#fridayflash: A preview of Takpe from A Kind of Death

There is a nail in the back of Nur’s neck. She doesn’t know why.

She doesn’t think about it often, though sometimes when she bathes, her fingers touch it and she shudders. She doesn’t pull it out; she can’t, she’s not allowed to. Her husband Bakri doesn’t talk about it, changing the topic whenever she brings it up. She doesn’t anymore.

She wants to please him.

No one else she knows has a nail there. She’d seen a girl before, on that one trip to Kuala Lumpur for her daughter, Alia’s, medical check-up, a mat salleh with short purple hair and two little metal balls at the nape of her neck. The mat salleh had a lot of other metal pieces all over her body, so Nur doesn’t think it’s the same. Nur has looked carefully at all the other women in her kampung, her village. Most of them keep their hair in buns, under scarves, out of their faces. She leaves hers down, black and silky, reaching to the curve of her back. Bakri doesn’t like her to cut it, so she doesn’t.

Bakri comes in the front door, kicking off his shoes, and stooping to scoop Alia up. “And how has my little Alia been all day?”

Alia wiggles and squeals as he tosses her up in the air. For a brief moment, her fine, wavy hair circles her round face like a halo, then flops down, tussled bangs across her forehead, fluffed up around the back of her head like a little button mushroom.

Bakri winces as Alia tugs at his goatee, catches the small hand to still its grasping. His smile is wide and generous, filling out the sharp contours of his sun-darkened face.

Nur smiles, getting up from the couch. “Her birthday is coming up next week, abang. What do you want to do?”

“Ooo, my little Alia is going to be one, huh?” Bakri perches the little girl on his hip as he steps closer to Nur into the living room. Three steps to the right, and he would bump into their dining table. She’s not sure why she keeps this distinction in her mind when it’s all one cosy room. She lifts his leathery hand to her forehead, brings it to her lips.

He is all that fills her soul.

When he pulls away, she notices the sadness in his dark brown eyes he always gets when looking at her. Why, she wants to ask, but doesn’t. He never tells her, only shakes his head, saying takpe. It’s nothing.

“Should we have a party, abang? Invite the everyone from the kampung?” she asks. Birthdays are meant to be village-wide celebrations, a matter of pride—she knows this much. He keeps apart for her sake, but for this, for Alia, maybe he would want to do it right.

“Let’s keep it small, eh, Nur? No need to call everyone.”

She nods, making a mental list of their close friends. The neighbors on their left, Pak Ali and his wife Timah, but not the ones on the right; they don’t like Nur. The Penghulu, definitely—the village chief would feel slighted if he and his family weren’t invited. The two little girls Alia plays with and their families…

“Nur, is dinner ready?” Bakri asks, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“Ya, abang. Sorry!” She puts her thoughts aside and heads into the kitchen. Everything is prepared. She left them in the pots to keep warm and all she needs to do now is serve them.

Tonight, there is kari ikan, with more ladyfingers than fish, and nasi putih, the rice steamed and fluffy. Nur wishes there were more dishes, but it’s all they can afford. If they slaughter a chicken, tomorrow they might have meat, but then what would they do for eggs in the future? The banana trees in the back make up for it. She finds them comforting. Alia loves them as a snack, whether fresh or fried in batter. Bakri—he turns away from the fruit, looking sick. Although she remembers, somehow, that he used to love pisang goreng, loved it fresh and dripping with oil, the batter they’d been dipped in a recipe handed down from her grandmother. She remembers that, although she cannot remember anything else, not since the incident.

“What’s wrong, sayang?” Bakri stops eating, fingers smeared with curry.

She shakes her head. “Takpe.”

The phrase passes between them so often it too means nothing: Takpe. Takde ape-pe. Doesn’t matter. It’s nothing. Never mind. It’s fine.
They talk about birthday parties instead.

---

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#AtoZChallenge: Wombats

Winnie had always wanted a pet, but no matter how many times she begged her mother, the answer was always no. She tried asking her father, but his answer was “ask your mother”, so that wasn’t much use. Her best friend Wanda had a  rabbit named Wiggles and even her worst enemy in school had a cat, so it was quite unfair that Winnie wasn’t allowed to have a pet, even though she was almost ten.

One evening, when she was especially bored, Winnie wandered out into the backyard. She was standing by the fence, kicking at the clods of dirt, when she noticed weird little cubes on the trail outside. Winnie’s house in Tasmania was right beside the forest reserve, so she’d seen many wild animals passing by, but she didn’t recall seeing any of these strange cubic pieces of… poo before. Throwing a quick glance back at the house, she slipped out of the back gate and followed the trail. No one called after her, so she happily went on her way, being careful not to step on any of the poo.

Birds called overhead as she passed, but she kept her eyes on the ground, searching for this mysterious animal. She came to a sudden stop when she heard a quiet yelp.

“Ow, that hurt,” a low voice said.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself,” another voice replied.

Winnie peered through the folliage to see two small, furry, brown creatures talking. She frowned. How come she could understand what they said?

One of them looked up suddenly, staring straight at her. “Uh oh, I think we’ve been spotted,” it said. The two started to lumber off.

“Wait!” Winnie called after them.

The second one stopped and turned to look at her. “You can speak to us! Walt, wait—the human speaks wombat!”

Walt stopped, baring his teeth at Winnie. “I don’t know, Wanda, are you sure you can trust humans?”

“Is that what you are? Wombats?” Winnie asked, ignoring Walt.

Wanda nodded. “But how is it you understand us?”

Winnie shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just following the trail of poo when I heard you talking.”

Both Wanda and Walt started blushing.

“You… you didn’t see us then though, did you?” Walt asked in a strangled tone.

“No, I only saw you after. Why?”

Wanda smiled. “Oh, nothing. It’s just… heh. Nothing, dear. It was just a slightly embarrassing thing. What’s your name, child?”

“Oh, I’m Winnie. Nice to meet you,” she replied. “Is the poo yours?”

Walt’s nose twitched. “Not ours, I don’t think. But part of the wisdom’s.”

“The wisdom?”

“The rest of our group. Not all the younger ones remember to clean up after themselves sometimes.”

“Oh. Are you all family?”

“Mostly. This is our home territory,” Wanda replied. “Where do you come from, Winnie?”

“Oh, over there.” Winnie turned to point at her house, but realised that she’d lost sight of home. “Oh dear. I can’t see my house anymore.” She bit at her bottom lip. She’d been warned many times by her mother not to wander off too far, and the light was beginning to fade as the sun was setting. “I… I’d better go. I hope I don’t lose the trail.”

Walt and Wanda shared a look. “We’ll come with you, dear,” Wanda said. “If it’s that big white house near the fence, we know the way.”

“Oh, thank you,” Winnie replied.

The two wombats shuffled along beside her as they made their way to Winnie’s house. It didn’t take long before the trail seemed familiar again and Winnie saw the fence and her house beyond that.

“We’ll stop here then,” Walt said, clearly uneasy about being seen by anymore humans.

“Thank you so much!” Winnie replied. “I hope I’ll see you again one day.”

“Maybe we will,” Wanda said.

The two wombats turned and walked back into the forest, leaving Winnie a clear view of a huge bite mark on Walt’s backside. She wondered about that as she hurried back into the house where her mother was calling her for dinner.

---

Today's suggestions were:

• wombats, from Barbara Harrison
• Wonder/wander/wishful/worship/WORD, from Cherie Osier
• wallaby/wedge-tailed eagle/willy wagtail/wattle, from Sharna Steinert,
• wisteria, wise, from Donna Smith 

Wombats were an easy choice because they're cute. haha. I also could not pass up the chance to pass on the knowledge that, according to National Geographic, a group of wombats is called a "wisdom".

... on an aside, this has got to be one of the weirdest vids I've seen in a while.

#fridayflash: Deep Waters

For you cast me into the deep,
Into the heart of the seas,

I ran. Of course I ran. What else was I do to? I couldn’t stay—not when staying was certain death. That’s what happens when you disobey a Royal (not quite, but close enough) Decree.

What decree? Do you think I have a death wish? I don’t know you well enough to tell you. I’m far enough away now, but not that far. His reach is pretty long—I shouldn’t even be telling you this. (You’re listening, aren’t you?) I just… don’t have anything else to do on this ship, I guess. By the time I reach shore and you get word back to him, I’ll be long gone anyway. Not that I’m telling you who. Or where. (Not like… never mind.)

I’m not saying anything else.

And the floods surrounded me;
All Your billows and Your waves passed over me.

What do you mean we’re sinking? You said this ship was unsinkable! The best on the Mediterranean Sea! Was that lie? (I knew you’d catch up.)

Pray? What— (No.)

I— (I’m not talking to you.)

Fine, fine, fine. It’s my fault (Your fault, why are you doing this to me? Just let me go). Throw me in the sea. You’ll be safe. My God’s after me, all right? It wasn’t a Royal Decree. It was a God Decree and YES I KNOW I WAS RUNNING AWAY. (YES, I KNOW I AM A FOOL.)

Just throw me in the sea. You’ll be fine.

Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Or where can I flee from Your presence?

Good fish. Nice fish. Don’t digest me. If you could just throw me up on a deserted island, that would be great. Wouldn’t that be great?

(OKAY FINE. IT’S MY FAULT. I SHOULDN’T HAVE RUN. I SHOULDN’T HAVE DISOBEYED. I KNOW THAT TARSHISH IS IN THE WRONG DIRECTION BUT I HATE NINEVEH. I’M… I am sorry. This is stupid.)

If I ascend into heaven, You are there
If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there.

Fine. I’m talking to you. Yes, I’m talking to you again, God. I know I’ve been stupid and childish, but hey, here you are keeping me alive. In a fish. Which is gross, but—alive. Alive is good. (A nice island with nobody around, I’ll survive on fish—no, maybe not fish—Uh, or monkeys. Or something.)

I’ll go. I will (this is coercion) but I will. I—

If I take the wings of the morning,
And dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,

Yeah, I know I’ve been stupid. But you still love me, don’t you? And you still love those horrible people so I guess… I guess I’ll go. (DESERTED ISLAND PLEASE!)

After all, who says they’ll listen? (I hope they don’t.)

No, I didn’t say anything. Scout’s honour. (Though I’ve never been a scout.)

Even there Your hand shall lead me,
And Your right hand shall hold me.

Uh, hey guys. So you’re probably not going to believe me, but God’s angry at you. In forty days, you’re gonna be toast. So you better repent. (Or not—ah yes, repent. Repent!)

(I hate my job.)

---

Because I felt my blog needed more crappy fiction and I found this in my archives. lol

No cookies for guessing where it's from.

#fridayflash: The Other Woman

It’s the announcement that he’s leaving that surprises Iman the most.

“Why now?” she asks. The baby is due in two months. Their daughter Tulen is not yet four. She can’t do this alone.

Bakar stares at her. “You knew? Of course you knew.” His face pinches as he folds his arms and spits, “You and your witchery,” before turning away. 

It’s not witchery, but Iman doesn’t have the energy to argue. “It’s not—I’ve let you—” She drops her hand and stares at the wooden spoon she hadn’t realised she’d been waving about. “Just… why now?”

He slumps on their tattered couch, runs a hand over his face, scratches at his beard and mumbles something.

Iman leans forward. “What? I didn’t catch that.”

He looks up, exasperated, and repeats louder, “I said, she’s pregnant. Can’t you read that off my mind? Do I suddenly need to spell everything out for you now?”

“But I’m pregnant too.” It comes out in a bewildered rush she hadn’t meant to speak aloud. I’m pregnant too and he’s also your child. And Tulen is your daughter. You should be there for them. For us. Not this other woman.

Bakar just gives her a weird look. “So?”

“So? So? What do you mean ‘so’? This is your child. I am your wife. She is nothing. A whore.” The girl is not a whore. She’s a sixteen-year-old kid flattered that a good-looking man ten years her senior is paying her interest. Iman knows that but she doesn’t care. She wants things to go back to the way it was before. Before, when she was cooking lunch and ignoring the fact that she knew her husband was cheating on her. He’d done it four years ago when she was pregnant with Tulen, as if a few months without sex would be the death of him. She’d ignored it then too. Maybe she shouldn’t have.

He sighs and leans his head back against the backrest, covering his eyes with his forearm. Iman steels herself to fight, for the careless words she knows will cut her to the bone. She’s thrown when all he says is, “Her parents are kicking her out of the house. I can’t bring her back here. That’s not fair to you.”

Just as quickly, her self-righteous anger deflates. It’s nice to know her husband has learnt some responsibility, even if it’s not towards her. She leaves him to stew on the couch and heads back into the kitchen, where she’d been making soup. It’s starting to boil over and she hurries to lift the heavy pot off the coals.

Iman stirs the soup and tastes it absently, her gaze fixed on the blue sky outside the window. The sun is warm, but she is cold. It’s not until she feels heat on her cheeks that she realises she’s crying. I told you so, she imagines Rahsia saying, You knew he would cheat on you. She hates this talent that she and Rahsia share, this ability to read minds. There are many things about her marriage she would rather have not known.

They need to talk through this. Iman washes her face and sets the table. As much as Bakar assumes she can read everything on his mind, that’s not true. Her talent is weak and untrained—the main reason she knows about the girl is because Bakar dreams very loudly about her every night when he sleeps in their bed.

Bakar takes his place at the head of the table when she tells him lunch is ready.

“Where’s Tulen?” he asks.

“Out with Rahsia,” she says. Her best friend had come over this morning and taken the four-year-old out shopping for her upcoming birthday. Iman wonders if Rahsia had known something, whether she’d read something off Bakar’s mind. Had she planned for them to be alone? Iman wouldn’t put it past Rahsia.

They start eating.

Iman breaks the silence. “How long?”

“Huh?” 

“How far along is she? Her pregnancy?”

Bakar shrugs as he spoons more soup messily into his mouth. “Long enough to show a little.”

“How long have you been seeing her?” She could guess, but she doesn’t want to. She wants to force a confession out of him, as if that would make her feel any better and him any guiltier.

He manages to almost look contrite. “Six months.”

“So the minute you knew I was pregnant.”

He doesn’t say anything, just continues eating.

“You do know you’ll need her parents’ consent for marriage.”

His spoon clatters, spilling soup everywhere. “Marriage? What?”

Iman’s anger burns cold. “You’re leaving me to take care of your underaged mistress because she’s pregnant and you’re not going to actually marry her? You’re not going to legitimise your own child? What were you planning to do? Just live together so everyone would think she’s a cheap whore?”

“No! I mean yes! I—How do you even know how old she is?”

“I snooped, okay. Happy? You were dreaming about her every night you were home and I was angry so I wanted to find out who she was and I—” 

It hadn’t been her finest moment, storming up to the house, banging on the door demanding to see that slut only to find a pair of confused parents and a frightened teenager. She’d pretended she’d gotten the wrong address. 

Iman shakes her head, hoping she isn’t the one who has caused this tragedy. No, it was his fault for sleeping with her. “What did she tell you?”

“She said she was nineteen.”

Iman snorts.

“I’m sorry.”

She knows he’s not, but she nods. “You’d better marry her. You’ve already ruined her life.”

---

So I have all these short pieces I've been doing for class and decided it was time to post one up.

This one is a snippet on Tulen's mother, and how/why she separates from her husband, so it happens before both Secretkeeper and Absolution. If you've read the short Shattered Memories on The Painted Hall Collection, you'll recognise Iman and Rahsia. 

#fridayflash: Memories

“Rahsia, this is all really yours, you know,” she said, eyes staring up at the gathering rain clouds.

Rahsia frowned. What a strange thing to remember. She had never stared up at … no one had ever said that to—she froze, snatching at the memory in her head.

“I felt terrible being the Secretkeeper, as if I’d stolen your life. Nek knew it would pass from me fairly quickly, although she didn’t know until right at the very end of her life that it would go to me at all. She didn’t know it would go back to you. I didn’t either, not until now. I’m glad, though. I’m glad you’ll have the life you’ve always wanted, that you’ve always planned for. You don’t have to avenge me. Just ... just watch over my children if you can. I don’t know if you can. Everything is changing. You might end up in Suci, for all I know.” She laughed.

Iman laughed.

This was Iman’s Memory, but wasn’t she at the Temple? What was she doing lying on the street dying? How could Rahsia even access them unless—

Rahsia scrambled to her feet and raced out the door, startling everyone in the tailor’s shop, racking her memory—no, Memories—for where Iman had last been. She stumbled into a dark alleyway and was greeted by crowds. Priests, doctors, passers-by—it was like the day Nek had died all over again, except that this was out in public, where everybody could intrude into her grief.

Father Farouk stood over Iman’s broken body.

“I know who killed her,” Rahsia said, breathlessly.

The priest from Suci tilted his head inquisitively. “You have the Memories.”

Rahsia almost chuckled. He’d said it exactly the same way to Iman before, as if he were not checking, not asking, but telling her that she does. But it was still a question—even if it was written on his face, not in his tone. “Don’t tell me: You need me. We have things to do.”

His lips quirked upwards slightly before smoothening out quickly into seriousness. “Take your time. But not too much. We must uncover the true rites behind the Sacrifice and the Penance before it is invoked.”

Before the end of the world. Memories bubbled to the surface, but Rahsia suppressed them for the moment. “I must bury Iman first, and settle her children.”

Farouk nodded. “Do they have family?”

“No. None left. But there are friends, I suppose. Neighbours who will do what is necessary.”

“When you are ready, then.”

“I will see you within the week.” Despite her words, Rahsia didn’t leave immediately. Instead, she grabbed hold of Farouk’s arm. “Take what you need. She needs justice.”

Farouk nodded and laid a hand on the crown of her head, pulling the Memory of Iman’s murder.

“Justice will be served,” he murmured before disappearing into the crowd.

---

So I've finished compiling The Painted Hall Collection into a single book, and decided to add a bonus story, Shattered Memories. This is a short story that happens sometime in Secretkeeper, which is the second book of what's going to be the Absolution Trilogy. If things go as projected. I'm still working out what happens where. 

But, bonus short story!

Details to come soon!

#fridayflash: Physicality

The first thing Daisy noticed about the house was the draft.

“It’s a little cold in here, isn’t it?” she remarked to the real estate agent as they went up the stairs to look at the bedrooms.

The agent gave her an odd look. “The heating’s on,” he said, going to check the thermostat.

It was, indeed, on.

Daisy stood next to the radiator, feeling the warmth of it, wondering where that odd draft had come from. But it seemed to have disappeared; the house was warm and cosy, everything she had been looking for.

There were two large bedrooms on the upper floor, each with their own attached bathrooms, perfect for when family came to visit or if she decided to take in a lodger. On the ground floor was a cosy living room filled with antique furniture and knick-knacks from the prior owner (a little old lady who’d died the previous year) and an old-fashioned fireplace, a mid-sized kitchen, and a tiny study, should she want to do any ‘serious work’, as the agent put it.

It was perfect, despite the yard being too large (a gardener could be hired, if need be?) and that draft (where was it coming from?). Daisy got the number of the hired man who used to work the yard for the previous owner, but didn’t mention the draft; after all, the real estate agent hadn’t noticed anything. Maybe she was a little too sensitive to the weather.

Daisy paid the down payment on the house and moved in right away.

###

Elizabeth woke up in the living room. Really, she’d taken to falling asleep all over the house lately. She yawned and stretched, then got up to put the kettle on, only to walk into the coffee table. She stood, blinking confusedly at the table for a while, then looked around the room. Someone had moved the furniture while she’d been a sleep. How rude!

The couch she’d been on had been placed at an angle on the left of the fireplace so that she could rest with toasty toes while looking up occasionally to see that her roast wasn’t burning, which was why she’d gotten up and walked straight ahead towards the kitchen. Only, someone had moved the coffee table that was supposed to be by the head of her couch—to put her tea cup on, of course—into the middle of the room, right in front of the fireplace. Really, where was the sense in that?

Elizabeth shook her head, tutted, moved the coffee table back to its original position, and then went to make a cup of tea.

###

The kettle was whistling in the kitchen again, but Daisy was quite sure she hadn’t put it on. It had taken to whistling at odd hours of the day, usually at eleven in the morning, well past when Daisy had her breakfast, and then again at three in the afternoon, when she was busy working in the study.

Sure enough, the kettle was warm, but it was empty. She put it away, locking it in the cupboard for good measure (There! See if those hooligans could get at it now). She was almost at the study door when she realised something looked different. She stood in the doorway, surveying the living room. Someone had moved the coffee table. Well, she was too tired to move it again, so she decided to let it be.

Daisy shivered. That draft was too much. She’d have to find someone to fix it.

###

It wasn’t funny. Why anyone would think that pranking a little old lady was a good idea, Elizabeth couldn’t fathom. How could she have elevenses if the kettle was locked away? She’d gone searching up and down the kitchen for it, but it had been nowhere to be found. Someone had locked this cupboard though—really, this was too much—so it had to be in there.

Elizabeth fretted, wondering who she could call. Maybe that nice young man down the road who did her yard could help. He’d know how to pick the lock, or maybe he’d be able to help her find the key. She had to admit—her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. She’d lost many a thing in the last year, especially with all her furniture being moved around by pranksters. Resolutely, she marched out of the house, letting the door slam behind her.

###

The slam of the door jolted Daisy from her mid-morning nap. Those hooligans again! The furniture, then the kettle, and now, the door. And that perfectly nice real estate agent hadn’t even warned her that there were hoodlums in this area who enjoyed breaking into people’s houses! Admittedly, they hadn’t stolen anything (she’d checked all her belongings to be sure), but they were very annoying.

Daisy went down and had another look around. Nothing had gone missing, though someone had obviously been rifling through the kitchen cupboards. What did they expect to find in there? Hidden money? She wasn’t one of those little old ladies who kept spare cash in a jar in the kitchen. She’d had enough. It was a Saturday, so the real estate agent was probably not going to pick up her call, but she’d seen a man (the hired man the agent mentioned, she thought) in one of the houses down the road when she was coming back from the store the other day. Maybe he’d know what was going on in this neighbourhood.

###

Alex looked up in alarm at the sight of two ladies beelining towards him, one alive and one very much dead. It was at times like this that he hated his ability to see and speak with the dead. Well, he should have expected it. He’d known Elizabeth’s spirit hadn’t left the house yet, but hadn’t done anything about it or mentioned it the last time he’d worked on her yard.

Now he was going to have to explain to the new occupant that she was sharing the house with a ghost and to Elizabeth that she’d left the physical plane. How fun.

---

Partially because we were supposed to do suspense, with elements of foreshadowing, shifting points of view, withheld information and lines of convergence, if I got that all right.

But also partially because I promised someone on twitter a ghost story.

Heh.

#fridayflash: more #nanowrimo excerpt from the WIP

Josh stood frozen. Was this the way? Was this how they’d finally be able to return to Maha? They’d get Michael back to Maha—it was impossible to bring Samuel under these conditions—and when they were there, they’d be able to drum up the revolution, be able to amass an army to fight back, find a way to win back their city. He could subvert Lady’s Dell’s orders. Somehow. He had to talk to his father, see how they could use this to their advantage. Maybe they could actually leave without too much bloodshed.

The blow that landed on his cheek stunned him.

“Bastard. You’re planning to take it, aren’t you?” Michael growled. “You’d take my throne from me and laugh as I grovel at your feet. You want to break me like Dell has done my father?”

“Michael—”

“The throne of Maha will not be taken by infidels. It will not be occupied by Bayangans. The world will end before God allows that to happen!”

“Michael!” Josh grabbed at his prince’s flailing arms. “That is not what I intend to do! Listen to me, Michael,” he whispered fiercely, forcing the mad prince down on his knees. “You will be restored to your throne. But for now you must stop this. Stop it before you endanger everything.”

But Michael wouldn’t stop. He was in a frenzy, driven by fear, anger, and bitterness. Josh wrangled him into a chokehold, then manoeuvred his body, pressing him face-down into the floor. Reaching out, he snagged the ever-present chains and snapped them on the bands around Michael’s wrists and ankles. Michael continued wriggling on the ground.

“I don’t know how to talk sense into you, Michael, but you have to snap out of this. I can’t return a throne to a madman.” Josh kept his voice low, hoping that no one was listening at the door. “I’m going to meet my father tonight. I didn’t plan on bringing you along, but I’m going to need to. You need to listen to everything we have to say and understand Michael that everything we’ve been doing is intended to return your throne to you. You’re going to have to make decisions tonight. And you’re going to have to trust us.”

Michael stopped struggling.

“Can I let you up now?”

Michael nodded and Josh lifted the pressure from the back of Michael’s head and neck.

“Do you really mean all you said?” Michael asked, still wild-eyed, mouth full of carpet dust.

Josh nodded. “I do.”

“Why have you never told me all this before?”

“I told you right in the beginning, but you refused to believe me. And then it got too risky.”

“Then why tell me now?”

“Because if Dell intends to return us to Maha, this speeds up our timeline. This is an unexpected development that I hope will turn out for good. I don’t know how exactly we can subvert it to our purposes, but if we can, it means that you now need to know what we plan and how to react when we stage our coup.”

Michael lay silent. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Then he opened it as he exhaled. “I’m sorry. Could you let me go now?”

Josh dug in his pockets for the keys and released the chains. His jaw hurt and he stretched it.

“That’s going to bruise really badly,” Michael said, dropping his eyes habitually.

“Yeah, thanks.”

They sat in silence.

“You know what?” Josh finally said. “You really pack a punch. This was the hardest time it ever took for me to subdue you. And even then, I felt as if you let me.”

Michael lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. “Something’s changed. Something clicked in me and I felt a surge of power. Not like anything I’ve ever felt before. It shocked me so much that I stopped. I was only flailing about half-heartedly to throw you off.”

Their eyes met. Josh’s eyes widened.

“Your Berserker powers,” he gushed in a quiet whisper.

“No…” but Michael’s eyes widened too.

---

I was thinking of developing this week's homework into something for next year's Commonwealth Short Story prize so I decided not to post it up. :)

Anyway, did a 10K day yesterday, wouldjalookitdat!

View this post on Instagram

#goalachieved 7k at the Uxbridge Library, 3k in the Brunel Library. Going back to chill in my room with a good book. Bai. #nanowrimo

A post shared by Anna Tan (@annatsp) on Nov 15, 2018 at 12:58pm PST

The story is probably 80% waffle right now, but that's okay, because most of that waffle is helping me figure out what the characters want :p

#fridayflash: excerpt from the #nanowrimo WIP

A knock on the door alerted King Samuel that it was time for the scry. He reluctantly kept the bottle back in its place, stood and smoothed down his shirt, then shrugged on his royal robes. He would appear in this kangaroo court in all his regality so they’d remember who he was and what he represented.

The council was already seated when he entered the Council Room. They made to rise, but he gestured at them, signalling them to keep their seats. He took his own seat at the head of the table and nodded at the priest in charge to open the scry.

The High Priest from Suci appeared in the mirror and, to his surprise, the Secretkeeper from Impian. What was she doing there? Where they conspiring against him? He narrowed his eyes at them. Well, if it was going to be a firing squad, at least Tun Ali from Impian wasn’t there. Moments later, King Samuel winced when Tun Ali appeared in a second mirror. Ali looked bored.

“You too?” Samuel said with a snort.

Ali shrugged. “I was summoned, so I here I am.”

“Well, let’s get this over with, shall we?” Samuel said, looking at the High Priest.

“This is no joking manner, young man,” the High Priest said sternly.

“As I have said over and over again, this is the best course for Terang—it is the only way to see lasting peace in the kingdom, instead of always having to worry about impending war from Bayangan.”

“You would ally with the enemies of God!” the High Priest protested.

“Well, if God were against them, he can strike them dead and we wouldn’t be in this fix of always being on the brink of war. Don’t you want peace, High Priest? Don’t you think the people deserve that chance for peace?”

“Young man, your heart is in the right place, but your actions are wrong. This treaty might offer peace for the short term, but it will only end in disaster,” the Secretkeeper said.

“I’ve prayed about this,” Samuel said obstinately, “and since God hasn’t struck me dead, I can only assume that I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“He has sent his word to the priests both in Maha and in Suci but you have ignored their advice! You only listen to your own council.”

“The Temple itself says that each man can approach God on his own and that God speaks to their hearts. My heart says that this is what is right for me and for Terang. Dare you go against your own teachings?” Samuel mocked. He pushed aside the remnants of his worry that he might be headed in the wrong direction. This was right, he told himself again. “Besides, the council of seven in Maha are in agreement.”

The seven other men around the table nodded. They hadn’t all been in agreement at first, but Samuel had worn them down, pleading his case and reworking the treaty to satisfy their worries until they had reluctantly agreed. The only thing he refused to budge on was the fact that he was going to marry Dell.

The High Priest and the Secretkeeper seemed to be having a hurried whispered conversation.

Samuel preened. He’d managed to throw them off, at least a little.

“My visions only see dark things if you take this route,” the Secretkeeper finally said. Her face was downcast, her tone low, but Samuel knew it was all an act. 

Get him to pity the woman and maybe his heart would be moved. No. He’d made his decision and he would stick to it. “Ramalan, I do not profess to understand the workings of your visions. But I have seen things with my own two eyes and they tell me that this is the best way forward. The people of our city are crying out for help. This treaty will bring jobs, trade, money. It will help everyone from the poor to the rich.”

“Must you marry the girl?” Ramalan asked.

Samuel’s face pinched. “Is that what this is all about? Despite all that I do for the kingdom, all the things I sacrifice, you would deny me the right to marry a young woman who is willing?”

“We do not deny you the right to marry anyone, King Samuel,” the High Priest replied. “Just not her. Not her, who is our ancient enemy.”

Samuel shook his head. “I don’t understand you. For all your talk of forgiveness and repentance, you cannot accept when one who was our enemy has repented and is now seeking to be our friend.”

“Fellow rulers,” Tun Ali finally spoke up, “Far be it from me to impose on any of you, being the youngest of all, but it is Samuel’s right to marry whom he wishes.”

Samuel shot him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Ali.”

The two scrying from Suci looked frustrated. “God says—”

“If I may remind you, High Priest, there are many Bayangans in Maha. All of them follow God and the teachings of the Temple. How can you be prejudiced against them when you preach love towards all? Princess Dell may yet come to know and follow God as we do.”

“And has she shown any interest in following our religion?” the Secretkeeper asked sharply. “Or does she merely delay you and tell you it may come to pass one day in the distant future?”

“In fact, Dell has visited the Temple in Maha when she was here,” Samuel said. He’d almost had to coerce her to go, and it was just a tour of the premises and not during services, but he didn’t say that. “I would say that she is quite open to listening about God. Belief and faith will come in time.”

A long silence permeated the room. 

“Do you have anything else to say?” King Samuel said when a long enough time had passed.

“It looks like we cannot convince you otherwise.”

“No, you can’t. I have quite made up my mind, and it is within my rights as the King of Maha and Sovereign of the tri-city states of Terang to do so, especially when the Council of Seven are in agreement.”

“One last thing then,” the High Priest said.

“What would that be?”

“Will you release my priests? The Temple in Maha has informed me that you have unlawfully imprisoned the Chief Priest Francis and two other high ranking priests over the last three months. What offence have they made against you?”

Samuel grimaced. “I will release them on the condition that they return to Suci and replaced with new priests who respect the authority of the King. These priests have spoken out publicly against My Royal Person in the middle of Temple services in an astoundingly rude manner. This is both disruptive and against the rule of law. If they wish to admonish me or impart their ‘words of wisdom’, I would advise them to do it in a more courteous manner instead of inciting insurrection.”

“Noted. We will discipline them as necessary,” the High Priest said.

“Now, if that is all…?”

Samuel waited for those in the scrying mirrors to assent before he signalled for the attending priest to break the link.

“Well, that’s that then,” he leaned back in his seat with a big smile.

---

So this is the last bit I wrote yesterday during my write-in at the Uxbridge Library. I'm kind of liking it at the moment, and unfortunately liking my "bad people" with more glee than the actual intended protagonists of this story.

If you notice, this takes place in the whole Absolution universe ha. It's supposed to happen way before Secretkeeper and Absolution, so yes, the Secretkeeper is Nek Ramalan, though I suppose she's not old enough to be "Nek" yet. Hmmmmmm. 

#fridayflash: Time Flies

I wrote a story, and it's gloriously stupid, and I was accused of fanfiction.
But I don't care. It's gloriously stupid and I like it. HAHA

---

The problem with eternity is the flies. I have no idea where they come from. It’s annoying, I tell you, but they’ve just always been here and they won’t go away. It is eternity, after all, so I suppose they’re here for the… duration. I’ve raised a prayer with the Big Man, but you know how it is. He’s too busy dealing with the prayers from earth to deal with those from this side of time. After all, earthly problems are temporary, but urgent. Eternal problems are… eternal.

Still, flies. Not ordinary flies—Time Flies. Millions of buzzing little pockets of time that remind you of temporality and mortality where it doesn’t apply anymore. If you squish one, time stutters a little, which is an interesting experience. There’s no actual today or tomorrow or yesterday in eternity, you know. It’s all one long, lump of events that eventually merges into one unending… day, for the lack of a better word. It’s always been a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff, anyway.

But time flies like an arrow—direct to the point, speeding along its trajectory, as straight and as true as the one who aimed it—so when a Time Fly hits you, it’s like mortality all over again. For a brief moment, you’re back there on earth—or whenever and wherever it was you were spying on in the universe—and I guess it’s jarring. Maybe a little dangerous if it’s done too often—it messes with your head and your grasp on reality. Elvis Presley, you know, always popping in and out of existence. You never know when a sighting is the real thing. I doubt he knows himself now, since it’s happened so often. People just launch flies at him for fun, and since he just can't help spying on any event that plays his songs or has Elvis impersonators, he often gets lumped in as his own impersonator. Ridiculous, but there it is.

Talking about mortality, back when I was a lad on earth, I hated it. I was always hoping to live forever—there’s that ‘and I will L-I-V-E E-T-E-R-N-A-L-L-Y’ song I always thought was a bit of a scam to make you learn your spelling—but when you’re alive and mortal, all you want is to stay alive. Mostly. Sometimes some people got a little suicidal, but even then, every narrow escape from death and maiming was like an answer from heaven, as if Someone Up There was saying ‘it’s not your time yet’. Cancer was the worst thing that could happen to you, like a scourge from the devil or something.

But here and now, time is a cancer. It eats at you. It grows like a tumour, with unexpected side effects. Blink and it could be tomorrow, or it could be yesterday. Yesterday, I opened my eyes to realise that I’d drifted off towards the distant past. Right then, that blasted Pratchett, cheeky bloke, launched a fair crate of flies at me and I spent an hour of earth time running from T-Rexes. By the time the effects wore off and I popped back into eternity, I was exhausted and caked in mud. Still, it was something to do so I can’t fault him. We're all bored to death here. Well, not quite to death, since we are already dead. I wonder where I can send him? I suppose if he popped back to earth in 2018 he’d shock a lot of people right there. I generally try not to blink near statues though.

If all this is a little incomprehensible to you, don’t worry. Time is a mystery, even to the philosophers, and if they can’t figure out if temporality is linear or circular, I doubt you, with your mortal mind, will understand. Honestly, I too find it hard and I have all eternity to puzzle it out. I’m just telling you as it is. As the good doctor said, it’s wibbly-wobbly anyway, and there are rifts in the continuum everywhere. How else can you explain Cardiff? Or Narnia? Or the Bermuda Triangle? Or, for that matter, Arthur Dent?

The earth is always imminently to be destroyed, if the movies are to believed, whether it’s by God, demons, Vogons, or random chance. It’s all the same from this side of eternity, because then you’ll just pop over the boundary and join us. It’s not as if you need to find the Ultimate Answer to the universe. We already know that, even if we don’t know what to do with it. I don’t quite recall what the Ultimate Question was. Time does that to you, it just makes everything so vague when everything blends together.

Where were we? Time is always ticking on for you mortals and I lose track of my thoughts so easily. Oh, we were talking about eternity, weren’t we?

Yes, eternity is great, it really is, if you like that sort of thing. You have all the time in the world to do whatever you wish because time doesn’t exist. There are no deadlines to chase, no datelines to worry about and definitely no dates to forget. I can pop back and forth whenever I wish, so it’s not as if I have to choose one over the other. Solves all your problems, you know. Back on earth, you’re always chasing time, as if it’s a thing that can be caught.

If it’s all the same to you, the bloody flies annoy me. Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana—and I wish Time Flies would love a banana so I could throw them one and they’d leave me alone.

---

#sorrynotsorry :p

Theme for the week: Time; and/or the distortion of it.

Also, based on feedback this week, I'm figuring that (including the seminar leader), 2/8 have no clue who Terry Pratchett is (though I'm just mentioning him in passing for the fun of it), "Elvis sightings" are a relatively unknown phenomenon, half of them haven't read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and only one  (another Malaysian, coincidentally) seems to have heard of the "Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana" quote. And mayyybe half know Dr Who, or at least appreciate the passing mention.

---

Nanowrimo is starting. I don't know if next week's piece will be a nano excerpt or a writing exercise. We'll see. Also, word counter is up on the right again, if you want to track my progress. 

#fridayflash: Malaysian Time

It’s almost noon at Lebuh Pantai. Jen has circled the surrounding streets and the back lanes multiple times, looking for an elusive parking lot. There’s a dip in the row the cars ahead seem to be ignoring. She inches her MyVi closer, only to find a tiny white Kancil.

One more loop? No. Lay Cheng will be annoyed, grumbling as always about Malaysian time and lack of respect.

Jen glances at the clock on her dashboard as she turns left into the multi-storey carpark where she parks on the fifth floor. The heat blasts at her the moment she opens the car door. She takes a moment to wipe the fog off her glasses. By the time she walks over, she’ll probably be late anyway.

Back out on the street, the humid air smells of spices from Enrico; she walks briskly past racks of onions and little brown pottery that jut out into the five-foot way. She lifts a hand to block the glare of the sun as she navigates the narrow space between storefronts—alternating between dilapidated and carefully restored—on her right and rows of parked cars on her left. Momentarily, she regrets not bringing an umbrella.

Ahead, a car pulls out of a lot and she curses her timing; that would have been twenty sen per hour saved, plus a shorter walk. Dust billows from the street with a spurt of warm, petrol-tainted air as the traffic light somewhere behind changes and the cars and buses continue rumbling by.

Past the gigantic plastic bowl of cendol in front of the Wonderfood Museum is the banking district. CIMB is on her right with Allianz across the street, RHB and OCBC ahead on the left, the last three looking slightly more modern than the rest of the colonial-era buildings on Lebuh Pantai. Right in front of her, as she squints down the road before crossing, a building proclaims 1923 in curly black numerals.

The five-foot-way disappears for a short stretch, blocked off by zinc sheets. The new hotel being constructed will probably look like every other building in this heritage area—stark white or grey stone, fancy cornices. A brief block of beige past the construction softens the glare.

Would Lay Cheng glare at her? Silly question.

Jen avoids the scattered clumps of tourists who block the way studying paper maps. The street art is down that way, she wants to say, but doesn’t. It’s the main thing foreigners look for now: Ernest Zacharevic’s famous ‘Little Children on A Bicycle’.

Back on the five-foot-way, she walks almost hugging the wall, partly to get whatever shade she can find, but also to catch brief bursts of air-conditioning that escape from open doorways. Someone blares a horn. Jen looks to see who it is. Some idiot, as usual, has stopped his car in front of the money changer’s. The Indian Muslim owner shakes a calculator in front of the open car window as impatient drivers pull out around the obstruction. US dollars, she overhears, four point something.

Groups of office workers are emerging from their cold caves into scorching sunlight and blue skies in search of lunch, filling the air with chatter—Hokkien, mostly, interspersed with English and Malay. She picks up the pace as her phone buzzes again—Lay Cheng must be there.

Jen can feel sweat dripping down her shirt when she finally arrives at the Sri Weld Food Court. It’s bustling; the smell of oil and frying food hits her. Her clothes are going to stink when she gets back to the office. There’s still a long line of cars waiting to park and she’s glad she’d decided not to park here. Two ringgit per hour saved.

She snags a packet of nasi lemak from Ali’s, shelling out one ringgit eighty sen in coins before she heads into the main part of the eatery. She scans the tables and the food stalls, wondering both what to eat for lunch and where her friend is.

Lay Cheng isn’t anywhere and Jen frowns, standing uncertainly by the beef noodle stall. She pulls out her handphone to find that she is late, and there’s a series of WhatsApp messages from Lay Cheng.

11:45 – Rushing report. Sorry. U there d?
11:55 – Leaving soon!
12:01 – Boss caught me at lift. Have to fix some stuff. 10 mins. U ok for time?
12:04 – Jennnnnn replyyyyyyy.
12:05 – Ur late rite I know u r

Jen spies an empty table and hurries to it, sitting just before a large group of four arrive. They stare at her as she plonks her banana-leaf wrapped rice on the table. She sucks the chilli oil off her thumb before replying Lay Cheng.

12:08 – HAH for once earlier than u! M ok for time.
12:09 – Hurry up. Ppl are staring like I’m hogging the table cos I’m not letting them share
12:13 – Cheeennngggggg replyyyyyy
12:14 – OMG this is the first time I get to do this to u hahahaha

12:15 – Idiot. Almost there.

Jen wants to order a plate of wan tan mee, but has nothing to chup the table with. The umbrella would have come in handy. She’ll just have to wait for Lay Cheng. She’s almost finished her nasi lemak when Lay Cheng finally arrives, huffing and sweating.

“You know, I’m the one who had to brave traffic and find parking to get here. All you had to do was leave your building and walk over,” Jen says in greeting.

“Yah, gloat when you can. You’re the one who is always late,” Lay Cheng snipes back. “Have you ordered? Or is that it?”

“Not yet. What you getting?”

Lay Cheng shrugs.

Jen tells Lay Cheng to order wan tan mee for her then continues to savour the last bits of spicy sour sambal and salty anchovies on fragrant rice as she waits for her best friend return. They only have thirty minutes to gossip before they have to head back to their frigid offices.

---

Because I finally wrote something new that's not for like publication or submission or something.

Week 1 homework: 

Setting & place: Bring a street, city or town to life through all your senses. Have your character walk through the city, describing it through the eyes of the character. Interweave description as part of the character’s journey & tension.

#fridayflash: A Still, Small Voice (an excerpt)

Coronation day—and Hono's eighteenth birthday—finally came.

The young princess stood on the balcony, heart pounding. On her right was her mother, regal and assured. On her left, her father smiled, his eyes wide and wary. Further back, Mica's face was studiously blank. She wished she knew what he was thinking. The Steward stood at the fore speaking to the gathered crowd below, his words slow and sonorous, a wealth of years in statesmanship on display. Hono only noticed something was wrong when he stopped mid-sentence.

"Granduncle?"

He didn't reply, his gaze fixed on something in the distance.

Hono stepped forward. "Granduncle? What's the matter?"

The crowd started to buzz as the Steward raised his hand, pointing at something on the horizon.

"He comes."

Everyone turned to look. A dot in the distance resolved into a bird, which soon morphed into a dragon that wheeled above the castle. The people shouted and pointed, some cowering, others running. Chaos reigned below, but the royal family on the balcony observed the dragon solemnly.

"Listen!" the dragon cried and Danis knew it was the Dragon who had first directed him North.

"Listen!" the Dragon bellowed and Mica knew it was the Great Dragon who once told him no and yet again sent him forth into the Deep.

"Listen!" the Great Dragon roared and Hono heard its call resonating in her heart, requiring her to step forth into Destiny.

Then he was gone.

---

Preorder links will be up soon. I'm in the process of doing final edits to A Still, Small Voice before uploading it to online retailers for sale. The target launch date is Sept 24!

Want an ARC? Let me know! 

#fridayflash: Tides | for the living

Grief comes in stages, like waves lapping on the shore, the crashing of the surf. Softgentleharshpounding.

You sit, staring at nothing, as grief curls its tendrils around your heart, squeezing, bleeding. There are no tears, because tears would mean you feel. You cannot feel. Not yet. Not now. When tears come, they come in floods, fast-rising waters from which there is no escape. You do not wish to escape. You are flotsam on the tide, drifting where grief would take you, tossed between happy memories and the ache of absence, never resting, never stopping, like the child who once ran circles around you.

Grief never sits still, never recedes. If it recedes, flee; the tsunami comes next.

The world is grey, monochrome, perpetually overcast. The cold moon speaks in words you almost grasp, pulling, drawing you into its silvery shine, offering empty platitudes; you are here, but you are not. You drift, ripped from reality. The house is empty, you are empty. You have a girl-shaped hole that can never be filled. A nothingness, a vacuum, a void. Avoid. Avoid everything that once meant to escape the cascade of memories you cannot bear.

Grief sucks you into a whirlpool of losspainsorrowtearsfear and never, never once, lets you go.

---

In Memoriam

Annalise McKinney

1st Dec 2006 - 20th Feb 2018

---

I cannot grieve for my dead…

Instead I must take my grief and make it into a figure of alabaster…

“Exhibit N.58 Grief, Alabaster. Miss Henrietta Savernake.”

The Hollow | Agatha Christie

---

From our last play Stop Interrupting Me! at OBS, 10 July 2016.
L-R: me, Rebecca McKinney, Annalise McKinney
Photo by Thum CC (https://www.facebook.com/ccthum/media_set?set=a.10153919032313752.1073741996.683168751)

For the McKinneys, and Annalise who is gone too soon.

If you have cash to spare, here's a gofundme that's raising funds to cover the costs of Annalise's hospital bills in Children’s Hospital Colorado which has been rejected by their insurance:

"On June 30, 2010 the McKinneys lost their middle daughter, Anya, after a tragic accident. Now, their youngest daughter, Annalise, has lost her valiant battle against Idiopathic Pulmonary Arterial Hypertension (IPAH).

Annalise was a vibrant young lady full of life. She loved singing, dancing and playing sports. But in July 2017, her world turned upside down. She was diagnosed with IPAH, a severe and progressive disease that causes irreversible damage to the lungs....

In the midst of this, the McKinneys face an uphill battle with their insurance company, which informed them the first week of February it would not cover the hospital stay at Children's Hospital Colorado. The McKinneys have retained legal counsel in the hopes of compelling the insurance company to pay benefits, but the outcome of the legal process is uncertain.

Sadly, God's plan did not include a miracle healing and double lung transplant for Annalise. Nevertheless, the McKinneys continue to stand firm in their faith in God. Please continue to pray for His comfort and strength for the family in this unimaginably difficult time. Stand with them. Cry with them. Love on them.

The McKinneys have incurred substantial medical costs through this trial. Though God has choosen to bring Annalise home, He is still our provider on earth. Thank you again for your prayerful consideration of being a part of God's provision for the McKinneys.

In addition to helping the McKinneys, we also would ask that you consider donating to the Children's Heart Foundation or other pediatric cardiology charity focused on early detection and treatment of congenital heart defects or reducing the incidents of congenital heart defects."

#fridayflash: A Hitch in the Plans

"I would like to kiss you," she says.

"Oh." He cocks his head to one side, left eyebrow raised. "Why?"

She shrugs. "Why not?"

He stares at her for a little too long and she finds herself staring back, that space in the back of her head suddenly mute.

"Never mind," she finally says.

But as she turns, before she can flee, his hand is grasping her wrist and pulling her back, fixing her on the spot. Her cheeks burn.

"Why?" he asks again.

There is gold in her mouth, rocks on her tongue, a blissed, hateful void in her thoughts. She doesn't even know why she'd brought it up in the first place--it was too forward, too sudden. It wasn't what she'd planned--except wine, too much wine. Despite the fact she hasn't touched any of it.

"I'm drunk," she offers, wincing as his eyes narrow. Hormonally drunk, maybe, though he can't know that.

"You never drink," he says flatly.

"Oh?"

"And I would smell it on you if you had."

"The fumes..." She stops as he shakes his head. It's a flimsy lie anyway.

"What do you want?"

She straightens her back, grasping at the last straws of her dignity. "I thought I made that quite clear. Did I mumble?"

"That's not what you really want, is it?"

"It's not?"

"Is it Katherine? Is she putting you up to this?"

Her throat is too dry, too scratchy. She desperately needs a drink, alcoholic if possible--something to silence the emptiness of her mind. His grip is tight and binding and she wants to run away, but she also wants to lean in. Lean in and kiss him. Except she can't.

"Lady Katherine has nothing to do with this," she manages, dropping her eyes. "If you... do not require my services, I would like to retire for the night."

He makes an odd sound at the back of his throat and she looks up at him sheepishly. That hadn't come out quite as she intended.

"I meant..."

"I know what you meant. Go."

She curtsies and scurries away.

###

She's in the nearest nook, chest heaving as she leans against the wall, when a whisper startles her.

"Your Grace?"

She waves it, her, away, eyes still closed.

"His Highness is asking after you," the voice says again much later.

"Why? To gloat in my humiliation?" It's sharper than she intended.

"He thought you'd like something for your hand." It's him this time, his voice dry and amused.

She opens her eyes, staring at him confused before following his gaze.

"You've been bleeding on my floor for quite a while, my servant tells me."

"Oh."

"How?"

"I... I don't remember." It's probably from when she stumbled in here, flailing at the walls in a flurry of tears. Why hadn't she just gone straight to her rooms?

She watches numbly as he gently cleans and binds the gash on the back of her hand. "I should go."

"Back to your rooms?" He takes her hand to escort her.

She wonders why she doesn't pull her hand away. "Back to my home." It's obvious she's failed. She's not what he wants.

"Ah," is all he says.

At her door, she smiles and thanks him again. He bows slightly, ever the perfect gentleman. And then he is gone. She closes the door behind her, cutting off the sight of his retreating back and the receding hope of an alliance with his house.

Tomorrow, she would have to make her plans anew.

#fridayflash: Beneath the Rumbling Earth excerpt... and a Cover Reveal!

Mica had always loved the Painted Hall. In the dark, cold year he spent in the castle, when everyone assumed he was the heir, the Painted Hall had been his only solace. It was the only place in the North where he could be with the sea and the creatures he loved, even if they were not real; even if they were just two-dimensional drawings on a cold wall, he was with them. In spirit. When his grandfather's spirit had been released and the Yuki-Onna disappeared, Mica feared the enchantment would wipe away all evidence of the sea from the Castle of Winter. He was glad it hadn’t.

Now, with Hono’s strange words lingering in his thoughts, he entered the hall cautiously. It was as he left it eleven months ago. There was the Kraken in the deep, tentacles outstretched. The whale swum ponderously at eye-level, dark and heavy. The deserted ship still rocked in the storm. In his father’s time, there had been people—his mother’s unlucky suitors—but they’d disappeared from the walls when the curse broke. He hoped they’d been returned to their lives and to their families, but no one knew for sure. Far above, the dolphins leapt, half out of the water, as if aiming for the sun. Mica’s hand hovered over the mural.

“You are here.”

Mica snatched his hand away. “Who is speaking?”

“Us. The monsters on your wall.”

Mica stared at the great whale before him, for no reason other than it was the easiest to look at. “Who said you are monsters?”

“Does not this realm consider us monsters from the deep?”

“This realm, maybe, but not mine. You are my friends.” He paused. “You have not spoken to me before. Who gave you the power of speech?”

A chuckle filled the air. “Did you not know that this castle is enchanted?”

“But Grandfather—”

“Is dead. He has left, yes. And who remains to keep us at bay?”

Who? Mica gulped. “Hono, Flame of the North.”

“Hah. She is too young. She has not grown into her powers.”

“The Steward, then.”

“The former prince is old and weak. His powers wane.”

“My mother will fight you.”

“Ah, Hana, Blossom of the Snow, the Ever Young. She has no more power here. The crown has passed from her hands.”

“Father—”

“Danis of the Sun and Sea has never ruled over us. He conquered the Yuki-Onna and broke her curse, yes. But he was not our enemy.”

Mica stared the whale in the eye. “What do you want of me?”

“Nothing. Nothing but our freedom.”

“How?”

“Come to us, son of the Sun and Snow. Fall into our embrace. Dive deep. You’ve heard your father’s stories, have you not? About how the paintings in this hall came alive for him?”

“Yes,” Mica replied cautiously.

“We give you the chance now to do the same. Come and join us. Dive into the deep waters you crave...”

---

I'm figuring out a new way to publish my stories now that Pronoun is going away. While I do that, here's the cover for Beneath the Rumbling Earth!

It's the third in the North Series and will be online sometime this month! Promise!

#nanowrimo updates

I'm taking a break from #fridayflash in November (not that I was terribly consistent before) because I'll be posting writing updates from NaNoWrimo over at my Patreon page. (Or you can just see my graph on the sidebar.)

If you want sneak previews of the snazzy new novel I'm working on, head over to https://www.patreon.com/annatsp and become a patron! You'll only be charged once I publish the novel.

#fridayflash: Open skies

Clear blue skies. Not a good day for dying. Nadira focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Tiny beads of sweat collected around her neckline and she looked up at Riz. He'd stopped a few steps in front of her and was gazing out into the distance, his hands outstretched.

"What are you doing?" Nadira asked as she stopped beside him.

He dropped his arms and shrugged. "Waiting."

"For?"

"It's stupid, you know? The way we internalise things. Our perception is skewed from birth."

"What?"

"Okay, maybe not from birth. But from young, anyway."

"What do you -"

"It's nothing. Come, let's go."

"Riz..."

The air was still. Stifling. They'd hugged awkwardly when they met for lunch, rearranging limbs around each other. When had he grown so tall? He'd been an inch shorter than her the last time they met. When he'd suggested they take a ride after lunch, she'd said yes, because how could you deny a childhood friend you haven't seen in decades - at least a decade?

So here they were. Not that she knew where here was. Hot. Sunny. Dry. Sand. She could disappear into this desert and no one would find her for months.

"It's in our heads, as much as we try to deny it. As much as we say we're good enough, we're capable enough, we look at our work, our careers with hypercritical eyes and pick out all the problems, all the hiccups. And then we look at the Other and say it's good. Even when they're doing just about the same as us. Or worse. But they're failing with confidence and we're... we're performing with self-rejection."

"Riz?" Maybe she should have declined. After all, she hadn't met him for so long, she didn't know if he was safe, if he was sane. "Is something the matter? Why are we here?"

"Open skies. The heavens are open, but we install our own glass ceilings."

"I'm getting worried here."

His lips quirked upwards. "I'm not going to kill you. Or do anything to you. I'm just..." He slumped on the ground against his car. "I'm just so tired."

Nadira sat down beside him. After a while, she put her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close to her chest. "Rest. Tomorrow will be better."

Dust and sweat. Cigarettes and spice. Clear, blue, open skies. A day for living.

---

Prompts:

Nutso boy

— GinaYapLaiYoong (@GinaYapLaiYoong) October 26, 2017

here's one I had my writers' group do this week. What happened to this couple? https://t.co/aZbFJLXQFO

— Barbara Lovric (@BALovric) October 26, 2017

What I used: a boy has a crazy idea, ending up with him and friend in the desert.

#fridayflash: Snapshots

It's his favourite photograph: Daniella laughing in the rain and him splashing towards her with a yellow slicker. His sister Livvy had caught it from the front porch, whilst yelling that he'd catch his death of cold and shouldn't he have another so they'd be a matching pair? He'd snorted and told her to shut up as he approached the love of his life cautiously, as if she were a wild horse ready to shy away at any moment. Daniella hadn't shied. She'd dropped her button nose from its skyward direction to point directly at his chest. Her mouth had widened even further and his heart—oh his heart tumbled and was trampled beneath wild hooves—stopped for a beat, two, three. And then it raced as she grabbed his arm and they danced in the rain until she was shivering.

She's sitting by him now, face buried in her hands—all tense lines and taut muscles—and if Livvy were here, she’d have taken that shot.

"I'll be fine," he says. It's a grunt, a groan, and Daniella's head shoots up.

"Sunny…"

"I'll be fine."

"You've broken—"

"Nothing I haven't broken before."

"Not all at the same time!"

Sunny closes his eyes. She's right.

Back then, he'd held the slicker over their heads as they dashed back to the house—what for? They were both already soaking wet, but it was The Thing To Do—and Livvy had caught that too, Daniella's boisterous grin and his shyly smitten smile a study in contrasts. It's like something for an advert, except neither of their clothes are Insta-worthy. He's still astounded at how good they looked together, and if it weren't for his tattered shirt and ragged jeans, maybe it would be perfect.

Daniella shifts. "Livvy's on her way."

"No. She's not to come."

"She insists."

"She can't just give up that photography project—"

"You're her only brother! You can't expect—"

"—do you know how hard it is to get an—"

"—her to stay away when you might—"

"Art grant?"

"Die?"

The silence is too awful, too empty, between them.

#

The light is streaming in, golden and warm. Inviting. Like love, enveloping her frigid spaces, telling her to come. Come in. Come sit with me awhile. We'll curl up in the sun like cats; languidly. Daniella takes a step forward. The light strikes her face and she looks up. Out.

It isn't supposed to be warm today. It's supposed to be cold, dreary. There are rain clouds in the sky. They've been there all morning, but now it's noon and the sun has broken through. It strikes his face and she looks down.

How can the sun shine when it's dead?

#

Livvy's hands clench around her camera. Daniella's head is bowed over the coffin, her fingers splayed on the space over his chest. She's spent years documenting her brother's life in snapshots and this—an utter invasion of privacy, of grief, of pain—would be the crowning glory of her collection. But she can't. She drops her hands and steps into the room. Daniella turns and the look on her face makes Livvy's fingers itch. She won't.

Daniella flings her arms around her, the awkward bulk of the camera pressing between their ribs like the invasion it has always been. Neither had complained, yet Livvy carries her own guilt.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

Daniella stares at her.

"What can I do to help?"

"You're his sister—"

"You're his widow." She can't stand around and accept condolences. She'd go crazy.

Her sister-in-law hesitates, her eyes flicking to the camera. "I don't want to—"

"I don't mind taking photos," Livvy interrupts, "if you don't mind the intrusion."

"I don't."

Daniella is standing again by his coffin and Livvy is backing away, fingers tense. There is light and symmetry and grief and beauty, so much beauty—a life made up of snapshots; moments in time preserved. Daniella's tears are the pain Livvy cannot express, so she takes another photograph in her endless quest to document what it means to live, love, and now, grieve.

---

Something from the recent-rejection pile.

Oh well.

Enjoy!