myspokenheart

musings on life, love and laughter from my spoken heart to yours


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Opinion please… but do be kind…

Another piece of Fiction for you to read. This one was started in late 2011 and is currently untitled. It is very different from the first one I shared, this is definitely not a fantasy, as it is definitely more of a mystery/drama. I am only providing the prologue even though there is also a first chapter to this. Please keep in mind this is still rough. I hope you like it…

 

Prologue (Currently Untitled)

She was sitting at her desk, back to the window, staring blankly at the computer screen. There was a picture on the desktop and even though she was the one who had selected it, and in spite of the fact that she appeared to be staring straight at it, she was completely oblivious to what it was of. Actually she was completely oblivious to everything. In that very moment all she felt was numb…

Everything fell silent. The radio was playing some familiar song, one she would often hum along to, but she was completely unaware of it. There were people just around the corner talking and laughing loudly, she could not hear them. She was startled back to a semblance of reality as the phone rang and made her jump. With shaky hands she grabbed the receiver, and swallowing down the taste of bile she spoke clearly into the phone.

“Thank-you for calling City Centre Employment, how may I direct your call?” always the picture of professionalism. Her calm even voice, it lied. She put the caller through to an available Employment Counsellor, and went back to staring; she was counting down the minutes. It was nearly quitting time.

She couldn’t get out of the office fast enough. She didn’t care where she went or what she did; she just needed out… Now! The clock stated that it was 4:30 and without a word she fled to the safety of her car. The numb that had consumed her was rumbling in her guts. It was becoming something else. Something she was afraid of. It was a foreign feeling to her. She wasn’t completely sure what to make of it, but it felt raw and edgy. It wasn’t organized or professional but chaotic and needing release. She needed out. She needed to breathe. She just needed to drive. It didn’t matter where, all that mattered was she wasn’t here…

She pulled into the parking lot of a decrepit Chevron station a few kilometres south of town. She didn’t know this area, as she had only ever driven through on her way to somewhere else. She checked her gas gauge, just over half a tank no need to fill up. She went around to the side of the building and parked near the air and water. She turned her engine off and stared at the empty lot which shared a fence with the Chevron. The fence had definitely seen better days. She looked at the overgrown shrubs and grasses and the garbage strewn about. It looked like her life, sad and pathetic…

Her hands were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, knuckles white, when she heard the tapping. She realized it was now dark out. How long had she been sitting here? She was confused. ‘Tap, tap…’ there was some-one outside her car tapping on the driver’s window. From what she could make out the individual was clean cut, and wearing what appeared to be a uniform. He must be a cop or maybe a security guard for the gas station. He seemed to be asking her something.

“Are you OK Ma’am?” tap, tap “Ma’am?” She tried to crawl out of the mental fog enveloping her, as she tried to unroll her window. He signaled at her to open the door. “Ma’am How long have you been sitting here? Do you need help? Can I talk to you?”

Her hand reached for the door handle as she gently pushed at the door. It was the last voluntary movement Karen ever made…

 

This content is the creative property of My Spoken Heart and Andrea Crowell – it’s author!
© Andrea Crowell and/or “My Spoken Heart”, “MSH” or any variance of.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, links and reblogs may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to “My Spoken Heart” and it’s author with appropriate and specific direction to the original content/source.


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A piece of Fiction…

The following piece of fiction was written last year for my first attempt at NanoWriMo… I did not complete NanoWriMo last year and stalled at 7,093 words – As I had decided that I did not like the tense in which I had written the rest of the Story, and so I am only providing the Prologue. I hope you enjoy it…

(Raven Leigh) Prologue:

It was the blackest stormiest December nite anyone in the valley could remember. It was a moonless, starless nite and the howling wind whipped snow and sleet and ice across the sky. The winds were cold and fierce and the icy snow was piling up in drifts. The violent gusts were shaking the trees causing the icicles to rain down. The midwife was afraid that one of the powerful gusts would blow over one of the surrounding trees causing it to land on her meager home. Venturing outside would be ludicrous in such weather, which is why she was so surprised when the young woman came to her, belly huge, eyes wide with pain and fear. She was in full labour. Gran could not for life of her figure out how this beautiful young stranger had even found her way to her little gypsy caravan. It wasn’t even on the direct path, but nestled in amongst the trees to provide a bit of shelter, just past the meadow. It seemed that one moment Gran was alone with her thoughts and the next there was a brisk chill in the air and the young woman was just there standing in her doorway. The woman was beautiful; she had a calm, gentle peace about her even in the midst of her pain. She kept very quiet, not saying a single word; she didn’t even ask for help, perhaps she knew she didn’t have to. She appeared to be still quite young, roughly a quarter century old. She had large brown doe eyes, which seemed to say all the things that her lack of words could not. They were filled with wonder and would flicker with what seemed near panic at each contraction. Her hair was short and tawny, her skin soft and brown. She only breathed loudly as the child came, still no words, no utterances. Gran was curious as to where she came from, how she got there, where the father of the child might be, but this was not the time for questions and even if it were certain questions are best left unasked. This was definitely not the time for such things; there would be plenty of time to talk after. Right now tending to the wee one who had just arrived took precedence. The young woman looked at her new born child and smiled gently, then laid down her head and closed her eyes.

Gran held the baby and carefully looked her over. Everything was as it should be five fingers, five toes. It was a girl; in fact she was an extremely beautiful baby girl. Gran poured some warm water into the washing dish and carefully cleaned the wee one up. She had huge dark eyes like her mother and a shock of inky black hair. She was very pale, and delicate, and quiet like her mother. The wind outside was relentless; it howled like a child in a full blown state of tantrum and shook the little caravan like as if a giant was outside bashing it about, making the baby whimper quietly. Gran sang softly to babe and mum, lulling them as she went about her business. She called out would you like some raspberry leaf tea? It will ease the cramping and make you feel better.  As she wrapped up the now clean little bundle and was carrying her over to the mother, but the young woman was gone! There was no trace of her anywhere. Gran opened the door and scanned across the meadow she couldn’t make out anything  it was so dark and windy, the sleet was coming down almost vertically creating near white out conditions… did she see movement a hundred feet or so off? Could it be? No, it was just a lone doe heading into the bush. What on earth? Thought Gran to herself.

Well little one looks like you are stuck with me for now. Gran half sang to the babe. So sweet, so helpless and already alone in the world, we’d best give you a name; no we can’t have you nameless on top of it all. Gran peeked through the moon shaped cut out in the shutters into the blackness of the nite. Black as a raven’s eye out there it is; Aye dark as their feathers out in the leigh. Hhhhmmm… Raven Leigh, that’s what I shall call you little one, that’s what I shall call you.

Yes, that was nite she came into the world.

This content is the creative property of My Spoken Heart and Andrea Crowell – it’s author!
© Andrea Crowell and/or “My Spoken Heart”, “MSH” or any variance of.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, links and reblogs may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to “My Spoken Heart” and it’s author with appropriate and specific direction to the original content/source.


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Sharing… our precious creative babies…

I must confess I have been seriously contemplating how far to go with sharing here on my blog.  Although I am quite an open individual, I am also quite contrarily very closed and private. A walking juxtaposition I fear. I am afraid of sharing. I am scared to reveal the inner workings of my mind.

I am afraid because perhaps what I wish to share is not what I think it is. Perhaps I am enamoured because I have birthed it, only to find my glorious beautiful swan is really just an ugly duckling. My eyes may be blind as parents’ eyes often are. Our children are always the most beautiful, the handsomest, the most intelligent, the kindest. It is hard to look at them clearly, to see them in direct light and criticize what we see. Head in the sand is so much easier.

This holds true for our creative expression as well. Those children birthed from the recesses of our minds. In some ways finding fault in these children can be harder. As our earthly blood children grow we learn to accept them as individuals who are learning and aging and becoming independent (hard as this step in life is, it does happen). And in some ways the opposite can also hold true for the things that are birthed out of our creative selves. Sometimes what we see reveals parts of ourselves that we wish to keep hidden. Sometimes those revelations are so bold and blinding. Yet often it is only ourselves who can see those things we wish to keep hidden, since others do not generally know our intimate selves so deeply.

See I write stories. OK that is not entirely true. I START stories. I sort of have a problem with being unorganized and scatter brained combined with a severe inability to follow through. I have started a few of these stories that I so love to write, stories that have the potential to become novellas/novels and yet haven’t become much more than a prologue or first chapter. It is not about procrastination or a lack of desire to finish. Really it isn’t.

Perhaps just like a child I am trying to hold on to it as long as I can, afraid to let it go? Perhaps…

It’s difficult you see, for when an idea happens… well that is exactly how it unfolds – It just happens. I just sit down and it pours from my finger tips into the keys, or through the pen, which ever it is at my disposal. I do not think about it. I do not sit down with the intent to write something, trying to decide how it will go. I do not plan. I just open myself up and write it down.  And then I hit the point of being done for that time, where what needed release is now out in the open and the words dry up. It is like the idea just withers up and drifts away. But I can feel it lingering on the edgings of memory and I know it’s there. I sense it. But I cannot quite recall it. I cannot quite reach it. Like a dream in the morning. I know I had it. I know it meant something but it eludes me.

You see it’s like the story is trapped deep inside of me and even though I have an idea how it should unfold I cannot seem to get this information down onto the paper. I write, I read and it’s all wrong. So I rewrite and I read and again it’s wrong. So I walk away… and I flounder in this strange place where the words are floating just below the surface. I know what they should be. But I can’t seem to get them onto the paper in the form that they were when they were perfect and illustrative and reflective floating there below that surface. Instead they are jerking, halting, a foreign language – the fluidity is gone. They become harsh and ugly and show a distorted reflection of what I had beheld in my minds eye.

I want to share these ‘stories’ with you and yet I can’t seem to bring myself too… I have been fighting with myself on this for a few months now. What if they are no good? Or what if they are genius and some-one else took my ideas and perfected them? (Oh but how can one perfect genius? I suppose they could bring it to completion…)

So now that I have piqued your interest… should I share my handful of prologues with you all? Or leave it like all the other things I have avoided sharing?

P.S. the DoodleArt is coming along nicely I should be sharing that soon enough. In the next few weeks.

P.P.S. My mic works well, but again I am not feeling as eager to share as I had thought I would be… Give me time… it will come.