Blood Family

“What is the point of this?” he asked, his voice low and even. “Why did you come here?”

She looked down, but did not answer, not yet.

In her arms was a small child, pale all over save for his eyes which were a crimson as dark as her freshly spilt blood. The child looked back up at his mother, quiet and assessing, recording her image into his mind as if he knew even at his young age that this would be last he’d ever see of her.

Finally, she spoke, her voice as soft as the wind on a clear night.

“I need a place, a place for my son, where he will be safe and can learn and grow.”

The man in front of her was silent as he thought over her words, understanding what she was asking.

She did not know his name, did not even know the name of the place they were in nor the name of her child. It was safer this way, safer for the child as well as the one she was leaving him with. Names were power in more ways than most humans were aware.

She would give anything, pay any price for the safety of her child and the man knew it. A part of her was worried, worried about what the man would ask for, but another part of her, a small part that had long since grown silent in her own home, knew that her son would be safe no matter what here.

The ritual she had performed to send her here for this short amount of time had made certain of it.

“Very well,” the man said, “I will take the boy and raise him as my own. I will never speak of you to him, never hint that he is anything but my own. You will not exist within his life if I am able to help it at all.”

She nodded to his terms. He understood and for that she would be forever grateful. Another of her family would be safe.

She hugged the child to her chest once more before handing him over to the man in front of her.

She disappeared without a trace, the blood that had been placed on the boy vanishing just as silently.


Written for this week’s Weekly Prompt from suzie81speaks: http://suzie81speaks.com/2014/04/27/weekly-word-challenge-family/

 

Confusing

Where would I be today if not for you?

Lost and alone,
I don’t know where to go.
Afraid and uncertain,
I don’t recognize anyone around.
 
Afraid and uncertain,
I don’t know who you are.
Here and there,
Why am I confused?
 
Here and there,
I’ll learn it all again.
Recovering and resting,
I feel safe enough to sleep.
 
Recovering and resting,
I’ll learn it as I go.

Women Being Awesome

More than once, you wondered what you were thinking.
Of all the decisions in life, you probably thought this was the most sane.
Taking care of 8+ children, not all of them yours, every day it seems.
Happy and sad and terrified in equal measure, this was a normal day for you.
Ever stating you’d rather hear the ‘gosh-awful truth than a pretty lie.’
Really, you were the best thing to ever happen to me.
Where would I be if not for you?
Siblings are supposed to help you build yourself up,
I can certainly see that you took this to heart.
Systems in place have been changed at the drop of a hat, when needed.
Too many of you to thank one at a time, because all five are too awesome.
Even when I don’t know who you are, you make me feel safe.
Reality’s something we face together.

I’d be all alone and lost to the world.


Written on behalf of the awesome women in my life who help me keep my head on straight. (Which is a little harder at times than most people would understand.)

Also for this week’s Dungeon Prompt: http://theseekersdungeon.com/2014/02/13/dungeon-prompts-season-2-week-7-tribute/

Bittersweet Heroes

In the end, she couldn’t have completely saved her children by herself.

The places that she sent them to, the people that were there were the real heroes for her children. There wasn’t always someone there to give her child to, but more often than not there was. Some of them spoke a language that she knew, but most didn’t. It didn’t seem necessary most of the time.

She would push her child forward, sometimes scooting the small bundle of pink across the floor carefully, so very carefully, and then look up into their eyes. Sometimes it was a man, sometimes it was a woman, different ages and races and sizes and all kinds of other things. most would look into her eyes long and hard and then down at the snuffling and mewling child either in her arms or on the floor.

Their eyes would invariably pause on her wrists and ankles, taking in the manacles there, fastened with no lock. The skin around them was scarred and inflamed and it was obvious that she would lose her hands in any bid to release her. The look in her eyes told them that even then, she would likely never be free. All she was asking for was the freedom of the child she was holding out towards them.

They were heroes because they took the child even though it was likely that whomever held the mother would search for the child as well. They did not know that he would be searching for too many children and would likely find not even half of them. They would be safe insofar as the people who took them in would see to.

These people that she did not know, would never know, would be responsible for her child, for her children, for each part of her soul that she was able to send away. They would be parents and she would likely never be mentioned to the child that was now their’s. That was fine for her; the less her children knew about where they had come from, the less danger they would be in. The magic that she’d used to send them away worked better when there were fewer who knew the details.

Ignorance was rarely a protection for anyone, it certainly hadn’t been for her. The irony that she would use what the sire of her children had used against her in order to stop him from harming her children (and they were hers, never would they be his no matter what their genetics would say) made this sweet enough to drown out the bitter.

“Thank you.” she would always whisper, even to those who would never understand her words.

She would lean down over the child, some would awaken in order to see her one last time (or a first time) and she would mumble a few words in her own language. The language of the Phoenix.


Written for this week’s DungeonPrompts.

http://theseekersdungeon.com/2014/01/16/dungeon-prompts-season-2-week-3-role-models-and-the-molding-of-personality/

Favorite Pet

There have been mentions of animals in the news. There have always been mentions of animals in the news and this is a trend that will likely continue. I honestly can’t think of a reason why there wouldn’t be. These animals, whether they be exotic or wild or domestic seem to speak to us in a way that means we can’t ignore them and their own feelings and thoughts even though we don’t understand their own language.

I was going through my bookmarks on my laptop (I have way too many) when I realized that I had a lot about animals. I won’t mention them all in here, but it didn’t surprise me at all just how much animals are talked about online. I know that I love reading about them and talking about them and looking at pictures about them…

Anything to do with animals really makes me smile or cry.

(And as I sit and write this my cat Usako is staring out the back door, with occasional glances in my direction, just waiting for her mother Cotton to want back in.)

It has been mentioned that I should write about my favorite family pet in my life. I can’t pick one, unfortunately, because each animal member of my family, past and present, have been my favorite for this or that. Their personalities are very different, just like the human family members that I have.

My favorite mothering pet was Ginger, a husky-golden retriever mix who was absolutely convinced that my younger siblings and I and some of our friends were her puppies. She would try to get us to eat this or that and drink and would shoo us into her doghouse when it was nap time before curling up around us to make sure we were warm enough.

My favorite teddy bear pet was Taffy, an orange tabby that followed me everywhere when I was a toddler. He let me cuddle him however I wanted. Unfortunately this meant that sometimes when I’d wonder off after a nap I would tug him along with by his tail or a paw. Mom says he was totally fine with it and thought I was awesome.

My favorite guard dog/exercise trainer was Rascal, a black mutt who my brother brought home from the street after he’d escaped previous owners who were not good to him. (No one ever came to claim him, so he was ours.) He was super protective of our family (especially Mom) without actually attacking people. (With the exception of my dad after our parents divorced.) He never actually bit anyone that I can recall and he thought that Mom was the most precious person in the house. He also ate everything except carrots.

My favorite ambush pet is Usako, my tortoise shell cat. She is absolutely awful at actually attacking anything. She is not the cat that defends her territory. She is excellent at waiting for the right moment to strike and then dashing off before her victim can retaliate. She’s also great for cuddling at night when it gets cold. She manages to do that without making it hard to breath and is as soft as a bunny. (She also likes salt and vinegar chips and low-sugar sugar cookies.)

My favorite boss pet was Tommy, a grey tabby long-hair. He would often glare at me until I went to bed. He had something like 60+ different looks that all boiled down to “Why are you doing that? Stop being an idiot.” That cat saved my sanity in my teen years when a lot of crap went down for my family. He was always very good at curling up on my back with just the right amount of warmth and weight to ease the tension running through it. (I had a lot of trouble with my back and neck during my teen years and he was one of the best parts of my physical therapy.)

I really can’t pick out of those mentioned and I have too many to write them all down. Each animal that my family has had have been a part of us and integral to our continued health and growth as people and as a family. They protect a part of our hearts and souls in a way that humans aren’t always able to do.