It had to work, it had to… but it didn’t.
Oh, how my niece sickened me! I was in the depths of the sickly poor, and she had a huge fortune. I suffered horribly; a single piece of bread for supper, and she had a wonderful feast all her own. If only I could get my hands, dirty and weathered as they were, on the huge supply of money locked up in her guardian’s attic!
REDSHAFT
CHAPTER I
I wasn't sure how long I was in the prison cell, but one thing was certain:
I was going to free myself this time.
Standing up, I walked in circles in the cell, the smell of dungeon weed growing on the castle stones around me clogging my thoughts.
Perhaps that's why they let this weed grow; to stop one from thinking straight.
The circles in which I walked to free up my mind weren't too large, for my leg was chained to a large three hundred pound ball of iron.
You are a dear friend, close to my heart.
I grieve deeply at leaving your side.
But even though my love is strong, yours is fickle.
You move to and fro, you come and go.
You seem so peaceful, but underneath is a danger always lurking.
Violent, raging storms come upon a whim.
Oh Ocean, so wild, so alien, you draw me to you.
In my dreams, you are there, haunting, calling, singing your siren song,
Luring me back, into your waiting depths.
“Stop!”
Anne ran down the hospital hallway to the bed that was being wheeled out of a small corridor room towards the Surgery Room.
A nurse looked to the other doctors around the bed. She paused, holding the syringe which would anesthetise the patient. Anne's pace screeched to a stop as she reached them, knowing she looked quite distressed and out of breath.
“Please stop,” Anne’s dark eyes were flashing as they turned to her. She looked down at the still body beneath the sheets and her eyes moved to the blindfold on his eyes.
**A poem of two perspectives. It was written while I thought about the two main characters of my (other) novel. Aida's people are a race descended from Dryads, and... well, I hate to give the plot away, so glean what you will from the poem.**
"Be still, be still,” He said to me.
"But Father, do you not see?
I must pray, as I do, at the end of the day,
'Pray constantly,' did You not say?
"Father, I'm weary,
My days feel quite dreary,
As I struggle to follow your will,
'Tis quite hard to simply 'be still.'
"I try and I sigh,
But quite often I cry,
Out to You with distress,
Tortei walked quietly up to Elinor and touched her arm.
“Elinor?” he said gruffly. Elinor said nothing, only stared with glassy eyes. Her breathing was heavy and her face pale. Tortei watched her for a moment and tried to talk to her; but she showed no sign of recognition. At last Tortei signaled his companions to come closer.