So, upon coming to that conclusion, I've decided not to write one just yet. The Problem with Miranda is completely being scrapped. For now. In the meantime, I will concentrate on writing small scenes and short stories. Practice, if you will, for bigger (and hopefully better) things to come. The problem with that is that I have no utter idea what to write about. And while that makes for an exciting and open ended list of possibilities; it also makes for... well.. a daunting and open ended list of possibilities.
How do I choose?
For now, I offer up the beginning of a vampire story I started writing some years ago. Maybe I will pick it back up.
I call it: Hier, Aujourd'hui, et Demain, Which means Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow.
Hier, Aujourd'hui, et Demain
by Susan Boesche
From the street the path looked over grown with wisteria, the lavender blooms hanging and closed awaiting a sun he'd not seen in centuries, save one ill fated attempt at an end that held no merit in his mind. Ivy wound it's way up the garden gate and along the cast iron arch way, clinging to the granite wall as though it were all it had. Most would not think to try the gate to see if it would open; most may not think to look upon it at all, tucked as it was along the side yard of an over grown mansion that no light had shone in for going on twenty years.
It was the way he preferred, of course. The way it enveloped the small guest house in quiet solitude, the way no street light bled through the thick ivy that hid the cracks in the wall. He could stand in the yard among the decaying benches and falling statues and know no mortal eyes could see him. Sometimes he stood for hours it seemed; stood or sat, book in lap as he watched cats wander along the top of the high wall, winding their way along the doomed decoration that seemed to jut every 10 feet or so along their path before they met a thick sloping branch and ascended into the dome of trees above his head. The decoration he knew to be the mockery of a night-blooming cereus, delicately carved and carefully fashioned, for he could remember when the wall had been erected. Now, to a passerby, they seemed the work of no craftsman, covered in ivy the way they were -- hidden in the branches, or laying fallen and dank and still in the garden beyond.
He sometimes felt a sadness that those who glanced upon them would never enjoy them the way he seemed to, and often in moments that were scarcely fleeting, he would think to swipe the weather-beaten granite free of the ivy, and let them stand proud upon Prytania Street the way they had long ago. He imagined he could pick them up from the damp ground, wipe them free of the smudge and bugs, and place them back up on their gallery. He could fix it all up; the house, the lot -- a small splendor in the jaded eyes of the passing world until he left it again and made to never return for as long as he were allowed to remain on the Earth.
And again, this garden would make to be overgrown, the way he loved, the way his lover had loved; and over the years, trees would grow old and fall upon the guest house. Children would run past it's yard when walking home from school, trying not to peek through the haunted holes the branches would cause in the damaged gate. It would be condemned, and eventually tore to the ground with all witnessing parties never knowing it had once been the futile love of a creature that would outlive them all. And there was no bitterness at this thought.
But then, these were the absent and fleeting thoughts of an immortal mind. A mind that lay fashioned in the pages of mortal-written books more often then not, as of late. Silent in Solitude, awaiting the night he would come out into the world again, and look upon it's cites with renewed interest. Tonight was not this night, and nor would tomorrow be. Perhaps he would stay for a year, for two, he knew not. He'd disappeared some years before, and if his lover had looked upon him in his little lair, he would never know, for their connection was too direct and knew no glimmer. Had others came he paid no attention, willing them away, he was sure, by his silence alone.
His was an old soul, even as he'd been a young man upon his careless berth into immortality. He'd been delivered to the coming ages, spoiled by damnation in his own mind and left to search for answers that were no ones to give or to know. In time, he'd learned that the only answers he were owed were the ones that he alone could give, and in this knowledge he now took comfort. For there was no one to disappoint him now, and no one any longer, for him to disappoint, save himself.
It was the strongly scented breeze that seemed to bring the marble statue to life where he stood, staring at the pale blooms of the Jessamine that filled every corner of his little alcove. It'd been why he chose it - this haven from the world that churned beyond it's wall - and it was why he loved it so, for these were flowers that bloomed at night, the way they did in his lovers own overgrown garden. He thought of them vaguely then, his eyes raising, locking against those of a decaying statue that seemed to take on a life of it's own in a silver sliver of moonlight that bled through the limbs of the trees from just above. He could remember his amazement to look upon a carved figure for the first time, the way his buttons, or a licking flame could hold his attention for much to longer then one would deem possible. His lover had made to laugh at him. He had thought her easily amused even then, and took no shame in his early amazement. If only all could see with these eyes, he mused, what wonders would beseech them.
He turned at this thought, a seemingly delicate hand raising to brush back a burgundy lock of curling hair. He wore it mostly pulled back, but ever was there a piece in front that seemed to rebel against his wishes, for it'd been shorter then the rest upon his making. It bothered him no more to tuck it back. It was habit. It was constant. It would never change the way that he would never outwardly change, and no mind was paid to it as his eyes grazed over the Angels Trumpet, and the Fleur d'Amour that lingered near the ruined pond near the center of his garden. To this, he made his way, stepping carefully over small fits of blooming plants and turned over pots until he could look down into the swampy black water.
And there he stood in reflection, a monster in the guise of a man. Stephan Roux. The Beautiful One with the curling red hair. Unmerciful Death with impossibly green eyes, standing in tailored suit pants of black wool, and an elegant buttoned shirt of off ivory silk. It's sleeves were plentiful, their bottoms covering his knuckles, almost hiding the green jeweled ring he wore on his right fore finger, reminiscent of the fashions of olde, in a time he'd been both innocent and broken and picked up, only to be put back down into the immortal grasp of Nights cool touch.
He was everlasting, a thriving star under the cloak of midnight, and never did he hunger to belong anywhere else.
