The King, The Artist, and the girl

To write is one thing, to love him is another. ~A.C Rae

When she was just a girl,
She expected the world,
But it flew away from her reach,
So she ran away in her sleep.
And dreamed of paradise.
Coldplay

“Will anyone ever understand me for who I am? I am tired of my emotions being played with, you know, like a heated game in a pingpong ball competition. A battle of wits or a guessing game of sorts. ” She gazed around the studio and sighed heavily. The Artist laughed nervously.

She looked up at him. “You are an asshole, Mr. Arteest.” She quipped.

He peaked up from his easel with a dangerous gleam in his eyes; his paint brush poised in the air as if he wanted to stab her, not paint her.

“He lies. You lie. Everyone lies to me. I know I am a good person, but I have that USE ME look on my face or something? Do people think I am not good enough for them and move on to find someone better? What is it Artist? Tell me, why do people just gravitate out of my life like I ceased to exist.” Her voice of resentment had an eerie calmness. The kind you would find in a woman scorned or on the brink of an emotional breakdown.

The Artist chose to ignore the comment, he did not want to deal with her emotions. He looked back down at his work. She noted the flick in his wrist as he contined delicate brush strokes across a small sectoin on the canvas. It was just like him to ignor her, of course, unless he had something to say, then she was good enough.

“Stop wiggling, girl, I need to finish a few more strokes on your delicate derriere.”

She was slightly appalled by his remark, but at the same time amused as she watched a wicked little grin creep in from the corners of his mouth. She gave him a “humph.” and wiggled her derriere once more. He had come to brush off her little teasing ways and contined his brush strokes.

His eyes remained glued to his work. “Stop your teasing and let me finish this painting. The King wants it by the end of this evening.”

She rolled her big brown eyes to the heavens and then back down at The Artist.

“Does he really love me?”
“Yes.”
“Why does he do this to me?”
“What does he do?”
“He confuses me.”

He lifted one shoulder slightly in a lazy shrug and laid the brush down. He thought for a moment before choosing a smaller brush and dabbing it into a small mound of blue paint from his paint palate. As he worked she continued on.

“Do you still love me, Artist?”
“Yes.”
“Why.”

Silence. Both of them, always silent when she was serious. And to get a straight answer from either of them was like pulling the teeth from an angry werewolf.

He gazed her way, still avoiding an answer. “Please, lie still, Mi Amor.”

She was beginning to grow increasingly aggitated, not by having to lie her naked form as still as possible on the velvet chaise, but by The Artist’s reluctance to speak to her about his real feelings. They were quite alike, she thought, and if she were to say anything, The King would have called her sassy for having such thoughts.

“Well, he can just kiss my ass.” She blurted out loud in an irritated manner; just loud enough to startle The Artist.

“Dammit!” His exasperation becoming quite clear now as he slammed the paint brush down.

“What.” She answered curtly, knowing full well what was what.

“I came so close. So very close! If I had been just one brush stroke closer to your derriere, I would have runined the whole painting! Your childish outburst could have cost me my time with The King!” He yelled at her as he began turning red in the face. She usually delighted in seeing him angry as he continued to sputter off in Spanish. She could pick out certain words from time to time and he clearly was swearing at her. The viens in his neck popped from under his dark skin as he shook in anger. She gave out a small laugh. The way he eyed her from behind the easel was enough to tell her that she should keep her mouth shut, but she always took his “threats” lightly. It wasn’t as if he was going to grab an unloaded shot gun and chase after her down the street screaming to the top of his lungs like a madman. When The Artist settled down and turned his attention back once more to his portrait, the girl reached down and grabbed her glass of Cabernet. She took in a luscious sip, and then another. She continued to sip on the glass of wine until it was gone. By the time she was done, The Artist looked up at her once again.

She smiled sweetly. “How is my portrait looking? She asked.

“I am almost finished. I am sure The King will be quite pleased” He quipped.

Knowing what she knew of The King she asked The Artist, “What makes you so sure?”

The Artist gave her a quizzical look before answering. “Because, Mi Amor. He is in love with you.”

She looked at him in disbelief and as the girl reached for her bottle of Cabernet she answered. ” Yeah. Right Artist. Again, what makes you so sure? Someone like The King is in love with me, yet he ignores me to the point of rejection. He never answers my calls, or any correspondence I may send. Nothing. Like I cease to exist in his world, yet, you say he loves me?”

“Si. Mi Amor. He loves you, he has told me so.” The Artist continued more quick brush strokes in hopes that she would drop the subject, but by this time she had had enough wine to keep her sassy and bold.

“Fuck you, Artist. What makes you so sure. If he loved me like he claims, I would be in his arms this very moment. Instead I lie here naked and nearly freezing just to satisfy his want for a portrait of me? I don’t get it. When a lover wants his woman, he would be sure to be quite clear of his wishes, and all I get is silence.” The girl gulped another glass of wine and sat up. “Are you fucking done yet, Artist. I need to go. It is here I will tell you goodbye.”

The Artist had been done with her portrait for at least 10 minutes, but the way she carried on about The King, he let her continue on with her rant. He wanted to know what was on her mind. He watched as she suddenly hung her head and heave a sigh so heavy, it looked as if a world of weight lay upon them.

“He doesn’t love me, Artist. He wants another. He does not want me.” The Artist watch as tears began to flow down her cheeks and drop to rest upon her thighs in pools of sadness. He quickly jumped up, grabbed a blanket on the settee and folded her up in its softness, but for the girl, it felt like more weight had been added to her sadness. She glanced up at The Artist.

“Are you done with the portrait? She sighed with sad tears still pooling in her eyes.

The Artist felt a guilty pull in his gut and his heart sank, for he knew of her pain. “What do you mean, goodbye, Mi Amor?” He shook not wanting to accept her answer before she could give it.

She looked up at him with big, sad, brown eyes. “He doesn’t love me, Artist. Why should I stay? Why should I be here on this earth to wander lonely and hurt, desperate for his love and affection knowing he does not want me. I am better off dead, Artist.”

The shock on his face made her smile. If anyone really, truly cared about her, it was The Artist.

Please, do not say such things.” His concern melted her heart, but her heart belonged to The King, and it was The King who did not want her for he had other plans, maybe for another, she was not sure, but his silence towards her was enough to make her feel sure that she could not handle rejection yet another time around. She was sick and tired of being rejected. When it came to men, there was always another woman, another interest that took them away from her. All she ever wanted was to be loved, to be accepted, and to persuit her passions freely; just as she had supported others for what they loved. But somehow, when it came to what she wanted and what she loved, she was shunned, tuned out, and replaced. Was such a life as hers meant to be lived alone? It came to the point where the girl felt such a life was not meant to live any longer. Everyone else around her went on with their lives as if she did not exist. They were happy with the way life was and no one cared what she thought. The King rejected her, the ones she loved most did not support her so what was the point? The King left her when he promised he never would. Without him, life was meaningless. Even the Artist gave her very little of himself. His interests lie elsewhere as well, just like the others.

Before she could think of anything rational, she jumped up and hollered louder than she intended. ” I need to get out of here. Have a good life with The King. I am sure you are all he would ever want and more.” The blanket slid off her body and bunched up around her ankles. The girl grabbed her silk rose print coverlet, wrapped her chilled body, and bolted from The Artist’s studio before The Artist could stop her. His protests faded in the breeze the further away she ran from the studio and through the back yard and into the vast darkness. The Artist’s studio sat on the grounds of The King’s expansieve property. The grounds ran together from the house, to the stables, and through gardens upon gardens of flowers, trees, and shrubs of all kinds. She slowed down and with the guide of the moonlight, she picked her way upon old brick walks, walls of bushes, and a large stone fountain. A marble angel poised in the middle; her wings folded behind her back as she sat upon a stone, deep in thought. The girl stopped abruptly and stared at the angel’s face.

“Please.” She whispered. “Please let him love me.”

She turned away from the angel fountain and continued to walk. She knew this place like the back of her hand and easily navigated in near darkness to a familiar area. By the time the girl got to the Rose garden, she was exhausted and sank down onto the cold grass next to the old stone walk. Ironically, it was her favorite garden where she and The King had spent many hours talking, holding hands, and kissing. There were many times they made love upon the various colored rose petals that fell to the ground, melding the scent of roses and him on her skin. When she realized where she was she began to cry.

“Why?” She pleaded in a whisper to her broken heart, “Why did he do this to me? Why does he say he loves me and wants to be with me, only to turn around and reject me? What did I do that was so wrong to deserve his rejection? Maybe I am just nobody to everybody.” She cried more sorrowful now remembering the times he was a gentler, kinder man. The multiple rendezvous in the gardens or love making behind the bushes during his most playful times; the times when she felt she was special to him.

Unable to sit up any longer, she laid down on the cool green grass while the torment and pain continue to wrack her body. Her emotions exhaused her and her crying turned into silent streams of tears. It wasn’t long before she fell asleep from the exhaustion. Her mind drifted into a world of fitfull wisps of dreams. She woke up only long enough to cry herself back to sleep again.

While she flitted into another fitful dream, she heard his voice, clear and concise. “Stop this foolish nonense girl. Only an embicille would act this way.” The girl jolted awake; her deep brown eyes wide with fright. She saw him bend down next to her and lay his hand along side her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing away spent tears.

“I…I, thought you went away.” She whispered.

“No.” The King gave a stern look, at the same time, surprised by her concern.

She looked away, feeling ashamed for assuming he would be anywhere else but here with her.

He reached over and nudged her up onto her feet. She looked up at him. Her tense body seemed to soften as he gazed back down at her. To the girl, he meant everything. She did not understand why she yearned for constant reassurance of his love, but it was all she had. Without him, she felt nothing. It was then he leaned down to kiss her. He was gentle, and sweet, and what he offered her was all she had ever wanted; to be in love, to be loved. Her pain and hurt from the past began to fade once again as he took her hand and silently lead her away from the Rose garden and back to the house. He knew exactly what she needed, what she yearned for, and he was just the one to give her her hearts’ desire.

~A.C. Rae

Paradise by Cold Play http://youtu.be/cyoXP3w7dp4

When she was just a girl,
She expected the world,
But it flew away from her reach,
So she ran away in her sleep.

And dreamed of para-para-paradise,
Para-para-paradise,
Para-para-paradise,
Every time she closed her eyes.

When she was just a girl,
She expected the world,
But it flew away from her reach,
And bullets catching her teeth.

Life goes on,
It gets so heavy,
The wheel breaks the butterfly.
Every tear, a waterfall.
In the night, the stormy night,
She closed her eyes.
In the night, the stormy night,
Away she flied.

And dream of para-para-paradise,
Para-para-paradise,
Para-para-paradise,

So lying underneath the stormy skies.
She said oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh.
I know the sun’s set to rise.

This could be para-para-paradise,

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A Look Into The Past

There is nothing wrong with preserving the past. What is unacceptable is not telling your story. ~A.C. Rae

Have you ever wanted to live in a different time era rather than the one you grew up in and live in right now? I always have ever since I was a child. I have always felt misplaced like I was meant to be in a different time 100 or more years ago. I love colonial history, pioneer history all the way through the depression era and WWII.

What intrigues me? History, the stories that people told way back then, real life accounts about life, family, religious beliefs, and the facts of life that were passed down through story telling. My grandparents were magnificent storytellers. They captured my undivided attention when they would start to talk about the “good old days”, my imagination ran wild reliving in my head their experiences of growing up and being raised in very difficult times. To them, that was what life was all about. And of course, those who know me best know that I love to ask endless questions.

I also worked in nursing homes as a teenager and a young adult, the elderly fascinate me. Even those who were deemed “senile” were always telling me stories about their youth. I believed what they said because I thought they were reliving the “good old days” as their minds deteriorated presently from the unexplainable disease of Alzheimer. My friends included centurions (100 plus year olds) whose minds were sharper than a whip. These cute little old people were hard of hearing, but told amazing stories of horse-drawn carriages and living in sod homes, reading by oil lamps and candlelight. They never complained about their hardship but talked about how times were hard. A person had to work very hard to earn a dollar, you stretched that dollar to feed and clothe your family. It was a simple life, values and morals meant absolutely everything. A man’s word and a handshake was his honor; that is how he made his accord.

I also have inherited, over many years, family heirlooms that were once treasured and used by my family. The old sewing machine that great grandma used to stitch up great grandpa’s torn overalls from those hard laborious days farming. The Red Wing mixing bowl Grandma used to hand mix homemade cookie dough. I loved grandma’s vintage bread rising pan that she used for bread baking days. With her septuagenarian hands she would gently lay each spongy doughy loaf on a layer of lard in this pan and when the moment was just right, she would take out the risen dough, shape it into a loaf and bake it. You can just image the smell of fresh home baked, homemade bread wafting through out the kitchen. It was a real treat to lather each thickly sliced piece of bread with real home churned butter and homemade chokecherry jelly. I look at this pan now and wonder about what was on her mind as her little hands pumped up and down kneading the bread dough to perfection.

I have glassware, bottles, knickknacks, crockery, postcards, greeting cards, pictures, jewelry, clothes, christening gowns, personal affects, books, toys, furniture, oil lamps and quilts with the old “turkey tracks” stitching and assorted bedding and blankets and doilies. Back then, nobody threw anything away! It was all passed down. Of course, my favorites are the old photographs.

I love the worn out cookbooks and handwritten recipes the women referred to daily in the kitchen, almost like their bible. Grandma would have “pish-poshed” at the fact that “nowadays” we cook with convenience foods in a microwave oven. “That’s not cooking!” She would say with a laugh. “It’s got to be homemade. You need to put love and labor into it so when you eat, it is more enjoyable and you appreciate what is put into it.” One time after supper I was complaining about doing the dishes. Grandma said. “Dirty dishes are a sign that we have had something to eat.” Profound? Yes. She lived her young adult life raising children in the day when food was scarce and what was available was rationed. Have you ever heard of Victory gardens or canning and preserving your own food?

I dream of having a big ol’ country house to fill up with all this and more. Yes, I live in the country in a modest farmhouse. My dream home is much like you would see in the movie “The Notebook” or “Fried Green Tomatoes”. I love old houses like this; there is so much character, so much history. Houses talk and all one has to do is stop and listen. I want a big country kitchen with a big butler’s pantry and to cook from an old-fashioned cook stove while sipping wine brought up from the old wine cellar. I already enjoy cooking with home canned foods and homemade ingredients. My mother and grandmothers taught me how to preserve food, one of the most valuable and treasured gifts along with their storytelling they have ever given me. They taught me to be self-sufficient and to let nothing go to waste.

This love for “old” things brings me to my love of adventure into the past. I explore abandoned farmhouses, barns, buildings. One time I found an old car in a barn that had been shot full of bullet holes. I wanted to know what happened. Who “hid” the car away in this rural area? Was it an “old-fashioned” bank robbery? A lover’s quarrel and her “old man” found them in a fit of passionate ill-repute? I long to know the stories behind abandoned farms, homes, and buildings. Why did they come here, why did they leave? What were their dreams?

I love museums and can spend hours in one if I am allowed. I ponder over how people lived back at the turn of the century as I would wander from one antique of interest to the next or perusing old photographs, ledgers and journals. I was even privy, once, to have come across an old photo album. As I scanned each picture, I felt an odd sensation. Each person was dressed impeccably in their Sunday best and seated as if ready for Church or the yearly town hall Saturday night dance. Only then did I discover that I was looking at a post-mortem photo album, or, pictures of the dead. This was a practice during the Victorian Era where child mortality rates were high. Think I didn’t have questions at that time?

I am sure my ancestors would have given anything for our modern conveniences, but then would they really if they knew just how technically savvy we have become? Maybe medicine, no doubt about it as mortality rate was very high back then. In our families, we have had many young children die of influenza back in 1918, scarlet fever in 1922 as well as a 3-year-old toddler drowning in the well and many family members fighting against each other in Europe back in World War II.

Childhood disease took many lives early, as well as heart disease, cancers and communicable disease. With modern medical technology and its advances of today, we are no longer concerned about these. Our life spans have been greatly lengthened through medicine. My paternal great, great grandfather was a country doctor and was noted to have successful home remedies. One of his remedies people caught onto in this century, manufactured it and call it a Neti Pot. Hmmm. He also published a book on home remedies and country “doctoring”.

There is so much more I could talk about when it comes to the past, but that would turn into a novel. It is a fun subject to converse about, to be inspired through others stories and I feel everyone has a story to tell and to write. Storytelling has changed throughout our recent past. People almost never tell the old, old stories and we lose face of who we really are, were we came from and our roots. If you don’t know much about your story, learn as much as you can now and write it down for others to read. Pass them along to other family members and in turn they can tell their children and children love stories.

HOME is where your story begins.

~A.C. Rae

Why I Write

“The greatest living experience for every man is his adventure into the woman.” D.H. Lawrence

 Yep, it’s me, Ranae, sassy country girl blogging. If anybody told me a year ago that I would have written two books and several short stories or even have a blog, I would have laughed. But truthfully, I have wanted to write the stories rumbling in my head for years. With the encouragement of friends and fellow writers from Twitter, I plunged into my dream. Yes, I twitter and you wouldn’t believe the wonderful friends that I have made there. Thank you Lisa and Elle for the gentle, supportive nudge to move ahead and create this blog. Wait. It wasn’t that gentle, I remember! Check out these funny ladies at http://comiccelle.blogspot.com  http://LHMthoughts.blogspot.com

 These past 10 months have brought about many amazing changes. I started my first book December 2010, a story I loved writing, re-reading, editing and critiquing. I joined Twitter in January 2011, which opened up many new things for me. I learned more about writing from very talented writers and reading their blogs. They share their tales of failures and comebacks and the long road to writing success. Many have invited me in their circle of fun, support and writing. By the end of March I was writing a murder mystery and by spring more short stories were either written or in my mind waiting to burst out on word doc. By summer my list grew, not only my writing, but my twitter friends as well. We socialize on a daily basis for fun and for support. I love to see the continuing support authors give each other and I am humbled by how they include me as a writer in their circle.

 My dream is to publish my books and short stories. In the beginning, all I really wanted was to just write, to see if I could do it. Then I started thinking about how much I really wanted to see my first story in book form with a cover and my name on it. Even if it goes nowhere or maybe purchased by my amazing followers, at least I could hold my masterpiece in my hands and be proud of my accomplishment. Yes, I would love to share these stories with anybody who loves romance and a murder mystery, but it is only fair to warn you that every story will have some form of erotica in it. It’s just the way I work. It’s what makes me happy.

 During this venture of mine I have learned that people are afraid to let their sexual desires be known, to talk about sex and how they really feel about it. You want to be touched in that naughty place, but too afraid to express your desires, so you read about them. You secretly want to be excited by what you read so you continue to read on. You have to know what is going to happen next because you want to feel it too. You hold back your sexual desires because you are afraid of what your partner may think or how it may surprise even you. Or are you just afraid you are going to love it that much?

 Why erotica? I have read hundreds of books in my lifetime. I have read a wide range of genre. I love romance the most. Often I would read a romance novel and the author would do an amazing job of building up the passion and the want and the need. Then I would feel so let down when the only thing that the author wrote after the “hook up” was, “And they spent a wonderful, passionate night together.” Sorry. That doesn’t do it for me. I want detail. I want to read what the character is feeling during this passionate night. I have read before, “write what you want to read” and so I took that to heart. At first I hesitated writing explicit details or even using the “F” word, mainly for fear of shocking my mother into a heart attack and what other family members might think of me. I thought to myself, “why am I doing this? Why am I concerned with what other people might think? This is for me!” So I changed my way of writing and love it even better. I will also give credit to author Amelia James. She taught me that it’s okay to come out of the “trashy closet” and when it comes to erotica, write what you truly want to write and what makes you happy. Thanks Amelia for your encouragement! Check her out at http://trashystreasures.wordpress.com/

 My characters have emerged from my dreams, overactive imagination, daydreams and others who inspire me. I love to give my characters life. I have enjoyed doing research in order to give them a sense of who they are and where they come from. These are characters you will love to meet and fall in love with. My muses are sexy hot and badass, sensitive and compassionate. They have awakened me in the middle of the night and kept me up for hours with their playfulness, stubbornness and their hot sex escapades. I daydream for hours about their antics and tragedies. I can’t help it; they are in my subconscious whispering to me to tell their story. That is why I write.

 Now to break it gently to my friends and family!

 ~A.C. Rae

Please come back again. I will introduce you to the many writer friends that have been there for me and with some luck, entertain you with a post or two!

Check out my writer friend J.D. http://www.januarydruidess.com/ Our conversation on the subject of the misunderstood writer inspired her to write this really good post! Thanks J.D.!