other bits of blog

Sunday, November 22, 2009


I just started typing this morning. It just came out. Dragons!—Well, sort of, on the cover. Magic!—For a little while. Friendship comes out, and love. But not yet. Here goes.
Dancing With Thieves
Singed Candle Flames
Rap, rap, rap!! The rain pounds on the door and the knocks are heard throughout the house. The girl gets up. She walks to the door and opens it. She screams. There is silence.

I wake up, stunned. The room smells as if all the sewer water of Great Britain was dumped inside. My nose wrinkles automatically. What is the daughter of a wealthy family doing in such conditions?
I think to try and answer my own question. I remember rain against the door and someone knocking. Did Mother get the door? Was it only the rain knocking? Did it flood the house? All these answers seem unreasonable. I am still wondering when I notice that I am not home at all.
So I look at my surroundings. Wooden walls are covered with cobwebs and stained with something sour. A door blends into the wall but I can still make out the nails and bolts and sheets of metal that make up the red and rusty knob. The floor is a dull concrete and as I wipe my hand over it and inch of dust is revealed. I wipe my hand off. Then, as I see what is there in my palm, I let out a small squeak. Dried, caked, blood covers my hand from the tip of each finger running down to my ripped sleeve. I pull the sleeve up and I quiver at what I see, trying not to cry out. A gash almost as big as my arm itself, runs from my wrist to my shoulder.
Luckily, as I remember now, it will all be fine, it will all be fine. The fingers of my left hand automatically smooth over my wound. I feel my fingers tingling in the presence of my strange and unknown gift of magic. My fingers fly and dance, and then as I take them away, the wound is gone. I smile, knowing that I am probably the only person in the world who knows these tricks.
The second my hand flies back to my side, I hear a creak. I hear more. Seven tall men covered in large, black suits surround me. But I am not afraid. My left hand again flies up, and I sing one swift, high note. Wind, in strong gusts and blows surrounds me, so I know I am protected. But a large man barrels through the winds and pulls down my hand. The wind stops. The men stare stupidly at me, as if I were some circus lion with a hunched back and a fierce spirit. I just smile. I know that I can take them down in one blow easily, but I have to make the large man holding my good hand to let go. I have to wait.
And as I wait, they stop. They stare. How could such a tiny girl overtake them? I am invincible. They know that. They are afraid. My strange, purple eyes bore into the man holding me. They flash; they gleam with power, as my own magic pulses into every vein in my body. He falls back, stunned, and lets go. The men crowd around me, but do not dare to touch me. Smirking, I raise my left hand, my good hand, my strong hand, and I sing.
The first note is soft and gentle, crooning as a mother would to her child. It seeps into the men’s brains and encircles them with empty memories of love and hope, of cradles and their mothers’ hands. They drift and float and dance, as if in a stupor. I gently guide them; guide them with my song of sweet, listless joy, out of my prison.
Once we leave the room, I stop singing. I know this is a mistake as soon as the last notes leave my lips. The men lurch, as if they are cats, waking up from a dream, and finding a mouse sleeping by their side. The men attack.
My arms are pulled down to my sides and wet, sweaty fingers cover my mouth. I try to fight back but I fail. If only my left hand was free! Then I could fight. I suddenly think of my teacher’s words. A spy will always fairly fight another one. This is not fair. I keep struggling but I am still no match for those sweaty, greasy hands. Another creak sounds then. My opponents stop fighting, but their grips are still as strong as ever. As I am held down, I cannot see who has entered. All I see are large feet clad in black boots. The leader of this mob who has captured me, as I guess.
“I know who you are, Diana.”
I am startled. How does he know my name? Who is this man? Then it all comes back to me. My training, I am a trained spy, you know. This was my father’s classmate in training, Edmond Duvall. But when he learned that my father was more powerful than him, they became enemies. Long story short, it’s kind of like the classical enemy-to-good-guy thing. But this is more than that. Edmond is on the hunt for my father. He knows a couple tricks himself.
He proves this to me as he lifts his right hand and he sings one note, as always. The note is gruff and low. If only I could fight back! I know this very song. It is the song of earth, the song to make any object rise and fall at the will of its commander. It is the song of flight, and I know who it is directed at.
The sleeve of my nightgown cuts into my arm and the dress shapes out my body as I rise into the air. My long red hair streams around my face, blinding me as the men let go of me, shocked. I wonder if they know that their king has this power. I smile to myself then. My left hand is free. I try to raise it, but the song holds me down with its magic. Slowly but surely, I reach into myself to find that small flame of magic, and I sing one note without my hand raised. I am inexperienced with this type of power; I have only tried it once because it is dangerous. My raised hand gives me control, but while I sing like this, even if I sing as high as a note of water or as low as one of fire, anything could happen.
But I sing. I sing of the winds and the rain, the thunder and the lightning. I sing a thunder clap to shake his ears like the cry of an eagle. Instead, water flows up five and a half feet high. The large men gurgle and sputter, they very obviously cannot swim. But Edmond holds his ground. He is taller than the water, but I know that it chills him to the bone. His magical grip on me loosens, but it is still there. I try with all my might to raise my left hand but he is too strong for me.
CLAP! For a moment I cannot tell what this sound is but then my shock fades away. I am free. I am floating on the surface of the water but I am free. My left hand flies up and, treading water, I sing out my thunder clap. Feeling my anger surge through me. He has no right to do this. No right! But he doesn’t care. He and his other spies are a mob of bloodthirsty brutes. I hate them. And him.
“Edmond Duvall, I remember you! I will!” I scream, then with my magic, I vanish into the morning.
I don’t know where I am, though. I am in water still. I have gone nowhere. Anger doesn’t help magic, it only hinders, I remember my teacher saying. I calm down. I calm down. I am calm.
I sing the note again. I still go nowhere. He is stronger than me. I am not strong enough, I think. But how can I not disappear?
Soon I hear another note. Edmond’s song hangs in the air, and then dies. The water vanishes. I see his face then. It is bony and old and ugly. I see his blue eyes, gleaming with power. Then I see nothing.

My eyes open and I know. I know it is gone. The shock is still there, so it doesn’t hurt, but I know. There is an absence somewhere in my soul. The little flame inside my chest has burned out. Someone singed the candle flame. I reach inside to find it, to make sure it hasn’t hidden somewhere, but it has gone out. It is over. It is gone. I am only half of me, some strange soul cramped in another’s body. Without my magic, I am no longer whole. I pull my knees up to my chest and lay my head on them. I don’t even look at the dank room that I’m kept captive in. I let out all my feelings of dark and cold and captivity. The tears steam out of my empty, purple eyes. I can’t even taste the salt. I just cry.


Purple Eyes
“Move her!” The noise comes suddenly, slashing my memories of practicing, watching. “I said, move her! She is useless.”
Two men in black suits lift me up. I flop like a rag doll. I am empty. I don’t care. Don’t care about Edmond, about the men, about anything. I fall into my dreams as they carry me to the outside.
I fall. They have dropped me. I don’t like to be dropped. I raise my left hand. My clear, sweet voice pours from my lips. Nothing happens. Why does nothing happen? Why is there no breeze to make the men trip and fall themselves? Why?
Then I remember. It is gone. The power has left me. I fall again, the men smirk, and leave me there. I sit in shock, as if I have found it out all over again.
“Hey, ya’ lost?” A boy squats down beside me. He is no more than fifteen, my age.“You lost?” he asks again. I try to answer, but I start to cry. I really am empty, but I must be myself. I must cope.
“Yes,” I manage to mumble.
“Hey, stop crying. What’s wrong?” He rests his hand under my chin. As he sees my eyes, his own green ones widen, but he doesn’t say anything. “Come here, come on.”
“Alright.” I smile as he keeps staring into my deep purple eyes.
He can’t resist. “You have purple eyes,” he blurts out, stating the obvious.
“Yes, I do.”
“They’re pretty,” he whispers.
Pretty? No one ever says that.
The boy blushes. “Come on, I’ll take you where you can lay that sad head of yours.” He hesitates. “I’m Mica.”

Ahh, young love.


  1. thank you, mrs. wetherbee.
    p.s. out your name next time.