The twilight

This is a fictional story for the Sunday Scribblings prompt ‘Regrets’.

Being of sound mind and body I hereby bequeath all my worldly assets to the following:

The Sansbore Foundation

That’s it. They get it all. The only regrets I have, are that I lacked the courage to tell all of you to your faces how much I loathed spending my ‘Golden Years’ being abused by my loving family. They say you can’t take it with you, but I can make sure you get nothing. And don’t try to sue to overturn the will, it won’t work and you’ll regret going up against my lawyers. So for the last time….

Bugger Off!

By Rose D. Kaye, January 30th, 2009

In the course of being earnest…

Three Word Wednesday



… it is usually best to prevaricate whenever possible. Truth is worshiped to the point of default. Much better to be a cynic.

“Quitting time”

For Ermondo ‘Ruthless’ Sanchez quitting time always brought a scowl to his squat and pug-nosed face. The ambient noise in the building gradually faded as the machines were turned off and the carrion packed their personal belongings. Not one of them dared meet his jagged glower when they furtively scurried past the security guard and out into the cool night air. Every single one of them was worthless offal and the fact that ‘Ruthless’ actually had to pay them and provide benefits caused a physical reaction not unlike being prodded by sharp power tools. He slammed his office door, punched the speed dial button number four and agitatedly paced while the speakerphone rang.

“Ms Fromagia’s office. How may I assist you?”

‘Ruthless’ hated the sound of the CEO’s private secretary; her voice was a caress from #40 sandpaper. It left you bleeding and clutching your ears.

“This is Sanchez. I need to speak to her.”

“One moment please.”

If I have to run this place one more day I’ll…

“Ermondo! It’s so nice to hear from you. How’s the weather out there?”

“I have no idea Stacey and I don’t care. You promised me if I took over this factory and made a profit you’d promote me to V.P. within six months. It’s been nine months and I want what’s mine. Get me out of here!”

“Calm down Ermondo. I know what I promised and soon you’ll get what you deserve. The board is very impressed by the numbers you’re generating and the substantial increase to the bottom line. In fact, they decided, just today, that a six-figure bonus is headed your way as we speak.”

“You think you can buy me off with money Stacey? Remember why I’m out in this dump in the first place? One more month and that’s final… or else I’ll be looking for a better offer.” Ermondo slapped the disconnect button, threw himself into his leather chair and brooded. “I mean it Stacey. Don’t mess with me.”

It was too bad Stacey mused as her driver deftly maneuvered through jagged early evening traffic. It really was a profitable factory, but sometimes it was better to cut your losses. Not that ‘Ruthless’ would be missed by anyone. Stacey glanced down and caressed the suckling infant. Not even by you little one. Not even by you.

By Rose D. Kaye, January 28th, 2009

Memory lapse

At Sunday Scribblings this week the prompt is Phantoms and Shadows or more specifically memory.

Memory is something I write about often and I even dreamed about this subject last night. We have a collective memory – at least now – and I dreamed it was a fondue pot. Everything that happens goes into the pot and each one of us can dip into the fondue to withdraw any memory we choose.

People have asked me what I remember and how do I function. As we’ve said time and again, we do not have clinical DID but are multiple personalities. The body is his but I/we borrow it on occasion. But I do not have memories that are strictly my own and neither does he. Everything for the last two and half years is stored differently, not a singular memory bank but a series of impressions hanging on the wall.

Memory of course is fallible and we take no notice of the past in terms of his/hers. We are not Sybil or Tara, someone who fractures into separate personalities under stress, but we are separate. Very separate. He ‘feels’ me as an individual ‘mind’ creating memories of her own but storing those recollections collectively. When I write he doesn’t go away, but rather steps aside so I can use the body to create.

I like who I am even though it is not ideal for any of us. He has to work and I want to write. The two desires are in conflict but we are not. Our memories of the results of conflict are uniformly bad and therefore serve as an effective deterrent against a power struggle for control. Our future memories want to be about success not failure.

Besides, we all know who’s the most popular personality here right?

By Rose D. Kaye, January 24th, 2009

Another late night

Three Word Wednesday



Never a humble man, Sven the blacksmith frequently boasted that his forge was the hottest in the three provinces and his hammer the biggest and most well used. Standing a few inches below seven feet and with nearly three hundred pounds of muscle, when he swung the heavy hammer down onto the anvil, sparks flew in a shower of power. [Those were his lines of oft-repeated poetry during bouts of drinking and wenching in his favorite tavern.]

A man of huge talent and even huger appetites Sven rose before the sun to stoke the furnace and worked until well after sundown, his creased face then lit only by the glare of the dying embers. All throughout the day, the town’s streets rang with the steady cadence of metal on metal, punctuated occasionally with pungent and blasphemous oaths. For Sven lived his life as he worked, loud, long and filled with the satisfaction of creation. No timid soul was he, the only resolve he chose, was to take as much pleasure from hammering as he could.

[Certainly the many swelled bellies spoke to his success.]

By Rose D. Kaye, January 21st, 2009

Blistered Feet

Sunday Scribblings offers a pilgrimage this weekend.

The haze grew no closer. The mountain range lingered above the horizon. Tantalizing white, coating the sharp edges and offering cool air in contrast to the heat ravaged plains over which she slowly limped, staff in hand. It was a gift from the shaman, many pilgrimages ago when Linda had been much younger, more naive and less burdened with ailments. It fit, the staff, it fit into the palm of her right hand as if an extension of her will. For years she had trekked the worn path across the meadows and marshes, drawn to the sacred heights and her mentor. Despite the familiarity and understanding of the pace needed, she always moved faster as the destination beckoned until her muscles ached and her feet blistered. When at last she rested and removed her boots, the fading sunlight cast enormous blue shadows that reached to the end of the world. A deep breath of juniper, Linda laid back on her woven blanket, arms behind her head, the sound of eternity ringing in her ears and a smile in her soul.

By Rose D. Kaye, January 16th, 2009