For Rita, With Love

This is a poem dedicated to Rita, Olive Tree's beloved hen who had to be put down this morning:

For Rita, With Love

With love,

Comes a burden of sadness.

Because every love,

Must come to an end.

You must always,

Say goodbye.

Love must start,

And love must end.

Love is taken every day.

Death claims love.

Death takes love,

For his own sake.

And when death claims,

Sadness reigns over love.

Grief, and mourning,

Shrouds of black,

Take the place,

Of happiness.

But life's a song,

A song of love.

And love will always come again.

Love shall never be the same.

But love shall carry on,

Living in your heart.

Remember love now lost.

Remember in your heart.

For in your heart,

Is where love resides.

And shall always,

Now, and forevermore.

We love you Rita.

The Yellow House

This is a memoir rather than a short story. Yeah, it's true.
I have a couple different memoirs I'm going to share with you stretched out over the next few months (then it's back to fictional), but I like this one because it primarily uses second person and you don't see that a lot.

The Yellow House

By Olive Tree

The city is dirty and rough and loud. Horns clamoring for attention, screaming sirens, and blasts of silver and green and white are apparent as the cars rush by on the highway. A few pedestrians shuffle along, heads down, all intent focused on their destination. The shopfronts are stained a sickly gray from the exhaust smoke, and the overall affect is extremely depressing.
    And then you see a small child on a bright yellow tricycle. Their parent is talking on their cell phone as they push the little one along. You slow your car for a brief second, wondering what a child like that is doing in a busy, gray place like this. The sidewalk totters dangerously close to the rushing cars and you instinctively swerve.
    Where could this child live? Above one of the stores? Is the rider of the tricycle and their parent perhaps just visiting? But who in their right mind would bring their child to such a dreadful place?
    If you were to stop and get out of your car, if you were to follow the child for a little ways, you’d find a road that looks like an ill-kept driveway snaking down away from the highway. If you sat and watched the entrance for a while, you’d see cars beetling in and out. Because if, just if, you decided to follow the road, you’d find a tight, residential neighborhood, where the tired people go to rest, and where the gray seeps into the yellows and whites and soft blues of the blocky houses. Most of the houses are new, but some–like the yellow house at number thirty-five ___ Road–are from the early 1900’s, with huge brick chimneys that now rarely smoke to declare, “there is a family inside of me! This is a home where there is life!” Because why start a fire when forced-air heating is so much easier?
    But the yellow house would have soft, bitter smoke pumping out of that chimney in the cold winter months. The yellow house would have a snowman with a carrot nose and black marble eyes and a misshapen, crooked head after a blizzard. The yellow house would have blooming flowers and tomatoes climbing the chain-link fence. The yellow house would have big chalk drawings of dragons and peace signs all over the driveway, and the yellow house would always have a container of dragonflies or newts or snakes on the front porch by the weathered rocking chair that had become a perfect spider condo. And in the upper left window of the yellow house, facing the street, drawings and model horses would be visible, as if the owner of that window felt that her world needed a bit more cheer, a bit more creativity in the gray, gray city.
    The girl in the yellow house has lived there almost her entire life. She remembers when she was three and her family had moved their boxes and furniture into the musty old interior of the building and declared it their home, mildew and all. She remembers the renovation, her parents painting the exterior of the house and wanting to help but being given a clean paintbrush and a bucket of water instead and being told to paint the driveway, remembers her frustrated realization that her parents deemed her so utterly useless she could not do more than fruitlessly paint stroke after stroke of tap water, watching her efforts be destroyed by the sun. She remembers when she was a black cat for Halloween and all the neighbors tweaked her painted cheeks and gave her an extra-large candy bar.
    Most of the memories she has of the yellow house are bittersweet–there are very few that are completely dark or light, rather, most of them are dappled like the shade in a fresh green forest–something she lacked in her childhood. Instead, the girl played on the iron limbs of the playground, climbed on top of cars as a substitute for huge old tree stumps.
    But the girl loves the wild places of the world. Two years were notched out of her gray, drab, city life when her family decided to spend two years in the untamed turquoise oceans of the Caribbean aboard a small sailboat. Then, just like that, the adventure was over and she was plunged back into public school and dirty sparrows all over again.
    If you were to come back to the yellow house tucked away from the roaring highway, the drawings in the window would be replaced by posters for various bands and organizations. “Save the Whales!” one would tell you. “Save the Humans!” another would argue. If you stopped by on a rainy day, you might be able to catch a glimpse of a girl’s face looking out at the flooded street. She would be wondering if she ought to build a boat and watch it be sucked down by a storm drain, or collect worms in one of her mother’s cooking pots.
    But if you returned to the yellow house on number thirty-five ___ Road a couple years after that, you’d find nothing but a for sale sign in the front lawn and movers carrying boxes out of the house like a steady stream of worker ants. If you looked very, very closely at the window to the upper left window, nothing but a few ragged bits of tape, like wounded veterans of some long-ago war, would remain where bright colors had once rained down onto the gray street. A few months after that visit, there would be no trace of the girl in the yellow house. The house is now white, a nondescript, socially acceptable color. The chimney does not puff out gasps of warm, welcoming smoke–instead, there is a river of steam pouring from the pipe connected to the washing machine. The girl and her family are gone.
    Were you to question the new inhabitants of thirty-five ___ Road about the whereabouts of the house’s previous owners, they would tell you they moved into the country, for a better school system and some wilderness. Then they’d roll their eyes like this was the most ridiculous thing in the world, and you would politely say your goodbyes and drive away home.
    All because you followed the child on the yellow tricycle.

*oops*

Oops. Guess I, a, kinda forgot about stuff here. Anyway, here's a short story, called Rush, but it's in screenplay format.

(It's actually true, but I changed the names)

Rush...

FADE IN:

Interior-Sasha's room-Day

Tight on alarm clock:

We see the clock which reads 6:29 AM. It changes to 6:30 and a loud beeping starts. A hand with orange nail polish comes into view and flicks a switch on the side which makes the noise stop. We pull back and a girl appears, sitting on a bed with two windows behind it. There are posters on the wall, Red Sox pennants, a warrior cat symbol, and assorted things hanging on the ceiling and the wall. She picks up the clock and looks puzzled; then angry. She slams the alarm clock down on the nightstand and storms out of the room and we hear her footsteps going down the stairs.

Narrator (voice over as we here girl running down stairs)

Yeah I know exactly what happened. That little brother of mine is trying to make me late for jazz band. Again. Well this time he's not going to get away with it.

Direct Cut To:

Interior-Between the Kitchen and Living Room-Day-Establishing Shot

We see the kitchen and living room. A man stands at the island in the kitchen fixing lunches. A boy is on the couch with a book. The girl runs in, and turns to the boy.

Sasha:

Andrew! How-

The man interrupts her.

Dad:

Sasha-about softball practice today,

Sasha:

We're watching the Dodgers vs. Amatos game?!? Oh goody! (to Andrew) And Yooooou Mr. Sneaky Pants,

Angle on Andrew

Andrew:

Whaaaaat now?

Pan over back to dad and Sasha

Dad:

Sasha- today and softball. The VFW coach called me at 10 o'clock last night. They can't play the Braves tonight and we can't play them next Wednesday because of the 5/6 concert so, the basic idea is that we're playing them tonight instead.

He smiles.

Sasha looks confused for a moment and then speaks.

Sasha:

Uhhh Okaaaaay. Andrew changed my alarm clock again to make me late and so would you do me a favor and put him in a corner or something, and while you're at it make me breakfast??

Direct cut to:

Interior-Kitchen-Day

Angle on dad:

Dad stands with his back turned near the stove. He's whistling slightly. We pull back and Sasha comes into view. She is sitting at the island tapping her foot impatiently against the chair. Dad pours a glass of orange juice and stoops down to pull something out of the oven. He sets the 2 in front of Sasha.

Sasha:

Pizza bread? And orange juice? For BREAKFAST?????

Sasha starts shoving it into her mouth at top speed.

Dad:

Sasha-don't eat that fast.

Sasha finishes and pauses as she gets off her seat.

Sasha:

I'm going to be late for jazz band! Mrs. Yasmin will beat me!

She dashes off and up the stairs. Dad resumes making his lunch and taking Sasha's plate over to the sink.

Narrator (voice over):

No I can't let her beat me. Mrs. Yasmin and I have this competition, see, about how many times she can get to jazz band before me. And, and I can't let that number go up to 3.

We hear a rushed "bye Mom" and then Sasha's footsteps come down the stairs again. She races through the kitchen, grabs her blue floral backpack, and black Protec cornet case and rushes out the door.

Dissolve

Exterior-The Driveway-Day-Establishing Shot

The driveway slopes steeply downward. There are chalk drawings and sayings on it such as "Cornet Crazie!", "Aliens Welcome!", "Life Without Music Would Bb.", and "Peace, Love and Band".
Sasha runs out, hops on her bike, secures her case and starts to ride quite fast. Birds are singing and a squirrel runs across her path. She swerves to avoid it and hits a rock instead, and careens towards the brook. She pulls back just in time.

Sasha (under her breath):

Gosh that was close

Sasha continues to ride and we are on a straight street with a foresty area on one side and houses on the other. Then 3 cats, a white with black paws, a tortoiseshell, and an orange tabby come around the corner. Sasha pulls over and gets of her bike.

Sasha:

Here kitties. Come'ere!

Close up on Sasha as she kneels down and the cats come to her:

The cats come to her and she starts to pet them. Suddenly she stands up, jumps on her bike and starts to ride again, this time going top speed and we can see that shes not comfortable going that fast.

Narrator (voice over):

Really shouldn't have done that. I mean now she'll beat me for sure. Cats, they're my weak point. Seeing those cats made me not even think about band. And for me, there's not a lot that can make that happen.

Presently a large red brick building comes into view. Sasha goes over a dirt path and ends up on the sidewalk and goes to the front of the building where we see a sign reading "Mahoney Middle School". She throws her bike against a fence bordering a sports field and locks it then, dropping her bag and case runs towards a garden and out onto the field.

Direct cut to:

Exterior-Baseball Diamond-Day-Establishing Shot

Angle on Sasha:

Sasha stands on the bench near the baseball field and looks into the parking lot. There are only 3 cars in the lot; and blue Camry, a red Ford pickup, and a gray minivan. None of them are the large silver 4runner Toyota that she knows is her band director's car. She hops off the bench and starts back to her bike, a smile on her face. And then she moves her arms in perfect imitation of an umpire calling the runner safe.

Close up of Sasha:

Sasha (whispering):

Safe. (beat) The runner's safe at home. The game has been won. (beat) Safe.

She picks up her stuff, skips over to the red front door, stops, looks around at the city awakening around her, smiles a broad smile, turns, and walks inside school. Day has truly begun.

FADE OUT



Hope you enjoyed that! I know, I'm a little strange.

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Excerpt

No, it's not a short story, and yes, I am sharing a bit of my novel with you! ^_^ I trust you not to copy, now.

This blog is getting sleepy... maybe this will perk it up? That and the nice new background I made a while ago and just installed. {It's a freebie... you can get it for YOUR blog {as well as many others} by going here, to my freebies section.}

AAAAND I have taken the liberty to change the URL. It is now anecdote-stories.blogspot.com. That's a little easier to remember, now, isn't it?

This is an excerpt from To Save Terria, my novel. Technically it's finished but I'm going through and editing it... as well as making it more than twice as long, LOL.
By Olive Tree {duh}

   “Reena, where have you been all sunsetting? I sent Flamebeard out for you”—the phoenix cawed from his perch—“but you were nowhere to be found! Were you playing with Lightsnatcher again?” Reena’s mother, Ennaly, asked peevishly.

   “Mother, I wasn’t playing! We were having a dignified conversation, and then I went and Felt Skystripe’s new clutch. Doing perfectly normal, elvish things,” replied Reena haughtily.

   “Your idea of ‘perfectly normal’ is different than other elf maids’,” said Ennaly dryly. “You told me it was ‘perfectly normal’ to chat with pixies, remember?”

   Reena did remember. “They told me many things! We had a wonderful time,” she protested.

   “They ‘told’ you gibberish! The little things don’t have an ounce of sense. Now eat your meal before it gets cold. I made some acorn bread tonight.”

   Reena sighed. Though Ennaly was a dragonrider, her imagination was not as wild as her daughter’s. Reena communicated with mermori, elves of other tribes, pixies, lacarths, kraïnarths, songwhippers, fiendrupes, feingin, entus, centaurs, shadowbeasts, wraiths, ellenols… most of these were dangerous creatures! Why, a kraïnarth would rip you to pieces without a blink. But Ennaly’s greatest fear was that one day Reena would venture outside the magical Sphere that enclosed Terria… and into the Human World. Usually she pushed this thought aside, telling herself that no one could get through the Sphere, not with the strength of ten dragons. But the idea always returned, driven by some maternal, protective instinct. Ennaly often asked herself if she was being to strict with her daughter, if perhaps if she let go a little more Reena would find a Bond. But each time she tried, she was unable to release her child. She told herself that Reena would find a Bond eventually.

   “Where’s Papa?” Reena asked, mouth full of soup-soaked, dark acorn bread. “I thought he was coming home tonight.”

   Ennaly sighed. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him or Quickfire since he left on his gathering trip to the Eastern lands. I’m sure he’s fine,” she assured Reena. “Just found a good patch of berries, I bet.” Though the elf woman’s voice was calm and soothing, her forehead was minutely lined, betraying her concern. The Wolf Tribe lived to the East, and the hostile tribe was as sneaky as their mounts. Many a Dragon Tribe gatherer had gone missing in their territory.

    Reena sensed her unease. She slid her fingers into her mother’s loose grip and gave a reassuring squeeze. She couldn’t help but notice that her hand was as large as Ennaly’s. Reena sighed. She was thirty-four, the elf age equivalent of seventeen. Most maidens at her age had already wed and moved in with their husbands, and practically all of them had dragon Bonds. Reena clutched her mother’s hand tighter, feeling like an infant once again. She wasn’t ready for this. She willed herself back in time, a time of carefree laughter and warm summer days, but knew it was useless. She was stuck as a marriage-age girl with a missing father and no Bond to take comfort in.

And Cornet, it's your turn. In fact it's been your turn for about a month now... hurry up and post already! ;-)

Crows

This is a short story I wrote about a year ago. It's one of my favorite less-than-10-page stories to date! Enjoy!

Crows

by Olive Tree

The birds came during late fall. The light was growing less, and rainy days were not uncommon. Eloise’s backpack grew steadily heavier as more and more textbooks were added to her load. Darkness was accepted, but the birds made everything change.
    They came on a foggy Thursday, when clouds drifted down onto the horses’ fields and the road was slippery. The flock came down like a black swarm and perched upon the chain-link fences by the school. Ruffling feathers whispered a terrible secret into the still, silent air. Sharp beaks clacked and clattered like rattling bones.
    The crows were here.

Eloise first noticed the crows as she was walking to the library after school. Hundreds of them were hopping over the wet grass of the football field. She shivered involuntarily. Why did I do that? she wondered. She shuddered again, this time of her own accord, and walked faster.
    The crows were everywhere- on the top of the church steeple, on the hoods of cars. Everywhere. The whisper of their feathers and the rattling of their beaks filled the foggy atmosphere. Suddenly, Eloise noticed why the crows scared her so much. They don’t caw, she thought. Most crows I’ve seen have been making so much noise you can’t help but notice them. These you notice because they’re so quiet.
    Finally she reached the library. Crows roosted here, too- on the roof, in the ancient maple trees. She slipped through the library doors and leaned against the wall, sighing in relief. She padded over to the checkout desk, where a librarian was stamping books.
    “Have you noticed the crows?” Eloise asked her.
    The librarian lifted her head. “What crows?”
    “The ones outside. Haven’t you seen them?”
    “No, dear. But there’s always crows about this time of year.” The librarian inked her stamp again and continued her work.
    Eloise stayed at the library until seven. The librarian who had been stamping books earlier came over to where Eloise was doing her homework and tapped her on the shoulder.
    “Everyone’s gone, dearie,” she said in a hoarse voice- almost like a crow’s caw. I’m just being paranoid, thought Eloise. “The library’s closing,” the librarian continued. She adjusted the spectacles perched on her beak-like nose. The beady black eyes behind the half-moon rims of glass glinted. Eloise noticed them with a shudder. Were those feathers on the librarian’s shawl? Black feathers...
    “It’s time for you to go,” the librarian repeated. Suddenly she lifted her arms. Cloaked in her black shawl, the elderly lady looked exactly like a crow... ready to fly. “Time to go!” she cawed. “Time to go!” The librarian’s nose was extending into a full-sized beak, which clacked and clattered...
    Eloise screamed and fled the library. As she burst through the heavy metal doors, she could hear the librarian cawing behind her... A flock of crows took flight as Eloise raced across the library lawn... Still they made no sound, only the beat of their heavy wings filled the air... Eloise’s thoughts were random, disconnected, and scattered. Home... Fast... She recalled that a group of crows was called a murder...
    She burst in the door and shut it with a bang. She locked it quickly and backed into the living room. She collapsed on the couch and blacked out.

She awoke to see her mother bending over her. A soft halo of candlelight ringed her curly hair.
    Eloise sat up quickly. Stars exploded in front of her eyes and she sank back onto the couch.
    “Hey, honey,” her mother crooned. “The power’s out. What happened to you?”
    “Crows!” Eloise blurted out. “Are they... are they here?”
    “What crows, dear?” Her mother straightened up and pushed her curly auburn hair behind her ear. A shiny black earring hung there. Eloise smiled. It was probably one of her mother’s Halloween jewelry sets. A black cat, maybe? This small bit of normal life calmed her. Then her mother leaned in again and Eloise froze. It wasn’t a cat- it was a crow.
    A tapping sounded at the window. Eloise’s eyes widened as her mother crossed over to it and flung open the curtains. A flock of crows were tapping at the glass. Small white cracks appeared in the glass.
    “There, there, my little friends,” her mother whispered in the same crooning voice she used for Eloise. “We must wait for the others, my little friends. Wait just a little while more!”
    Eloise backed up, dislodging the blanket that had lain on her lap. It fell in a heap on the floor like a pile of discarded feathers. She dashed out of the living room and raced into her room. With trembling fingers she locked the door and backed up against  the wall. A rattling sounded at the window, and Eloise spun around to find more crows crowding outside her window, pecking. Spiderweb cracks spread across the pane. She shrieked and slammed the shade down. Her doorknob shook and clattered.
    “Oh, no,” Eloise breathed. Of course, her mother had the key!
    She slipped behind the shade and began opening the window. To stay inside meant the crows would be upon her in an instant. If she could get out, she might have a chance... She yanked the window up and the crows outside scattered. I have to get out fast, she thought. Already the crows were regrouping.
    She streaked down Main Street, passing the library, the church. She took a turn to race past her school. The cloud of crows was growing closer. She glanced up at the sky. Was it day or night? She couldn’t tell, there was no sun or moon. The glance caused her to falter for a fraction of a second, but that was all the crows needed. They were upon her in a second. They swirled about her, and she though she heard snatches of voices- the librarian, her principal, her mother. The crows were spinning now, faster and faster... Eloise felt her face melting into a beak, feathers bursting through her skin... Her scream became a squawk, and her newfangled talons tore at the grass.
    What had once been Eloise cawed triumphantly as she flapped upwards with the rest of the flock. Soon they would come to a new town. Their flock mentality urged them on, with only one thing in mind:
    The flock must grow bigger.