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Month: December 2018

The Elves of Kendashar

The elves of Kendashar have perfect grey skin. There are no blemishes, no spots, no marks, ever. This defined them from the other races. They are perfect in the eyes of the maker, or so they believed.

This is why Samartha’s parents did their best to hide the small, black oddly-shaped birthmark on her back just between her shoulder blades. They did a good job, but secretly were repulsed by their only child. Everyday Samartha felt their disdain.

Despite this, she grew up strong and beautiful and normal. She was a member of the Councils Retreat, and even caught the eye of Forest Guard.

But the mark was still there, hidden behind her cloak, underneath her fine elven silk. Her everyday was stained with a dark secret that she couldn’t even see without a mirror.

The suitors started calling soon after she had passed her Tanshars and came of age. She married a man she loved. A man she hoped would overlook her mark. But when he discovered it on their union night he was angry and appalled. He said he would kill her.

She slipped out in the night, into the forest, out toward the common lands. There she found comfort in arms of the imperfect. To them, she was perfection. Her long dark hair, her slim elven frame, her magical grey skin, her quiet smile. Her beauty blinded them. No one cared about the small dark spot on her back.

And over time she met more and more like her, Grey-skinned elves living their lives in the city, away from their kind. They had blemishes, some you could see, others you could not. They were tall and fat, some had funny shaped heads. But they were happy. Samartha was happy. She married a kind man. They had beautiful children she loved.

She didn’t miss perfection, as it didn’t miss her.

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The chaotic thinker and other flashes

I’m sad that I haven’t posted here an a while. I’m working on expanding a short story into a novel. While I am enjoying that, I hate not having short creative spurts to share. Here are some things I did while drinking a beer this weekend. 

The chaotic thinker dribbled his thoughts down the sidewalk past the brick church and over by the steel playground. The wind chilled his ambition, but teased his soul. He stopped by the old oak tree at the park. Bravado brought him down waist deep in soggy sensibility. He sank into the wild currents of his mind. Even she couldn’t comfort his jittery song.

Perspiration. Sweat. Drops of water clinging to the inside of those cotton pants I found at the second hand store on Rosemont. I’m nervous. I’m anxious. I’m not of this situation. I’m not of this scene. Are you? Are you real, or just a figment of this beer induced dream.

I’ll call you Chardonnay. We will delight in the drink of the afternoon. I will hold you tight like a glass of time slipping into a horribly scented candle. You will cringe at my attempts at casual infatuation. And I will think of sweet potatoes; warm, salted, fried. My dress will be clean and stained and mine.

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