#oddwriting

We have always told stories. They existed in the very beginning, and they will exist in the end. They are one of the few constants of the universe. Every culture which has existed have had them, every culture which will exist will have them. Once upon a time, someone sat in front of a fireplace, telling their family a story while their food grilled over the open fire. One day, it will happen again. After, when civilizations have fallen. When they have been wiped out, or slowly been swept away with the wind. After that, someone will sit before a fireplace once again. They will be telling stories to what family they now have, as their food cooks over the crackling flames. And here, dear reader, is a story for you.

It’s dusk. The mist has rolled in over the green fields. It’s spring, and unusually warm for the time of day. The mist is white, almost pearly so. It moves hypnotically, and you cannot help but watch it, smiling at its beauty. Through it, you can see the sky. It’s light blue and white and pink. A few rays of yellow sunshine remain, even after the sunset. People tell stories about this mist. They say it’s fairy mist. Once the night has fallen and it has appeared, the fairies will dance over the meadows. Perhaps they will let you join. If you do, you might return home again after. Or you might not.

An owl hoots in the distance. The grass rustles beneath your bare feet when you walk over it. The gentle breeze is chilly, but you aren’t cold. It whispers in your ear, prompting you to continue forward. You obey. You are curious on whether the tales told are true, and it is a beautiful night. It is unusually warm for the time of day, and you do not want to go inside just yet.

You reach the mist, and it is damp against your skin. It, too, is chilly. Then, you hear it. Singing. It is softer than a whisper, and lovelier than a warm autumn’s day. Enchanted, you continue forward. Your heart is pounding in your chest, both from excitement and from worry. From joy, too, because you feel it bubble in your veins and you want to laugh. The song makes you happy; happier than you have ever been before. Only a few meters away, the shapes appear. They’re fluent, moving with the mist, as light as the breeze. They’re all white, but they sparkle like dew at dawn.

One grabs your hand, letting you join the dance. Perhaps you should’ve felt clumsy next to these graceful, gorgeous creatures, which move more elegantly than a queen, but you do not. Instead, you feel as though you belong. You feel just as lithe and exquisite as them, despite a voice in the back of your mind that tells you it’s impossible. A mere human cannot compare. Nonetheless, while you move along with their singing, following their dance, you do not doubt for a second that you do. The thrill of the dance rushes through your veins. It makes you want to scream in delight, but you don’t. You don’t want to disturb them. Instead the scream rests in your throat, making you move faster and more restlessly as you cannot help but laugh along with their song.

And so, the mist starts to clear away. You realize the sky is clear, that dusk have long left. It is the darkest blue, and the stars are shining. The moon is a crescent, its light washing over you. Around you, the fairies are starting to drop out of their dance. Their singing decreases, and you realize you’re exhausted. Your limbs are as heavy as concrete and your head is spinning. You are gasping for air; your lungs are burning.

When the last traces of mist clear away, the song finally ends. You drop to the ground, too exhausted to stand. For a while, you only kneel there, still panting. Then, the haze in your head begin to clear. You remember the small hip-flask by your hip. When you try to uncork it, your fingers are heavy, clumsy, but you manage. When you lift the flask to your lips, you gulp down the water greedily. It is luke-warm, but it is the most delicious thing you’ve ever had.

You stay for a little while. You allow yourself to rest. Then, you get on your feet again. It’s hard to move, you’re still so tired. Everything is still aching. Your throat is still dry. But your family must be worried. The moon is high on the sky, it’s long past midnight. Slowly, you make your way home.

At home, your family will be. They are sitting in the living room, fretting. Scared. Do they call the Police? Should they go look for you? But what if you come home and they’re not there? When you come in, they will not be scared anymore. Instead their faces will be full of relief. You do not tell them what happened. You do not tell them about the fairies. Instead, you tell them you fell asleep, and you are so very sorry for worrying them.

They accept it. You drink some more water, and you all go to bed. In the morning, you will not even know whether the fairies were real, or if you told your family the truth. Perhaps you did fall asleep. Perhaps it was all a dream. You will never know.

Natéa

AO3

The bell rang when the door slid open. Holding the door open, Vali stepped aside to allow his wife to enter. She smiled, latching onto his arm again. Her pink skirts trailed behind them as they made their way up to the register. Both watched the bakery carefully. This was an extremely strange situation they’d been put in, somehow being forced to visit a town bakery in another world. Both were tense, outmost confused over what was going on. The Author said she wanted to do a character study, whatever that meant.

Nonetheless, he smiled politely as the human behind the register greeted them, asking if they needed any help. Ignored their confused stare, which was frankly rude. In fact, everyone in the shop’s eyes were on them. It was understandable; their clothing was quite the contrast from theirs. Most of all, it was actually decent. There were so many adults wearing shorts and short skirts in here you’d think it was a brothel rather than a downtown bakery. Vali had to resist the urge to wrinkle his nose.

At his right, Wyela was studying the pastries. Her eyes were bright. His mouth curled into a soft smile as he studied her. How was his family so lucky? His parents’ arranged marriage had been filled with joy, his sister married the love of her life, and his wife of convenience was a gift. Placing his free hand on her growing stomach, Vali felt like laughing. He didn’t, though. Appearance was everything.

“Look at all the cakes, love,” Wyela said, gesturing toward the desk. “Isn’t it wonderful? It’s almost like a royal supper. Just accessible to everyone.”

He nodded, deciding on a delicious-looking ‘raspberry cheesecake’ as the label read. The runes were strange, but the Author had promised them to be able to understand the language of this world. ‘Swedish’, she had called it. Her language. Apparently, she hadn’t been lying. “It is. Do you know what you want, dearest?”

She did, and they gave their orders. The human was pleasant enough, even if they seemed unable to stop goggling at the medals at his chest. His attire was one of his more casual military uniforms, although still fit for civilized company. They ordered coffee as well, which was odd that they had here. Such an expensive drink, this far away from the warmer continents. Nevertheless, they seemed to have boundless amounts, judging by the menu.

When the human held up a tray, but made no move to leave the desk, he blinked. What? They seemed awkward after a few moments, yet did nothing. Finally, Wyela whispered, “I think you’re supposed to take it.”

Oh. When he did, the human’s shoulders sank. Their smile relaxed. Apparently he was. Vali frowned. Mother, he, the Prince of Beobyra, carrying a tray like a servant? Disgrace. He stepped back, though. Suddenly the human’s eyes fell on his wife’s stomach, and they smiled. “Is it your first child?”

At the mention, his frown disappeared. Instead he smiled, letting go off the tray with one hand to squeeze Wyela’s hand. His entire body felt warm as she giggled, shaking her head. Squeezing back, she placed her other hand on the bump. “No, our third, actually. Hopefully not last, either.”

The human blinked, apparently surprised, but their smile remained. “Well, congratulations. I wish you luck. And enjoy your fika, sit wherever you want.”

They nodded in thanks, making their way over to a corner. Wyela’s hooves clicked against the floor. In the corner, the wall was one big window, with a church right on the other side of the street. Truly, it was nowhere near as impressive as the temples at home. Vali put the tray down before helping Wyela into the couch along the wall. Her movements were beginning to get quite restricted by her pregnancy. He was lucky she wasn’t like his sister. Rahil had been forced to stand a lot of complaining both times Erika was pregnant. He’d taken it well, though. Been very supportive. Vali had to admit he was impressed. After growing up with her, he knew perfectly well of difficult their queen could be when unhappy. To be honest, it was first when seeing how sweetly he handled Erika when she was pregnant with Vinter he’d fully accepted his sister’s choice of husband and welcomed him into the family. Wyela, on the other hand, enjoyed pregnancy. Said it gave her a cosy feeling.

Taking a piece of his cake, his eyes widened. It was so sweet. A grin grew on his face as he let it melt in his mouth. Mother, he loved sugar. It was a weakness of his. Wyela chuckled, taking a spoonful of her own as she reached out to place her hand on his. “Enjoying yourself, Vali?”

“Despite the strangeness of this place,” he replied, braiding their fingers together, “yes, I do. The cake is marvellous, and you’re here.”

Extra: The Moment Never Lasts

Natéa Canon Setting Rahil - Red Fiya - Fell Samiha - Undyne

I recommend listening to this and this while reading. Both at the same time. I did when writing.

The tones rose high above the rooftops. The world was quiet, non-existent, outside of the crackling of their fire and his twin sister’s soft voice. As her voice rose, Rahil swept the blanket closer over them both. It was a cold night. The star sky above them twinkled as the moon showered them in light. The fire was small, only giving enough warmth for them not to shiver. Both their arms were still prickled with goosebumps. Fiya’s singing was soft, melancholic, but her voice did not waver.

By their side, Samiha put more leaves into the fire, keeping it burning for a little longer. As the flames snapped, he noticed some movement in the alley’s entrance. From how both Fiya and Samiha moved, they had too. Still, Fiya kept singing. The ancient words never stopped as she told a story about eternal love and sorrow. The melody was slow, mournful. Quiet steps came toward them, and Zalû’s light kept beaming over them. Comforting them, and everyone like them. The forgotten. The desperate.

Familiar faces of some of their street fight rivals showed up. Normally that’d mean a fight. Yet there was no hostility coming from them. Just a haunted aura, mirroring the feeling of Rahil’s sister’s song. They didn’t move. Just stood there at the entrance. After exchanging a gaze with Samiha, Rahil swept out with his hand. Pointed at the free place around their fire. He didn’t receive a reply, but they came forward. Sat down without a word.

The fire kept crackling, and Fiya kept singing. Her voice was pure and clear. Had they been born as anything else but a whore’s children she might’ve been able to make it a career. Rahil leaned into her side, and her arm came to embrace him. Soon, shuffling of more feet came. More eyes shone in the dark of the alley, as they invited them in. By the time the song changed, the alley was full of people. The orphan children living on the streets, with haunted eyes that had already seen too much. The teenagers and young adults, earning their living on alley fights – those like them. Adults, who were filthy and cold and had spent a lifetime just surviving. Normally, a fight would already have broken out.

Yet, there were no hostile energy. No fear. Just a desperate wish to forget. A hopelessness they wanted to escape, if so only for a few minutes. Everyone’s eyes were on Fiya, a despairing need shining in their eyes. And slowly, Rahil could see the look change. He could see them forget, as her tunes rose toward the skies. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Someone had broken a couple of bread loaves into pieces, sharing them. He took two, one for him and one for her, once she’d stop. Once the moment was over. Some of the people around the fire tore into the bread desperately, possibly not having eaten for days. Others saved it. And yet others slowly ate it.

There they sat. Enemies, rivals about the food and blankets and places to make a home on the streets. Sharing bread by the fireplace. Listening to Fiya sing. Gazing at the stars high above. Hoping, that maybe one day life wouldn’t be like this. That one day, life would be good to them.

Tomorrow, they’d be foes again. They’d be back to betting at fights, pickpocketing merchants, and risking their lives for a fish or blanket. Yet, just for now, perhaps they could just stay here. Stay in the moment. With Fiya’s song, with the fire crackling and with a mismatched companionship. Just for a few hours.

There are a few places in our world where Time doesn’t quite work. We can’t really explain why it doesn’t, nor can we explain why exactly these rifts in time chose the place they do. Playgrounds, but only at night. Rest stops at highways. Empty churches, parking lots and stables. The waiting room at the hospital and stairwells.

An hour can turn into a whole night, or day, or both, in one single minute. Perhaps the time you spent walking from the swing to the slide felt like three hours when it in fact took ten seconds, or the other way around. Sometimes time goes backwards, even. It’s impossible to tell how much time have passed until you leave these places. This causes most people to avoid them. Most people find it unsettling, how you can almost feel the earth move beneath your feet and hear the breathing of a spirit next to your face.

Alright, do you guys think this is good enough to put on the school’s wall? This is half of a surrealist art project I’m doing, and I am pretty sure our projects will get on the wall once they’re finished.

It has to be good because it’s going to have my name on it around a lot of people I know.

Fire is you and everything is fire. If you look above, there’s fire. If you look below, there’s fire. You might not notice, but there is. Or so it seems, at least. At your smallest components, you are indistinguishable from a forest fire.

That is what my mother told me. She turned out to be right; more right than she ever thought she was, I’m sure. The world is fire. I am fire. Everything is fire, and it is wonderful. From the scorching heat to the burning sun to the crackling of flames, it is wonderful. Even the smell of smoke is wonderful.

Fire rules the world. It did not always, but it does not matter what always was. The only thing that matter is what is now. The demons are laughing, the phoenix is chirping, my hair is burning. The pleasant, searing warmth rests on my skin.  I am singing. Singing the song of the world which turned into a blazing hellfire.

I still remember the day it began. Everyone had tired of the old order, of obeying the Administration. Everyone had tired of being subservient. Everyone turned their back to the Heavens, and called for Hell. For the One who had Fallen for refusing to obey. Jahannama. She was beauty and passion as we allowed Her to escape her prison, Her demons following her closely behind. Believe me, not many survived that day.

Those who did, though, will always live. I am one, and I am fire and freedom and fierceness. She gave us the gift of liberty to do what we wanted with, us who were deemed worthy of this new universe. I am a being of flames and music, wandering the charred Earth and singing the songs of our people and our world. Praising the new Disorder and mourning those who were Lost.

The world is everything I have ever dreamed. From my mouth, the sound of a snapping campfire falls, from my dance the movements of a raging wildfire. My hair is billowing toward the sky, reaching for the glowing orb above us. For the Sun, who warm us, feed us, allows us to live. Our merciful ruler.

I spin, faster and faster, as my words spread across the world. The tune is loud, ferocious, soft. I yell out my happiness, yell out my independence, the way my life finally is my own. Scream it, and everyone stop to watch. Every demon, every creature of Flames, and every bird of Life. They listen to my singing, and join in. Soon the world is filled with beings dancing furiously, in pure savagery as a tribute to Jahannama, who set us free. The fire grows bigger, feasting on our joy and viciousness as we raise our hands toward the sky and call for the flames.

I smile. Never had I believed that I one day would get to be free like this. Get to dance beneath the open sky, singing and screaming as loud as I can, together with my equals. No longer is there someone to obey. Jahannama makes sure that the fire never burns out, and I am free to dance and sing and fulfil my Soul’s every want. The Sun shines scaldingly hot over us as I twirl.

I made it a little longer AO3

The hallways are dark and cold. I can hear the footsteps behind me, and nothing in front of me. There’s no light, except my phone flashlight. My heart beats loudly, I swear they’re able to hear it. The steps are getting closer. I need to hide. My breathing is laboured, gasping. I’ve been running for what felt like hours.

I need to get out of here. But I know I won’t. Not until morning, if ever. It’s IKEA. Only the employees can possibly find their way out of here on their own. Especially in almost complete darkness.

There!

My legs feel heavy, and I must fight to manage the last metres. Yet I do it. I throw myself into a wardrobe, and shut it as quietly as I could. The click of the lock is still too loud. My breaths come in gasps, and I slap my hands for my mouth to quiet them.

I don’t want to die. There was still so much to do – I’m not even a real adult yet! I want to become a professional equestrian, learn carpentry, find love. I have never had a partner! I don’t want to die.

I don’t breathe as the steps close in on me. Pray to whatever gods there is, to the stars, to anyone or anything that can help me. Tears fill my eyes as I force myself to remain silent.

And.

I wait.

The silence is deafening as they stop moving. It’s almost paralyzing. My heart is thundering, I wonder how they haven’t found me yet with how loud it is. I think that’s what they’re trying to do. Listen and find out where I am. Why are they after me? Why are they trying to kill me? I don’t know, I haven’t done anything. I’m just a regular person. I don’t understand.

My face feels wet, and I lift my hand, placing the palm on my cheek. There’s tears. I’m crying. I hadn’t even noticed. I clench my teeth as I feel a sob rising in my throat. My mouth is dry. The steps have begun again, and they’re moving. I feel my palms getting sweaty as the steps echoes through the room, past the wardrobe. I swallow, despite being terrified that they’ll hear even that little sound. Blood is rushing in my ears as I listen desperately, trying to decide how far away they are. If I can breathe safely again.

Finally, I have no choice. My lungs are burning with lack of air and I gasp. The noise is loud in my ears, and as I try to steady my breathing I try to figure out whether they’ve stopped, or are on their way back.

I sink to the bottom of the wardrobe as I decide they’re long enough a distance away for me to move. My legs almost give out beneath me in relief, but I force myself to go slowly. They’d definitely notice a loud thud even if they weren’t right outside.

I’ve been holding my phone in an almost convulsive fashion, and I am almost surprised it hasn’t cracked or broken. I unlock it, and quickly turn of the sound. My heart is still beating like it’s trying to escape my body. I write a quick message, sending it to every number in the phone.

“Please help. I’m at IKEA. There’s a murderer. They’re after me. Help me. Please.”

I grip the phone tightly again as after I send it. Tears are steaming down my face, but I am too exhausted and scared to bother wiping them away. There’s nothing more I can do now. Just hope that help will come before they find me, and wait.

And so, I wait, desperately clutching the phone as if that alone can save me.

Hopefully I will still be alive to see the morning.

through the years, they have heard and seen more than they ever thought they would, they have broken and they have healed - but they were never the same again.