Words Left Unsaid

Okay, this this one is a little weird, and I will admit I got a little overly involved in a post that has been going around social media, as seen below. This is the story of Jeanne, and how she finds Claude’s letter, over 150 years later.

It also draw inspiration from this week’s Friday Picture Prompt on The Writer’s Mess, with the picture of the Love Locks. It is questionable as where this tradition actually started, and I like the idea it was far earlier than people think.


Dearest Jeanne,

I could live a thousand lifetimes, and never tire of the sight of your smiling face.  It is the memory of that smile that sustains me through the long nights, where I am far from home, far from everything, and everyone that I love.

I long for the day that this war finally ends, and I might have a chance to stand before you, and tell you how I feel.  That I might ask for your hand in marriage, so that we never again would be parted, and I could see these fair countries, with you at my side.

I have not the money for fine jewels, or fancy dresses, but I have left evidence of my love in every city I have passed in these long years of fighting, in the form of a lock, with our mark’s inscribed upon them, at every bridge, and I hope that some day I can show you each and every one of them. 

Forever Yours,

Claude

I could feel the tears welling in my eyes as I read the letter, for what felt like the thousandth time, but it still hit me just as hard as it did the first time. 

I left before Claude returned, too many years in one place had put us at risk, and I always thought I would see him again.  If I had known that this was how he felt, I would have risked it though, staying there, for him.

I travelled half of Europe after the first time I saw that letter, visiting locks that were little more rust, mourning what may have been, wondering why, Claude, why did you never say anything, and hoping against all hope that one day, even it takes a hundred years more, that I will look up and find him standing there, waiting.

The Tale of the Travelling Bard – Part Two

Welcome to part two of the Tale of the Travelling Bard, though it stands alone. This is the story of the bard’s Father, as he finds out what his son has made of himself out on the road, and how his son’s profession has changed the way he interacts with the bards that pass through town.


“Sir, please, I promise to weave a tale that will keep your patrons here drinking late into the night. All I ask in return is a spot of soup, and, of course, if you can spare it a room, is that really too much to ask?”

Really, yes, it was far too much to ask. These damn bards would wander into town and just expect free food and lodging until they felt like moving on. The merchants at least had a service, offered something in trade, but a story, a story!

Ie took one look at the furrowed brow of his wife, and he gave the bard a room, a bowl of soup, a biscuit and a cup of mead ignoring the mans profuse thanks, and instead looking at his dear Louisa who is glowing at the show of kindness.

“Do you think Danny is getting enough to eat?” She asked when I walked by.

“Of course,” he lied. “He is twice the story teller as this bloke, and a with a merchant he is sure to see a pretty penny. He’s probably having the time of his life. Don’t worry dear, just focus on remembering the story for next time he visits.” And she lit up at the idea of being the one to tell Danny a story for a change and focused intently on the bard, who true to his word had quite a story to tell.

The longer I listened the more, with a sinking feeling, I began to realize, he was talking about my Danny. Though I wouldnt’a called him of flaxen hair, he met the rest of the criteria, and I prayed to the gods that my wife didn’t realize that the idiot bard following around a monster hunter was our boy.

After that I was a little freer with my lodging for bards, and at least 4-5 times a year someone would come in with a take owing bard to Danny and I prayed all the more.

It’s why I was so surprised the day that Danny walked back into the tavern, taller, broder, fuller, a man. A man that anyone would be proud to call son. He hugged him Mum, took his bath, and came down and started to tell a tale.

I knew he had a gift, but gods, this was more than that, they were enthralled, ensnared by it, and drinking by the tankard unknowingly. The next night the tavern of the was so full I had to turn people away, and I knew my son’s ridiculous story inn was going to become a reality.

Danny had money now, or Daniel as he so liked to be called, and hired folks to build onto inn, making a stage, to tell tales and songs upon, and it didn’t take many months before we were adding rooms to the inn, getting another building, hiring staff. Our little middle nowhere town exploded as people came round from all parts to listen to Danny’s stories, and I couldn’t blame them, they were magnificent, the best I had ever heard.

He started teaching, my boy teaching, the art of story telling, and I couldn’t help but think back to the useless waif we had taken in all those years ago, and feel pride for being the one to keep him. My boy, the bard.

Try, Try Again

Hello, and welcome to this weeks response to The Writer’s Mess’s Friday Picture Prompt Challenge. This week t there was a book, some used candles, and dirt to draw from, and at first I thought I would skip it. Then I started to worked what kind of spilled would involve so much dirt, and well, we get the story of our narrator, trying to perform a ritual, and running out of time.


The first time made sense, she had interpreted the moon phase wrong, she didn’t have a good enough offering, but this time it should have worked.  Why didn’t it work?

Maybe it was the hour?  She had tried midnight, but maybe, just maybe nonsense from that witch show on TV had been right, and it was really three am that was the true witching hour. 

She could do this, she would do this she had to.

She looked down at the book, still open to the appointed page, half used candles strewn around it in the dirt covering the grave.

She had on more chance at this, and if she wasn’t successful, it was over, she would be too late, and Kennedy would stay dead.

She had two and a half hours to prepare, to get another sacrifice, and if this was her last shot, she would have to make it count.

She pulled the knife from her bag, and headed towards the living space behind the church.  After all, in for a penny, in for a pound.

The Tale of a Travelling Bard- Part One

The first short story of the month, and it is a three parter, though each part stands alone.  Follow the story of a bard with a tragic past, an unlikely success, and a dark secret.  I will admit one part of this was written right after watching Witcher Season 1, and I had bards on the brain. Welcome to part one, the story of how the bard got his start in life, this one is pretty dark.


The way my story starts changes depending on the day. On a good day, my family knew that I was smart, and crafty, and that the farm life wouldn’t be enough for me. So when the travelling merchant came through and needed an assistant they offered me up, knowing that I would live a far better life with him than at home. They knew that I would get all manner of opportunities and have the chances they never would, and I would makes something of myself.

On my darker days, I was given to a questionable passer through in exchange for almost nothing in the way of goods cause I was pretty much worthless. Okay, I know that sounds a little self deprecating, but look at it from my parents point of view. They had their two good size strong boys, the heir and the spare to take over the farm. Then what they really needed was a girl, the marry the first born son of the farmer to our west. They had better land, more established, but we had a river access, and if the farms could be combined through a marriage of some sort, they would be golden.

Then I was born, and it was like, oh, oops lets try again, and they got my beautiful little sister a 11 months later. Maybe it was being weaned too early to make way for my sister, but I was tiny, frail, and sickly. I was smart, that I wasn’t lying about, but I took a lot of time, effort, and food and never gave much back. When the travelling merchant showed and wanted an assistant, giving him me was a good way to have one less mouth to feed. Maybe they hoped I would do well, but well, I doubt it.

I was only with the merchant for about a year, when he gave me to a blacksmith, who had no use for me, and who gave me to a stable keeper who also had no use for me, who gave me to an innkeeper, who had less than no use for me, but whose wife had desperately wanted children, and was unable to bear then. So she got me, and by this point I was a little less sickly, I had learned to read and write, mostly by irritating people until they taught me so that I would do something other than talk to them, but I got it.

Life at the inn was pretty easy, there was plenty of food and drink, and ll I had to do was clean up, help out with the horses a bit, which was breeze after the stable keeper gig. The best part though was the stories. People who stopped at inns travelled the world wide and they brought back the most amazing stories from their travels. I soaked them up, used the bits I got from tips to buy parchment and wrote down every scrap of them I could remember.

I knew at some point it would be expected that I would take over and run the inn, but my “Father” was fairly young and in very good health, and found me quite irritating in large doses, so he suggested I go off and explore the world a bit. Ironically, it was his recommendation that I go with a travelling merchant. A different one that my first, but it was a relatively safe job. I could go round, and collect my stories, and some day when I took over the inn, maybe I could change it up a bit, put on a show?

I had dreams a plenty and I was on my way…to jail. I didn’t do it, and by it, I mean the innkeepers daughter. She was a floozy by any account, but I was an innkeeper’s son and you do not screw, literally or figuratively, with the child of an innkeeper.

I suspected my rather large companion was not quite as innocent as I, but I was small, and stupid enough to get caught, so I was thrown in prison, where I knew I would languish until I died.