What Of A Stumble?

Dear readers,

I've come out of my studying hole to enter a competition. I promise that I'm not avoiding any (major) assignments to do this, I'm usually far too responsible for that.

I've never been so close to a deadline before! Needless to say, I've never missed one either.

This is my entry to the lovely Anna's 'Behind The Curtain' competition.

Details can be found HERE.

The photo from the 'Behind The Curtain' board that inspired me - 

Source - https://pinterest.com/ruanna/behind-the-curtain/

 I hope you enjoy, and as always, thank you for reading for my little slices of writing.

My Entry

People filled the rows for the feathers and flowers and glitter of it all. Too many of them wanted aesthetics on a stage or the public to catch their presence, but she was about the sport and the skill. It was the only part that couldn’t be masked and no one had the dedication she did to make it shine more than the parade of costumes.

Behind her every pirouette was a boundary she’d pushed, that had once spanned her every action for too long. And she was still going, still motivated to break from a torrid past.

Nothing less than unending perseverance had brought her here.

She was no natural. She’d never captivate or turn a head on the street with her fluid steps. That was for the studio, for the pinpoint of a moment when the lights would shine and the instruments would trill a start, waiting for her to give it life.

Audience or not, it was a dream every time.

And that was as poetic as she’d ever be.

He’d snapped a box open, the new instructor, and the most fragile tune spun the room, light as a petal on the wind.

He’d pointed to the revolving figures on the miniature platform. “Imagine it. That you’re her.”

“A figurine.” Because, famous or not, she hadn’t been impressed by his methods.

“That you’re dancing with him. Not the music,” he continued. And then, “that you’re losing him. That you’re in danger of losing yourself.”

She’d crossed her arms, nothing but dubious. “Myself?”

She might have deserved it, but there’d been no agitation on his face. He’d simply said, with an air that exceeded just scholarly explanation, “Love will do a great many things to a person.”

Like stumble.

Weeks later, he’d made her stumble.

He’d made her question.

**

Her breathing was shallow as she flipped his box open. The dancers resumed, set on the same corner where they had been during every practice.

She couldn’t stop the prick of tears at her eyes when the music began.

 But it was easier than it’d ever been, this routine, when everything else was hard and brittle.

Because losing him was no longer unimaginable and she only wished it could be a little forgettable.

She’d known there’d been no other way; she'd never tiptoe along love and let herself weaken.

She’d come too far to let herself stumble.

400 words 

A Writer's Voice

Dear readers,

It’s bright and warm and sunny outside. Inside, well inside of me, it’s pretty cold.

I’m not being depressing, believe me, I just have a cold. 
That’s also why you keep hearing my persistent coughing as I type this.

If you don’t, you need a check up, my dear.

Despite the health upset, my writing has reached an all time high!

I found my voice again.

We’re talking metaphorically, here.

Because physically, I can barely speak.

As I said, I found my voice. 
Last month, I had so many lapses and lulls in my writing that I could barely get a sentence down without the compulsive need to rewind and edit as I went along. Just so you know, that’s a big no-no! It’s extremely hard get anywhere if that’s your method.

I have to say that participating in the Blog Flash 2012 challenge really did help me because it forced me to put something up every day. I didn’t get the time to doubt myself as much as I usually do.  It also helped me get to the reason for why I’d, somehow, forgotten how to write freely.  

 I didn’t know it at the time, but I do now, that I was trying to emulate an author I admire so much, and because of that, I was ignoring what I wanted to say. And, considering that that’s what writing is about, it did really defeat the whole purpose of the entire activity!

(How typical of me)

Source - http://ponti55.deviantart.com/

I scanned back to the recent edits I’d done to my WIP and was a little shocked that I didn’t recognise much of it. Quality-wise, it wasn’t too bad, but a reader would be able to tell it was forced.

Plus, I’d much rather write in my own style, in my voice, than do a bad impression of someone else’s.

So I’m keeping true to myself now.

I’m turning up the music, trying to keep away from random tangents, and as always, looking for underused words to drop into my writing.

And so far, I’ve been rather happy with the results.

Have you ever lost your writer's voice or your literary footing without knowing it, readers?

Once In A Blue Moon

This little piece is dedicated to my lovely friend, Sophie Moss. She's a pinch of pure magic in my life and I'm so happy for her because has a new release today; The Selkie Enchantress.

You can find her book HERE and HERE.

And you can find here HERE and HERE.

Because what's life without fairytales? Or, Irish fairytales, to be exact?

 Once In A Blue Moon

This is not my own image

She tipped her head back, resting it against the tree bark. Moonlight cast a glow about her face.

Her eyes were closed when she puckered her lips to one side, then the other. A grin broke across her face in an instant and she drew her knees to her chest as a makeshift table, beginning a furious scribble across a sheet of paper she’d kept.

As soon as she was done and her hand left the white plane, the wind tore it from her lap.

And it spiralled,

Twisted,

Flattened,

Against his face.

Because really, how could it have missed him (!)

He pulled the plastered sheet back;

If there were ever a love as true as mine,

Would I know it?

If this age was not of fearful hearts,

Would I be shown it?

Crushed in his hand and against the breeze, he held it out to her when she approached him.

And then he changed his mind.

. . . He wished he’d changed it again.

As soon as he’d opened his mouth, actually.

“If one did claim a love, profess aloud,   

Would you wish for one mute?

Or one to speak in soul, in touch, and treasure. . .”

He puffed out a breath and lost his voice.

Who was he kidding?

 Christ, he was no poet!

A little smile touched her face as if to show she knew. Which, from his appalling effort, wasn’t an incredibly hard thing to discern.

“Which one would suit?” she suggested.  

His shoulders relaxed. His entire being did. “Which one would suit.”

He took her hand with his free one and she easily came into his arms.

He enveloped her close, poetry still in hand. “Tell me something.”

“Hmm . . . the flowers behind you are daisies?” she offered.

“Alright, tell me another something; if I was to propose, would I need to do so in rhyme?”

She laughed and it warmed his chest. “Heavens! I would never be so cruel as to torture you so!” she exclaimed.

“I know you wouldn’t. An angel like you, Sophie, comes but every once in a blue moon.”

Blog Flash 2012 - Day 31 - Bonus Entry

I know Blog Flash 2012 is over, BUT, there's one day left and then August is done with for this year.
So, I've done a bonus entry for any of you readers out there who enjoyed my little series.
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!

Day 31 - Bonus Entry

Epilogue

The wedding was held on a Sunday afternoon.
A sunny Sunday afternoon.
It seemed fitting, that.
St James’ cathedral was brimming with all sorts of guest, some more happy than others with the union taking place. But that had been expected, and when one near-hysterical lady took a stand during the ceremony to claim that the couple looked too happy for this to be true attachment, you’ll be glad to know that, she was immediately escorted off the premises.
As I said before, reader, that sort of debacle had been expected.
Graham was resplendent in a regal black and white, Alisa was every bit a vision in embroidered silk, and both wore the most beautiful thing of all; a smile of pure joy.
Few things could be as touching as the devotion they showed on this day.
The final words were spoken in absolute reverence and the new wife of Mr Hurst was swept off her feet (literally) and carried to a flower-strewn carriage.
Mr Graham Hurst and Mrs Alisa Hurst.
Alisa’s insides practically fluttered at the thought, but she loved him for this strange feeling she still was unaccustomed to. She imagined there were a lot of things he would introduce her to.
And she couldn’t wait for it all.
For the happy life she knew they'd share together.
He draped an arm over her. “Are you looking forward to our honeymoon?”
“I’m looking forward to the rest of our lives,” she said with a content sigh.
“Good answer, Mrs Hurst.”
He’d never thought he’d ever be in love. Never thought he’d marry unless he’d been threatened with a pistol.
But, he supposed life was funny like that.
Amazing even.
Speaking of amazing . . . his gaze wandered over the curves of his finally-bride.
“Of course, the honeymoon has technically begun already. . .”
A sly grin spread across her face as she looked up at him. “Do you know, I cannot believe you managed to wait until our wedding day?”
He didn't either. He only knew that she was the only love of his life and if he was going to marry her, then by God, he was going to do it right.
However hard the task proved on his health.
“I’d wait forever for you, my dear,” he said with a loving kiss.
And, readers, the honeymoon began. . .