourself, to hope for more than

brokenness.

~KJH

****

You can find this poem on YWP here ^.^ It was written in response to this challenge on the site. Obviously, I went for a more, shall we say,¬†abstracted¬†approach. What can I say, I’m a bits n’ pieces kind of gal. No duh.

Hope you enjoyed~

(Share your own responses to the challenges in the comments below is you want)


Tagged: anguish, creative writing, hope, mine, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, poem, poetry, sad, YWP

Split Girl

See.” Auntie would hiss, breath-half mist-half piss–spit splattering across my face like soggy freckles. “Don’t you see?”

Spittle soaking deep into bone, I’d bob my neck up down. A metronome kicked on its side. But¬†that was never enough.

My compliance meant nothing till it suffered. Till I suffered.

Till I looked.

“Can’t you see?” A banshee-screech that bounced off mirrored glass like my small skull in Auntie’s gargantuan grip. Bang. Bang.¬†

“I see.” My raspy exhale fogged the glass.

“See what?” Bang.

“I see a sister slayer.” Yours. “Mommy murderer. Blood traitor.” The worst kind of betrayer. The kind that¬†bathed in their¬†victim’s¬†blood and cried out in wailing victory.

“What else?” Auntie pressed–my head harder into my fisheye-like reflection.

“I see,” I swallowed. Chewed the tip of my tongue.¬†Bang. “a pretty dress.”

“And,” Auntie dragged the consanent across her crooked incisors. ¬†“what do you say?”

“Thank you,” Bile slid down my throat. Spit settled on my face. “Auntie.”

I was released with a huff that coated me in another spray of slimy, grimey, salted spit. Tasted like Mommy‘s tears. Probably. I wouldn’t know. Won’t. I¬†sagged into myself.

“Good boy.” I’m¬†not.

Satisfied, Auntie would slink off and I would scramble back from smudgey glass. Smooth my hands down silk. With fingertips, find frills, find something like-comfort-but-not-quite in the edges.

I’m¬†not.

What? Auntie’s¬†spit simmered on my skin. My fists clenched frills flat.

Boy. Bang. Good. Bang.

I’m¬†not.

****

Auntie comes to see that for herself. Eventually. She has no choice but to.

Not when my shoulders brush the height of hers. Not when my eyes meet hers on an upward climb. An ascent.

The few photos kept reveal Mommy had a good head above Auntie. My good head, now. The only good thing about me, according to Auntie.

Still, Auntie takes me to the mirror. Stands me before myself and demands–See.

See what you’ve done to your mother, boy. To me. ¬†

Auntie reaches for my lengthy curls–for leverage–but the bang is already echoing in my ears. The spit already boiling¬†fresh on my flesh–each drip of dribble like a teardrop at the corner of two lids kissing. I flutter.

Auntie is against the glass in a spin that twirls my skirt.

“What, bo–”

See.” It isn’t a hiss. Nor, an order. It’s the slightest, crunchy-squish of a hard-shut eye opening. Blossoming. Ricocheting ad infinitum off mine and Auntie’s super-imposed reflection.

“Wha–” Bang.

See.” Frills brush Auntie’s skin like eye lashes, gentle but coated black so they curl. “Can’t you see?”

Another bang and she does. She looks and–

“I see.” Of course, Auntie spits¬†it–in our shared face. My glassy-eyed part of the reflection doesn’t relent. though. Not now.

What?” Bang. Red joins spit. “Auntie, what?”

“I see,” She huffs when struggling only intensifies red. “a sister slayer.” Mommy’s. I bob my head. Auntie’s lip curls sharp. “A Momma’s bo–” Bang. The mirror cracks.

Auntie gasps, splattering crimson in our splintered reflection. It’s splitting down the middle. Like a large eyelid.

“See what?” Like glass, my voice cracks. Auntie can’t stifle her snicker. Bang. Bang. Bang. She stops. “You see Mommy’s what?”

“–aughter.” Auntie spits between a newly chipped tooth and mouthful of shards. I crook a brow and she tries again, “Daugh…ter.”

“What else?” I roll her limp head till she’s staring straight at the split separating as it joins. “What else do you see?”

“Blood…” Her gurgle hides her reflection’s eye beneath a red coating. Again, a try. A cry. “blood…tr…blood-y….dr….ess….”

She slumps into herself like one lid folding down and I rise from her like the other lid sliding up.

“Thank you, Auntie.”

My fingers find wet frills, edges soaked in and dyed a colour they’ve always been afraid of. Blamed for. A colour I’ve not worn since my first and only–till now–victory.

What would Mommy say?

See?

I wipe the glass before my eyes till I peek through red. Split open and smiling. Fingertips brush the toothy slash.

Good girl. I nod.

I am.

****

fullsizerender-1

Tweet, tweet…

Hope you enjoyed reading ^.^ For more twisted and delightfully disturbing tales, check out my Killing It tab~ I usually most twice a week.

**This is the painting in the Featured Image for this post. Saw it at a recent trip to the Whitney Museum in the city and–fell in love–but also felt like it would be perfect for this sweet little story**


Tagged: abuse, blood, creative writing, disturbing, dysphoria, flesh, gender dysphoria, Killing It, let me know if there are any tags I need to add, mine, netnarr, Networked Narratives, not meant to offend anyone, personal, physical, psychological, sorry if it offends you, story, storytelling, trauma, twisted

Split Girl

See.” Auntie would hiss, breath-half mist-half piss–spit splattering across my face like soggy freckles. “Don’t you see?”

Spittle soaking deep into bone, I’d bob my neck up down. A metronome kicked on its side. But¬†that was never enough.

My compliance meant nothing till it suffered. Till I suffered.

Till I looked.

“Can’t you see?” A banshee-screech that bounced off mirrored glass like my small skull in Auntie’s gargantuan grip. Bang. Bang.¬†

“I see.” My raspy exhale fogged the glass.

“See what?” Bang.

“I see a sister slayer.” Yours. “Mommy murderer. Blood traitor.” The worst kind of betrayer. The kind that¬†bathed in their¬†victim’s¬†blood and cried out in wailing victory.

“What else?” Auntie pressed–my head harder into my fisheye-like reflection.

“I see,” I swallowed. Chewed the tip of my tongue.¬†Bang. “a pretty dress.”

“And,” Auntie dragged the consanent across her crooked incisors. ¬†“what do you say?”

“Thank you,” Bile slid down my throat. Spit settled on my face. “Auntie.”

I was released with a huff that coated me in another spray of slimy, grimey, salted spit. Tasted like Mommy‘s tears. Probably. I wouldn’t know. Won’t. I¬†sagged into myself.

“Good boy.” I’m¬†not.

Satisfied, Auntie would slink off and I would scramble back from smudgey glass. Smooth my hands down silk. With fingertips, find frills, find something like-comfort-but-not-quite in the edges.

I’m¬†not.

What? Auntie’s¬†spit simmered on my skin. My fists clenched frills flat.

Boy. Bang. Good. Bang.

I’m¬†not.

****

Auntie comes to see that for herself. Eventually. She has no choice but to.

Not when my shoulders brush the height of hers. Not when my eyes meet hers on an upward climb. An ascent.

The few photos kept reveal Mommy had a good head above Auntie. My good head, now. The only good thing about me, according to Auntie.

Still, Auntie takes me to the mirror. Stands me before myself and demands–See.

See what you’ve done to your mother, boy. To me. ¬†

Auntie reaches for my lengthy curls–for leverage–but the bang is already echoing in my ears. The spit already boiling¬†fresh on my flesh–each drip of dribble like a teardrop at the corner of two lids kissing. I flutter.

Auntie is against the glass in a spin that twirls my skirt.

“What, bo–”

See.” It isn’t a hiss. Nor, an order. It’s the slightest, crunchy-squish of a hard-shut eye opening. Blossoming. Ricocheting ad infinitum off mine and Auntie’s super-imposed reflection.

“Wha–” Bang.

See.” Frills brush Auntie’s skin like eye lashes, gentle but coated black so they curl. “Can’t you see?”

Another bang and she does. She looks and–

“I see.” Of course, Auntie spits¬†it–in our shared face. My glassy-eyed part of the reflection doesn’t relent. though. Not now.

What?” Bang. Red joins spit. “Auntie, what?”

“I see,” She huffs when struggling only intensifies red. “a sister slayer.” Mommy’s. I bob my head. Auntie’s lip curls sharp. “A Momma’s bo–” Bang. The mirror cracks.

Auntie gasps, splattering crimson in our splintered reflection. It’s splitting down the middle. Like a large eyelid.

“See what?” Like glass, my voice cracks. Auntie can’t stifle her snicker. Bang. Bang. Bang. She stops. “You see Mommy’s what?”

“–aughter.” Auntie spits between a newly chipped tooth and mouthful of shards. I crook a brow and she tries again, “Daugh…ter.”

“What else?” I roll her limp head till she’s staring straight at the split separating as it joins. “What else do you see?”

“Blood…” Her gurgle hides her reflection’s eye beneath a red coating. Again, a try. A cry. “blood…tr…blood-y….dr….ess….”

She slumps into herself like one lid folding down and I rise from her like the other lid sliding up.

“Thank you, Auntie.”

My fingers find wet frills, edges soaked in and dyed a colour they’ve always been afraid of. Blamed for. A colour I’ve not worn since my first and only–till now–victory.

What would Mommy say?

See?

I wipe the glass before my eyes till I peek through red. Split open and smiling. Fingertips brush the toothy slash.

Good girl. I nod.

I am.

****

fullsizerender-1

Tweet, tweet…

Hope you enjoyed reading ^.^ For more twisted and delightfully disturbing tales, check out my Killing It tab~ I usually most twice a week.

**This is the painting in the Featured Image for this post. Saw it at a recent trip to the Whitney Museum in the city and–fell in love–but also felt like it would be perfect for this sweet little story**


Tagged: abuse, blood, creative writing, disturbing, dysphoria, flesh, gender dysphoria, Killing It, let me know if there are any tags I need to add, mine, netnarr, Networked Narratives, not meant to offend anyone, personal, physical, psychological, sorry if it offends you, story, storytelling, trauma, twisted

Ghost Girl

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

~ Edgar Allen Poe

Mama went in her sleep.

How she wanted. How she dreamed.

Death is an illusion. An imagined end. Mama rasped toward her own foreseeable ending, breaths short and shallow.¬†We don’t live¬†here. We live inside. When you dream, my little ghost, look for me. I will be there.

So I did.

When Mama moved on from here, I searched–inside. Reached into the recesses. Haunted my hollow spaces, hoping for a familiar specter. A lingering trace, no trick of longing.

What I found, though, was smoke and mirrors, fogged glass stretching for as far as the eye can fathom. A maze of murky reflections and, wailing through it like a willowy wind-chime in a gale, Mama’s voice, beckoning.

I’m lost, little ghost. A hazy figure in the fog. I reach for it till fingertips kiss frigid glass.¬†Help me find my way. Cold stings skin.¬†Just a¬†smudge.¬†Please.¬†It hurts.

Mama wasn’t a beggar. A bargainer, yes, but never desperate. If she ever appeared as such, it was an act. A performance. A scheme.¬†Artifice. Those smoke and mirrors.

See, in the waking realm, Mama was a magician. I, her faithful assistant. Mama lowered the curtain and I disappeared. She held the saw and I split in two shards.

Defying death,¬†Mama would tell the evening’s adoring audience, her top-hat tipped to stymie applause.¬†is child’s play. A dream forgotten upon waking. A little ghost, her hand on my shoulder, proud. of who you were. If asked nicely, they’ll return. Show you how to remember. How to escape.

Please. Mama calls now, from deep within mirrored halls. Come.

So, like a faithful assistant, I do. I split in two.

I follow the sound of Mama’s imploring cries, her delighted giggles when I hit a dead-end. Hunt¬†the hush of footfalls, discordant echoes off emptiness. Raindrops tap-tap-tapping the glass in out-of-tandem staccato. Pitter-patter-pat. Like a taunt.

Mean.

Hiding was an acquired skill of mine–from Mama. Crouching in crawlspaces, tucking limber limbs from suspicious, searching sight. Mama taught me all I knew. Every trick…

Or, so I thought.

Suddenly, a shimmer through the fog–the sparkly band ’round Mama’s trusty top-hat. I give chase.¬†Pat, pat, pat–around sharp corners, down splintering corridors, a tinkling of…¬†bells?¬†in my ears. Maybe wind whistling through chimes….?

A silvery glint twists left. I clip my shoulder veering after it. Hear an explosion of¬†clinks and of tinkling–feel¬†a tingling run up my arm. Realization dawns.¬†It’s glass. The sound is glass. Broken bits and pieces flinging through the air.

The mirrors are shattering.

I pick up my pace. Ignore the jagged fragments gnawing at my heels, biting into the tender flesh.¬†This is not the end.¬†Mama promised.¬†There isn’t one.¬†Not in my dreams.

At last, the top-hat is in reach. I thrust a out a numb arm. Snag the hat by its brim. Tug it close for safe-keeping to my chest.

Immediately, silence falls.

Across the void to me. Then, it stretches from where I stand, top-hat in hand, to the lone mirror before me. For once, the glass isn’t fogged, my reflection only vague. No, now, when I look in the¬†mirror, I find Mama.

She stares at me, a smile slashed from ear to ear. Her hand is outstretched and, after a measured moment, I move forward to meet her.

Fingertips caress glass, warmth seemingly radiating from within. Mama’s….my¬†eyes glance from my recently captured prize back to my face.¬†Put it on, they suggest.¬†Then, little ghost, you’ll¬†remember.

So, ever-faithful, I raise¬†Mama’s top-hat to my head.

A perfect fit.

As if in approval, Mama nods. My breath hitches. In my ears, a ringing–no, a pounding.¬†Inside,¬†Mama said. I will be there.¬†I fall to my knees. Mama does the same.

Defying death is…. a little ghost of who you were.¬†My hand brushes a shard, fingers its cracks, its poignancies. They’ll…¬†show you how to escape.

“Little ghost… Little ghost…¬†Little ghost…” Mama reclaims my fracturing focus, her grin splitting–sawing–her in two.¬†“Are you there?”

“No,” Slowly, back and forth, I shake my head. The fog has cleared. The curtain lifted. Dream seen. I clench the shard in my grip till it cuts. “I’m¬†here.

I shatter.

****

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Thanks for reading!

    Find more of my delightfully disturbing/whatever stories under the Killing It tag~

 

 


Tagged: Bot Prompts, creative writing, creepy, digital storytelling, disturbing, ghost girl, Killing It, mine, mirror girl, mirrors, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, split, story, storytelling, twitterbots, what do you think?

Living Dead Girl IV

Part I, Part II, Part III,

I’ve become accustomed to being watched.

Hollow, sightless eyes boring into me from beyond. Gaping gazes trying to swallow me up, their seeking ravenous for every last scrap. For anything that could fill the empty spaces. Make them a little less like windows without torches.

It’s ever-night where they are. Nana said one evening while I was studying the intricacies of incantation intonation at the table, her knobby knuckles knocking a suspiciously rhythmic beat against the window’s wooden sill. Cloudy and shadowed… Dark. So very dark. She paused then, considering before revealing, Like the inside of a sealed jar.

Pandora‘s? I remember asking, looking up from the large, dense tome laid before me. Myths and folklore were the only non-educational reads Nana allowed in the house.

Yes. Nana offered me a rare smile, resuming her rhythm. And, we’re their only company. Understand what that means, Thana? I did, then. Still do, sometimes.

Gotta keep the lights on.

Feeling observed, the sensation of it–goose-flesh and a vague, all-over tingling–is familiar. Constant. My companion. If not entirely welcome as a guest, accepted as a ward with nowhere else to go.

There is a difference, though, between what must be suffered in silent acceptance and what can stand not to be. A degree of tingling, more piercing than passively probing. Too weighty for any starving set of sightless sockets.

Not gluttonous enough for a pair of sockets filled fathomless like mine, either. 

 “Are you here to collect my soul, Reaper?” I don’t turn from the tombstone I stand before, despite the approach I can hear behind me. Steps soft for the weight of their owner’s gaze. “Or, just to stare?” Like you have been.

“Neither.” A low voice, strong but subdued. Quiet footfalls cease just short of being intrusive. “My business can wait, though, till yours is complete.” I don’t have to look to know the Reaper’s bowed their head–to match my position. I do anyway. Just a peek.

A slight glance reveals their scythe–nothing vague about its shape this close–similarly crooked in posture. Reverence may be the tool’s first lesson.

I return to my vigil.

Since I began working for Ms. Redding, once a week finds me facing off with her late husband–his grave, at this hour–a bundle of roses in hand. Gotta keep the lights on. Got to try.

Another moment of silence disturbed only by the hushed sounds of breathing and I lay my meager offering down. Then–a controlled breath–I face the Reaper standing a respectful distance away, finally able to observe them as I have been observed these past few nights. (Getting a good look at a Reaper is usually a final act.)

They are tall–enough to be imposing if they desired–and clothed in black, a long cloak obscuring much of their person from view. What I can see is utilitarian–boots, pants with knees patched many-times-over tucked snug into them. The hilt of some secondary weapon juts outward from the hip. Can’t imagine why it’s needed. My focus wanders to the promise of the Reaper’s scythe. From point to heel, its blade must be longer than I am.

Lowering the hood of their cloak, the Reaper reveals themselves to be a young man with a head of hair less kept than his discipline would seem to allow. As if conscious of the fact, he runs his free hand through his shaggy mane, attempting unsuccessfully to smooth fly- aways. In the day’s fading light, his locks look almost like raven feathers–deep black but shiny, iridescent at the right angle. Like the feather braided in my hair.

He’s striking, yes, but he might easily have been any guy I crossed paths with on campus if it weren’t for the eyes–solid white. No pupils. No irises. Like freshly fallen snow without the glare. Barely a sheen of life to them.

A slow, measured blink and I wonder if he’s not entirely blind? Was the added sense of tingling just my imagination? The shiver, my paranoia…?

“I can see.” The Reaper responds to my unvoiced suspicions, startling me out of what I belatedly realize is a lengthy once-over. “More than you I believe, Necromancer.” It is purely a statement of fact, no underlying haughtiness to it. Still.

“Sure acute vision is handy.” Again, my sight cut to the scythe. “For aim.”

Another slow, measured blink and then, “Are you finished with your business?” He tosses a blank yet decidedly pointed glance at the solitary white bloom peeking out from its covert hiding place in my coat. A lily. Nana’s favourite. None of this Reaper’s concern.

“Done enough.” I stuff one hand in a pocket, use the other to brush through my ponytail, find the dark feather in the silvery mix. “Onto what business you’ve with me, Reaper.”

“Hayden.” I lift a disbelieving brow. “I know who you are Thana, acting Necromancer of Deadwood territory since the former….moved on. It’s only fair you know who I am.”

“You don’t know me.” I clench the fist in my pocket. Remember Nana’s lily resting in the other and what happened to the similarly innocent hydrangeas earlier at the shoppe. To the dahlia’s Hel took a liking to. Breathe, Thana. “I’m no acting Necromancer.” I relax my fist, stifling the wince as blood flow returns. “That would require official recognition of my being one at all.”

“By the Circle.” The Reaper–Hayden, I correct–clarifies. “They came to see you today,” A hesitant pause, almost trepid.  “…much to your displeasure.”

“In the living world, following someone without their knowledge and/or permission is called stalking.” Again, I crook a brow. “Know that?”

“I thought I’d misjudged you.” He points to his feather hanging in my hair. “And, you were selling out the ghost.”

“I’d have to be on a side to do that.”

“And, the Circle doesn’t want you on theirs?”

“They’ve made Their preferences abundantly clear.” Gar’s not you echoes in my ears, like a throbbing pulse. I shake my head, look Hayden dead in his dead eyes. “As I’m sure you heard.” From whatever shadows you crept within.

“I heard them ask you to be on the look-out for rogue Reapers.”

“Yeah,” I tilt my head. “know any?”

That earns me a faint smirk, a corner sharpened so minutely to a point it’s almost missed before it smooths back into a mask of impassivity.

“Look,” I start after a length of comfortable silence. “I don’t want any trouble. So, if you want to go now, I’ll forget I ever saw you. If not… Well, again, I don’t want trouble.”

“We’ve dead unaccounted for.” Hayden takes a step forward, still not intrusive. Just toeing the line. “It’s why we’re out of sorts. We’re searching.

“You think you’ll find some hiding here?” I question, slightly taken aback–both by his directness and the possibility of an accusation. “That’d violate our agreements.” Between Reapers and Necromancers. No playing keepsies with the spirits. It disturbs the order. Tips the scales off kilter.

“You misunderstand.” Hayden shakes his head, feathery locks hanging in his face. “We’ve dead coming to us for whom no record or their reaping exists.” Uncomprehending, I blink at him. “If you haven’t been reaped, you haven’t died.”

Oh.

Too many. Not too few.

“So… you’ve got dead-but-not-dead on your hands?” I try to piece together what I’ve learned. “And, you’re not sure where they’re coming from? Or, more importantly, how they’re getting to you?”

Hayden nods, more shiny strands falling in his face.

“That sounds like trouble.” More than I want and certainly than I need. “And, not particularly my problem.” The so why are you telling me it like it is? goes without saying.

“It would help our search greatly is we could speak with one of these…. undead. But,” Hayden’s blank eyes find mine. “as you undoubtedly know, death doesn’t lend itself to discussion so much as it does to–”

Screaming.” I finish and Hayden bows his head. From somewhere above us, a crow caws. “You need someone who can summon the dead from your world to mine.” A Necromancer.

“Yes.”

“Lots of trouble.” I remove my hand from my coat so I can rub my pounding temple. “That’s lots of trouble.”

“It’ll be worse than troublesome if this problem isn’t rectified soon. The veil between realms is already showing signs of stress.” Hayden raises his head, blank gaze imploring. “My kind are too proud and, admittedly, too wary to ask your Circle to interfere in these matters. But, you are not Circle, Thana.”

“And, you are not overly proud, Hayden?”

“My only pride is in my work.” Hayden’s fingers flex on the snath of his scythe. “It is my purpose. Something or someone playing it for a fool cannot be tolerated.”

“I’m not a Necromancer.” Not officially. “Or one’s apprentice.” Not anymore. “It’d be a punishable offense for me to perform a summoning. Harshly punishable. I could be stripped of this territory.” That’s belonged to Nana’s blood for longer than the Circle’s had any to its name. “Stripped of worse if I’m discovered.”

“Were the stakes not worth the risks, I would be not but a shadow on your horizon.” Hayden intones, as solemn as the scythe at his side. “The dead deserve better, Thana. Ends proper. You know that.”

I look away, undecided on whether or not blank eyes are preferable to hollow stares. Both want so much. 

One hand runs its fingers along a silky feather’s bristles. The other, along soft, white petals. So do I–want. Other sensations have become muted–to touch and sight.

It’s getting dark.

In the sky, the sun sags, fog appearing like manifested dream to drag it under. Soon, the screaming will start. Sockets will delineate themselves from night. From nightmare. Pair up to hunt. Scratch at the glass. Desperate.

Gotta keep the lights on.

They‘ll feel less alone, Thana. Nana told me, something that can’t be taught through any tome coloring her tone. Less abandoned if there’s a little light. You too.

“I know.” Hayden’s should-be soulless eyes meet mine, hopeful. Their sheen reminds me of the sparkle Nana’s starless set seemed to hold. “I’ll need some supplies. Time to prepare, too.”

“How long?” Is that a hint of impatience I detect?

“By all means, feel free to play that other card you’ve got up your cloak.” That seems to silence any further complaints.”No? Then, I‘ll need a day or two.” Mentally, I expand upon that grocery list I never got around to today. Unexpected company, what can you do? Thinking of…

“You wouldn’t happen to have a place where I can…work, would you?” I look at Hayden. “Somewhere secluded. Not too small. Preferably near hallowed ground.” In case.

“How big?” I can’t help but grin. That’s always the first question, Nana clucked her tongue. Though the answer should be obvious.

“Enough for a body.”

For his part, Hayden remains seemingly unfazed, contemplative, perhaps, but his features more neutral than mine must’ve been when the truth of the matter was made apparent to me. After a moment to think, I raise my eyebrows.

“I’ve a place in mind.” Hayden reveals, the white of his eyes taking on a crimson tint as dusk dies. “I take it blood and bone doesn’t bother you?”

Another grin I can’t devour.

“It’ll save me time,” My flesh begins to tingle, nearly hum as the last vestiges of my peace sink into dark surround me. A crow’s cry becomes the beginnings of a wail–for company. Mine. “not having to collect either myself.”

Shrieks settle in my ears. Empty sockets on my skin.

It’s going to be a long night.

Better light that torch.

****

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Can you guess who we’re going to meet next time?? I wonder…

If anyone has any interesting reads on necromancy or death deities or tarot, please feel free to share ^.^ I’m interested in incorporating as many as I can in this little series here…. Is that too much of a hint for who to expect next week….?? Guess we’ll find out!

Thanks as always for reading!

All my stories can be found under the Killing It tag ^.^

***Link to Tweet inspiring this piece***

(Yes, I drew the featured image and the other skull drawing in this post. The featured image is a piece I’m working on for a class. It’s done using charcoal. My fave~~)

 

 


Tagged: blood, Bot Prompts, creative enterprise, creative writing, creepy, death, grim reaper, labour of love, living dead girl, mine, my necromancer, necromancer, necromancy, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, reaper, series, story, storytelling, twitterbots

It Will Be Satisfied

Swamp surrounds the village, dirt little more than sponge, sopping up so much water even the slightest of us must strap net stretched across stiff wooden slats to our feet or else risk being swallowed whole. Too many have become meals, preserved in the muck for unsuspecting outside-dwellers to stumble across on one of their daring jaunts to our reaches.

It’s why we’re called the People of the Mud.

Big sister, unruly and untamable, always a donning a reckless sort of snaggled smile, became one such meal.

Hushed me in my hammock when climbing down from hers disturbed me. Told me, in a conspiratorial whisper, “It’ll be our little secret little sister, yes?” and vanished into the fathomless void our world is once nights descends. Her muck-shucks remained, I noticed at daybreak.

She never returned for them.

Blood, an elder in the hobbled hut stilted beside ours said when it was clear big sister was gone for good. The mud demands blood.

Mother and father said nothing in response to the elder. Nodded, yes, but kept their mouths sewn shut. I followed suit.

Said nothing when no vigil was held. Nothing when big sister’s hammock was filled not a year later¬†by another child. Nothing when big sister’s¬†muck-shucks were pried from my protective hold and broken. Remade, so¬†carefully, for a smaller pair of pitter-patter feet.

Silence would mourn silence.

Would mourn a farewell never voiced. A farewell that can never be voiced. A closure, never found.

In the swamp, the mud is not the only thing that makes demands. That requires sacrifice. The water–there is ritual that must be performed before it will accept our dead.

Touch. We must bless the passed with one last memory of our touch. Must comfort them a final time, skin to muddy skin, or else risk their disgruntled spirit coming back with a vengeance for what it was denied.

Flesh swallowed by the murk without lasting comfort never satisfies.

Is never satisfied.

It slithers out of the murk and into your hut at night. Up into your hammock. Coils ’round and ’round you till its smooth, scaly touch is all you can feel. All you will remember.

It sneaks up on you while you’re muck-shucking. Watches you with beady eyes from the razory reeds, saw-tooth grass, biding it’s time till you tempt fate too close and then it is tusks through your soft tissue. Skin separated from skin.¬†Cloven hoofs crunching bone so you’ll never forget.

It is a jagged-jawed maw lying in wait in the shallows’ shadows. Scaled hide shades of void and murk. Eyes dim until the moment mother leans too far for the laundry line and falls into the drink. Till father wades too deep into the drink to rescue her. Then, those dull eyes sheen blood-red. Like mine and baby sister’s reflection in the murk from our perch above.

Mud people? More like Blood people. 

Blood and bone and fleshy parts people. So easily made. Easier torn apart. Blood and bone and fleshy parts a delicacy our world delights in serving almost as much as it does in devouring itself.

After, when the red goes ruddy, Its eyes flat like night again, there is an acknowledgement. A looked shared between It and me. The world and me. Fully satisfied. Appreciative. Accentuated by a toothy, reckless curl. Gone in an instant, with a single thrash of its spiky tail, back into the murky depths. Finally able to rest.

Baby sister wriggles in my arms.

“Ma?” She mumble-grumbles, pointing a pudgy finger at the settling murk. “Da?”

Shhhhh….” I soothe her struggling, her searching, my voice less than pacifying from ¬†long disuse. “It’s a secret.”

I glance down at the red streaks still swirling in the murk, the bone fragments floating like the broken bits of an old pair of forgotten muck-shucks. They weren’t forgotten.

“It’s our secret, yes?”

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Wrote this while I was pissed because I missed my train. Decided to make my frustration productive. Hope you enjoy~~

***Be sure to check out the Killing It if you do***

Link to Inspiration Tweet


Tagged: Killing It, mine, murder, netnarr, Networked Narratives, people of the mud, story, what do you think?

It Will Be Satisfied

Swamp surrounds the village, dirt little more than sponge, sopping up so much water even the slightest of us must strap net stretched across stiff wooden slats to our feet or else risk being swallowed whole. Too many have become meals, preserved in the muck for unsuspecting outside-dwellers to stumble across on one of their daring jaunts to our reaches.

It’s why we’re called the People of the Mud.

Big sister, unruly and untamable, always a donning a reckless sort of snaggled smile, became one such meal.

Hushed me in my hammock when climbing down from hers disturbed me. Told me, in a conspiratorial whisper, “It’ll be our little secret little sister, yes?” and vanished into the fathomless void our world is once nights descends. Her muck-shucks remained, I noticed at daybreak.

She never returned for them.

Blood, an elder in the hobbled hut stilted beside ours said when it was clear big sister was gone for good. The mud demands blood.

Mother and father said nothing in response to the elder. Nodded, yes, but kept their mouths sewn shut. I followed suit.

Said nothing when no vigil was held. Nothing when big sister’s hammock was filled not a year later¬†by another child. Nothing when big sister’s¬†muck-shucks were pried from my protective hold and broken. Remade, so¬†carefully, for a smaller pair of pitter-patter feet.

Silence would mourn silence.

Would mourn a farewell never voiced. A farewell that can never be voiced. A closure, never found.

In the swamp, the mud is not the only thing that makes demands. That requires sacrifice. The water–there is ritual that must be performed before it will accept our dead.

Touch. We must bless the passed with one last memory of our touch. Must comfort them a final time, skin to muddy skin, or else risk their disgruntled spirit coming back with a vengeance for what it was denied.

Flesh swallowed by the murk without lasting comfort never satisfies.

Is never satisfied.

It slithers out of the murk and into your hut at night. Up into your hammock. Coils ’round and ’round you till its smooth, scaly touch is all you can feel. All you will remember.

It sneaks up on you while you’re muck-shucking. Watches you with beady eyes from the razory reeds, saw-tooth grass, biding it’s time till you tempt fate too close and then it is tusks through your soft tissue. Skin separated from skin.¬†Cloven hoofs crunching bone so you’ll never forget.

It is a jagged-jawed maw lying in wait in the shallows’ shadows. Scaled hide shades of void and murk. Eyes dim until the moment mother leans too far for the laundry line and falls into the drink. Till father wades too deep into the drink to rescue her. Then, those dull eyes sheen blood-red. Like mine and baby sister’s reflection in the murk from our perch above.

Mud people? More like Blood people. 

Blood and bone and fleshy parts people. So easily made. Easier torn apart. Blood and bone and fleshy parts a delicacy our world delights in serving almost as much as it does in devouring itself.

After, when the red goes ruddy, Its eyes flat like night again, there is an acknowledgement. A looked shared between It and me. The world and me. Fully satisfied. Appreciative. Accentuated by a toothy, reckless curl. Gone in an instant, with a single thrash of its spiky tail, back into the murky depths. Finally able to rest.

Baby sister wriggles in my arms.

“Ma?” She mumble-grumbles, pointing a pudgy finger at the settling murk. “Da?”

Shhhhh….” I soothe her struggling, her searching, my voice less than pacifying from ¬†long disuse. “It’s a secret.”

I glance down at the red streaks still swirling in the murk, the bone fragments floating like the broken bits of an old pair of forgotten muck-shucks. They weren’t forgotten.

“It’s our secret, yes?”

fullsizerender-1

Wrote this while I was pissed because I missed my train. Decided to make my frustration productive. Hope you enjoy~~

***Be sure to check out the Killing It if you do***

Link to Inspiration Tweet


Tagged: Killing It, mine, murder, netnarr, Networked Narratives, people of the mud, story, what do you think?