Uncategorized

“The Hex Doll” by Rose J. Fairchild

I have lived one long life and died a thousand deaths; been tortured more times than I would care to count. But not alone. There is always someone else along for the ride. Someone I hold captive inside me, and the true target of the savagery.

My skin is scored with so many scars, it loosely resembles burlap. My mouth has been slashed wide and stitched totally shut, my heart and eyes gouged out only to return later. The creativity born from people’s hatred is boundless and I am forever amazed at their viciousness. 

Our most recent customer has brought me hair from her intended victim. My assistant, Skyla, offers them to me and I use my tongue to roll it into a ball before swallowing it with a generous helping of wine.

The man’s DNA begins running through my veins and I feel myself changing as his essence is pulled into me. As he is absorbed into my flesh and we become one. 

I see the eager look on the woman’s face as she raises her blade skyward–the frantic look of fresh hurt written all over her face. I wonder what he has done to her, but I never ask.

As she plunges the blade downward, I leave the man on the stone surface my body lies on, feeling his terror as I hold him prisoner. I dive into my sacred space and feel myself scream with him, though I only vaguely register the pain. It is just part of the ritual of channeling his flesh through my own.

Long ago I had to find a way to escape the bloodletting lest I go mad with the agony of both blade and emotion. This escape is the only way I manage it.

Broken and bleeding, I feel the man’s consciousness slip away and know the woman has finished him off. I let him go and return to myself.

Somewhere in the world, a dead man lies slashed and bleeding, no evidence of the killer left behind.

I hear the woman’s whispered words of thanks and the soft sounds as she weeps her way out of our temple. I know not whether they are tears of joy, relief, sorrow, anger, or even guilt. It does not matter. The job is done.

Weakened, I raise my eyes gratefully to Skyla as she pours healing elixir slowly into my mouth and over my tongue. As it rolls down my throat, I pull her to me and taste her lips. She is the tether that keeps me sane, the single point of light in the world of hatred and pain I live through every day.

She breathes deeply, fingers gently caressing my broken flesh as if instead of a battered canvas, I were a beautiful masterpiece, and I know that there is hope for the world–that love truly can exist alongside so much hate.

Uncategorized

Grappling

Trying to come to terms with what’s happening to my Gramma.

Some things in life are just hard to deal with and the best way some of us find to sort it all out is through art. I normally gravitate toward writing, but today I needed to draw. I haven’t drawn in ages and I hate that it’s for something so unhappy. And yet, it was still soothing to me. The drawing is rough (lack of practice and kids afoot), and not happy, but I’m sharing it anyway. I hope all you Spriggans and Sprites have a day full of love and light. 💕

Poetry, Uncategorized

Gramma

“I’ve fought a good fight, but now it’s time”

“We both know it’s a downhill slide.”

Your words to others, and to me…

I want you to stay.

I want you free.

Your razor wit has ebbed away;

Your words are slurred in all you say;

Your shine has dimmed;

Your body thinned;

And all your joy’s been stolen. Continue reading “Gramma”

Short Stories

Flash Fiction-“A Kingdom of Their Own”

This is a flash fiction piece I wrote based on the amazing artwork (below) by someone near and dear to me: the incomparable Trevor Fairbairn! Thanks for inspiring me and letting me share your image before it’s even finished, Trevor!

“A Kingdom of Their Own”

His good eye glittered in the sun as he surveyed the devastation behind him. The battle had been hard, and he knew he’d face aftershocks of it for years to come, but it had been worth it. 

He’d slowly dragged himself from beneath the heavy-mantled rule of a false god–one who was more monster than god; more malevolent than benevolent.

Ommin had suffered greatly under the monster’s rule. His head poured full of putrescent filth about his worthlessness; his body bruised and battered even as he was forced to get up, forced to slave ever harder. 

Of course, there were days he thought there was no hope. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew there was more out there. That maybe life was worth living; that he was enough–for himself, and maybe for someone else. 

And on his way up from the false god’s mire, Ommin scraped bits and pieces of himself off the ground, his heart and soul stitching back together as he pulled them back in.

He would always be scarred, both inside and out, but they were lines of his story: an epic journey of war and self-realization.

He sighed heavily and used the finger-like appendage at the end of his trunk to gently brush ash away from a sapling trying to rise from the devastation. 

Despite his age, he felt like that saplng–young and fragile, pushing up toward life-giving sun and air, the cleansing touch of summer rain. Toward freedom. 

A gentle bump against Ommin’s leg pulled him from his stupor and he glanced down at his toddling son. The boy twirled his trunk around Ommin’s, whose heart swelled with such love and pride that it almost hurt. That face, with eyes full of hope, trust, love could near break his heart as he wished and hoped that such innocence would never know the trials he had. 

A gentle trumpet sounded behind him and he turned his eye to the matriarch who had found and fallen for him despite his scars and brokenness. As he had with her. 

And from behind her, their eldest son, and the middle baby–their girl, ran and danced around him, oblivious to the charred remains behind.

They pulled at him with their trunks and he rumbled in reply as he turned to follow their lead. 

They tugged him toward a pleasant path, green and lit with pools of golden sun. A path that would be rough at times, but well worth the journey together. 

Raising his battle-scarred head high, Ommin trumpeted a triumphant bellow at the skies before following his family to build a kingdom of their own.