The Baby

Exercise: write from a point of view that is the polar opposite of yours.

"Who's a gorgeous wee boy? Who's a - oh, look, he's smiling! Who's got a beautiful smile? You, that's right! Yes, you do! Aaaaahbrprprprpr-"

My sister Imogen raspberries into the child's neck and is rewarded with a chortle. She does it again. And again. I turn the volume up on the TV.

I never got all the hype around babies. I mean, sure, some of them are cute, once they've grown hair and can smile and stuff. Some. This one's not too bad - big black eyes, long eyelashes, the beginnings of curls. 

Most of them look like aliens to me, though. And that's the least of what I hate about them.

"Ah, I think he's done a poo..."

That, on the other hand...

Imogen gets up and takes the baby to her bedroom, which has been transformed into a nursery for the day. I follow her just so that I can shut the door on them both.

There's a whole plethora of other horrible things in between how they look and how they smell that I also don't like. How people just go crazy around them. That brain-shattering cry of theirs. Or how much time they take up, and space, and money. The year Lydia was born was my last year of guitar classes.

Of course I don't blame Lydia for that. She didn't ask to be born. I blame my mother for wanting a boy so badly that she tried for a fourth child she couldn't afford.

Bitter? Me?

The problem with not liking babies is that people think you're a monster. Which is stupid, because really, just because you don't like chocolate (which is another much-loved thing that I hate) doesn't mean you're going to go into a supermarket and take a flamethrower to the confectionary aisle. And chocolate doesn't turn into people.

Imogen returns, holding the baby, who is only slightly better-smelling.

"Would you hold him for me while I put the changing things away?"

The first and last time I held him was this morning, and he wailed and writhed so much I nearly dropped him. She has been trying to get me to try again - while sitting down - ever since. I give her a look that tells her exactly how crazy I think she is.

"Give him to Tiff."

Imogen sighs and gives him to Tiffany, who shrugs and takes him. She sits him on her knees and jiggles him a bit. He laughs. She raises an eyebrow and tries again. To Tiffany, babies are mostly boring until a certain age, and then they turn into curiosities. To me, babies are terrifying.

Especially since you're having one.

Shut. Up. Brain.

 

"I read on Cracked that babies this age are practically telepathic," she remarks. "They can tell how you're feeling even if you're smiling at them."

"That explains this morning, then," I say. She lies him down on her knees and tickles his feet. No particular response. She tickles his stomach instead and gets a laugh. Tiffany proceeds to systematically test all the parts of his body that would usually be ticklish.

"When's Meriem picking him up?" she asks.

"In two hours and twenty-three minutes," I say, trying to ignore the chortling. "Please stop making him laugh, I'm trying to watch this."

"It's Jersey Shore, Lex. Even I find the baby more interesting than that."

"The stupidity of grown adults is far more fascinating than that thing you're holding" I retort, just as Imogen enters the room.

"You're horrible, Lexie, you know that?" she says.

"Thank you, Gin, I love you too."

She ignores my use of the hated nickname and tries to take the baby back, but Tiffany's in full experimentation mode and waves her off. She pokes him in the tummy. He writhes. She rights him, pokes him in the side. He giggles.

"I didn't think you liked babies, Tifa," Imogen says.

"I don't not like them," Tiff says noncommittally.

"Still, I've never seen you like this with one. With Lydia, for instance."

"I was six when Lydia was born. I had better things to do."

"Well I was seven and I didn't," Gin retorts. "Give him to Lex, she needs the therapy."

"I'm pretty sure he doesn't," I growl.

"Oh for God's sake, Lexie, how are you going to manage when-"

"IMOGEN!" I shout. Everyone jumps. I grit my teeth. "Just shut. The fuck. Up."

The baby starts to cry. I throw the remote into the sofa a lot harder than necessary. It bounces off and hits my thigh. I ignore it and flee to my room before they see me cry. Stupid hormones.

I know perfectly well how I'm going to manage: badly. If at all. Adoption seems like a brilliant idea right now, care babies or not. Even a care baby would be better off than one with me for a mother.

The Thrumli

The Unseelie Court is widely known to be the least noble of the two fairy Courts of Prettania. Aristocracy belongs to the houses with the strongest fairies, those who excel in glamour and magic, and minor houses are born and die every month. The oldest houses still exist because they are powerful; they know that in order to maintain their line, each generation must marry the most powerful scion possible in order to produce strong heirs, and to that end, any means is fair game. Assassinations and maiming, secret duels and plots are common currency in the Unseelie Court.

Even the plebians fight among themselves, so that only the strongest, cleverest, and most powerful survive.

It is not surprising, therefore, that the Thrumli's presence went unnoticed for so long. Had it turned up in the Seelie Court, where every death was either King's order or punishable by the same fate; where nobles disliked to get their hands dirty and commoners didn't dare; where there were laws - had the Thrumli acted there, it would have been discovered at once, and some means found to destroy it.

There were no laws in the Unseelie Court.

In the Inkestwood, the deepest, darkest corner of the Unseelie lands where not even the moonlight reached, the fae had long since lost their eyes for more useful senses, and the hapless few who wandered in with a torch had a short glimpse of something white and blind and ethereal, like those fish of the deepest oceans, before both light and life were abruptly extinguished. There, three moons before Arwyn's return, the mutated descendants of a nixie turned on their mother and ate her alive, before turning on each other.

Further south, if south you could call it, deep under the Silver Mountains, the last peace treaty between goblins and dwarves was torn to shreds along with the goblin tribe massacred by one young dwarf - a mute and a simpleton, who before then had never been known to hurt a fay.

In the Capital, an entire household was found dead, one member in each room of their home. One had banged his head against the wall until he cracked it, another had eaten his own arm, and third had stuck iron pins in his eyes - the question as to where and why he'd gotten such Catspawn objects ran across the grapevine like lightning from cloud to cloud, landing nowhere.

Even in Sundown, a swarm of fey gathered as if to dance and mate, but instead began attacking every other thing in sight, until a boggart swallowed them all and died of it - but the story was eclipsed by Arwyn's return.

It wasn't until a group of exiled Seelie rebels, brothers all of them, like fingers on a glove, turned on each other the moment they were through the barrier into Unseelie lands, to the bewilderment and fear of their Escort, that the matter was brought to the attention of Oberon, and the Seelie King, knowing what it was and knowing it could not pass the barrier into his realm, decided not to inform his rival Queen, but instead let the Thrumli do his dirty work for him.

Which was her plan, of course.

The Storm

It's one of those days when the sun is hot lead and the air presses onto your skin like a damp flannel. There are no clouds, but the sky isn't even blue any more, pollution has hazed it to a dirty white. All around you, the few who are still here pretend they're not slowly cooking in this mountain-rimmed oven that is Grenoble, student city, deserted for the holidays. The wiser permanent residents have also fled to gentler climes, leaving you and these strangers to roast in your own sweat.

Sometimes there's a breath of wind, and even though it only sends the hot air into your face again, you think it's cooling you down, and that's what matters. You don't get used to this sort of heat: rather, you learn to think of other things, to add lemon juice to the tap water you keep bottled in the fridge, to sleep after lunch. Children splash in fountains, and you take your shoes off and paddle with them. You find the shops with air conditioning and there you spend far more time than shopping demands, and nobody needs an excuse for ice cream. And once you've finished, you have no money left and can't put off the walk home any longer, you take the more shaded route back, and cross the street to avoid the sun.

Sometimes, a miracle happens.

Of course, most of the time it's just the windspray from a fountain, or someone watering their plants a little too carelessly as you walk by underneath. But sometimes, that warm, heavy drop on your arm multiplies. Clouds that weren't there five minutes ago gather and grow, and a promising rumble raises hopes - people run for cover with newfound energy, and a prudent few take out umbrellas. But you and I, and those like us, we just stop and stand there, gazing up, hoping to be the first to see a flash -

It hits us, sudden as an awakening in which we remember why we're here, on our way home from the air conditioned shopping centre, where the whole town had turned out, united in the desire to escape the summer heat. The rain soaks into our clothes, weighing them down, and into our skin, reviving us, bringing us back to the surface of our dry fatigue and into a strange wonder - for on this day, at this time, the sun is opposite the clouds, and through the meteor shower of sunlit rain, the whole spectrum glows against the sombre sky.

Children dance, adults laugh, and we celebrate the fulfilment of everyone's secret wish - that the heavens would open and drench us all in a deluge of sweet relief.

Le Onde

The same chain of notes, over and over, sustained by the pedal, a wave in minor evoking lightplay at the bottom of the ocean. Her tempo is imperfect, but the image is still clear: my sister is learning Le Onde.

I started out teaching her the intro, which is simple enough even for a beginner, and when she'd mastered that and wished to learn the next part, I taught her the right hand notes of that.

"Eh, j'ai réussi !"

I applaud, outwardly approving, while in my heart my inner child leaps with joy at the prospect of another musician in the family. An apprentice. That would be...

Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

"J'ai re-réussi !"

"Bravo ! Continue..."

"J'suis trop douée."

"Oui."

She keeps practising, the volume turned down low, and the sweet melody is perfect for the quiet of the evening and the dim yellow light in our almost-tidy living room. I could almost be at peace right now.

She gets up, about to leave.

"Eh, reviens !"

"Quoi ?"

"Joue encore, ça m'inspire."

She laughs, then realizes I'm serious. Looking bemused, but flattered, she sits back on the piano stool and practises some more until I've finished my piece.

The Void

It started as a dream, the way it always does. The one where I'm running. Or trying to run. I can hear them behind me - heavy boots and harsh shouts, or leathery wings and laughter. Or silence.

The silence is the worst. I can feel it pressing in on me, like piercing eyes, a song of terrible discord not heard, but felt in my gut. If I could only hear it, it would be more bearable, but I can't hear anything - not a simple absence of sound, but like I've gone deaf. Like hearing was just a dream, the memory of which trickles out of my brain like water, leaving me in a soundless void.

The void has eyes. My skin puckers under the chill gaze, yet I'm hot, so hot, and the more I try to run, the harder it becomes, the less I can move. The blood in my veins is hot lead, my muscles drain of energy as the my fever rises.

I realize that I am in bed, and I can see my bedroom around me, through closed eyelids. For a split-second I'm relieved - it's just a dream - and then I realize I cannot move, that the Void is still staring at me, freezing my skin, it's here, in my room, in real life, and I can't escape, if only I could move - it's pressing down on me, heat and cold, and my breathing is too shallow, I'm suffocating -

I try to turn over, but I can't. I try moving my arm, but I can't. My hand. One finger. I must - if I don't, I'll die - it'll get me - I can't breathe - I concentrate, but the heat is unbearable, still rising, and the contrasting chill on my skin begins to hurt, creates a pain that becomes unbearable agony-

I'm awake, gasping like a fish out of water, trembling, I fight my way into sitting position, eyes frantically scanning the room for any sign of - of what? There's nothing there.

No, not nothing. There are lots of things here - objects with the dozy souls of the inanimate, dusty and familiar. There is wood and metal and plastic and glass and air, filling my lungs and not being less for all that - but there is no void.

And I pull the covers around me and pull me knees to my chest and cry in relief, my head in my hands, but my eyes wide open, not to let the void back in.

The Dance

Those of you who have read "Strawberries" (redubbed "The Glimmerlands") might recognize Arwyn.

If you're interested, try my FictionPress account.

The dance was there, in the middle of the hall, spinning in its centre and turning slowly towards the ends, like a galaxy.

The air felt warm and electric, like just before a summer storm, only the electricity seemed to be coming from the glowing centre of the dance, the naked bodies of sacrificial fae illuminated from the inside where it snaked and writhed in their veins and shone through eyes already lost.

She could feel it, a faint itch in her muscles that no amount of stretching would relieve. She would have to dance, she knew, or it would spread first to her stomach, then up, through her heart to her brain, filling her with a wild, terrifying joy that would pulse through her, connecting her to the others and throwing her straight through logic and reason into the throes of helpless ecstasy-

"Arwyn."

Of course, everyone knew she was weaker to it than them, out of practise from so much time in Cat's Court. But only Orren seemed to realize just how vulnerable she was.

"I'm here," she said tonelessly. She was still angry with him.

He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "I'll make sure you are." His protectiveness annoyed her, and distracted her from the itch - she focused on it, stoking her gut into grumbling ire, refusing to wonder if that had been his aim.

 

Magic Motorcycle Cat

Nothing like a bit of utter nonsense to get you back to writing again. Freedom is the key, really - if I'm ever going to write seriously again, I need to be able to write for fun first.

My friend Arran gave me the theme for this one, which is about his motorbike.


As reincarnation went, being born again as a motorcycle wasn't bad. Especially when you'd been an alley cat in your last life. Granted, being taken apart and put together again differently took some getting used to, but Pouncy McFast was adaptable. Alley cats had to be, and old habits die hard.

Which wasn't always a good thing. The hardest part about being reborn a motorcycle was being, well, inanimate. Sure, he could move, but only when he was told to (although he retained a certain amount of control over the how), and he wasn't nearly as flexible and agile as he had been, nor as discreet. Those things were made up for by the way other creatures parted hastily to let him pass - the humans he'd once begged from and been kicked by were terrified of him now. The cars weren't, though. Next, thought Pouncy, I want to be reborn as a fire truck.