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kellshaw · 9 months

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Short Story - A Thing for Elves

Here’s a short story set in the Vestiges of Magic setting.

***

Ever since she was a girl, Ilda had a thing for elves. She watched all the classic movies starring Helianthus Lindarien Variel—A Sword at Sunset, The Heroes of the Hawkbow, The Wanwood Queen—until her video tapes wore out. She collected inter-hominin romance novels, where an elf would take someone back to the treetop village and show them just how superior elves were to humans.

She tried not to stare too hard at the elves when she saw them on the train, or in the many public parks, performing mysterious religious rites for their nature gods. They stood out amongst the humans—taller and more slender, androgynous, their hair often worn long and loose. They had high cheekbones and never went bald. There was just something about an elf that made them more appealing than regular human men. But they were in their own different world. Visible but remote.

As a teenager, she had thought about exploring her thing for elves. Studying their language and literature at university or becoming involved in elven/human diplomatic relations. But Mother pointed out that jobs working with elves were limited (their clans were picky about the non-elves they worked with). Mother also drummed into Ilda’s head that she needed to focus on her Life Goals: to obtain a six-figure salary, an equally wealthy husband, and a house in the suburbs with two well-behaved children.

And so, her thing for elves remained dormant until she met him.

Tired of waiting for the IT support desk to install her new software remotely, she went to visit them in person. And her heart skipped a beat because the guy behind the counter was elvish. Not a full elf, but one of his parents had been. He had high cheekbones, pointed ears and long dark hair that he wore tied in a ponytail. But his face was rounded, and his eyes were a deep brown with visible whites rather than completely green.

“Can I help you?”

And his voice was warm honey.

“Uh, I need GraphixChampionPro installed on my laptop.”

“What’s your barcode?”

Ilda read it off the back of her hand.

“I’ll queue it up for installation now.”

“Thank you,” she managed. “What’s your name?”

Heart racing, she waited for him to pronounce his elven name in the mellifluous language of Kytharien.

“I’m Ben.”

Ben. Ben? Did he have a proper elven name, like Gladiolus Sevarien Kalpesh? What was Ben short for?

She remained there too long, staring.

Ben gave her an odd look. “Uh, you don’t need to hang around. It’ll load when you restart your machine. Do that when you get back to your desk.”

She burbled something unintelligible and fled to the elevator.

***

“Are you paying attention?” Sessi asked her at their morning coffee, snapping her fingers in front of Ilda’s dreamy face. Slightly older than Ilda, she’d been at the office for years and had far more boyfriends.

“There’s this man in IT. An elf. Well, half-elf.” Ilda swallowed.

Sessi nodded, familiar with Ilda’s thing for elves. “Blended. I hear no-one calls them half-elves anymore. You sure you want to get involved?”

“Yes.” Ilda thought of Ben’s smooth voice. Despite years of progressive media and endless books and movies, the conservative elements of society frowned upon inter-hominin dating. But Ilda could handle anything for that voice and those eyes…

“Then ask him out. Before Anita from Sales does. She moves on to anything new in the company.”

“He might already be with someone.”

“He’s a man in IT. Not likely.”

“I suppose I could tell him about some computer problem I’m having at home and then—”

“He’s a man in IT, dear,” Sessi repeated. “Be direct. Otherwise, he’ll never get the hint.”

When she got back to her desk, Ilda steeled herself and called IT.

That voice. “Hello? IT Support.”

“Ben? It’s me. Ilda. From earlier.”

“Yes. GraphixChampionPro. Is it installed properly?”

“It’s fine. What do you think of coffee?”

“What about it?”

Oh, stab it, I’m going to have to be super-direct. “Meet me at the work café at 3pm for coffee.”

She got there at 2:50pm, hands sweating and staring at the flood of incoming people. She waited until 3:11, growing more certain with each passing moment that Ben had stood her up and—

“Hi.” Ben arrived, out of breath. “Sorry, I just had to tell someone to reboot.”

Ilda talked about the weather while Ben sipped at his expresso, fidgeting. He drummed his fingers and looked up at her.

Ilda noticed his nerves with growing dread. This is where he tells me he’s not into human women, or already has a person in his life, or—

“Do you like fantasy movies?”

***

To Ilda’s relief, Krothar the Mighty wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be, and neither was Darkblade III: Vengeance Calls or The Labyrinth of Doom, where they kissed for the first time. Ben didn’t want to talk much about elf-stuff, and quickly changed the subject when she asked if he’d been to the legendary elven kingdoms of the Wanwood, or the Windward Isles. However, he ordered in the entire series of The Impossible Archer for her, which starred Phyllanthus Lenandrum Selvi performing endless trick shots as she defended the village of Grassholt from a new threat each episode.

Their first formal outing was at ‘The Grand’, an expensive four-star restaurant which overlooked Shadow Bay. In turn, Ben arranged a surprise date where they bunjy-jumped off the giant historical statues of the Great Kings of Old that bracketed the Shatterwater River.

She played console games with him, which were fun, provided that she could button-smash her way to victory. She took Ben on her weekend cycling trips, starting on the simple River Ride, with the goal of trying out for the annual City Cycle race. He was so different from her last boyfriend, Gary the Lawyer. Ben didn’t demand that she look a million dollars before she went out or spend all night complaining about his expensive clients.

Ilda wouldn’t call things magical, or true love, but it was fun. Only, something was missing. The spark promised by years of soaking in elven-themed media wasn’t there.

And of course, there as the Other Problem—that blended people weren’t fully accepted by modern society. A crazy fact given that the continent was full of socially integrated hominin subspecies, and countless movies and books spoke of romance and relationships.

No one spoke about the real fact—that these relationships led to children, and that these offspring weren’t fully welcomed. Ilda hadn’t worried about it at first, given that they were living in the twenty first century.

Only the universe disagreed. Some of her old, high school friends gave her odd, shocked looks when she introduced Ben. Occasionally waiters refused to serve them, and old people grumbled on the bus,

“Does this happen all the time to you?” Ilda groaned as the rain battered down one evening after a movie date, when a cab driver with a ‘on duty’ light and an empty vehicle slowed down, and sped up when he had a good look at his fares.

“Yeah.” Ben tucked his hands in his pockets. “But you can’t let it get in our way. There’s been a lot of civil rights victories in the past few years, but a lot more has to change.” His voice hung there: an invitation for her to talk about this with him. What it was like to grow up blended, the world of civil rights and social justice… But then a cab pulled up and they got in. And civil justice sounded too heavy for Ilda to handle.

And the final straw was when Mother found out.

“Your cousin tells me you’re dating a half-elf.”

“Blended,” Ilda corrected. “No one uses the term ‘half-elf’ anymore.”

“You can’t date a half-elf,” Mother insisted, her voice sharp over the phone. “You’re my only child. Half-breeds are sterile, and I want grandchildren.”

“I’ve checked the internet, Mama. It’s a myth. There’s lots of blended families.”

“Even if you have children, they’ll have all sorts of medical problems.”

“That’s not true—”

“They won’t get into good schools, that sort of thing. Your second cousin Pat—”

“So what—”

“She married a dwarrow. Can you believe it?”

“It’s the modern age, Mama, and—”

“The child, all sickly, poor dear. In and out of hospitals, and all covered in hair—are you listening?”

“Do I have a choice, Mama?”

“Imagine waxing while in primary school. The Precursor made us different species for a reason. We’re not supposed to mix in that way.”

“We’re all subspecies, Mama—”

But Mother wouldn’t stop. Ilda thought about it more—perhaps Mother was right. Ben was a comfortable, battered sedan car, but she needed an expensive sports model with fire in its engine. He wouldn’t help her achieve her Life Goals.

Time to get rid of Ben.

“It’s not you, it’s me—” she began, having chosen the work café for the ‘I’m dumping you’ conversation.

“It’s your mother.” Ben stared at her.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“I thought you were ready. That you saw past society’s bullshit—”

“It’s not that—” Ilda shook her head. “I want someone progressive, someone who’s going to make six-figure salary, and help me afford a house in the Diamond and—”

“We had something good, and you’re killing it for something that doesn’t exist.” He got up and left, his untouched coffee curling steam in the air.

I have my Life Goals, she reminded herself while hugging her pillow close to her chest that night and feeling like the worst person in the world.

“Ben left me,” she told Sessi at morning coffee, giving her friend a fake version of events. After a few weeks, she had almost convinced herself that dumping Ben was her decision, and nothing to do with keeping Mother happy.

“I’ve just dumped Kallen,” Sessi said. “No sense of fun. Listen, I suppose you’re over elves now—”

“Well, no,” Ilda managed.

“How about we have a holiday? See some real elves. How they’re supposed to be.”

Sessi showed a website on her phone: “Elven adventure tour. Experience the traditional village of Illandrellan!” An elf dressed in robes aimed a longbow at some imaginary figure in the distance. A place that Ilda had always wanted to visit but never found the time.

“Sign me up.” Ilda closed her eyes. She needed that elven fantasy, as way to wash away the grit of her relationship with Ben. A world where everything between humans and elves was accepted, rather than one where cabs wouldn’t stop for you and where mothers complained incessantly about your doomed offspring.

***

Sweeping arches of ancient oak trees covered the forest road. As the electric bus rattled along, Ilda wished their blended elven tour guide didn’t remind her so much of Ben.

Stop that, she told herself. You have your Life Goals. You are completely over Ben. Now shut up and enjoy your holiday.

The guide wore traditional robes, woven from a shimmering white silk embroidered with tiny silhouettes of leaves. His badge announced his name as Laurel. “On your left, you can see the greeting tree.” He pointed to a flowering sapling festooned with garlands. “They act as guideposts to the settlements within the Wanwood.”

The bus passed through a large clearing, and they were in the village. They parked and Laurel escorted the pool of tourists outside. “This is the gathering space the clan uses for cooking and social activities, but everyone lives in the homes above. Over there is the communal crafting area, where you can see people weaving.”

Set up under the canopies were large wooden looms, where elves in their shimmering robes labored, producing intricately woven cloth.

Next, Laurel pointed to the lofty treetop houses connected by walkways.

“How do they get up there?” an old man from the Seastrider Islands asked. “My knees aren’t too good.”

“There are rope ladders, or a basket we use for taking goods up.”

Ilda struggled up the ladder (which looked suspiciously like nylon cord) while Sessi rode the basket, meeting her at the top. Did that pulley mechanism really exist in ancient times?

A pleasant blonde, blended elf escorted them to the festival hall, where they were served setharies—elven mead, or honey water, depending on one’s age—and ornain, the filling food used in epic journeys in ages past.

“The Heroes of the Hawkbow ate this as they crossed the plains to fight the Dark Emperor.” Ilda gestured at her bowl full of nuts, dried berries, and leaves in front of them.

“It tastes like ordinary trail mix to me,” Sessi muttered. “I bet this all comes from the Cubermarket.”

After morning tea, Laurel showed them an elven family house, and they watched a dance on the ground below. Before she boarded the bus, Ilda bought a souvenir tea towel from the gift shop.

“This is so dull,” a bored ogre tourist complained. “I wanted to visit the Pits of Oblivion and the Stormfort—where Grimtusk had her last stand—but nooo, my wife had to see elves.” An ogre woman held up her elven silken scarf and smiled.

“You can’t get to the Stormfort at the moment,” a human woman from the Lionmarches interrupted. “They’ve had to close off parts of the Volcanic National Park. Too many tourists.”

Ilda wondered if the Heroes of the Hawkbow had known that the sites of their ancient struggle against the forces of darkness would become tourist attractions.

After watching an elven bird-calling ceremony, Laurel head-counted the tour group and gestured at them to get back on the bus. As they drove away, Ilda peered out the rear window. The elves had stopped their industrious weaving and were sitting around, talking and smoking cigarettes.

“How was the real elven village?” Sessi elbowed Ilda in the ribs as she stared vacantly at the forest outside. “Just like your books?”

Ilda mumbled, “It was okay.” But no, it felt too touristy. Perhaps if she had ignored Mother, she could have studied Kytharien at university, and been one of the few humans invited to see an actual village. But that dream was distant, sacrificed to focus on her Life Goals. She closed her eyes and recited them but realized that she no longer cared.

* * *

They spent the night at Far Point, the nearest human town to the Wanwood. A mix of tourists from all over the continent sat in the bar, drinking and chatting, sweat dripping down their faces in the muggy heat.

Ilda couldn’t describe the emptiness within her. If her Life Goals were as hollow as the elven village, what was she doing with her existence? What did she really want? She tried talking about this with Sessi, but after several shots of elven brandy, neither woman could communicate very well. After Sessi nearly collapsed at the bar, Ilda dragged them both outside.

On the porch, the air rippled in the muggy heat. Stars drifted overhead in the night sky and bird calls echoed from the distant bulk of the dark woods.

A figure leaned against a beam—a full-blooded elf wearing only leather pants. Long dark hair, slicked back, hanging down to his waist. His eyes were a deep green, without sclera, and his abs were a lean six pack.

“Hey.” Ilda could not stop staring.

“You ladies after a good time?” the elf asked.

“Sure!” Sessi burbled.

“For you, five hundred,” the elf said.

Five hundred? Ilda froze. She’d never been this close to an actual sex worker, let alone a full-blooded elf, before. Her desire for something genuinely elvish warred with her nervousness.

“She’s game!” Sessi said.

“No, I’m—”

“Ilda, come on. You only live once. This has been your fantasy for years. She’ll do it! Who are you, elfie boy?”

“Moonweaver.” Such a romance novel alias.

“Are you licensed?” Sessi asked.

Moonweaver flashed an ID card. Having one meant he passed a bunch of health and safety certifications. Ilda scanned the license for his real name, but there was only a barcode.

Ilda dry-swallowed. Perhaps a fling with a genuine elf would reconnect her with who she was before she’d become obsessed with Life Goals.

“No excuses, girl.” Sessi pulled on Ilda’s arm. “Let’s get some extra brandy.”

***

Moonweaver was highly skilled, but Ilda was too reserved, despite the alcohol, to enjoy her time with him. The encounter felt like every other time she’d been with a competent lover. Good sex, and that was it. The romance of elven lovemaking died when Ilda lay back on the bed as Moonweaver counted banknotes and tucked them in his leather pants. A job, and nothing more. Ilda wondered how many clients he regularly saw.

“Is the village real?” Ilda asked as he tugged on his boots.

He smiled. “It’s for you. For the tourists. We can’t share a real Kytharien village with you, but this is a good compromise.”

“I saw a lot of blended elves there.” Ilda whispered.

“Yes. They had to fight with the clan elders to build their own place, but in the end, it has worked out well. The half-bloods have a purpose, and the tourism money has enriched our clan.”

“They had to fight?”

“Change requires struggle.” Moonweaver said. “Sacrifice, unhappiness—but all these can lead to good outcomes, in time.”

Sessi called out from the next room. “You guys finished already? Moonie, can you do another round?”

Moonweaver looked at Ilda with his liquid green eyes.

She nodded, and the elf got up and left.

Ilda had a long shower and wished the walls weren’t so thin.

***

About a week after she returned from her holiday, Ilda packed up all her movies and books in a crate and took them down to the local charity store.

“Thank you.” The old lady behind the counter pawed through the box. “Oh, Prince of the Treetops. I did like this one. This is a sizable collection. You must have a real thing for elves.”

“Not anymore,” Ilda said. She left the shop and found a quiet space in the park, green leaves enshrouding her. Time to fight for what she wanted.

She took a deep breath and called a number. “Ben?” she whispered, hoping he would answer.

#writeblr #urban fantasy #worldbuilding #fantasy writing #vestiges of magic #writerscommunity #short fiction #free story #urban fantasy readers

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rwoodsbooks · 10 months

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rwoodsbooks.weebly.com for spicy short stories!

#bridgerton #sexy #couple #spicy short stories #free story

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nokingsonlyfooles · 1 year

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Hello, and Welcome to the Frog's Blog!

(Pinned Intro Post!)

I am here to do capitalism!

I hate capitalism.

Wanna give me a few paragraphs to explain why I'm doing it anyway?

I'm telling a story that I want people to see. Being generally a good person and asking nicely for people to tell others about me has not gotten a lot of eyes on my story. I need not only currency, to buy space to be seen and items directing people to look at me, I need social capital. Social capital is way older than currency, but it's still not my thing. This society was not built for me, and I'm missing a lot of the usual equipment for navigating it - we can put all kinds of labels on my neuro-spice blend, but the bottom line is, I'm out here at the edges, and it's gonna take a lot of effort for me to swim my amphibian butt anywhere near the mainstream. I gotta hope some of you will see me struggling and give me a little assist with a net, if you can.

And not scoop me out and throw me away.

I'm gonna put myself out here and do my own version of the Leftist Boogie, but I will probably elbow more than one person in the face and take a few pratfalls of my own. All of it in the hope that you'll see something in my style worth watching, and then go look at the other, longer, and much-better-proofread things I've done. (I got a lot going on and I often don't see typos, spelling errors and missing words. It's not because I don't care!)

My story is available right now and free to read without blinking ads that'll steal your data and assault your senses. I don't want that to change. So:

I need your eyeballs. It's super hard for me to keep performing when most people just walk on by, give me a little wave, or detour just long enough to spit in my open violin case. I need your money. (Oh, god.) My health issues can keep - and have kept - me from telling my story. I got a real wake-up call in 2022. If I can't offer someone fair compensation to help me, I will have to stop telling my story, and I don't know if I'll be able to come back and start telling it again. (My finances are weird because I moved to Canada as a +1 on my partner's work/study visa and I'm not, technically, allowed to work here. But the Patreon is hooked up to my US account - the only account with my name on it right now - and it still works.) I need your help. I can't give you a lot of money right now (in part because my account has a finite amount in it, that I am also using to buy groceries and home goods, and when it's gone, I no longer have any money or credit in my own name) but "fair compensation" doesn't have to mean money, from me or from you. I am more than willing to give away free content. I hope you're willing to give away free reblogs and signal boosts and eyeballs. Everything else is negotiable, and I do have a little money, so contact me here, or through my website, or just use that little "ask me anything" widget, if you have any ideas. I need your patience. I will cough up an occasional bright yellow Blazed ad, or other self-promotion, and I will keep reminding you that I'm telling a story and I need your help. My health is not in real great shape either. I may disappear, on this platform or others, because I'm dealing with a lot and I don't have enough left to create or be social. I hope not to disappear altogether, but there are no guarantees. I'm not trying to scam you, but you need to be aware that you're backing one fragile human being who may have to quit. Also, I make a lot of really stupid mistakes. Social interaction goes too fast for me. I can't always check myself before I wreck myself - or someone else who doesn't deserve it. Please believe I'm trying my best, and I'll try to believe that of you too. OK? I'm in the process of codifying the reasons why I'm trying to tell a story and I will not shut up. So you'll also see a lot of Big World stuff about art, storytelling, artists and storytellers around here. Eventually, you'll also see my art manifesto, but I'm juggling a lot of things I need to get done. You'll have to stay patient and let me do my best.

#author bio #intro post #i have a keyboard and i'm dangerous #free story #queer media #NB with a story #singing frog #no kings only fooles

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lianahayze · 1 year

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Shadow and the Midnight Misery: Chapter 13

Hi everyone! Welcome to chapter 13. If you've missed a chapter or just want to reread, here's the masterlist. Enjoy!

Chapter 13. Pictures

I'm sweaty.

I don't know if it's because it’s hot or if it's my nerves, but my skin is sticky, and I have to adjust myself in the seat when I feel sweat rolling down my back. I lift up my legs slightly, wincing as they make a wet noise.

I look at the people as they pass. None of them look uncomfortable, so it makes me think it's just me. Still, I'm generally never this hot.

I'm back at Garver. With my journal in my lap, I'm waiting to meet with Dr. Norris. The secretary told me she's running late, and, for some reason, it’s put me on edge.

"Shadow?"

I look to the right when I hear my name. A girl with red hair walks towards me. I squint. She looks familiar, but I can't quite place it. Its only when, she sits down next to me that I remember.

I smile. "Tally. Hi. How are you?"

"I'm fine. How's life on the outside?"

"It's fine." I pause. "Actually, it's kind of shit, but I guess things could be worse.” I almost say that “but at least I’m not stuck here” but realize that it would probably be insensitive.

"Why are you here, then?"

"See Dr. Norris." I clutch my notebook. "I have a lot to talk to her about."

I laugh nervously. I don't know how I'm going to tell her about my last couple of days, but I need to. More importantly, I sort of want to.

"That's good," says Tally. "I don't meet with Dr. Norris, but I hear she's great.” I shrug. Whether she's great or not I don't know. It's not like I have a lot of experience with shrinks.

"Everything around here is the same."

I notice that she sounds slightly sad as she says it. Though I wasn't expecting anything to have changed, I wonder if she was. Maybe she's bored? Would it be rude if I asked her how long she's been here?

I decide not to be so blunt. Instead of asking her directly, I say, "You really seem to have a good feel for the place."

She nods. "What would you expect," she says, "especially since I've been here almost six months?"

My eyes nearly pop out of my head. Six months? What exactly did this girl do? I remember her saying something about drugs, but what she so hooked on them that she’d actually been in her for six whole months?

Shock must be evident on my face because she giggles, saying, "It's okay. It's a long time, but I'm getting to know myself better than I have before. Everything will work out in the end."

She sounds confident, like she has a plan. Still, I can’t help but wonder about her. Besides the drugs, maybe there’s some other reason why she’s been here for six months?

"Shadow?" I look over at the front desk. The secretary is standing up, leaning forward. "You can go ahead back."

I thank her and turn back to Tally. "It was nice talking to you again."

She smiles, but there’s something about it that makes me uneasy. “You too, Shadow. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”

I try to come up with something to say but am unsuccessful. In the end, all I can do is nod, stand up, and head to Dr. Norris’s office. I glance over my shoulder and look at her; the expression on her face creeps me out, but I wave back at her.

I walk down the hall, stopping in front of the office. It's becoming a habit, taking a couple of seconds to calm myself. Therapy is supposed to make me feel better, but all it does is make me feel anxious. I know Dr. Norris is here to help me and that’s she’s probably seen worse, but it’s absolute torture, talking about myself for an hour. I can do it for interviews, but this is different. In interviews, I can lie, stretch the truth.

But here, all bets are off.

I take a deep breath and knock; as always, Dr. Norris meets me at the door.

Large smile on her face, she says, "Shadow, you seem to be doing well." Do I? I feel like I look like crap, but that could just be all of the sweat. "Come in." She moves out of the way and I walk into her office. She shuts the door as I sit down. She goes to her own seat, saying, "So tell me: what's new?"

Before I even say anything, she's typing on her computer. It unnerves me even further, but I do my best to ignore it.

"Um. Not so much." I put the notebook down on the desk. "I've, uh, tried to do the whole journaling thing."

"Yeah? How's it been going?"

I’m not sure how to respond. Mostly, I get two or three sentences down before I give up, but effort should count for something. I just don't want to tell her it hasn't been going well and get a lecture.

"Well. I've been trying."

"Trying is good. Do you think it's been helping?"

Again, I don't know how to answer, so I settle on a little white lie. "I think so."

"How?"

"It's... It's good to get my thoughts out."

"That's good. How are things with the band?"

The band. Hmm. The rest of the last rehearsal had been weird. Maybe it had been because of my lack of energy, but I really hadn't wanted to be there. I'd gone along with whatever they'd wanted to do, happy not to be making the decisions for once. They'd also kept looking at me like they didn't know how to handle me, like they were afraid I was going to snap at any moment. They'd been on the defense, and even in my tired state I'd been able to tell.

"I still don't really talk to them, and we argued the last time we met up, but--" I shrug "--honestly, I just don't have the energy for it anymore." Leaning back in my seat, I sigh. Part of me just wants to say fuck it and let them think whatever they think. After all, I've done my best to convince them I'm fine, and they still don't believe me. At the end of the day, if they want to think I'm just some drugged up alcoholic, that says more about them than it does about me. As long as I can still work with them--even if we're no longer friends--does it matter?

"What was your argument about?" asks Dr. Norris.

"Wyatt thought I was high."

"Were you?"

I know she’s required to ask, but it doesn't stop me from being annoyed. "No. I was just tired."

"Are you not sleeping?"

I wonder if she's asking because she can prescribe me pills or if she's asking because she wants to learn more about my sleep pattern.

"Most of the time I am--at least, I don't toss and turn all that much."

"That's good."

"Sometimes I do struggle to sleep, though. That’s not a new thing, though. It happens every once in a while."

"That's happens to most people; it's completely normal. I'll have other patients who, ever six to eight weeks or so, will go several nights in a row barely getting any sleep, but, once it's over, go back to a normal sleep pattern. There's probably an explanation, but as long as it's a repeatable pattern and doesn't affect them too much, it's not really cause for concern."

But do all of those people have hidden childhood traumas?

Actually, given the fact they meet with Dr. Norris, they probably do.

"I don't think it happens every six to eight weeks," I tell her. "It just sort of happens every once in a while."

She's typing as we speak. I watch the keystrokes to decipher what she’s typing but come up with nothing. "Is it happening more often?"

I shake my head. "I don't think so." Then again, it's only been a couple of weeks since I've been trying to limit drugs and alcohol, so who knows? Maybe it will start to happen more frequently, but I really hope not.

"When you have these sleepless nights, do you notice anything that happens that day before? Are you eating anything out of the ordinary? Are you drinking more than usual? Anything like that?"

I don't think so. If it were just a matter of eliminating something to stop my nightmares forever, I would have figured it out by now. Instead, they just happen. No real rhyme or reason.

"Do you just have trouble falling asleep or do you have trouble staying asleep, too?"

She's spending a lot of time on this, and it's starting to make me nervous. If I'm not careful, she'll start asking me questions about stuff I don't want to talk about.

I think before I answer. "It just depends."

Naturally, her next question is, "On what?"

"Uh." I fidget around in my seat. What does it depend on; what does it depend on? What can I say to get her to move on?

"I dunno. Maybe it happens when I'm sick?" That’s clearly not the case, but I run with it. "Like, if I have a cold or fever?"

The way she looks at me makes me worry that she can see right through my lie. However, a second later, she says, "That could have something to do with it." She goes back to typing. "There's definite correlation between being too hot or too cold and getting a good night's rest. Do you feel like you've been running a fever recently?" I shake my head. "Have you checked?"

"No, my temperature's been fine."

Well, current moment notwithstanding. Dr. Norris's office is a little cooler than the lobby, but not by much.

She starts to list symptoms. "Fever, sweating, chills... All of that's common with withdrawal. So, if you wake up freezing or covered in sweat, it's probably not how physically cold or hot your room is."

It would be hard for me to have withdrawals, considering I haven't fully given up everything. "I don't think that's what it is."

"Sounds like you've thought about it. What do you think it is then?”

My heart starts to pound. I begin to get queasy as I look anywhere but at Dr. Norris. I don't want to talk about this--I really, really don't. I just want to convince her that I'm fine enough not to need these sessions, and that's not going to happen if I tell her everything.

"I just think... Maybe I have a lot on my mind." Probably wanting me to continue, she nods but doesn't say anything. "Maybe it just happens when I'm stressed?"

"Maybe."

I think back. I'm not sure the exact date of the last time I had one of those dreams, but there's a good chance I was probably overwhelmed with something. I try not to get stressed out a lot, but, when I do, it's not something that just goes away. It stays with me for a while, sometimes several weeks.

"If you're not getting enough sleep, you might be thinking about not getting enough sleep and thinking about it is going to make you not get enough sleep."

"So, I could be doing this to myself?"

“Potentially. For example, when I was younger, I went through a period where I had some pretty bad back problems following an accident. I wasn't sleeping, and because I wasn't sleeping my body couldn't repair itself. Because my body couldn't repair itself, my back hurt more... So forth and so on."

I'm surprised that she's sharing with me. I thought the whole point of this was for her to get me to talk, not the other way around.

"What I'm trying to say," she continues, "is that it's important--really important--for you to try to maintain a normal sleep schedule. It might be difficult for you right now because you're waking up in the middle of the night or tossing and turning, but make sure you're going to bed and waking up at the same time each day. It'll help."

I tell her that I’ll try.

"So, what are you worried about?" I tilt my head to the side, not sure what she means. "Are there any challenges or anything coming up that'll make it difficult for you to stay sober?"

Beyond that stupid dream, I don't believe so. The other night, I'd really wanted a glass of wine--that would have put me to sleep--but instead I'd chosen to nurse my glass of water all night. It hadn't been as satisfying, but at least I'd been hydrating.

"You mentioned the band earlier. Have they been supportive?"

I almost laugh. "I think they think they've been supportive." She asks me what I mean. "They were super overbearing when I first got out, but now we don't talk."

"Is that okay?"

I shrug. "It's what it is." I can tell she doesn't appreciate my answer, but she doesn't say anything. I lean forward. Hands on the notebook, I begin bending the pages. "You want me to talk to them."

"I think you should, but not if you don't think it'll help you with your recovery."

I take a moment before responding. "I talked to Dean." Then, realizing I’ve never told her about Dean before, I add, "He's one of my friends outside the band. It was a good conversation."

"Does he know about your stay here?"

I shake my head. "I want to tell him, but..." I lean back. "I dunno. It's hard." I cross my arms. I look forward past Dr. Norris to the window. It's a nice day outside, but I'm glad I'm indoors. I've never been one to spend all day outside, but now I don't want to go out unless I absolutely have to.

I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I pull it out but otherwise ignore it. I slide it onto the table facedown.

"It's just that I still think they were in the wrong."

"What were they in the wrong about?"

"Forcing me to come here. Giving me crap about when I show up late to practice. Actually, I don’t think I even have to be late. At the last practice, I was on time and Wyatt was still rude. It's starting to feel like they're doing everything to get me to quit so they don't have to fire me."

As soon as the words have slipped through my lips, my eye widen. I gasp. Wait, could that be what they're doing? If they're being assholes to get rid of me... Well, it certainly explains a lot.

Dr. Norris must have been reading my mind, for she asks, "Do you think they'd do that?"

"I don't... I don't know." I look at her. "But maybe that's something I should find out." My phone goes off again, this time the buzz creating a loud noise as it vibrates against the wooden table. As I reach for it, Dr. Norris says,

"Okay, so we're at time. What do you want to accomplish over the next week?"

"Huh?" I take a quick peak at my phone. Just an email. "Oh. Um, working with the band?" It’s the correct thing to say—what she’s expecting me to say.

"Are you sure?" I nod. "You're comfortable attempting that within the next week?"

"Yeah." I don't really want to do it, but I know I'm going to have to eventually.

She stares at me for a moment before making her decision. "Okay. I'll expect a full report when we meet next." We both stand, and she walks me out. "Don't forget to schedule an appointment on the way out."

I tell her I'll see her soon and head out. Once I've made my appointment for next week, I head out to my car. Just as I'm about to get going, I remember my phone. I check it, opening the email.

Shadow-- Hope all is well since the last time we spoke and that you had a chance to review the article proof. Call me when you get the chance, but the article's going in a different direction than what we originally intended. Talk soon. --L

I frown. What does she mean, they're doing something new? I still haven't looked over the original. It's on my to-do list and I should probably get around to it before publication, but I just haven't.

I buckle up and back out of the space I'm in. As I make my way down the winding hill, I find Larissa's number and call her. I put it the phone in the cup holder as it rings.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Shadow. I just got your email."

"Shadow! Hi, do you have a couple of minutes?"

"Yeah, I'm just in my car." She asks me if I'm alone, which makes me even more nervous. "Yeah. Just finishing up some errands. What's going on; why are you changing the article. The one you sent me looks great."

A small lie never hurt anyone.

I hear her sigh. "So, we've had a couple of things come up, and I was advised to reach out just to get your side of the story before we run it. It's just standard procedure."

I get it. If she prints something false, especially for an interview piece, it won't look good on her.

"Maybe we should set up a few minutes to talk," she says. "I don't want to bother you while you're driving."

"It's fine; it's not going to be another hour before I get home. What is it?"

I wait for her to speak, but she never does. Thinking the line has dropped, I look down at my phone and tap on the screen. She's still there; why isn't she saying anything?

"Hello?"

"Shadow, there have been some pictures." Pictures? What is she talking about? "After we posted online about the upcoming article, someone messaged us saying they had some photos of you."

My heart starts racing. What type of photos could they possibly have? I try to think back to all the recent parties I've been to. Most of the time I wake up sharing a bed with someone--often times someone I don't know. Are there pictures of that?

Maybe they’re just pictures of me partying in general. I don't try to hide my lifestyle from my fans, but I don't always broadcast it. No one likes a sloppy drunk, especially if they're a well-known person.

Trying to piece it together myself, I ask, "Who sent them?"

"I can't tell you, I'm sorry." The strange thing is that she actually sounds it. "I can't share them with you, and I can't tell you where I got them from, but I'll describe them to you."

"Okay." So focused on my phone, I'm barely paying attention to the road. I almost blow through a four-way stop but manage to break in time. I let out a sharp breath.

"There's a rumor going around that goes in hand with this, but we'll talk about that in a sec."

"Larissa, just tell me."

"I--I mean, we--have pictures of you--several pictures of you--leaving and entering a place called Garver Institute. Are you familiar with it?"

I slam my foot on the breaks so hard that if I hadn't been wearing my seatbelt I would have flown through the windshield. There's no way she could be serious. Garver? Someone took pictures of me at Garver? But who? I was completely out of it when I was there for those three days--and I assume it was for those three days, not one of my appointments--but I would have noticed someone snapping pictures of me. Even if they’re using a phone, people think they're being secretive, but they aren't.

"I know how easy it is to Photoshop stuff and people are always going to start rumors, so I wanted to give you a chance to speak." I don't say anything. "I want to give you the chance to comment before we run it. Making updates to the article won't take me any time." Again, I say nothing. "Shadow? Are you still there?"

I should answer her. I should tell her something--anything!--even if it's not the truth. Make up an excuse.

But what do I do instead?

Panicking, I hang up the phone.

Thoughts? What do you think will happen next?

-L.H.

#writing #writer #writblr #story #novel #free story #free novel #free fiction #fiction #music novel #novelist #satmm #shadow and the midnight mistery

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sainamoonshine · 2 years

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So posting chapters of Four Liars on patreon was a big hit with the (checks notes) two followers I have over there!

I have thus decided to post the story to my Tapas account here:

New chapters every friday!!!

#writing is hard #four liars (in space)#tapas.io #read on tapas #free story #free book #scifi books #queer scifi romcom

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fromeloisegarcia · 8 months

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Eloise and Witch Blood

The fire in the fireplace flared up, the cat ran to the window, and the flames in the candles danced with panic. Something was amiss. Something was wrong. Horsemen. They are coming. Eloise heard whispers. 'Run. They are coming for you, Eloise. Run. The Queen is asking you. Run. They will burn you. Run. They will kill you. Run. Run for your life. Run for your life.'

#1950s #my writing #poem #original character #free story #fairy tail #fairy #fiction #nostalgia #pink #running #runway #booklr #book quotes #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing

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fortheloveoflatinum · 1 year

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That Feeling When....

You start a fanfiction with the very best of intentions but then realize several things in quick succession:

💔 You are responsible for waaayy too many writing projects to continue on this particular one because:

☕️ It's dark and too heavy for your fragile soul but:

🗝️ You are very willing to give someone else the keys to your kingdom:

💞 Free story idea - to a good home - for all the folx out there looking for a prompt or some inspiration:

Fandom: DS9; Pairing: Garashir

I envisioned a sort of epistolary work but feel free to take it wherever you want:

Wherever he went, Garak saw Julian.

In the curve of light glinting off the newly erected statue of Damar, depicted crushing a writhing sea of changelings underfoot. In the generosity of the baker, when Garak ordered a dozen sweets and he’d throw in an extra one. “It’s a new recipe! Just a taste. Tell me how you like it!” And invariably, he found Julian in the filling sweetness of the bread, in the tartness of the pastries filled with just-ripe fruit – and in the melancholy he felt when they were all finished and his rations for the week had run out.

He knew he shouldn’t spend most of them at the bakery, but bread was enough for a man to live upon – and besides, the baker reminded him of Julian. Then again, everything reminded him of the love he’d left behind. He couldn’t sit down for a meal, couldn’t read a book, couldn’t go to sleep without being haunted by the things they’d left unspoken in the air between them.

As one of the highest members of the new Parliament, he knew he was setting a poor example when he left Cardassia without resigning his commission, with only vague plans to return: plans that grew feebler by the moment as he set course for Bajor.

⭐️

“Elim Garak,” Quark greeted him. “A face I’d never thought I’d see again. And believe me, if I had never seen you again, it would have been too soon.”

“It’s just Garak,” the other reminded him. “Plain, simple-”

“Garak?” Came a voice from behind them.

And Garak, despite having come to hear just those words from Julian, was at a loss.

“You didn’t write,” Julian accused.

“On the contrary,” Garak assured him. “I did; I just failed to send the letters I wrote, though I assure you-”

“One year, seven months, three weeks and six days. And not once did you write.”

“Julian,” Garak said as the other turned to walk away. “Wait.”

“What could you possibly have to say to me?” Julian hissed.

“More than you know,” Garak said, handing Julian a PADD, which the other wrenched away from him, being careful not to let their fingers brush in the process, as if Garak’s touch alone would scald. “Please. Read at least a few of the letters. I won’t ask anything else of you.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t give it to you. Now get out of my bar.”

“Technically, it’s my bar,” Quark interrupted. “It’s called Quark’s, you know. Not Bashir’s.”

“You are not helping, Quark,” said Julian, voice tight. The year and a half since Garak had last seen him had aged him. Garak wanted to rewind the tape, reclaim that time, rekindle the spark in Julian that seemed to have dimmed.

“We could argue semantics all day, Doctor. But you’d have to settle your tab first. I know I might not be helping, but that’s only because you’re not paying.”

Julian stormed off without looking back, and Garak watched him leave, a horrible premonitory feeling overtaking him.

“He has a tab?” Garak asked.

“Maybe,” Quark said, shrugging.

Garak discretely slid a strip of latinum in Quark’s direction. “You see, Garak, that’s one of the few things I like about you. You speak my language.” He tapped on the strip. “Julian’s tab? Easily ten times this. Give or take a few slips, and when I say give or take, I mean give.”

“But why?” Garak asked.

“You poor besotted fool. It’s going to cost you a lot more than latinum than this to figure that one out.”

“I’ll pay Julian’s tab,” Garak said, voice pinched. That amount of latinum would halve his bank account. Times were lean on Cardassia.

“You know, as tempting as that is, I’ve never liked you very much. You spent the better part of a decade complaining that you couldn’t return to your beloved Cardassia and finally, the promised land reopens to you. And yet, you arrive to find it changed, and now you’re back here, which means one of two things. Either Julian will finally stop coming in here to cry about you over too much syntheol, or I’ll have to spend the rest of his sorry life listening to him rant and rave about what could have been. Either way, it brings down my profit margin.” Quark started to sulk.

“You mean Julian has been coming here? Alone? To complain about me?” Garak inquired.

“Yes, for a year and a half, as your dear Doctor so generously reminded us.”

“I didn’t know the situation had grown so…” “Dire? Desperate? You’d better hope that there’s a patron saint of lost causes, Garak, because you’re going to need their help.”

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