DWP - footprint

i watched you walk out
stared at your back 'til you're gone
footprint stayed behind.

-o0o-

i know who you are
your footprint gives you away
you, tulip bulb thief!

DWP - night shift: prompt

Today is the day, and Belinda takes out the white dress she bought last week for this trip: a white jumpsuit with a square sailor's collar and trimmed with dark blue bias tape. She slowly brushes her auburn hair, gathers it delicately behind her head and holds it with a red scarf, the same colour as her new pair of shoes. By nine o'clock, she is ready to leave although Harold has written he will arrive only at noon.

Belinda takes mental inventory of the important things in her little suitcase, among them, the wooden frame with her and Harold's picture, the porcelain trinket box where she stores the golden bracelet Harold gave her for her sixteenth birthday, the little prayer book her mother gave her when she was six, and the rosary beads from her great grandmother.

She sits in the living room, taking in everything in it so she might remember it in the days to come. At noon, she stands by the door and anxiously awaits Harold's arrival. She feels thankful for the open field that stretches far beyond, as far as the road goes and she is able to see the few passing cars and trucks. She lets her mind wander to a long ago summer and imagines that Harold, all of his 15 years, pedals his bike to bring her flowers he has picked from his mother's garden. Belinda smiles at the thought. She continues to replay that scene in her mind.

At three o'clock, she waits by the phone. Harold is terribly late. He is never late, especially when he tells her he will pick her up at noon or whatever time it is he has to pick her up. At four-thirty, she hears a car pull up, but it was only the postwoman. She sits on the step outside on the porch and stares at the farthest end of the road that her eyes allowed her to see. The skies has changed colours from blue to the gray of the sunset to the velvet black of the night and yet Harold has not arrived. Then as the night shifts into the golden hues of dawn, she stands up, goes inside the house, terribly shaking from cold.

She goes upstairs to her room, opens the drawer of her vanity, takes out a letter that came two months ago and reads its contents again: "Belinda, my beloved, I shall come pick you up on November 30. I will arrive at noon. And we will live together at last in Bath."

Then she opens a telegram that came just the other day: "Harold Benstead died in a car accident." Belinda sits down on the edge of the bed, lets her tears roll down her cheeks.

DWP - the fair: prompt

The sign was too large to ignore. In large white letters with black background and an arrow pointing west at the bottom, the sign read: PARIS FAIRGROUNDS.

"Oh," Jean, my passenger, an elderly lady who was staying at the Telfer Place senior home, said. Her head followed the direction of the arrow.

We were stopped at the intersection of Grand River Street and Silver Street going into Telfer Place. She smiled and her eyes sparkled from a memory that suddenly appeared itself, and I felt so afraid to step on the gas long after the green light came on for fear I might run over it. The loud honking from the car behind us jolted the car as I stepped on the gas, and so did Jean's revery.

As I parked the car, she said, "I almost forgot about the Fairgrounds." She looked towards the street, as if she could see the Fairgrounds which was a few blocks down east.

"Would you like to go there, Jean?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said immediately, without hesitation, and the eyes once more sparkled.

I shifted the car to rear and drove back onto the road and followed the arrows. After two minutes we entered the Fairground's parking lot, near the red and white tents that were still deserted. The fair didn't open until late afternoon on weekdays.

"That's where I met him," Jean said, pointing to an old willow tree several metres away. Her hands, ravaged by time and arthritis, shook as she pointed.

"Your husband?"

"No...him...Billy."

"Would you like to tell me about Billy?" I asked.

"He was a painter. I passed by his tent and he asked me if he could paint me. I said yes, then we made love."

"Jean!" I said, "in the tent? Right then and there?"

Jean looked at me with a blank expression on her face. "Of course! Not everyone in the reign of Victoria was pure, you know. A lot of us did some disgraceful acts once in our lives, some more disgraceful than others. But that didn't mean we were sluts."

"I am shocked!" I said, smiling, and putting my palm over my chest.

"My husband Paul was more shocked when he found out our first child, your husband," she paused to point her finger at me, "was actually Billy's child. Of course, I didn't tell him right away."

"When did you tell him?"

"Just before he died," she said, matter-of-factly. "I suppose he had to know at some point." Then she motioned with her hand, "Let's go. I had enough of this fairground."

DWP - random CD prompt

From the "Sounds of Silence" by Paul Simon from the Simon & Garfunkel Definitive Collection CD

"Hello, Darkness, my old friend."

Marcus stood just outside the tall mahogany doors, his head bowed, hair disheveled, coat hanging from his hunched shoulders. He shot a glance at Awel and she saw that his eyes were red from crying. She opened the door wider and stood aside to let him in. His steps were unhurried and as soon Awel had closed the doors, Marcus cupped his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Awel wrapped her arms around his waist and when he embraced her and buried his face in his thick black hair, he wailed like a small child. They had been that way for a long time before his crying subsided and she led him to her study. A small candle is lit in the middle of the room and he could make out the tall shelves filled with tomes that had never been touched for centuries.

"Tell me what happened, dear." Her raspy voice soothed his pains, and he let go of a big sigh.

"She left me, Awel. She left me." He started crying again and Awel patted his shoulders.

"I know, dear, I know she left. We both knew it was bound to happen."

"I loved her, Awel. She was the only one for me."

Pain shot through Awel's heart. When was he going to learn that he never belonged to Riella? That he, Marcus, belonged to her and her world. He always called her Darkness because she always wore black, everything about her was black. She was most alive at night, like the bats that lived around her villa.

"Marcus, you belong here. You belong to me," said Awel, she placed a hand on her chest then pointed to her heart. "I think it's about time you accept your destiny."

-- o0o --

(note: i started writing this the last time Daily Writing Practice blog had a CD prompt, but i don't quite know what to do with it. it looks like a vampire story, but i know nothing about vampire stories and i refuse to read anything vampire as my vivid imagination goes to sleep with me and i get nightmares otherwise.)

DWP - the thief: prompt

the thief

the wrinkled skin, once soft and smooth
the dull, waning eyes, once sparkled with youth
the crooked smile, once vibrant with laughter
the now bent body, once an agile dancer.

you look in the mirror, wonder where you’ve gone
all these years but you’re left with the wisdom
that youth is fleeting, old age is full of grief
blame Time, the perfect, uncatchable thief.

DWP - music: two haiku's

the music's only
in his head but it's too loud
it needs toning down.

-o0o-

firmly grips the mic
the karaoke hugger
singing out of tune.

DWP - science fiction story

Esyllt stood face to face with the woman. She towered above her and yet the woman showed no fear of her. Esyllt noticed her beautiful hands lightly caressing her son’s shoulders.

“My name is Heledd. I’m Tegid’s mother,” Heledd said extending one hand to Esyllt. Esyllt felt a genuine enthusiasm in her voice, but she kept her hands crossed over her chest. Esyllt always had ambivalent feelings about the friendly humans.

“I’m Esyllt. I’m the Vice-Commander for the province,” she finally said in a plain voice. Then, motioning her head slightly towards the winged albino boy, she said in a friendlier tone, “This one’s switched at birth?”

“Noooh!” Heledd said as she stooped down and put both arms around the boy, then kissed him on his forehead. “He’s mine.”

“But...” Esyllt hesitated. “I see nobody else in this household with wings or feathers.”

“No. No one in both my and Ynyr’s families have bird DNA, as far as we know.” Heledd messed the Tegid’s hair and told him, “Tegid, dear, go get our visitor something to drink.”

Tegid quietly obeyed his mother but before entering the house, he looked back at Esyllt and smiled. Esyllt smiled back.

“Please sit down, Esyllt,” Heledd said as she motioned Esyllt to one of the wrought iron chairs. She sat herself on one opposite Esyllt. Esyllt only nodded, curiously trying to understand Tegid’s situation. Heledd’s face became serious. “I was violated by two Dromorants and I became pregnant,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Fortunately for me, my husband Ynyr loves me enough to accept everything that’s part of me. And Tegid is part of me.”

How romantic! Esyllt thought, but instead she said, “I’m sorry, Heledd. I mean, about the Dormorants. But how come you didn’t auction him off, or...” She stopped when she saw Tegid coming out of the house.

Tegid handed her a bottle of carbonated water. “Thanks, Tegid,” she said. She patted the boy's head and felt the delicate softness of his snow-white hair.

“Do you know how to fly? Can you teach me how to use my wings?” Tegid asked.

“Tegid, Esyllt is our visitor,” his mother said.

“No, Tegid, I can’t fly. We ptesauronts are too heavy to fly and our brains are not fit for aerodynamics unlike real birds.”

“Oh," Tegid said, disappointment obvious in his voice and face. "What do we do with our wings then?”

Esyllt stretch her mouth in an attempt to smile. “I guess, be beautiful.”

Her heart ached. It felt like disappointing her own son.