Third Place in Contest; Amazing Review!

This one was for "Mint". The impressive bit is not the placement, but the review. Check it, chickies:

"A casual reader might mistake this short piece of Henderson for a passage out of a Rice vampire novel. Henderson expertly combines formal dialogue with subtle body language descriptors, which lends a dramatic surreality to the overall product. For readers who appreciate Henderson's artful character interactions, we recommend reading the short stories of Truman Capote. That we can link Capote in any way to Henderson demonstrates the quality of what she's done with 'Mint.'"

Progress

Life is all about splits, and straddles, and proving you right just when you had decided you were wrong. It's a shot of bitter with a chaser of sweet, with the only warmth being derived from the latter and the only strength from the former; we can never taste the sweet until we have downed the bitter. The harsh, clean scent of mint competes with the gagging, cloying smell of perfumed dung - and sometimes we can't tell the difference. ("I love you" has eight letters, but so does "bullshit.")

You can't ever stop trying, even when you've half-talked yourself out. It's sad and beautiful, and like the world spins (just as it ends, it begins), we break our hearts and are summarily made whole.

The music swells to a crescendo that tugs at tear ducts and short circuits the brain. ('Tis no time to think - you must dance!) And it swirls and shimmers with a magick you'd managed to forget, even though it was always, ALWAYS there, waiting for you to use it. We're so powerful that we make ourselves weak.

We have to learn something new every single day, even when it burns like fire and you longingly wish ignorance were truly bliss. (Putting your fingers in your ears and singing doesn't make anything go away.) But we feel every ripple of every action and it makes us change. Sure, you can pretend that every thing's the same, but, as the fault line shifts, you may fall in.

So dance in the flames and breathe in the mint; smile while you cry. The magick is yours to use, arising from that shattered heart in your chest beating itself whole. Life is an exercise in stretching - in order to grow, we must believe we won't break.

A Sad Lesson

If people ever think so pleasantly of you as you think of them, then you should proceed to be extremely, inordinately, even obnoxiously, flattered. Because perceptions rarely almost to the point of never line up so nicely. It is a sad lesson, but one that must be learned. So, think as well of others as you like, but always be prepared to lower your estimations accordingly.

Mint

The pungent scent of freshly massacred mint leaves flooded my nose, giving my indignation a distinct taste.

"What do you think this means, Armand?" I hissed, my voice sliding underneath the sound of the string quartet playing in the more populated portion of the garden. "Are you naive enough to think there are no consequences?"

He eyed me coldly from across the pavilion, his head perched far back on his neck. His arms were iron bars across his chest: cold, hard, and as arrogant as the careful slouch of his tuxedo slacks.

"As ever, you exaggerate," he pronounced with quiet steel. "This was not life-changing; there are no intrinsic 'codes of behavior' that accompany any action. I refuse to allow you to hold me to 'rules' that simply do not exist."

My breath hissed raggedly through my teeth, a small detached part of my mind noting that I'd chosen the right shade of lipstick; if I were to lose control and bite the bastard no one would notice the blood.

"You've nerve. So much, it's a veritable miracle you can't feel!"

One of his eyebrows shot up with a corner of his grim smile.

"No, I definitely feel," he replied. "But nerves are connected to the brain - not to the heart. That's the problem with trying to cage men with lust."

I jerked, and my back met the climbing vines, knocking leaves down my dress with a series of rustles.

Apart from the sardonic twist to his features, he had not moved.

"Someone should teach you a lesson about human beings," I bit out as his form blurred. "You're despicable!"

Even through the tears, I saw his eyes flash.

"And you're pitiable," he rejoined, soft and low, the down-bow of the distant cello adding a perfect punctuation to his phrasing. "You could stand to learn a few lessons yourself, on nature. You're just a girl - you don't know anything about this world you've entered."

Armand's arms fell open for the first time as he took a dangerous step forward.

I pressed back against the greenery as he crossed into my space.

Implacably, he reached out his hand and made me meet his cold blue eyes.

The world went still and all I could hear was the sibilant sound of rustling ball gowns, as somber as the sea.

The corners of his eyes were soft and his lips were no more than a straight line, not pointing up or down. The points where his fingers met my face flashed with fire, although his grip was as gentle as the night we first met.

"Armand," I sighed.

"No," he answered, not breaking our gaze. "I have no obligations to you. You came seeking instant gratification, and that's what you got. Had you been willing to wait..." he shook his head, and his touch dropped away. "I won't lead you on, okay?"

He hovered for just a moment, half-turned, then abruptly spun on his heel and walked away, back to the string quartet and the swirling ball gowns.

I sobbed in the harsh, clean scent of mint.

The Vanity Mirror

She sits at her dressing room table, scorning her image in the mirror. She's beautiful, but she will always believe that she is unworthy for the sun's eyes to rest upon. Nobody knows why - nobody even knows. They all think that 'beautiful' is synonymous with 'confident.'

She reaches out her hand, fingertips meeting the cold glass of the mirror - she wants to break it as she is broken. But she will not. The shards of vanity would tempt her with their bladed edges, and she would falter from living. She can't trust she is worthy of the sun's warming gaze, but that does not mean she wishes to lose that guilty pleasure.

Her eyes find those of her unhallowed reflection. How can this abominable creature be she? The force that grips her vocal cords, warping other's perceptions with her silence, abruptly dies. The sound that is torn from her lips is startling and high, a keening wind of everything she is deluded into 'knowing.' And there, before that dressing room table mirror, she and beauty cry.