Forty-Beats #18 /Drabble: Sweetbreads

She stole the heart and liver, and escaped, she believed. The one from whom she stole devised seamless revenge. The witch away in the woods spun a purple woolen thread, finger-thick, boiled it, and tied it in three knots. The witch away in the woods sat on the cushions, tummy rolling over, gurgling with hunger but full of fat, craving the stolen sweetbreads. The more she imagined the tastier they became. She would curse her stomach; too, make her stomach gurgle and bubble and fatty. She spoke the words over the tied thread, and the thief doubled over in pain.




 

Drabble: below ground

Rain gurgled down spouts, like a stomach growling.  Empty, hollow beats in the air, on the roof, through pipes and gullies, rivulets and divots. She asked the question, and he pretended not to hear.  His silence deafened. She dug the hole, dug it deep, and filled it with her own beliefs, but nothing grew. Absence makes the heart grow doubtful. Why do women speak first? Sort through the words, and put them all in safe rows. Till it, protect it, keep them from harm. Patience. Silent patience. This was harder than she thought: cultivating truth.  Don’t smother it. Walk away.

Drabble: Off

Something’s off, and not right. Tilt to the left and see a stain in the marble, imperfections snaking through the coils and folds of stone fluidity. The priestess chanted, prayed, and performed the ritual to perfection, but the spell failed to connect. If she started over nothing would change, the outcome would remain the same: echoes of light gave no shadow, or warmth. Uncatchable, and hollow on the inside: she hugged her middle, and held on, when no one else would. Sometimes she could only live in the hollow space of herself. Love had visited; of that she had faith.

Drabble: Winter Man

At noon the warm cherry-faced sun kissed the back of her neck: lies. At midnight, the drafty-crack wind in the doorjamb crept up her arms, popping goose bumps: truth. She imagined warm skin under cloudy blankets, that not all lack of light meant cold. But tonight it did. The bored conversation in her mind sighed like two washerwomen hanging sheets by pins and hooks, gossiping over the line. She saw the linens, his shrouded face. Eye contact minimal, chattering teeth and thoughts: when he did come home, he would bring the cold with him, smelling of snow, soap, and sweat.

Drabble: Day 7: Sign

The brown velvet slopes gaped wide, just over the lip of the hill, into the maw: the inner eye seeing come one, come all. Sprinkling of toothy lights, biting the darkness, eating luck and chance. Ceniza knew today would be the day…or was it night? The light never changed here. She grew weary of Jeremy’s façade, the bastard. She noticed a small, poorly sewed patch on his backside. Someone tried to repair his waistcoat, but it was starting to show its age. So was he. Though the Eye saw come one, come all, she was beginning to see, too. Clearly.

Click for inspiration here.

Drabble: Struck

Thunder: rare. Even undercooked in this forest. Its appearance, its voice, seems shy and insecure next to its western brothers. It is the youngest of the brood, nudging up against clouds, testing the raindrop waters. The house slept more deeply, more unapproachable, than she had remembered in years. Taking charge of the morning, forging on, clanging, she continued with her routine like nothing out of the ordinary took place, that the lightning illuminated a sheltered secret, and the thunder practiced scales. “I know this may not ever happen again,” she said to no one. “But once is all that’s needed.”

Drabble: June

a tiny moment

not small, not little

tiny: stalwart and whole

second kisses, the two warm arms to

keep

safe

She pondered that when a promise is easy to make—no—easy to keep, is that where the Fates flourish? The promises had not been made in a grove, under the nodding heads of the Treants, however she had no regrets. He was hers, and she was his. The pledge spoken, words wrapped like ribbons, never to be cut. The promise urged them to speak, now, to not wait. If they were the sole witnesses, that was all that mattered.





Writer's Note: 
June is a time for beginnings - named after Juno, the goddess of marriage and childbirth, it seems only fitting to write a drabble to honor her. Graduations, Father's Day (the patron of the family, for without whom the brides would be alone...) and June brides comprise the month of fresh starts and growth...

Drabble: Mother's Love

Even rogues have mothers.

“You know, sonny boy, I wasn’t always this way. Before the Stonemason’s Uprising, I had a heart, ya know. I had big dreams for you, lad. Big and grand. You were goin’ to be a captain in the king’s army, or an innkeeper. Respectable work. Not some filching rogue slumming the docks of Booty Bay. It’s not too late son. You’ve never disappointed me—just veered off the wrong path. Couldn’t be helped. Now be off with ye: take these crates to the man with the black hat. He’ll know what to do.”

“Ma…”

“What? Time’s wasting.”

“I love you.”

The Egg Thief

Know how I think it would be awesome to spend a Mother's Day? Go to Hooters for free food! Free BAD food! And see how young waitresses to whom gravity has not cursed yet feel about their abundant buoyancy versus most mothers' lack thereof. Hey, but free is free. 

Happy Mother's Day, to one and all - want to be moms, grandmoms, moms, and those who have a mom, and especially those who have faces that only a mom could love. 

Drabble: Own Way

Happiest Place on Earth: Azuremyst

“Dornaa, I went mining for some lower quality gems so you can get started on your jewel crafting training. I put them in the bank for you.” Mataoka was so excited to see Dornaa carry on the traditions of Draenei jewel crafting. She herself had spent years perfecting gem cuts, and having a discerning eye for the perfect magic of each gemstone. Dornaa looked sheepish. “I have decided to pursue Engineering, Matty. I didn’t want to tell you.” Mataoka was not sure what hurt her more: the choice or the holding back. “And, it’s Goblin Engineering.”

“I see,” she said.

* * *

I am already missing that second account much more than I thought, although I know it's a very good thing. The reason I am missing it is because I love to start new characters, new zones, new everything: how tedious things become for me when I reach top level surprised me. Isn't that always the goal? More, more,  more? And how envious I am of those who can play only one true main, and craft and hone their skills to world-class levels of play? I don't deny them their skills or knowledge: I just wish I could groove like that. I will forever remain a dilettante; and that's just fine. I know I am in good company with my love of alts. But there is impatience in me, too--even with Dornaa, I tossed on a trunk load of heirlooms and just today alone went from level 14 to 28 in a few hours. Boom. Done. I swore that I would savour leveling her, take my time, do every quest, and here I am again, leveling out of zones faster than I can get a flight path. 

I told my friend Señor and CDR all I wanted to do was sit in Azuremyst and watch the purple skies. That's it. Listen to the crickets. Listen to the music of the zone. Chill. Out. Friday was a terrible, horrific day. No hyperbole, no exaggeration. It was the kind of day that broke me. Somehow the skies and pines of Azuremyst mend me. So does a glass of good Merlot, but that's a story for another time.

Yes. I could grab Mataoka and go "home" for a spell. And I have done that on occasion. But Dornaa's narrative intrigues me: I feel that when I am playing her, and aiding the Nestlewood Owlkin and their primitive, shamanistic, indigenous rituals, I am in another world. Somehow if I am on a leveled character, that sense of immersion dissipates and feels too nostalgic to be authentic.

Perhaps it's a good thing we are not getting three specializations. This way, I am forced to level Dornaa in a new way. She is strictly elemental and restoration. Not an agility muscle will be flexed, nor a single piece of gear without intelligence in it. 

Not sure what it is -- probably my own projection of narrative and idiosyncrasies--but let's just say it's mischief, magic, and mojo: playing Dornaa is unique to her. We'll just leave it at that.

Drabble: Sapphire Blue

“Ready to make that panther for me?” he asked unceremoniously, “I’ve got the goblin orb here.” “Well, of course! Let me gather the other materials,” the lazy jewel crafter replied. She had neglected her craft for some time now, having hurried to obtain the skills to make exquisitely carved panthers: since her pockets usually held lint and coppers, there was no point. But she didn’t make anything for gold; happiness came from creating for friendship. Rubies, living steel, and care: complete. He flew off, with all the joy a Dwarf dare show.

Later she wondered how the other orb got in her bags...

Editor's note: I am looking forward to the day we can name our mounts. Of course this one would be Seraphina.
Oh, to read some other great writing: Tome of the Ancient Pet Battle Stories

Drabble: Cat Fight.

Mrs. Whitworth was disgusted by the lack of discipline, organization, and preparedness of the priest. She filed her claws on the ribcage of a plump vole. This resulted in the logical outcome of the vole’s death and well-groomed paws. Just as she wanted. But this priest! Mrs. W was itching for a fight—a real one. Not the one-sided blood-lettings of rodents versus felines. A fight she could sink her teeth into and of course ultimately win. That girl moved much too slow for her tastes. “Stupid moony girls! Let’s go! The air is chilled and the moon is full!”

October is one of my favorite months, in fact, may be my favorite: it runs a pretty tight race with August and about a day or two out of February. I swear, Mrs. Whitworth put the idea in my head that Zeptepi really needs to get in the game and start doing pet battles. That silly shaman has been sucking up what little oxygen I have for play time, and the 'trying to stay calm, level, and gear for raiding' panic already set in after only a few days. I had a very dear friend talk me down from the ledge yesterday. To be fair, it was only one story off the ground, and if I had jumped, probably would have only twisted an ankle. 

But yes...of all the pets who want to get in the ring and scratch a few eyeballs...Mrs. W is all hopped up on catnip and has been practicing her tail-lashings and kitty-litter toss. Now if I can only find time for Zep to figure all this out.

Drabble: Sick

The mage was sick. His minion caught the bug somewhere over Tanaris, and promptly passed it on, a terrible gift. Mataoka was not a caregiver, but she worried about her friend. She only knew one cure for the Tanarian Flu: her mother’s talbuk and goldclover stew. She wished it was an ancient Draeneic recipe, but alas, it was completely new world. A herbalist sent her the goldclover, and she ordered the fresh talbuk, let it steep for three days under a crescent to waning moon, and served it with a cup of strong, sweet honeymint tea.

The mage looked skeptical.

Señor: I hope you feel better soon. If the stew doesn't work, I'm sending Darkmoon doughnuts.

Drabble: Longing

The tiny gnome shuffled along the cobblestones of the tournament grounds. In her former life, all she could remember was a garden full of sungrass, and giggles from her sisters. She realized she was a Death Knight now, but her existence was incongruent to her nature. She readjusted the heavy sword on her back, endlessly slipping and scraping the purposeful roads. By the jeweler’s wares, an advertisement: a handsome male on supplicant knee to a lithe elf female. Promises spoken, and options weighed: To say yes, or to say no?

She longed for length and strides, and a bended knee.

Drabble: The Bodyguard

Hildy giggled at her pumpkin head...

The large, shadow-infused Omkrit was the huffing color of a deep summer midnight. His protectiveness contradicted his protests. Of the troika of demons at her amateurish disposal, he was her favorite.  He was enslaved by all manner of sorcerers, but Hildy was unique. When the others died, he slipped away until summoned forth anew. She giggled as braids twirled, or spells twisted, “Oh dearie me, Ommie, oh! No! Look! Another one got away! She would yell whenever a beastie got the upper-hand of her mucky spells. Hildy needed him, and woe to those who would hurt her. She was safe.

Double Drabble: Odd

Lothair rarely relinquished his guard: as a paladin, his instincts were aggressively protective. But today was a day to fish –casting nothing but a line in the pond, and see what surrendered to the bait and hook, not mace and shield. The summer Stormwind sun warmed his face, and he felt his shoulders release tension. Then, that presence—creeping, whispering, like ghost-steps on his grave; turning, startled, a little Draenei girl stood behind him, solemnly staring at him with oversized eyes, disturbingly self-possessed. She strolled into the lake, as if she were walking into her mother’s arms. Alarmed, Lothair dropped his pole and jumped in after her, fearing there wasn’t something quite right with the child, and she would drown. She swam away like a little fish, clothes and all, as if she had gills. Well, what the hell—these Draenei were odd ducks—he thought, annoyed by his wet gear and her preternatural oddness.

A few days later, he returned to the pond, and she was there, too. Her presence didn’t unsettle him so much, and he asked her name, which she openly gave: “Olivia Jayne.” And he didn’t worry about her further. She was fine on her own.

Writer's Note: I'm with Lothair on this one -Olivia Jayne is sweet but a tad disturbing. What other NPCs kind of put you off a bit?

Drabble: monster

better left for dead

scrurch-scorch where did he leave his name where cockroach feasted fecal name left trace to a cockroach’s ass his name no name no face gone not right in life the Lady never should have allowed this one back his name maiden’s face buttery soft rusted bloody blade sliced feasted on the worms worms feasted on him cut cut cut humping death the smell sweet gassed corpse flowers blooming shovel blades cut cut cut into the buttery soft rusted earth unearthed the blades in the back of a shop served his ale she wished he would go away stay dead scrurch-scorch

*inspired by something Ironyca shared....woke up writing this and could not go back to sleep...

Drabble: Care Package

Matty is smitten by the little deviate hatchling...better than bitten!

What do you get the girl who has everything? Who never seems to need anything…or anyone? He saw that her face and eyes were puffy: she had been crying, and denied it. He found the places, the haunts, where betrayers dwelled, translucent dream pools shimmied, wearing feathered ferns and vines, like an elaborate headdress. He gathered up what rare things he could, things that would look beautiful on her. It was nothing, really. While she was in town she got the wrapped letters: one had holes poked through. She heard a tiny squawk, and he was hers. The perfect gift.

Drabble: Seduction

Steadfast, man...chaining the beast...

Jarel paid Kélda no heed. She was a witch, and not to be trusted. He knew her kind. It pained him to stay in this evil, empty place, knowing the warlocks cavorted down below.  Gods knew what they did in their shadows. His imagination…stirred him. He must resist. Daily, almost hourly, she ran past him, stopping once to try to seduce him, but he would not be swayed. His loyalties to the King were tenuous at best, and this witch would not push him further into darkness. Humans are so limited in their vision. He has his demons to consider.

Drabble: The Front

Letter from the Front:

In the end, it was hand to hand.  The archers, arrowless, stuck
daggers where they could.  I with my broadsword, and the shield I took
from my brother, hacked and poked and blocked. My comrades and I
fought, and bled, and died, while the enemy, seemingly numberless, did
the same.  They pushed us back, but they paid and paid, a gallon of
blood for every inch.  Finally, it seemed even the frenzied horde had
its limit.  They fell back, and we regained our losses, making a crude
replacement for the broken gates.

And came the morning, we buried our dead.




(This is from a cherished guest writer, Guarf.)

Drabble: Unfolded...

The fresh fortune cookie, sheathed under the others in the white paper bag, was a rarity among cookies. Fortune cookies' true value lie in their portends, not the cookie part. Ceniza opened hers up, as usual halfway through her meal.

The fortune was missing. She hesitated to eat the cookie portion, fearing a bad omen, a death wish in a biscuit. No, she was just being superstitious. She ate another one, fortune reading, awkwardly, “You will soon be reminded of fond memories.” No fear, then: the missing slip could be a good, welcome sign. She decided to gobble them both.