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elinor-taylor · 7 months

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1. Launch

The pre-flight checks are well underway by the time Della takes her seat. She’s never chartered a private ship before, usually opting for value above comfort on the countless global trips or the handful of Moon circuits she’s taken in the past. But cost savings are the least of her concerns. Quite the opposite. Every gallon of fuel burned is a metaphorical stack of notes up in smoke, and the thought of it is followed by an unfamiliar sense of ease, a reassurance that this is undoubtably the right thing to do.

How strange it feels to be sitting so near to the pilot, to be able to step over and touch him or tap him on the shoulder should she wish, or just watch and listen as he goes through his safety itinerary in that systematic way they have. She doesn’t want to hear the endless list of things that could fail before they even reach orbit so stands to put her brother in the overhead locker, then retakes her seat and places her earphones in to muffle the noise. She fumbles with the harness until it clicks.

The pilot looks back over his shoulder and raises a hand, his seat a car’s length in front and slightly askew from Della’s. She can’t be sure he didn’t say something. She doesn’t think so, though, so she simply waves back, not bothering to take the earphones out. She’s in no mood for conversation.

The diazepam must be kicking in because neither this nor the wider prospect of launch is troubling her to a great extent. Ordinarily, she would be fidgeting about now, her foot tapping or her fingers picking at each other. Instead, she stares with a lack of intention at a rivet on the floor as her head bobs to the rhythm of the tune playing in her ears. This song was one of her sister’s favourites and in time it’s become a favourite of Della’s, too. Strange how a person comes to enjoy a thing after the fact, can grow into the memory of it. More from a revival of past sensations than enjoyment of the song itself, she suspects. Music as era, as a soundtrack to days gone by.

She imagines Ruthie sitting in front of her on the empty jump seat wearing teen fashions that went out of style thirty years ago. How much more fun this trip would be with her here.

Pull yourself together, woman, she thinks. Too soon for that kind of talk. Five months there; five back. That's plenty of time to be morose.

The pilot swivels around in his seat, makes full eye contact, points to his ear.

‘Sorry,’ Della says, pulling the earphones out.

‘No worries.’ He’s casual and not very old for a pilot. Mid-thirties, perhaps, or the kind of early forties that takes care of himself. ‘Barclay.’ He holds out a hand for Della to shake, which she leans forward in a slightly uncomfortable over-stretch, and does. ‘I guess we’ll be getting to know each other pretty well in the coming months. Route looks clear. Just catching the tail end of the Perseids, but they shouldn’t cause us any problems. You okay with the Gs?’

The truth of it is that she usually throws up, but she doesn’t want to share that little gem. Besides, she’s been training herself at the local gravity centre ahead of this trip. She feels sure this'll be the first launch she’s attempted without needing to clean herself up once the five point harness unclicks. Well, almost sure.

‘I'll be fine,’ Della says.

‘Okay, great. There’ll be an eight minute initial burn, then-’ The pilot looks like he’s doing the sums in his head, which alarms Della somewhat. ‘-In the region of twenty minutes additional before we go into coast. And of course you’ll know when that happens.’

Della smiles as if coasting velocity isn’t the point at which her stomach evacuates its contents.

‘Any questions?’ the pilot says.

‘Nope.’

‘Alright, then. Strap in before they hoist us upright. We’ll be ready to go just as soon as we get confirmation from the tower.’ He turns back to face the bank of screens and the small rectangular windows that serve no purpose but to indicate that it’s dark outside.

Della’s glad she booked a night launch. There’s something terribly sad about the slow shift from bright blue to the darkest black that occurs when approaching orbit. At least at night you don’t have to witness the change from being in the atmosphere to not. She doesn’t get homesick, not in the truest sense. But this is something else: an undefinable draw. A sense of leaving everything she knows behind. Gravity playing tricks, as Father would say.

The pilot lets out an easy laugh at something Della can’t hear, a joke told by a flight controller or member of ground crew, perhaps. It’s a bizarre sound and juxtaposed with the sorrow of her own thoughts.

‘Ten-four, good buddy,’ the pilot says. A throwback Della hasn’t heard in years. ‘Stage one, commence.’

He turns his head to speak over his shoulder. ‘Off we go.’

There’s whirring and movement and a shift in Della’s weight distribution that indicates the ship is tilting upward, getting into position for launch. After a while, she could no longer stand up if she wanted to. The seat is beneath her now as opposed to behind and it hugs the contours of her back and hips, taking to her curves as if it were made to fit. There’s a hefty clunk followed by a few minutes of stillness as the ship awaits further instructions.

Then, the pilot speaks in more serious tones into his headset. Final preparations. He flips a handful of switches and the ship’s engine thrums into life.

Della has a thought: when did co-pilots stop being a thing? She’s used to taking commercial flights with hundreds of passengers and multiple members of crew. Suddenly, this lone charter, which had seemed like the most sensible idea when she booked it, feels incredibly vulnerable. One passenger; one pilot. That’s a lot of faith to put in the abilities of a single person and their tech.

Before she can take the thought to its worst case conclusion, the pilot pulls back on the throttle. ‘Hold tight,’ he says. The ship and everything aboard it tremors for a few seconds, building energy and force, reaching for that climactic point that will ultimately see them thrust skyward.

Della clenches her jaw and digs her nails into the soft leatherette arm rests.

As the ship surges up off the launch pad, the pilot whoops like a cowboy.

All Della can think is: Shit Fuck Piss.

(Image: Iván Díaz, via Unsplash)

#am writing #scifi #fiction #part 1

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elinor-taylor · 8 months

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Never trust a goblin...

https://mybook.to/TheFisherGirl

#dark fairytale #fantasy #goblins #trolls #book reccs #fiction #book tumblr #booktok #magic #dark forest

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elinor-taylor · 8 months

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New Book Release!

I’m over the moon to announce this one. After the amazing reception Elinor and I received for our post-card-apocalyptic THE BALLOON HUNTER, we immediately set to work on a sequel. Today it went live on Amazon! We present to you: DEATH TO ANYONE WHO READS THIS These books have been a blast to put together. I’m telling you that there’s nothing else like them on the market. Not even close. We are…

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elinor-taylor · 10 months

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Do you have a question about the Silo series? I may have answers! Submit questions here, and join me for Answer Time on June 30th.

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elinor-taylor · 1 year

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Subliminal

The garden at Darkwood had always been Marie's safe place. During the hours of daylight, that is. Nighttime being something altogether different. Barbara had been only too happy to give her daughter the freedom she so obviously craved, leaving her to run wild as long as she kept within the borders of the plot.

It made sense then that it was out on that same grass beneath the aluminium sky where Marie chose to be in order to quieten the noise of the last few weeks. She leaned back, tasting the air. If she was lucky the rain might hold off until lunchtime. Though an earthy aroma and cool breeze said otherwise.

She set up the old easel of hers that her mother had never gotten around to leaving out with the bins, taped a fresh sheet of paper to the board, squeezed out blue and green and a little burnt umber from their metal tubes onto a makeshift ice-cream lid palette, and looked around for an area of the garden that might capture well on the page.

If she blurred her vision she could trick herself into believing she saw the outline of her father mowing the lawn, or raking up leaves, pulling up dandelions, roots and all. He was still here in many ways. Though Marie knew the snapshots she held in her mind were no longer true memories. They were memories of memories, facsimiles, images sent through the machine of her brain so many times it was impossible to tell if she was remembering events that occurred, or was manifesting images from a photo album, projecting them as if they'd happened in front of her own eyes.

She dabbed the brush in the paint, no plan in mind, just pent up feelings itching to get out. God knew the gallery wasn't chasing her for fresh work. Not after the last time, what with Shaun's outburst at the opening and everything that came after. So she followed where the paint took her, swirling greens into browns and blues into reds, allowing the brush to dictate style and content, and it felt good not to be invested, to not try so hard to control the outcome.

The first time Marie saw Father Colin that day the vicar was by himself, sauntering along the road in a direction that took him away from the village. From her vantage point, looking up the slight slope of the garden, she could see about a ten yard stretch of the dry stone wall, the boundary between Darkwood and the road out front. Anything to the left of that was blocked out by the cottage itself.

The young man didn't appear to notice her, then, and she certainly didn't make a point of drawing attention to herself, preferring instead to let him drift by, like a black swan, silent and serene. It was only when he walked out of view that she realised she'd been holding her breath.

The second time she saw him, he was heading back the other way. Only this time he was flanked by two of the volunteer ladies, Edith or Agnes or whatever the hell they were called. They walked - no, glided - as one, as if coasting on greased rails or floating six inches off the ground.

Despite herself, Marie was mesmerised by them, the way they moved past the property, not speaking to each other. She watched until a nearby cow let out a startled grunt and caused the drifting group to turn simultaneously.

Father Colin, on seeing Marie sat by her easel, paused the unusual procession and acknowledged her with a smile and a gesture that was somewhere between a wave and a salute. 'Ms. Fisher,' he called out. 'Good day to you.'

The volunteer ladies said nothing, did nothing except stand steadfastly at either side of the young clergyman. From this distance they seemed oddly vacant, though they were most definitely looking right at her. In that moment it occurred to Marie that looking and seeing weren't necessarily the same thing.

'Hello again, Father,' she said.

Her skin tingled as tiny spots of rain began to land on her face, her forearms, and on the painting in front of her. Not enough to cause damage or streaks. Still, for more reasons than she could articulate it felt like the right time to go inside.

'Any danger of a cup of tea, Ms Fisher?' the vicar said

Marie begin packing up her paints. 'Can't I'm afraid,' she said.

She peeled the paper off the board, rolled it up and balanced it on top of the box of acrylics and pack of brushes. As inexplicable as it was, she didn't want him in her house. 'A friend's popping over in a bit. Need to get cleaned up, you know how it is. Another time, perhaps.' She made a point of making it not sound like a question.

The vicar and his two lady friends swivelled their heads in unison to follow Marie as she navigated her way quickly across the garden, laden with art supplies, and the folded down easel carried awkwardly under her arm.

'Oh yes?' Father Colin said, so so calmly. 'Which friend? You know only a few people as I understand it.'

Marie stopped at the edge of the cottage, at the point where, if she'd continued on, her view of the road and the unsettling visitors would be lost. Was that a dig? Was Father Colin mocking her? He certainly seemed to be doing his darndest to suppress a smirk. Game show host, was all she could think.

Just then, the sound of an old telephone rang out through the back door: a lifeline, a distraction that bought her a second or two to think.

'Hubert,' she said after a beat, with all the breezy confidence she could muster. 'He's lending me a few tools from his shed so I can get started on taming this jungle.' She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder toward the garden and its mess of summer growth. As lies went it wasn't too unreasonable.

'Ah, Hubert,' the vicar said. 'Hubert, Hubert, Hubert.'

From inside the cottage the phone continued its rattling cry.

Drrrring.

What began as occasional spits and spots had rapidly turned to a persistent drizzle. Still, Marie and the vicar, with his two volunteer helpers, all stood looking at each other from opposing sides of the wall, as fixed and unmoving as the wall itself. Chess pieces awaiting a turn.

Drrrring.

'I'd better get that,' Marie said.

'Yes.' Neither Father Colin nor the volunteers showed any signs of walking on. 'You'd better get that.'

Then, as if the spell was suddenly broken, Marie drew her eyes away and walked briskly to the back door. 'Goodbye, Father,' she said, not looking back.

Inside the kitchen, she elbowed the door closed behind her. She dumped the easel down. But before she could place the other art supplies on the counter, her shaking hands failed and sent them clattering across the tile floor.

'Fucking fuck,' she muttered between panicked breaths. She locked the door, trying not to feel stupid about doing it.

Drrrring.

The phone continued to ring on the table. It would've gone to voicemail long before Marie had gotten to it if she hadn't disabled the function since returning to Darkwood. The same message showed on the screen as before: 'Caller unknown'. She answered it anyhow.

'Hello?' she said.

A pause.

'Hi.' Shaun's voice was hesitant. Not like him at all.

Marie looked around the kitchen, unsure what to say. She scratched at a mark on the table, a knot in the wood, then closed her eyes and concentrated on calming her heart rate to something close to normal.

'Marie? Are you there?'

'Yes, I'm here. Where are you calling from, Shaun? I don't see a number.'

'I'm at work. Halfway through a meeting with the Ratcliffe guys. I popped out to call you. Said I needed a piss. Just wanted to see if you were okay after, you know, everything.'

Marie nodded. Not that Shaun could see it. It was more a self-soothing motion, as if to say, Yes, Shaun. I know. Everything.

'How are you? How's the house?'

'It's a house.' Marie didn't like the tone in her own voice but declined to go back and correct herself. Let him worry. Let him think she was still mad at him, even though the truth was she didn't have the energy to be angry at anyone, and had barely given their broken relationship a thought since the funeral.

'And you? How are you? In yourself, I mean.'

'I'm fine. Why are you calling, Shaun?'

'I wanted to check-'

'Sure. Great. You checked and like I said, I'm fine. But I could do without the barrage of calls.'

'Barrage of what?'

'Calls, Shaun. Just so you know, if you ring me again from an unknown number I won't be answering. In fact, if you call me from a known number I won't be answering.'

'That's...yeah...okay, Marie. Okay.' He sounded flustered. Confused, even. 'I get it. But I didn't think it was a crime to see how you were getting on. It's been two weeks.'

Marie looked up at the ceiling in disbelief, slowly shaking her head. She said nothing.

'You make it sound like I've been harassing you or something. Christ, Marie, this is me - me - not some random guy. You wanted space. I gave you space. You want me to leave you alone from now on? I'll leave you alone. Just don't make me out to be the fucking weirdo just 'cause I still care about you.'

'Space?' She let out a howl. 'Every day you've called, Shaun. Every bloody day.'

Before Shaun could defend himself against the accusation, the phone buzzed against Marie's ear, making her pull it away from the side of her head. She looked down at the screen to see the same 'caller unknown' message.

But there was something else. With each buzz the house seemed to vibrate, as if another phone, upstairs perhaps, a device perfectly in sync with this one, was ringing at exactly the same time.

'I have to go,' she said, hanging up, to the sound of Shaun saying something but being cut off mid sentence. Then she answered the new incoming call.

'Hello?'

There came a sound down the line, a raw and messy sound, like static. It must've been a broken connection, an error of some kind.

'Hello?' Marie said again.

More static.

Then, clear and sweet-sounding, yet somehow distant, words were spoken in her ear. 'By your hand,' they said. 'Do not falter.' After which the line went dead.

She looked at the blank screen, thought about the words: By your hand. Do not falter. But they held no meaning. A crossed line. A glitch, nothing more.

Suddenly the phone felt like an alien thing, a doorway for those she didn't want to let in. She held the side button and watched it power off, then half dropped, half threw the phone on the table where, she decided, it would stay untouched for the next few days.

A little over an hour later, Marie was summoning up the will to go through one of her mother's boxes from under the bed when she was halted by a knock at the front door. She was halfway down the stairs when she saw Hubert through the glass panel. When he caught sight of her, he smiled.

She was about to turn the key in the lock and find out the reason for this unexpected visit, but something - maybe instinct or an abundance of caution - made her hand pause.

'Hey, Hubert. Just give me a minute. This door jams sometimes.' She rattled the handle pretending to try the lock, and then glanced up at the older man, looking him in the eyes.

'Hiya, love,' he said, so so calmly. 'Got those tools for you in the car.'

#amwriting #dark fairytale #midjourney #writerblr #am writing #fantasy #storytelling #writers on tumblr #fiction #Part 2.12

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elinor-taylor · 1 year

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elinor-taylor · 1 year

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There Once Was A Boy

The boy, Danny, grew. When at first he arrived in the strange and beautiful world beyond the foss, so many moons ago, he knew not what it meant to lead other than the fact he answered to no-one. That he kept losing moments of time was by the by. A few grains of sand in the hourglass. Was he happy? Not entirely. He still missed his mother, of course, though that diminished with the years. Not having to duck the swoop of his father's hand helped balance out the scoresheet of regrets.

The Diamonders feigned a welcome. Too stunned were they (though not yet afraid - that would come later) to be anything other than swept up in the parades and coronation events that sprung up alarmingly soon in the wake of the queen's disappearance.

A void must be filled. Not least a void at the top.

They weren't to know that the boy was the cause of their sadness. That he'd tricked the queen into a cursed jar, slammed on the lid, screwed it down tight.

'Such apathy will pass,' the courtiers told him, their tiny hands stroking his cheek when he questioned why the citizens didn't love him unconditionally as was promised. 'They'll come to know you as we do, Your Highness. Just wait. You'll see.'

But what cannot be achieved fairly and graciously in one way, they said, must be strongarmed in another. If nice didn't gain the loyalty and worship of one's subjects? Well, the King's winged forces knew what had to be done. And they did it with the clarity of thought reserved for those who knew their end play before they began.

Danny, alas, was late to the party. Too late even to save himself.

As he grew, they whispered in his ears what to say, how to say it, stole his will along with his days, tied him up in invisible strings, drugged him with everything he could ever possibly desire. And he danced for them like a good boy, all the while unaware that this was their game from the start: control of a different kind.

He didn't know it then, but the boy was a prisoner, no less than the queen herself. A tranquilised puppet, rolled out when needed and boxed up and kept out of sight when not.

There once was a boy named Danny, who grew to be a man as blank and angry and crammed full of resentments as his father was before him.

And that boy believed himself king.

#amwriting #dark fairytale #midjourney #fiction #writerblr #storytime #fantasy #part 2.7

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elinor-taylor · 1 year

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Green Skulls

By the time Leddy arrived on foot at the meeting tree, the others were already there. How she wanted to fly. How much easier that would be. But then they'd know, and it would cause a lot more problems than it solved. Like being banished, or tried for war crimes, or being shipped off north where she'd be dealt with according.

The group shifted in such a way as to make room for her to sidle through, and she took her seat next to a warm glowing oil lamp and waited for the mutterings to subside.

'I've spoken with the scout,' she said, once attention had turned to the business at hand. 'Things are happening as we suspected they might. He says time is short.'

One among the group cleared his throat. Wes was a lithe looking young 'un, green under his fingernails from a day spent scratching tags into bark.

Leddy signalled for him to speak.

'Did the scout get our messages?' he said.

'Yes. He saw the carvings and knows where they lead. However, he doesn't yet understand what it is he needs to do, nor was he able to follow the trail on this occasion.'

A ripple of groans and tuts went through the group.

'I know, I know. He can't help but need air. Would you rather we get him to the city and he dies before he can complete the task?'

Some appeared to consider the question.

Leddy sighed and rolled her head back. 'No,' she reminded them. 'We wouldn't. If he's able to help us, then we must first help him, yes?'

This at least was met by mumbles and nods of resignation.

Many in the hollow couldn't recall the vibrant hub that was Diamond in the days of Queen Janet. When you could barely hop from one tree to the next without stumbling across a West gate person, making their way to or from Must.

All they knew was what came after. They had no affinity with the people and certainly no loyalty to them. This notion of accommodating the biggun to achieve their aims was hard to swallow, but they were coming to understand that one thing wasn't to be without the other.

'We cannot do this without a person,' Leddy continued. 'One we can trust, or at the very least believe has similar interests to our own. And he, whether you like it or not, is probably our best and last shot. The South is coming, and soon. We'd better hope the scout returns before they do.'

Pappy Skylark leaned forward through the others from where he'd been quietly listening. Leddy hadn't even realised he was there until he spoke.

'What is this man to us, then, Cerulean?' he said. 'If he can't survive when the air is thick, then what good is he? What if he gives us away before he does his part? Surely we haven't time to babysit the vulnerable, big as he may be?'

'Speaking of which,' said another. 'What of the king?'

'What of him?' Leddy said.

'He has to be held accountable. Or are you proposing an amnesty for all bigguns, regardless of guilt?'

This was followed by a rousing chorus of cheers and nods, and Aye, that's rights, from certain elements within the crowd. Not all joined in, but enough to make Leddy nervous. Their commitment was waning. She could feel it.

Some were struggling to hold onto the vision that togetherness was the solution. They were leaning more towards vengeance, which Leddy knew from bitter experience was no kind of way out. On the contrary, it would almost certainly drive what was left of the Faretheewell folks to their deaths. And fast.

She was about to counter the uproar, though how she didnt know, when Pappy came to her defence.

'Pipe down, the lot a ya,' he said.

The hollow quietened, and Leddy was grateful. She hid her weariness, but she had nothing left for battling those supposedly on the same side.

'Look,' Pappy said, as all eyes turned to face him. 'I hear your anxieties, and I know you're worried for yourselves and your young 'uns, too. Believe me, I understand. You'll be aware - well, most of you, anyways - that I lost my girls to the hummer campaigns before some here were even born.'

Quiet turned to breath-held silence.

'I know how it feels when the worst happens. Ain't much more them buzzards can do to me than what they already did. So I got nothin' to lose.'

'What's your point, old 'un?' a young recruit with an inflated sense of self-importance piped up.

'My point is this, child,' Pappy said. 'They only win if we let 'em. They can come for us, might even kill every last one of us.'

There came gasps from mothers whose little 'uns looked suddenly horrified.

'I'm sorry, not gonna shine yer shit. They might. But we don't make it easy. Ya hear? We catch in their teeth, make 'em choke on our bones. We give those filthy scumlickers bellyache. We tell 'em, Hey! If you want our bodies, our magic, you gotta come get 'em. But what they don't get is this.'

Pappy tapped his chest.

'Don't know about you, but I'll be ready. And I sure as stink won't be laying down on a platter for 'em, a berry for a garnish. No, sir. And if our friend Cerulean here reckons this biggun fella can help, then I'll be gosh-darned if I ain't gonna do everything in my power to see he gets what he needs to finish it. Try at least. We fight together, child, or not at all. Because if we don't, they win.'

Pappy slowly sat himself back down. 'That,' he said, his eyes seeming to pierce clean through the young recruit, 'is my point.'

Leddy suppressed a smile.

It was then that a sudden flicker, a bothering of the light from an oil lamp in the doorway, made the group look to see who or what had cast this new shadow. Hovering there was the gate watcher, Broadleaf. She dropped herself down and in through the gaping arch of the tree trunk, and by the furrow of her brow, she was none too impressed by what she saw.

Leddy stood, ready to do damage control.

'What happened to keeping together?' Broadleaf said. 'And no secrets among hollows? How long, Cerulean?'

'It's not-' Pappy tried to intervene.

'Don't FUCKING lie to me.' Broadleaf pointed a sharp finger on an outstretched arm at the older fairy to her side, while not taking her eyes from those of Leddy Rickett.

Mothers covered little ears at the language.

'Now, listen to me, young 'un,' Pappy said.

'It's okay,' Leddy interrupted. 'She has a right to be angry. Let her say her piece.'

Broadleaf lowered her arm, but the snarl on her lips that masqueraded as a smile, the slow shake of her head, captured her rage quite clearly for all to see.

Leddy waited. She wasn't about to tell the Faretheewell native how to feel or what to think, having seen, and in many cases partaken in, the ruin of hollows such as hers. Only she, Leddy, an ex-hummer, could possibly understand the devastation this poor fairy had observed and to what length such trauma had affected her.

'You promised me, Cerulean. When you took me in, dragged me a hundred damned heifer's lengths from my burning home, from my dead fucking family, Cerulean, you promised I would never again see the likes of what they did.'

Enough was enough for the mothers, who, without saying a word, agreed among themselves that it was time to take the children home to bed. They slipped out into the night with the little ones in crooks of arms or snoozing over shoulders. Some older babies wanted to stay, preferring this unexpected hullabaloo to the duller alternative. But their protestations went unheeded, and they were carried away, nonetheless.

'I know what you're up to,' Broadleaf said, once the bustle of movement settled, leaving only eight or ten of them standing inside the tree. She hadn't taken her gaze from Leddy the whole time.

Leddy felt a wave of fear at those words: I know what you're up to. She chose not to jump in. Let the fairy speak, she thought. See where this is going. It was a rare situation that could be made worse by keeping your mouth shut.

'I get it. You want to lead. To take over old Skylark, here's position?'

Pappy didn't respond. He too wanted to know where this rant was headed.

'So you play up the whole wingless angle, like you don't know that'll remind him of his dead daughter. How stupid do you think we are?'

One of the gatherers attempted to step in to defend against the accusations, but Pappy held him back.

'You're dragging us into a fight,' Broadleaf went on. 'That ends up with us dangling by our feet from hooks, drying over coals for jerky, with our magic stripped and harvested and used against us. The whole damn colony. Is that what you want?

'Do you know why I'm here, Cerulean? I followed Pappy so I could report back to you about developments at the gate. But I don't suppose that matters, does it? Did it ever? Or did you only send us there to get us out of the way, so you could hold your little meetings, and plot your little plots, while the rest of us flutter about doing as we're told?

'Well, you know what? Fuck you, Cerulean. In fact, no. I take that back. Fuck all of you. You want to kill off the last of Faretheewell? Guide us to the doors of our enemies? Go ahead. Just don't expect me to be there when you do.'

Broadleaf took to the air. 'Oh, and just so I've played my part in this charade,' she said. 'The girl's back.'

'The girl?' Leddy said. She had no clue about any girl.

'Yes, the girl. She's back, and she doesn't appear to be going anywhere. Now I'm done.'

A moment later, the furious gate watcher zipped away into the night. The recruit named Wes was about to follow, to make her answer for her disrespectful words, no doubt. But Pappy stopped him, told him he'd deal with it later.

'Let her go,' Leddy said, mirroring the sentiment. 'Give her a night to come around. By morning, I dare say she'll feel better for getting that out.'

One by one, the gatherers went back to their beds until only Leddy and the old fairy remained. Together, they rearranged the twig benches and chairs and bundled up drink shells into waste bags so as to make it appear like there hadn't been a meeting.

It wouldn't do to let the others know that the notorious Green Skulls existed so close to home. The risk to them would be too great. Leddy banked on Broadleaf, however angry, understanding that and keeping her mouth shut.

'Is she right?' Pappy said when they were finishing up. 'Do you think I'm treating you as some sort of replacement daughter?'

'Of course not.' Leddy hoped her answer came across more convincing that it felt. 'Besides, even if you were, and anyone would understand why you might, I'd be honoured. Any daughter of yours must be pretty special.'

'My Mae had her problems, can't pretend otherwise. But she was my girl and I loved her. Loved 'em both.'

Leddy stroked her hand across the old fairy's arm, gave his shoulder a squeeze.

'I just wish,' he said. 'I just wish-'

Leddy pulled him in close, then, and held him until his words trailed off.

'I know, Pappy,' she said. 'I do too.'

#amwriting #dark fairytale #writerblr #storytime #fiction #fantasy #midjourney #part 2.5

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elinor-taylor · 1 year

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She Sees

Synapses fire as chemical, electrical, and magical combine. At one time, a powerful charge, unmatched by another; now, a perfect pulsing storm of all she is and was, a final plea in the vacuum of perpetual death, a grab for what little airtime is left, a transmission from here to anywhere.

Far and near, now and ever after, she sees what she sees without judgement, hate, or expectation. Just sees what she sees and knows what she knows, none of it within her control.

That which she emanates was once hers to say and share, now just is, existing within her, a part of her, not to be steered, just released, in the hope of a hearing ear, an open mind, a willing receiver, to connect...to connect. And maybe change the unchangeable?

She sees all, knows all, knows what will be, what could be, what in no uncertain terms cannot be. That is what she is now. That is all she is.

***

In the city she sees a woman, as fierce as any. Sees her as plainly as her own reflection on the curved glass. One more knowing joins the infinite number of other knowings, as if it were there all along: 'Tis she.

She cannot think, cannot decide, cannot action. These things are lost to her, a fingertip away, out of reach. And yet, from somewhere strength is given, lent, enough for a single coherent choice.

Call to her, now, with all you have. Cry out until she too knows what she must. And the knowing of what can be, and will be, and has to be done will make it so.

'Tis she.

The woman.

The girl.

In all of time and place.

'Tis she.

#amwriting #dark fairytale #writerblr #fantasy #storytime #fiction #midjourney #Part 2.4

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elinor-taylor · 1 year

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Colour Me Blue

Halfway to open ground, the scout paused. His diving helmet muffled the sounds around him, all but the steady, quiet hiss of air, the crunch of his feet. And yet, outside of the steel goldfish bowl that sat heavily weighted on his shoulders, he heard something. For a heart-stopping couple of seconds, he thought it was a hum.

He scanned the gaps between the trees at head height and above, spun a little faster on the spot than he might otherwise have, his breathing pace doubled, his senses stepped up to high alert. He tried to convince himself it had only been his imagination. Tried and failed.

The walk back was often the worst for seeing and hearing things that either weren't anything to worry about, or simply weren't there. Jitters were understandable; good people lost their minds and their lives with less warning, so it paid to listen to what your gut was telling you around here.

The winged armies of the North had a penchant for letting you think you'd made it out safely, encouraging you to drop your guard before swooping down to finish it - to finish you. It would be an understatement to say they got a kick out of such tactics. Little shits.

He'd seen it himself, witnessed fully grown men snatched up by the hair on their scalps and carried away in what was nothing short of a flailing, screaming horror show. That was back when on clearer afternoons a helmet was optional, landside, and you could feel the breeze on your skin. Strange to think there was a time when scouts went on missions in pairs. Then, if one got taken the other could report back to Liaison for debrief. It was nobody's idea of an enviable task.

Swarm took him up fifty feet, Sir, dropped him on the spike of a dead pine. Swear I couldn't help him. Only just made it out myself.

Or: Ripped his hands and feet away and tossed his middle in a pool of sludge, for the city dogs. No, don't reckon they took him for processing this time, Sir. Not that I noticed, anyhow.

Or the one they feared the most: Carried the geezer off to the city, they did, Sir. Last I heard of him was going off into the clouds. Still alive? I believe so. Poor bastard.

Things changed as the seasons passed, with the worsening air, the shrinking footprint of the forests, and the decreasing numbers of those willing and able to do the legwork required. For the longest time now, missions had been solo ventures, and those back at base were left to ruminate over what might've happened to a lost colleague in their desperate final moments. Or, the preferred option, to not let themselves think about it at all.

Rock was set to head on, continue toward where he knew the forest thinned and dispersed into the central plains, when he saw a small glowing light emerge from behind a teepee of dead branches some ten or fifteen yards back.

It might've been an ember, or a will-o-the-wisp, but for the fact it moved - walked - across the forest floor. He knew the colour of wing, recognised the calm gait of the small figure. The scout checked his wrist dial before making his way back.

'Ahoy there, traveller,' the winged one said, as she and the scout neared each other.

Rock saw then how the fairy smiled, having coined the greeting as something of a joke on one of their many previous encounters. 'You do know I'm a diver, not a sailor, right?' he said. 'We've talked about this, little 'un.'

The fairy shrugged: Meh. Whatever. All the same to me.

She gave her glowing wings a last stretch and a brief flutter before folding them down and wrapping them under her cloak. The forest dimmed a little after that.

'Still not told them, huh?' Rock said.

'Not yet. I don't imagine it'll go down well when I do. Last thing they need right now is to feel lied to. They've had enough betrayal to last them ten lifetimes.' The fairy sat on a low branch and twirled her feet in circles, having never truly grown accustomed to the strain that walking wrought on her calves.

Rock joined her, taking a seat on a fallen log, still dwarfing his small companion.

'How about you?' the fairy said. 'Good mission? Scout out anything of note?'

She was taking the piss when using that word - scout - they both knew it, but Rock quite enjoyed her teasing humour. He took it as a sign she hadn't been completely broken by her fall from the heights of hummer leadership.

'Just more tags,' he said, referring to the carvings he'd photographed earlier. 'Walked right past your place, actually. Quiet as a tomb. If I hadn't known different, I'd have taken it to be as empty as the next. Not sure they even noticed me.'

'Oh, they noticed. You think a great stomping biggun like you gets past a Faretheewell colony without the whole place knowing about it? Shush, now.' Another smile, this time giving the scout flutters of his own.

Rock's mood darkened when he considered the implications of his mission, and the reason for him being there in the first place. How many more times would they meet like this before even these last remaining patches of forest were gone the way of the rest? The loss of green was one thing, the loss of the colonies another, but the loss of this winged one in particular felt to him like the worst of all evils that the South could inflict upon him, personally.

The fairy noticed the saddening on the man's face and in his eyes. 'What aren't you telling me?' she said.

Rock didn't want to have this conversation, least of all with someone who'd already had everything that held any kind of meaning to them stolen away. He didn't want to be the person to say it. But still, it needed to be said.

'The South will mobilise once they reach minimum viability.'

'Okay.' She paused. Then, when the man didn't go on, 'Rock? You know something, and you're terrible at hiding it. Please stop trying to protect me. If you have information, you owe it to us to let us help ourselves.'

This hit where it counted and the scout knew the fairy was right. 'The levels are up, Cerulean,' he said. 'Like, way up. Like, a minute to midnight up. You get what I'm saying?'

'Yes,' the fairy said, calmly.

'If we can't stop it, or at the very least get you all out, you will die.'

The fairy looked away as if considering her reply. After a moment, she turned her eyes back toward the giant man in the tin can suit. 'We're not divers, like you, biggun. I thank you for your concern, and the continued intelligence, but we stay until the end.'

She got to her feet. It was a sign for them both to be on their way.

'And you can, if you wish, call me by my given name. It feels right that you do, seeing as we are friends of a sort.' She took a breath. 'Leddy. You may call me Leddy.'

'Well, Leddy,' the scout said with a bow. 'As always, I'm pleased to see you. And tell your people, our gate is open for any of you that choose to use it.'

'I shall. Until next time, Mister Rock.'

The scout watched as she made her way on foot through the trees in the direction of the hollows. It didn't seem to matter how many times they spoke, he was never not in awe of these tiny magical beings. He knew her true name, of course, had all along, and had merely been waiting for the proud fairy to feel safe enough in his presence, maybe respect him enough (like him enough?), to open up and tell him herself.

It was interesting to Rock how the former hummer had chosen to hide behind a name that so represented the sky-blue of her Northern homeland - Cerulean - and he often wondered if she wasn't in fact hoping to get found out, a form of self-flagellation, as punishment for crimes she'd committed against the Diamonders in a previous life. To date, he hadn't seen anything to suggest that the Faretheewell residents knew, however, and he wouldn't be the one to break it to them, now or ever. Not that much of an arsehole, he thought. Regardless of any reputation he might've formed back at base.

'Until next time, Squad Leader Rickett,' he said, quietly and to himself within the confines of his diving helmet, before setting off for the far side of the central plains.

***

Crossing the wilds of Middle Diamond, the scout could if he wanted to make out the silhouette of skyscrapers and stacks to his right, could trace a finger along the skyline of the city of Must, scorched into the heavens some thirty miles south. He didn't stop to look, having seen it a hundred times before, in progressively darker shades of grey. To spend another moment studying it, to give the smoke clouds spewing high into the atmosphere a single ounce of his attention, would trigger a fury in him so great he would likely be unable to control it.

How the scientists did their jobs was a mystery to him. He'd be inclined to rip the screens from the wall if he had to do what they did all day long, which was monitor and categorise and record the city's outflow, calculate the damage being done. He knew he was incapable of such restraint.

So, on he went, eyes forward, periodically checking only that his dial wasn't tipping into the red. And when the home gate came into view he walked a little faster, glanced up a little more often to check for hummers, before finally, blessedly, falling back into his own world.

***

In the penthouse of the highest tower in Must, the crystal eye of a powerful telescope focused in on the man as he approached the shimmering gate. From this distance he appeared as if the same size as the one watching him.

No, smaller.

From here he was pick-up-able, crush-in-your-hand-able. A weak and tiny man trespassing in a big world where he didn't belong.

'Has he gone?' Master of all the South said.

'Yes.'

'How long until they return?'

The hummer stepped away from the window to face the intercom. 'Long enough, Sire.'

'Good. Ready your troops. And, Borealis?'

'Sire?'

'Be sure to leave none behind.'

#amwriting #dark fairytale #midjourney #fiction #writerblr #storytime #fantasy #part 2.3

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elinor-taylor · 1 year

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The Hollows

Inside the cavernous body of a dead tree troll, keepers of the green ways privately thrived. Some among them watched through a rotted knot as the biggun tramped the blackened ground outside. He was no threat. They didn't fear this lumbering, steel-suited oaf, but still, they monitored his whereabouts. With so few of them left, they could ill afford to be complacent about wanderers in their midst.

When the man was gone, a calm returned to the hollow. Until a short while later, when a contingent of gate watchers arrived just as the babies were being put to bed, and the olders were settling down for an evening with their dearest, and fairies of all ages poked their heads out of hidey holes and fluttered themselves upward and closer to get a better look.

For gate watchers to return early was highly irregular. It sent a flurry of interest throughout the timber confines of the structure, from roots to rings. Only the tiny ones slept through, unaware of the excitement, not yet old enough to recognise an anomaly when they saw one.

The gate watchers flew in, single file, via the upper broken branch entrance of the trunk. Most hung back, allowing the head of their small group, an experienced volunteer called Broadleaf, to proceed.

'Where's Cerulean?' she said to anyone who might answer, looking from her mid-height position around the lamplit interior of the tree troll fort. 'I have to speak with her.'

'Out on her walking meditation,' one villager said. 'Shouldn't be gone much longer.'

'She told us she'd be back for supper,' another chimed in.

'Here.' Hoff Skylark emerged from his tent with a stack of wooden bowls and spoons. 'Help yourselves to stew. You lot must be starved. Warm yourselves.'

The other gate watchers turned to Broadleaf for confirmation, which she gave with a look, and they all lowered themselves to where Hoff - or Pappy Skylark as he was more commonly known - handed each of them a bowl. He directed them toward Miss Milda, the self-appointed cook and jolly old dear, who stirred a large cauldron as it bubbled gently over an oil stove nearby.

'Where's the gate sitting lately, my friend?' Pappy said, sitting carefully back on his hammock, as Broadleaf returned from the cauldron, bowl in hand. 'You ladies had far to travel this time?'

'Near the southern border,' Broadleaf said. She blew on a spoonful of stew and took a tentative slurp. 'Hey, this is really good.'

'Milda's finest.' His smile was fleeting. 'South, you say? Air's gotta be mighty thick with smoke down there. Never mind gates. You watchers wanna watch yourselves, ya know. No good to us coughing up ribs.'

Perched on a ledge above, legs dangling, the more junior gate watchers were getting rowdy amongst themselves, bickering and howling with laughter at whispered jokes, emboldened from being home before the planned switchover, and with bellies full of warm, delicious food. Broadleaf scooped up a palm of gravel and hurled it toward the unruly fairies, which shut them up, if only momentarily.

'Seen worse,' she said, returning to her conversation with the older Pappy. 'Stacks kick out a hell of a stink, though. Few thousand spotted heifers away and still coats the back of your throat like goddam roof tar.'

'No sign of a let-up?' Pappy said.

'Wish I could tell you different.' Broadleaf looked at the life going on around her, the community, the society that refused to collapse in the face of such overwhelm. 'Still churning as always. If there's one thing can be said about those biggun city engineers, it's that they built a place to last.'

Broadleaf knew what was coming next, a question she'd come to dread, but one she knew Pappy Skylark couldn't help himself but ask. She didn't blame him. It was heartbreaking, was all.

'And any sign of my girls?'

'Not this time, Sir. We'll keep looking, though. You have my word.' She briefly considered breaking her own personal protocol, putting her hand on his, by way of reassurance. But the moment passed.

Pappy sighed the sigh of an old man not quite ready to quit but sensing it on the horizon. He pushed himself forward out of the creaking hammock. And with a stretch and a yawn and a, 'Righty-ho, then,' he took himself off to bed.

Broadleaf leaned back against the spongy inner of the trunk wall. This place wouldn't last forever, not when the termites took to feasting, but it was a safe enough haven for now. Tomorrow's worries were for her tomorrow self to be worrying about.

This tree, she thought. This beautiful, wise old tree. At one time it had been a troll known to her as Oskar, before he turned from flesh to oak, then lost what what left of himself in the burnings. She stroked the inside of the great supporting outer shell with a kindly hand. There was warmth there, still. And a deep and lasting sorrow. Even in their passing, the trolls of these woods were a gift to the folks of Faretheewell, protecting them to the last with their lifeless bodies.

'I'm sorry, my love,' she spoke quietly to the wall. 'Know we are grateful to you, always.'

With the woodland outside cooling from the oncoming night, and the inside hollow warming from lamplight and a host of small crackling fires, the tree trunk shell creaked and groaned, shrinking in places and swelling in others, settling into itself.

Broadleaf chose to believe these shifting sounds were Oskar making himself heard. That he was saying in his own sweet way, 'You're welcome, little one.' And she knew she would never not miss him.

#amwriting #dark fairytale #fiction #writerblr #midjourney #fantasy #storytime #Part 2.2

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elinor-taylor · 1 year

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Wish

By the time she arrived at the well, Marie's feet burned. The walk had taken far longer than she'd anticipated. She didn't remember there being quite so many twists and turns going in the other direction, and found she had to stop a few times just to give her toes a wiggle.

The trolls had kindly offered to open an underground corridor through the roots for her to walk along, to keep her out of sight for at least part of the journey back. But she hadn't felt the need to take them up on it, given that the fairy swarm hadn't made even the tiniest bit of effort to enter the troll graveyard for as long as she'd been off the main path.

Despite warnings from the trolls to the contrary, she thought perhaps the fairy army had given up. They had certainly gone very quiet. Besides, she wanted to avoid further delay, so said her goodbyes at the edge of troll territory, thanked as many of them as she could, those that were awake anyway, and set off.

Small creatures rustled and scurried in the forest around her, but thankfully nothing fairy-like. Still, she kept low and walked quickly and quietly - eyes up, feet forward - doing what she could to not attract any unwanted attention.

The backpack pulled on her shoulders, what with the additional weight of the journal, not to mention that fact that she'd been lugging it around all day. The coin, too, felt oddly heavy. She wanted so much to get through her front door and drop the wretched bag down next to the shoe rack, toss it in amongst all the boots and sandals and busted brollies.

Nearly there, she thought, as she passed the smoking ash footprint of Dale's cottage, and again as she recognised the patch of trees and flattened ground where she'd shared a picnic with the goblin: ever so nearly there.

Then, around the next bend, there it was: the low circular stone wall of the well. In the darkened forest it was unmissable, a glow emanating from it that Marie hadn't noticed the last time she'd passed by. Maybe it was more noticeable in the dark, she thought. Yes, maybe that was it.

She reached around into the side pocket of her backpack and fished out the silver token. It was the darndest thing, the coin didn't move and yet it tickled the palm of her hand, as if vibrating at a frequency she could only feel.

There was something strange about the well, too. Something stranger than its new-onset sparkly glow. No sooner had she exposed the coin to the air, than the curling wisps of light over the well's gaping mouth began to dance. Did they see each other? Feel each other? Were the well and the coin in some way connected?

Marie thought about her wish and about exactly how it ought to be worded. She could only spend the token once, the tree troll had said, so she reminded herself of how important it was to get it right.

She wanted to help both Dale and the goblin, so decided she would wish them both to a place of safety. It didn't strike her as being necessary to wish herself to safety. She was so close to the gate, after all, practically home free. Besides, the woods were silent, give or take a few owl hoots and the occasional mournful screech from what Marie hoped with all her might was just a fox.

The closer she got to the well, the brighter the light above it became, and the greater the tingling sensation inside her fist from the token. The tingling began to feel more like a pull, until her arm involuntarily lifted up. It was as if she were being towed to the well, dragged along by the metal object in her hand. She imagined if she opened her fingers the coin might fly out like a ball bearing drawn to a powerful magnet. She wondered, if that happened would she still get her wish?

Dale and Muggins, she repeated in her thoughts. A place of safety.

The coin tugged and tugged the girl through the forest. She was no longer in charge of her own feet.

'Careful what you choose to spend it on,' the tree troll had said. 'Powerful magic...Queen's magic.'

From nowhere, the image of Barbara entered Marie's mind. She pictured her on the sofa at home, crying over a game show or some other rubbish, and for no particular reason the girl hoped for better things for her mother. Or to be more specific, she hoped for her mother to be happy.

In that instant the token jerked out of the girl's hand, almost causing her to lose her balance. It flew through the air and briefly hovered over the well, before seemingly giving in to gravity all at once and plopping down into the darkness below.

'No!' But it was too late. The token was gone and Marie had no idea what if any wish had been made.

Meanwhile, deep inside the well the silver coin swirled and whirled down and around until it exited below, landing with a clink on a heap of a hundred other spent coins. It laid, unnoticed by anyone, in the empty inky blackness of the tunnel which, were Marie to find herself there, were she to walk along it a ways and not stumble or crack her biggun head on the rocky ceiling, would lead her out through the falling waters of the foss, and home.

#am writing #dark fairytale #midjourney #fantasy #fiction #writerblr #storytime #part 30

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