Witch’s Curse

Hello, Radishes.

This story is not a fun one. Straight up, it’s not. I was challenged a while ago to write what made me uncomfortable… what made me afraid. I didn’t know why at the time this challenge seemed too daunting of a task to undertake until it hit me. I was living the uncomfortableness that I was afraid to write.

Things have been going on with me that aren’t exactly thrilling, but I’m constantly fighting to make my life better. To fight my inner demons, or however the saying goes. Writing became something I couldn’t handle, so I needed to take a break from it for a while. I needed to find my way back to where writing was fun for me again. Where anything was fun for me again. And I’m nearly there. Through the love and support from my partners in crime and my stubbornness to never back down, I’m getting stronger.

This is a parody on being a writer with depression/anxiety. And it was hard for me to write. It won’t be mind-blowing, but I do hope it offers some insight on what it’s like to be in my head for all of five minutes. It’s the battle I’m fighting and it’s the war that I will conquer.

Names were based off of this Bible verse:
Ruth 1:20 “Don’t call me Naomi,” she told them. “Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter.”
Naomi means “pleasant.”
Mara means “bitterness.”

                                                                                 The Witch’s Curse

Once upon a time, there was a girl that forgot how to write. Her name was Naomi and it was her dream to share her stories with the world.

It wasn’t as if she’d forgotten the words, and it wasn’t as though all her grammar lessons had amounted to nothing. It was that her body and mind were placed under a spell, preventing her limbs and synapses from sitting down, picking up a pen or opening up a laptop, and creating something beautiful.

The witch at blame went by the name Mara. She was invisible, but had her eyes set on Naomi since she was a little girl. The witch had cursed her family with depression throughout the ages, making sure that no matter what hopes and dreams they had, they would never be accomplished. Or, if they did accomplish them, they would never be allowed to see the greatness they had achieved.

The curse hit Naomi earlier than most of her ancestral counterparts. Instead of waiting until she had something to achieve, it began when she found something she loved. Writing. Words. The power of a single sentence that could make a reader feel something deeper than anything else the shallow world currently provided. Crafting such magic became her passion; it soon became her burden. 

An Update

Well Radishes, as the title of this post suggests, this is not going to be a post with a story in it. At least not a fictional one, or one that was specifically designed with this blog in mind. Nope, this is an update. While this is usually the day of the month when I’d be uploading a new story, November saw our hiatus continue and that will be the case for part of December as well.

Don’t fret, though! I promise, everything is fine. In fact, writing has been happening! I finished a first draft of a novel in early November and have been hard at work editing and revising (as they say, writing is rewriting). I also did write a short story for a contest at the urging of a coworker, but I can only post it here if I didn’t win, which I won’t know until January. It’s something I’d never thought I’d do in a million years before SaM but now, not quite so scary. And Sarah has been doing her own thing as well.

So again, be assured that this is not an end to our little radish patch in our corner of the Internet. Both of us will be writing either Christmas or holiday or New Years stories and posting them later this month, and fingers crossed we will be back to our usual schedule in 2015. But until then, please stick with us and Stay Radish!

-Monica

Pink Lady

Prompt: The last TV show you watched is now your life story. Well, in usual Radish fashion, I’m going to sort of follow this prompt, but first twist it to meet my needs. I recently watched a documentary about the BBC show Sherlock and that got me thinking: documentary, behind the scenes, nonfiction. I also recently read Mindy Kaling’s memoir, a collection of essays about her life so far. So instead of getting a fictional story from me this month, here is a dose of truth.

Like a lot of girls I know, growing up my bedroom was pink. Not outrageously bright or anything. The walls were a soft pink, the exact same color as the Washington DC cherry trees in bloom, and perfectly matched first my Precious Moments drapes and bedspread.

When I was younger, I loved it. It was the perfect setting for adventures with dolls and hours of dress up. And then as I got older, I went from loving it to liking it to trying to convince myself that I still liked it. Finally the truth was undeniable: pink was simply not my color.

A November Announcement

Hey there, Radishes!

As some of you may know, November is National Novel Writing Month. While neither Sarah nor I, Monica, endeavor to write an entire first draft of a novel in 30 days this year, there are bigger projects that we’d each like to focus our attention on for a while. And so, we will be taking a brief hiatus. But never fear! There will be a few guest posts by friends of ours and we hope to be back to our regularly scheduled programming in December, if not sooner.

Thanks for understanding and Stay Radish!

-Monica

Hannah and the Wolves – Part II

Ooooh. This was hard for me to write. Even as I post this, I am filled with the feeling that this is not a short story up to par. So instead of this being a two part series and ending terribly, I’m gonna post part 2 and work really hard on part 3 for next week.

Also, I apologize for the late posting. It’s been a long week.

Hannah and the Wolves – Part II

When Isaac woke, Hannah was standing over him, the baseball bat held tight in her hands.

“What did I do to deserve that?” he asked, slowly sitting up so he wouldn’t alarm her.  He appraised her apparel, holding in a laugh over the red hood drawn down over her eyes. She looked beautiful tonight, like something that stepped out of a fairy tale and was waiting for the story to begin.

Although her pose was strong, Isaac could smell the fear on her. “You came into the house,” she answered, voice unsteady.

“I’m housebroken,” he replied, almost in a sitting up position.

The tip of the baseball bat tapped against the side of his head in warning. “I didn’t invite you in.”

“No, I don’t suppose you did.”