Stories and Ribbons

I have many facets, many aspects to my personality, some that even I don't know everything about. But my fingers have a personality all their own. They write. I can't help it, I have no control over them. They simply write. The stories that slip out are wondrous, full of magic and grace. Each one is different, with a unique setting, intricate characters, and their own bit of flair. Some are dearer to my heart than others, but I can't help but love each one.

It's funny, though. I truly have no control over my stories. Sometimes I just have to write, and other times I can't even find the simplest word. It's as if my fingers are separate from my mind, writing not what I tell them, but what the stories want written. I've gone for weeks without writing a single paragraph, then gotten an idea that led to my writing nonstop for two straight days. Needless to say, after filling four-and-a-half pages with tiny, cramped writing, I had to wear a wrist brace for a week. Ironically, it's one of the stories I haven't finished yet...

Here's one of my favorites. I wrote it during math class (along with many of my stories...how did I pass that class, again?). It was shortly after we'd finished Macbeth in my AP English class, so my mind was rather preoccupied with Shakespeare's choice of words. This particular story started as most of my stories do, with a single phrase. It's funny how often that happens to me. I'll be thinking about something completely disconnected from a story, then a word or phrase will slip into my head. I'll write it down, and twenty minutes later, I have half a story scrawled down on the back of my math homework.

Anyway, this is one of my very favorites. It's titled Ribbons, and is a little different from most of my works, but I think you'll enjoy it.

*NOTE: All works of fiction published in this blog are copyright by Keziah J.E. Roy.

Ribbons
By Keziah Roy

Strands of color wrapped around a slender wrist. My wrist. Crimson droplets staining the colors incarnadine red. Streamers of red fluttering before my eyes. I try to grab them, but they dance away like scarlet butterflies. My fingers just brush them and they seem to implode, staining my fingers to match the reddened bracelet around my wrist.

The rest of the colors fade away as the petal-soft crimson engulfs them, setting my vision awash in a multitudinous haze of crimson, scarlet, carmine, and blood red. I see nothing else. I hear nothing but a quiet buzz, the buzz of struggling life. I smell nothing but a faint metallic tang, the same tang that has slid between my lips and is now resting on my tongue. I recognize it as coming from the pretty red haze, the red that has me feeling like I’m lying in a bed of liquid rose petals. I was given roses once—last year, when I turned eighteen, my boyfriend sent me eighteen beautiful crimson roses. But they smelled beautiful as well; smelled like flowers instead of blood.

That’s what it is, I realize, blood. I’m not lying among flowers, I’m lying in blood, my blood. I have no idea why; I can’t remember anything about now. I try to move, but I can’t feel my body. I don’t even know if I still have a body. I must, because otherwise I’d be dead, and I can’t be dead because then I wouldn’t be thinking. Oh Lord, now I’m confusing myself.

I try to open my eyes, but nothing changes. Are they open already? Or is every bit of me numb and paralyzed? I still see the red blood ribbons dancing around my vision, tantalizing me with their delicate beauty. Then I hear another sound, a high-pitched wailing. It comes closer, but I don’t recognize it; it seems alien amidst the fluttering ribbons. I hear more sounds, frantic bustling sounds, and the ribbons tilt and slide around my vision. Maybe I’m moving, or being moved—I can’t tell. For all I know, I could be rolling down a grassy hill covered in flowers. No, no I couldn’t be. It’s winter—there’re no flowers. Wait. It’s winter. Why am I not cold? It just snowed—I should be freezing my butt off. That is, if I still have one.

The ribbons suddenly stop tilting and sliding around, and the wailing sound starts again, this time much louder. It’s irritating and I wish it would stop, but then again, I don’t even know if it’s really real. You can’t stop something if it isn’t there in the first place.

All the frantic sounds are gone now, too. They’ve been replaced with a low, soothing drone. The ribbons are doing a waltz in front of me now, a slow, rhythmic sway. I never learned how to waltz properly. I always wanted to, but I have two left feet and never managed to get the steps right. At least, I think I have two left feet—I may not anymore.

The ribbons are moving slower now, fading slowly to dark. I can’t tell if my eyes are closing or if I even have eyes anymore. The red gets darker and darker, and I feel a thick mist fading over me, fogging my brain and erasing my thoughts. If I have thoughts anymore, that is. The mist is thicker, overwhelming me with its density. I disappear into the cloud, still wondering where I am.

Goodnight.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Aleira groggily opened her eyes, blinking them in the bright whiteness of the hospital room. She looked around, trying to make some sense out of her unfamiliar surroundings. She saw a pile of flowers, cards, and balloons, and, sitting next to them, her mother.

Janice moved quickly to her daughter’s side when she saw the movement. Her worried expression eased a fraction at the realization that Aleira was finally awake. Her eyes, however, are still anxious as she answered her daughter’s unspoken question.

“Aleira, honey? There’s been an accident.”