fireside-stories

[fireside-stories]

Send me an anonymous ask completing the sentence "I wish you would write a fic where..."

[fireside-stories]

Dishonor on Your Family

Summary: You are Draco’s twin sister, but you get Sorted into Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin

Word count: 2,506

“Malfoy, Draco!” The tall lady with the pointed face looked to you and your brother, waiting for him to step forward and be sorted. “It will be okay, Y/N,” he whispered, knowing how nervous you were. You nodded, reassured by Draco’s confidence. “We’ll be sorted into Slytherin together.” He winked at you and then turned and stepped forward to be sorted. The hat had barely touched his head when before it shrieked, “Slytherin!” Draco smiled as he removed the hat and went to sit at the Slytherin table. “Malfoy, Y/N!” The pointed lady was looking at you now, and you stumbled forward hesitantly. Your hands trembled as you took your place on the stool. You knew what the hat would say, and the moment it brushed your hair, your fears were confirmed. The brim opened to shout the dreaded word, “Hufflepuff!” Your eyes fixed on Draco’s as the hat was whisked from your head. He was stunned, eyes round and mouth hanging open in disbelief. The table all the way to the left was cheering and beckoning you over, so you stood and made your way over. You collapsed onto the far bench, positioning yourself so you could still see Draco, three tables away. He was still looking at you, unable to comprehend what had just happened. “How?” he mouthed, as the next student came forward to be sorted. You shook your head, having no answer for him. As another house cheered at the Sorting Hat’s announcement that “Patil, Padma!” was a Ravenclaw, you folded your arms on the table and put your head down, giving release to the tears you’d been holding back. It was your worst fear come true. Hufflepuff. Hadn’t it been only last week that Draco told Father he would leave if he were sorted into Hufflepuff? Hadn’t it been just that morning that their parents said, “We’ll see you at Christmas! Unless you’re sorted into Hufflepuff, then we’ll never see you again.” They’d laughed, but you knew they were only half joking. Your whole family would hate you. You didn’t even have Draco, your brother and only friend, to talk to and make you feel better. You peeked over at him again, tears clouding your vision, but he was talking to some beefy boys on either side of him. He was too busy with his new Slytherin family to even notice you. “Excuse me?” A small voice requested your attention as two figures blocked your view. You wiped your eyes and lifted your head to see a girl with long auburn hair and a dark haired boy standing in front of you. “Is anyone sitting here?” the girl asked, pointing to the seat across from you. You shook your head and they sat down. “I’m Susan,” she informed you. “And this is Justin. We got sorted before you, but we saw you crying and wanted to make sure you’re okay.” “Oh. Um, thanks,” you replied. “What’s your name?” Justin asked. “Y/N.” “Why are you crying?” Susan asked. “Are you sick?” You shook your head. “No. I’m—I…my family won’t be happy about this,” you admitted. “About me being…a Hufflepuff.” Susan and Justin glanced at each other, confusion etched on their eleven year-old faces. “But, why would they care so much? Why would they be upset about it?” Susan asked. “Yeah, Hufflepuff is the best house! They should be thrilled!” Justin smiled at you. “I mean, my family isn’t magical so they don’t really care, but I’m sure Hufflepuff is the greatest.” “Well, my family is pureblood…and all Slytherin…just trust me, they won’t be happy.” You weren’t sure how to explain to them why your parents would be so upset without telling them who you were. You knew your family wasn’t exactly popular because of the role they’d played in the war, and you didn’t want to isolate yourself from people who might want to be your friends. “Pardon, but you’re the little Malfoy girl, aren't you?” You turned to see a tall boy next to you and nodded. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I understand why you’re scared, but as Justin pointed out, Hufflepuff is the greatest.” He smiled. “We’re like a big family and we all look out for each other. Susan and Justin decided to check on you without even knowing who you were, and that’s what Hufflepuff is about. If you were sorted into this house it means you belong here, and we’ll take care of you. I’m Cedric, by the way.” “Y/N Malfoy,” you replied, even though he already knew.   “You’re a Malfoy?” Susan asked, eyes wide. “I’ve heard about your family. You did a lot of bad things during the war!” “What war?” Justin asked, and then, in a not so hushed whisper to Susan, “Should we not be friends with her?” “No, I didn’t do anything,” you protested, new tears stinging your eyes. “I wasn’t even alive then.” “You should be friends with her,” Cedric interrupted. “If she’s a Hufflepuff, she belongs here. The sorting hat doesn’t make mistakes. Don’t judge her by her name, especially before you’ve even gotten to know her.” You looked across at Susan and Justin, nervously waiting to see what they’d do. They glanced at each other and then Justin shrugged. “I don’t know anything about this stupid war,” he declared, “and you seem perfectly alright to me.” He stretched his hand across the table. “Friends?” You smiled with relief, and shook his hand. “Friends,” you agreed. The two of you turned to look at Susan, who shrugged as well. “I guess Justin and Cedric are right. You seem nice enough.” She smiled as she stretched out her hand for you to shake. “Friends it is.” You glanced over at Draco again, cheering as “Zabini, Blaise,” joined Slytherin house, but before you could catch his eye, food appeared on the plates in front of you. As you passed Cedric the roast beef, he leaned over and whispered, “Welcome to Hufflepuff.”

You were momentarily disoriented when you woke up the next morning in an unfamiliar, patchwork-quilt adorned bed. You glanced to the bed next to you and saw auburn hair—Susan’s—and the night before came rushing back. Hufflepuff. That’s where you were. You rose and dressed quietly, swallowing your worry. You had no doubt that Draco had already written to your parents telling them the news, and you were sure to hear from them soon. The cheery dormitory comforted you, though, with it’s sun soaked walls and plants lining the windowsills. Despite your preoccupations you were happier here than you’d ever been in the carefully designed manor you called home. The other girls in your dormitory began to wake up and prepare for the day as well. You’d made it a point to learn all their names quickly, hoping that if you knew who they were they might like you. “Susan,” you said as you pulled on your shoes. “Can I braid your hair? It’s just so long and so pretty—“ “Of course!” Susan answered, smiling. “My mum used to braid it for me, but I don’t know how to.” “It’s not that hard,” you assured her, standing behind her and gathering her hair into three sections. “My house elf, Dobby, used to braid my hair and I asked him to teach me how.” You frowned. “I miss Dobby. He was a good friend.” “You were friends with a house elf?” You looked up from your braiding to see a blonde girl—Hannah—addressing you. “Yes,” you nodded. “My parents were awful to him, but I liked him. He was nice and he did a lot for us. It didn’t seem right to be mean to him.” You slid a sparkly blue hair tie from your wrist and wrapped it around the end of Susan’s braid. “All done, Susan.” “How does it look?” she asked. You shrugged. “I think it looks good,” you replied. “Yeah, it really does,” Hannah agreed. “Could you do my hair, too, Y/N?” You smiled. “Of course, Hannah. But can I do it at breakfast? I don’t think we have time just now.” She nodded her agreement and tucked her hairbrush and a hair tie into her bag and the three of you walked together to the Great Hall. Justin and another boy, Ernie, joined you all for breakfast, talking about lessons while you brushed out Hannah’s hair and began to braid it. “What do you think the professors will be like?” Justin was asking. “I don’t know, but I’m kind of scared of that Snape fellow,” Hannah admitted, making you laugh. The others stared at you, confused. “Uncle Sevvy isn’t scary,” you told them. “He used to come round the house all the time and bring us sweets and toys. He bought me my first real broomstick for my birthday last year.” “Well, he can’t be so bad then, can he?” Justin reasoned. The others shrugged, uncertain. “We won’t know until tomorrow,” Ernie declared, waving the schedule Professor Sprout had just handed him. “We have Double Potions with the Ravenclaws at one o’clock.” “What do we have today?” Susan asked, reaching for the schedule Professor Sprout was handing her. “Transfiguration first, and then History of Magic, and then Astronomy,” Ernie answered. “After lunch it’s Double Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Flying.” “We get to learn how to fly?!” Justin gasped. “Like on a broom? That’s crazy!” He laughed excitedly while you tied off Hannah’s braid and sat down to eat. Hannah thanked you with a smile. You had just dug into your sausages and pudding when Justin shrieked and pointed to a flood of owls streaming into the hall. “What is happening?” he cried, startled. “It must be the mail,” Ernie told him. “That’s how wizards write each other, didn’t you know?” As Justin shook his head, you recognized an eagle owl that swooped toward you, a red envelope clutched in it’s beak. It landed on the table in front of you and dropped the Howler. You fed him a bit of sausage, trying to ignore your pounding heart. “Thanks, Spot,” you whispered, petting his head and letting him nibble your fingers affectionately. “Is that a Howler?” Ernie asked. You nodded, picking it up slowly as Spot flew to the Slytherin table to greet Draco. “What’s a Howler?” Justin asked. “You’re about to find out,” you whispered. Susan put an arm around your shoulders. “Is it from your parents?” she asked. “They really are mad. You weren’t kidding.” Your hands shook as you slowly opened the red envelope. A fierce shriek emitted from the paper and your mother’s shrill voice filled the hall, forming words you were sure, but you was thrown into such hysterics that you couldn’t understand them. You could feel everyone looking at you, and you knew they all heard when you father’s cold voice silenced your mother’s outraged one and said quite calmly, “We are very disappointed in you, Y/N. You shall not be coming home for Christmas or summer holiday. No Hufflepuff,” he spat the word with contempt, “is a daughter of ours.” As the envelope crumbled into flames, your wild frightened sobs filled the silent hall. In a fit of humiliated passion, you pushed yourself from the table and fled from the room, down toward the kitchens and the Hufflepuff common room, but when you got there you couldn’t remember which barrel was the door. Your hysterical breathing quickened, your body shook, and you felt a pain clench your chest. Dizzily, you knocked on the wrong barrel, got drenched in a bucketful of vinegar, and collapsed to the floor, blackness closing on the world.

You woke in the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey pressing a cold cloth to you forehead. “What happened?” you asked. “You had a panic attack, dear” she explained calmly. “You hyperventilated and fainted in the hallway outside of the Hufflepuff common room.” She dipped the cloth in a bowl and reapplied it to your forehead. “Several of your friends found you and brought you here.” “Will I be able to go to lessons today?” “Let’s wait and see how you feel after lunch,” Madam Pomfrey replied. “For now, you should rest. Your body endured a great shock and you need time to heal from that.” “But it’s the first day!” you protested. “I’m going to be so behind!” She smiled kindly at you as she placed the cloth back in the bowl and stood up. “It’s only the first day,” she assured you. “You won’t miss much and your professors will be understanding.” She pulled the curtain back. “You have a visitor.” You looked to where she gestured, hoping to see one of your new friends, but instead saw Draco seated and bored in a chair on the opposite wall. “I’m not here voluntarily,” he drawled, standing up. “That dumpy plant professor made me come visit during our break. I think Y/N got what she deserved.” Your face fell as Madam Pomfrey shot him a steely-eyed look and pushed him over to your bed. “Get off me,” he demanded, shoving her hand off of his shoulder. He glared at her until she left and pulled the curtain closed. “Do you really think that, Draco?” you asked, tears filling my eyes. “Of course not, Y/N, don't cry!” He whispered. He wiped your tears from your cheek with his sleeve and sat crosslegged on the end of the bed. “I think what they did was awful.” “Then why did you say…?” “I have to keep up appearances,” he explained. “Father has spies all over the place and I need to seem like the son he wants me to be. And it wasn’t Professor Sprout who sent me over here. I’m supposed to be in Potions, but Uncle Sevvy was worried and sent me to come check on you.” “Oh, Draco, what am I going to do?” you asked, trying not to cry again. “I don’t have a home now!” “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to them about it and try to change their minds.” “No, don’t! They’ll disown you, too!” You watched him while he dissolved into thought, his chin wrinkling the way it did when he thought hard. You fiddled with a hole in the blanket and racked your brain for a solution. At least you had until June to come up with a solution. “Well,” he announced after a few moments of thought. “I’d rather be disowned with you than owned without you. We’ll figure something out. I met a nice boy yesterday…I think his name was Ron. Maybe his parents will take us in.” He squeezed your hand. “I’m going to send an owl to Father right now and tell him that I’m leaving, too.” You shook my head and smiled “That’s probably the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard, but I like it.” Draco smiled back. “Don’t worry, Y/N. You’ll always have me.”

[fireside-stories]

You know that feeling you get in the winter when you want to go to a cabin in the woods and sit by the fire and watch the snow fall and read a story? Thats what these stories are for

[fireside-stories]

Rise

Requested by a friend and inspired by Rise

Word Count: 623

“Sir! The castle is under attack!” A watchman hurtled into the room, dashing past the tables of guests seated at dinner and up to the dais where my father, the king, was seated.

“What do you mean?” He asked. “Attack by whom?”

“A dragon, sire,” the breathless servant gasped, kneeling before my father. A collective gasp filled the room at his words, all of my many siblings and their families shocked at the news. We thought we’d driven the dragons out years ago.

“How is this possible?” Father asked. “Jacob killed the last of the dragons a decade ago at least. You must be mistaken! There cannot be a dragon here!”

I glanced at my brother, seated next to his wife and new baby. His eyes sought mine, questioning, but I had no answer for him. I was just as baffled as everyone else.

“Your highness,” the servant admitted, “all I know is that there is a dragon at the drawbridge.”

As if to emphasize his point, the castle shuddered under the blow of a massive something, and a few bricks fell free from their mortar. Panic erupted all across the room, some of my sisters screaming, their children crying. Men calling for action.

“Father,” Jacob stood, shouting above the noise. “Denying the dragon’s existence will do nothing. Someone will have to fight.” A hush settled across the space as we looked at one another, Father nodding slowly.

When Jacob accepted the position of advisor to the king, I knew that he had been chosen to inherit the kingdom. It was then that I devoted myself to life as a knight, serving my kingdom in a different way. Most of the other men in the room were diplomats, nobility of various sorts, but not soldiers. Not the fighting type, and incapable of providing any sort of help against a beast such as a dragon. I, on the other hand…

“I will go,” I said, rising.

“As will I.”

I turned to see one of my sister’s husbands, also a knight, standing at the next table.

“Jon, no,” his wife objected, pulling on his sleeve. “I won’t allow it.”

“I can’t let Bradley fight alone,” Jon argued. “And I won’t sit back and let you and the children die. I’m fighting.”

“You are not,” she insisted. “Who is to help me raise the children if you die?” She whispered. I was close enough to see the tears in her eyes and looked away as she whispered, “Stay.”

“If she does not want you to fight, Jon, you shouldn’t.” I told him. “I won’t think less of you if you choose to go with your family.”

I could see him thinking as he hesitated. He glanced from me to my sister and back to me. She tugged on his sleeve again, and he sank back onto the bench. Another blow shook the castle, more powerful than before.

“Take shelter in the dungeons!” Father yelled.

I turned for the door. My family and their servants were running in all directions as I made my way to the front of the castle, but I was barely aware of them. Blood rushed in my ears, a mixture of excitement and fear making my heart race. A dragon, I thought. Foreign soldiers are nothing compared to such a beast. I smiled at the challenge.

My squire handed my my armor and sword. I donned the armor and slashed the air a few times. My eyes roamed over the scene, surveying the crumbling room and the dragon, just peeking it’s ugly face around the corner. I ran up the stair shapes made by a broken wall, somersaulted off of them, and landed feet first on the head of the dragon.

[fireside-stories]

Hazel

No song, but inspired by my constant exhaustion 

Word count: 402

I am Hazel and I am tired. Not right now, not today. Always. Waking up, tired. Sitting in lecture halls, tired. Having sex, tired. Eating with friends, tired. In or out or up or down I am tired. In and out and up and down I am tired. Always.

Class was boring today. I’m supposed to write a boring paper about the boring class, but I drop my backpack just inside the door and stroll to the bathroom instead. I plug the drain in the tub and start the water and walk away, letting the tub fill. I am hoping that the bath will drown the homework and wash away my responsibilities and make me new. Maybe it will make me not tired. The thought is exciting and scary. Being tired is part of my identity.

In my room, I strip off my clothing and put on a yellow bathrobe. I make my way back to the bathroom, lock the door against intruders, remove the robe. I push aside the curtain, making visible the shower shelves full of my roommates’ Victoria’s Secret and Mary Kay products. I turn off the faucet.

Bubbles swirl on top of the soothing scorched water and dance away from me as I sink into the enveloping folds of wet heat. It’s too delicious not to indulge in, so I duck under the rim and submerge myself as fully as I can. I hover down there, enjoying the burning feeling, wanting it to last.

When my lungs are straining and desperate for air, I poke above the surface, and my initial gasp for breath quickly turns to a yawn. I am bobbing in a pool-sized basin in the prefects’ bath at Hogwarts. My yellow dressing gown is hanging from the door, awaiting me. I’d like to swim a few laps, but I am too tired for such lingering. I wash without dilly-dallying, and dry, and I don the dressing gown. I grab my wand, exit the bath, and make my way down the six flights of stairs into the Slytherin dungeons. The giant squid waves as I pass by. My eyes are drooping, but I wave back. He’s a nice fellow.

My four-poster stands ready to embrace me, as I tumble into the green and white sheets and stutter into sleep. The bath made me new, but I am still Hazel and I am tired.

[fireside-stories]

Time Well Wasted

Songfic inspired by Time Well Wasted

Word count: 311

There was so much work that needed to be done. There were bills on the counter and dishes stacked a mile high in the sink. Their bedroom was a mess. The laundry was starting to imitate the Himalayas in it’s piles due to the broken washing machine.

The kids were staying with their grandparents for the weekend, and while they knew they should clean, Danny and Marisol chose, instead, to relax on the couch. To pour two glasses of wine. To light a few candles. To order delivery and pull the Collector’s Edition Scrabble board off the top shelf where it was kept safe from sticky hands.

They cleared the coffee table of mugs, Barbies, magazines, and tonka trucks, and spread the board open. Danny had been an English major, and after several rounds of words like “calzone,”  and “feldspar,” Marisol suggested they pool their letters and work together. Most of her words had been three letters or less. Danny smiled at the idea, and kissed her cheek as he slid his tiles onto the table.

By the time dinner arrived, they’d added “file,” “car,” and “quixotic” to the board. Danny topped off their wine glasses while Marisol eyed the letters and distractedly bit into a slice of pizza. She glanced up to see him smiling at her, and he only kissed her when she asked what he was staring at.

The evening wore on. The letters got low, and so did the wine. The board filled up with words, and the remaining tiles were left scattered on the table when the living room was abandoned in favor of the bedroom. As a hush settled over the house and they drifted into sleep, Danny realized that they’d created even more of a mess that would need cleaning tomorrow. But he didn't regret it. Mess or no, it was time well wasted.

[fireside-stories]

Marisol’s Merengue

Songfic inspired by “Into the Night” 

Word count: 1482

“What’s the matter, Danny?” Marisol asked, sitting next to me on the sofa. She folded her fawn-colored hands together as she fixed her deep eyes on me, awaiting my response. I shifted my gaze away, looking at our reflections in the floor to ceiling windows of the living room of her father’s lake house. I knew from the expression on my own face, pale and clearly troubled, that she’d know I was lying, but I did anyway.

  "Nah, it’s nothing.“ I made a feeble attempt at a smile as I glanced back at her.     "Something is bothering you,” she said perceptively. “You were always a terrible liar.” She paused, red lips pressed together, perhaps expecting me to enumerate the thoughts that had been plaguing me, but stood suddenly. “Come,” she requested, extending her hand. My eyes caught on the silver bracelet that slid down her arm, the one I’d given her for her quincañera almost twelve years ago.   "Where are we going?“ I asked, surprised, as she pulled me from the white suede couch and led me through the dimly lit living room. I glanced at the plates of cold hors d'oeuvres and glasses of half-drunk wine scattered across the various tables and granite countertops as we passed by, the remains of Marisol’s annual summer solstice celebration. The parties were calmer than they had been in high school in college, growing more subdued as we aged. The last of the guests had left half an hour ago, but I was staying at Marisol’s, as was traditional.   "Danny, you take life too seriously,” she was saying. She grabbed her phone off the kitchen table where she’d left it while we neatened up, and pulled me through the back door.   "Aren’t I supposed to take it seriously?“ I asked as we made our way down the porch steps. If I glanced behind me, I knew I’d be able to see straight into the living room and the couch we’d just vacated, but she was guiding me away, towards the lake. The cobblestone path was easy to see in the bright silver moonlight, even through the copse of trees that surrounded it. I still had no idea where she was taking me; we’d gone from the house to the moonlit lake faster than the beat of a mambo.   "Not as seriously as you take it,” Marisol whispered back. “Not with these thoughts I know you’ve been having,” she shot me a glance over her shoulder, a glance that was simultaneously concerned and somewhat threatening, as though she were warning me not to lie again. “Danny,” she said, turning, the skirt of her purple dress swirling about her knees as she stopped a few yards from the waters edge, “you need to remember that life is bigger than you…there is more to this world.” She clicked a button on the side of her phone and the screen lit up. I shook my head in confusion.   "What do you mean?“ I asked her as she fiddled with icons I couldn’t see. "Marisol, what are we doing here?” She grinned slyly at me as she pressed a button on the screen and slid her phone in the pocket of her dress. At first I didn’t know what was going on, but then I heard music. The beats of a drum came wafting through the outdoor speakers hidden along the walkway, soon accompanied by an acoustic guitar. I shook my head more fervently as she smiled wider and her hips began to sway. “No. No, no, you know I don’t dance.”   "Oh, you Americans,“ she gibed. "Dance is an integral part of almost every other culture, and yet Americans don’t dance. There is more to the world, Danny.”   "Dancing is your definition of ‘more?’“     She nodded. "Dance is an escape…as John Dryden phrased it, it 'is the poetry of the foot.’”   "I’m not much of a poet either,“ I informed her, but she shook her head, brown curls flying, refusing to hear my protests.   "Come on, Danny,” she implored, still moving to the music, “I can’t dance by myself.” She held out her hand, and my eyes were again drawn to the silver on her wrist as it gleamed in the light of the full moon. I looked up into her mahogany eyes, the expression there both inviting and daring me to join her in the dance. She raised an eyebrow and before I knew it, my hand was slipping into hers, the other finding it’s way around her waist to settle on the small of her back. I pulled her in close so our bodies were flush against each other. She smiled at me.     "Very nice,“ she nodded. "But this song is a merengue, and for that we need to stand differently.” She moved so that my right hand rested on her shoulder blade with her arm on top of mine. Our other hands were held in what I knew to be a ballroom position and there was space between us. “Now just step, left leg first,” she instructed me. “Shift your weight so that your knee bends. It’s just like walking.”   I did as she said and soon found my hips swinging to mirror hers. We swayed in place for a moment, until she started to dance backwards. I followed her lead trying my best not to break the rhythm as we travelled. Her face lit up as she smiled again.   "I’m going to turn now,“ she whispered. "Slide out,” she instructed, sliding her hand down my arm and into my hand. “Don’t let go. Raise your arms,” we both lifted our hands and she turned slowly underneath.   "But now our arms are tangled,“ I pointed out. She nodded.   "Now you turn,” she informed me. “It’s easy. Lift up,” we raised our hands to the moon again, “and turn under. No, no, other way, Danny.” I had tried to turn the wrong way and had broken the circle made by our arms.   "Sorry,“ I apologized. "I told you I’m no good at this.”   "It’s alright,“ she murmured. "We all have to start somewhere.” She took my hands so we were already in the position to turn. “Let’s try that again. I’ll turn first.” I made sure to keep stepping as we lifted our hands and she turned under. We paused, still dancing, but I hesitated.   "Don’t think about it,“ she advised me. "Just feel the music and turn.” She smiled. “You can do it, Danny.”   I nodded and attempted to smile back. I lifted our linked hands and turned under, surprised to find us back in the basic position. “I did it! Marisol, I did it right!” I exclaimed, smiling for real this time. I felt a flutter in my stomach as our eyes met.   "I know!“ She said, equally excited. "I told you you could!”

  She taught me a few more basic turns–including another kind of two-handed turn, a one-handed turn, and what she called a “cuddle turn”– and how to travel backward and forward. I was surprised at how easily the motions came and how well we moved together. Marisol’s dancing form fit into my arms like a puzzle piece I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.   "You know,“ she observed, "I think you could try leading if you want.”  I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “You know, if you think you’re ready for it,” she teased. I laughed for the first time in what felt like forever, realizing that all my prior worries had melted away in the heat of the dance.   "Oh, I’m ready,“ I informed her.   "You sure?” She asked, grinning.   I nodded. “I got this.”   She let me take the lead and I danced us up and down the walkway, in and out of shadows and pools of moonlight, back and forth across the beach, stepping, turning, swaying. I spun her so that her skirt flared out and her hair caught the moon’s rays as it flew. I pulled her in close beside me as we danced backwards in the cuddle position. I made sure to keep us moving with the rhythm of the song, a faster one that what we’d started with, and didn’t let up until the music faded.   Marisol turned to me, dropping her hands and panting slightly, her cheeks flushed pink with the exertion.   "How did I do?“ I asked. She nodded.   "Very well, especially for someone who 'doesn’t dance.’”   I shrugged. “I guess you were right. There is more.” I swallowed as she stepped closer. “Thanks for teaching me.”   She placed a hand flat on my chest. “Thanks for learning.” She pressed a light kiss to my cheek and turned away, walking back toward the house. I watched her go, my heart pounding inside my chest, and I knew it had nothing to do with the workout we’d just completed.

[fireside-stories]

Thnks Fr Th Mmrs

The church was dark and quiet, the silence broken only by the sudden and steady thudding of high heeled combat boots on marble tiles. The girl wearing them, along with the short, pleated skirt and black leather jacket, knew full well that the shoes were uncomfortable and impractical, but she didn’t give a shit. She also knew that she wasn’t supposed to smoke indoors, but that didn’t stop her from breathing out rolling white clouds smelling of tobacco and addiction. She paused for a moment, gazing at the crucifix as her red lips closed around her cigarette. Her heavily made-up eyes studied the figure, taking in the bent knees and clenched fists. Her gaze fixed on the  pained expression. Now that was something she could relate to, she thought to herself, breathing out another deceptively pure puff of smoke.

She pulled her eyes away and fixed them on the votive candles nearby. Her clacking steps resumed as she headed for them, paused as she struck a match and lit one, and then carried on momentarily before fading into silence as she disappeared as quickly as she’d come. But for the lingering smell of cigarettes in the air, she might never have been there at all.

[fireside-stories]

Epilogue

The next morning, she was gone, driven from the convent by her fear of imposition. By the time the religious had found the sunlit, empty room, she was miles away with the demon on her back, trekking through the howling winds of a midwinter blizzard. While she stumbled through the drifts of snow, the vicar turned over the blanket and found a few bills with a note that said, “For the window.”

[fireside-stories]

Part I

It was on the wings of angels that she made it to the church, outrunning her red-eyed, goat-horned pursuer through the grace of God alone. She arrived panting, her panicked breath visible in front of her lips, and foolishly tried the doors that were locked and barred at this time of night. She pulled frantically on all four, and by the last one, the demon had caught up, yanking the back of her coat to spin her around and pin her against a panel window. Her eyes widened in fear as his charred black hand closed around her throat, searing her skin and crushing the air from her lungs. She maintained eye contact with those hellish red orbs long enough to slip a heavy, wood-handled hunting knife from her pocket. Fighting for breath, she struck the pane behind her, the glass shattered with a loud crack and set alarm bells ringing, and the  creature’s moment of surprise was enough for her to duck inside the vestibule. She splashed herself with holy water as she rushed through the doors into the sanctuary. She made it to the altar before her weak heart stumbled, and her vision faded to black as she collapsed before the tabernacle.

By the time the police arrived, Satan’s minion had departed, unable to set foot on holy ground. All the authorities found was a young woman, about sixteen years of age, passed out on the top step of the altar, and being tended to by a grandfatherly old friar and a frightened vicar. Neither of them knew who she was or where she’d come from, but the friar pointed at the hand-shaped burn on her neck and declared it an instance of demonic activity. The officers wanted to take her back for questioning, but the friar refused outright. He insisted that she be placed in the adjoining convent for the night, and he spoke with a seriousness beyond mere stubbornness such that the others knew better than to argue. He glanced gravely back at the girl, and the terrified young vicar knew that the friar had seen this before.

[fireside-stories]

You know that feeling you get in the winter when you want to go to a cabin in the woods and sit by the fire and watch the snow fall and read a story? Thats what these stories are for