Should I Forget My Self.

My dear friend Clarence (who also happens to be one of my favourite authors) recently published a blog post about all the things he loves, just in case he one day loses what he considers to be his mind, and needs to be reminded of who he is.
Alzheimer's and dementia are rife in my family, so it's more than likely that I will one day find myself in strange territory, confused and fragile, and will need to find solace in the familiar.

His post made me really think about what it is that brings me joy and comfort, as I rarely give thought to such matters: I've always focused on other people's wellbeing and care above my own. What do I really like? What lightens my heart and makes me happy? What do I dislike?
Naturally, I had to make A List, because that is the sort of thing that I do. Often.

Autumn: both the season, and the word. Actually, I like "autumnal" even better, but either is fine.

Walking outside on a crisp October day, leaves crunching underfoot, a hot cup of tea (or coffee, or hot chocolate) in hand. Even better if I'm tromping around the English or Scottish countryside. Additional bonus points if there's a castle involved.

The sensation of hand-knit socks hugging my feet. I hate having cold feet (especially if they're cold and wet), so please be certain that there's always a steady supply of socks nearby.

Knitting the aforementioned socks. If I'm ever agitated, just put knitting needles and yarn in my hands, and I'll quiet down nicely.

The general concept of hygge. Fluffy duvet covers, soft lighting, overall cosy gentleness.

Soup. Almost any kind will do, though I'm partial to potato-leek potage, curried pumpkin, clam chowder, and sopa de lima. The first warm kiss of soup against my lips will make me smile more brightly than you can imagine, and the hug-like warmth that a full bowl provides is gorgeous beyond all measure.

Silence. I cannot abide noise, especially sharp, loud, beepy, or repetetive sounds. My idea of heaven would be a sensory deprivation tank.

Flowers. May there always be flowers somewhere near me, especially during the grey months. Lilacs are my favourites, followed by roses (pink or white rather than red), but I love just about every flower imaginable, except lilies.

If music is to be played, I'm partial to classical, Celtic, Norse folk, and tunes from the 1920s and 1930s. I'll take Mozart, Schubert, Vivaldi, and Beethoven over Tchaikovsky or Prokofiev. Grieg is fine, Wagner is not. Also, if you play Chopin's nocturnes, I may get up and start doing old ballet warm-up routines. Be prepared to sedate me as needed.

Hugs... only if I initiate them, or if I know the person well. I only like to be hugged by those I care about deeply and am comfortable with. Don't let strangers touch me unless absolutely necessary.

Hot baths, especially if there are copious amounts of bubbles involved. If said bubbles are considered a choking hazard, just dribble some sandalwood or tangerine oil in the water instead.
No lavender. Gods help you if you use lavender anywhere near me.

Gardening. Let me get my hands into soil whenever possible, even if it's just pulling weeds. Let me scatter seeds, or even just sit out amongst growing things to chatter with local birds.

Books. If I am still capable of reading, give me murder mystery novels, magical realism (with diverse characters, please), nonfiction books about spices, history, Eleanor of Aquitaine.
If I'm no longer able to read, then let me listen to audiobooks, preferably narrated by British men with Northern accents.

Sketchbooks, journals, pens, pencils, even crayons. Give me drawing/writing implements and set me loose with a pile of paper, and I'll be set for hours. Days, even.

Fire. Not setting things alight, but the warm dance of flames in a hearth or woodstove. Plunk me into a rocking chair and set me by the fire, and I'll be content until a new log needs to be added.

Making lists. As mentioned, this is something I like to do on a regular basis, as it helps to organize my thoughts and calms any errant emotions I may be experiencing. Lists are rational. Efficient. Just give me a topic and ask me to list things about it, and watch me calm down immediately.

Animals. If I am permitted a rabbit, let me have one. I'm fond of cats, as long as I don't have to scrape any litterboxes, but I prefer dogs. Birds are wonderful, but I won't have them caged anywhere near me, and they're not quite as cuddly as furred creatures.

Finally, if I must watch TV, let there be documentaries. Nature, animals, the science of things. Astronomy, ancient mysteries, alien conspiracies. Let knowledge and random bits of trivia replace whatever memories I may be losing, so at least I can exit stage left without gaping holes in my mindspace.

I am coming undone.

"In fewer than 150 words write from the perspective of a ball of yarn that's being chased by a cat."

I am coming undone.
The furry demon beast has been torturing me for the better part of an hour, and I don't know how much longer I can last. Cruel and heartless thing, she seems to take great pleasure in pulling me apart bit by bit; toying with me to suit her own cruel amusement. I had such dreams of things that I could become with my little life, what marvellous shapes my existence could take, but those will never be.
I have a brief moment of respite right now as my tormentor takes some refreshment, but I can sense her nearby, can feel her eyes on me. Her claws will be upon me soon enough, tearing me asunder and scattering me in all directions. I pray that my end is swift, and kind.

She's coming.

A Story in 21 Words

Brendan Myers issued a challenge: to create a story in 21 words. Last night, my dreams were so vivid that I woke up disoriented and had no idea where I was. In the dream, I had wandered through the streets of London with a friend of mine, and ended up in a loft space filled with paintings. The windows overlooked St. Paul's cathedral, and that autumnal scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke stayed with me for some time after I woke in this world.

Aftermath.

From Jessicat: "Describe the aftermath of a significant event, all the details and fallout, without mentioning what the event is."

This is what life must have been like thousands of years ago, she thought. Small groups of people huddling together in the dark, taking turns standing watch against the Something that might creep out of the dark. Emma prodded the fire with a long stick to redistribute the coals and a few people shifted at the sound, just barely on the other side of sleep. Pulling her hands back into her sleeves to warm them, she settled back onto her heels and continued her vigil. Rain pattered down past the open doorway, as it had done every day for the past ten months.
Ten months, two weeks, three days.
Every day began with the slim hope that the rain might stop, but most folks had long given up on ever seeing sunshine again.
Emma looked out at the roiling grey sky and tried to remember what it had looked like when it was blue. She could barely even remember that colour now... everything was in varying shades of ash and mud, now. Her left leg had begun to cramp, so she stood up and walked around their encampment. Eleven people called this space home, and it was comfortable and safe enough, though there were still occasional raiders and brutes to fend off. She made her way over to one of the openings in the wall and glanced out at what used to be her city; from twenty-three stories up, the view was almost peaceful, and the inevitable screams from ground level didn't carry upwards very well.

No Life is Ever Saved.

"Are there any cliche phrases you really can't stand? Write about one of those."
You lot aren't making it easy on me, are you? Right.
...

"You saved my life! How can I ever thank you?!"
The man brushed some broken glass from his jacket and shook his head. "No I didn't, and I'm just glad I was here to help."
Emma grabbed his arm and drew him closer. "I'm serious. If you hadn't come along when you had, I'd still be stuck in that car..."
They both turned back towards the burning wreckage behind them, which belched out a gust of black smoke as though to help prove Emma's point.
With a tight smile, he removed her fingers from his sleeve and took a step backward. "I did not save your life, I just prolonged it for a little while. You're still going to die... just not today."
Her jaw slackened a little at that pronouncement and she pulled away from him further. "What do you mean? Are... are you a psychic or something?"
"Hardly. Just firmly aware of the ephemeral nature of existence, madame."
Emma blinked. "What?"
"Ephemeral, as in fleeting. Impermanent. Temporary. Everyone currently alive will cease to be so eventually; it's just a matter of time. It could be tomorrow, or next year, or several decades from now, but the expiry date will roll around eventually. Death is an inevitability for anything that lives, from bacteria to stars... so I'm happy that I was able to extend your life for a little while longer, but please don't think that's a 'forever' thing. Appreciate what you have in the moment, with full awareness of the fact that you might never experience it again."
"That's such a horrible thing to say! I don't want to think about dying!"
"Maybe you should. Maybe everyone should, for that matter. If every single person on the planet woke up each day thinking 'hey, this could be my last day on Earth', maybe they'd spend less time behaving like self-absorbed wankers and more time appreciating everything they have. Every latte would be a transcendental experience instead of just something sucked back while preparing PowerPoint presentations. Conversations with friends might actually be sincere and engaged, rather than everyone present checking their phones every few seconds. Wouldn't people's lives have much more gravitas and purpose if they knew that they might not be around tomorrow?"
She shook her head. "I can't think about that, I'm sorry. It would just scare me and depress me too much."
He shrugged. "It's far more depressing to walk through life in a bubble of self-distraction and superficiality, instead of really living. If that's what you choose to do with your gift, I should have just left you in the car and not bothered."

Bill and Helen.

No writing prompts today, so I thought I'd revisit a couple of characters I started scribbling about a while ago. I had some ideas about them in my mind, but hadn't really decided what I wanted to do with them, or where they belonged.

Bill

It had been a long time since Bill had examined any part of his body with particular care or interest, so it was fairly uncharacteristic of him to be marvelling at the wonder of his hands at 3:32 on a Wednesday afternoon. Over the course of the last hour, he’d watched as they had changed from their standard thick pinkness to paler rose, even turning to white on the ridges that formed as they pruned in the water. The crests and hollows were tiny mountain ranges creasing all over the digits, and the longer he stayed in the bath the tighter the ridges became.
Bill mused that he finally understood why infants seemed to be so fascinated with their hands; they really are miraculous, aren’t they? Capable of so many intricate movements, comprised of skin and sinew and bone, with all those wondrous textures. From what he could see of his toes, myopic as he was, they also seemed to have undergone a similar metamorphosis, as had his elbows. He could only speculate as to the state of his scrotum, but since that part of his anatomy had not been visible to him for several years, he couldn’t confirm his imaginings about it.


Helen

Gnawing on a piece of overcooked pork chop, Bill gazed intently at the woman sitting across from him at the dinner table. A fairly attractive lady in her late fifties, Helen Ivanchuk (nee Wallace) still wore her hair in the same style she sported when she and Bill first met, nearly forty years before. He’d always disliked the hairstyle, but never had the heart to tell her so. He thought the bland, shoulder-length bob made her look rather horsey as it accentuated the gaunt length of her face, and the ash dye she used washed all the colour from her skin. Unbeknownst to him, she hated the hairstyle and had been longing to change it for years, but since her husband had complimented her coiffure once several years ago, she assumed he liked it the way it was and so had kept it the same, lest an unexpected shift in appearance alienate him further.

Snippet.

"You said that you're working on a novel... can you share a small excerpt of what you're working on?"

I'm having a hideous brain-fog of a day today so I'm taking the easy way out and going with this writing prompt, courtesy of a curious friend across the pond.

Traveling in the Between is a lot quicker than over land or by air: you just focus on where and when you want to be, and you sort of shimmer your way through various layers of existence until you pop out close to your chosen location. I did exactly that, riding the shimmer until I was just on this side of the Ever so I could make sure that I didn't interrupt anything when I stepped through. One of the main reasons why so many people are leery about spirit beings is that most of us tend to just jump out to say whatever's on our minds, and that ends up frightening bodied folks out of their wits. Ada, the woman I had come to speak to, was sitting and reading at her kitchen table, a steaming mug of something or other within easy reach. I always loved the colourful chaos of this room, with its eclectic decor and herb bundles hanging to dry in between ancient cast iron and copper pots. If I were able to smell anything in this realm, I'd probably catch whiffs of deliciousness from every corner.

"I know you're there, so you might as well just come out and say whatever it is you came to say."

If there's one great thing to be said for seers and magic folk, it's that we don't have to tiptoe around them for fear of freaking them out: they can either sense us a mile off, or had advance warning that we'd be showing up. I stepped through into her kitchen and smiled in greeting. She arced a brow and pursed her lips at me in turn.
"You again? Mighta known you'd be back 'round these parts eventually."

"Nice to see you, Miss Ada. Am I interrupting anything?"

She held up the book just long enough for me to see the rather torrid cover before plopping it down on the table. "No more than usual. I'm assuming you need something?"

(c) Catherine Winter, 2014