SHORT STORY: Tale by the Fire

This is also something I wrote for school, although this was for Swedish class originally, and not quite so long ago as "Baby Blue"'s first conception. The translation is so-so because I'm too darned stubborn.

Basically this is a story about how a creational myth might begin. Perhaps not very realistic, but I'm rather fond of the myth itself. I have even considered weaving it into a longer story.

Anyhoo, enough about that; hope you enjoy!



A Tale by the Fire

It was a cold night. The two moons rose up above the desert like two pale ghosts or a matching set of leaf thin bone white china, saucer and plate held up against the light as if to be admired by God. Their combined light lit up the night, and when they began their hunt across the starry sky there were two pairs of eyes that followed them.

The eyes belonged to two children, a girl of eight years and a boy of six, an age when children are inquisitive and believe that the older one is the more one knows. So they turned to the oldest person they knew: their grandfather.

"Grandfather, who made the world?" asked the girl.

"And why is there only one sun when we have two moons, and why is the sun still brighter?" asked the boy who was still staring at the moons, his chin leaning into his hand and his elbow propped up on one of the smaller rocks of which their shelter against the wind consisted of.

The grandfather, a very old man - an impressive age of almost sixty years - took a burning stick from the fire and lit his pipe. His oldest daughter, the children's mother, observed him with a hidden smile on her lips as she waited to see how he would get out of this one.

"Well, well," said the old man, puffing on his primitive pipe. "And why do you need to know that?"


"Don't you know, Grandfather?" came the shocked question. The children hadn't considered that there was something he didn't know.

"Of course I know!" he exclaimed, offended. He waved his pipe threateningly at them but stopped when he realized that that was just a good way to loose valuable tobacco. "I just don't understand why you need to know, as young as you are," he continued.

"Oh please, Grandfather! Pretty please!" The little girl put her hand on his arm and his face softened.

"Yes Father," said his daughter as she also sat down by the fire with her tired four-year-old in her lap. "Tell us all how the world came to be."


"Well..." The old man puffed a bit more on his pipe before he began: "In the beginning... there was nothing."

"Nothing?" asked the six-year-old, big-eyed.

"Yes, nothing," the old man replied irritably. "Don't interrupt. In the beginning there was nothing, only vacant space. But the space fell in on itself and formed an egg."

"How can that happen?" asked the girl, her otherwise smooth forehead wrinkled as she pondered. "Nothing is nothing. It can't become something."

"Don't talk back to your elders girl!" growled the old man. "This was a special kind of nothing! And it was possible because an almighty being, a... a... god used its hands to shape it into an egg."

"What's a god?"


"God," their mother said while she patted her youngest boy's soft brown locks, her amused eyes meeting her father's, "God is the word the shamans in the west use that means 'all-powerful', and for the shamans that's the same as 'all-knowing'."

"Exactly," grumbled the woman's father in satisfaction, once again waving his pipe. "Exactly so. "

"Was the god a woman or a man?" asked the girl.

Her mother interrupted her father again. "A woman of course." She turned to her father who looked very upset. "It's after all women who bring life into this world. Isn't that right, Father? I have yet to see a man give birth."

"The old man nodded reluctantly. "Yes, yes, the god was a woman. She came from the Land of the Spirits, a land that existed long before the nothing collapsed on itself, and she nurtured the egg she had formed with her own two hands. She didn't know what it was to become and she was very curious - like all women." He glared at his daughter together with the small dig, but she only smiled at her aging father.

"What is her name?" asked the older boy.

"Her name? Hmm... She had none. They who live in the Land of the Spirits don't need names."

The boy looked downcast but the old man continued his story.

"After what was at once an eternity and just a second - time didn't exist yet - the egg's shell began to crack. The god separated the two halves carefully." The grandfather made gestures with his hands as if cracking an egg. "And there she found... there she found..." He lost the thread.


"What Grandfather?" the two older children shouted, their little brother helping them with a sleepy and half-hearted, "Wha'?"

"Well children," their mother said when their grandfather seemed to have lost the ability to speak and was hiding himself behind a nervous cloud of smoke of his own creation. "What she found was a small grain of sand."

"As small as this?" asked the girl and showed her mother a particularly small grain of sand.

"No," her mother replied smiling. "Bigger than that. You must remember that gods are much bigger than us and think almost everything on this earth is small."

She continued: "The god was so fascinated with this shining grain of sand that she couldn't stop fingering it and thinking of it. And gradually, gradually the grain of sand grew; bigger and bigger, until it was big enough for the god to stand upon. The god was delighted and called all the other gods from the Land of the Spirits to show them. 'Look!'' she said. 'Look at what I have created.’

"And the gods looked at the land that stretched in all directions; this brown, unchanging and rather boring land, empty of all but sand. ‘ Is this all?' said one. 'What to I care about this ugly place when I have my beautiful garden,' said another. And one by one they left the creating god alone and disappointed. Only her husband lingered. 'Forget this, mine heartsong," he said in an attempt to comfort her. 'Come home with me, for I have missed thee.' But the god withdrew from her husband’s embrace, and he left her there alone."

"Is her name Heartsong?" the older boy asked hopefully.

"No stupid!" said his big sister. "That's what Father calls Mother, isn't it? What all men call their wives."

“Don’t be like that,” admonished her mother when she saw her son’s unhappy face. “The reason men call their wives ‘heartsong’ is because is because this was the god’s name. And her husband was Heartsinger, and it’s because of this that all women call their husbands ‘heartsinger’ or ‘thee who sings my heartsong’.”


“But Grandfather said they don’t have any names!” insisted the girl. “Right Grandfather? Right?”

The old man, who had sat in silence and had himself been amazed by his daughter’s story, cleared his throat and said apologetically, “Weeeell, that wasn’t quite true, I just couldn’t remember the god’s name in the gods’ own language. Your mother simply translated it.”

“What are their names in their own language then?”

“Weeeell,” the old man repeated in avoidance. His pipe belched forth more smoke.

“Amineraq was her name,” answered his daughter in his place without hesitation. “And her husband’s name was Amineraquin. But one only use their real names when it is important.”

“What happened them?” the boy asked.

The woman looked at her father and when he didn’t say anything, she continued,” When her husband had returned to the Land of the Spirits, Heartsong began, in her despair and disappointment and loneliness, to dance. She whirled up the sand while her tears fell in heavy drops upon the ground. In this way grass and plants began to grow. But Heartsong didn’t notice any of this and continued her dance. She stamped out the seas and lakes and her tears filled these.”

“What are seas?” interrupted her son.

“Seas are great collections of water that lay beyond the mountains. I have never seen them myself, but your father has. You will have to ask him more about it.”


“Fancy you not knowing what seas are!” snorted his sister.

“You didn’t know that either, girl of mine,” said her mother revealingly and the girl blushed.

As the woman had begun her tale the rest of the little clan’s old, women and children had begun to gather around their fire, so that now they were all together fourteen sitting around the fire.

“Go on,” urged one of the younger women breathlessly. “Please.”

“The god Heartsong drove her dance across the entire surface of what could hardly be called a grain of sand anymore. In certain places where she was extra violent in her dance the sand hardened to rock and grew into mountains, in other places where her dance was almost still most remained sand. Like here,” added the woman and opened her arms wide as if she would embrace everything. In her lap her youngest slept.

“At last the god collapsed to the ground in exhaustion and fell asleep.”

“Don’t the shamans in the west call their female gods goddesses?” asked one of the older women tentatively, as the one doing the storytelling was the chieftain’s wife.

“Yes, that is true,” she laughed. “I had completely forgotten that. Thank you.” Her father snorted and muttered something along the lines of that his daughter should know more than anyone else. “Father dear, don’t be like that,” she said tenderly and then continued again, “Heartsong slept a long, long time. So long that when she awoke, she was surprised at how much the world she had created had changed. Around her trees had grown, grass covered the ground she lay on like a blanket, and beside her an oasis had formed from the tears she occasionally had shed in her sleep.


“She wandered in near self-admiration around the little world she had created in her dance. She waded in the lakes; she bathed in the seas; she plucked fruit from the trees and plaited a garland of flowers that she laid upon her night-black hair; she wandered enjoyably through the desert. And as she walked she named everything with unique names. She stayed there a long time in wonder of everything. But soon the loneliness returned and she called to her husband. ‘See! See how beautiful the ugliness has become.’ And he saw and he expressed his admiration for her work. Then they embraced and made love.”

Here the young women sighed longingly, the older ones nodded in agreement while the eldest ones cackled amongst themselves. The children rolled their eyes so that no one would notice their curiosity in this thing that only adults were allowed to do.

“After their lovemaking the goddess became with child and she gave birth to triplets. The oldest was a big and splendid son with golden hair and brown skin. They gave him the name Sun. The other two were both girls, almost identical with each other; silver hair, white skin and black eyes they both had, but one was larger than the other. The larger was given the name Mooncat and the smaller Moonmouse. Their brother was bigger than both of them and very protective of his two sisters.

“In their joy Heartsong and Heartsinger made love once more and soon Heartsong was with child again. This time it was twins, the daughter Earth and the son Water. And so it continued until the world was full of Heartsong’s and Heartsinger’s Children.”

“How many?” asked one of the other children.

“Very many,” answered the chieftain’s woman. “I might repeat all of them some other time.

“Now it was,” she continued, “that Sun, the oldest, had begun to retreat up into the sky more and more to think about all kinds of things. It was also noticed that Moonmouse often sat and looked yearningly at her shining brother’s form up in the sky. At last Sun said to his mother and father, ‘I know now mine purpose. This world needs light to survive. I shall be this light. But I shall return to ye a little while each night.’ His parents wept and embraced him and said farewell.

“When Moonmouse was told this she immediately tried to follow him. But her sister took hold of her. ‘Thy love for our brother is not possible,’ said Mooncat to her sister. ‘He does not love thee in the same way, and siblings should not love in this way.’ Moonmouse refused to listen and fought her sister to such a degree that at the same moment that Sun sank behind the horizon for the first time, she flew up into the sky with Mooncat after her. And while Moonmouse struggles to catch up to Sun, Mooncat holds her back.

“And that’s why we have two moons and only one sun,” the woman finished.


“No, don’t end there!” her listeners begged. “Tell us more!”

She turned to her father. “Do you want to take over? It was after all your story from the beginning.”

“No, no,” he said, waving his pipe again. “You are truly a much better storyteller than me.”

“Please Mother!” begged her children who despite their drowsiness wanted to hear the rest.

“Well, who can say no to that?” she said mostly to herself and began again, “Soon all the Children moved off to find their respective tasks. Water took the salt away from the lakes and created rivers and rain. The four brothers North-Wind, South-Wind, West-Wind and East-Wind worked together with Water and helped him move the clouds of rain, and with their sister Earth to spread seeds to distant lands. War drove about restlessly. The twins Lightning and Thunder helped all by releasing the tensions that could exist between them.

“Heartsong and Heartsinger were pulled together in their regret over their absent Children and after making love a final time she was with child again. The birth was a difficult one and the Child was stillborn. Heartsinger breathed life into the Child but it was too late. The girl-child took the name Death for herself and said, ‘Ye already know mine purpose, and so do I. The balance must be kept. For things to truly live they must also die.’ And with these words Death left for her domain beneath the ground.

“The grief for Death was great, and to comfort herself Heartsong began to create shapes in the mud beside the oasis she had herself cried into existence in her sleep. She spat in the mud and in that way gave the shapes life. The first creatures were monstrous; dragons, sphinxes and griffins were merely some. Heartsinger also began to help to shape the mud and with his help trolls, unicorns, dwarves and fairies were created. Soon animals such as horses, cows, dogs and camels were also made. These were dumber than the previous creations but there were many more of them. Many of the Children who had not yet found their tasks found them now with these creatures.

“One day Heartsong formed a creature that looked like herself. But it was wrong. It walked wrong, thought wrong and talked wrong. She went to her husband. ‘What does thou think is wrong with this creature I have tried to make?’ and he answered, ‘Come and I will help thee. We will find the answer.’ And so they sat down together and shaped the creature again. But again it was wrong. They began again and this time when Heartsong spat in the mud, Heartsinger also spat. Thus their saliva mixed together in the mud and this time they succeeded. They created ten of these creatures and called them Mankind. Five of them were women and five of them were men. And now the remaining Children such as Love, War and Greed found their tasks in the world.

“Then Heartsong called upon the gods who had rejected her creation and said unto them, ‘See! What do ye think now of this land?’ And the gods found it was good and asked to have a part in it. But the goddess denied them. ‘I was willing before when this world was but sand to allow ye to help me make something of it. But ye spurned it and now it is too late. Now it belongs to mine Children and only them.’


The gods returned to the Land of the Spirits that was now pale in comparison to the world Heartsong had created. And also Heartsong and Heartsinger retired to the Land of the Spirits to keep their eye on their Children from afar.”

There the woman finished her story.

“Please! Tell us more,” begged the others.

“No,” she said. “Now you will have to wait until tomorrow night. It is time to sleep. Tomorrow I will tell you about the first men and women.”

And with those words she stood up with her youngest son in her arms and told her tired older children to come with her. Her father also followed.

“What did you think, Father?” she asked after she had put her children to bed.

“I didn’t know you had such a gift for storytelling,” he answered. “How did you come up with all that?”

She shrugged and smiled. “I don’t know. It simply felt right to say it.”

And with that said, she lay down and fell asleep.

THE END

SHORT STORY: Baby Blue

Author's Notes:
The original draft of this I wrote years ago as a school assignment. I wrote it in the AM, it was crap, and I lost it soon after I got it back from my English teacher. Last year I decided to rewrite it, but seeing as I had no original to go from, I had to do it all in my head. I'd like to point out at this point that I have the memory like a sieve, although I guess in this case - taking into account the crappiness that was the original - this time my poor memory worked to my advantage.

I'm not absolutely exstatic over the outcome but I'm not really sure what I can do to improve it. I'd like to point also that I've never lived in England, I've only been to Gatwick Airport once.

Anyway, hope you enjoy reading this rather dark story.


---------


B A B Y B L U E


The baby is awake.

The morning light shafts in through the blinds and lands on my face, and I blink miserably as I try to focus my bleary gaze on the digital alarm clock. 5:14. I groan and thump my head back against the pillow. And then I remember. And smile.

“Wha’timesit?” the figure next to me asks sleepily, making moves to get out of bed.

“Too early for you, love. Go back to sleep for a bit, I’ll take care of Baby Blue.”

I hear her snort as I get up but she stays put. Pulling on a pair of track bottoms, I make my way into the baby’s room. The eighteen-month-old boy is standing in his cot, sniffling and clearly debating whether or not to turn on the real waterworks now that a parental unit has arrived, just to show his displeasure at the delay. I’m relieved when the votes come in against; the boy simply gives a sob and holds out his arms, as demanding as a little emperor.

“Come on Baby Blue,” I croon, my happy mood un-spoilable, as I pick my son out of his cot. “Time for breakfast.” I discretely check his nappy. “Hmm, first stop’s the loo I think.”

I change his nappy, dress him, and then plonk him down in his high chair and start arranging his morning meal. I hear the bedroom door open, the padding of naked feet towards the toilet, and then the soft hiss of the shower.

“Here we go.” I seat myself down next to the baby’s high chair with his bowl of porridge. “Here comes the airplane!” I cry and begin to mechanically spoon the grey-brown stuff into my resisting son, who immediately tries to spit it back out, aiming for his tormentor. The creak of the loo door catches my ear and soon I hear my wife entering the kitchen behind me.

“Having trouble, dear?” she asks teasingly, wrapping her bath robe-clad arms around my neck from behind.

“Maybe you could take over so I can take a shower?” is my arch reply, wincing as the baby manages to lob one right on my face.

“Shoo,” she says, still grinning, and takes my place. I grin myself as after a large splash–much like a small fist slamming into bowl of gruel–I hear her swear.

I luxuriate in my shower, taking my time. I debate masturbation and decide in favour; a little pleasure never hurt. That thought makes me smile knowingly.

After my shower and relaxing wank, I get dressed and return to the kitchen to find my wife in need of another shower. She looks surprised when I start putting my things together, getting ready to leave.

“You’re going already? It’s only six o’clock.”

“I thought I take the advantage of getting in early and actually getting some work done,” I answer, shutting my briefcase and flashing her a wry smile. She returns it almost shyly and for an instant I see the girl I married. I shake the image out of my head.

Instead I continue, “Besides, it’s Friday and traffic’s going to be murder.” I put my shoes and suit jacket on before giving her a brief kiss on the mouth. “Bye love. See you tonight.” I kiss my son’s sticky cheek. “Bye Baby Blue.” He gabbles at me briefly and my wife glares at me.
“He’s going to grow up thinking that’s his name you know,” she accuses me as I start for the door.

“Oh, I doubt it,” I throw back at her with a grin; then I’m out the door and down the garden path towards the car parked in the street.

Throwing my briefcase in the front passenger seat I quickly check the back seat through the rear-view mirror as I sit down. Still there. Good.

I pull into the main street and drive off in the direction of my work. I slide a compilation CD into my car player and hum along to the first song as I reach the first major crossroads.

I can still change my mind.

I don’t; instead of the left towards the City, I drive on towards Gatwick Airport, ringing in sick as I go.

Free. I’m bloody free! No more nappy changes, no more five AM wake-up calls courtesy of the Devil Incarnate, no more fights or moans over who does what—

I am FREE.

No more working in bloody boring Insurance either. God! The relief is making me dizzy. I can do whatever I want; six years of careful embezzling has left me with two million quid. I laugh out loud at that. Two MILLION. And now I’m on my way to the sun and the beautiful beaches of the West Indies. No bloody clinging wife, no bloody baby, no bloody worries for the rest of my life; just a lot of parties and no-strings sex to look forward to.

Sex. I wonder if I remember how to do it.

I laugh again, the music washing over me, enhancing my mood. I check the back seat again, the sight of the two holdalls making me grin. The larger one is mostly filled with clothes; the other is packed to the brim with traveller’s checks. God, I hope I get through customs, although if they spot the fake passport I won’t even get that far.

The drive takes two hours and my conscience itches a little. It had gotten better lately, between the wife and me. She wasn’t quite so tired anymore. This morning, if I think about it, had been miraculously peaceful. The baby hadn’t been half as obnoxious as he could be.

I snort. A lull, that’s all. All in all, I’d rather not spend the next two decades putting my life on hold to pander to that squalling brat, watching my wife deteriorate into some cliché of a stay-home mother. Already she isn’t the woman I married. For one thing, the woman I married hadn’t wanted kids.

No, it’s better this way. She’s depressingly straight anyway; she’d have probably turned me in if I had told her about the money. “It’s the right thing to do,” she’d say in that sanctimonious, I-was-born-with-money way. Especially since the man I used to work for is her uncle.

Hah! No, I’m well shoot of her. She was getting flabby anyway. Never got her shape back after the baby.



I pull in at the multi-storey car park near the airport. Even at this early hour there are other cars entering and leaving. I find a spot on the third storey and grab the two holdalls from the back. I leave my briefcase; nothing I want in that.

Before I head to the lift I can’t help but nervously check the fake plates. They should help throw the police off the track for a while, or so I hope.

Nervous energy is coursing through me as I enter the lift and press the bottom-most button. I’m getting away with it, I’m bloody getting away with it. My blood is singing with excitement; it’s almost erotic.

The traffic had been bad. In truth, I owed my bouncing baby boy; if he hadn’t woken me I might have missed my flight. As it is, I manage the check-in deadline by a hair.

I then calmly make my way to the passport control; the woman behind the bulletproof glass barely glances at my passport or me and I go through.

The same at the hand-baggage control; one of the controllers looks a bit askance at me as the bag goes through the x-ray machine but I grin wryly at him.

“My aunt just died and she left a ton of old book-manuscripts. I thought I’d leaf through a few on my way home. Besides,” I add dryly, “what if they’re the next big hit? Can’t take the chance they’ll get lost can I?”

The man grins back at me and again I’m home safe. Even if he’d demanded to see some proof I could have obliged him; I’d managed to push in a few actual manuscripts that my wife kept trying to get me to read. But I’m glad he didn’t push it. If he’d dug into the bag he’d have quickly realised the black bin bag at the bottom was filled with most of my retirement fund.

No. As long as I have no sharp objects they apparently don’t care what was in the bag.

Grateful that the controllers weren’t the what’s-all-this-then kind I slink into the tax-free area.

Almost every shop is closed. A few had started to open up their doors to the early morning traveller, but most of them were still barred and locked up for the night. I find a small café bar and slump into a seat, dumping my bag down next to me. A pre-recorded message starts up warning not to leave luggage unattended. I grin tiredly. No chance of that; I’m not letting this bag out of my sight.

There’s a woman sitting next to me, sipping a mocha latte delicately. I lazily scan her lines as I try to decide what to order (and women claim men can’t multitask!), her sleek business suit a beautifully tailored fit. I wonder if she’s on my flight? I hope so, she’s a peach. She catches my eye and smiles mysteriously at me, then she turns back to her coffee.

I order an espresso. What I’d really like is a beer, but you can’t have everything in life. The woman gets ready to leave, demonstrating my point, bending down to pick up her own bag before moving off. The bending affords me a nice view of her bum and I sigh as she moves off. Oh well, if I’m lucky she’ll be on my flight and if I’m really lucky she’ll sit next to me. After all, my luck seems to holding pretty well.

I grin as I drain the espresso before ordering a plain old coffee.

My wife is probably starting the laundry as I sit here, enjoying myself. Tonight when I don’t come home she’ll get worried, maybe call my ‘friend’ Dan to ask if I am with him. He’ll tell her I never showed up at work. And that will start the whole merry-go-round of ringing the police and questions and incriminations. I feel sorry for her. I’m pretty sure she still loves me, even as I’m sure I don’t love her. But I need to get out of the country before my employer cops on I’ve cheated them, and as I would have left her at one time or another anyway…

I frown, wondering if she had even noticed I was going off her. I am a pretty good actor if I say so myself, but maybe I should have given her some kind of hint. As it is, I feel fairly sure she won’t take the news well.

She’ll have the little imp to console her at least. She’ll probably feed him horrible stories about me, making him hate me; fine by me. I never wanted the little mongrel. But I had ooh:ed and aah:ed with the lot of them when she turned out up the duff, too bloody scared of her family to put my foot out of place.

But no more! I have a new name, a new identity I’d paid through the nose for, and they weren’t so rich or influential that they could spend the fortune it would take to find me on my tiny little island out in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the world.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar and lift my coffee cup in a silent salute to myself. In the words of Mel Gibson: Freedom!

I glance at my watch. I need to move if I want to make it before the queue builds up. I push the coffee away–it wasn’t that good anyway–and grab my holdall from the floor before speeding away towards my gate.

But I soon realise the bag can’t be mine. It’s much too light. I stop and look at it and I can see immediately that I’m right; it isn’t mine. It looks almost exactly like it but it isn’t.

Realisation strikes: the woman! She must have taken my bag by mistake! If my heart wasn’t pounding from the sudden panic I could say it makes for a perfect set-up to see her again. Perfect apart from that she now has in her possession almost all my money. I wouldn’t try to find me.

I go sit down in my gate, mind speeding, trying to figure out what the hell I should do. Shit. Shit. Shit!

Feeling spiteful I unzip her bag without remorse.

My hand digs down and clasps around something rough, something with sharp edges and wires and…

Realisation strikes again as that same pre-recorded message starts again: Please don’t leave your luggage unattended. Any luggage left unattended will be removed and destroyed…

Oh my god. Oh my god. I’m sorry, god I’m sorry, I’ll—

“At approximately 8:50 this morning a suspected suicide bomber at Gatwick Airport killed ten people and severely wounded twenty-five when setting off a large explosion. No answers have been given on how he made it passed security. Among the ten dead is a five-year-old girl and—“

I switch off the radio, unable to bear more, and pick up my son. “How horrible. All those people… And children!” I hug my baby closer, causing him to wriggle and myself to giggle. “You’re just full of energy aren’t you?”

I set him down, unable to stop the feeling of relief that nobody I know could have been in that explosion. That my baby is safe and well and that the only danger to my husband is being bored out of his wits.

Watching my son crawl towards the sitting room I weigh the pro’s and con’s of calling my husband. On the one hand I might break up the monotony of his day. On the other I’ll almost certainly disturb him in the middle of something that “can’t wait”.

I sigh. Then I frown. Pull yourself together! Things are much better now than a month ago! We’ve finally begun to act like man and wife again, instead of just disgruntled housemates. My hand sneaks up to my mouth and I smile. It had been months since he last kissed me like that. Maybe tonight, if I put the baby down early…

I go to check on the baby, grinning to myself. Catching him seriously contemplating the fun that pulling down half the bookcase could entail, I grab him up into my arms again.

“What do you say ‘Baby Blue’? Should we make a special dinner for Daddy?” ‘Baby Blue’–what a ridiculous pet name!–seems to think my hair is the best meal to be had.

I walk out into the kitchen again, already planning the romantic dinner in my head. He’ll love it.

“Gah gah!” says the baby, thumping his fists against my sternum, beating it like a drum. It’s a bit painful but I can only smile.

Everything will be just fine.

THE END

A bad introduction

Ah, hello!

I guess I should introduce myself. I am a writer, or at least an aspiring one. My pseudonym, my nome de plume, in this case is "Imse Webber", a name that has a rather silly story behind it which I won't recount here. I have grown fond of it however, so I'm keeping it, for better or worse, although I usually shorten it to just "I. Webber".

I was born and raised in Sweden, with an Irish mother who passed away when I was rather young. My grammar and such is therefore often a bit... wonky. But I find it hard to express myself in Swedish and besides, my Swedish isn't much better ^_^;

I've decided to use this page to post my short stories, my chapter drafts, and other dribblets that I might come up with and hopefully people such as yourself will comment and give me helpful critique to help me improve.

Well, I'm going to putter about with the look of the page some more and then maybe post one of my stories. Bye!