Short Story…


Dear readers…

…I’m sorry for the lack of blog – feel like a terrible blogger – but I have reasons. Work, writer’s block, and guilt for said writer’s block. Yep, oh, and housework. My house is in shambles because I have been trying to cure my WB (writer’s block, teehee…). Houston, I think we’ve found the problem. Do any other writers find that some of their greatest inspiration comes from cleaning their houses? And even if they don’t, I do, so…why am I ignoring this wisdome @_@? Hmmm…neway!

Quick update on life: Summer is here and that is exciting. I’m planning my vacation, and school, and working a lot. Hopefully I’ll have more inspiration to write, and then I’ll find the time.

Till then…lemme go clean my house (yuck, I hate dust, but dusting is worse!), and during that time I invite you guys to read this short piece written a month or so back. Constructive crit is welcome, maybe I’ll find some fresh breath from your thoughts! Much love and the best wishes. Till a much sooner post than this…

Scatterbrained :P


Gold my beloved

~Gold, My Beloved~

There are no words to describe him. Only thoughts, thoughts spun so closely and intricately together that she cannot unwind them, not even for herself. She stands within a hall, a hall of color, swirling with clouds of sheer gold, and she spins, dancing, beating the walls, freeing the clouds, and loosing herself in her thoughts.

Moments of gold. Her memories of him are the strands of gold in the carpet she weaves. Shimmering and rare. They are flowers, hard lines, and raindrops. Flowers were in her hair, the buildings lining the streets she was walking were hard, straight lines, and raindrops were falling on her face. There she saw him the first time, one thread of gold in her life of blue. His eyes the color of honey, his hair the color of ink, his smile the color of starlight, his voice the color of water as he spoke to her “Namaste…” A golden thread.

“How fast she weaves. How fast she leaves. How fast she walks wherever she is going these days.”

Mother can talk. Sisters can talk. Grandmother and all the neighbors; they can whisper and speculate, they can ask and demand, but the threads are woven furtively. Secret looks, accidental meetings brung about by so much planning that none could comprehend. Why? Why do anything but for gold. The gold of his smile, the gold of his touch. When he touched her hand, returning her anklet, her fingers were made gold. Now, she who never cared for money, all she wants is gold. Gold to adorn her fingers, her wrists, her cheeks, her hair…and her lips.

She dreams of kisses. Of holding hands and lingering words. While she weaves a thread of gold she dreams of walking by the shop, of pausing to look in the window, of catching his eye; catching his heart. She weaves a thread – an excuse, to go out and walk along his street, to stop in the square, taking a long drink. She weaves a thread and smiles at him, when he looks her way and waves.

While she sleeps under stars of silver, she dreams of her moon of gold. The sun is bright when he asks after her mother, her smile is warm as fever when she speaks. Her tongue falls over itself, tripping over threads of an anxious heart. He laughs in amusement, his honey eyes dancing. She blushes scarlet. He is of gold.

She weaves a spiral in gold. Her heart is falling. There are others just as handsome, others just as sweet, but only he brings a glimmer to her eyes. She weaves a single thread of gold.

The night is a royal blue, with tiny flowers of silver sewn in place, an orb sparkling, round, its threads reflecting golden rays down. Down onto the water, above she waits on the bridge. Shadows are deepening, one is moving, surely coming to her and she smiles. Honey in his smile, cinnamon in his eyes, golden features. Spiced sweetness perfectly blended. They stand apart, so unsure. But of course.

“How bright she smiles. Look her cheeks. She blushes as she weaves.”

He comes and he goes. Her heart flutters and then flies. Gold – all her world is gold. She weaves a thread and smiles, glittering threads are everywhere. Even the rain is gold, the dark starless night. All her world is gold – all her world is him.


4 responses »

    • Thank you so much! I went to your blog and I very much enjoyed your post “Politicians”. It was very interesting, and sadly true. Since you mentioned the parliament elections I suppose you live in the UK? Thank you again for reading and commenting.

  1. OMG I didn’t even know you updated this blog! I get inspired while washing the dishes, haha. aw…..I’m so sad…..when are you going to update the Regency piece on FP? Or is it abandonned?

    • I don’t know, it’s hard for me to write for that story – but it’s not abandoned. I have too many expectations for it I guess, I’m working on it though, thanks for asking. How’s Runaway Courtesan?

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