Fantasy novel opening

Lightning cracked across the sky illuminating the sodden grounds beneath. Rain slapped against the cobbles and flowed off the slanted roofs into flowing streams. Raun, a small whisper of a girl, shivered under a small overhang. Her hair stuck to her dry lips, black with the water. The cold gripped Raun, freezing her in place. Helpless, mouth agape, eyes wide. A slow pained movement to look up at the ever darkening sky “Help”. A gust of wind pushed her to the ground. “Please”. Raun shivered once more, her rags made poor imitations of clothes. Another gust of wind buffeted her, urging her to move. Raun remained and rested her head on the floor. Streams of water pooled at the back of her head as it attempted to flow through the cracks in the cobbles. Raun took a slow and heavy breath, her chest barely moving. Flashes of light illuminated her grey eyes, blinking rarely now.

The sound of metal hitting stone pierced through the veil of rain. A large figure, nearly as tall as the simple stone houses in the city, made her way through the streets. A flat cap of metal sat on her bald head, a lip at the front guiding the rain away from her face. She wore a simple close fitting thin black shirt, atop this a jacket smeared with a dark blue wax with a simple silver ‘X’ embroidered over the left of her chest. Her shorts made from the same material of the shirt gave way to black leather bands strapped halfway down her shins, a small metal ‘X’ was on the left strap. A simple metal shoe enclosed her left foot whilst her right wore a black leather sandal made up of a series of straps around her foot and the sole of the sandal.

A significantly smaller man accompanied her, his footsteps silent. He wore a long thin black jacket not obviously as waxed as the woman’s jacket, a marker of his higher class. Fine fitting trousers, similar to the thin material of his black shirt, ended in polished black shoes.

“I hate working at night,” the man said.

“I hate working in the rain,” the woman replied, turning to look down at the man.

“Go back to your desert then. There’s no avoiding the blasted rain here,” he said, stopping and looking up at the woman.

“I would if I could, Sculptor,” She looked down the street.

"Well," the sculptor said, catching up with the woman, "Find them." He said, turning to the woman.

She took a breath in, deep and deliberate, slow and considerate. “There.” She pointed to a simple building. “By the door.”



A burst of wind buffeted the sculptor and woman, as they turned to face a building where a small shivering girl lay. The man knelt down by the girl and turned her over. Her grey eyes stared into the face of the pale man and then into the dark sky. Carefully he swept her hair out of her face and closed her mouth. He turned her head to face him again.

“Hey” he said “What’s your name little dove?”

“Are you help?” Raun managed to whisper out.

“I am,” wind blew against the man as another crash of thunder sounded above. “Don’t you worry dove, now what’s your name?”

“Raun,” she said.

“Well,” he smiled “What a lovely name, close your eyes for me Raun.” Raun slowly closed her eyes, her pale face in the hands of the man. He placed his left hand at the back of her neck. “Everything is going to be alright.” He focused his will on his left hand.She took a slow breath once more; red spilled into the cobbles beneath her mixing with the flowing rain water.

The Sculptor removed a metal spike from the back of the corpse’s neck, rain washing away the blood on the spike.

“Carry it,” the man stood up and retrieved a cloth from within his jacket and wiped the metal spike clean. Wind battered the sculptor and the woman again as they continued through up the street. “Where next?” he asked. The woman took a deep, slow breath and pointed.

“There, in the alley,” she said.

“Right,” the man turned to her, “Stay here and burn it.”

He turned down into the alley; a skinny boy lay curled up at the end. “You alright lad? What’s your name?” he said. The boy raised his head and stared at the man, shivering but silent. “It’s alright lad, I'm here to help,” the sculptor slowly approached the boy.

“No,” the boy croaked, his throat dry, “Stay away”

“I only want to help lad” the sculptor said.

“Liar,” the boy said.

“Lad-”

“I know what you are.” the boy interrupted.

“Then you shouldn’t struggle.” all feigned compassion left the man's face, “Give me your name.” The boy scrambled against the wall. The man approached the boy, in the corner of the alley. He kneeled down. A metal spike appeared in the sculptor's hand. “Boy, your name. It’ll hurt otherwise,” the boy shook his head. Rain streaking down his face. “I don’t want you in pain boy. All I need is your name, and you can go back home.”

“Liar!” the boy scrambled up onto his feet and launching off the wall behind him he pushed past the man. The boy limped down the alley. The man stood up, and walked after the boy. Each step the man took, the boy grew slower. Before reaching the end of the alley he collapsed on the ground. “Adria,” the boy said.

“Thank you Adria, now close your eyes.” the sculptor said, he knelt down by Adria and placed his hand by the back of his neck.

The corpse bled. He withdrew his spike from the back of the body's neck and began the habitual ritual of cleaning his spike. “Vorimh, another one to be burnt.” he called to the woman.

Robbie English 

Letters to the other half of my soul (part 3)

Letters to the other half of my soul pt.3:

My dear beloved, 

I want you to know,

that, on my darkest days, when the moon withdraws into the veil of the clouds, hiding from the world, 

when the whispers of my closest demons invade my mind,

and storms have dulled my heart, urging it to retreat,

there’s a force deep within me that ropes me forward…always, 

reminding me of the home your soul

became when it touched mine, 

and my love for you thrives again. 

Because every single time I think to give in,  something opens my soul and shows me…

that, you my darling, are worth the wait. 

—Love, yaynah 🥀

Letters to the other half of my soul (part 2)

Letters to the other half of my soul pt.2: 

My dear beloved, 

I want you to know,

that even when I’m gone and my shell is buried beneath the dew that decorates the grass in the midst of a winter’s night, 

even when my soul has departed on its venture to meet its Maker in desperate submission, 

and even when the tongues of the living cease to remember my name, 

my love for you will always thrive.

And you’ll feel it, I promise.

You’ll feel it in the stars, the moon and everything alive.

For when this love for you was gifted to my heart, it was gifted to gentle hands.

Hands that will forever protect its jewel. 

—Love, yaynah 🥀

Letters to the other half of my soul (part 1)

Letters to the other half of my soul pt.1: 

My dear beloved, 

I want you to know,

that I had never truly soaked in the light of the moon,

until the ink in our books fused, and our hearts and souls connected like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle was found, finally restored, and pronounced a priceless peace like no other.

Because, only then, did this world seem to   illuminate, 

like it was smiling at your beautiful soul just as I was.

—Love, yaynah  🥀

Overboard

 By Leah Berry

 The music was bloody awful. All wasted men and drunken women gurgling ‘Oh poor old Stormy’s dead and gone’ as they clinked half-drunk glasses. At least the light breeze attempted to drown them out. Everyone went ludicrous when songs began to be sung. And they were  never good songs: the lyrics meant nothing to nobody but who wrote them, and the voices were so painful, it was like a hundred grasshoppers.  

 Afina walked down a street she knew all too well. Knowing exactly when to duck from a hanging light and when to hop over a pile of animal shit. But one thing she couldn’t memorise were when people strode to and fro.

 The gaps between the wooden houses were only big enough for one person and maybe an arm, so she had to quickly slot into someone’s doorway, hoping they’d pass as fast as possible.

 Every six or so nights, a ship would land, people chatty and excitable, with tales of betrayal, murder, treasure and tranquillity they would tell in Shell Islands famous tavern, The Blue Knife. Therefore, every six nights, Afina would trek from one end of the island to the other, knowing a ship would arrive or there would be traders in between.

It was a journey from one end of the island to the other, wanting to hear these almost mythical tales, but most of all, wanting to glimpse the ship. The difference this time was that Afina longed more than anything to jump aboard and sail the seas as one of them.

 The more she could see lapping waves, the closer Afina got to the potential ship, and the more jumbled her mind became. Unlike before, Afina didn’t care about bumping into people, because here the ship was. Standing still and straight in all its glory. At the front of the raggedy ship was a bronzed skeleton, and it was such a different colour to the almost spruce wood, Afina couldn’t focus on anything but the cracked rib, the skull missing a tooth, and the twisted shape of the arm.

 “Can hope a few gallons of rum’ll calm the Captain.” One of the people said, Afina casually walked by, like she was meant to be there. They were both wearing poet shirts that were the same colour as the parchment she used to learn her letters and numbers when she was younger – even if she hadn’t had to use those skills before. Along with that, they held greyed and brown fearnoughts folded on their arms. Fearnoughts looked so cool to her with the ruffled v-necks and how loose and breezy the cream-white cotton looked.

 “He drinks more than that on board mate, nofin’ll change.” One said back, jostling his side.

 “What was i’ anyways?” Person One asked, lowering their voice so much Afina had to, unsuspiciously, edge closer.

 “Siren.”

 “A Siren?”

 “Is there an echo here? Why a siren it was!” Exclaimed Person Two, quiet annoyance or excitement in her voice.

 “Never heard one me’self till we left Ribbers Alley. Was surprised I didn’t go overboard.”

 “Cheers to that, Deli.” They clinked bottles, chugging as fast as their throats allowed.

 Sirens? Afina thought they were just what Captain’s and Quartermaster’s used to make the stories of powerful storms more exciting. Sirens were real! Was it bad that she wanted to see one? Nobody who’s seen one has ever made it back alive: Captain Red Eyes said once at the Blue Knife.

 What would a creature with an angelic voice look like? Monstrous, most likely: they do lead men and women to their deaths.

 After wondering about the Siren, Afina turned her attention to the most important part of the conversation: people went overboard. If it was a Siren then a lot of people would have gone overboard.

Without thinking, Afina broke into a joyous jog, heading to where the awful choir were still rowdy with sea shanties.

 It wasn’t just sea shanties Afina didn’t like, it was more the singing than anything. And the instruments. Every form of music sent a tingle of disgust.

 On the outside there were signs: No Guns. In bright, bold red. And when she went in, there was a barrel filled with different cutlass’ of all shapes, colours and sizes. All of them had the same looking handle.

 The noise outside was nothing compared to the noise inside. “Order up!” Yelled the woman behind the counter, “at this rate we’ll run out of beer!” She joked, and everyone inside laughed with her. Half of the occupants had fearnoughts on their capes, hanging off their shoulders or done up.

 “You’d be bled dry if it weren’t for the blasted crew, me’love.” Grumbled one man in the middle, curly ginger hair and a beard so long it ended where his normal hair did: his lower back.

 With all the confidence she could muster, Afina marched over to the man with ginger hair, because he was the only one with a red fearnought.

 People ignored her, but that wasn’t so difficult because of her height. She wouldn’t call herself short, but surrounded by these giants, she was tiny.

“I hear you’re looking for some new crewmates.” She declared, standing straighter, puffing out her chest and putting hands on her hips.

 “Wassit to you, little girl?” The man raised an eyebrow.

 “I want to join.” There was a brief silence through the Tavern – as quiet as a packed pub could get – where she smiled, thinking her proposal was being considered.

 Laughter burst like cannon fire. It was unlike the laughter the bar woman received. “Look, kid, I ain’t lookin’ for no shrimp. If I wanted one I’d get it in the ocean.”

 “I don’t see anyone else volunteering.” She stated, looking about the room to see those not in the coats looking away.

 “You shoot a gun?” He asked, looking at her. She stood her ground, not knowing how to shoot a gun but knowing she could learn. “Can ye use a cutlass?”

 “I-I’ve trained…” Afina didn’t mean to stutter, it betrayed her stance.

 “No, then, huh?”

  “If I’m useless then throw me off board! But after the siren attack, you could use an extra pair of hands.”

 Downing his drink, the man finally looked up at her, smiling. He had a froth moustache. Right in the middle of his mouth, his two front teeth were gold. “Wanna know what happened?” She really didn’t. “When I was wee, me ole man beat me. Said it was training. One day, he knocked me two front teeth out, ‘n I shot ‘im in the head.” When he stood, the man towered over everyone else, but Afina wasn’t scared. Maybe a little intimidated.

 “Jillian was royalty. Fed us information to help our kind escape ‘n managed to get away with everyone else.” Jillian was next to him, and had short black hair, a bit of stubble. Afina remembered that story (the baker Marlene told her). Apparently, he was son to the future King of Olten Dale, but something happened and he left: he’s twenty two.

 “Penny fought a war for her blood cause they be too cowardice ‘n they kicked her out.” Finally, he wiped the white moustache off his face and Afina could concentrate. “Reckon yer got what it takes? Tale of yer own?”

 Of course she did! What sort of person wants to be a pirate if they don’t want adventure? Want escape? “So what?”

 He smirked, pulling out a gun. From her right Afina heard the barwoman start talking, but stopped midway through the first word. She seemed confident, desperate to start, and maybe that’s why he pointed the gun at her. Maybe he wants to test if she’s willing to die for the crew.

 Fully, she believed he wouldn’t pull the trigger. Even though she was looking straight into his piercing eyes, she could still see his finger on the trigger, bent just enough that a slight tap and a bullet would fly.

 “If ye’re here, then there’s no-one back home, is there darlin’? I don’t reckon yer elders would let ya out on yer own. So, who’d miss ye if I were ta’ pull this trigger?”

 Afina thought he was lying. There was no way a Captain would really pull the trigger inside one of the best Tavern’s this side of the Colossal Sea. However, she was proven wrong. Inch by inch, his hand pulled back the trigger, but she didn’t wince. There was a click, and the trigger reset: the gun wasn’t loaded.

 “Welcome to the crew.” Smiled the Captain, baring his two golden teeth. Around the room, everyone raised their glasses, cheering, and Jillian brought her a beer. It wasn’t horrible, but she preferred the wine Marlene made.

That night, when all the crewmen staggered and swayed their way onto the ship, Afina cautiously stepped behind. With all these men and women swinging around cutlasses and guns, it was safer to keep a distance. “Ye ‘ave any stuff ye wants t’ bring?” Asked one of the crewmen, but Afina silently shook her head.

“I’ve got her, Slacker, you get off to bed.” Said Jillian, and Slacker thanked him.

 She would have said it was fine, if she wasn’t too busy marvelling at the ship. Planks of glittering wood, lined with a glossy wood railing all along the edge. Even the steps up had no splinters. The masts stood proud to be waving Two-Teeth’s flag, blowing like its chest was puffed. Afina wanted to know if the Captain’s Quarters were as detailed and elegant as Mother described them to be with the silk curtains, bed-hangings, and a fluffy rug. Even if she knew she would never find out, a girl can dream.

 Jillian guided her downstairs to the sleeping quarters, talking her through who did what.

 “What do you do, then?” Afina asked, looking at Jillian who was slightly swaying from the alcohol (Afina was swaying for a different reason, but Jillian said it’s because it’ll take a few days to find her sea legs).

 “Me? I’m your Quartermaster.” He said it with such pride Afina felt elation for him.

 Finally, they reached a section with empty beds and hammocks. Nothing there but rumpled sheets and thrown, un-fluffy pillows. “How did you get used to this?” She asked, looking at the Pirate but only seeing the Prince.

He was still shaven perfectly, his eyebrows plucked, hair not out of place, as well as his clothes being stainless.

 “Nobody’s used to it, trust me. Even the Captain can’t stand the lumps. But we chose this life: you deal with it.” He turned to leave, and Afina looked to her bed.

“Before I go: Captain wants to talk in the mornin’, get you started.”

 “Did the person sailing today?”

 Gillian smirked, “We’re all plastered, love.”

Afina could not sleep. What with the boat rocking, but also a feeling in her stomach. A dreadful pit she dangled over, a guard pushing her to the edge. Maybe she should turn back.

 Maybe this wasn’t the best thing to be doing. Instead, she should be looking after the bakery. But whatever choice does she have? Not to mention the snoring. She managed to get a few hours before she almost fell from the bed.

 Trying not to wake a bunch of hungover pirates, in the pitch black of night, and not being able to walk while sailing yet, proved a difficult feat. After almost stepping on someone’s leg and elbowing another’s stomach who resided in a hammock, Afina made it to the stairs.

 By Leah Berry

Only Stumped was up, sailing the ship. He tipped his hat to her and Afina was right: one leg. A candle was still lit in the Captain’s Quarters, the peep-hole and the moon illuminating the ship.

Casually, she swung her legs over the fence of the ship and sat on the taller bit of the boat, holding onto the rope by her head to keep from falling. She had lifted enough sacks of flour to have core strength if the boat suddenly moved, but Afina doubted a large wooden object at sea could snap in another direction like a horse.

 For however much she could see, it was only water. A few stars, but not enough to lift the blindfold of the night. Peacefully, she swung her legs, back and forth and back and forth, not noticing the look that Stumped gave her, a look of ‘you’re only going to last a few days, stupid girl.’

 When something jumped.

 Something with a tail. A dark tail with light green accents that shimmered in the moonlight and let droplets trickle off. And the thing had hair, hair that wasn’t wet. It swished in the wind and moved freely like it was dry. Like it had never touched water once.

Afina gasped, hand going to the top of the thin fence and the rope, clenching around them tightly. Even though her body was cautious of falling, Afina leant forwards, hoping to see the sea creature do it again.

 The creature didn’t, but Afina was sure she heard a light giggle, one that could paint a rainbow and end a war.

It was a prison cell

By Leah Berry

It was a prison cell. Muted colours danced to their mundane songs, in a dull ballroom decorated by suffocating curtains that solidified the confinements of the isolated cell. As usual, he longingly peered out of the cell coverage made of cotton and the bars, clinging to the wasted window, screaming in a silent plea to be broken.

Daylight streamed through them, but he didn't bask in the glory for long: like a vampire, he avoided the sun, knowing he would desperately long for freedom if a single ray touched his ghostly skin. With only the fake, sunken flowers on the white washed curtains for company, the boy drew further and further and further into his deep, psychological despair.

Silent and broken, the boy tried to talk to himself to find his voice trapped in his throat: 'ironic' he thought. Unfortunately he kept his tears locked up. Despondently, he did loops infinitely around the perimeter before he grew bored of that then sat down, to do it all again. Resigned to his fate, the boy had settled well into this routine. Like an unrecorded death, his name became forgotten to even him as he hadn't spoken it in years.

Continuing down this path, the boy was lead to this day. Like first reading about a villain, he knew his happily ever after would never arrive. Whenever he looked out the window, slowly, he came to terms with his ever after: even if it wasn't what he wanted, or hoped, or dreamt of. Although he was seventeen, the boy had been in there for most of his teenage years: he knew he would never get out.

It was a prison cell. There is no simile, no metaphor, no anything behind that simple, lacklustre sentence. It was a fact: it would be a falsehood to say it was a technique. Outside his cell, through the miniscule window, was a stone wall with barbed wire designed to keep him locked up. The walls hold no prayer, nor a spirit.

To look at the paint that had started to chip off as time passed, or gouged by other prisoners occasionally brought into the isolation room- anything to pass horrendous, blood-sucking time, slowly going mad, theorising absurd meanings from the wall's blank (maybe judgemental) stare back.

Isolation rooms were all the boy had known since the mere, ripe age of fourteen. At fourteen, it wasn't experiencing new experiences in the wonderful world that gave him a euphoric thrill. It was seeing that women's face freeze, eyes more wild than a deer caught in a trap.

She had nothing beautiful about her but the blood gushing from her neck, trickling like the last drops of milk from a carton, down her jumpsuit. It looked so succulent, so sweet: tasted like glorious honey from the perfect honeycomb. And so did his next victims, and the victim after that, and the victim after that.

It was a prison cell.

A lone snowed-in cabin

 by Leah Berry

The night sky is why people wished they could fly. Supinely, it was the most pulchritudinous of art, alive with the rawest of energy, a symphony of the eyes, promising life within the darkness, a warmness stroking from the cold. Giants of the earth, the snow-covered trees branched with multiple arms and foregone shaking off the substance as they knew more would eventually cascade onto their leaves (who even knew if the trees were green underneath the suffocating weather?). If anyone was outside- who could be with the snow blocking the door to the lit, oak cabin? -breathe would be pale against the numbing air and blinking would be like seeing the luminosity of the sun for the first time since having your eyes closed for your entire life. However, with your eyes shut to the lambent world the frost would patiently kiss their face, entering your mind to envision a wintery wonderland. Slap! And the imagery was broken... Like it was rising, frost would stiffen legs; make toes clench; turn noses painfully, bloody red and shake your head involuntarily.

Archaic and festering, the wooden slats barely kept the light burning kindle heating the smallest cabin. Unfortunately, a lone man was entombed inside by the cell walls of Mother Nature, with only his skis as comfort. Agonisingly, the man sucked on his teeth as he sat up looking out the window at a heavenly hell he was barely protected from. Pained and desperate, he peered down at the blood spilling from his leg: his only other source of warmth. Morbidly, the sight was a haunted beauty against the purest, most innocent form of weather with a horrible effect on the human body: against blood, a connotation of death and pain and anguish. It was that big of a difference, it was shocking nobody saw the spine-curling red from miles away.

Sighing, the pain began to numb, and he succumbed to his final showing breathe and stared out the trifling window with heavy eyelids. Giving in, he let them fall. His last image of snow haunting his final memory. Whenever he dreamt of his final image, it didn't contain a heavenly glow his mind then decided was the devil's work. Like a deer in headlights, the bright brown cabin stuck out, yet nobody was able to wade through the clotting snow or see it as it blinded everyone with glimmers. But it did stop. However, it wasn't until it all liquefied and cleared to a drying river that the blue body was discovered.

 

x

Dancing with your ghost

 by Leah Berry

“One, two, three, one, two, three, one-” Henry groaned and hung his head as he messed up the step  once more. On one of his desks, the gramophone kept playing reminding him of what a failure he was. “You’ve got this, Henry, you can-”

“Finally gone insane?” It was Aries, of course it was. Henry couldn’t go one day without the annoying younger man ruining it.

“You’re not wanted, Aries.”

He leant against the doorframe, arms crossed, dressed in formal robes like he owned no slacks or a button-up shirt. “Well neither are you, up here in solitude.” He sauntered into Henry’s room, uninvited. “You’re terrible at this, aren’t you?”

“Never would have guessed.” Sighed Henry. When he made another mistake after restarting the record, he stomped his foot. “Dammit!”

Aries clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth and entered Henry’s personal space. “Here.” He positioned his hand up and the other around an imaginary hip. “I’ll lead to start.”

“What are you doing.” Henry demanded.

“Clearly you’re too incompetent to teach yourself.” Cautiously, Henry took Aries’ hand and placed his other gently on his shoulder.

In the glistening, glass-roof ballroom, Henry floated around with his mother on the dance floor, never missing a step and smiling the whole time. He managed a conversation without faltering. Behind his mother’s head, Aries stood with one hand behind his back and his onyx robes with silver accents extenuating his beautifully grey eyes.

Unfortunately, as two heirs to the most noble houses, they were forced to dance. “Seems like your dance teacher was the best money could buy.” Aries joked.

“Was that a joke? Never knew he had a sense of humour.”

“It’s because I don’t like you.” Aries shone his fake smile and fought down the urge to scowl.

“Yet here you are.” Henry was the one left smiling that night. (After they snuck away and danced some more.)

They crossed paths frequently after, Henry noticed. They conversed in the kitchen, laughed in the libraries, babbled in their bedrooms, danced in the spare dining rooms. Life was bliss.

There was something there they never discussed, but both men felt the strong pull like the ocean does the moon. At every meal time they would miraculously wind up together, conveniently they chose the same time to begin their afternoon strolls. Life aligned like the planets.

Yet, as with planets, they are not always in perfect parallel. The night before Aries was sent away, they danced until their feet would fall off. They danced with such unison if the paintings were alive they would weep their oils.

The last Henry had heard of Aries he was on a ship, sailing for new lands along with his parents. It was a letter filled with regretful joy describing the awaiting adventures and how the sun will burn his pale complexion to a crisp. However, it was also a letter of sorrow as they would be parted far longer than either anticipated, than either thought they could endure.

Henry had to endure longer, however. A few nights later he received news, sat in one of many red cushioned and gold intricated painted living rooms, listening to the radio. Once the static voice uttered the words “no survivors”, Henry cried enough for the both of them.

A year or so later he was still grieving a love that could have been. There had been many balls since but Henry could never find it in himself to mingle or dance. Instead, he sat in the corner, mimicking the hand movements, like Aries was still there.

Aries danced on his own in his room like the very first time every night, and when his skin had wrinkled, his hair had greyed, and his children had grown, he felt the smallest of pressures on his shoulder. Delicate fingers, maybe. And he danced.