RACHEL'S BEEN SITED

Archive for the tag “short story”

A Meditation on God – Prose

            I sometimes wonder if there was a time before.  Before that great, damning pen swept over us, dictating our shape, our words, our lives.  Our world.

            Did we exist before?  Was there a childhood, an ancestry?  Did I have a grandmother, that kind eyed, flutter-winged woman whose dying words left me, and not my cruel stepfather, in control of this struggling country?  Or is that all she ever was, a memory?  Does it even matter, now that she’s gone?

            All we have, all we know, all that is… is what is.  To think too hard otherwise would only lead us into madness.  Especially in this world we must adapt to living in.

            Imagine for a moment what it must be like to be us.  You went and created us — or, perhaps, took control.  You play with our lives, pull heartstrings, on a whim.  Maybe that’s life.  But most lives, I hope, are better formed.

            My name is Aria.  Sometimes Aerya.  I think, once, I was Song.  I change with your mood, but don’t think I don’t remember.  We all remember.  And we play your script like puppets, in the moment believing, I’m sure, every word you put in our mouths.  But we remember.  I remember, for instance, Christophe.  My love.  My future husband, object of my undying passion, who existed but a day before he faded out, forgotten.  You’ve forgotten, that is.  Not I.  Sometimes I wish I could forget him, that you’ll go back one day and notice, scratch him out, keep him from existing at all.

            To live for a day must be crueler than to have never existed at all.

An excerpt of a dramacomedic fiction about a set of characters becoming self-aware of their less than consistent creator.  The poem inspiring the story (or was it the story that inspired the poem?) can be read HERE.

When the Giants Dined Out…

When the giants dined out (as giants often do – it’s remarkable how quickly they run through even the food stored in their twenty-foot stone refrigerators) they preferred to go to the beach.

“Baked, seasoned meals,” they would chortle as they crouched at the edges of the sand like mossy boulders, awaiting their food.

In front of them, the blissfully ignorant vacationers lay tanning their skins golden brown, or swam and splashed in the salty water.

“And best of all, no work.  The meals prepare themselves.”


Thanks to the Cayman beaches, the salty ocean, and the very brown tanners for inspiration.

sunset

Echoes in Solitude

If you’ve followed me long enough to wonder about the title (“Hey, didn’t she already post a piece called ‘Echoes’? Man, how uncreative.”) — this piece, had the story been completed, would have taken place in the same universe as my original “Echoes” post HERE.  As things stand, nothing directly connects the two scenes, and each can be enjoyed independently of the other.

Echoes

            The house had been silent for nearly three weeks, now.  To Rea Hayes, its only occupant, it had felt like much longer.

            Only occupant… She allowed the words to settle over her, and shuddered.

            Unwashed laundry had begun to pile up in the corner behind the kitchen – work things, mostly.  Somehow, when she came home she always ended up in the same old oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, staring at the blank TV screen, her tray table a line of phones. Read more…

Echoes

Something a little bit longer for your weekend read.  The beginning to a story I never finished writing, but I enjoy the concepts behind it so much that I have to share it anyway.  Maybe I’ll continue some day.

Echoes

            The world was howling around her as she stumbled into the shadowed room, the echo of the blast still washing over her in wild, dizzying surges like the sound of a behemoth’s heartbeat.  The screams, the panic, from the foyer downstairs were the cries of ants in comparison — wailing ants waiting helplessly under the shadow of an oncoming foot.

            Her hand hit the bookshelf before her eyes realized she was in range, and she jammed her elbow with the force of her unsteady momentum.  This wasn’t the time for dizziness, wasn’t the time for weakness or aching limbs, but her subsequent headshake to try and snap herself out of it only left her gagging back a new fit of nausea.  The thrumming amped up to eleven in her ear, and she felt herself flinch in anticipation of a surging ocean wave or possibly a thirty-foot butterfly wing sweeping into her from the left.

            The conservatory had been on her left.  In the conservatory had been her—

            No time, no time to think about it.  No time to dwell.  She only had… who knew how long.  Seconds, if that.

            The screaming ants were slowly going quiet. Read more…

A Sound Theory

An old drabble, but a fun one. Read and enjoy.

A Sound Theory

“Sound is one of the most insidious naturally occurring dangers in the world, you know.” This, like all of his theories, sprang up seemingly out of the blue, with no preamble, and made the rest of us stop speaking and stare.

“People think about how it can damage our hearing, of course, and it’s well documented that after a lifetime of being exposed to sound people begin to lose their hearing altogether. Right? Dangerous. But what people don’t seem to think about is that sound makes vibrations. You can feel it in a drumbeat or a buzz, and high-pitched noises can shatter glass. It’s all there if you bother to think about it. And then imagine your body constantly being bombarded by dozens… hundreds, of vibrations every minute of every day for your entire life. Even dripping water will eventually wear down stone. What do you think the hum of a fan, the buzz of a bee, or even the sound of my voice right now is doing to our bones?

“Constant agitation. And then on top of that, we test our luck with extra layers of ‘background noise:’ TV, music… played, I’ll remind you, on what used to be referred to as ‘boom’ boxes. I’d be willing to bet that if we gave all that up, shut out unnecessary noises and exchanged talking for sign language, we’d be living for an extra fifty years.” He fell silent, shaking his head.  We watched him, wide eyed and wordless.

“No,” he added finally. “I will not be attending the concert.”

Witness

A short stream of thought from after the End.

Witness

The world ended yesterday.

I’m still here.  That’s how it goes sometimes.  Things don’t work out exactly the way you expected them to. Read more…

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