Whisper in the Silence

I plan to do a writing prompt every day for the next thirty days...here is number one.

Day 1--January 10, 2017:  "The Sound of Silence: Write about staying quiet when you feel like shouting."

Whisper in the Silence

I want to shout.  But what’s the sense in shouting when no one can hear me?  I’m in a crowded room, yet I’m alone.  Invisible.  It’s as if I’m a ghost.  Perhaps I am a ghost.  I live through books and movies, but seem to have no life of my own.

            I go to school five days out of the week, but it seems the people look through me, and walk through me.  They talk over me, and all I want to do is shout until they can hear me.  But I am silent.

            I seem to see through people as well…but I see things about them.  I see their hurt, their pain, their confidence, their cruelty.  But I don’t know why I see these things, or even what to do about them.  I treat these people with the indifference they treat me with.

            I feel I have no purpose.  Yet every being must have a purpose…correct?  I will find my purpose…and I will find it without shattering the silence with my shout, without bothering another person.

            Finally, in the middle of class, I run.  I run the way I’ve wanted to run since I was a child, sitting on my porch, telling my little brother that this wasn’t my home.  I wasn’t made to be a human.

            No one notices that I’ve left, but that’s okay.  I run to the forest, and scale a tree with ease.  I gaze out beyond its branches, and scan the ground.  Just grass, twigs and dirt.  I lean my back against the trunk of the tree, and close my eyes, feeling the breeze flow across my face.  Cold doubt begins to creep into my soul.  I don’t know what I really thought I would accomplish by leaving.  Maybe I should go back.

            “Welcome, child,” I hear a soft, melodic voice and open my eyes.

            Before me is a small winged creature…if this were a fantasy book, I would call it a fairy.  She is small and dainty.  Soft brown hair flowed to her waist, and iridescent wings fluttered delicately.  Her dress is white, and flows to her ankles.  She is the very image of beauty.

            “Why do you call me child?  I’m eighteen, doesn’t that make me an adult?”  I ask in confusion.

            She giggled, and it was like a tinkling of bells, “Well, when you’re over one-thousand years, eighteen is merely an infant,”

            “Oh,” was all I was able to say as I gaped at her.

            “Are you ready to join your people?”  She asked me softly.

            Wordlessly, I nodded.  I didn’t know if I was truly ready, but it had to be better than sitting through a lesson, wanting to scream, yet staying silent.

            She took my hand in hers, and I saw how big, and clumsy my hand was, when held in her dainty, delicate one.  But she didn’t seem to notice.  Only smiled, as she lifted me from the branch I perched on.

            I flew.  For the first time in my life, I flew.  The wings burst from my back, in a sharp burst of pain, then the pain went away, and I flew.  The breeze was cool against my skin, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly free.

            I felt a fire coursing through my veins that had waited a lifetime to burst through the coolness of humanity.  I knew things I had never known were possible to know, and saw colors that not even an artist could imagine.

            “I’m a fairy?”  I turned and asked the little woman.

            She shrugged and smiled, “Is that what you want to be?”

            “I want to be free,” I told her sheepishly, noting that she hadn’t answered my question.

            “Free from what?”

            “Free from…conformity,” I told her after a pause, “I want to be free to express myself in my art, and music without judgment.  I want to be free to believe what I want without feeling foolish.  I just want freedom.”

            She laughed, “You want the impossible, child.  Even in the fairy realm, there isn’t that kind of freedom.”

            “There isn’t?”

            She shook her head, but offered no other explanation.  In my country, there were many freedoms, yet it seemed like so few.  Perhaps…the answer is that there is no love. Instead of accepting differences, the are mocked.  And at other times, true love is replaced with the warm blanket of tolerance.  Instead of being loved, people are mocked and tolerated.  Then, as I think more, I realize that above mockery and tolerance, indifference is much worse; the silence when others shout their tolerance and mockery.

            “What are you thinking of, child?”  She asks softly.

            With the wind whistling around me, wrapping me in its gentle embrace, I answered so quietly I wasn’t sure she heard.  She said nothing in return, so I was sure she hadn’t.

            We continued to fly in silence.  After awhile, we came across a meadow in the center of the trees, and the fairy beckoned that we would land.  I was not good at the landing, and rolled in the soft grass until I gently hit a rock.

            “There is no love without some pain,” The fairy told me landing quietly on the rock.  “No matter what you enjoy or believe, there will be someone who disagrees…even someone who will mock you for it.  Sometimes what you enjoy or believe is wrong…it’s a rare person who can tell you that lovingly.  It’s easier to keep silent or shout it openly, than to gently, quietly, and lovingly tell someone they’re in the wrong.  But don’t be indifferent; love anyway.”

            I am silent, contemplating her words.  She has turned a wipe-out into a lesson.  And she had listened.

            She takes my hand, and lifts me up again.  I spend the rest of the evening with my people, the fairies.

            We eat together, drink together, talk and laugh.  I am nearly thirty times bigger than them, yet I feel like one of them.  They understand me and I understand them, and by the time the sun sets, I feel…better.

            I think about what the first fairy who found me said…about love.  And I know I have to go back to the human realm.  It’s not my home.  It will never be my home.  But it needs love.  And I can bring love to it.  Before I take my last bite of fairy food, I’ve decided that I will love, no matter the pain.  And I will love what I want to love, no matter the mocking.  If I’m wrong, I’ll accept it…no matter how hard.  If one that I love is wrong…I will do my best to tell them in a gentle loving way.

            The feast we’ve had is over, so I tell the fairies I have to leave.  Strangely enough, they understand.  I fly back home, and my wings shrink and drop off.  I pick them up, and hold them in the palm of my hand.  They’re shining and bright, and quiver in the wind.  I close my fingers around them as if they were a firefly, and go inside.

            I will not shout in the silence…but I won’t remain silent any more.  I will be a loving whisper.

© Katie Holm 2017

Writing prompt taken from: http://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

The Literature

You sit in the library, fearing the worst, but hoping for the best.  Even though just started this job, your boss has decided that you must work nights.  The only thing she said before she smiled and left?  "Beware the literature...it has claimed many young lives."
You merely laughed as she laughed, agreeing to "beware," whatever that means.  Beware the literature.  They're just books.  Dusty old books...and shiny new books.
You walk between rows of bookshelves, running your fingertips along the spines.  Ahh, yes, this is indeed the job for you.  Old book smell mingles with new book smell, creating...heaven.  You can't help but hope that God has an entire section of heaven dedicated completely to books.
One book doesn't have writing on the spine, so you pull it partially out.  Yuck, Shakespeare.  Sure, he was famous, but he could also be quite the perv.  Of course, the Twilight series is definitely worse.  You can't find a single book you'd like to read that you haven't already devoured like the bookworm you are, so you sigh, give up, and make yourself a cup of coffee.  Ahh, the lovely aroma.  And the bite to your coffee--hot and black...just the way you like it.
After downing your coffee, your eyes are awakened.  You must find a book.  It's no longer a matter of wanting...you need to.  So, it's back to the shelves with you!
Book after book calls you, then as you read their backs, you ignore their calls...until....  There's one book, sitting alone on a table.  Usually only dictionaries are kept on their lone tables, but this book...it's not a dictionary.  It's far too small.  It's about the size of a Boxcar Children book, though maybe a bit thicker.  Of course, upon further examination, the thickness could be exaggerated by the fact that it's a hardback.
You catch a glimpse of the title.  Literature by Unknown.  The Unknown part is what really gets your attention.  What could be more intriguing than a book written by a mystery author?  You know nothing about him...or her.  You know nothing about their mind, their world...only that they wrote this book.
A voice echoes in the back of your mind.  Your boss telling you to "beware the literature."  You laugh and shrug it off.  What does she know about a little dusty book anyway?  Nothing of course.  Besides, it seems like it wants you to read it.
So...you lift it from the varnished table and hold it in your hands for a moment.  It's surprisingly heavy for such a small book.  You blow off the dust and it goes flying.  You hear faint coughing, but think that you've only imagined it.
You hesitate for a moment...but open the book.  The pages are yellowed and some are even torn; several have been taped back together.  You read page after page...you're reading faster than you've ever been able to read before.  It's such a good book.  It's of a brave hero, and a quiet prince.  It spins the tale of a spunky princess and a frightened dragon.  It weaves the magic story of a sorceress who despises plums.  Everything in the book seems to be one giant story made up of little stories.
When at last you come to the end, you sigh happily, because...well...that was such a good book.  You know you could never find a book like it again.  Then you realize...there's one more page left.  You turn it, and--

©2016 Katie Holm

The Kitten and the Bear

            In, out, under, over.  The rhythm of the needle as it stitched patterns under the careful eye of a six year old and her gray haired grandmother.  The colors intermingled, making beautiful shades and pictures.

            A calico kitten appeared from the needle, gazing up at a blank space and as the child watched, browns and blacks began to form the figure of a bear, standing on its hind legs, looking down at the innocent looking kitten.  With a single stitch more, the grandmother stitched a pink scar across the kitten’s back.

            The child gasped.

            “What is it?”  Asked the grandmother in concern, “Did I poke you by accident?”

            The child shook her head, then lightly touched the kitten.  “Did…did the bear hurt it?”

            “The bear?  Hurt this kitten?  Never.  He wouldn’t have dreamed of it.”

            “But it has a scar!  And the bear is right there.”

            “Ahh, yes, but this bear would never hurt this kitten.”

            “How do you know?”

            “Because, child, I know the story that I am stitching.”

            “Is this the beginning of the story?”  The girl jabbed the cloth with her index finger.

            “Ah, no, this is near the end, when the bear has earned the trust of the kitten.”

            “Why does he need to earn her trust?”

            “Do you suppose a kitten would naturally trust a bear?”

            Gnawing on her lower lip, the child pondered the question, then slowly shook her head.  “What happened before this picture?”

            “Oh, you’re asking me to dig up old pictures that I have already completed?”

            “Is that where the beginning is?”

            The old grandmother nodded.

            “Please!”  The child begged.

            “Oh, very well.  Pull that chest over here for your old grandmother, I tire of walking.”

            The girl did as asked and pulled an old cedar chest from the corner of the room to beside her grandmother’s rocking chair.  The grandmother opened it and pulled out a stack of white squares, each with beautiful embroidered pictures covering them.

            “Ahh, the beginning.”  The grandmother held up the top square.  It was a newborn kitten curled into its mother’s side, nursing.  “The kitten was the only one from her litter, so had her mother all to herself.  She was, of course, a cat, and the fathers of cats rarely stay around, although the tiny calico wished with all her might that her father was there.”

            “Human fathers always stay around, don’t they, Grandma?”

            The grandmother reached out and gently touched her granddaughter’s cheek, “Not always.  But they stay around more than cats.”

            The girl giggled a little bit.  “Is there more about the kitten?”

            “Not on this square.”

            “What’s the next square?”

            The grandmother lifted the next one.  Though the embroidery was beautiful, the picture was gruesome.  A cat.  Dead.  Alone in the alley, save a small calico kitten curling close in an attempt to stay warm.  As the child looked, she realized that the dead cat was the kitten’s mother.

            “The kitten wasn’t old enough to be alone, without her mother.  But the fates didn’t care—”

            “The fates?”

            “It’s just a fancy way of saying it happened anyway.”

            “Oh.  Why not just say ‘it happened anyway’?  It would make more sense.”

            “We say it like that to make little girls, like you, ask questions.”

            “Oh.”

            “Shall I continue?”

            The child nodded.

            “The fates didn’t care.”  She pulled out the next square.  The kitten was alone, walking down an alley of her own.  “The kitten left, knowing there was nothing left for her.”

            “Was she really young?”

            Her grandmother nodded.

            “Then what happened, Grandma?  Then what happened?!”

            Her grandmother sighed, “She looked for warmth, love, and contentment, in all the places she shouldn’t have.”  The next square was not just one picture, but eight.  Four of the eight pictures showed the kitten curled next to another creature.  One was a dog, another a fox, then a mocking bird, and lastly, a rooster.  To the right of each of these pictures, she was shown being chased away and wounded.  Some of the animals looked apologetic for hurting her, because they hadn’t wanted that for her…others looked pleased with themselves.  The next square was the kitten; alone, bleeding, crying tears onto the dirt.  “She was only given hurt and pain as reward.”

            The little girl reached out to touch the broken, bleeding kitten.  “Oh.”  She breathed softly.  “Will she be okay?  Grandma, will she?”

            “Hush child, let me continue.”

            “But, Grandma, what happens next?”

            The grandmother only pulled another square out and laid it down, smoothing it gently.  It was a bear, sniffing at the wounded kitten, as she shivered in terror.  “A bear found the kitten and she was sure she was dead.  He was bigger than she was.  Stronger than she was.  He had the power in his jaws to crush her without even trying.  After going through so much pain, she was afraid to trust again.  Especially afraid to trust a creature that had so much power to hurt her.”

            The next square.  The kitten was in the mouth of the bear.  The child gasped.  “He’s eating her!”

            “No, no, of course he’s not.  Look at the one I’m working on.”

            The child looked back at the one her grandmother had originally been working on.  The bear was standing on his hind legs, looking at the kitten, while she looked up at him.

            “The bear took the kitty somewhere safe, and took care of her, and won her trust.”

            “How did he do that?”

            “He didn’t chase her away or hurt her.  He loved her.  He curled close to her when she was scared and let her burrow into his fur where she felt safe.  He was gentle with her.  And he was patient when it came to earning her trust.”

            “Well, that was nice.”

            “Yes it was.”

            It was silent for a moment as the grandmother added a few extra stitches to the one she’d been working on.

            “Grandma….”

            “Hmm?”

            “The story?”

            “Oh, yes, the story.  The kitten and the bear became close friends…nearly inseparable.”  She gentle stroked the embroidered bear.  “Their love for one another grew so strong, that the bear asked the kitten what she thought about becoming a human.”

            “A human?”

            The grandmother nodded, with a faraway look on her face, “The bear longed for a deeper relationship with his kitten…one they couldn’t share as the animals they were…and later, he told her that the reason he wanted to become human was simply because he couldn’t handle the thought of a tom cat coming in and sweeping her away.  Not that that would have happened….”

            “Did they become humans?  Wait, what’s that square for?  The one you’re working on?”

            “This is where we are now.  I haven’t been able to put the feeling in their eyes yet, but when I do, it will be a feeling of love and adoration.  The kitten isn’t scared, she’s watching who she loves.  And he’s not trying to eat her, he’s doing the same thing she is.”

            “Oh.  What happens next?”

            “Oh, perhaps I’ll make you wait until the next square is completed to tell you.”  The grandmother teased, with a twinkle in her eye.

            “Nooo!  Grandma!  I can’t wait until you’ve finished it!  Tell me now!”

            “My my, such rudeness.”

            The girl lowered her head bashfully, then peered up through dark eyelashes, “Please?”

            Though secretly pleased at continuing her story, the grandmother sighed, “Very well.  The bear went to a witch, one who spoke both the language of the humans and the language of the animals.  He explained the situation, and told her that the kitten was in agreement.  Reluctantly, she gave him the potion he asked for.”

            “Then what happened?”

            “He and the kitten both drank some, and became humans.”

            “Did they live happily ever after?”

            “Oh, they had a kerfuffle or two.”

            “Kerfuffle?”

            “Yes, that’s a word he taught her.”

            “What’s it mean?”

            “It’s like a little disagreement or unimportant fight.”

            “Oh.  Are you sure that’s a word, Grandma?  Are you sure you’re not just making things up?”

            “Positive.”

            The little girl settled back down, content with the story.  “That was a good fairy tale.”

            The grandmother sighed, “Ahh, it was wasn’t it?”

            As the night drew on, the little girl moved to the couch, where she curled up in a ball and slept.  She wasn’t even awake when her grandfather finally returned home to kiss his wife and say, “I missed you, Kitten.”  Nor to hear her reply, “I missed you too, Bear.”

©2016 Katie Holm

Little Siren Girl

Here's my newest short story!  I did a dramatic reading of it on YouTube, with the music of Derek Fiechter (He has fantastic music!), and I got permission by messaging him on YouTube...then Facebook, because I'm obsessive and also have a distrust for YouTube messaging, as I don't really understand it...wow, way to sound old.  ANYWAY...here's the dramatic reading, as well as the written short story if you don't have time to listen to the dramatic reading, even though it's not even four minutes.
Derek Fiechter's Music
Dramatic Reading of "Little Siren Girl"

            No creature, human or otherwise chooses to be born, or chooses to be born what it has been born.  Cats don’t ask to be cats, dogs don’t ask to be dogs, and sirens don’t ask to be sirens!

            I can’t help what I was born, or my abilities.  I look at my hands, slightly webbed, and know that they have the ability to pull a man into the water…to…to drown him.  Any time I open my mouth, I am very cautious, because I know that to hear a word from my lips or a song from my mouth could easily drag an innocent man into the water…to never again breathe.

            My mother says that humans are terrible creatures…perhaps it’s true.  But…are we any better?  They plunder and kill…we lure and kill.  Are we any different?  I have a tail, they have legs.  They admire our cousins, the mermaids…but warn against us when at sea.

            I am dark….  My scales will never shine iridescently like a mermaid’s…instead they gleam a beautiful grey.  I dress in dark jewels.   I wear a necklace of human fingerbones that my mother gave me for my sixteenth birthday…and I shudder each time I touch it.  But I can’t remove it…because it was a gift.

            My eyes are silvery gray, and my lips are always stained black.  My hair is the most colorful part of me…it’s red…red like blood.  I must be beautiful…sirens always are, so I hear.

            I sit on a rock and watch ships of humans.  I long to sing for them…because my song must be beautiful…sirens are always beautiful singers.  But I dare not open my mouth…because one note of my song will bring them to their deaths…and I don’t want that!

            Or do I?  Sometimes…I think about the dark side of me…and I feel it pulling at my soul.  I want to sing.  Maybe I want to sing for them, maybe for me.  But I want to sing. 

Sometimes I want to lure them to me, hold them in my embrace…then plunge with them to the bottom of the sea, holding them tightly…and when my songspell has worn off, I see their eyes widen…as they realize it’s too late.  Then I rise to the surface, laughing, smiling…and do it again…and again

            How can there be two sides of me so different?  Has every siren felt this way?  This battle inside?  The desire both to love…and to drown?  I often wish I was born a human.  Humans aren’t much different…but don’t they still have more choice?  Surely humans don’t scream within themselves.

            I sit alone, shivering.  I long to sing.  I have never sung…I barely speak.  Surely no one knows of my struggle…and how could I share it?  Sirens feel no remorse.  Sirens kill.  It is a way of life.  And…and I was born into it….

©2016 Katie Holm