Wednesday, February 8, 2012


Your Loved Ones Never Leave You
By Linda M. Crate

Angora looked over her shoulder at Andre. She had never understood the elves’ language. It seemed flutist without any true substance to it. However, fortunately for her, Andre spoke English as well. She looked over to her fiancé, and wondered what had made an adventure seeking elf like Andre fall in love with a mortal like her.

She knew that he was depressed, it was something that she could sense, but she would be rather lonely; too, if her sister was dead. She felt the same way, in fact, when her brothers had been murdered by her father’s late tyrannical wife. The same woman had her mother murdered, too, she hadn’t known how she escaped death — but it was probably only in leaving her father’s castle that she had done so.

That was a terrifying thought, one she didn’t wish to speculate on much further. She looked at the sky — it was as somber and grey as Andre must have felt.

“You miss her, don’t you?”

“Very much.”

“I miss my mother and brothers, too, sometimes. A lot, in fact.” She held a hand to his heart. “Just because she’s gone from this earth doesn’t mean she’s gone forever. You’ll always have her here,” she remarked, placing a small hand directly over his heart.

He captured her mouth in a kiss. “Thank you for that gentle reminder, it’s good to know that you care.”

“I do,” she agreed. “And I doubt that Avanna would want you moping around for the rest of your life. Sure, she would like to know that she’s missed, I’m sure, but she’d also want you to live.”

“I have every intention to,” Andre smiled, wrapping an arm around her narrow waist. “If we ever have a daughter I would like to name her Avanna, though, in tribute to my sister.”

“Of course, and we can name our sons after my brothers.”

“What about your father?”

Her face fell. She sucked in her breath sharply. He knew that he hadn’t meant to offend her, but she felt as if she had just been sucker punched in the gut. Her father had chosen to be a vampire instead of walking the path of light — he had chosen her stepmother instead of her. He had chosen death over love. She would not want to remember him anytime soon. “Gabriel was the name of an angel, but my father tainted it,” she said slowly, swallowing hard. “I don’t think I would want to grace my child with it.”

He stroked strands of her burnt sienna hair from her brown eyes. “I understand, Gabrielle, but I think that the name could use cleansing. The snow washes the world white, giving her a new promise and a new hope for a better year. So could the name be washed of it’s former stain.”

She smiled. “When did you get to be so wise?” she asked.

“I’m an elf, it’s a prerequisite, isn’t it?” he joked.

She laughed. “I suppose so,” she agreed. “Although, you have your blonde moments.”

“Hey, you might want to watch what you’re saying,” he teased. “I am, after all, a redhead.”

“That’s true, our children are going to have the worst tempers ever,” she snickered.

He laughed. “Maybe not. I have met my share of level-headed redheads,” he winked.

“But you’re not one of them,” she grinned.

He feigned being hurt. He placed a hand before his heart, “That burns, Angora, that just burns. Don’t make me call you Gabrielle, I will do it.”

“You already overused that name today,” she wheedled, sticking her tongue out. “Besides it was my given name, I’m not going to be too offended, I promise.”

“But you’ll still be offended.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Duh? I’m a man, what did you expect. You still love me,” he grinned, picking her up around her waist, throwing her over his shoulder.

“Although, I might love you less if you keep doing that,” she joked.

“Dually noted,” he grinned. He then paused from his teasing of his bride-to-be when he caught sight of the sky. The clouds parted, and the sun shone gold upon them bathing them in it’s incandescent light. He smiled. “I think my sister approves of you.”

“What sister wouldn’t approve of me?” she recoiled.

“You have a smart remark for everything,” he snorted. He rolled his eyes. “But I guess I’ll put up with you, anyway.”

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Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry has recently been featured in Magic Cat Press, Black-Listed Magazine, Bigger Stones, and Vintage Poetry. One of her short stories has been featured in Carnage Conservatory and she has an upcoming short story for publication in Dark Gothic Reconstructed Magazine in April 2012.


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