You place your head on a pillow and immediately sink into soft sleep. When you next open your eyes, you will be in an open field. The night air is perfumed with sweet flowers. The sky is black velvet, sprinkled with the finest diamonds. You are not alone.
Less than ten meters away is a circle of dancers. They sing as the spin in a circle, their voices low and haunting. Siren-like. Then you catch sigh of their knife-like ears, impossibly long, bone-thin fingers. One of them has leaf-green skin and hair. Another has butterfly wings sprouting from her back. Another turns to wave at you. His smile beckons, his eyes are inviting. His voice is honey, turning your name warm and sweet as he calls you. You join them without a thought.
Take their hands and dance. You spin in dizzying circles for what feels like mere minutes, but must be hours because when they stop, the sky is rose pink and veined with gold. They release their grip on your hands slowly, reluctantly.
“Goodbye,” one says. You realize he is the one who had called your name. he presses a gentle kiss to your lips and steps away. They melt like nightmares in the coming dawn.
You wake, your heart in your mouth and tears in your eyes. Returning to the drudgery of life.
End.
---
I've been dreaming a lot lately. Different things each time. It changes; from faeries to vampires to manga to... Whatever. And each time, I never want to wake up.
Blanche is a girl who lives in the woods. She is beautiful; her reflection tells her so. But of what good is beauty when your mother, who is a powerful witch, hates you and determined to kill you? What good is beauty when the only people you see are seven little men, their grotesque bodies twisted and misshapen? How is beauty supposed to save you then?
The craft she has inherited from her witch mother are of little comfort to her. She has scryed the future so many times she can see it clearer than her present. She sees the handsome prince, sees him lift her on his horse and take her away to his castle to live happily ever after. She knows it will happen; she just doesn’t know when.
The charmed forest animals bring her food; the dwarfs she had magicked into being have built her this cottage, heaped shining jewels at her feet. They bring her all she desires except what she wants most; a future. One safe from the venomous gaze of her mother.
Every time she sees her reflection – on the surface of the copper kettle, or the cloudy silverware – she is half-tortured by hope and anticipation. She is beautiful, she knows. She only has to wait for her prince to come riding by and he will fall in love with her and rescue her from her lonely existence. But it is because she is beautiful she is trapped in this lonely cottage to begin with; living in exile because of her beauty and the jealous hatred it inspires in her mother.
And so, time passes. As the seasons change, and months of waiting turn to years, she grows from a rosebud of a girl into a woman in full bloom. Her ruby lips remain unkissed, her white skin and ebony hair, untouched. She begins to grow tired of waiting, begins to grow tired of seeing a future she can only dream of.
And as time passes, she begins to forget what it is she is waiting for.
…o…
The witch queen inspects her face carefully in the mirror, wary of any change. The heart the woodman gave her had tasted bitter and dry, like smoke and ash, not the sweet revenge she had imagined. But she had savoured the taste anyway; after all, it was Blanche's heart. When you consume a thing's heart you consume its power, and Blanche's power had always been her beauty.
It takes her years to realise that it was not her witch daughter's heart she had eaten; years of wondering at the emptiness gnawing at her, when she ought to have felt sated – after all, she had her revenge hadn’t she? It takes a strand of hair – frost white and wiry – amongst her raven locks before she realises she has been fooled, and Blanche remains alive and full of power. She confirms this with her witchcraft, spies the witch girl still young, still alive and still more beautiful than her, living in the woods. The faithless woodcutter she kills for deceiving her.
It doesn't take long for her to discover her daughter's whereabouts, and when she does, she sets out, determined to kill the girl once and for all.
…o…
It is winter when the two meet. The falling snow is not fresh and white, but ash grey, like their hearts.
The old woman, a hag really, with her back bent over with age and bitterness holds out a basket of apples with spotted, twisted hands. Each fruit is so red the young woman cannot help but think of blood.
She recognizes her mother, even with the illusion of age the witch queen has draped around herself. She can smell the bitter poison in each impossibly red apple, and even without the smell and colour, of course she would know they are magicked – after all, whoever has heard of winter apples? The witch did not think through her plan very carefully; she must have been desperate.
They gleam with the promise of release, for herself and for the witch queen.
The young woman reaches out a slender hand, and without a trace of hesitation, takes a large bite. The smell of poison is choking, and the flesh of the apple is warm, it slides down her throat like a chunk of bloody meat. In moments, she has collapsed on the floor, her hair spread around her like a black star, a dying one. The witch queen leaves, satisfied.
This is what they have been waiting for all along.
Probably one of my best pieces of writing. Not that that means much.
---
The Little Girl and Her Garden
Once upon a time, there was a perfectly ordinary little girl. She was of ordinary height, had ordinary brown hair and had an ordinary face that was neither pretty not plain. Now, the little girl disliked this ordinariness, and longed to be different; whether a delicate and beautiful princess, or a strong proud warrior who went into battle swinging an axe, she didn't care so long as she could escape her mundane existence. Like many others, this little girl wanted many things; to be special, to never be overlooked, but all her desires stemmed from her first and greatest one: to never be alone. There was just one thing she had that made her different; she had a gift with plants and trees, so that under her tender care, her little garden flourished like Eden. Each flower was a radiant angel, each tree a great giant, and each fruit seemed forbidden, for every one was far sweeter, firmer and juicer than those found in any marketplace in the world. For fear of being left alone, the girl decided to put all her heart and soul into her garden so that people would come visit it, and thus, her. In order to please her, for they loved her dearly, the trees and flowers did their very best to grow tall and strong and beautiful.
Throughout the spring and summer, people from all over the world flocked to her wondrous garden to see her flowers; the colours of her blossoms were richer and brighter than any precious stone, their petals softer than the finest silk, their scent was like an angel's breath. She would pick blooms and weave them into wreaths and bouquets to be given to whoever visited, even when dusk came and she would be left with none to admire, for they promised to visit her every day if she did so. Because of this, the flowers protested, for they had to grow doubly fast in order to replace the ones that had been picked. "Please, please, stop," the flowers would whisper. "I can't, I can't," the girl would reply in sobs as she reached out to take yet another blossom. "For if I did, no one would visit me." They had nothing to say to that, but parted their thorns and swatted the flies and gnats away to make her task easier, even though their plant-hearts were heavy with sadness.
When fall came, the fruit turned ripe and firm and the trees seemed to blaze red and gold like the sun. She gave away the fruit to those who visited her with a happy heart, even when she was left with only the rotting ones to eat, for the people promised to visit her every day if she continued to do so. Because of this, the fruits protested, for they had to grow doubly fast in order to replace the ones that had been picked. "Please, please stop," the fruit would whisper. "I can't, I can't," the girl would reply in sobs as she reached to take yet another fruit. "For if I did, no one would visit me." They had nothing to say to that, so they grew as large and sweet as they could to please her and the humans, even though their plant-hearts were heavy with sadness.
Then winter came to pass, and the leaves, flowers and fruit fell to the soil and rotted away, leaving branches thin and bare. The garden looked like a bride, fresh and virginal, draped with a crystalline veil. It was still as beautiful as it had always been, but it was a different kind of beauty, one that was simple and pure, that didn't require a riot of colours to hide in. Despite this, no one came to her garden any more as there were no more flowers or fruits they could take home, and it would be quite foolish and impossible to bring back a handful of snow. A week went by, and then another, without a single soul coming to visit the poor little girl. She wept, her heart aching with loneliness and despair, and her hot tears melted and watered the frozen plants. Then they wept with her, for her despair was so great. "We will try," they told her. "We will try."
With great effort, rich green leaves began to grow. The rose bushes blossomed with large fat blooms; sunny yellow, cheery pink, snow white and blood red. The fruit trees grew flowers that quickly became fruit, ripe and tempting as ever. As the girl watched, she continued to weep, but her tears were now those of joy as she watched the jewel-hued plants grow before her in the midst of a bleak winter landscape.
Word of this miracle spread quickly and once again, people flocked to see her garden. At its centre, the little girl met them, with smiles on her face and gifts of flowers and fruit in her arms. They stopped short, and fell to their knees to thank the Lord for this miracle.
That was when one pious man protested, and said that it must be witchcraft. "For it is impossible for flowers to bloom and fruit to ripen in the winter," he said. "Let alone for them to be of these monstrous sizes and gaudy colours." The others agreed that there was sense in his words, and declared that the little girl must indeed be a witch. "Stone her!" they cried. Frightened, and unable to comprehend the sudden turn in events, the girl remained where she was and did not attempt to flee. She did not take long to die.
As she drew in her last breath, the ground rumbled in anger. The earth opened under the people's feet like a gaping mouth and the people tumbled into an abyss, without any hope of escape. The trees around the garden began to grow and grow, until they were taller than the sky, far too high to scale. The rose bushes that ringed the garden quickly became wild and tangled, with razor sharp thorns that would tear at the flesh and blind any intruder who dared try to enter the garden. And the little girl's body rests in the centre of her miraculous garden for all time, surrounded by her beloved plants; the ones who had and would always loved her.
Something that I wrote for Creative Writing Circle’s competition. The theme was ‘Horror’.
Sycophancy
Sycophancy
1. Self-seeking or servile flattery
2. The behaviour of a person who tries to please someone in order to gain a personal advantage
She is studying quietly at a table when she sees it out of the corner of her eye. A shadow darting across the room. She turns, but there is nothing there, of course. She settles down, pen in hand, when she sees it again. Only this time, the shadow, the shape of a human silhouette, remains where it is, on the far side of the room. She lifts her head slowly, fear prickling in her gut and making her hands shake, but there is nothing.
And it happens, again and again, even when she moves to a different table, a different room. A shadow that follows her, always, always watching, hiding in the edges of her vision. She sees it with sleep-bleary eyes, skittering away when she wakes in the morning. She feels its gaze rest on her, heavy and unblinking, even when she sits in a crowded classroom. But whenever she turns for a closer look, it is never there.
...o...
He knows she has always been quiet, but now she is abnormally so. The bright smile she used to flash so often, even when not in his direction, the smile that always made his heart sing is strained now. She is constantly looking out of the corners of her eyes, as if trying to catch sigh of something, constantly jerking her head up so fast he can almost imagine the bones of her neck snapping. He has seen of happen so many times he has memorized the sequence that comes after; she bites her lip, her expression torn between confusion and fear, then hand her head down, blinking hard throughout.
He wonders what she is looking out for.
...o...
After a while, it changes. Oh, the shadow remains in her corners of sight, as always, but it eventually becomes the least of her worries.
She begins to see things change before her very eyes. She sees animals transform into ordinary monsters and demons, before morphing back into just what they are; shadows. Jaws filled with wickedly sharp teeth snap at her as she attempts to wash the dishes. Clear raindrops turn scarlet, causing them to smell musty and metallic even after repeated washing. When she leaves the house in the morning, there is always something standing in the doorway. One day, it’s a woman with long black hair and bloodstained robes. It can be a wild dog with vicious red eyes. When she zips open her pencil case, spiders and worms and other unidentifiable things wriggle out.
She sees so many things she knows aren’t really there but it is so hard to tell the difference between the things that crawl in her head and reality.
...o...
After a while, it changes. She has taken to clenching her fists tightly, biting her lips so hard that more than once, he has seen the gleam of spilt blood.She stares into empty space often, yet her gaze is focused, her body tense, as if she were watching something. He has seen her glare at her desk, seen her hands shake as they reach out for her pencil case. He sees her puffy eyes, the shadows that circle them.
He sees so much he doesn’t know what to think.
...o...
One day, while staring at the purple cat with six legs sprawl itself on her table, she feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns, slowly, in case she had only imagined it.
Mercifully, this time, she doesn’t have to choke down bile or screams – mercifully, the tapper is still flesh and blood and human.
If he is really there.
Come with me, he says. We need to talk.
The hand that grips her wrist is warm.
...o...
He grows tired of just seeing, so one day, he taps her on the shoulder. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t done this earlier; wonders why no one else has done this earlier. Close up, she looks worse. Too-thin, too-tired. Haggard. Could he really be the only one to notice?
Come with me, he tells her. We need to talk. He takes her wrist, not daring to hold her hand, but not giving her the chance to say no.
Her skin is icy-cold.
...o...
What’s been going on with you? he demands fiercely.
She is convinced he isn’t real; he can’t be real. Not even her parents, or the skeletons that look like her parents, have noticed, let alone asked. And this strangerboy is the first to?
So she says nothing, for he isn’t really there, and he really isn’t asking her.
He asks again though, this time, more gently. What’s wrong? The concern on his still-whole face is so real; she can’t help but respond to this illusion.
She bursts into tears.
Even as he holds her, brushes away her tears, she sees through blurry eyes the cracks on the wall move, change into a man walking his dog, to a flying bird, to a monster with bared fangs. She flinches. He doesn’t miss it.
Do you see them? she asks in a whisper. Perhaps that is why he is the only one to ask; because he understands.
See what?
She points at the winged serpent that slithers across the floor. He is confused.
What am I supposed to be seeing? he says. There is no mocking condescension in his voice, no patronizing tone; just genuine puzzlement.
She shivers; so it is not the world that is wrong after all, it is her.
I'm sick, she tells him.
...o...
He has always wondered what she sees, and now she tells him, tells him everything.
There is a boy with goat feet crouched in the corner, watching them with indifferent crimson eyes. Rats scurrying across the floor. The cracks on the floor move around them, as if they can hear and understand every word she says. And of course, the unidentifiable shadow, the very first one she saw, is there, visible only from the corner of her eye.
How long? he asks.
I don't know, she says. Time is relative; it passes slowly for those tortured by their own minds. A terrified sob escapes her throat. The goat boy is glaring at her, furious that she is breaking the silence and telling someone. Why doesn't anyone see I'm sick?
He has to think for a long time for the answer.
They see it, he replies. But they don't want to know. He thinks of her old smile, bright and infectious. The only thing they want from you is your smile. They don't want anything else.
...o...
You don't want them to know anyway.
She looks at him. His eyes are unreadable, but his smile is gentle.
And why is that? she wonders.
Because, he explains. Really, his smile is so very lovely. When they know, they will be kind.
She is silent for a long moment. You know, she says. That makes sense.
...o...
She looks at him, at his flesh-clad hands, his unreadable eyes, his gentle smile. She knows he is real, and all around them is false.
You aren't just being kind, are you? she asks.
He is very serious. Never. He is also very real. Never, he repeats. The kiss he gives her strips her to the bone, drives away all the horrors and demons and nightmares.
...o...
She calls his name one day.
Yes? he answers, always ready to protect her.
Thank you, she says softly.
Guilt wells up inside him, but he clamps his mouth shut to prevent it from spilling out. He nods instead, and smiles.
...o...
He knows he is selfish. This isn't the best for her, but it is the best for him. He wants to keep her for himself, so, so badly; wounded and frightened though she may be. He wants to be the only one there for her.
So he keeps his mouth shut, doesn’t tell anyone as he watches the girl grow sicker by the day. But his way, he is the only one to hold her hand when she jumps at ghostly shadows, he is the only one who wipes away her tears when seeing demons become too much for her.
He knows he is selfish, and sometimes, he wonders if there aren’t any demons in his head as well.
...o...
She knows she is selfish. This isn’t the best for him, but it is the best for her. She wants to keep him to herself, so, so badly; his gentle eyes and his patient hands. She loves him, loves unloading all her problems on him, and loves him for being so gentle and loving and patient.
So she uses him, drags him down into the broken hole where she hides.
She knows she is selfish, but she cannot stop.
...o...
Demons crawl around in the selfish girl's and the selfish boy’s head, and all they will do is pray that the other stays.
