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Days like a Dream

Nothing felt real yesterday. One thing after another it felt like a something that I would have dreamed. At any moment I felt like I was going to wake up and laugh to myself at the thought that was real.  But I didn’t wake up. The day kept going, with thing after thing happening in the ways that I never imagined would actually happen. Friends were announcing unexpected pregnancies. I hung out with an ex, which varied wildly from being friendly to a lot of yelling, and then back to friendly. Pets were getting sicker. Work dynamics were being changed. Any of these things alone would have made it a weird day–a weird dream–but all in one? I didn’t even know how to process it.

Even as I laid down to go to bed, I fully expected to wake up and have to do Monday all over again.  Imagine my surprise when my phone informed me it was, in fact, Tuesday.  I wish I had something better for this post today–but to be honest, I wasn’t sure today was coming yet. Weird, weird day.

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Posted by on October 31, 2017 in BekahBeth's Thoughts, Uncategorized

 

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Big Plans

So–I’ve been talking for a while about making this site something I can be proud of again. Time to stop vaguely say “I want to be proud” and to start discussing what changes I can actually make. I’ve divided things into the easy–the medium–and the hard.  So, be prepared to see the easy ones come in to effect soon, and the hard may still be years in the making.

The Easy:
~Editing old posts that have simple typos or the occasional stupid sentence to make them cleaner.
~Removing posts that were just plain, poorly written.
~Cleaning up Categories and Tags So it’s easier to find things.

The Medium:
~Create pages with all the parts of my serials to be used as a table of contents
~Edit the serial posts so that there are links to the next part and the previous part, as well as the table of contents, for ease of reading.
~Make recurring characters pages, with brief summaries, and links to the stories they appear in.

The Hard:
~Complete reformating of the entire page, probably with new colors…because of reasons.

So–yeah, that’s going to take a long time to get fully completed.  Since I decided to start cleaning it up at the beginning of August, I’m only about 12% through the Excel checklist I made for all this. (We can discuss my addiction to excel spreadsheets on a different day)

So–here goes nothing guys. Hopefully, that percentage will grow quicker than I anticipated, and that in the end, It will be something that we can ALL be proud of.

 
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Posted by on October 24, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

Fiction: Hired Help (510 words)

“I know why you’re here,” Eleanor said softly, smoothing out the blankets in the bed around her.

Bette looked up from the dress she was carefully folding and laying down in Eleanor’s trunk. “I’m sorry, My lady?” She looked wide-eyed and innocent, and Eleanor understood why she was so good at her job.

“Everyone knows that you are the King’s illegitimate child, even if he won’t publicly announce it, but everyone thinks you’re just happy to take the lowly jobs, not able to do much more and desperate for any respect.” Eleanor offered, explaining what she was sure of in an attempt to strengthen her resolve for the less certain claims.

“I am just pleased to take any position that the King, My Grace is willing to give me since the death of my mother,” Bette confirmed, turning back to the dress.

“But you’re not just some lowly maid, are you?” Eleanor pressed on, “Your mother was a strong and smart courtier. You have royal blood, if not publicly acknowledged. I’m sure you spent your life learning to listen and see and plan, but everyone overlooks you because you are just a maid, just a servant, just the orphan of a disgraced woman and an ‘unknown’ man. My mother wouldn’t believe me, but…” Eleanor took a deep breath, trying to smile at the woman she knew held her life, or her life at court at the very least, in her hands. “You’re here for a reason.  I was just hoping you could tell me what that reason was.”

When Bette looked up, she was a different woman. It wasn’t the wide-eyed look of a sweet girl, it was the calculated smile of a woman who knew how to work her world to her advantage. Eleanor was impressed and terrified at the same time.  “You’re smarter than you look, Miss Lakeson.”  Bette closed the trunk and came up to the side of the bed. “Subtly is the most important part of this life, Miss Lakeson, please keep that in mind. I can’t tell you all I know because that would make me not very good at my job. But I will tell you that I am not here to ruin your day.” Bette reached up and pulled the blankets up around Eleanor, tucking her in. “I like you, and heaven help me but I like Prince Arlo too. So, if you keep honest with me, I’ll try to keep you safe. Sound good?”

For some reason, Eleanor did feel safe. This woman who went to bed after her and woke up before her, who had control of a lot of aspects of her life, and she had just admitted that she wasn’t what she wanted claimed to be—but she believed Bette.  She believed that she was in good hands. “Sounds good.”

Bette turned and tended to the candles, dimming the room so that Eleanor could sleep. “Sleep well, Miss Lakeson, I’ll be back in the morning for you.”

“Thank you, Bette.” Eleanor rolled over on her side and fell asleep.

 
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Posted by on October 23, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

Legal Theft Project: Some RPG with a 6 on the end (521 words)

“So, after all that, You don’t care?” I was nearly at my wit’s end. Leigh had woken up this morning because she couldn’t buy this game online—sold out everywhere. I’d never heard of it before, but apparently, it was absolutely devastating that she wouldn’t have access on the first night—putting her forever at a disadvantage for the life cycle of this game.

We had driven to sixteen different shops, the furthest being three hours away.  We had at least two conversations with creepy men who stood too close to tell us where they had heard that it might still be in stock. Everything we had eaten today was from a fast-food restaurant and that was starting to disagree with me. And when we finally found it in a sketchy, entrance in an alley kind of store, we weren’t allowed to buy it with purchasing the “bundle” which contained all sorts of accessories and collectables that we didn’t want—but Leigh wanted it and we had dedicated so much time to it that I would be damned if we were going home empty-handed today.

But now that we were home, Leigh wanted to go out with her friends. She had put the game in the living room next to the TV but hadn’t even bothered to open up the box.  She picked at her fingernails a little and smiled up at me with a shrug. “Linda and Lizzie are going out. I want to go with them.  The game will still be there when I get home—won’t it?”

I put my head in my hands and let out an exaggerated sob.  Leigh laughed and put her hand on my shoulders. “There, there, Mommy. Think about it this way—we spent a whole day, working together towards a single mission, an unstoppable team of Mother and Daughter, and we achieved our prize.  Isn’t it more the journey than the destination that’s important?”

“Don’t you Modern Motivational Mother me, young lady,” I sighed, “Okay, fine. Go out with your friends. But while you’re gone I’m going to start your game. And you’re going to have to play with whatever settings I set up for you.”

“Okay, Mom.” Leigh was already heading to her room to get ready for her night out. “If you can figure out the Xbox and get the game started, I will accept that punishment.”

She had a point.  Damn that rational daughter of mine and my compete missing of the upswing of gaming culture.  Besides, going to bed early was sounding more and more lovely as the seconds pass. “Okay fine—Just let me know when you’re leaving, and be home by curfew.”

I don’t know what Leigh said in response to that, but I assumed it was some sort of agreement or acknowledgment as I turned to the calling of my bed.

 
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Posted by on September 29, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

#5 Most Viewed Fiction: And What Brings You Here? (570 words)

I was always grateful to Micah for being the big brother I never had. I mean, I did have older half-sisters on either side of my families, and Micah was technically my cousin–But he had something that neither of my sisters did. He had something special that I needed when I was growing up, that my sisters couldn’t quite pull off.  My Mom said it was an attitude. My Dad, Micah’s uncle, said it was regrets.  But I just called it “The Micah Factor.” He got through to me in a way that a lot of people couldn’t, but I wasn’t sure why.

He was my best friend. I know that sounds weird, but he was. When good things happened—Well, I called my mom first because she was my mom and I’d never hear the end of it if I called someone before her. But after my mom had been debriefed, I called Micah. He was always excited for me or angry on my behalf, depending on what the situation called for.  Lizzie, my half-sister on my mom’s side, would get so angry when she learned something new about my life, only to then find out that Micah had known for weeks (sometimes months).

So—it was really hard to watch him get sick.  It changed him—messed with his mind and turned him into someone I didn’t know. And there were days that we went in to see him, and he didn’t know us either. To see a man who once knew everything about you—to have him look at you and extend a hand and introduce himself like you’d never met—that was hard.

He did know us, though. When we told him who we were he recognized the names, and you could watch him struggle to get to the memories and understanding that he had with us. I think that was worse than him not knowing us at all. I mean, I know it would hurt for him to not know me, but watching him struggle—I don’t know. Maybe if it were the other way, I would wish it were this way. The grass is always greener and all that nonsense.

Relief is the wrong word. But—release maybe? I don’t know. But I definitely felt something—happier than I thought I should have when I heard that he’d passed.  This was my best friend, my cousin, the closest thing I’d ever had to a brother. And I felt lighter at the news that he was gone. That can’t be right, can it?  I mean—I was heartbroken, don’t get me wrong. I cried for days straight. Even now, something will catch me off guard and I’ll want to call him and it kills me to know I can’t.

But I’m glad—and I know it sounds terrible—but I am glad I don’t have to walk into that hospital room anymore and watch him try to associate me with the girl he knows in his head and watch the two of them not line up. I’m glad I don’t have to watch my Dad’s face fall every time we leave, his heart shattering again. And I know I shouldn’t be because Micah is dead and I should not be glad.

So, I guess, to answer your question, I’m here because Micah died, and something in me broke. And I’ve realized that I cannot fix it alone.

 
 

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Fiction: Who Needs Sleep? (99 words)

She’d forgotten to fall asleep,  as silly as that sounded.  She sat down in her armchair with her new 3DS game,  and next thing she knew, the alarm on her phone was going off. It was time to get ready for work.  She didn’t drift off in the chair. Didn’t even feel tired. Just for one night she forgot she needed sleep.

She was sure she’d feel it when she say down at her desk and tried to process the first folder of the day.  But now she just chuckled queitly and set to getting ready for her shift.

 
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Posted by on March 16, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

Fiction: Skye’s Journal, Jan 8th (545 words)

Sunday, January 8th:

Well, Cameron and I did our usual church trip today. Since it’s a new year with a new journal, I guess I should explain what that means again, in case only one journal gets passed on to my family, or I become so old and senile I don’t know what any of this means again or—whatever. Visiting our church—It is not what you think of when you think of a church trip—but it’s ours.

See, when we were small, Mom was insistent that we all go to church as a family, so every Sunday we were all there, sitting in the same pew every week, Dad, Cameron and I more asleep than anything else at the early mass—but there nonetheless. After Mom and Dad died, Cameron and I tried to keep going, we really did.  In fact, we did keep going.  For about six months we were there, every Sunday, dressed nicely and as patiently as possibly enduring the “oh you poor dears” and the “your parents were good people”. But then the case went cold.  We were essentially told that they weren’t any closer to finding my parents killers then the day they died, and that they were giving up.  Since they told us that, I haven’t stepped foot inside the sanctuary.

At first, Cameron and I would still get dressed up in our Sunday best, and head to church.  We would meet people in the halls, stop and talk, let people know we were there.  But when it came time for the service to start, we would hang out in the nursery with the toddlers, or on particularly difficult days, hide out in one of the lesser used classrooms and possibly talk to each other, or just sit in silence. Somewhere along the line, we stopped going into the building altogether.  We would still get dressed nicely, but we would hang outside on the benches around the church, or sit on the swings at the playground.  Eventually, we stopped dressing up.  We just go out in Jeans and T-shirts and swing on the swings at the church playground, talking, and having true brother-sister family time.

It’s not that I don’t believe in God, or even that cliché that I’m mad at God for taking my parents away from me. I just don’t understand, and I am not in any position to be taught or made to understand, not yet.  Hopefully, someday I’ll be able to walk back into that room, and listen to what they are saying and hear it in English, instead of the pointless gibberish I heard for six months when I was thirteen years old.  Until then, I am perfectly content to sit on the swings with my brother, and stare up at the building that meant so much to my mother.

You know what, I’m going to make a promise to myself right here.  Before the tenth anniversary of my parent’s death, I will give at least two full-fledged tries to understand church again.  In the next six years, I will try to be a good Christian again.   Probably not anytime soon, but some time.

Alright, that seems like a good place to stop for the night.

Love and Such,

Skye Gibson.

 
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Posted by on March 6, 2017 in Stories, Uncategorized

 

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