A well-kept secret

“Perhaps the key to something lasting is that not many people know about it.

Like when you set goals. It’s better to work hard in silence to achieve them, rather than boast about what you’re doing or aiming for.

Right?”

She looked at him. He had a point. Not everyone is happy with your success or joy. And bad vibes may cause a negative aura around you that sabotages whatever you wish to do, no matter how much you want it. It is up to us to maintain a positive energy. If it’s true that you attract what you send out, then we should only strive to be cheerful and optimistic as much as possible.

Sometimes that also means keeping things to yourself.

At least until you’re certain of their outcome.

“So you’re saying that we should keep this a secret?” she asked feigning innocence. She already knew the answer. And he knew she was not that naïve.

“Wouldn’t you think so?” he asked coyly.

They drove round the bend to a beautiful stone-built house by the lake. There was no other house around for quite some distance. It was like a sanctuary for the both of them. Where they could be who they wanted for however long, away from prying eyes and malicious gossip.

“After all,” he added, winking, “things that happen in secret have a hidden charm”.

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Charming disapproval

“Isn’t it funny how even the most elegant, charming and noble-looking people can have the most cavalier attitude towards significant issues?”

She sighed as she looked at the man who minutes ago was trying to woo her.

“I thought he was a proper cavalier, you know, a renaissance charmer, who knows how to treat a lady right.

But turns out, he is a misogynist”.

Also part of Weekend Writing Prompt #165

The art of writing

If there is an elegance in knowing how to speak, there is a charm in knowing how to write. In being able to express the thoughts that swivel in your mind, into words, phrases, sentences. Giving them meaning to paint an image to the outsider, enabling him/her to witness with their own eyes a fraction of your very being.
Being able to write is a gift, a talent, a skill.

In an age when we are constantly busy with something, and never have enough time for anything, possessing good writing skills is a trait few truly have. For, from a very young age, we are taught that reading and writing are intrinsically linked. They are two skills that you learn simultaneously. Today, we spend most of our precious daily time skim reading texts of all sorts. We have no time to waste. If the first few sentences do not grip your interest immediately, the text is not deemed worthy of your attention. So being a good writer becomes all the more important. You need to invite the reader in, to arouse their attention, raise an issue of common interest to them, welcome them into your stream of words, and grasp them so tightly that they would want to stay along for the entire ride. And if you are exceptionally good, you will leave them with an afterthought, having awakened inside of them their spirit of curiosity, of questioning, of bewilderment for the very world we live in. It is true that nowadays we speed read all the more, but that does not necessarily mean we should also skim write.

Think about the books you read. There are some that you can literally not put down. Not even when you feel your bladder so full it is pressing against your stomach, and you’re dancing around on your seat, trying to finish one more line, one more sentence, one more page, before you have to race to the bathroom like a mouse on fire. But there are others that actually put you to sleep after just one or two pages. It might not necessarily be just the plot at fault. It is the way the plot is written. The descriptions, the narrative, the tone. It is no wonder, therefore, that the best books you read – those that remain with you long after – are the ones in which the flow of words can reach deep into your soul, caress every atom of your being, and so thoroughly describe every emotion you feel to the extent that you experience a hair-raising chill down your spine. The most memorable texts are indeed the ones that so vividly describe exactly what they make you feel. The ones that help you embark on a rollercoaster of emotions, of racing heartbeats, and of sighs of relief.

Knowing how to write is more than a dexterity. It is an art. And like many others, everyone claims to know how to do it. But few truly do it well.

Also part of Daily Prompt: On the Edge

Surprisingly weaved together

Harry would enter the ATM branch on the corner of the street with the best bagel-shop in the entire city center every Wednesday around midday. Silvie knew that. She had been watching him for the past couple of months. But he was not aware of it.

Silvie worked as a security guard and was responsible for monitoring all action in the ATM room from the cameras situated at every corner of it. There was rarely something suspicious going on, but it was always better to be safe than sorry. The last time something out of the ordinary occurred in that specific branch, the security guard had stepped out for a quick smoke and missed the masked man entering and dropping a smoke bomb which mystified the cameras and allowed him to blow up an ATM and run out with the cash. It took three weeks for the police to find him. And the security guard was re-assigned to another post. He still cannot forgive himself for the incident and like everyone is very thankful no-one got hurt. He now quit smoking.

Silvie, however, was much more diligent. And she didn’t smoke. On Wednesdays she would not even get up from her seat until Harry would appear. Of course she did not know his name. She didn’t know anything about him. Simple that he was elegant and charming and always came in wearing a freshly pressed suit. One time he looked up at the camera while he was waiting for an ATM to become available and Silvie blushed.

Her colleagues made fun of her. They even encouraged her to go ask him out herself. But she was more traditional. She preferred to charm him and get him to want to ask her out. So she persevered and continued to admire him through a screen.

One Wednesday though, Harry stood staring at the camera. He was looking straight at it and Silvie felt that he was looking right at her. She felt the need to fix her hair and began to feel on edge. What happened? Harry kept staring. He completed his weekly ATM ritual and before leaving the room, he once again looked back at the camera.

Silvie was baffled but simply forgot about the incident.

To Silvie’s surprise, however, just a few hours later Harry appeared right outside her glass door. Silvie almost fell off her chair and had to rub her eyes and even pinch herself to make sure she was still awake. She opened the door with a trembling hand.

“Hi, I’m Harry Woodstaff,” he said, extending a hand. Silvie shook it and in her bedazzlement managed to utter “Silvie Goldtie”.

She couldn’t help but stare into his chestnut eyes. He smiled. She blushed. She offered a drink. He politely refused. She was disappointed. She thought that would have done the trick to keep him there a bit longer.

He began to tell her that he goes to that specific ATM every Wednesday (Silvie was about to shout “I know!” but managed to suppress it). Harry continued that today as for the past two weeks he has noticed something strange about the camera that is facing the door. Silvie was alarmed. This could raise an alert. She jumped to her desk and took out a notepad and pen ready to record any irregular sign witnessed.

“You see,” said Harry, “it’s been there for quite a while now, and I didn’t pay any attention at first, but now it’s been growing and it’s actually hard to miss.”

Silvie’s eyes opened wide and her heart began to beat faster. Did someone plant something in there on purpose?

“It’s this gigantic spider,” said Harry in all naturalness. “I am not really afraid of them, but it is strange this one is there and to be honest it is a bit unnerving, so if someone could come clean it out, it would be great.”

Silvie smiled, noted down “spider” and reassured him that it would be taken care of. “Don’t worry,” she said, “it will be gone by next week when you return to the ATM”. Harry looked at her and smiled. She was either a really good and attentive listener, or a stalker. Either way though, her smile had won him over, and as he turned to leave, he said “would you like to go out for a coffee sometime?” Silvie was ecstatic. Mission accomplished. And to think she didn’t even like spiders.

A night knight

There was once a princess called Cecilia who lived in a large stone tower. When she was young her parents had locked her in the tower to punish her for being so mischievous. But the key had broken in the lock when it was time for her to get out again and for some inexplicable reason she had remained there for a decade or so. She would receive all relevant nutrition and luxuries through the tower window, by a makeshift elevator. She was a sort of Rapunzel and she constantly dreamed of that one prince who would come to rescue her.

One night, as she was now a young adult, she was staring at the full moon shining brightly and streaming all of its glistening light in through her only window. She had never seen the moon that big before. Maybe it was a sign her life would change. That something good was about to arrive. She fell asleep bathed in the moonlight.

Cecilia was awakened by the sound of hooves stomping on the stone-paved path below the tower. She hastily got up and looked out the window. It was a young man all suited up in what could only seem like those expensive suits Cecilia had read about in her fashion magazines. He was sitting proudly on a white horse. He seemed awfully sure of himself and gestured to Cecilia as if she was the prince she had long been expecting.

Cecilia politely smiled and mouthed a greeting. And then he condemned himself. He asked her to come down the tower so they could ride together back to his castle where she would become his princess.

“If I could come down, do you think I would still be up here?” asked Cecilia quite irritated.

The prince appeared shocked. Obviously he wasn’t very smart.

“I’ll throw you a rope and you can climb down then,” he offered.

Cecilia was so disillusioned she turned away back into the tower and even shut the window, something she very rarely did. This was no prince, she thought to herself. “What kind of gentleman tells a lady trapped in a tower ‘I’ll throw you a rope?’”. “Pfff”, she thought, “hopefully my real prince charming will come soon. One who knows how to treat a lady. Who will arrive with flowers and love notes. Who will know exactly what to say at the right time. Who will be so sweet and gallant that he will strike a sensitive chord in her heart, making her cry with happiness”.

Weeks passed and Cecilia carried on her routine. Silently suffering her enclosure. But just when she was beginning to despair, it happened. It was a night with a full moon as big as the one she had seen a few weeks ago.

A blunt arrow flew straight into her window and landed with optimal precision onto her bed. Only looking at it more closely she saw it was not really an arrow, but a rose. A single red rose whose sweet scent filled the room.

With the rose in hand she approached the window. And right there stood the most beautiful white stallion she had ever seen, with hair glistening in the moonlight. It stood still waiting patiently.

At the bottom of the tower, Cecilia could make out the figure of a young man. He seemed to be occupied with something. As Cecilia tried to distinguish what was going on, suddenly a ladder rose steadily up the outer tower wall. And the young prince was climbing up with it.

In under a minute he was standing before her, his bright brown eyes staring into hers and offering her a dozen red roses neatly packaged, fitting for a princess.

“It has been days since I have been trying to find a way to come to you, my princess. These roses are not enough in front of your beauty. But I promise I will do anything to make you happy, if only you will allow me to be your prince.”

Cecilia melted away. Here he was, standing before her, the prince charming she longed for. Who said chivalry was no more? It is just so rare, that you have to be patient enough to find it, and when you do, never let it go.