Business as usual ...

I used to write all the time. I don't any more, somehow. I really want to get back in that habit. Is blogging once a week setting the bar too high? Or too low? A man walks into a bar. Ouch. Let's see!

While you wait for our feature presentation, please enjoy this nugget from the vaults.

The Girl Who Lost Her Heart

He is ill. Very ill. And he has been for a long time now. The doctors have said it won’t be very long, not in his current state. They say there is nothing they can do. That they are sorry.
But she still sits by his bedside as she has done the whole time, stroking his pale, lifeless hand, dozing occasionally, but never for very long. They have tried to make her leave, to get some rest, but she refuses, quietly but firmly, and they have let her be, leaving her alone with him, not disturbing her in her silent watch. Let her have these last few days with him. It won’t be very long now. And she waits.
It is well past midnight, and the hospital is dark. She’s nodded off, but suddenly she wakes up with a start. She hears the quiet rustle of silk and wings, and she knows who has arrived. The one she’s been waiting for. The one they’ve both been waiting for. She sees the figure easily, even in the dark – it stands out, so black that the gloom of the hospital seems almost grey in comparison.
“You can’t take him,” she says, as it bends over him, caressing his hand, the way she has done so many times in the past few weeks.
It looks up, unsurprised to see her there. “You know I must,” it replies, softly.
“Please,” she says, softly, “don’t take him from me. Take something else from me instead.”
The figure straightens. “You wish for me to take you instead?” it asks, gloomily. “That is very foolish of you, and you know that.”
She shakes her head, and swallows. “No,” she replies, quietly but firmly. She has made up her mind. “Take my heart. My heart for his life. I don’t have anything else – I don’t have any gifts you could take from me, and I don’t know if I have a soul. But I know I have a heart, because I love him. So please, take my heart, and give him back his life.”
It stands there silently for a moment, looking her in the eyes. And it knows she means it. She knows, and it knows. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” it asks, eventually. It sighs when she nods silently. “Very well,” it replies. “Come here.”
She stands up, and hesitates for a moment, bending over him in his bed. She strokes his hair, and kisses him, softly. “I love you,” she murmurs. Then she straightens, moving over to it, without a glance at him. “I’m ready,” she whispers.

The morning sun shining in the hospital window wakes her up. She opens her eyes slowly, taking in the doctors and nurses clustered around the bed in front of her (all of them exclaiming excitedly, all of them trying to examine the patient in the bed), the slight empty feeling in her chest, and the pale figure, sitting up in his bed, smiling at her – weakly, but it’s him. And she knows him.
And she does not care. She does not return his smile. She is vaguely aware that she should be concerned, as his expression becomes hurt and worried when he sees her cold eyes, looking at him like a stranger would. But she doesn’t feel concern. She doesn’t feel anything. Well, she knew she wouldn’t. It doesn’t matter now.
She doesn’t hear him cry out her name, confused and hurt, as she stands up and walks away.
She doesn’t even care.