Clever Words and Phrases Only Stain

I'm, first of all, a writer; words are my trade. I believe they can be powerful, if used in the right way. That's why, for my 365 project, I've chosen to utilize them. This is a blog of my words, in the form of poetry or quotes or excerpts from my book, and occasionally a blog of others' words, should they hit me in a particularly strong way. Clever words and phrases only stain... Words can stain paper and they can stain the heart. I hope some of my words effect you in the way some words have affected me. Everything on here - all writing, photographs, and drawings - are mine, unless otherwise stated. My main blog, if you wish to follow it, is sammasterpiece.tumblr.com. I follow back on that account. I hope you enjoy this blog, should you choose to stay. My ask box is always open to any comments :)

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 137/365

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 135/365

A story I wrote for English. _______________

“Excuse me, sir?”

I look up from my magazine to meet the eyes of the flight attendant. “Yes?” I can tell from the shock on her pretty face that she recognizes me, and a small smile curves my lips.

“Would you like something to drink? We have wine, red and white, scotch—”

“I’ll just have iced water. Mineral, if you have it.”

She nods, grabbing the top glass off the stack on the tray in front of her and quickly filling it. I notice that her hands are shaking ever so slightly.

“Here you are, sir,” she says, handing the glass to me. She doesn’t look at my face, instead keeping her eyes trained on the floor.

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Daniels?” she whispers to me as she wheeled the cart away. “It was an honour to meet you.”

Shortly after that the lights in the plane dim, and I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. The plane won’t be landing in Berlin until four in the morning, and I plan to be awake and lively for my presentation tomorrow. Even a man like me has an image to uphold.

I manage to doze off for several hours, and wake up to the crackle of the loudspeaker. “Preparing for landing. Weather in Berlin is eighteen degrees Celsius. The local time is 4:13 a.m.”

With several bumps and thuds the plane hits the tarmac and coasts to a stop; slowly, the weary passengers shamble their way off board and into the terminal.

I am greeted almost immediately by a woman in a business suit. She offers a hand for me to shake. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Daniels, I’m Clara Richards. If you’d just follow me, there’s a vehicle waiting to take you to your hotel. Your luggage will be waiting for you there.”

Her demeanour is cool, and she meets my eyes calmly. I suppose she deals with people like me every day. I follow her through a set of doors that lead outside. The sky is clear, the air still retaining some of the night chill. I breathe it in.

The car is black and sleek, and a chauffeur sits in the front seat. The door is opened for me, and I slide inside; the interior is leather, the windows darkly tinted.

“I’ll see you in a week, Mr. Daniels,” Clara says before the door is shut and car rolls forward.

I relax back in my seat as the car drives down the almost-empty roads, relishing the comfort of the leather and the view of the city as it passes by outside my window. The skyline is brightly lit, even in the middle of the night.

“Mr. Daniels? We have arrived.” The door is opened for me and I step out. In front of me is the hotel, lit up like a palace. An extravagant fountain is on the front lawn, lit up from all angles by multicoloured lights. The hotel is five star, of course. I am led through an empty lobby, into an elevator, and down a richly carpeted hallway before stopping outside a room door.

“You’ll find your luggage inside. Please feel free to call if you need anything.” The bellhop, a young man who is perhaps twenty years old, opens my door for me before bowing and leaving me alone.

The room is lavishly furnished in wood and tile. I take a moment to wander around, admiring the granite countertops and big-screen TV. It’s a shame I will be in Berlin for less than a week.

It’s past five in the morning and my conference starts at eleven, but I find I am too jittery to sleep. I have a coffee and smoke a cigar and watch the sun rise over the city. When the clock hits nine I rise, take a shower and make some breakfast, before calling my chauffeur.

The conference is in a building downtown. Members of the media, both American and German, are lined up outside the doors. I push my way through them, a smile plastered on my face, shaking hands and patting backs. The flashes of cameras are bright in my eyes and their voices are loud in my ears.

“Mr. Daniels! How do you like Berlin so far?”

“Is it true that your company recently purchased Microsoft, Mr. Daniels?”

“What’s your next step going to be? Where do you go from here?”

Someone taps me on the back and I turn toward them, a jovial smile still on my face.

“Excuse me, sir?”

...

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Hmph?” The man jolted himself awake, blinking the sleep from his eyes and glaring blearily at the small boy standing in front of him. The boy was holding a handful of change, and he looked nervous.

“Would you like my change? It’s enough to buy a coffee, or maybe a sandwich. I’m sorry it’s not much, but it’s all I have.”

The man looked around, recognizing his surroundings—the brick wall pressed against his back, the old dog that lay at his feet and the almost-empty jar of change between the dog’s paws—and disappointment shot through him. The boy in front of him was looking at him earnestly. He couldn’t have been older than ten; down the street, a woman was racing towards him, calling his name.

“I don’t need your money,” he told the boy gruffly. “Keep it for yourself, please.”

The boy looked uncertain.

“Do you have dreams, kid?” the man asked. “Use that money to fund your dreams. Spend your life saving and working and reaching for those dreams, because maybe one day you’ll find them. Because let me tell you one thing, kid: those dreams ain’t comin’ to you.”

“Sir?”

“I’m serious, kid—you need that money more than I do. Please, don’t let your life come to this.”

The boy only stared at him, and before he could say anything the woman—presumably his mother—caught up to him. “Come on, dear. We need to get going.” She pulled him down the street and whispered something in his ear, loud enough for the man to hear: “Jacob, what did I tell you about talking to strangers?”

“But, mom—”

They were gone.

“Just you and me now, eh, buddy?” the man said quietly to the dog. The dog was fast asleep, his eyes closed and his head in a warm patch of sunlight. “Just you and me... the way it’s always been. Who needs money and chicks and fame, anyway?” His voice cracked, and for a few moments he was silent, watching the city and its people around them.

“I had a dream once,” he said quietly, talking more to himself than anyone. “It was a good dream, I suppose. Coulda worked, if I had tried for it. Instead I sat back and waited for it to appear in front of me. Spent too much time dreamin’ to actually achieve my dream. And I didn’t learn I had gone about it all wrong ’til it was too late.”

Across from him, a giant billboard was set into the side of a building, flashing advertisements. It was easy to imagine that instead it showed his face, his product, his name: Clark Daniels.

The man grunted and shook his head. “There I go, dreamin’ again,” he said. “You think I’d be too old for that by now.”

The dog at his feet snorted and rolled over. Stroking the top of his head fondly, the man said, “You were always there, even when the rest of the world abandoned me. You’re too good for this, boy. You deserve a home and a loving family.” He paused. “Do you have dreams?”

“Maybe a dreamer is all I was meant to be,” he said later. “Maybe I don’t have what it takes to become some big-shot computer designer. I just don’t have the perseverance, the will, the guts to do something like that.”

The dog yawned.

“And so this is where I end up,” he said softly. “On the streets, with nowhere left to go. No money, no home, no future. But I can always dream.”

He closed his eyes.

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 134/365

I'm mad because my computer didn't save all the really good pictures I took of the deer. So have this one instead.

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 133/365

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 132/365

I am empty and looking for meaning and I don’t know where to go. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years it’s that the world turns and people change but no one really knows.

It’s so easy to feel invisible and lost in a world as big as ours I wander and wonder and search for home, following the path of my dreams and the map of my scars.  

Sometimes I wonder if the stars had eyes what would they have seen? Not even they are permanent in a changing universe, but they are hundreds of thousands times wiser than me.

If the sun and the moon leaned closer I would take them by the hand They would pull me through endless emptiness of space and tell me their secrets, and one day I’d understand.

But for now I stand on a moonlit lane and I am tired and alone I am empty and lonely and looking for meaning and I don’t know where to go.

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 129/365

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 128/365

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 127/365 The making of my Mother's Day card.

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 126/365

Chapter 1: The Funeral

On the day of the funeral, I refuse to get out of bed. I lie with my head buried under my pillow and pretend the world doesn’t exist.

It’s a ploy that doesn’t last for long. “Alex!” my mother calls. “You need to be down here in ten minutes!”

I don’t move. Ten minutes later, someone is pounding on my door. I push my pillow closer around my ears in an attempt to block out the noise. It doesn’t work; I hear the door creak open and footsteps walk across the sun-splattered floor. Someone’s weight pushes down the end of my mattress. A hand reaches over and tugs on the pillow, pulling it off of my face. Bright light streams down and stabs at my eyes, forcing tears.

“Alex,” my mother says softly, “the service starts soon. You need to get out of bed.”

“I don’t want to go,” I say, my voice muffled. I feel like I am just barely being held together, and any movement will shatter me to pieces. There is a dangerous balance within me. I’m standing on the tip of a knife.

“You have no choice.” Her voice is sharp. It cuts through me, like the knife I stand on. “Are you coming on your own, or are we dragging you there?”

Slowly I pull myself upright until I am sitting on the edge of the bed. My feet land in a puddle of sunlight and it warms my toes. Even the slight change in position has shifted the balance: unwarranted tears begin to fall down my cheeks.

“Oh, honey,” my mother murmurs, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, “I know it hurts. It hurts us, too.”

“How could he think I didn’t love him?” I whisper.

“He knew. I’m sure he knew.”

“Not enough,” I murmur, so quiet I’m not sure if she hears me. It was never enough.

“The least you can do for him is show up today.”

I’m not sure if I can; I know the funeral, the crush of people, the casket, will be too much for me. It will break me all over again. But I nod anyway.

My mother kisses me on the top of my head and rises. “We need you downstairs soon,” she says, and then she is gone.

I sit, silent and still, for a moment after she leaves. And then slowly, so slowly, like a cripple or an invalid, I stand up and make my way over to my closet.

It’s not difficult to choose something to wear. I bring out a black skirt I haven’t worn in years and a black-and-grey checkered sweater. It’s a little too small, but I wear it anyway. My hair is messy and I don’t have time for a shower, so I put it up in a ponytail.

My parents are waiting for me as I come downstairs. They both look worried; I think for a moment that maybe I look as fragile as I feel. Just for them, I manage a smile, and hold out my hands for them to take. With my father on one side and my mother on the other, we make our way out to the car.

There are a lot of people at the church, many whom I don’t know. I keep my head bowed and my hands clasped as we make our way to our seats in the first pew. People begin to file in after us. They are all dressed uniformly in black. I think that together, we are the very image of death, and the balance within me tips again.

There’s a sermon. I’m sure it’s sad, but I don’t hear any of it; my ears are filled with buzzing, and the sound of memories.

“I feel so alone sometimes,” my brother is telling me.

“It’s because you’re different, David,” I say. “But in a good way. People don’t know what to think of you.”

He pauses. “I want people to think well of me. I want to be liked. I don’t want to be different; I want to be normal.”

“All you can do is be who you are.”

“What if who I am isn’t good enough?”

I pat his hand reassuringly. “Who you are is good enough for me.” And then I leave the room, intent on doing homework or calling a friend perhaps, and it isn’t until much later when I realize that I didn’t tell him what he needed to hear. My brother had always been much better at saying the right thing than me. I remember another time, years ago, when I was six and he was nine. I had just fallen off my bicycle and blood was falling from my knee the way tears were falling from my eyes.

“It’s okay to cry,” he says even as I attempt to hide my tears. “It just means that you’re hurting.”

“It means I’m a baby,” I say, sniffling. “I don’t want to be a baby anymore.”

“Everyone cries,” he protests. “Even grownups cry.”

“Do you cry?”

“Sometimes,” he confides, after a moment.

“Do you cry because you’re sad?”

“Sometimes,” he repeats.

“I don’t want you to cry. I don’t want you to be sad.”

“I don’t want you to cry either.” So just for him, I wipe away the last of my tears and give a watery smile. “That’s better.” He helps me to my feet. “You know,” he says, all serious, “it’s okay to fall down, as long as you get back up.”

There’s one more memory, a brief series of text messages:

I’ll be home soon. How’re you feeling? I knew my brother had been upset earlier that day, even though he had tried to hide it from me.

Better.

Are you sure?

Yep. See you soon.

Four words. And every single one of them was a lie.

The sermon has ended and people are on their feet. I’m curled into myself, sobbing. My heart aches and my eyes are squeezed tightly shut against the memory-images, and it’s a moment before I realize that my mother has her arm around my shoulders and is offering me a fistful of tissues. I take them and apply them to my eyes and running nose. And then I’m being pulled to my feet. I shake and shiver and almost collapse, but my mother’s arm holds me steady.

Everyone else is on their feet too, and slowly – or maybe it just seems slow to me – they make their way down the aisle towards us, the broken family standing at the front of the church.

There are not very many people with dry eyes, and even as I welcome their sympathy I despise their pity. Condolences are murmured in low voices, words of sorrow and regret. They mean nothing to me; I barely hear them at all. These aren’t the people who lost a brother or a son or a best friend. They can’t understand how I feel, no matter how much they try to pretend.

I put on a mask and reply with equally meaningless thank yous and it’s okays.

The church walls are lined with high windows filled with panes of multicoloured glass. The sunlight shatters through them and lands as scattered rainbows on the floor. How is it possible, I wonder, for something that has been broken to be so beautiful? I want to hold such beauty; unerringly, I move towards the nearest rainbow that plays across the back of a pew and attempt to cup it in my hands. The colourful light plays across my palms but it is as distant as my brother and as unreal as my memories. When I curl my hands into fists, they hold nothing within them.

Maybe all beauty is superficial. Maybe beauty that you can touch and hold doesn’t exist anymore. Or maybe my heart is just closed to it.

My mother reaches out to me and gently takes my hand. She pulls me forward, and I see that my father is already a few paces ahead of us, making his way toward the casket that stands at the front of the church, caught in two beams of rainbow light.

I don’t want to go anywhere near the casket. But my mother’s pull is insistent, and slowly I follow her.

The casket is dark mahogany shined to a brilliant polish. I lean over it and see my face reflected back at me. It’s closed; it’s something my parents both insisted on, a closed-casket ceremony. It’s hard to believe that beneath several inches of wood lies my brother, his eyes closed and his hands clasped. I run my finger along the smooth wooden surface and my breath catches in my throat.

“Good-bye, David,” my father whispers. His hand is touching the casket the same way mine is; impulsively, I reach out and take it.

“We loved you so much,” says my mother. There are tears in her voice.

I don’t say anything, because I’m incapable of speech. And what does it matter if he can’t hear us anyway? In my head, I say, Did you never realize how much I loved you? You were everything to me. And now I’m left with nothing. Now I’m empty. Is this how you felt, David? Is this why you did it?

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed it most. You were always there for me, and I should have tried harder to repay the favour. I loved you but I didn’t say it, because I always assumed you knew. I guess now I know that there are some things that need to be heard aloud to be believed.

This is the closest I’ll ever come to touching you again. Soon you will be lowered into the ground and covered with dirt and flowers and a stone to remember you by. I’ll visit you, every day. And I’ll never love you less than I do at this very moment.

My mother’s arm is around my shoulders and my father’s is around my waist. We stand close together, but are separated irreversibly by grief. We stand for a moment more over the dark casket that houses my brother’s body, each lost in thought.

“We should go,” my father says softly, and I nod. We remain connected to each other through touch as we make our way down the long aisle. I think that we are all depending on each other for strength. If we had stood apart, we would all collapse to the ground and never get up again.

It’s okay to fall down, as long as you get back up.

Outside, the sky is blue and speckled with clouds, and I am crying.

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 125/365

Prologue: Moonlight

It is the middle of the night, and a girl sits awake on the edge of her bed. Moonlight bleeds through the window and pools on the floor by her feet. In her hand is a cellphone, still blinking with the last message received.

Yep. See you soon, it reads.

Tears fall from her cheeks. They shine in the moonlight, break open on the floor. She reads the message over and over, four words forever engrained in her heart. They were the last words he ever sent her. The last words he ever sent anyone.

Something tears apart inside of her, and she whimpers.

The house is silent, but she imagines that her parents are sitting silent vigil downstairs. They may as well be a world away. She has never felt so alone. Her foot sits in the pool of moonlight, but it lacks the warmth of the sun. It is cold and unfeeling, a state she is attempting to achieve.

Eventually dawn washes across the sky and erases the moonlight. The girl doesn’t move. Her thoughts are in turmoil, but her demeanour is calm; the tears running down her cheeks are the only sign that she is alive. She sits like a statue on the edge of a bed with her feet planted on the floor and a phone clasped in her hands, four last words written across the screen. She is waiting, although she doesn’t know what for yet. She is lonely and empty and aching. She is angry and sad and guilty and missing.

She is me, and this is where my story begins, as a new day paints over the memories of the night before.

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 114/365

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 113/365

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 112/365

Finished product. Still titleless. Close to 2000 words, so it's going behind a read more.

“Geillis Duncan, proclaimed witch, will be executed on the eve of tomorrow,” the king’s man said, his voice stiff and formal, his eyes not meeting hers. “Of the people accused of witchcraft by Geillis after her confession, three were found guilty and were condemned to death. A fourth, also found guilty, was pardoned her life due to her pregnancy.”

The man cleared his throat before continuing. “Tomorrow evening, Geillis Duncan, John Fian, Agnes Sampson, and Barbara Napier will burn for their crimes against the Christian faith.”

At last the small man raised his head to meet Geillis’ eyes. “Any questions, Ms. Duncan?” he asked. Shrewdly, Geillis noticed the safe distance he had put between them, the distrust and loathing in his eyes. She shook her head, and the man quickly left her cell.

She sank back against the wall, as far as her chains would let, her, and closed her eyes. I’m sorry, she whispered to herself. There were many she could have been talking to; there were so many people who deserved her apologies but would never get the chance to hear them.

Tears dripped down her ruined cheeks, fell to land on what was left of her hands. She made no move to wipe them away; wouldn’t have if she had been able. She had shed many tears in the last months, but it would never be enough to pay for the lives she had ended.

She wasn’t a witch. She had performed no magic. But maybe she was evil – maybe she still catered to the devil. She had lied; she had condemned over seventy people.

In hardly more than a day, three of those seventy would burn with her.

 Pain suddenly stabbed through her, more painful than any torture, and a choked gasp escaped her. She raised her face towards the sky. I’m sorry, she thought again, but this time she wasn’t talking to herself, or even to those she had harmed. Forgive me.

_____

Geillis had never ridden on a horse before. She held the reins tightly in both hands and leaned close over the horse’s neck. The motion of the beast made her nervous, as it trotted over the rutted, dirt road. She was surrounded on both sides by the King’s guard, but isolated all the same. For the most part, the mounted men were avoiding her eyes; any glance they sent her was full of the hatred and distrust she was long familiar with. After all, she was a witch.

They cleared a rise and suddenly the city of Edinburgh sprawled before them, awesome and majestic. Dominating the skyline was Castlerock, and atop it was the Castle of Edinburgh – her destination. They wound their way through the heart of the city, a stately procession; up the hill, down the long, curving walkway. Guards stood on either side of the gate. The head of Geillis’ own guard spoke a few words to them, and they allowed them through.

Her insides felt all knotted up. She was here, in Edinburgh; just in front of her lay the castle, and inside of it sat the king. At the thought of that powerful man, her stomach twisted further. She would stand before him soon. She would be asked to play. And once she did, it would be seen as proof of her sorcery. She would be condemned to death.

They dismounted, and Geillis was led – two men on either side of her, holding her tightly – through the great doors of the castle. Down a blur of a great hall and a staircase leading into the bowels of the castle. She saw nothing through the fear that was clouding her vision.

“You will be called before the king this evening,” a man told her, before pushing her into a cell and closing the door behind her.

Hours passed in silence before she was visited again. This time a servant woman came down to see her. She was holding a Jew’s harp and a change of clothing. “You will not appear in front of the king in those clothes,” she said.

The clothing felt stiff upon her back, but the small harp was familiar in her hands. She had played it, a long time ago, and the memory came back to her in a rush. The woman led her up the stairs and into the great room where the king sat, seated in his throne at the far end.

Geillis bowed deeply, her heart in her throat. When she brought her eyes up to meet those of the king, she saw the familiar look in his eyes. He hated her.

“Play for me, witch,” he said, and obediently she put the instrument to her mouth and began to play.

_____

She had been condemned for good, shortly after that. It was surprising that, of all evidence the king had gathered against her, that little tune had been the deciding factor. But she couldn’t blame Agnes for confessing against her, not really; after all, she had done the same thing. In the end it didn’t matter that she had known how to play that song since she was little and as a result almost everyone in the town knew it as well. The only thing that mattered was that her song matched the one Agnes had sung, the one that she, Geillis, had played on the night the spell had been cast.

She wondered where the others were. They were all being kept, somewhere in the dungeons of this castle, tortured and beaten and barely alive.

She counted them off in her head.

John Fian, old schoolmaster, purported warlock. She had heard he had at last succumbed to torture. He had held out longer than most, much longer than her. He was a brave man.

Agnes Sampson, town healer. It was from Agnes that Geillis had learned what little skill she had; it was odd, or perhaps humorous, that that same skill was part of what had proclaimed her a witch in the beginning. Surely the devil would have a better use for his power than to use it to help heal?

Barbara Napier and Euphemia McCalzane, who were wives of prominent lords in Edinburgh; they had visited Tranent once. Euphemia, it was said, was pregnant; she would survive.

And she herself, Geillis Duncan, who had the horrendous luck of being a servant girl to the most prominent man in East Lothian.

_____

“I’ve found something, sir,” one of the men said. He had pulled the high neck of her dress down just low enough to be indecent, and was staring rather obviously at a mark on her throat.

Geillis knew immediately what they had found. It was a mole, a birthmark she had always had; it lay nestled between her collarbones, usually just out of sight. David Seton, Deputy Bailiff of Tranent, was now making his way towards her. He looked closely at the small mark, before meeting her eyes.

“A devil’s mark, witch?” he asked. “What say you now?”

Tears were bleeding from her eyes again. This was the end, she knew; the mark would be seen as proof she had consorted with the devil. That was always how it went during witch trials. It didn’t matter if they confessed or not. Once the mark was found, it was the end.

Her fingers were mangled and broken from the thumbscrews, twisted and shredded and hardly recognizable. There were scars around her neck, thick red lines from where the rope had been placed and her head wrenched back. Her face was bloody and bruised, as was most of her body. She had endured this amount of torture without uttering a word; now, with Seton’s hands placed on her shoulders, holding the neck of her dress carefully apart, she felt all the will go out of her. Closing her eyes, she gave up.

Seton listened eagerly. One of his men recorded everything she said. She spoke for hours, willingly answering every question asked of her. Yes, she was a witch; yes, she had attempted the king’s life.

“And the others, witch?” Seton asked of her.

Names poured out of her, everyone she could think of. Her old schoolmaster, the town healer, two noblewomen who had ridden into town one afternoon. In the end, almost seventy in total.

“Unbind her,” Seton demanded once she was finished. They did, and she fell to the floor, weeping.

_____

  That night and the following day passed with agonizing slowness. She drowsed a little, hanging upright from the walls – she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a full night’s sleep. Her stomach was aching with hunger, but she put it out of her mind. A real meal was another thing she couldn’t remember last having.

It was impossible to keep track of time; it could have been early morning or late afternoon when they came to get her. Geillis held herself still as they unchained her and removed the cord from around her neck. They held her stiffly upright, and for once she was thankful – it was doubtful that she would have been able to walk on her own after so much time.

The streets without the castle were already crowded and lined with peasants; they jeered and called at Geillis. Some turned their faces away, afraid. She looked straight ahead, ignoring them all.

She was led up Castlehill, the rise behind the castle that overlooked the entire city. The pyre sat on top of the hill, a wooden stake surrounded by a pile of fagots. The others were already there. She met their familiar gazes before looking away. She was a coward.  

She stood atop the pile of wood shavings. The iron chains went around her neck. The wooden stake was stiff against her back. Someone lit her on fire.

_____

“It’s late, William,” she said. He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it before letting it go. “I’ll come back soon.”She looked at him one last time before running lightly into the dark street.

It was past midnight; the moon was full. She knew something was wrong even as she walked up the pathway to the manor house. The guardhouse was empty, and the light of a lantern flickered in the front window. Carefully she cracked open the front door, attempting to enter undetected.

“Stop there, Geillis.”

She froze, her back against the door. David Seton approached her, a menacing figure. “Out late again, girl?” His voice was grating. “What did the devil want from you this time?”

She gasped, and he grinned maliciously. “Thought you wouldn’t get caught, didn’t you? Thought I wouldn’t notice your skill with healing and the marks the devil leaves around your eyes. There’s something unnatural about you, girl. You’re a witch.”

_____

  I’m a witch, she thought despairingly to herself as the flames crawled up her legs. The pain made her scream. She wasn’t the only one.

In the end, it didn’t matter whether she had practiced sorcery or not. She was a witch, because she had listened to the devil; she had lied and blasphemed and brought others to their death. This she realized as the fire burnt her, as it cleansed her soul. Through the haze of pain she thought of William, who she hadn’t seen in months; she thought of the guard who had let her out of the manor at night and had been punished accordingly, as an accomplice to a witch. She thought of the seventy she had convicted and the three who were burning with her. She was a witch; she was the devil’s tool; she was evil.

The air was filled with screams and the crackle of the flames and the cheers of a crowd. The fire was licking up her arms now, and the pain was almost enough to end it all.

She raised her face to the sky and prayed for forgiveness even as she descended.

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 111/365

Just an excerpt.

“I’ve found something, sir,” one of the men said. He had pulled the high neck of her dress down just low enough to be indecent, and was staring rather obviously at a mark on her throat.

Geillis knew immediately what they had found. It was a mole, a birthmark she had always had; it lay nestled between her two collarbones, usually just out of sight. David Seton, Deputy Bailiff of Tranent, was now making his way towards her. He looked closely at the small mark, before meeting her eyes.

“A devil’s mark, witch?” he asked. “What say you now?”

Tears were bleeding from her eyes again. This was the end, she knew; the mark would be seen as proof she had consorted with the devil. That was always how it went during witch trials. It didn’t matter if they confessed or not. Once the mark was found, it was the end.

Her fingers were mangled and broken from the thumbscrews, twisted and shredded and hardly recognizable. There were scars around her neck, thick red lines from where the rope had been placed and her head wrenched back. Her face was bloody and bruised, as was most of her body. She had endured this amount of torture without uttering a word; now, with Seton’s hands placed on her shoulders, holding the neck of her dress carefully apart, she felt all the will go out of her. Closing her eyes, she gave up.

Seton listened eagerly. One of his men recorded everything she said. She spoke for hours, willingly answering every question asked of her. Yes, she was a witch; yes, she had attempted the king’s life.

“And the others, witch?” Seton asked of her.

Names poured out of her, everyone she could think of. Her old schoolmaster, the town healer, two noblewomen who had ridden into town one afternoon. In the end, almost seventy in total.

“Unbind her,” Seton demanded once she was finished. They did, and she fell to the floor, weeping.

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 110/365

A story I wrote last year called The Waiting Room. _____________________________

The bright lights were there again when I awoke, sharp and medical. Everything was sterilized in the room: colour didn’t exist. It was white and unfeeling, as if that would make the knowledge of my impending death less painful.

It made me feel like I didn’t exist. Like I was nothing more than a skeleton lying in a hospital bed, my face as white as the sheets. Soon, that’s all I’d be. A skeleton. They were preparing me for my nonexistence.

In a room such as this, it was impossible to feel hope. It was impossible to feel anything at all. Maybe it was just protecting me from the inevitable. It was true that the fact of my death was just that, a fact. I was going to die; I was going to die soon. Nothing could save me, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to think about missing life. Here, in this room, it was difficult to think about life, to think about living. I wasn’t alive while I was in this room. I was simply in a waiting room, waiting for that door to open and lead me where it would.

The curtain—white, of course—that separated my bed from the rest of the world moved slightly, before it was pushed back completely. My nurse stood there. She’d been my nurse since I was first admitted into this hospital several weeks ago, but I hadn’t bothered learning her name. Names meant attachment, and that was one thing I couldn’t afford to have right now. She would remain a faceless person to me, someone it wouldn’t hurt to lose.

“Cassie? You have a visitor.” Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. Sound wasn’t permitted in a hospital, either. Sound meant life, and life was banned from entering through the front doors. I just nodded wearily. The nurse disappeared and the curtain swung back into place before it was disturbed again, pushed back to allow someone else through.

Aaron. Now there was a name I couldn’t forget, even if I tried. He was holding a small bouquet of colourful flowers, and placed them on the windowsill at my gesture before sitting down awkwardly in the spare chair.

He had brought life with him into the room, I could feel it. He had snuck some of that banned substance through the doors, undetected, and now it was here in this room with me. I breathed it in.

“Hey, Cassie,” he began, awkward. An attempted smile curved the right side of his face, before settling back into an expression of solemn gravity. He was doing well at hiding his pain, but I could see it, in the very back of his eyes. He was dying, too. I wondered what would become of him after I was gone.

“Hey, Aaron,” I replied lightly. “How’s life?” He flinched at the word, as if it was poison.

“Okay, I guess.” He was looking down at his hands, which were twisting unconsciously in his lap. “Could be better.” He managed to sneak a glance at me. “You?”

“Nothing much. I’m just…waiting.” I gestured around the room expansively. Aaron’s eyes were locked on mine, frozen in horror.

“Waiting…for what?”

“Oh, come on. I’m pretty sure we all know. I’m going to die, Aaron.” I said it as if it was nothing to be afraid of, but I could hear the sentence hanging in the air like a powder keg waiting to be lit. The smallest spark could set it off. We sat in careful silence, watching each other warily.

“You—you’re not gonna die, Cassie.” His voice was choked, swollen.

I could see the powder keg, hanging in the air. Recklessly, I lit a match. “Don’t be stupid, Aaron. Of course I’m gonna die. We’re all gonna die. It’s just gonna happen a lot sooner for me than for you.”

I could feel the powder keg explode silently, filling the air with a shockwave that sent us both rocking back in our seats.

“N—no. No, you’re not!” He rocked out of his seat and was out of the room before I could call after him, had I chosen to do so. But I didn’t; the radiation from the explosion still hung in the air, poisonous, a skull and crossbones. Death.

 *          *          *

Aaron didn’t come back for a long time. The flowers had wilted, their fading colour taking with it some of my fading health. We sat in silence for a while; I had lost the ability to speak and he couldn’t find the words. I didn’t mind the silence. Just having him in the room was a comfort to me. I let my eyelids drift closed, shutting out the bright whiteness of the waiting room and allowing the cool darkness to engulf me. Was that all that death was?

“I’m sorry.” His voice was just a whisper, sliding effortlessly into all the gaps left by the silence. “I shouldn’t have left. I didn’t mean to leave. It’s just...” he sucked in a deep breath. “I’m gonna miss you, Cass.”

The air in the room shifted as he moved his chair closer to my bed. I managed to crack my eyelids open and saw his face swimming blurrily above mine. His eyes were closed. Lifting a fragile hand, I touched his arm gently. Aaron opened his eyes. I opened my mouth to speak: I’ll miss you, too. My lips formed the words, but no sound came out. He knew what I was trying to say.

“I know.” He took my hand fragilely in his. His skin felt cool against my burning palm. I welcomed the relief, allowing my eyes to close again. I could hear his even breathing, feel his strong pulse against my hand. In contrast, my breathing was shallow and irregular, my pulse barely there. More time passed.

“I wish...I wish things didn’t happen the way they did. I wish things didn’t have to end this way for you. But I guess there’s no point in thinking otherwise now, huh?” I knew he wasn’t really speaking to me; his words were aimed at the empty space above my head. When he spoke again, his voice was cracked and broken. “I wish I still had a reason to hope. Because I’m scared. I’m scared for life without you...I’m scared to lose my best friend.” Friend.

His chair scraped against the floor as he got up to leave. Tears filled my closed eyes as emptiness consumed the room again.

  *          *          *

The waiting room was slowly emptying. Soon it would be my turn. Aaron didn’t visit very often anymore, but that was okay; I knew how much it hurt him to see me the way I was. Reality had a blurry quality to it; the white sharpness of the room now wavered in front of my eyes. I spent most of my time asleep. Staying awake was painful and too much effort. I welcomed the preparation for death that sleep gave me.

Most of the time, when Aaron did visit, we just sat in silence. I could see the things he wanted to say hovering invisibly in the air, but he never gave them voice. I understood. There were things I was thinking that I was too afraid to say, too. Sometimes he told me about life outside of the hospital. I would just listen to him speak, and let his words paint a picture in my mind. I debated with myself, trying to bring myself to say the words I’d been thinking. I never could. The days passed.

On this particular day, something was different. I listened to Aaron talk, but his words kept fading in and out of focus, a bad radio connection. Static filled my brain, a mindless buzz cutting off all thought. Aaron droned on and on, for once a nuisance instead of a comfort. I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to fall into the comfort that was sleep. My entire body burned and ached.

I almost didn’t notice when Aaron stopped speaking. He remained silent for a few moments. “Bye, Cassie,” he said softly. “I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

Sudden, irrational panic seized me. The thought that maybe this would be the last time I would hear his voice or see his face held me in a terrible, constricting grip. I wrenched my eyes open in time to see his retreating back. I opened my mouth in order to say the words I’d been thinking for weeks and forced them up my raw, sore throat into open air: “Aaron, I—” No sound came out. Aaron disappeared from view.

  *          *          *

I was the last one in the waiting room. Light in the room disappeared, until I could only see a black curtain draped in front of my eyes. The beeping of the monitor slowly faded away, until I could only hear pure silence. Life bled out of the room, until nothing remained. The door to the waiting room opened, and I stepped through.

[cleverwordsandphrases]

Day 109/365

[relively]

[cleverwordsandphrases]

camyysandra:

I GOT IT GUYS!!! 

MATT WEBB - BAD GIRL

Day 108/365 Posting this for today because a) I'm lazy and b) this is kinda a big deal to me.