In the World of SD....

Good news! Steward House finally saw fit to post the contest winnings for September, and "Reparamus" was the winning (only) piece. I am proud of it, although I am utterly ambivalent about the review it received.

Furthermore, Keayva Mitchell continues to astound me (and Steward House) with her literary prowess. That girl's voice is one of the most entertaining I've had the pleasure of reading lately, and considering how much I read (incorrigible book slut, that's me), that's not a compliment to discount. Check out her latest winnings (yes, plural) here. Warning: Keayva is not for those who don't care to think. Then again, I'm not for people who don't care to think either, so I suppose you're in the right place.

Ordinary news! Due to the fact that my body is disintegrating around my mind, I am having difficulty keeping my creative juices flowing as they have been this past year. I simply do not have enough mind to spare to deal with school, dance, blog posts, poetry, Pluck the Petals From a Daisy, and the Never Ending Migraine (like the Never Ending Story, but less entertaining). Therefore, I will be directing any creativity toward my beloved Carnelia Bellis. That is not to say that I will not be posting at all; I will simply not be posting frequently. However, Carnelia Bellis sends her greetings from my flashdrive, and hopes to be greeting you from bookstore shelves within the next three years. Wish her luck.

However, I am looking to expand this blog. I want you (my adored readers) to have something new, different, and entertaining to read. In short, I am looking for another writer to post here. If you write, and think that your prose pieces are any combination of witty, philosophical, beautiful, clever, lyrical, sassy, sardonic, and entertaining, and if you are willing to post here for (limited) recognition, my (oven-fresh cookie caliber) gratitude, my (relatively meaningless) endorsement of your work, and your own satisfaction, here's what you need to do:

1.  Choose a poetic vignette, a philosophical rambling, a brief essay, or a review of a literary work.
2.  Choose a short story. 
3.  Choose a clever moniker (eg, Southern Darling) that you would want to post under.

 Email your selections to ineloquent.southern.darling@gmail.com.  The subject line should read Blog Audition.  Paste both pieces into the body of the email, preceding each piece with its Title (eg, "Reparamus") and its Genre (eg, Poetic Vignette, or Book Review).  Please send no more than two pieces. Sign the email with your clever moniker and an email at which I can reach you.


As I receive applications, I will respond to them with an "I might be interested and here's why; let's talk about the possibilities" or an "I'm not interested and here's why; thank you so much for applying." At a minimum, you will get some detailed feedback on your work and some love for being a writer.

 I will stop accepting applications on Dec. 20, 2011. I will announce the new writer (or writers, who knows?) on Dec. 25, 2011, and Southern Ineloquence will ring in 2012 with a new addition.

Oh, and you need not be southern to apply. ;)


I look forward to hearing from y'all.

Reparamus

He gave her a bracelet with a heart-shaped box, and filled it with a promise she knew wouldn't be kept. But she smiled, and wore it on her sleeve, just because hope is a beautiful thing.

Before too long, the heart had a broken clasp, and the box swung open, spilling his un-retainable promise on a random spit of unidentifiable ground. Her empty, broken heart dangled for all to see.

But still she wore it, day and night, treasuring it with the naivete that dictates that mourning can sometimes fix things. She got to the point where she no longer noticed it, and behaved as though it were perfectly normal to have a broken heart, hollow and gaping like a wound, showing just beyond her sleeve.

However, there were times she'd catch sight of it, and remember him and his long-gone promise that neither he nor she could keep. She would stop, and stare, eyes glazing over as they bored holes into the not-so-distant past.

One day, she found there were more holes than memories, and she snapped.

She plucked her broken heart from her sleeve, crumpling the empty box into the bracelet, stuffing all the holes in the past with his missing promise, and threw it all against the wall. She swallowed back tears, and she let the damnable mess lay, all tangled up in complications, where it had fallen.

It was not she who picked up the pieces, but a boy.

He knelt on the floor, and extricated the broken heart from all that threatened to choke it, consume it, drown it, make it as un-retainable as the promise that once filled it. He took it to his workbench, and with a small smile and a pair of pliers, fixed the clasp.

Then, face serious, he offered her back her heart, no longer whole, but now unbroken.

With a look of wonder and a whispered expression of gratitude, she accepted the bracelet.

She wears her empty heart on her sleeve.

(The next promise she receives, she'll keep.)

An Accident of Wyrd Returns

... with a winning contest placement.

I've been working off and on with "An Accident of Wyrd" for almost three years. A couple weeks back, I finally decided that it was something and submitted the final version of the piece.

Apparently I'm not the only one who likes it.

I hope it's becoming second nature to you to check out the other winning pieces when you go to read mine, because Keayva Mitchell's "To the One that Fell Away" is also amazing. It's kind of reminiscent of "A Drum Set and a Cymbal," if on the opposite side of the equation.

I'm thinking Keayva Mitchell needs her own little tag for this blog.

Further Winnings

On June 24, 2011, "Parting Laments" won first place.

For someone who doesn't like to write poetry all that much, I write an awful lot of it and I write it rather well. If you really want to read more of said poetry, it can be found at my All Poetry page.

BTW, Keayva Mitchell's "Push," the second place that week, is a remarkable short fiction vignette. It is, as Steward House points out, a "lyrical" snapshot that entices the reader to fill in the backstory. In short, a piece after my own heart.

What are you still reading this blog post for? Go read those pieces!

XD

The Essence of Evanescence

I paused at the corner, caught for a moment.

In the growing twilight, the street sign stood out starkly, a 3D figure in an abruptly 2D landscape. A thin ray of sunlight leaked through the storm clouds, making the raindrops over the letter "S" sparkle. The storm was passing, giving way to the summer night.

I don't know if my companion noticed the brief hesitation in my step as the scene, street sign, storm, and summer, arrested me. He may have simply chosen not to comment.

Regardless, I don't think he experienced the same sudden sensation that we were in the midst of a story. The world does not offer up such visuals without some sense of purpose.

He tugged at my hand, our fingers interlaced, and I brought my eyes back to his face.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he offered, his voice as low as the distant purr of thunder.

We turned the corner onto the next street, leaving the sign behind.

"A dollar for your insights," I replied, nearly automatically. A fortune for your desire, I finished silently. I'm just a painter and I'm drawing a blank.


He rolled his eyes at me and drew me closer, his breath rasping over the shell of my ear even as we continued to walk.

"I can't provide insights into what you won't tell me, dear," he murmured.

I shivered, despite the summer heat.

"I know," I whispered drily, aware that his relative position to me would prevent him from catching the words. "I don't have a dollar on me, either, so it's all for the best."

I watched a lightning bug wink in and out of existence over the marker indicating the path to the neighborhood park.

A transitory bug over a transitory spot, in the midst of a transitory moment.

"Hey," I asked at full volume, stepping away from him slightly. "Do you want to go down to the park?'

He blinked at me. Where summer made me sprightly, it merely made him sleepy.

"Uh... sure," he acquiesced.

I grinned, and now I was the one tugging at his hand, our fingers interlaced.

The lightning bug flashed again as we passed, a vibrant strobe among the steam rising off the asphalt trail.

We were immediately encased in the scent of honeysuckle, warm and sweet, and I slowed again, allowing him to draw even with me. The summer would pass soon enough - I should savor it.

"I thought we weren't going to go this far," he commented, a little nervously, but with a thin thread of cautious delight spun through his tone. "The day will be over soon."

I turned and smiled at him, skirting an ant pile at the edge of the path.

"It's summer, sweetheart. It's a good while yet until the clock chimes midnight and your carriage turns into a pumpkin."

He stopped short, yanking me to a halt.

"What?" I demanded, dropping his hand to face him directly.

"Look," he breathed, extending his arm, indicating something beyond me. "It's like a fairy tale."

I shifted to see what he meant, and felt the sensation from the street sign all over again, this time certain that he felt it, too.

Lightning bugs illuminated the growing gloom surrounding the wooden bridge. The sound of the normally sullen creek chimed through the twilight, swollen by the summer storm. The scent of honeysuckle seemed to surge, the source nearly dripping off the bridge's handrails. On the horizon, a thread of blue lightning seized the ground, the resulting thunderclap swallowed by the distance.

"Yes," I said softly, taking his hand again without moving my gaze from the scene. "It's like a fairy tale."

Wordlessly, we advanced to the bridge, stopping in the center. The shadows from the looming trees danced over us, broken by only the flash of fireflies. The water rushed beneath us, but we stood still, suspended in a summer spell.

He released my hand and plucked up a honeysuckle. He held the pale bell-shaped flower between us.

When he spoke, his eyes reached beyond the bloom to me.

"Sweet and gorgeous."

I blushed, but kept enough of my composure to reply.

"But unable to last beyond the summer."

He shrugged, and dropped the flower off the bridge to get caught up in the current.

"Mayhap."

He stepped closer and his arms wrapped around me, his gaze locking with mine.

It was suddenly difficult to breathe, and I stared up at him, eyes wide with my vulnerability. His hands were flash-points of fire on my back, warmer even than the summer, and far more tangible than the ever-deepening twilight. If only summer really were a fairy tale, drawing to a close with a neat Happily-Ever-After bow, a non-ending end.

One hand rose to cup my neck, his palm soft on my skin. He leaned in.

My eyes fluttered closed.

He kissed me like I had always imagined being kissed, soft, sure, and sweet.

And then there was only summer air brushing against my lips.

It wasn't until he stepped away from me that I could bring myself to open my eyes.

Full night had fallen. The wind had picked up, pushing away the scent of honeysuckle along with the storm. The lightning bugs, too, had disappeared, leaving behind only the burbling rush of water beneath the bridge.

"We should go back," he said, holding out his hand for me.

I took it, interlacing our fingers.

Silently, we proceeded up the path, back onto the street, past the street sign.

His voice broke through the rising symphony of crickets and cicadas, summer sounds.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

We turned the corner as I shrugged, not meeting his eyes.

"I'm drawing a blank."

Guess what...

You probably actually can guess. I won something else.

On June 17, "The Essence of Evanescence" won first place in Steward House's weekly contest. The review was highly complimentary, recognizing the poetry in the story. I was actually rather shocked with the placement, considering that I'd literally wrote the piece not two hours before I entered it. I guess I don't always have to edit the ever-loving stuffing out of everything I write.

The story itself will be posted here... eventually. I'm sure.

While you're there, you should also check out Keayva Mitchell's piece, "Ari and Lina's Spectacular Summer of Fun." I swear, I'm beginning to fall in love with that girl's writing, and I sincerely hope that I can tempt you, my lovely readers, into doing the same.

MORE Contest Winnings!

Somehow, typing that fails to get old. XD

On May 27, 2011, "The End" won second place. Steward House says the poem "has some of the best line endings, alliteration, and assonance we've seen in a poem yet." Nice, huh? And they didn't attempt to summarize it, either. I'm verra content. :)   (In case all the emoticons didn't give that away.)

As always, you can continue to find more of my poetry, good, bad, and downright awful, at my All Poetry page.

I Do Love to Win Things....

On May 6, 2011, "Loves Her...," the opening excerpt from Pluck the Petals from a Daisy won second place in Steward House's weekly contest. However, once more, I feel as though the review completely misses my point. The piece is not about "relentless pursuit," but about desire and inaction. Of course, if you read my recent post about the novel the piece is excerpted from, then you have a fair bit more insight into it than did the editors at Steward House. Nevertheless, a placement is a placement.

By the by, while you're there, you should definitely read Keayva Mitchell's "The Remedy," the first place that week. The poem is absolutely amazing.

Contest Winnings

On April 22, my poem, "The (Elusive) Answer to Lonely" won first place in the Steward House Weekly Contest. Normally, I am quite happy with the reviews Steward House provides, but in this case I believe that they have merely summarized my poem and, in the process, done it an injustice.

If you would like to read more of my poetry, it can be found at my All Poetry page.

The Claustrophobic Impasse

I used to be someone else entirely.

That was before I fixed it, of course, but it remains that a different person had this body before I did.

Pixie-cropped red hair, straight nose, calm brown eyes and freckled limbs, petite and pale, a perpetual half-smile on thin lips in a concise visage, nothing wasted but for her. Mademoiselle Nowhere, a girl of early autumn trees by mid-winter creeks. She liked to wear dark colors, practical jeans and tees.

I myself prefer to wear the rainbow, greens and oranges and yellows and ceruleans. I am the city in the spring, and I'm never going out into the countryside again. Let her rot there.

Sometimes it's difficult. It's hardest whenever I'm with him. He knows she's gone, but he doesn't see that as a good thing. He keeps trying to find her, even as he takes advantage of the things she'd never do.

I only ever see winter when he looks at me, wanting to see her, and I'm not sure if that's his fault for not searching well enough or my fault for wanting to make him smile. I don't understand it; I should just walk away.

I remember the first day after I fixed it. He came over to check on her, worry planted in the furrows of his brow. He blinked when I opened the door.

"What are you wearing?"

"A dress," I answered.

He stepped inside and sideways.

"Why?"

I smiled from beneath the lashes, the body objecting to the then unfamiliar contortion of muscle.

"Don't you like it?"

I saw him set her aside as he smiled with relief.

"As long as you're okay."

He had never asked.

Another time, he wanted to talk about how she was.

"Do you remember that one time we went hiking and came across a group of Wiccans in the nude? You were so embarrassed!"

I eyed him from the corners, knowing he wanted her reaction, her frozen creek-country mentality. I wanted him to want my sky-scraping sunshine. But neither of us would get it; the only thing either of us has is the body.

"In retrospect, those were some seriously sexy witches. I'd ride a few of those broomsticks." I cut at us.

He blushed with disgust, closing himself off.

I finished the thought for him and rolled out of bed. I didn't take the sheet.

The blush changed nature.

I watched him in the mirror as I pulled on a red miniskirt, turquoise leggings, and a purple cami. If his foot could reach his head, he might've tried kicking himself.

It is never so hard as when he looks at me.

I catch him staring at me all the time, lower lip caught between his teeth. The expression on his face always twists around my stomach, and I want to hide. Usually I stretch instead - slowly, purposefully. I pretend I don't see the way his breath catches and stops before shuddering back out.

I asked him what he was looking for once.

We were walking in the hallway, and we passed what used to be her locker, outside the Environmental Science classroom. His stride got off as his gaze went from the dented navy metal back to the face. I let it go for a moment or three.

"What are you hoping to see?" My tone pulled tight at the ends.

His eyes went wide as he realized he was staring and mentally chastised himself for the guilty act.

"N-nothing, really."

I didn't press for the truth. We didn't speak again until we got to my sunny yellow locker in the French department, and then only to say good-bye.

Now I make sure to stretch extra slowly, and to make the fabric of my dress fall so that it drapes every curve, determined to give him something that's there to see.

He won't see her after all. He can't.

But he keeps trying.

"Rhea-" he started.

"Myra," I corrected.

He exhaled through his teeth before he continued.

"Myra. What happened that night at Cara's party-"

"Ooh, look!" I squealed, "Miu Miu has a new line of shoes out!"

"Rhea." His hand caught the arm before I could even leave the tile walkway and I turned to look at him, feeling the jaw take an obstinate set. He would not make me feel guilty.

"My name is Myra."

We glared at each other, trapped in the same claustrophobic impasse. Tinny music that would have sounded full and dance-able anywhere else surrounded us, water flowing around rocks in a creek. His brow hung heavy with exasperation and determination and, despite my necessary defiance, I almost reached out the free hand to smooth away his scowl.

Fortunately, he gave in before I could, and I won.

His hand drifted off the arm and he looked away, having failed to see again.

"Why do you want to be called that now, anyway? You always loved your name before."

I blinked at the mention of her. Maybe I hadn't won as completely as I thought. But then, I don't think I can ever win completely.

"Myra's easier," I answered, starting to walk again, my heels drowning out the music. "People can accept it as it is, without trying to change it."

I could hear the frown in his footsteps, just a few paces behind me.

"Oooh, look! Jezebel bustiers! I simply can't have too many of these!"

I knew the way he was blushing and the way he was still frowning, even grimacing, without turning to see. It is a familiar scene.

It hurts nearly as much as it satisfies, victory in defeat, or defeat in victory - I'm not sure which. I'm considering naming Pyrrhus my patron saint, just for moments like those.

We were watching March Madness, he and I and a few friends. Our choice team was just barely winning, but he managed to tear himself away to go get more chips and soda. The girl who had become his best friend in her absence went with him.

I cheered as the point guard made a fantastic layup, jersey in white billows with his motion, and then groaned as he came down hard on his ankle with a lurid wince. The television cut to commercial as medics led him off the court.

I pulled myself off the couch to go commiserate over the event with him. We probably had little chance of winning now, even if there was a relatively decent replacement for the player.

"I just don't know what to do, Ami!" His voice rang from the kitchen, shrill, not the man's tones I was accustomed to.

I should have just gone in then, broken up the conversation, or walked away; that would have been the smart thing to do. But instead I stopped, and I listened.

"But aren't you happy now?" I heard her ask, earnest, sincere. "You've been in love with her for I-don't-dare-say-how-long, and now you're dating her. She's yours now. Yours. You don't have to pretend to be happy being her best friend, watching her pine after that asshole."

"I know!" I could hear his hand gripping the back of his neck, fingers flexing, trying and failing to calm the emotions he did not fully comprehend. "I know, Ami. That's just it, though."

Something tightened in the chest, and I had to focus in order to breathe through a choking nausea. I should have just walked away.

"She's... different," he continued. "Everyone knows she is. Ever since-"

"Yes, ever since that party. But I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing."

I closed the eyes. No, it wasn't a bad thing. I had fixed it.

"She seems fine, and I think it helped her to realize what's important to her: you. Not him. Nothing happens without a reason, and I believe the reason for that awful night was to show her how much she cares about you."

I winced.

"But she doesn't care about me!"

I almost laughed at the vehemence in his voice, the bitter sound bubbling through the nausea in the throat like poisoned champagne. It would be so much easier if either of the two were right.

"She changed her name, Ami! She won't do anything she used to do anymore, none of the things that we loved! All she cares about is appearances and sex and pretending! I'm just her toy. Rhea, the real Rhea, wasn't like that! She loved people, loved the world!" His voice feathered out to a hoarse whisper. "She loved me, even if she loved him more. I miss Rhea, Ami. This Myra is just a body."

The eyes snapped open, the pulse roaring in the ears as adrenaline hit the system. Her memories overlaid with the echo of his words. I may have made a small sound, but neither he nor Ami heard it.

Just a body, his voice resounded in my head.

He thinks I'm just a body.

I wrapped the arms around the mid-section, trying to squeeze her out and keep myself in. I couldn't breathe and it took serious effort not to let tears spill over and ruin my makeup. I wouldn't let him, him and his infernal dissatisfaction with what I had fixed ruin my makeup.

Just a body.

The only thing worthwhile about you is that body of yours, "that asshole"'s voice taunted me from her recollections.

I burned, bile coating the tongue, the nails digging into the lower ribs.

I should have just walked away, but I stood there as he and Ami kept talking, clinking bowls and crinkling bags as they moved around the kitchen.

Just a body.

That memory is like being dumped in a creek, feeling ice scraping over my soul, drawing blood that will not run until much later. No, that's not right: the knowledge that he loves her but will never love me is the ice slicing and abrading my skin - the memory of his words is the aforementioned later.

I went back and sat on the couch, smiling for our friends, and listened as the announcer discussed the second-string point guard with mingled disappointment and hope. A few minutes later, he and Ami returned, laden with popcorn and Baked Lays and Cheetos, and he sat down beside me, slinging one arm around the shoulders.

I held myself stiffly, only tolerating his touch as he only tolerates me.

By the end of the game, I'd melted into him, absorbing his body heat, taking comfort from him for the damage another had inflicted on her, but that he'd all-too-eagerly shared with me.

It is a hard and bitter truth that, despite everything I want to be and everything he wants to see, the only thing either of us has is the body.

Contest Winnings, Belatedly Reported

On December 31, 2010, "Aftermath" won second place under the pen name Sarah Darling. Steward House says that the piece is a "conversational discussion of trauma." The review further highlights sentence structure, noting that I'll "ruminate on a sentiment only to reflect on it anew with a paragraph break and pithy one-liner that catches the reader under the ribs."

On January 28, 2011, "The Claustrophobic Impasse" took first place. Looking back, this is my weirdest piece yet. I'm not even entirely sure how I managed to write it. But the placement speaks for itself - the review is simply icing. Steward House calls it "intense," "complex," "deft," and "subtle."

Aftermath

Today, I realized how much you had become a part of who I am. I thought about you, and I couldn't stop. I traced 'uruz' on my wrist for the first time in over a month because it suddenly started hurting again, just like I suddenly thought of you again.

I never wrote about what happened. I never put it into words. I just stopped writing about you at all, just like I stopped texting you, stopped being your friend on Facebook, and stopped seeing you. What would I have written? You screwed up. I screwed up. And maybe I'm screwing up all over again.

I think I was a little bit in love with you. Or maybe the fact that it hurts even now just fools me into thinking so. But we were years in the making, only to shatter within seconds. Unfulfilled. And it wasn't just the mythical "Us" that broke. I think it broke me a little bit, too, just like I think I was a little bit in love with you. After all, there's now this little fragment of me that was completely composed by you.

I can't seem to bring myself to hate that.

No, I never wrote about what happened. This is the closest I've come.

You're the second male to ever hurt me that way. The first listened to me later that night, seven weeks ago, as I spoke with quiet fear, and he sobbed out that he was wrong, that you were wrong, that it was never my fault. He was sorry, even if you aren't.

Between the two of you, I will never be the same in so many ways.

It's kind of terrible, really. That a woman as beautiful, confident, strong, seductive, responsible, intelligent, and no-nonsense as I am has only ever fallen in love with the two men who hurt her the worst. God. I am a melodramatic, prattling, fool.

I ignored it, both times, both men. I addressed the issue accordingly, and then went off with my life as though nothing had ever happened. I pretended that I still enjoyed being kissed with passion rather than sweetness and that I didn't want to jerk away anytime a male touched my wrists. I deluded myself that I'd always loved films and that I'd find a salsa partner who doesn't make me think of the way you whirled me about your living room. I imagined that the reason that tall, dark males now warrant second conversations is because tall, dark males are my type, even though my type actually has blond curls.

But something did happen, both times, both men. I feel nervous whenever guys kiss me more than softly and I am immediately turned off and even frightened when they chance to wrap their hands around my wrist. I held movies in contempt before you and I started discussing them like literature and I've only been salsa dancing once since that night. The only reason tall, dark males catch my attention these days is because, from the corner of one eye, I almost mistake them for you.

I don't really need to write about what happened. No, not really.

The aftermath - the way my fingers trembled a tattoo on the steering wheel on the way home, the way I winced through my essays the next day, the way that I am only now beginning to come to terms with it seven weeks later - is enough to write about. The aftermath says everything about what happened, without going into sordid details of betrayal and blame. What happened was never about the event.

Lost:

- My contempt for films

- My ability to see films without wondering what you thought of it

- A good salsa partner

- A pain-free right wrist

- A flair for rough play

- Countless good times with you

- Several good times with someone else

- At least a lifetime's worth of passionate kisses

- One friend on Facebook

- One Netflix customer

- One ounce of self-respect

- Two pounds of confidence

- Three tons of faith in the goodness of humanity

Gained:

- An appreciation of films

- A new writing style

- An analytical mindset

- A new "type" of male

- The discovery that I am good at cha-cha

- Time that used to be spent trying to figure you out

- A penchant for cuddling

- A fresh start

- Countless good times with other people

- Countless opportunities to make new friends

- At least a lifetime's worth of sweet kisses

- One Netflix customer

- One ton of self-respect

- Two pounds of confidence in the short-term

- Another two tons of confidence in the long-term

- Two pounds of faith in myself

- Three ounces of cynicism

- Recognition that what happened changed me

- The knowledge that what happened changed me for the better

Child's Play

Kayla twitched her tail away from Devin, giggling at having foiled him again.

He sat back against the wall of the plastic stairwell, his lips pulled sideways with a good-natured measure of mingled amusement and exasperation.

"Now, now," he intoned, "you have to let me enjoy you in that costume eventually."

Kayla peered down at him from the landing, teeth pulling her lower lip into her smile. The over-sized blue cat ears perched in her mess of blonde hair made the sparkle in her angelic eyes all the more pronounced.

"Eventually," she conceded, dangling her tail back down the multi-colored stairs. "I don't know anything about now."

The male said nothing in reply, his green eyes intent on the furry length of blue fabric just out of his reach, his body tense though he held perfectly still. Patience and persistence were what would allow him to win.

Kayla glanced back over the edge, unsure of whether the game continued or even if Devin was still there. She frowned at his inaction and let her tail down just a little bit lower.

He pounced, winding the end of the tail around his palm. Victory danced in the teeth of his feral grin.

Kayla struggled mutely on the upper landing to get away, grabbing on to the lip of the slide for leverage, but with no real hope for escape. The tail was attached firmly to the shorts she wore, and she was prevented from shucking those by the multiple belts intended to support the extra weight.

She smiled as she gave in and her fingers slipped from the hard plastic edges.

Devin pulled her, hand over hand, down the stairs into his lap, disregarding every small scrape and bruise she gained on the descent.

"I know about now," he growled at his prize. "Isn't that fortunate?"

Kayla licked her lips and wove her fingers through his dark hair, caressing the horns he wore.

"Very," she purred, arching her neck for a kiss.

He evaded her with a smirk. They were playing by his rules now.

The blonde's lips pushed out into a pretty pout.

He chuckled.

"Eventually," he answered. "Now," emphasis dripped off the word, "we are going to have some wine."

He turned and made his way smoothly down the plastic steps, despite the double awkwardness imposed by the low clearance and his burden.

She blinked up at him in the clearer light of the open playground.

"I thought we were only playing," she protested.

The horned man didn't respond as he forged through the twilight that had stolen the playground's usual occupants away for trick-or-treating.

Kayla clutched tightly at his shoulders, guileless blue eyes locked on his darkened face. His normally familiar features were now as unclear to her as the clouds around the moon.

A chime sounded as he pushed through the door to the wine boutique across the street, and fluorescent lights made his visage clear to her once more.

Kayla's shoulders relaxed, and then tensed again as she felt a disapproving state come to rest on her. She slowly ripped her gaze from Devin to see Father Patrick glaring at them.

The shopkeeper pushed a bag at the priest.

"Here you go, Father. This should be enough to get you through tomorrow," he said cheerfully. "You just let me know if your order's ever delayed again. I'll be happy to cut you the same deal any time."

"The Lord thanks you," the man intoned gravely, eyes still on Kayla and her companion. "There will be many in need of absolution in the morning." He pursed his lips.

Devin let her slide down his body to a standing position, but continued to hold her tail wrapped about his hand.

The shopkeeper glanced up from the register at the priest's odd intonation, and beamed at the pair.

"Good evening, Mr. Finn!" he greeted. "I've got just the perfect vintage for Halloween night! It's so deep and well-aged, it's almost scary!" The man laughed at his own bad joke. "Come on back and taste it - I know you'll appreciate it!"

"If it's up to my standards, I may take a little," he drawled as he stepped toward the door now held open for him, dropping Kayla's tail.

"But-" she demurred, reaching back for the security of their connection.

"I'll be back," he whispered, his lips warm against her ear, and then disappeared into the depths of the store.

She was left alone with the priest.

Silence reigned as both came to the realization.

"Well now, Kayla, my little lost lamb." Father Patrick spoke first. "You had to know that God would find you again eventually."

Her eyes went wide and her lips went white.

"Oh, yes! I understand it all now," he continued, gesturing grandly as he moved toward her. She shrank into the wall, her tail trailing before her.

"God decreed that the usual order of communion wine should be delayed so that I might be here on this Devil's Night," he spat the capital letters, "to see you, fallen and seduced by Satan, and finally penetrate that bubble you've constructed around yourself."

Father Patrick knelt to pick up her tail. He held the fuzzy length like he would a copperhead, his lip curled.

"This isn't child's play, Kayla." The patient tone he used, the almost kind inflection, was entirely incongruous with the way he looked over the girl in her cute little kitten costume. "I don't know how to get the importance of following God's rules into you."

Abruptly, the priest snapped his fist closed around the costume piece and yanked. The woman cried out in pain as the various belts on the shorts bit into her.

Father Patrick dropped the tail at her feet, now satisfied.

"Come back to church tomorrow," he said, scooping his package of wine off the counter, smiling amiably. "You can be a lamb of God's flock again."

The door chimed as he left.

Kayla was still standing, pressed against the wall, blue eyes wide and teary, when Devin returned, a bottle of red wine in one hand.

"You'll absolutely love this...."

His brow creased with concern, then realization and self-reproach, as he saw his little kitty. He set the wine on the counter, walked softly over to where she stood, unseeing, and gathered her close.

She shivered a little, tension easing slightly but noticeably from her frame.

He rubbed her back and, absently, plucked up her tail, winding the length of it about his hand.

Gaze still locked in a space outside of the material world, Kayla arched her neck towards him.

Now he gave her a kiss.

New Contest Winnings

The week of November 5, "Plexiglass Possibilities" was placed second under the name Sarah Darling. I realized only after hearing from some of my readers that it didn't do as well as I might have hoped because it reads like it should be a short story rather than a blog post. However, it is, as Steward House says, "a unique perspective on the 'call-back.'" So, that's a good. You can find it here.

Last week, I entered the piece I've been absolutely slaving over. While the placement was, again, not what I had hoped for (I mean, I've been working on this piece for well over two months), the review showed that it conveyed exactly what I intended. Here's the link and the piece itself will be going up here in short order.

Third Place in Contest; Nice Review

I can't seem to break the third place string, but they're nice, nevertheless.

This one was for "To Andrew."

The review:

"In contrast to the darker preceding pieces, Henderson's thoughtful 'To Andrew' offers a downright lighthearted perspective on love and identity. Diligent readers of the weekly competition will note the reference to Henderson's 'Nobody - Nobody Special,' a piece that won 2nd place the week of June 22, 2010. Readers who take a particularly philosophical approach to life will appreciate the conclusion of 'To Andrew' most, but all writers should take heed: Henderson practices textbook rising/falling action, the imitation of which would behoove any new or young author."

The next piece I plan to enter is almost done. I really think it's first place material, and (if I dare say...) a masterpiece of short fiction.

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.'"

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.

Won contest - this time with poetry!

"The Laws of Physics", another piece that I am exceptionally proud of.

You can find more of my poetry at All Poetry.

Placed in a contest

"Societal Standards" under the pen name Sarah Darling.

Third place. :)

Introductions

"Gurl, I've gots someone you hafta meet!"

I slowed my hip circle when I heard her, the smile melting slowly off my face. I'd know that slangy, officious voice anywhere, even in this din. Perhaps if I ignored the woman, kept on dancing, she'd go away, and I'd be spared her meddling for the night.

Uh-huh. Maybe once the world ended.

Rather than obliging me, my roommate grabbed my shoulder, her touch stiffening my spine with cold, and spun me around to face her looming visage.

"Serzisly, Carmen! Yuh've gotsta meet this dude! He's perfect sex made incahrnit, and he's curious about YOU!" She grinned wickedly. "He just about swooned on backwards when I told him I could gitz him a face-to-face wit yooh!"

I didn't bother to suppress a groan. She wouldn't hear it over the music anyways.

"ANOTHER fiddler on the roof, Anna?" I shook my head, irritated that she'd interrupted my dancing for this, though aware that she wouldn't be able to see the motion down in the shadows of the crowd. "I'm so not interested in meeting another one of your so-called 'sex-made-incarnates.'"

She tugged impatiently at my arm, already scoping a path through the writhing throng.

"This one's different. He's PUHFECT sex made incarnate. Now, come on!"

It would be easier to just do as she wished, though we must have made a comical sight, me taking three steps to every one of hers. We two have always been utterly mismatched.

"Here my shorty is!" Anna stopped suddenly and my nose met with her second rib with a silent but painful protest. "Carmen Betty, pohtent, provackative, and purrrfect."

I grimaced, massaging my nose. Owww.... I still didn't know who I was being introduced to, but I was fairly sure it didn't really matter. After all, Anna was worse than my parents, always pushing me at someone or something.

"It's nice to meet you," a pleasantly masculine voice rumbled as a hand glided into my field of vision.

I froze, my hand still attempting to comfort abused cartilage.

It was quite a nice hand, actually, with a callused palm and hitchhiker's thumb, the type of hand that makes a girl's body itching-ly curious. It was attached to a bare arm with just the hint of the curves that muscles make. My eyes seemed helpless but to follow those curves up to the shadowed line of a t-shirt, to the swooping hollows of a throat, to a... face.

Woah. That level of public sexiness had to be illegal in at least three states.

"I'm Repens Lantana," he said, smiling at me, wreaking havoc with my internal organs, and then proffering his hand again.

My mouth was doubtless hanging open as my hand drifted down into his grasp. It took strenuous effort to pull myself from the fantasies he was inciting and to bully my lips into forming recognizable words.

"Um... Uh... Do... Do you go to the University?" I managed.

Repens smiled at me again, cocking his head to the side. My mouth went dry and I licked my lips.

"Yes, actually," he replied. "I'm a junior, a biology major." He winked. "I'm also a regular at this club, where I often admire your dancing. You're quite good, you know."

The blood rushed happily to my cheeks, a welcome change from where it had been heading. Repens had noticed my dancing? Repens had thought I was good at dancing?

Oh, God. All heat drained away. He'd noticed my dancing. I didn't think anyone noticed my dancing. I loved to dance - it made me feel sexy, wild, free - but I knew that I danced like a stripper, even though I kept my clothes on. If Repens wanted to meet me based off that, then he probably just wanted in my pants. Oh, I didn't think anyone noticed-

"Hey, don't panic. " His hand slid up my arm to my shoulder, so pleasantly warm, the only thing I could really feel right then, his palm spanning over my right collarbone. "I'm not stalking you or anything like that."

But he had seen my dancing, he had admired my dancing, he had noticed. It was only a matter of time before he told people about me, and then word would spread, and soon everyone would know. They'd whisper about me then, loud and laughing, and I'd be back in high school, my name scribbled in bathroom stalls; "Carmen Betty is a whore," even though I'd never done anything but love to dance, too afraid they were right.

And the next time my parents came to visit, maybe someone would say something to them, or they'd see, and then they would know that I was still the same; I hadn't changed. They'd be ashamed of me again, look at me sadly and condemn me for what I was. Oh, I had told them I had changed!

"Carmen?" Concern now, in Repens's voice, concern for the girl with too many curves and too risqué moves. And she didn't deserve his concern, the filthy tramp, not even a little-itty-teeny-tiny bit, because she'd been imagining what that hand on her shoulder might be able to do in other places. "Are you okay?"

But I wasn't okay, I've NEVER been okay, not since the day I started dancing and found out what I really was.

"It's nice to meet you," I ran out, twisting to get away from him, from the temptation, "but I have to go."

"But, Carmen," Anna protested, "you hasta MEET-"

But I was already moving, running, going somewhere, anywhere, away from the situation, falling in time with the music without thinking, All-American Reject's "Dirty Little Secret."

"These sleeping dogs won't lay, and now I've tried too hard...."

The bathroom. As I dashed through the door, the bartender came out.

"Careful," she cautioned. "The mirror's broken."

It didn't matter. I locked the door behind me and curled over the sink, my tears making the little shards heaped there glisten and seem to cry themselves. Oh, I had to be damned, always a slut and always loving it until I realized it, no matter how I struggled to be respectable, to be someone my parents could approve of. I cried harder as the weight of judgment crushed my stomach and the taste of bile flooded my mouth. It tasted so horrible, so bitter, so natural; like I'd always had that taste there, like I'd always been dancing, like I'd always been lost.

I cried myself out.

When I was done, able to see again, I stared down into the sink. It was clogged with glass trying to slip down into the drain and not quite succeeding, my tears mixing in. Floating bits of mirror winked at me, showing broken reflections of my face, cut off at the jagged edges.

"Carmen!" Anna's voice. "There's still someone you've agotta meet!"

I took a deep breath and let that push me up straight. There was a hold above the sink, slate gray metal, rusting over, empty where the mirror obviously should be. It was a dull, depressing sight, but it seemed to whisper to me, telling me something forbidden.

"Carmen?" Anna again. "Come on!"

I didn't know how she was going to say it to me, but I knew the message, always inconsistent and always the same - always wrong.

And I knew it.

I wasn't the only one who knew it either. The broken images in the sink, trickling away with my tears, knew it was wrong, the rusting empty frame knew it was wrong, the buzzing fluorescent light illuminating it all knew it was wrong.

It was time to stop listening to Anna, because I now stood, exhausted and exalted, face-to-face with whom I had become.