Sat, 11 Apr 2020 23:38:53 -0700WeeblySun, 28 Dec 2014 19:53:07 GMThttp://www.teganelliott.com/writing/cressThere was no deer in the woods more beautiful than Cress.

He had a coat of pure white. I saw him from across the stream.

No deer had ever done so, but Cress smiled. His rich eyes beckoned me near. What had I done that such a creature would entertain my company? How was I so fortunate?

The closer I drew, the more lovely he became.

He took the final step, and we regarded each other. “You are beautiful,” Cress said.

It was the first time I believed so. Tears filled my eyes. I took joy that, to him, even my tears were beautiful.

He nudged my arm with his cold, white nose.

“Sister in the woods,” he named me. “Travel by my side.”

It hadn't been a question, so I didn't voice an answer. We went together.

Cress led, I followed.

He let me touch his pure-white coat. It was as soft as it appeared.

Cress breathed beauty onto my face. He willed it into my skin. He strengthened me. I grew confident.

Never could I leave him.

We chased each other through the woods. I couldn't tell who fled and who pursued. We created a beautiful, intricate web.

One day I noticed something. Cress never let me walk on his right side.

“Why can I not see?” I asked. “Is your coat too beautiful?”

“It is the same as my left,” he assured with a smile.

The day passed.

At night when we lay under the stars, I set my hand on his shoulder and stroked his coat.

“Does your right side not get jealous? I can touch it as well if you like.”

He pressed his forehead to mine. “You know it is the same as my left. It would bore you. You do not wish to see.”

He slept. I felt restless.

The soft ground aided my stealth as I crept around Cress.

I saw his left side. His back. I knelt and saw the tip of his right shoulder.

I gasped.

He awoke and stood: his right side away.

“Your shoulder is wounded!” I cried.

He laughed. “You had a nightmare. Sleep on my side. I will send good dreams.”

“It's bleeding. It looks deep. Let me help you.”

Cress stomped the ground. “There is nothing there.”

“Here, let me show you!” I walked toward his right side, but he stepped away.

Warm, brown eyes stared into mine. “Why don't you trust me?”

Of course I trusted Cress. How could he think I didn't? How could I have given that impression?

“I'm so sorry,” I assured. “Please forgive me.”

He touched my cheek with his. “Of course.”

…

As we walked one afternoon, I fell.

Cress laughed.

Before I stood, I glimpsed his right-front side. His coat was caked in red. It vanished as he turned.

“You're hurt,” I told him. “Come to the stream and I'll help clean your wound.”

Cress appeared angry. “I'm fine.”

“But you're not! Do you not feel it?”

He reared up on hind legs and struck me down.

I didn't speak of it again. We went together.

Cress led, I followed.

The closer I drew, the more frightening he became.

“You are beautiful,” he said.

Never could I leave him.

One day, he tripped. It was an instant, but I saw.

A snow-white coat half-covered in blood and decay.

I reached out. “You can't ignore this! It's killing you!”

Cress chased me through the woods. I fled, but he pursued. He trapped me in a horrible, intricate web.

I tripped beside the water.

I saw him from across the stream.

There was no deer in the woods more beautiful than Cress.

My chin dropped.

The creature in the water looked back. Eyes wizened. Cheeks wet. Strong. Beautiful. 

Cress smiled. His rich eyes beckoned me near. “Sister in the woods,” he called. “Travel by my side.”

I lowered my chin, my neck, my shoulders. The creature in the water neared. It smiled. I fell in.


My head above the woods; I breathed.


---


Information about Narcissists. Educate yourselves, and do not get involved. 

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WebMD]]>Sat, 01 Dec 2012 05:46:00 GMThttp://www.teganelliott.com/writing/nox-and-erisan-working-titleDistant gray eyes that show nothing and reflect nothing. Hair dark as the horizon in the dead of a moonless night. Pale skin. Tan lips. High-arching cheekbones, and a square jawline that define me as decidedly, threateningly masculine. Mine is the face you will see when you have breathed your last breath. My body is the vessel from one harbor to the next; and from the time of your death to the time of your placement in Heaven or Hell, I am the keeper of your soul.

Most call me the Grim Reaper, though I have been named Ankou, Shinigami, The Destroyer, Yamaraj, and Thanatos. The list of titles stretches back to the first death on the first Earth and continues to expand, yet few who see me guess what I really am. Unlike my bright and shiny counterparts, I am hardly seen as a Heavenly creature. 

My name is Nox, and I am an Angel of Death.

Most think me needlessly cold, however, most don’t have my job. Imagine harvesting people’s souls day after day for all eternity. I don’t carry them in a special soul-collecting bag. I literally house your essence—everything you ever were in life—inside of my body, until the man upstairs tells me whether or not you will spend eternity in Paradise or Purgatory, and I either condemn or exalt you. Until that time, we are essentially the same being. I get to know who you were, whether or not you were a good person, how you died, and the fear you experienced when you saw me come to take you away. Then I have to let you go; either up or down, it’s not my decision. 

So, no, I’m not the life of the party; but you wouldn’t be either in my place. 

]]>Thu, 15 Nov 2012 05:55:12 GMThttp://www.teganelliott.com/writing/the-lost-land-of-neverwhere-workingFrom Ch 1:

    Every night I dream about flying. Not like you, probably, who might imagine yourself floating over all you know, who might get a jolt when you go too high or dip too low, then wake up and try to fall asleep again. I dream as if it's happening. I spin the world beneath me. I'm faster than the birds, more agile than a gymnast. The wind pushes back, makes catching breath a fight―but it's exciting that way. Each night I see the same things: a crescent-shaped island, a ship, a lagoon, a forest. The details never change. The dream is always more vivid than my life.

   When I wake, I'm sixteen. The paper clipped to the foot of my bed says my name is Andrew Smith, that I have "hostile tendencies," "schizophrenia: residual," and that I'm on a handful of medications. I'm in a room with nine other students, (inmates), at the Belleview Academy for Young Men located at 2142 Forest Street, London. The year is 2015, and my memories start in 2010. Before that: nothing. My existence as I know it begins with a concussion, three shattered ribs, and a pair of useless legs. The first half of my eleventh year, I was wheeled about like some grandpa who's next big adventure is death. The second half was spent swatting away nuns and nurses and breaking wheelchairs just so I could walk on my own again.

   Everything about that year was infuriating, but mostly the fact that the nuns wouldn't let me jump off the roof. I told them I'd be fine, that I could fly; but I never got the chance. The school's security guards were always there to pull me back. The dark, stone walls of Solitary were always waiting to swallow me whole. So, after a while, I gave up. But I still dream about flying. Every night.



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