Cycle

The public execution was to be shown in TV. 

The young girl, the terrorist, the head of the small revolution was brought forward, still cursing and spitting the name of the Leader. 

During the past few hours, people had followed the news, with a small spark of hope in their chests. Only or it to be snuffed once again. She was not the first. 

She might as well be the last. 

Just as the shot was called, my mother rested one hand on my shoulder. 

“That girl was your sister.”

The plain statement rang in my head louder than the shot. I remember not being able to react for several minutes.

Of course, she later explained that she hadn’t told me before for my own safety. She feared I might follow her and end up like everyone who did. She had not spoken to her for many years herself.

She was not the first.

I could count at least three assassination attempts to the current Leader on the time I had been alive. My mother could count nine. Every single one of them got incredibly close to their goal. Every single one of them had failed at the last moment. With every attempt, people became complacent and lost a bit more of hope that this regime would be over one day. This one had just been the desperate attempt of my sister and four other people. Just four.

But she would not be the last.

Yes, I had never known her, but I refused to believe that she had died for nothing. That she was just gone, with no trace of her in this home or anywhere.

I will not let her be the last glimmer of hope.

That is why I’m writing this note.

I will not disclose any details. I will keep the number and the identity of the people that are with me a secret. For their safety, should the worst come to pass.

If the worst does come to pass, I hope this note serves as a legacy to leave behind me. But I wish that, rather than a legacy, my legacy would be freedom.

The young girl, the terrorist, the head of the small revolution was brought forward, still cursing and spitting the name of the Leader. 

During the past few hours, people had followed the news, with a small spark of hope in their chests. Only or it to be snuffed once again. She was not the first. 

She might as well be the last. 

Just as the shot was called, my mother rested one hand on my shoulder. 

“That girl was your sister.”

The plain statement rang in my head louder than the shot.

The execution had been the same day I had found the note hidden under a tile in my bedroom. Of course, my mother explained herself, but I was no longer listening to her as the reality rained upon me.

The reality of this cycle that had probably gone on for years. The reality of how people had been kept complacent and hopeless. The reality of not really knowing who I am, of if I’m even human, or if my memories are real.

I thanked my sister (it felt right that she was my sister) for this truth. This truth she didn’t even learn of before her death. I thanked her for giving me this autonomy.

And only one choice remained: break the cycle or keep weaving it?

I thought about it for days. What looked like an easy decision at first really wasn’t.

Break the cycle and no one would ever try again. My sister’s death, my sisters’ death, would have been in vain. But it would be my choice.

Fight again, rebel again, and I would probably suffer the same fate as my sisters. And it would be yet another blow to the people’s hopes.

But it would be my choice.

And I guess I was literally born to try again.

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl is saving up for the next semester, thank you ;u;]

On Uncommon Types of Mermaids (Excerpt)

(Extracted from the article “On Uncommon Types of Mermaids” by Eliza Archer, published on the Journal of the National Cryptozoological Institute in 2015)

Both in legend and historical records, the figure of the mermaid is present, either as a legend or as a historical account. Sea and river mermaids are the most commonly known types, but there is little scientific input on other, less common, kinds of mermaid.

[...] With this work, we intend to bring attention to the most uncommon species of mermaid across the world and the dangers they entail. The aim of this article is merely communication and information and it does not constitute a safe guide to deal with or study mermaids.

Groundwater mermaids

Swimming pool mermaids

Blood mermaids

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts (and is a lil broke at the moment) ;u;]

An offering to the stars

Her feet barely touch the ground as she is dragged across the spaceship’s floor.

The crewmembers form a corridor around her and she can hear the hymns they’re singing. She can see the tears falling across their cheeks and how they look at her with adoration. Some of them have been woken from cryostasis just for this.

The ship has been stuck for seven months between two systems, its solar sails darkened. The crew has raised prayers to the dots of light in the distance, asking for just some more light. A distant supernova. A small solar flare. Anything that can save them from the dark between the stars.

And now is the moment of the offering.

When the girl recognizes her mother’s face among the crowd, she gathers enough strength to try and break free from the grip on her arms.

“Mother! Mother!”

Smiling, the woman approaches her and places a crown of fabric flowers (she can recognize the color of her own uniform in them) on her hair. After kissing her forehead, she lets the guards continue dragging her towards the airlock chamber.

Defeated, the girl does not listen to the words of the priest waiting for her, and she barely feels the sacred oil smeared on her forehead.

She knew this could happen and she knew she was one of the candidates. Back then, she did not mind. She could one day be her family and crew’s only hope, their savior. It was a great honor and it is not as if she had many options to say no. Maybe she had not considered the consequences. Maybe she had not expected this happen.

But, as she is thrown into the airlock chamber, she realizes she is not ready at all. And, as she sees the glass pane close between her and the crew, she realizes how scared she is.

Screaming for help, she hits the glass door with all her strength. The crew does not listen to her, kneeling in prayer. She hits the glass again, knowing she is not going to dent it. She screams, knowing no one is going to listen.

She knows the prayer by heart. As the end of it approaches and the priest turns to the guards, she begs her mother for help one last time.

And the lock opens to the void.

The first thought in her mind is how strange it is to see the stars with her very own eyes and not through a window.

Then she feels her skin freezing.

And she feels her lungs burning.

And then the stars disappear.

When she opens her eyes she no longer feels cold. She realizes the burn in her chest does not come from her collapsing lungs, but from something burning within her.

Around her, she can see the faraway stars once again. And inside of them, other women, with halos of light surrounding their heads.

The crew got what they asked for.

She lets the star within her chest grow, she lets the fire born from helium and hydrogen run across her arms and around her body, creating a mantle of light.

Their prayers were heard.

The system has a new star.  And the spaceship is too close to even attempt to flee.

The solar sails shine bright for a second before they burn.

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts (and is a lil broke at the moment) ;u;]

[This is the first short story for a zine a friend and I are planning, keep your eyes peeled =)]

After Swan Lake

But what happened to Odile? 

What happened to her after the prince ran after his dying Swan Queen?

The music stops with a shriek. The prince –your fiancé– runs after the reflection in the window. For a second, everyone stands in silence, in the candle-lit room.

The king opens his mouth to call the guards after his song, but his order falls silent as he lays his eyes on you. As the whole court lays their eyes on you.

You are not dancing anymore. And with Rothbart gone, the spell is broken. All in the ballroom can see your empty red eyes, no white, just a glossy black pupil in a sea of blood red. The dark mane of feathers coming out of your head, your arms, your face. Your neck is too long. Your smile –permanently on your face– too sharp and unsettling. You are neither a human nor a swan. Even though you look basically identical, your twin is beautiful and angelic (in the way that she is both terror and beauty) but you look like a prototype, a hastily sewn-together doll.

Before they can do anything, you start dancing again. You glide on your feet, leaving a trail of black feather in your wake. And the enchantment is back. The party goes on. Everyone drinks, laughs, and looks at you in awe.

The dawn arrives and the prince is not back. Neither is Rothbart. Neither is the Swan Queen.

Not that anyone cares.

But what are you to do? You are a homunculus with a clear mission: dance, make the prince fall in love and swear eternal, true love to you.

So you keep dancing. You are not real, and you never get tired or hungry. They do, but they do not notice. The champagne evaporates from their glasses. The apples shrivel and the honeyed grapes rot. The court falls to the ground one by one. The music stops. After a while, they start rotting too.

The people of the kingdom come to the palace to see what has happened. They suffer the same fate, the rest learn. 

After a while, you are dancing among sun-yellowed bones and the curious animals that dare get close to the palace. Fawns wander through the halls and moths flutter around you as you dance. Never swans. You wonder what happened to your sisters: if they drowned in the lake of tears, if they became human, if arrows brought them down. 

The forest is considered haunted. The palace is known as the Music Box.

If your twin was a queen and she is dead (you overthrew her), you guess that makes you the new queen. Even if it is of this court of ghosts.

One day, many many years later, a woman opens the palace gates. She is wearing rich and sturdy travel clothes and holding a crossbow, which she immediately lowers the moment she sees you dancing.

As it has happened many times before, your spins are vertiginous, your feet almost soar over the dusty tiles and bones, and she is awestruck. Still, she leaves the crossbow on the floor and steps down the staircase towards you. This has never happened ever since the prince danced with you many nights ago.

The woman steps next to you and follows your dance. She complements your movements and you both move across the floor like flowing water. You spin between her hands and let her raise you over her shoulders. For the first time in your life, you feel out of breath.

When you stop (the first time you stop in hundreds of years) she does not back away horrified, she kisses your hand.

She tells you she is the princess of the neighboring kingdom. She was curious about the haunted forest and the Music Box and came here to hunt. Instead, she has the honor of meeting the queen of the forest.

You’re beautiful, she says. I love you.

Her cohorts follow her into the palace and they are told to remove the bones, the dust and the creeping blood ivy.

Days later, her family and court arrive in white boats sailing across the lake of tears. The music box palace is lit up and its stained glass windows shine like a jewel. Music and the sweet smell of fruits fill the ballroom again. The moths flutter among the chandeliers.

The feathers covering your body still look, appropriately, like an obsidian-bejeweled dress. You your moves and dance are graceful and sharp as you are presented before the court.

Then, as the clock strikes twelve, the princess swears true love to you and asks you to marry her.

Tears fill your eyes for the first time as you nod. She holds you in her arms and places a kiss on your lips, and the magic happens.

White feathers start sprouting from her arms and shoulders and cover her hair. Her neck elongates, and her lips and eyes turn as black as your feathers. With a flap, her white-feathered arm extends in perfect contraposition with yours.

“Keep playing.” you say, and your voice croaks through the room, which is soon filled with the nervous sound of music again.

Your mission is fulfilled, and you are finally free. After all, you were born from Rothbart’s magic. You were supposed to be your twin’s opposite. No one ever said the rules would be the same. You have no need to be human. Your fate is not drowning to death in tears.

And now the forest has two terrible, terrible Swan Queens.

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts (and is a lil broke at the moment) ;u;]

Knight of the stars

I. She picks them up from their nebula cradle and holds them between her hands: a small cluster of photons, shifting and ringing rhythmically like a faint, broken song. You, still being born from a shard of the cold, frozen void. When your hands form, she lets you hold them, carefully. She tells you they are now your life. She tells you your mission is to protect them. She tells you that, no matter how strong the call of the spaces between the stars is, their gravity will always pull you back.

You remember wondering how you’re meant to keep safe something so small and fragile.

II. They are weak and colder than any of the other stars. After some millennia, you realize they will never be as radiant as their mother, with her blue-white flaming hair.

Their hair is white and their eyes golden and they might be weak, but when you sleep near them, curled up against their light, your dreams are sweet and your bones no longer feel cold.

A single planet hangs over their chest, like an emerald medallion, only inhabited by small water microorganisms. When your star fiddles with it, the skies clear and the tides rise and drop.

III. The others say your talent with the sword is being wasted on someone with such lowly status. They offer you riches, power, glory in the bigger wars that they fight. You stand between them and your star, sword raised like a barrier against the other stars.

IV. The first time they kiss you, their name (unreadable, unpronounceable to you) sears your forehead. The next time, you ask them to kiss you on your chest.

V. They take your hand and lead you out of the ballroom, down the stairs, into the garden. Small comets fly between the flowers.  They kiss you in the shadow behind the fountain, and giggle when they hear one of the higher stars demanding their presence. As you cover their glow with your cloak, you wonder if you can protect them from their family the same way you keep other threats away.

VI. A letter, written in blood. A word, whispered in the right ear. You don’t know what it took but the charges are clear: High Treason. The sentence, immovable: Death.

You watch as they take your star away. You hear their screams as they tell the others that they’re wrong, that they have the wrong person. But you know that’s not true, they have just who they want. The annoyance they want gone. They easy target to place the blame on.

VII. Standing on the edge of a black hole (you have never seen something so terrible in your life) they are asked to either go supernova or freeze and fade. With tears in their eyes, they refuse, and they are pushed back towards the ledge, close to the swirling darkness.

And what can you do? Can you stand against the rulers of the skies? Do you have a chance against the bringers of life?

Your star looks at you, bright tears on their face. Their feet falter on the edge. Their fingers start turning grey.

The next thing you know your sword is in your hands, the blade breaking from the molten light that bleeds from the stars . You push some of them into the black hole and their light fades in the most chilling way you can imagine. Your hand grasps your star’s hand as they fall, your fingers intertwined.

 VIII. You were too late. The light fades from their eyes as you hold them between your arms. You cradle their face between your hands, and remember the first thing you ever did was hold them this way. That night, the microorganisms evolve to live in eternal darkness.

 IX. When you take them to the mother, her cries and her tears break your heart. Yet she outstretches her hand towards your face, understanding your pain. She forgives you, and her forgiveness stings more than anything. You expected her to scream at you, to punish you for failing your mission. You deserve it. Yet she shares your pain, and she understands it.

 X. It’s only a few years (a breath of an instant) until a stranger arrives from the dark between the stars, the place you were born in. They make an offer: bring them back to life in exchange of servitude back in the cold, eternal night.

That is impossible. And if it’s not impossible, it’s probably against all laws of nature. And dangerous. But you have no heart to warn the mother against this.

 XI. They are not a star now; their medallion sports a dull gem. They are closer to what you are now, with their armor shining silver. But their smile is the same and their eyes are still gold. They no longer remember being a star, the parties, the palaces, or that you were their knight. But they do remember your eyes. And they remember loving you. 

XII. The light is gone and they are cold now. But when you wrap your arms around their shoulders, they still feel warm.

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts ;u;] [half the credit for this goes to @littlegumshoe because they have great ideas]

Charming coffee places you should definitely check out!~

I love going out for tea or coffee; sometimes with my friends, sometimes by myself to savor the peace and qiet. Lately I’ve discovered some interesting coffee shops, and I thought I would share my favorite ones with you. 

Oh, and don’t worry, I’ve noticed you can find at least one or two of these in every town, so I want to believe this is mostly relevant for everyone.  

The coffee shop with the flower decals on the big window:

The fancy bakery with the white columns:

The two-story Starbucks on the main street:

The small café with the green door:

The roadside diner on the edge of town:

Overall, I’ve had a great experience in all the establishments. If you decide to go, remember to always pay for your drinks and tip your barista. And if you take pictures of your food to post them on social media, remember to tag the food places so other people can know about them!

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts ;u;]

[This is 100% fictional nonfiction, that is, it’s not real. Please enjoy the story, let it inspire you, but be nice to your real-world baristas and tip them ouo]

(wrote another piece in the Heaven Machine setting by @senshi76, here’s a brief overview of this setting!)

ACT ONE

i.i. There are towns where they sacrifice their children for a few months of safety. It's horrible. Who could give up their children's lives like that?

i.ii. They call Judith’s name. I hug her against my chest.

i.iii. I scream at the other mothers; they turn their backs on me. Cowards. (I was a coward until now.)

i.iv. They try to pry her from my arms. I lash out. The next thing I know I’m running barefoot, holding my children’s hands with both of mine. 

i.v. We sing a song as loud as we can, trying to ignore the Choirs. It's the song we always sing before bedtime.

i.vi. One of the voices is missing.

i.vii. My youngest was left behind. I could not take him with me. Mom is so sorry, Asher, please forgive me, please. I will never forgive myself.

ACT TWO

ii.i. Our home is on the edges. A wall of brass and porcelain sprawls as far as our eyes can see.

ii.ii. On one side: a safe passage, most of the time.

ii.iii. On the other side: The Choirs sprawling and reverberating and clicking and twisting. Our home is built from an archway, keeping  both separated and connected at the same time.

ii.iv. Asher found his way home. I was so relieved, we all cried, we all hugged. All my children were finally home with me.

ii.v. Asher is sick.

ii.vi. Birds like it here. I take their meat to the next settlement over. I make necklaces from their bones and sell them. It’s some extra money, but we do not really need it to survive.

ii.vii. I teach my children new songs every day. I warn them not to go to the backyard.

ii.viii. Asher is very sick these days. He can no longer play with his siblings.

ACT THREE

iii.i. A young Apostle makes his way to the next settlement. Only a few days to the west. A pack of provisions on his back. This passage has been safe for years, they say.

iii.ii. A woman walks towards him, her dark hair undone and flying in the wind. “Please help me! One of my children is sick. I have three children, and I cannot leave the others alone ; will you take him to the next settlement? I will pay you! Please!”

iii.iii. The Apostle agrees. She takes him to her house, lodged in the middle of a wall of brass and porcelain. He follows her inside and hears the voices of children greeting their mother.

iii.iv. A blow to the head, and he sees no more.

iii.v. He is woken up by glaring gold light. His earmuffs are gone. Around him, all is porcelain and brass. He is on the other side of the house. And this passage is not safe anymore.

iii.vi. The sound of wings like a murder of crows. He stands and bang on the door, shouting, threatening, crying, pleading for his life.

iii.vii. On the other side, two children loudly sing a nursery rhyme with their mother.

iii.viii. The song of the Choirs is deafening, like a million voices behind his back. He does not dare turn. He screams to muffle the song.

iii.ix. They get closer. One of the voices sings the same melody as the children.

EPILOGUE

They are always gone. They become a new playmate for Asher. They join the Song. Sometimes, sadly, they leave bones behind. I make them into necklaces.

EXEUNT

There are towns where they sacrifice their children for a few months of safety. It's horrible. Who could give up their children's lives like that?

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts ;u;] 

How to deal with street cats

(NOTE: do not follow cats with mismatched eyes. You can pet them, but the moment they run away you should immediately turn your back to them and walk in the opposite direction.)

Black cats:

Orange cats:

White cats:

Calico cats:

Remember to always take some food with you, something made of iron, and comfortable shoes.

And remember to always be nice to the cats!

[russian translation by @rachell-redacted]

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts ;u;]  @senshi76 gave me the suggestion for this one!

I. THE MONSTER

There is a monster in the woods.

They say it eats human flesh.

They say it can take human form.

And they say it will make you turn against your loved ones and feed them to it.

 II. THE CROWN

Your father, the king, is abdicating. You, his only daughter, with a twin brother. Tradition states the crown belongs to him, not you.

You have always challenged tradition.

“Bring me the head of the monster. Lay it at my feet during the crowning ceremony. And you shall be queen.” That is your father’s sentence. That is your promise.

The light of dawn turns the golden spires pink the morning you ride into the forest, your bow and arrows on your back and your sword by your side.

  III. THE FOREST

The golden city is in a constant war with the forest. The streets and the buildings advance at its edge, and the vines grow over the buildings until they are uninhabitable and the ever-present white roses bloom from their ruins.

The roses grow wild. On the ground, over trees, from the trees. The smell is not unpleasant, but strong enough to make your head light. It sends a clear message: you are not welcome here.

 IV. THE ARROW

Days later, you find her bathing in a pond, in a clearing where the smell of the flowers is softer. A pair of deer antlers sprout from her head and there are white roses and sweet marjoram flowers in her hair. She has not seen you.

Don’t think twice. Prepare your bow.

And shoot.

Your arrow misses by an inch and she turns, startled. At the sight of her golden eyes, your horse bucks and you fall to the ground. You hit your head. The last you hear is the sound of water.

 V. THE WOMAN

The first thing you see when you open your eyes is her face. She is certainly the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. Yet you come to your senses and get away from her, sword in hand.  

You call her a monster. She calls you a monster in return.

“You invade my forest. You attack my sisters. And now you call us monsters? You used to call us faeries until you decided you did not care for our home.”

There is more like her.

“You eat human flesh.”

“We eat butterflies.”

“You are taking human form to confuse me.”

“This is my real form. It is not human.”

You step closer, hoping she doesn’t notice your faltering grip on your sword. She turns and walks calmly back into the forest. You hear her voice even after she has left.

I will not be harmed here. You, however, will not make it out without help. You will call for me.

 VI. THE LOVER

Days pass. You are out of food. You have not seen a single animal. You keep walking, the forest a tunnel of trees and moss. No matter the turns or the steps, you always end up stepping into clearing and into the pond. But you will die before falling deeper into the monster’s trap.

You smell sweet marjoram as you lie weak and hungry on the edge of the pond. She kneels next to you and brings you fruit, honey and butterflies. You did not call for her, but she came.

She sings you to sleep and tells you of her sisters. She tells you of the forest and how to traverse it. She promises to guide you back home. She takes your hand and leads you through the labyrinth that is her home. She sings and, for the first time, you see birds.

When the night comes, you kiss her. And her lips taste of fruit, honey and butterflies.

 VII. THE MONSTERS

They say there is a monster in the woods. She is a faerie.

They say she eats human flesh. She eats butterflies.

They say she can take human form. She is more beautiful than any human woman.

The golden doors open to the crowning ceremony. The music and the dances stop and all eyes are on you as you walk up to your father, head high.

“Well?” he says, a smug smile on his face.

“I bring the head of the monster that has terrorized the kingdom.”

“And where is it?”

You unsheathe your sword, giving him or the guards no time to react. And you slice his head off.

And you lay it at his feet.

 VIII. THE QUEEN

They say there is a monster in the woods.

The throne room is silent as a tomb. Terror settles in the eyes of the guests, of the guards. When you turn, they do not dare meet your gaze.  The door opens. She is here, and her sisters with her.

“I introduce you to your monster,” you say, extending you hand. “Under my rule, you are welcome in this kingdom.”

At the cue, they move inside. Everyone stares at them in awe. All of them sport the antlers and the crowns of rose and marjoram.

She walks up to you and circles you with her arms.  

“Thank you,” she says.

“For saving your home?”

“For giving the kingdom back to its rightful queen.”

They say it eats human flesh.

The screams deafen you. Her sisters lunge at the guests, at their throats, at their faces. You step back but she is still embracing you.

Her hand digs into your chest and holds your heart, almost tenderly.

They say she can take human form.

Nails too long, teeth too sharp. Maybe it was a disguise, maybe you are noticing too late. As your blood mixes with your father’s blood, she holds your head gently and takes your crown.

There is a monster in the woods.

And she is a queen.

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts ;u;]

For the gate is wide

and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many.

(this short story/character background is set on @senshi76‘s Heaven Machine setting, read more about it here)

They sit around the fire, talking about their old friends at the mine. Remember when Elijah accidentally stepped into the women’s bathhouse? Or when Esther brought fresh fruit from the next city over to share with all of them after her wedding? The next moment she notices they are tapping on her hand with a certain rhythm, a certain cadence. She gently interlaces her fingers with theirs.

“Hanan, please be a dear and go find something to feed the fire. It’s starting to get cold.”

They sign to her in agreement and stand up, walking into the dark of the ruins. She needs not worry, nothing will ever harm them, no matter how deep they go into the Machine.

She can’t hear them, but she is sure they’re humming.

—

When Sarai was fifteen a badly-timed explosion at the mine left her deaf. A constant hum in her ears and little else. Some people considered it a blessing. Her parents considered it a curse when she was sent to work at the outskirts of the city, where among coal sometimes you could find golden cogs and pieces of machinery.

She slowly started noticing the changes people suffered. They were slow and not as dramatic as she had seen on some of the Apostles that travelled through the city. Someone would start singing and everyone would shut them up, she would find a woman with her gaze lost into one of the tunnels, someone would be working for hours with a smile on their face and not notice the huge gash on their arm, eyes too bright, fingers too long…

Many of them were transferred elsewhere before she got to see what happened next.

Hanan arrived to cover one of these vacancies. They said the Apostle that had taken them there had died on the way. They didn’t seem extremely affected by the loss. But no one minded. How could they? Hanan was charming, cheery and hard-working. They brought a different light with them into their sector. In just a few months they had become everyone’s friend. When they sang, everyone followed. They even learned sign language to be able to talk to her, faster than anyone had.

And she fell for them. Of course she did. For hair that looked like woven gold and amber eyes that shone in the few hours of sun they got during the day? And the warm smile and that… general charm? How couldn’t she? Maybe if she had paid more attention she would have noticed why they spent so much time with her, or how their signs had a cadence very similar to dancing, the same cadence as when they tapped words on her hands, or the same cadence as when they actually danced.

Sarai eventually came around to it. Maybe too late, who knows? But she started noticing the amount of people being transferred or outright going missing after Hanan arrived. She started paying attention to their mannerisms. She started seeing the meaning behind their words. When they sang, everyone followed.

Oh God, when they sang, everyone followed.

Sarai knew she had to take them away from other people. The thought of telling a supervisor never went through her head. She started asking Hanan about the Machine, about the Angels. She expressed how she wanted to see it, to go outside where the sun shines on the gilded surface of the Machine for more than two hours a day. They planned their escape as if they were eloping.

And the moment they were far enough from civilization she pointed her gun at them.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said. “And let me tell you it’s not for you to decide. I don’t know for how long, but I’m still my own person. Do you understand?”

She couldn’t be sure if they were telling the truth. But she wasn’t going to leave them behind. In any case, she had always wondered what was outside her small mining town. And the Machine was no danger to Hanan.

How to change someone that was already following Its Plan?

—

It’s not cold. She lied. She hasn’t felt cold in a while. Or tired. Or hungry.

Yet Hanan still makes them stop and still brings her food and makes sure she drinks. She wonders why.

It’s tragic in a sense. They have never lied to her and have always been completely honest in that they believe this is for the best. That they want for her what they can never be. That they want her to live forever or to, quite literally, go to Heaven.

She scratches the palms of her hands and looks at them, searching for bumps or slits, but there’s nothing yet.

Sometimes her back hurts and when Hanan runs their hands over it to soothe her she can feel the riges of her bones getting sharper. She stretches and leans back against the rock.

When the nephilim comes back she smiles when they do. At least, for now, she is safe. Safer than anyone else traversing the Machine, she believes.

And sometimes when they dance, she follows.

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts ;u;]

The Golden Throne

The crystal lamps shine their light on the blood on her hands –her siblings’ blood- and gold speckles shine in it. It’s a play of the light, thinks the Hummingbird Princess, they bleed as red as me.

She had never wanted to play the Game. But everyone born in this family is sooner or later dragged into it. The game of politics and intrigue that ended with the corpses of the Swan Prince and the Crane Regent Princess at her feet.

First, her brother’s honeyed lies.

We can both join forces.

We can end our sister’s reign of terror.

The people are being asphyxiated under her heel.

I already have control of the army, you are the one more fit to be queen.

And she had believed him. Why wouldn’t she? When had her brother been anything other than kind to her? Protecting her from intrigues, being her crutch, the hand leading her through the tangled web of the Game, away from danger.

He had been the hardest to kill.

When her sister laid, silver eyes open wide, at the feet of her very own Golden Throne, her crown askew, a red stain spreading on the left of her chest, breaking the symmetry of her black and white robes.

The Swan Prince walked towards her. Words sharp as a champagne glass shard, but still as sweet.

Well look at this

Of course the Hummingbird Princess would kill the Regent.

The one who sympathizes with the revolutionaries.

Or the radicals. That sounds better.

Good thing I was there to stop her before her reign of terror started.

She might be naïve, but she is also skilled with the sword. He plummeted to the ground, white hair stained with blood. The feathers from his pauldrons scattered like a halo around him.

Her siblings look regal even in death. She looks at the crystal lamp over her head, wondering waiting for the world to stop spinning around her.  

Heavy metallic footsteps on the marble floors bring her back to reality. Her personal guard kneels before her, helmet under her arm. Her black cape dips in the prince’s blood, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Your Grace.” She says, looking up, eye brimming with awe.

“Do not talk to me like that. We were never in formal terms.”

The Hummingbird Princess helps her back on her feet, yet her guard is still looking at her like it’s the first time she has seen the Sun.

“I’m sorry. But you will finally ascend to the Golden Throne, to your rightful place. The people will finally be free. My family will stop being hungry. We-“

The princess turns her back to her, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead.

“Ascending to the throne after murdering my own siblings? Do you really think anyone will accept this? They will be asking for my head at dawn.”

“But you are better than them! The gods chose you, you listen, you are kind and merciful, and-“

“And if I impose it on them I’m not better than my siblings.”

Her sword falls with a clink that echoes across the marble walls.

“My brother won in the end.”

A heavy silence falls upon them and the empty throne room. For what seems like an eternity the princess watches the shadows darken as the sun sets.  Her guard kneels and picks up her sword, offering her the handle. She takes it, distractedly, but the knight closes her hands tightly over hers.

“It was the traitor.” She says, a smile on her face.

“What?” The Hummingbird Princess tries to break free from her hold, but her knight was always stronger than her.

“The princess’ shadow. From a low upbringing.”

Then she walks towards the sword, which digs in her stomach. The princess screams, but she only grunts and keeps walking towards her, trying to reach her face with the hand that is not holding the sword.

“A radical, clearly. Poisoning the princess with lies.”

Her legs start shaking and the princess pulls out her sword and catches her guard in her arms before she hits the ground.

“She was planning to assassinate the royal family from the start. And she was stopped by the Hummingbird Princess. Sounds good, doesn’t it?” She coughs up blood. “The princess who shows enough strength, even while grieving, to avenge her family.”

She looks up at her princess.

“Almost like a fairytale.”

The princess just looks back at her in shock.

“No… Why did you have to- No! You can’t leave me now!”

She starts shaking, but her knight just smiles at her and uses the little strength she has left to reach out and caress her cheek.

“You know, the only thing I will regret is never seeing you walk up those steps and sit in the Golden Throne.

The Hummingbird Princess stands, lifting the guard in her arms, straining under the weight of her armor and the blood-soaked cape. Leaning, she places a soft kiss on her lips and hears her sigh.

“If I walk up those steps, it should be with you.”

She turns and starts climbing the steps to the throne. She circles her sister’s body. She sits on the Golden throne, cold and uncomfortable, not like she had anticipated. Her guard, her friend, her lover lies in her arms, curled up. Her dark hair falls over her eyes and she is smiling, that sweet smile of hers.

When did her knight stop breathing? When did her heart stop?

The Hummingbird Princess rests her head on the back of the throne and looks at the empty and cold throne room.

And she waits for the dawn.

There is a country to rule. And many questions to answer.

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts ;u;]

Gospel Noir

The knock on the door was strong and I feared the frosted glass on it might shatter. 

“Come in!” I shouted, not wanting to wait until they knocked again.

The door opened and a woman walked in shyly, carefully closing it behind her. She had dark curls and legs that went on forever. Or at least up to my neck. Arms too. She hit her head on the lamp as soon as she walked in.

“Ah! Sorry, sorry…”

She stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. To be honest, she looked miserable. Clothes too small for her sewn together from scraps and men’s shoes on her feet. Dark multicolored feathers poked at her collar and two small stunted wings rested on her hips.

“Have a seat.” I offered, noticing she wouldn’t move unless invited.

Her legs came up to her chest when she sat and she circled them with her arms.

“So, what business brings a granddaughter of God here? This isn’t the best neighbourhood, you know? Not many good people around.”

Behind round glasses, her dark eyes widened.

“Oh my goodness, I wouldn’t put it like that! And it’s fine, I live here. Actually… I live two floors above this office.”

I looked to the side and lit a cigarette.

“I don’t get around much.”

“Oh, it’s fine, neither do I!” She looked around, uncomfortable. I was about to ask her again when she started talking. “I want you to help me find my father.”

I exhaled smoke.

“You got a picture of him, girl?”

“No, but… I can draw him. I draw well.”

Doubtful, I passed her my notebook and a fountain pen. She scribbled for a few minutes, almost obssessively. I started getting worried she was going to break my pen. When she handed it back at me I stared at a very angular drawing of a figure with several arms and six wings, covered in eyes. Ah, I should have known when I heard her request.

“I get you take more after your mother.”

The nephilim picked nervously at her feathers, but didn’t answer.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Oh… I’ve never seen him. Grandma said my mother would meet with him under the fig tree in the park at sunset. I think his name is Asael.”

Well that was vague. Still, I didn’t have much hopes. Other similar jobs ended up finding only the remains of ashes and feathers, or fallen that didn’t even remember their names. But I wasn’t going to to tell her just yet.

“I want to speak to him and tell him I’ve been volunteering in church everyday and I started studying architecture. I designed a cathedral, I want to know if he likes it. But don’t tell him it’s me! He won’t want to see me. Just give me an address. Here is my number.” She picked up the notebook again and scribbled it down. “Ah, how much is it? I don’t have much money. Is there any kind of payment plan…?”

Of course there wasn’t.

“Yes, there is. I’ll call you and tell you the details.”

“Ah, thank you!”

The light in the room shifted as she hit her head with the hanging lamp again. And apologized, again. She gingerly stepped out and closed the door behind her.

I turned to the window as it started thundering like all the angels in the sky had decided to go bowling at the same time. I wondered if the jerk that had left this young woman and her mother on their own was among them.

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts ;u;]

(this is a repost from my main into my writing blog so you might have seen this twice sorry for that)

She knows the stories

When the widow visits the Dark Sorceress some part of her imagines a dark cave, a crooked tower. Inside, an old woman, closer to a corpse than a human, with teeth like needles and fingers like hooks. She smiles at her ingenuity as she steps in the run-down apartment and finds her casually sitting on a couch, wearing her estranged sister’s face. The widow isn’t sure if she’s trying to instill fear, guilt or compassion (trying to protect herself?) in her.

She sits on a rickety chair in front of her.

“I’ve been looking for you for years-”

“Save me the details, I don’t advertise myself, everyone looks for me for years. What is that you wish?”

The last time she had been asked that she made the biggest mistake of her life.

I want my life to be like a fairytale.

Forgetting that the happy ending is just the last two sentences of the fairytale.

“It’s about my wife…”

But among all the dangers, she had learned how to solve riddles. She had studied law. She knew how to tangle and untangle the words, how to use the weapons they tried to use against her.

“She is dead, isn’t she?” the Sorceress asks.

But she forgot the people around her weren’t as used to these tricks as her.

“Yes.”

A poisoned apple, the oldest trick in the world. No one ever showed Snow White’s blue face or the blood coming out of her nose, too bright against her white skin.

“And you want her back. Just as everyone else.” The Dark Sorceress just sips her tea, her feet on the couch.

“Can you do it?” the widow asks.

She shrugs. It’s so strange to see her sister slouching like that, the ever-so-regal woman whose logic and temperance saved her from most of the dangers of her childhood. Who tried to keep her from being as foolish as she was being right now.

“Sure, but there’s a catch.”

“Of course. I’ve heard the doomsday narrative before, so get to the point, please.”

The Sorceress huffs and sits upright, elbows on her knees and resting her head on her palms. The blond curls obscure her face.

“I usually use the warning to think about something original.” She stares at her for a few seconds. “I think I have it.”

The lights in the room dim. Even the glow from the muted television. Even the sunlight through the blinds.

“Go back to the place where she died. I guess that would be your childhood house?” At this point she doesn’t even wonder how she knows this. “She will be there, waiting for you.”

“But?”

“But you will die the moment you see her eyes. And you won’t be able to talk to her. What were, you expecting, a happy ending?”

The Dark Sorceress extends her hand towards her.

The widow thinks for a moment, then shakes her hand.

There are no fireworks or supernatural ripple in the air, but she knows these things are like this. They just happen.

The widow stands and shows her the screen of her phone, where the recording application has been running.

“You better be telling the truth, for your own sake.”

She turns and leaves the place.

And drives back to the home she hasn’t seen in years.

The white country house meets her in silence, surrounded by mist. Of course her sister left after she did, who would stand living in this haunted place alone? Or maybe it looks haunted because she is not here.

She steps through the dust-covered corridors. Up the white wooden staircase to the bedrooms. She can hear steps, and smiles.

In another story she runs to meet her love and dies at her feet, happy to see her face one last time.

In another story Orpheus turns.

In another story the Little Mermaid turns to foam.

But she knows the stories.

She looks to the ground and meets her wife’s arms around her and holding her close. She does regret not being able to see her face, her eyes after all these years, but she doesn’t let go of her hand.

When she asks, she hands her the recording and wraps her scarf over her eyes while she listens.

The fairy who made her first wish come true must be cringing at the anticlimactic ending.

But that’s the problem, an anticlimactic ending becomes the start of the fairytale. And as she takes her wife’s hand between hers she knows there’s worse things to come.

Once upon a time there were two lovers who were cursed and could not look at each other or talk to each other…

Yes, it sounds so good. Well played.

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts ;u;]