Untitled Writing

The candle flickered and sputtered, sending the shadows scurring out of their hide outs and dancing across the walls and ceiling of her room. She marveled at their playfulness; at the way they startled her and then flickered away to spook someone else.

Nothing came of her racing heart and wild thoughts. She stared, as always, at the blank screen before her.

What was there to write about? A song, a poem, ancient rituals that had long since lost their usefullness to society?

The shadows continued to play around her. At times they worked up her imagination, spreading dark thoughts in an otherwise tranquil mind. Recking havoc on the calmness she had cultivated for years.

She tried to ignore the shadows. Focus. Find something to write about. Think.

Nothing came to mind.

This wasn't unusal. She look to the shadows and wished they offered some inspiration. They didn't. They remained silent. Merely danced and pranced throughout her cold room; bringing an errie life to the dead walls that contained her.

She reached out and placed a hand on the wall; tried to grasp the shadows and keep them still and perhaps capture their essence and make it her own. She removed her hand slowly, reached back again and still her hand came away empty, having been just another solid object for the shadows to dance upon and play over.

"Ridiculous," she thought out loud. " I should be doing something productive, not waiting for the second coming."  She paused and let her thoughts flow into one another. Allowed her emotion to pick up and let go, a spark of inspiration, a flicker of truth....nothing.

Mulling over what there was on TV and thinking that soup didn't sound like a bad idea for dinner, she abandoned her post at the desk. Her characters had to wait, just like she did, for their lives to unfold and the next chapter to take root.

 Going over to the candle, she bent to blow out the flame, gazing once more at the shadows, she whispered, "Night time guys," and with a breath of hot air, sent the room into darkness.

The pitch black of the room didn't bother her. She felt oddly comforted by the depths of darkness. There were no shadows dancing around her, no failing dreams to watch fall, merely a void that could suck her up or release her. A shade of black that she became a part of and with this she was whole, never alone.

She took a deep breathed and enjoyed the moment, before heading toward the door. She had the pathway memorized, which was good, since she couldn't see anything. Her footsteps where measured, confident and she stopped as she reached the rough wooden door. Her hand touched the doorknob, prepared to set her free from herself, and she paused. Waiting. Waiting for inspiration to hit, waiting to be sucked into the void, she waited for the eternity of a minute then conceded defeat, leaving the room. Her adventure left unfinished, her characters abandoned for reality TV and midnight dinner of leftovers, her dreams to be fulfilled on another night.

***********************************************************

"Are you kidding?"

"No, I'm afraid I'm not."

"But..." sputtered the angry masculine voice.

"I know. It's horrible, but it looks like we are going to be waiting for some time," interrupted the more calm, less harsh voice.

"I just..I can't believe. Six months. Six, bloody months and we are still stuck here, in the same chapter. I can't take another month of sitting around talking about a war that we aren't even sure will take place." The angry voice, deep and booming, belong to Glenrook, the second in command of Lord Dextra's army in an unfinished book.

"I wish we had a choice in the matter, but you know, as well as I, that..."

"That we are but characters," Glenrook interrupted Mag, Lord Dextra's housekeeper and oddly enough, Glenrook's sister-in-law. "I believe you described us as, "Shadows of the soul" or "Pieces of the Brain's Puzzle" or, my favorite, "The illumination of the inner child" or howabout..."

"I know what I said," snapped Mag. She hated grumbling men. She put up with them day and night. All they did when they weren't trying to kill each other, was eat and complain..oh, and chase ladies. Really? Could the writer not move them forward just a wee bit, say, perhaps to death? Right now she could surely use a rest from all the complaints of the household. Why, even her own husband, bless him, hadn't been this much trouble. Of course, her own husband had been killed even before the book began, so she figured it probably didn't count.

"I think the Miss just needs a little encouragement. It's not easy, directing other's lives." Mag explained with great patience.

Glenrook grunted, he didn't care for Mag's tone of voice. He wasn't a child for crying out loud. "Well, you don't seem to have a problem with it," he resorted and watched as her blue eyes darkened and her face started to go red.

As much as he loved the ol' gal, Glenrook took particular fun in baiting her. He loved watching her get worked up over nothing. Staring at her now, he admired his handy work. Mag's fist were clenched, her face and neck red, her eyes dark with anger. He knew she hated being called "managing," so whenever he felt like he had been insulted by her (which was pretty often), he threw that insult in her face.

He had to admit though, he wish things were a little different between them. Mag wasn't a bad looking woman and at times Glenrook wished they were't so often at odds with each other. Mag was a full-figured woman with wide hips and big bosom. Had she not been his late brother's wife, Glenrook would have been thinking to marry her, but he didn't want to ruin their relationship.

Yep, he baited her and she took the bait, providing entertainment during this most boring and solemon time while they waited for their author to come up with a twist in the plot or at least finish the current predicatment.

For six months, Glenrook and the other men of Lord Detra's army had been talking about a possible war with their neighbor and archnemeis (that's how it always is in the books) the McNabs. Something about the current Lord of the McNabs, rubbed them wrong and so what was their left to do but kill the bastards? Made sense to him. Now, if he could just convince the Miss that war was the best course of action and should be seen too immediately. Why, a good, bloody battle scene would make the book ten times better to his way of thinking. So far, all there had been was some love drama between two younguns and a death scene of minor porportions. What good was one death scene? Nevermind that the scene had been a murder and the murder was yet unsolved and possibly connected to the McNabs. Of course, all the better reason to attack them now and get over with.

Glenrook started growling over the lack of action being taken when felt something hit his chest. While he was lost in thought, Mag had taken the opportunity to fetch her rolling pin and was now dead set on beating him with it.

He laughed, "Mag, I don't think that will do much damage."

Mag's face flamed even more with anger, "You wanna bet? I left the kitchen knife back there, but if you want to see your blood drawn I'd be willing to go and get it." Glenrook didn't doubt her threat and stepped back.

"Alright, now, Mag. You know I was only teasing you." He conjoled.

"Aye, I know that, but you know how I hate it. So, I'm teaching you a lesson. Best be making some sort of plea now, Glenrook, or I'm thinking there won't be much left of you to call you a man when I'm through."

Glenrook's eyes grew big and he did what any sane man would do. Fled. No sense in losing his balls to a cabin fevered woman. Okay, he admended as he flew out of the great hall to the courtyard, so maybe it wasn't exactly cabin fever, but it was damn close to it. Perhaps they should title it "Character's fever," no that wouldn't work. What about, "Miss- has- writer's- block -and -we -are -stuck- in -Chapter- eleven- fever".... no, too lengthy.

Glenrook continued thinking of a new name as he raced toward the battlements and out of Mag's way. He'd face her, after she had cooled down some.

************************************************************

Candle light flickered and sputtered. Shadows scurried out of hiding to play with one another as she stirred to life. Yawning, stretching, she dressed quietly and then made her way to the kitchen to begin the day. It was dark outside yet, but as always, work didn't seem to be dependent upon light or darkness, rather it was based on need. The castle needed bread and so she rose to prepare the morning loafs of bread for them.

Battling with pots, logs and fire, finally, after several long minutes she was able to lay out her ingredients and begin her work.

Hours passed. Hours full of mixing, kneading and baking. Her arms grew weary and her limbs weak with hunger. She pushed on though, until the last bit of dough was shoved into the oven, long after the others had stirred from their beds and the castle had begun teeming with life and energy.

She didn't understand what all the fuss was about. So, the Miss hadn't completed her book yet. So, their lives were dull and rather mundane. She didn't mind. Life was life. In her mind, regardless of what happened, she would always be here, waking up early and baking bread.

She didn't know if she would ever marry. Didn't know if she'd have kids or save a damsel in distress. Didn't know if she'd survive this "war". She could care less. She was a minor character, with a minor roll (no pun intended), she just baked bread.

Wasn't that life? Weren't most people just ordinary bakers making a living? She guessed not, for the main characters seemed to think otherwise. She often watched them at their work, going over the written lines day after day and complaining about it day after day. If they were so important why didn't they do something about it?

What if they did do something about it? What if they managed to take control of their own fates and write their own story?

The young girl snorted at the ridiculous idea. Who had ever heard of characters taking over their own stories? Ha! Her shaggy brown hair hung in strands around her oval face, having fallen out of her bun as the heat of the day took a hold of it and hiding the pretty brown eyes which sparkled with laughter and sadness. For a minor character, she was bright and knowledgable, but as a minor character she didn't expect much  in life. She expected to be as she always was, a background for which made the whole work.

Without her, the men didn't have bread and without bread they probably wouldn't fight as well, and without fighting they'd probably lose to the McNabs and the whole land would be doomed to a hundred years of misery...well, that's what the book hinted at anyways.

Why did she have to be a book character? She wasn't sure. And why the baker? Again, no real answer. Oh well, better here than somewhere harsh and difficult. So the Miss was taking her time. To her, the baker, time wasn't something that would change her lot in life or rather her lot in the book.

With these thoughts she continued to ponder the meaning of life or better yet "book life" as she pulled out another finished loaf of bread from the stone oven.

************************************************************

"I've got it!" She shouted and jumped off the sofa. Forgetting the reality competition and dull soup she had been absorbed in. She raced to the room, ignored the blackness she encountered as she flung open the door and dashed (as if there is any other way to make an entrance when one has a brilliant idea) to her computer.

She made haste typing in her password, which meant she had to retype it three times before getting into the computer. She opened up the story and turned the plot around completely.

"Sorry guys," she whispered to her beloved characters. "I'm making a little change to the plot. Don't worry though, you won't even notice the difference."

*****to be continued*****


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egeria19
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Synopsis
Kitchen table inspiration.
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