Here’s a Treat!

Here’s a Treat!

A new story idea is always a treat right? Here’s something I’m trying to work on:

~

treeThey say that in order to know the age of the tree, you have to look through a section of that tree, and count the number of its concentric rings. The number of rings signifies the number of years the tree has lived. However, to be able to count the rings, one must first cut the tree, and in the process, end its life.

This brutal method is not necessary for a certain tree, which will be the center of this story. It is called The Tree of Witness, whose age can be measured by the number of paired names inscribed on its trunk. These inscriptions are called The Markings.

The Tree of Witness has played a vital role in the history of Kerish — a land whose royalties and rulers were selected through a lifetime of training and tests, and not by bloodline or lineage. Every ten years, a man and a woman would rise as victors of the Challenge of Kerish, and will be crowned as the new King and Queen of the land. As a seal to their vow of truth and service to Kerish and to each other, both are to inscribe their names on The Tree of Witness. And thus, they are bound forever.

~

Daily Prompt: Trick or Treat

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Confessions from the Cracked Pot (Part 4)

Confessions from the Cracked Pot (Part 4)

Wave after wave I sink and I float… every strike of lightning and roar of thunder frightens me. The ocean and the sky are at war, and the faint voice that told me to be still is slowly drowning.

I resign, accepting that I am facing my life’s end. That I’ll die alone with only the ocean and the dark sky as my witnesses.

~*~

shipA soft beam of light is coming from a ship with a torn black sail that’s fighting against the strong wind. I feel the pirate’s hook snatch me from the frantic waves. I hear the heavens roar.

The pirate examines me through a broken glass and throws me into a huge decaying treasure chest after he’s done. “Another useless, ugly, cracked pot,” he says.

My notion that a pirate’s chest would always hide the finest treasures on earth proves wrong, for the wooden chest in which I was thrown into is filled with what the pirate calls ‘trash’ – the wet and broken pots he found as he sailed.

Looking at each pot for me is like looking at a mirror…

Though we are there, together, we remain the loneliest beings on earth – the abandoned, the rejects, the forgotten.

The faulty cracked pots who ventured without any sense of direction.

The broken ones.

The pots that fell into the hands of thieves and pirates who knew nothing but to steal… to kill… to destroy.

“They do that to the rich and poor alike, and to us too. They stole our dreams… killed our hopes… destroyed our lives,” the pots tell me.

When a conversation starts about our Maker, it is always with spite. They regard Him as the Potter who has the hobby of creating pots and then forgetting them. They all wish they were never made.

Me?

I am very close to feeling the same way.

~*~

While the wind is still strong, the pirate meets a certain Sailor, brought forth by a humble boat.

The Sailor says he knew that the pirate has been hiding cracked and broken pots in his treasure chest, and that he wants to buy the pots.

“Are you sure, mister? With the looks of your ship, it seems you haven’t any money.” The pirate sniggers with a gulp of his liquor. “But because I have a good heart dear man, I’ll do you a favor and not sell those useless, ugly pots to you. I’m telling you, you would not find anything valuable to do with them.”

“No, I want them,” the Sailor says with the most dignified voice I have ever heard. “My Father wants them.”

The pirate eyes the Sailor with warily. “Who is your father?”

“The most skillful Potter, whose very hands created the pots you refuse to give to me, thief.”

“Ho! Thief? These cracked pots came willingly into my hands! Now, if the price is right, mister… If the price is right…” The pirate paces back and forth, seriously contemplating our fate.

“How much would the Son of the Potter pay for my ugly little collection, eh?”

“I’ll give my life in exchange for their freedom.”

The pirate laughs hysterically, as if he just heard the most ridiculous phrase in the world. “Fool! How would you bring these little darlings to your Father when you’re dead? What, your ghost will drive the ship for them?”

I hear the cracked pots laugh with him.

“I’ll ask you again, Potter’s Son. How much?”

“My life.”

~

Daily Prompt: Sad But True

HIGH is the new YOU

HIGH is the new YOU

There’s no way but up. I am the Queen Ant. I am the chosen one. I have been destined to start a strong and mighty colony since the day I was born.

I thought I am ready, but truth is I’m not.

“Why do you look so sad, my Queen?” Antoine. My warrior and my shield. The love of my life. I will never see him again after tonight.

“You know why, Antoine.” I whisper, careful that someone might hear.

“But it is your Nuptial Flight dear Queen, you must look nothing but radiant on this very special day.” He says, as if it doesn’t matter to him. As if I don’t matter to him.

“How can you even say that? I’d rather die than marry someone I don’t love. Antoine, please, let’s just run away. If you love me, don’t make me do this. Just tell me not to fly, and I won’t.”

“My dear Antarra, keeping you from being the Queen that you’re destined to be is not love, but greed. You have to fly… far away from here… and meet your true King.”

“But Antoine, I don’t need a King, I need you. Why are you pushing me away?” I say in tears.

“Your Highness, it’s time for the Nuptial Flight.” It’s Anteron, the captain of the Ant Guards. I see every ant in my colony bowing down. It really is time.

I close my eyes and listen to Antoine’s voice.

“Fly high my Queen. Embrace the new you, and never look back.”

 

~

A response to Daily Prompt: __________ is the new __________.

4th and 14th word from my favorite blog: http://www.ayoungblog.com/post/51133228407/me-in-junior-high-we-have-calculators-for-a

The Funny Song

The Funny Song

Here’s a song I wrote from years back (when people still keep diaries). Please try not to laugh, this is funny.

~

Verse1
Funny how thinking about you
keeps me awake through a boring lecture
Funny how heart skips a beat
at the mention of your name

Funny how I visit your page
looking for signs that you somehow miss me
It’s funny because I know
you’ll never feel that way

CHORUS
This is not a note to tell you
that I miss you
or anything close to that
This is just me trying to write
random words
that my mind spits out

This is not some silly letter
a schoolgirl writes
for her high school crush
This is just me trying to block
the hope that you will
still be coming back

Oh Oh Oh
Oh Oh Oh
You’re never Coming back.

Verse2
Funny how when I get tired
I close my eyes and I see you smiling
Funny when I feel like cryin’
I wish you’re by my side

Funny how the world keeps spinning
and I’m just sitting
just right here waiting
It’s funny because you never told me
that you’re leaving

CHORUS
This is not a note to tell you
that I miss you
or anything close to that
This is just me trying to write
random words
that my mind spits out

This is not some silly letter
a schoolgirl writes
for her high school crush
This is just me trying to block
the hope that you will
still be coming back

Oh Oh Oh
Oh Oh Oh
You’re never Coming back.

BRIDGE
And I’d like to write a serious song
But everything is just so funny…

When you treated me like a joke

Oh Oh Oh
Oh Oh Oh
You’re never Coming back.

~

Now how do I feel? I don’t really know. It’s quite funny, and I feel kinda old.

Daily Prompt: Release Me

Confessions from the Cracked Pot (Part 3)

Confessions from the Cracked Pot (Part 3)

He knelt down and picked some wild flowers from the ground, and with trembling hands he placed them inside me. The boy cried, watering the flowers with his tears.

I had no idea why he was crying.

He stood from the ground and walked with me in his arms until we were inside a little tattered shack which, as I presumed, was his home. The shack was in a pitiful condition, but at least it was a lot better than where the beggar once slept.

The first thing I saw was the figure on the floor, curled up in between a sleeping mat and a soiled blanket. It was a sleeping woman in her midlife, though her condition made her look a lot older. It would not take a genius to know that the woman had been sick for quite a long time.

“Mama,” the boy whispered as helped the woman to a sitting position while still holding me.

“Look what I’ve found, Mama,” the boy said.  “A pot just like the ones you’ve been collecting before.. See, it has a lovely heart-shaped crack too… But this one’s the most beautiful… It has the largest heart.”

It took me a while to realize that the boy was talking about me. I had no idea that my crack was heart-shaped, and it had been so long since I was last called beautiful…

But no matter how much I wanted to believe the boy, I could not.

A heart-shaped crack, no matter how beautiful it might seem to them, is still a crack.

The boy’s mother looked at me – at my crack specifically, and smiled faintly. She cupped the boy’s face with her pale hands and whispered. “Yes, my child, the pot is lovely, thank you… and the flowers are beautiful.” She kissed the boy’s cheek and embraced him, a bead of tear falling from her eye.

Each day after that, the boy and I would go out and pick some wild flowers for his mother. He believed that doing this would restore his mother’s health, for collecting pots and flowers made her happy. And happiness, as some would say, is the best medicine.

flowers

It was the very first time that I felt useful… I have learned to love the boy and the woman, and willingly served them. They became my home.

But still, I failed.

His mother died eventually with me in her hands. Another death in my life as a stray pot.

One day, when the boy was walking by the sea, he cried his heart out. He gave me one last teary look before throwing me into the waters.

~*~

I thought it was the end of me… but surprise, here I am, floating a midst a heavy storm, as waters slowly penetrate my fragile body. I feel heavy and weak. I wonder how long I must endure before the waves crash over me…

and then somewhere, from within me, I heard a voice saying  “be still.”

And for the very first time, I listened.

(To be continued)

~

Daily Prompt: Home Sweet Home

READ:

Confessions from the Cracked Pot (Part 1)

Confessions from the Cracked Pot (Part 2)