Winter's GuardiansThis story is my latest writing challenge attempt!=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=Challenge: The story ends on a wrecked ship. The story takes place at midnight exactly. During the story, there is a terrible misunderstanding. During the story, there is a letter delivered. The story must involve dust in the beginning.Title: Winter's Guardians=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=A soft blow from her pink lips and dust is sent into the air like dull snow, softly twinkling in the moonlit sky, framed in the dark blue blanket of night. When her warm breath, rolling in plumes in the cold midnight air was not enough, the woman with snow coloured skin and dark raven's hair drew a feather duster seemingly from nowhere and began to vigorously bat away the thick layer of dust that had caked itself onto a stone table that sat hidden deep within a forest unknown to any save four. Small glints of light conti
One Last TeaOne morning, North awoke to find a small brown envelope sealed with blue wax sitting on the ugly red rug just underneath the ugly brass mail slot on his ugly redwood door. There wasn't anything special about the flat that he had taken residence in, but it was loaded with character, and character was always a massive draw for North. Character was the thing of stories. But that is not what is important right now. Opening the letter, North found inside the letter he always received at the beginning of the month. It was an invitation to High Tea with South, West and East. These days, however, the invitations had been stacking up on the dinning room table, tucked against the wall in the lounge (where it had no place being). If his flat had a fireplace in it, the stacks of unanswered invitations and junk mail would no doubt have been making a permanent residence in it.The note said the same thing it always said and was written in the same ink that never looked the same colour every time you
Death Be a LadyI could see the music. I could see it vibrate in psychotropic colors, outward and onward from the Guitar Man. And I doubt that I was the only one in that crowd feeling and experiencing that music. The crowd had to have been feeling it, they were tranced out, moving in complete sync with the Guitar Man's ever chord pluck, stroke and wail. It was the event of all events, the last night of a three day art, drug, music and free expression binge out in the dessert. It was pretty far out. Three days of the world's misunderstood minds, artists and creators coming together for the festival of all festivals. And then it was almost over, and the crowd, myself included, stood amongst several large sculptures looking at the Guitar Man and his band play against a monster burning effigy backdrop. All of us in sync with the person next to them.She was screaming the loudest, dancing the hardest, dressed the coolest, standing on top of one of the giant sculptures, a twisted image with its hands held o
High Tea HillOnce a month they gather.Call it a tea party if you will.Once a month, West meets with East, and South meets with North, and the four of them get together to chat with one another, play cards over tea in big mugs, because those are the best mugs to hold on to.Fall is about her work, dancing and changing the colors of the leaves, preparing the world for her sister Winter, and this leaves North, South, West and East in need of warmer clothing. North arrives at a small clearing, with a carpet of red leaves and a gentle, warm wind with the slightest hint of chill rolls around, forever moving the crimson, gold, copper, brass, orange and yellow carpet. There in the middle of this clearing sits a stump, with four wrought iron chairs with what must be the plushest looking seats one could hope for. It has been a while since East, West, South and North have gotten together for tea, and rest assured there is much to catch up on, and they will be doing much sitting down. As I was saying though.
The Boy in the RainRain is dropping down, no sign of relenting, the streets aglow in the sheen of the watery surface in the night time lights and signs. Water falling from the sky, water falling from the suspended clothes lines, water falling from the rusted steel fire escapes, water falling off the hats of the investigating officers. The alley was filled with the alternating blue and red lights of a few police cars, a fire engine and two ambulances. I lite a cigarette, a terrible habit, I picked it up after my promotion, probably a few months afterward. I was a bright and eager young man, just made detective, thought I could be a real sleuth. Could not have been further from the truth. Its not all Sherlock Holmes, detective work. Now days its all murder, gang violence, informing families of dead kin, filling out paperwork. There was no evil villain with a dastardly plan to over throw a regime with their wealth and power and influence, just the next punk with a pistol. There was no picking up even the sm