Heart Beat

“I can hear your heart beat.”

“It’s saying I love you.” –father and son, from a story whose name and author I can’t remember…blast it!


He’d been in love once with a young woman. They had met, become friends, fallen in love, gotten married and had a small family.

It was perfect.

And then, it wasn’t.

It wasn’t perfect anymore because the love of his life, the mother of his children, his best friend was sick.

And she wasn’t getting better, if anything she was getting worse. And they didn’t know why. They tried everything, exhausted every resource that they could get their hands on and still, nothing.

He didn’t know what to do.

His children would likely soon be motherless and he would be without his wife.

He’d be alone.


He turned and met his son’s eyes, they were the same shade and shape of his wife and he tried to hold back the wince.

“Yes, son?”

The little boy held up his arms and he bent to pick him up. Once his son was in his arms, the boy leaned forward and put his ear against his father’s chest.

“Daddy, can you hear my heart beat?”

The man chuckled lightly, “No, son, but I’m sure you can hear mine.”

The boy nodded before sitting up and reaching up to pull his father’s head down against his own chest.

“Now can you hear it?”

“Yes, son, I can hear it.”

“Mommy says that whenever a heartbeat is heard, the person hearin’ it’s bein’ told ‘I love you.’ Did you know that?”

He smiled, “No, son, I didn’t know that.”

Maybe he wouldn’t be as alone as he thought. It would be just like his darling wife to remind him without even being there that he wouldn’t be alone anymore no matter what.


My Heart Is Gone

Why keep going when it’s never enough?

All burnt up as I try to stay tough

Still keep pushing on and on

Thinking that, of course, nothing will go wrong

Even as the sky falls down

Letting me know with a glowering frown

As all I have is certainly all gone
ot just because of this wretched bond

Deciding to ignore that of you, I’m more than just fond


Why do I read things that make me write poetry like this?

That Moment When…

That moment came at the worst. Possible. Moment.

I had been working on this project diligently for several weeks.


That’s not quite right.

I’d been working on it for years. A little over a decade, in fact, when I realized just what I’d done.

It was horrifying, bewildering, truly terrible. Nights as well as days had been spent working on this manuscript that I had believed was some of my best work and I was so darn proud of the fact that I had consistently been working on not only the story itself but on the creation of the world within the story. So you can imagine my horror when I realized that one of my main characters had the kind of mood-swings that most people attribute to pregnant women in the movies and books (but that I have never actually experienced myself with my many sisters and/or friends who have been pregnant). But she was only like that with one character alone.

The character with the problems wasn’t even close to being pregnant in the story and likely never would be except maybe in some kind of epilogue.

I had to go back and redraft every single moment that had her in it.

I still look back at that and realize that if I’m going to work on any story in the middle of the night when even my cat is looking at me like I’m insane to still be up then I need to close the laptop and go do something else.

This moment in my life was remembered due to the Dungeon Prompt: That Now-I-Get-It-Moment.

He Just Wanted To Help

He hadn’t set out to find someone else, had never entertained the thought. It just sort of…happened.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his wife. He did, he’d have never married her if he hadn’t as he wasn’t the type of man to marry someone just for social norms or familial pressure. If he felt a certain way then he first made sure that it was permanent and then did something about it.

Which brought him to the current situation.

She was a young mother, single and with little to no relatives or friends willing to help out. (He didn’t know whether they just weren’t able as from his perspective being willing was enough. If you couldn’t do something then at least you gave emotional support, but this young woman didn’t even have that much to her name.) He had always enjoyed being able to take care of someone and he loved his wife enough to also know that there were times when she didn’t want someone to take care of her, but to let her stand on her own. They had a balanced marriage and loved one another greatly even if they had never been able to have any children.

(There had been those amongst his coworkers that believed he should leave his wife once it became clear that she wouldn’t be able to stand the adoption process even though the two of them wanted children very much. They would whisper to one another how he shouldn’t let her desires overwhelm his own.)

This young mother looked like she needed help and wasn’t getting it from anywhere else, so he decided to help her.

It wouldn’t have been a problem, shouldn’t have been, except now everyone was convinced that he was going to leave his wife for a hot, young thing that already had a child. Something everyone was aware that he’d wanted since forever, a child, that is. He had no idea if his wife knew what the neighbors were talking about or not because she never brought it up with him and he had no idea how to bring up the subject himself. For one thing, he didn’t know how to explain that he was beginning to love this other woman and her son as well, though he was fairly certain that he didn’t love her in the same way that he loved his wife.

She didn’t know what to think when one of the older Associates started giving her assistance.

It had started small: he’d helped her carry a bulging diaper bag from the office to her tiny, used car while she carried the baby carrier. He hadn’t even made a move towards the child, which was likely the only reason she’d allowed him to help. She’d done everything she could to keep her surprise baby, she wasn’t about to let some acquaintance, no matter him technically being her boss’s boss or something, take control of the carrier her son was in.

It hadn’t really stopped.

Suddenly he was making sure that she had enough hours to bring home a good enough paycheck, but still be able to have childcare that wasn’t taking rent and food money instead. Her gutters were cleaned, not always by him, her shabby little house started looking better around the edges and if her son was ever sick? She was able to take paid leave.

Anything that involved work wasn’t something that he hadn’t already pushed for others working in the office, but it hadn’t gone all the way through the red tape for those who weren’t working full-time.

At one point or another, she wondered if he was looking for a little honey on the side-

(And it would have to be on the side because she’d met his wife at company functions and didn’t even try to fool herself into thinking that he would ever leave the woman he obviously adored for some twenty-something single mother with less time to focus on her looks than a preteen before they started caring about their looks.)

-but he never asked for anything and there was never any strange glint in his eyes that spoke of anything nefarious like she’d seen from several professors or teachers throughout her schooling career (that still wasn’t finished, just…halted…temporarily. She hoped.)

It was like he just…wanted to help. Nothing else. It was a desire that she knew, intellectually, existed in people, but had never run into anyone who had it and would use it to help her.

She wasn’t quite sure what to think about it and so just kept going on with her life and tried not to take advantage of him in any way.

Life was complicated enough without having to worry about the reasons behind her boss’s boss helping her.

She tried not to smile at her husband as he came home from work that day.

She’d heard the rumors, of course, even if she normally detested gossip.

She knew that her husband was worried about what was happening, but she wasn’t worried. It was his paternal instinct that had seen the young woman and her son and realized that no one was there to help her and so stepped up to the plate, as it were.

She wasn’t worried about his affections wandering any more than she was worried that he would leave her over her inability to concede to adoption.

(She wasn’t going to think about her issues with adoption. Now was not the time and she didn’t want her husband to think that there was anything he’d done wrong today. He had been late getting home after all.)

He was an honorable man and when he’d seen someone who was within what he perceived as his sphere of responsibilities (the young woman did work as an intern at his law firm after all) then he worked to make sure they were taken care of without treading on their own need for independence (something he’d learned early on in their marriage even as she’d learned to, at times, let someone else be the strong one at times.)

She’d be more worried if she’d learned about the young woman and not found her husband trying to help her. It just wasn’t his way.

Not really sure how this ballooned from a random idea into this. There would have been more, but it’s been really windy today and our power’s been flickering so I had to go dig through the moving mess (I’m working on it) to find candles, flashlights and the lighter. Just in case the power goes out later today when it’s too dark outside to go by that light.


Once upon a time there was a little girl. This little girl loved stories of all shapes and sizes. She loved to read them, she loved to hide them under her blankets at night with a flashlight and she loved to write them too. She’d get a few pieces of paper and a pencil and in her shaky, cramped handwriting (that had a lot of misspellings, grammar errors and letter drawn backwards) she would write herself a story.

They weren’t the best stories and they often had very large plot holes and very poorly done character development (with lots of mood swings in the characters), but she was always so proud of her little stories whenever she handed them to one of her parents or older siblings to read.

This little girl grew each year and her love of stories grew as well. Her writing technique and use of the English language got better too.

There were programs and classes on how to do these things and connect with other writers, both older than her and younger. Unfortunately, the little girl’s family did not have the means with which to take part in these programs or classes. That didn’t stop the little girl from writing.

One day, when the little girl wasn’t so little anymore, one of her friends sent her an email with a link for a wonderful program. The not-so-little girl was worried, because every program she’d ever seen before required some kind of fee in order to take part and the not-so-little girl had no money. She was very surprised when she discovered that the program didn’t require a fee from her to join and take part in!

Now that the not-so-little girl is an adult, she has learned so much from this program and found that when she does have a little extra money, she wants to help other little girls or little boys (or not-so-little children) to take part in the program as well.

If you are able, please look up The Stories of Tomorrow. If not able, check out NaNoWriMo anyway. These people are the awesome editors of tomorrow for the writers of the future. They have all kinds of programs to help writers in any genre that you’re interested in.

The Dress

Once upon a time there was a dressmaker. He was an expert craftsman and made beautiful dresses. He made dresses of different shapes and sizes, different fabrics and colors. One dress he made was for a little girl, and it was a beautiful dress.

The dress was much loved and worn whenever possible until one day it ripped.

The dress was still very beautiful, the fabric not faded, but ripped. The girl could not mend it and neither could her family, so they put it away in the dark.

Years would pass and someone, now and then, would find the dress.

“Oh! What a beautiful dress!” they would say, “but it is ripped and I do not know how to fix it.”

And so, they would put the dress away, back in the dark.

One day a woman found the dress hidden away.

“Oh! What a beautiful dress!” she said and then she noticed the rip. “Oh, but it is ripped! I am not a dressmaker and I am not good with a needle, but I can stitch.”

She took a needle and found some thread.

“My thread is not the right color,” she said, “and my stiches are not even, but I can mend this rip.”

She threaded her needle with the thread and began to mend the dress. There were times when she had to stop and take the thread out and start over, but she did not give up.

“There!” she said once her work was done, “It is whole!”

Once the dress was mended, she washed it and hung it up for another little girl to wear.

“Oh!” the little girl said, “What a beautiful dress!”

This was written several months ago and was inspired by two things, two people.

The first is a dear friend of mine who found me, hiding away in the dark, sad and alone and afraid of interacting with those who were not already close (and what a small number that was). She befriended me and even when we were only able to text, she would talk with me every week without fail, just to see how I was doing. She was genuine and sincere and everything I needed to know existed still today. She recently was married and I was very privileged to attend and watch her in her beautiful dress promise herself to her husband and he to her.

This story is dedicated to her.

The second person is my eldest niece. I had been struggling for a way to express my feelings concerning my friend. At the beginning of the year, I found a dress that had belonged to my niece’s mother. It was a beautiful turquoise dress that was very simple, but had been worn at least once by the majority of my sisters once it no longer fit my second eldest sister. Along the way, there was a rip that developed in one side. It wasn’t a long rip, but it was placed in such a way that the dress shouldn’t be worn. It was laced away by my mother to be mended at another time and then was lost. I found it earlier this year as stated above and realized that I could mend it. I did so (though like in the story, the thread isn’t quite right), I washed it and that same day that the rest of the story came to me, my niece had pulled the dress on for the first time to wear to church. Sitting in Sacrament Meeting, the rest of the story came to me later that day.

The Dressmaker made all of us so beautifully, using different patterns and styles and fabrics. We are each of us gorgeous and our colors do not fade, but we can become torn and ripped and dirty from wear in the world. Sometimes (too often) we are put away in the dark, sad and alone. There are those who find us, see that we are broken and for whatever reason (inability, indifference, being too torn themselves) they do not pull us out of the dark. Then there are those who come along and pull us out. They see that we are beautiful, even if we are torn or dirty and though they do not feel as if they can mend us or help us adequately, they still try and in the end, their love made all the difference.

Thank you, my friend, thank you for finding me in the dark and not focusing on how I was damaged, but instead how I was beautiful. You were not perfect, but you loved me and cared for me with a perfect love.

Don’t Forget, Don’t Give Up

Come on, come on!
Look at the view!
I can’t believe it’s been here all along.
My but how high up we are!
Better get a snapshot or two or
I‘ll surely forget when I’ve gone away.
Never had I thought I would reach this point.
Giving up seemed like the way, but now I know I never will again.
“It is not the mountain we conquer but ourselves.”
~Edmund Hillary

Solaris looked out over the wreckage before her and sorrowed within her heart. So many lives lost, so much destruction but if they were to defend their way of life and their ability to choose there was no other way to go about it. But, thankfully, this fight was over.

There would be a lot of work still ahead of them, but for now, they could rest.

“Is it done?”

Solaris turned and met the eyes of her Guardian.

“No, Star, it is far from done, but for now, we can rest.”

Star nodded, her eyes dark and her face pale. “I thought as much.”

She sounded dejected and Solaris frowned slightly and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“There is always light at the end-”

“But we’re not at the end, My Queen, we are far from it.”

Solaris tapped a finger against Star’s cheek and smiled,”There is still light even throughout this. I know that you miss her greatly, but are you not pleased that she has recovered?”

“You know I am, Highness.”

“And is not this battlefield already being cleaned away, the dead being buried and the wounded being healed.”

“Yes, Highness.”

“And have we not pushed Chaos, our Enemy back?”

Star nodded grudgingly, determined to be downtrodden in her misery.

“And are you and I not standing here together?”

Star sighed, feeling more put upon, but also feeling a smile tug at her lips. “I know what you are about, my Queen.”

“And you know that I shall keep going lest you give in and admit your defeat.”

Star chuckled at that, she knew that Solaris did not usually prefer more formal sounding speech and she always had the funniest look on her face when she did use it.

Solaris’s smile broadened in triumph at the sound, “There, you see? Plenty of light all around us.”

Written for this Monday challenge from Light and Shade: http://lightandshadechallenge.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/light-and-shade-challenge-monday-2nd.html

Teardrop Creations – Day Thirteen

Teardrop creations,
That is what we are called.
We were created
By our Mother of All.
She was so Lonely,
Our Mother of All,
She called out for others,
But none answered Her Call.
Tears welled up in her eyes,
She sobbed out her heart,
Begging others with cries
To come and stay with Her.
When tears fell from her cheeks
They splattered on the ground
And grew up and up,
Until she was surrounded all around.
Different things sprung up
And with a tremulous smile,
The Mother of All
Found Her worthwhile.

Written as my offering for today’s NaPoWriMo Prompt: http://www.napowrimo.net/2014/04/lucky-thirteen/

Also, this is sort of an homage to a universe that I’ve been writing in since grade school. It’s a partially finished work that I have worked off and on through for over a decade and a half at least. I’ve known how it was to end almost since the beginning, it’s getting to the ending that has always been a bit of a problem. The most interesting thing about this story is that it was something that I inherited from a friend and is in no way shape or form a fanfiction. Someday I hope to finished this particular story.

Exists Only in Tales

Human beings often think that they are the dominant species on earth. This is both true and not true at the same time.

Let me explain:

Humans are the dominant species on earth insomuch that they seem to control the majority of the known world. They have power over what will happen to the wildlife around them as they can have it reduced to nothing more than a lumber mill should they so desire, as long as they have enough connections or money among their own kind.

Or have an ax and the skill, will and time to do so for themselves.

“You should never trust a human, fledgling,” her brother admonished her once the hunting party was gone from the wood.”

“But they didn’t harm anyone but what they needed for food, haven’t you always told me that this is the way of the world?”

“There is the way of the world, and then there is a desire for power. Men have fallen for less.”

“There must be some out there who aren’t that bad, surely!”

Then there are the men who have no power, but have enough brains to find a way towards power that no one else can take from them. A power source that they can bind and make near limitless in the possibilities of use.

Being able siphon the energy and very life-force of a phoenix can make one almost immortal, whether the phoenix is willing or not.

“Fledgling, I hope that you never find the difference between these two kinds of men, for I am certain that the latter exists only in tales.”

Former Guardian – Always Running

She ran and ran and ran, but never gained any distance from what was following her. She was so alone, always so completely alone. Sometimes she wondered if things had ever been different or if she had been stuck like this, forever running and never gaining her freedom.

She sometimes remembered that it once had, that things had been different and she had been safe and warm. There had been a time when fearing had been a relief, because it meant that someone else was the most powerful and that someone else was also a benevolent someone who would shine down warmth and protection upon those below.

Those days were long gone and it was as much her own fault as it was those of her bloodline that she would forever be hunting down. Her brother had once been everything she had wanted to be. He had been loyal and caring and, above all, trustworthy. He was none of that now. Now, he was a danger to more than just himself. He was a danger to all and any that existed or even might exist.

The knowledge he had, the capabilities that he had been blessed with had once made him the most sought after of their rank. That person now only existed as a phantom in much the same way her peace would forever exist.

As an afterthought of an impossible future.

Written for Trifecta’s weekday challenge this week, but in the same story as the last challenge.

Now, onto this week’s prompt. We’re still not totally spooked out by you guys yet and we’re a little way from Halloween proper so get your ghoul glad rags on again this week. If there’s anyone who puts the ghoul in ghoulish, it’s you lot. Have fun and, as always, make sure you use the THIRD definition. This week we are back to entries of 33-333 words.

PHANTOM (noun)

1   a :  something apparent to sense but with no substantial existence :  APPARITION

b :  something elusive or visionary

c :  an object of continual dread or abhorrence <the phantom of disease and want>

2 :  something existing in appearance only

3 :  a representation of something abstract, ideal, or incorporeal <she was a phantom of delight — William Wordsworth>
– See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.fho512wg.dpuf

Edit: Fixed a line that made things confusing. This was pointed out by one of the comments. Thanks for the catching that! I appreciate constructive criticism as it really helps.