Cabinet of Curiosities

On By Danielle O'ShayIn Flash Fiction, Original FictionLeave a comment

I grew up in New England, in an old-style farmhouse built sometime in the late 30s.  It was a fairly average house in most respects, settled down a country lane lined with aspens, birches, and ancient apple orchards, with fields and white fences beyond and the sea some distance away, blue on the horizon.  The house was white, with many windows and a stone chimney, and the barn a crisp red against the green of the pastures.  The neighbors were few, the miles to town many, and the secret niches and hollows in the forests abundant.  

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Courtesy

On By A.J. ReevesIn Flash Fiction, Original Fiction, Short Story, UncategorizedLeave a comment

She waddled, hands placed on her lower back on either side of her spine trying to relive some pressure. Her huge belly jutted out in front of her, her belly button visible beneath the stretched fabric. Her feet were killing her and the bus wasn’t due for thirty more minutes. Being pregnant was not conducive to the ease of public transportation. A few more weeks the doctors had said and she should pop this little darling (whom she dearly loved, but she missed seeing her toes) out. It had always been her versus the world and soon it would be her versus the world plus one (an innocent, helpless plus one). She trembled from fear or excitement or maybe pure exhaustion she did know. Probably D) all of the above.

She needed to sit down before she fell down. The bus bench was occupied by a lone man, on the right of him was a liquid substance that looked like puke, the left his collection of bags.

Annoyance rose at the possibility of having to speak to the stranger. She hoped he’d notice the big belly and do the right thing.

She moussed into his field of vision. His eyes were focused on the book clasped in his hands, the front cover bent over, his right finger slid beneath the next page prepared to flip once his eyes finished their journey downward.

Well shit, she hated to interrupt people when reading. Her feet throbbed, her back ached, her daughter kicked. She didn’t hate it that much.

She gave a gentle sigh to garner his attention.

Nothing.

She released a very lady-like pained grunt.

Nothing.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

She was ready to snatch the book from his hands and smash it onto the floor and grind it beneath her swollen feet. And she was not one to damage books.

“Excuse me, sir?” she said with aggressive authority, waving a hand between him and the page.

The lines of his face shifted into surprise then anger at being interrupted, and he glanced over the top of his glasses to glare at her.

“What?” he growled, his deep blue eyes piercing her with fire.

“Would you mind moving your belongings so I may sit?” Her voice matching his in brimstone, she tacked a forced smile on the end, making sure to include teeth.

“No.” His eyes returned to the page.

“You want to run that by me again, Fu-, Buster!”

“There’s puke beneath the bench, and I need this stuff close so I can keep track of it while reading.”

“Oh well then, glad to know your book and bags outrank me.”

“Standing never killed anyone.”

His book had remained at eye level for their conversation and she had a strong suspicion he couldn’t see anything but her face. As if that was an excuse, she still expected decent treatment when she wasn’t pregnant. Thank you very much.

“Shithead, I am about to fall over.”

The book came down at her profanity and he looked ready to give her a tongue lashing. His eyes bulged at the sight of her stomach.

“Crap.” A light pink flush crawled its way up his checks. Embarrassment well at least there’s that, she thought bitterly.

“Her ears have developed she can hear you, asshole.”

He didn’t answer simply slide his arm into his backpack strap, hefting up as he stood. Next, he grabbed his plastic suitcase lifting it past the vomit and a safe distance away before coming back for a small parcel and a stack of books. How he had gotten that all there in the first place was beyond her.

She also now realized he was a huge man, well over 6 foot towering over her, a backpack hanging low off one arm, hand filled with a brown parcel and a stack of books in the other, his finger still marking his place in his novel. He stepped past her, and she sank down with a relieved groan.

He looked a bit lost about what do with all his stuff.

“You can leave it, you know. I am not goanna steal it, I am not sure I’ll ever be able to get myself off this bench again, anyway.”

A smile quirked at his lips.

“But I claim the suitcase as a footrest.” The smile slipped as his eyebrow rose, but she could see amusement in his eyes. He settled his belongings beside her and set the suitcase at her feet.

“I was joking” He left it, her feet found themselves quite comfortably elevated.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke, “Sorry. I tend to get nasty when my reading is interrupted.”

“I get it.”

They lapsed into silence.

A Beryl-Painted Sea

On By Danielle O'ShayIn Original Fiction, Short StoryLeave a comment

Commodore Sawyer Walsh

HMS Verity

19 August, 1815

15:30

    — Dark clouds spotted at 14:00 on the eastern horizon, most likely an early winter storm.  At the present there is no reason for concern, though I cannot help but feel it.  It is the height of the season and the air has been silent for far too long.    

    At 15:00 our course was altered by 12 degrees south to avoid reefs.  Our pace is fair and all the crew are ready to return home after three years at sea.  This will be the Verity’s last voyage, for as soon as we return to England she will be put out of commission.

If there is to be a storm, I hope it to be mild, as the ship is fairly damaged.  Though she is a fine craft, she is old, and the war has not been kind to her.  I do not wholly trust her in any size squall, much less a hurricane, as is my fear. —

Commodore Sawyer Walsh, an irrepressibly austere man of five and fourty, set aside his pen and closed his personal logbook, rather hoping his concerns did not manifest themselves into tangible realities.  His looped handwriting was even more illegible than usual, as his broken right hand was tied with a blood-stained bandage and unable to perform its duty, due to an accident which occurred on deck two days ago.

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Too Cool to Die: The final battle of Egil’s Saga

On By A.J. ReevesIn Literary Analysis, Literary CriticismLeave a comment

I recently discovered the beauty of Icelandic Saga’s highly recommend Egil’s Saga as well As the Saga of Grettir the Strong, super fun Iceland warriors running around killing and fighting people and composing poetry. This is a short analysis I wrote on an interesting scene in the tale different from many others. Slight spoilers so read the Saga first or jump in. 

Egil’s Saga is a beautiful and long tale covering generations of a family and their feud with the Kings of Norway as well as their settlement in Iceland. Egil the main character of this tale is a powerful warrior and a man who often finds himself at odds with others and society, continuing the family tradition of angering Kings. This story is filled with many wonderful scenes, but a moment of interest is Ch. 76. where Egil finds himself being ambushed in the woods.

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The Naturalist

On By Danielle O'ShayIn Flash Fiction, Original FictionLeave a comment

There is color in his eyes, echoing there; jay-bird blue and stormy-water grey, deep mossy silver and yellow like autumn leaves, sometimes brilliant green and curly white.  He sees nature as a blueprint for life, and bones as the written history of what used to be.  Brown laces the lines of his palms and fingertips, mud edges his boots, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up past the elbows.  Sometimes there is ink on his face and a pen behind his ear.  There is always a notebook in his hand, an extension of his arm.  A leather-bound notebook filled with scribbles and sketches, bits of leaves and insect wings taped inside.

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The Corporate

On By A.J. ReevesIn Flash Fiction, Original FictionLeave a comment

For a prompt I first asked myself what my version of Utopia was then I asked myself what dystopia would look like to me:

The cement sidewalk is cracked and dirty, millions of feet tramp down on its surface, everyone is crowded together. Everyone is in a rush heading somewhere just as bleak and grey as they sidewalk beneath your feet. No one talks, no one smiles, no one has time for human connection. Continue reading “The Corporate” →

A Library in the Woods

On By A.J. ReevesIn Flash Fiction, Original Fiction1 Comment

For a prompt, I asked myself what would be my version of Utopia:

Scraggly roots break up the ground, there trees growing tall and strong. Their branches bend under the weight of thick green leaves, the sun filtering through, creating a dapple of light upon the dirt floor. Between these trees are large bookcases, though between might be the wrong word it’s more like they are part of the trees. Continue reading “A Library in the Woods” →

The Ghosts of Ballimere Bog

On By Danielle O'ShayIn Original Fiction, Short StoryLeave a comment

It can be said that nearly every old village in Ireland is well-equipped with a quality ghost story or two, or perhaps three or four in some cases.  Most are the quintessentially sinister legends of revenge and death, such as the legend of Thomas Ó’Baoghill, whose ghost roams the stony fields of Kilkennery, ever in search of his murderous brother, who killed him on a blustery winter night.  Others star ghosts which are of the more helpful type, such as Temporary Mary, who wanders the empty nighttime roads between Oldcastle and Knockborough, singing to travelers and keeping them from danger, or the Watchdog, who barks at night to keeps rouges away and sometimes digs up forgotten treasures.  Some stories are so old nobody remembers the original version anymore, others are—quite frankly—ridiculous, or told only to keep children in line, or repeated year after year in front of a roaring fire purely for the joy of the thrill it gives, and others haven’t even been invented yet.  Then, of course, there are the little-told legends which tell of sorrowful ghosts who should not have been, lost souls and woeful brides, more accounts than folklore, told only in whispered tones when one is feeling especially brave, for these are the kind of ghost stories which are the most likely to be true.

This one in particular, the Ghosts of Ballimere Bog, is such a tale.

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An Image of Love: “To My Dear and Loving Husband” by Anne Bradstreet

On By A.J. ReevesIn Literary Analysis, Literary Criticism, UncategorizedLeave a comment

I have always had a soft spot for romantic notions and ideas. I love the idea of romance, I love the reality of a strong and loving relationship even better. “To My Dear and Loving Husband” by Anne Bradstreet, is her attempt to express the depths of her feelings and emotions towards her husband. Bradstreet instantly had my attention when she started with “If”, this use of a conditional clause intrigued me, she uses it to draw attention to the immense compatibility and love between the speaker and her husband. Continue reading “An Image of Love: “To My Dear and Loving Husband” by Anne Bradstreet” →

Nebular

On By Danielle O'ShayIn Flash Fiction, Original Fiction2 Comments

Deep within the realm of the stars lies a beast.  He is an ancient being, crafted from the darkness that was the face of the deep, before man became man and the earth and sky were without form.  When the light came, separating night from day and the light from the dark, that is when he was born.  Fashioned out of scattered pieces of the heavens, built by the hands of the divine.  The Creator breathed life into what had been designed and the beast came to life, shaking a mighty head and splashing the waters of the firmament around his feet.  Opening his great mouth to yawn, he settled down to watch as a World was built around him, a single World where only a void had once resided.  The waters of land and sky were divided, giving name to Earth and Heaven.  Stars filled in the empty places of the night.  The Hand took up a brush and painted the world with Color, adding red, gold, silver, and many others to the blank pages until at last, it was finished.  

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