Plotless Blurbs – December 2017

by Kajsa Forden | Dec 30, 2017 | From the Author

“Through my kaleidoscope I can see next-door neighbors in next-door worlds and pretend they can see me, too. The next-door neighbors live like us and talk like us and feel like us, but they don’t act like us or look like us or think like us. If a grown-up saw my next-door neighbors in their next-door world, instead of a handshake held out, there’d be a nickname called out.”

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“You can’t fan the heat of problems; they boil and bubble and burn. The only way to stop the pot from boiling over is to take away the fire.”

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“When the stars have sparkled their last and the dance has come to its final note, will you love me enough to remind me what I’ve lost?”

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“The mermaids murmur, the fairies flutter, the trees tell the tale of the princess who rides the Sun-laid path. She takes her rest upon the river bank, with naiad maids, and takes the Sun’s embrace. For when the Sun reminds you of dandelions and the rays leave stars in your eyes, is it not better to swim and be enveloped in the warmth than to walk upon it and forget the feeling beneath your toes?”

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“Burst forth, new life, for I am the Sun and the Moon, the giver and the keeper of life, the beginning and ending of all things, she to whom the green of Earth bends to meet, and I command thee, burst forth!”

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“The bouquet of the day, plucked from the fields before the woods, lay upon the wooden floor, its summer magic disappeared among the petals and fallen buds”

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“Flower green upon the bank, why do your leaves grow gray? The sun above, it’s rays shine bright, and yet your petals fray.”

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“Can you see the nymphs laughing? Can you see them as they smile? Can you see them, little groundling? Can you see their wit and guile?”

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“Though she watches, and she smiles upon those who hope; though she watches from above, she cannot take part.”

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“To pass through their world, the old man said, the curtain must be lifted from your eyes … The curtain, the curtain, it hides the magnificent truth that magic is always in front of you – hiding, waiting, watching. Are you worth lifting that heavy veil?”

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“When the sun is high and the breeze is low, the trees can whisper and giggle and glow. If your quill is quick and your mind open, the stories will flutter onto the page through the ink onto the parchment.”

Excerpt: ‘The Lessons We Should Learn From Dead Men’

by Kajsa Forden | Oct 20, 2017 | From the Author

When the fog rolls in across the bay, and you can hardly see your hand in front of your face, the saddened and desperate multiply in the darkness. The bridge, scarlet arches of golden opportunity, is there to welcome those who have shut the doors to any other option. Once there, the air is suffocatingly fresh and the only reminder of the ocean below is the crashing of the waves. You can stand there all night, surrounded by fog and dark thoughts, as I once did, and you can even gaze around in the faint hope that someone will see you, ask you what you’re doing, try to stop you. But, rather than spotting a guardian angel, I saw only another man, a man whose face resembled my own in its desperation and hopelessness. Perhaps that is why I hesitated my own destruction; his somehow seemed so much more urgent to stop.

I was running before I knew that I had moved, and shouting before I wanted my mouth to open. He jumped with more conviction than I ever could have felt, staring into a whirling abyss below. The tail of his coat and the hat from his head were the last of him swallowed by the great cloud of white fog. In all probability, I was the only one who saw him that night, the only one who would know about the missing man that would be advertised for in the papers in the following week, and the only one who would know exactly why. I didn’t know the man. I had no idea who he was, and I hadn’t seen his face properly either. What I had seen of him would burn in my brain for the rest of my life, as it burned against the back of my eyelids then, a repeating scene.

I stood there for maybe another hour, glancing every few minutes at headlights speeding by, foolishly considering forcing one to stop. That wouldn’t do. Instead, I paced, hands in pockets, taking only a few steps before kicking something solid. It wasn’t part of the bridge – my foot would have known immediately. No, this was something smaller, sized conveniently for a gentleman’s coat pocket. A small notebook it was and it teetered dangerously at the edge of a similar doom to its presumed original owner. Taking a step back, I knelt down, picked it up, and turned it once over in my hand. Another glance into the white, billowing ravine below told me it was time to go home, no matter how much my curiosity bribed me to sit down then and there, and read a dead man’s notebook.

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