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Sulky Season

  • Posted on February 8, 2015 at 2:08 pm

This short story came to me from a dream. Quite literally. So, I thought I would write it out, and see if something good could come of it. I often dream of my mother and brothers, and this time, it really felt poignant. So, I felt compelled to try to make sense of this particular dream.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was not summer, as most would think, when the change came over us. It was the wet cold dew of autumn that drove us all away from our home, and out to the open world. Condensation like one might find on a sweating glass drew down the windows, not real rain, but a drizzle that seemed to throw a wet gray blanket over the world. Staring out at the world, it was easy to say that the sea had risen and swallowed everyone up.

On days like this, our mother always grew sullen and angry, her fingernails tapping at the table, her coffee growing cold in front of her. The TV seemed muted somehow, spewing news no one cared about. My brothers arguing in the background over some toy seemed inconsequential to the unease boiling under my mother’s skin. Father was at work, as he always was, trying hard to bring home enough at the end of the month to cover all of our bills.

First Light

  • Posted on October 17, 2014 at 12:29 am

Memory is a fickle thing, inherently wrong, yet personal in the greatest of ways. All of our memories are biased, based upon information our mind stores and corrupts. Stories we tell ourselves become memories, despite never happening. Things that happened turn out a different way when we think back on them.

Most personal to us all, and most telling of whom we will become, is our very first memory. The first bit of light our mind stores away for us in the world. These memories hide from us, little snippets of time. And then, like magic, a scent, or a sound, the touch of a familiar fabric, or the hum of a certain frequency reminds us, and it comes crashing back like nothing was ever missing at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The prickly poking of hay. The scent of his mother, soft and creamy like milk just warmed up, and the sound of his father’s quiet voice. Later, Dirk would learn that the conversation was their first discussion about whether they should go back home to Thosfig, back to their tribe. His nose itched, and he rubbed his little fingers against it to make it go away.Noticing how sharp his little fingernails were, he curled them into his palms. Crickets chirped somewhere, and he could hear crackling, like fire. His eyes felt heavy, and he didn’t want to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Pain. Yumil remembered pain first. A too-tight grip of an adult hand around a small wrist. The red of lines cut into child-soft skin by fingernails dyed with pigment from berries.  Yumil remembers looking up at her, her tawny hair shining in the sunlight. She is beautiful, and frightful. She calls him a bad boy,voice hissing. Yumil feels his stomach twist and clench, fear climbing inside. She is angry, and to Yumil it’s as if she has always been angry and will always be angry. He finds anger burning inside himself to match, hot and terrifyingly close to tears.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She can’t remember the words anymore, but Eamon remembers the soft feeling of her mother’s chest. Her cheek fits against it perfectly. She remembers the hard push of her sister’s knee against her own leg, and the laugh in her mother’s voice. She recalls the lines of her sister’s hand and how it felt to rub her thumb along them until Lette shrieked with laughter, like it had tickled her. Eamon remembers how warm she felt, wrapped up in the two of them. A mix of flowers and cool water always brings this memory to her mind, and she smiles.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Grass tickling her nose, and a small round bug crawling along between the blades. Red like string scattering across her vision, as she was lifted from the earth. Her hand still reaching out for the little black bug, bigger hands tight against her ribs They squeezed a little painfully, but only enough to make her whine in the back of her throat. A murmur of her name, and Lette looks up. Her father’s green eyes smile down at her like the water of a murky lake. She smiles back, and giggles. His hand, scratchy with callouses, brushes back her hair.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Blurs moving past him, dark things swimming around the edges of his vision. Espin remembers crying, crying so loud and so long that he was sure no one heard him. He remembers unpleasant smells, something he later knows is the smell of sickness and waste. He remembers the crying making it worse, stopping his nose and how panicked he felt. A cool hand on his forehead was all that kept him awake, and he cried, and cried. Sleep would be kinder. His stomach lurched, and he felt hotness sear his throat and splash out his lips. Nothing eases his pain.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Her big brother’s back, warm and strong. Anelace was tied to it, she could feel the soft cloth against the back of her neck, feel the bounce of his step as he walked. He talked to her, telling her stories, and she burbled back to him. Her fingers found his coarse woven dreads, tugging for attention. She remembers how he smelt like sunshine and camels. He was so big, and strong, he carried her like she was smaller than an ant, and it made her feel small and she thought he must be the most powerful thing in the world.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She was always angry. So angry. His mother was angry at him, yelling and screaming, and Jorgan hated yelling. He wanted to hide and forget. It made him cry, which made her so much angrier. She called him hurtful things he can’t remember later, things that might be true. Her palm struck his cheek, and his world went spinning. Pain blossomed in his jaw, his teeth rattling, as he toppled over. His cries came louder. The snap of a belt made his chest squeeze, and fear silenced him. His father’s footsteps, shaky and unstable, curled him into a tight ball.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

What glimpse does this first light give?

photo courtesy of flickr.com

Hello, World!

  • Posted on March 20, 2014 at 11:10 pm

IMG_20121216_101043As the Llama appears, so do I! For those of you who are new to my little blog, which was set up by my LOVELY friend Chris, I’m Nicohle Christopherson. A pleasure to meet you all!

To give a little bit of information about me, I am an aspiring Author, a Nanowrimo winner, an artist, a technical support agent, a girlfriend, and a blogger. Occasionally. When I’m not online, I’m gardening, writing, reading, drinking coffee, or hanging out with my friends.

With luck, my first published work will be a Novella entitled Princess of Dolls. Followed by the first in a series, The Sorcerer and the Swordsman. Please look forward to it!

Due to some interesting turns of event, you’ll see that my URL here isn’t nchristopherson.com, which is probably what you typed in to get here. The reason for this is because Chris, my friend, helped me set this blog up on his own server, for which I am eternally grateful. So, the URL is his website, followed by mine! Please favorites this page, not nchristopherson.com, as that doesn’t currently lead anywhere.

I hope you all intend to watch diligently, as my goal is to put out works at least once a week, preferably more. Some things I will refer you to my tumblr for, as they are just too amusing! I’ll be posting reviews, ideas, various snippets of my works, and also various life-stories.

I hope you enjoy, and it’s a pleasure to meet you all! <3

 

P.S. Go see Chris’ blog, which is full of amazingly informative articles

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