it echoes inside
there
where you are meant to live
darkness
no lights but the porch
flickering, burning, waiting
a beacon
hopeful and hopeless
i will keep it warm for you
i will wander its halls
footsteps damp, salt in my wake
this home, not my home
our home
quiet, haunted
by what hasn't
by what may
by what may not
but it remains
there
space carved away years ago
the piece of me i gave
the light is on
map and guide
even if
even if you never
even if you never return
home
Wednesday, 18 May 2016
Sunday, 24 April 2016
feel me
feel me
hear me
i am present
alive
willing
full of answers
full of questions
full of lies i never told you
desire coloured by
honesty at odds with
perception
worlds within worlds
within each other
without…
feel me
in, over, around, above
hear me
the taste on your tongue
the blood on your lips
before you i lie
posed repose
drawn and quartered
split between the lines
the silence
the remnants of
feel me
touch the raw chords of your making
hear me
the dissonant roar of your demise
Tuesday, 28 October 2014
More
More, she said.
More, more, give it all.
Keep giving.
More, when the silence falls.
More, when the cracks begin to show.
More, to quiet the never-ending screaming.
More.
When there is nothing left to give, still more.
More, because the void swallows the broken places inside,
and the nothing beyond is still more palatable than what was left behind.
More.
Outgrown, the vessel shatters and falls away.
More.
Lacking form, density, space, time,
there is nothing.
There is everything.
More.
When the long miles behind you echo with your ghosts,
more.
Always moving, always forward.
More, as the future slips further and further from your vision.
More, as you fall.
More, as you crawl.
More, with the bloodied stumps grinding into asphalt,
still more.
Bones rattling against one another
in a disjointed rhythm
as you finally still.
More.
Always more.
Thursday, 25 September 2014
Dreaming Big
If you've taken a passing glance at my bio, you will have seen that I study Nutrition as well as write. Food and words are my two great loves for many reasons, more than I really have space for in this one blog post. I have a Why I Write post in the works, but my brain has been a bit here and there, so I'm waiting until I have the right mindset to tackle that one properly. So, that will have to wait for now.
Recently, I've been thinking of ways I can combine them so I can do both the things I love at once. As much as I do enjoy science, it's less important to me if I can turn the other two into Real Jobs somehow.
Cafe culture in Australia is generally pretty great, because as a country we are obsessed with both amazing coffee and delicious brunch food. Still, during the week, cafes cater to the work crowd, so they'll be open very early for breakfast and through early afternoon for lunch, but that's it. On the weekend it's no better, because while we love our brunches, most dinners are left under the purview of 'real' restaurants. So, cafe hours are often quite limited, and fair enough, as that's what they can make a business catering to. There are a few exceptions to this rule, though very few, and it's possible that Melbourne with its strong artsy leanings caters to the writer better than Sydney often can.
Still, I've sort of latched on to this idea of a very writing-focused cafe, with much longer and much later hours overall. Someplace with super cozy chairs and tables to encourage you to spend time there, and a courtyard that's easily covered so that you can take advantage of fresh air and sunny days as they come. Perhaps there would even be a super quiet zone upstairs with proper desks instead of cafe tables that worked more as a hot-seat writing space, but you could still order up coffees and snacks as needed. There'd be books all over the walls, of course, in case you want to take a break from work and just want to lounge about for a while reading. The hours would cater to writers and students and freelancers, those of us who don't adhere to those strange 'office hours'. There'd still be morning hours for the weirdos that do wake up before noon, but breakfast and brunch would be served all day and we'd stay open until late, till just about all those more sensible people have gone to bed.
Honestly, that sounds like heaven to me. And I'd probably go for it too, if I ever made enough money from writing or other work to invest in its start up.
I'm pretty ok with others stealing this idea and going for it, cause I think places like this should exist! Although, maybe not if you live in Sydney, cause I want to do it here? Maybe? Some day?
Recently, I've been thinking of ways I can combine them so I can do both the things I love at once. As much as I do enjoy science, it's less important to me if I can turn the other two into Real Jobs somehow.
Cafe culture in Australia is generally pretty great, because as a country we are obsessed with both amazing coffee and delicious brunch food. Still, during the week, cafes cater to the work crowd, so they'll be open very early for breakfast and through early afternoon for lunch, but that's it. On the weekend it's no better, because while we love our brunches, most dinners are left under the purview of 'real' restaurants. So, cafe hours are often quite limited, and fair enough, as that's what they can make a business catering to. There are a few exceptions to this rule, though very few, and it's possible that Melbourne with its strong artsy leanings caters to the writer better than Sydney often can.
Still, I've sort of latched on to this idea of a very writing-focused cafe, with much longer and much later hours overall. Someplace with super cozy chairs and tables to encourage you to spend time there, and a courtyard that's easily covered so that you can take advantage of fresh air and sunny days as they come. Perhaps there would even be a super quiet zone upstairs with proper desks instead of cafe tables that worked more as a hot-seat writing space, but you could still order up coffees and snacks as needed. There'd be books all over the walls, of course, in case you want to take a break from work and just want to lounge about for a while reading. The hours would cater to writers and students and freelancers, those of us who don't adhere to those strange 'office hours'. There'd still be morning hours for the weirdos that do wake up before noon, but breakfast and brunch would be served all day and we'd stay open until late, till just about all those more sensible people have gone to bed.
Honestly, that sounds like heaven to me. And I'd probably go for it too, if I ever made enough money from writing or other work to invest in its start up.
I'm pretty ok with others stealing this idea and going for it, cause I think places like this should exist! Although, maybe not if you live in Sydney, cause I want to do it here? Maybe? Some day?
Saturday, 13 September 2014
On Never Reading Enough: A Personal Challenge
I've been thinking recently about why I don't read more. My reading list is endless and ever-growing, as I'm sure is true of all book lovers. I don't really lack for time or energy to do so among all my other commitments. I could certainly prioritise reading more over catching up on my TV shows or playing video games, which is how I often otherwise spend my down time. But I often find myself choosing not to read over other forms of relaxation, because I often simply want to turn my brain off for a while.
And as both a lover of stories and a writer, this makes me feel, well... guilty. I know reading is as important to good writing as much as the practise of writing. You see it mentioned in nearly every piece of writing advice out there: to write well you must also read, a lot and often. It's not that I don't read for pleasure at all, because I definitely do... but I don't do it as much as I'd like or feel that I should. I've been making a concerted effort to fix that, because my reading list is beginning to get out of control.
Still, the idea that I'd choose not to read over other entertainment is strange to me. I read voraciously as a child. I preferred books to people (and still do, quite honestly), and I lived in the library growing up. I spent most summers there. I'd check out a huge stack of books, hungrily read through them all, and then go back for another round week after week.
But that was before the internet, before adult responsibilities, before a lot of things which now make me pick and choose carefully how I must spend my time. Not that that has ever stopped me from having many sleepless nights where I just had to get to the end of whatever book I was engrossed with at the time. I haven't had nearly as many of those in a long while, though.
I think what I've come to realise is that I do read all the time, just not in the same way. The more my life has revolved around the internet, social media, endless blogs and news articles, etc. the more I find the thought of reading for pure pleasure a task as opposed to simple relaxation. I spend all day reading words on a screen, so much that the thought of reading for fun seems like effort. How depressing is that?
As I'm ironically complain about reading blogs on a blog, I'm going to challenge myself now to read a lot more books instead of other forms of entertainment. And instead of some of my sometimes wandering internet time, for sure. I'll never be at my childhood levels of reading again, obviously, but I'm wondering if I can do a book a week. Maybe every two weeks to start and see how I go. So let's say 12 books over six months.
I'll post progress and mini-reviews on my Facebook and Twitter to keep things accountable under the hashtag #12book6.
The list as it stands, maybe kind of in order:
1) The Name of the Wind - Patrick Rothfuss
2) The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
3) The Ocean at the End of the Lane - Neil Gaiman
4) Blackbirds - Chuck Wendig
5) The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
6) Daughter of the Forest - Juliet Marillier
7) The First Man in Rome - Colleen McCollough
8) Banewreaker - Jacqueline Carey
9) The Paying Guests - Sarah Waters
10) The Gunslinger - Stephen King
11) God's War - Kameron Hurley
12) The Killing Moon - N.K. Jemisin
Wish me luck!
And as both a lover of stories and a writer, this makes me feel, well... guilty. I know reading is as important to good writing as much as the practise of writing. You see it mentioned in nearly every piece of writing advice out there: to write well you must also read, a lot and often. It's not that I don't read for pleasure at all, because I definitely do... but I don't do it as much as I'd like or feel that I should. I've been making a concerted effort to fix that, because my reading list is beginning to get out of control.
Still, the idea that I'd choose not to read over other entertainment is strange to me. I read voraciously as a child. I preferred books to people (and still do, quite honestly), and I lived in the library growing up. I spent most summers there. I'd check out a huge stack of books, hungrily read through them all, and then go back for another round week after week.
But that was before the internet, before adult responsibilities, before a lot of things which now make me pick and choose carefully how I must spend my time. Not that that has ever stopped me from having many sleepless nights where I just had to get to the end of whatever book I was engrossed with at the time. I haven't had nearly as many of those in a long while, though.
I think what I've come to realise is that I do read all the time, just not in the same way. The more my life has revolved around the internet, social media, endless blogs and news articles, etc. the more I find the thought of reading for pure pleasure a task as opposed to simple relaxation. I spend all day reading words on a screen, so much that the thought of reading for fun seems like effort. How depressing is that?
As I'm ironically complain about reading blogs on a blog, I'm going to challenge myself now to read a lot more books instead of other forms of entertainment. And instead of some of my sometimes wandering internet time, for sure. I'll never be at my childhood levels of reading again, obviously, but I'm wondering if I can do a book a week. Maybe every two weeks to start and see how I go. So let's say 12 books over six months.
I'll post progress and mini-reviews on my Facebook and Twitter to keep things accountable under the hashtag #12book6.
The list as it stands, maybe kind of in order:
1) The Name of the Wind - Patrick Rothfuss
2) The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
3) The Ocean at the End of the Lane - Neil Gaiman
4) Blackbirds - Chuck Wendig
5) The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
6) Daughter of the Forest - Juliet Marillier
7) The First Man in Rome - Colleen McCollough
8) Banewreaker - Jacqueline Carey
9) The Paying Guests - Sarah Waters
10) The Gunslinger - Stephen King
11) God's War - Kameron Hurley
12) The Killing Moon - N.K. Jemisin
Wish me luck!
Tuesday, 2 September 2014
Updates!
Sorry, things have been far too quiet on this blog. Mostly because I've been busy with writing related things but not in ways that I can show you yet! It's frustrating! And I've had a blog post on the back burner for a while, but between uni and taking on writing projects it's fallen through the cracks. Hopefully, I'll post stuff a bit more often when I need a break from the craziness.
But the good news is that by the end of the year, there will be a couple ways for you to get your hands on my writing that is Not This Blog. And probably far better than what is on this blog, since there will be editing and feedback and stuff. You can trust I'll be pimping the heck out of it once everything takes shape, but for now it's nose to the grindstone to get all the writing done.
I'm really excited about the subject matter of the projects I'm a part of. If you have any interest in mental illness or modern takes on fairy tales, you will love them too. (Unsubtle tease is unsubtle.)
Okay, back to work. Whee!
But the good news is that by the end of the year, there will be a couple ways for you to get your hands on my writing that is Not This Blog. And probably far better than what is on this blog, since there will be editing and feedback and stuff. You can trust I'll be pimping the heck out of it once everything takes shape, but for now it's nose to the grindstone to get all the writing done.
I'm really excited about the subject matter of the projects I'm a part of. If you have any interest in mental illness or modern takes on fairy tales, you will love them too. (Unsubtle tease is unsubtle.)
Okay, back to work. Whee!
Sunday, 3 August 2014
Flash Fiction: Sub-Genre Mashup
Here's a fun unpolished and unfinished bit of flash fiction I did a while back. I was using a prompt from Chuck Wendig's blog to randomly mash two genres together. I got Weird West and Shapeshifters. Anyway, it was meant to be 2,000 words but I got close without being near finished... it reads as the start of something much longer. Then I never went back to it because.. life. Anyway, it was a great little challenge to play with.
As for me, I'm back hard at work on the novel, so I don't know if I'll have much to publish here. Depends on time demands between uni and writing, but I want to do more flash fiction or other writing challenges if I can. I'm also finally brave enough to start workshopping my writing, which is terrifying and very exciting. But what I can learn definitely outweighs the terror. I am pretty determined to keep growing and improving as a writer.
Dust kicked up at my heels as I walked along the edge of the deserted main street, creamy orange rays of sunshine peeking above the horizon. I took in a deep breath of the cool spring air, savouring this quiet moment to myself. On the boundaries of the small town lay the brand new schoolhouse, unpainted wood still bright and fresh. I moved to the frontier to teach just four weeks ago, lured by generous pay and solitude. The steam trains connecting the far reaches of the continent with the capital city were still months away at best, so we relied on a fortnightly courier to carry our mail, replenish supplies, etc. It was all very old fashioned, and my family scoffed when I’d announced my plans to leave the familiar comforts of the city behind, but it suited me just fine.
I was about to bounce up the front steps of the building when I noticed a trail of small, dark splashes on the ground. Curious, I followed them around back to find a figure slumped in the grass against the school’s foundations. I gasped and ran over, dropping my small lunch basket in the process. My gaze was immediately drawn to the blood soaking through their rough spun shirt, their face hidden by a worn broad-brimmed hat. Their breathing was shallow and laboured, but I was relieved to see they were still alive. I thrust my hands over the wound to put pressure on it and stem the bleeding. Slowly, the stranger roused and looked up at me in response.
I managed to keep my hands steady and on task, but my eyes went wide. The hat may have rested on what you’d recognise as a head, but the face was like nothing I’d ever seen. The eyes seemed to contain only grey wispy clouds, no other colour or pupil. The opalescent skin surrounding them was nearly devoid of features entirely, though there were the faint shadows of a nose and mouth. As I studied them, it felt as if my eyes couldn’t focus, everything about the creature constantly shifting.
“Thank… you…” I wasn’t sure if the mouth had even moved at all, but I could clearly hear a voice come from it, though it was weak. It snapped me out of my shock.
“Y—you’re pretty badly injured. We need to get you to the doctor right away.”
It shook its head. “No… no doctor. They…” it paused, taking in an obviously painful breath, “They couldn’t help.”
I glanced down at my hands, now bright red. The wound was very deep, the pressure I was applying not actually doing much to slow the flow of blood.
“It—it is too late. But I thank you… for your kindness…”
They were obviously fading quickly. They were right. They wouldn’t last long. My mind raced. There was one thing, a last resort— No!, I thought. I swore I wouldn’t. Never again. Last time… last time…
As for me, I'm back hard at work on the novel, so I don't know if I'll have much to publish here. Depends on time demands between uni and writing, but I want to do more flash fiction or other writing challenges if I can. I'm also finally brave enough to start workshopping my writing, which is terrifying and very exciting. But what I can learn definitely outweighs the terror. I am pretty determined to keep growing and improving as a writer.
~ ~ ~
Dust kicked up at my heels as I walked along the edge of the deserted main street, creamy orange rays of sunshine peeking above the horizon. I took in a deep breath of the cool spring air, savouring this quiet moment to myself. On the boundaries of the small town lay the brand new schoolhouse, unpainted wood still bright and fresh. I moved to the frontier to teach just four weeks ago, lured by generous pay and solitude. The steam trains connecting the far reaches of the continent with the capital city were still months away at best, so we relied on a fortnightly courier to carry our mail, replenish supplies, etc. It was all very old fashioned, and my family scoffed when I’d announced my plans to leave the familiar comforts of the city behind, but it suited me just fine.
I was about to bounce up the front steps of the building when I noticed a trail of small, dark splashes on the ground. Curious, I followed them around back to find a figure slumped in the grass against the school’s foundations. I gasped and ran over, dropping my small lunch basket in the process. My gaze was immediately drawn to the blood soaking through their rough spun shirt, their face hidden by a worn broad-brimmed hat. Their breathing was shallow and laboured, but I was relieved to see they were still alive. I thrust my hands over the wound to put pressure on it and stem the bleeding. Slowly, the stranger roused and looked up at me in response.
I managed to keep my hands steady and on task, but my eyes went wide. The hat may have rested on what you’d recognise as a head, but the face was like nothing I’d ever seen. The eyes seemed to contain only grey wispy clouds, no other colour or pupil. The opalescent skin surrounding them was nearly devoid of features entirely, though there were the faint shadows of a nose and mouth. As I studied them, it felt as if my eyes couldn’t focus, everything about the creature constantly shifting.
“Thank… you…” I wasn’t sure if the mouth had even moved at all, but I could clearly hear a voice come from it, though it was weak. It snapped me out of my shock.
“Y—you’re pretty badly injured. We need to get you to the doctor right away.”
It shook its head. “No… no doctor. They…” it paused, taking in an obviously painful breath, “They couldn’t help.”
I glanced down at my hands, now bright red. The wound was very deep, the pressure I was applying not actually doing much to slow the flow of blood.
“It—it is too late. But I thank you… for your kindness…”
They were obviously fading quickly. They were right. They wouldn’t last long. My mind raced. There was one thing, a last resort— No!, I thought. I swore I wouldn’t. Never again. Last time… last time…
But they weren’t human, that much was obvious. It might not affect them the same way, and it was their only chance. They were dying already, so wasn’t it worth trying? If it did go wrong, though— no, I couldn’t think about that now.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I concentrated on the feel of them beneath my fingers, on the blood I felt pulsing out of them with every heartbeat. Heat began to radiate outward, flowing from my core through my palms and into the wound. In my mind, I could see the damage within, body ragged and torn nearly all the way through. The heat intensified and slowly, so slowly, I began to mend the flesh and organs as if sewing them back together again. I’m uncertain how much time passed while in my trance, but it was a while later when I finally finished and fell forward heavily onto my hands, exhausted.
Healing always drained me, and this wound was particularly bad. I trembled and gasped for breath, weak from the effort. I felt the creature shift beneath me. Turning my head to look up at him, I was surprised to see the rugged face of a human man staring back. He appeared the same as any frontiersman you’d see in town, a solid build and a little rough around the edges, but he had very kind blue eyes framed by thick, brown waves of hair.
His mouth was agape. “You’re… I didn’t think there were any of your kind left.”
I knitted my brows. “My kind? Am I like you?”
“Ah.” He smiled softly. “You’ve saved my life. The least I can do is explain what you are. Though, let’s get you inside somewhere. You’ve obviously exhausted yourself with your magics.”
I had no energy to protest as he gently extricated himself from beneath me and helped me to my feet. Neither of us were going to make it back to my little house on the other side of town in this shape, so I directed him up and into the schoolhouse. I wrote a quick note on a chalkboard tablet on the door, there for that purpose, stating I was ill and there would be no school today, and then locked us securely inside.
The stranger sat me down on one of the benches the students normally used, and I gratefully leaned against the nearby desk. Sitting at the other end of the bench and facing me, I still couldn’t get over his change in appearance. I wondered if I hadn’t somehow hallucinated the vague face I saw at first.
He reached out a hand towards me. “I suppose it’s only polite I introduce myself. I’m Cailan.”
His grin was infectious, and I was surprised he seemed so chipper though he must still be weak from loss of blood. My healing mended flesh, but it still took time to recover. Still, I took up his hand and he shook it firmly, but gently. “My name is Evelyn Padstow.”
His face formed a look that was all too familiar to me. “The Padstows?”
Even this far away from the capital, I could never quite escape them. My great-grandfather was the first great industrialist, having invented the steam technology that now ran the backbone of our great nation. The pride, of course, was the steam trains which allowed the expansion out west, ever furthering our borders. If I never heard again about how wonderful and important my family was, it would be too soon.
I nodded a bit curtly at Cailan.
“Sorry. Sore subject, huh? I’ve just never met anyone—“ he paused, thinking carefully, “well, anyone so highbrow. I guess.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m just a teacher, nothing more, Mr.—“ I realised he never gave me a family name.
“Just Cailan, Miss Padstow.” He tipped his hat as he said this.
I laughed. “Then call me Evelyn. Now, I believe you owe me some sort of explanation for saving your life. Was I imagining that you looked different before?”
“No. You saw what I truly look like. I’m a Shifter. We can take many forms, but what you see now is the one I use to blend in.”
Unthinking, I reached out to touch his arm, reassuring myself he was actually real. He smiled at me. “There are more like you out there?”
“A few, yes. Not nearly as many as there used to be, sadly. You, however, are truly rare. I haven’t heard of one of your kind having existed for the better part of a century.”
I looked down at my hands, almost afraid of what he was going to say next. For years I hid my magics, and not just at the behest of my family, though they were certainly frightened of my abilities. No, I’d sworn never to use them again after— I shook my mind clear. It didn’t matter now. I was simply relieved nothing had gone wrong this morning.
Cailan must have sensed my conflict, softly putting his hands over mine. “Let me guess, you and that steam technology your family invented don’t get along so well.”
“No, definitely not. That’s part of why I moved so far away. How did you know?”
“Magics and tech are two sides of the same coin. They don’t live in the same space well. As tech has taken over our society, magic has been slowly dying out. To put it bluntly, you shouldn’t really exist.”
“That doesn’t really explain what I am.”
He gave a lopsided grin. “You’re a Witch, and I’m guessing quite a pure one, at that. The healing you performed on me is some very powerful magics. It’s no wonder it drained you so thoroughly, untrained as you are.”
“A witch? With the green skin and broomsticks and black cats?”
Cailan laughed heartily. “You have looked in a mirror recently, haven’t you? Obviously, none of that is true.”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I concentrated on the feel of them beneath my fingers, on the blood I felt pulsing out of them with every heartbeat. Heat began to radiate outward, flowing from my core through my palms and into the wound. In my mind, I could see the damage within, body ragged and torn nearly all the way through. The heat intensified and slowly, so slowly, I began to mend the flesh and organs as if sewing them back together again. I’m uncertain how much time passed while in my trance, but it was a while later when I finally finished and fell forward heavily onto my hands, exhausted.
Healing always drained me, and this wound was particularly bad. I trembled and gasped for breath, weak from the effort. I felt the creature shift beneath me. Turning my head to look up at him, I was surprised to see the rugged face of a human man staring back. He appeared the same as any frontiersman you’d see in town, a solid build and a little rough around the edges, but he had very kind blue eyes framed by thick, brown waves of hair.
His mouth was agape. “You’re… I didn’t think there were any of your kind left.”
I knitted my brows. “My kind? Am I like you?”
“Ah.” He smiled softly. “You’ve saved my life. The least I can do is explain what you are. Though, let’s get you inside somewhere. You’ve obviously exhausted yourself with your magics.”
I had no energy to protest as he gently extricated himself from beneath me and helped me to my feet. Neither of us were going to make it back to my little house on the other side of town in this shape, so I directed him up and into the schoolhouse. I wrote a quick note on a chalkboard tablet on the door, there for that purpose, stating I was ill and there would be no school today, and then locked us securely inside.
The stranger sat me down on one of the benches the students normally used, and I gratefully leaned against the nearby desk. Sitting at the other end of the bench and facing me, I still couldn’t get over his change in appearance. I wondered if I hadn’t somehow hallucinated the vague face I saw at first.
He reached out a hand towards me. “I suppose it’s only polite I introduce myself. I’m Cailan.”
His grin was infectious, and I was surprised he seemed so chipper though he must still be weak from loss of blood. My healing mended flesh, but it still took time to recover. Still, I took up his hand and he shook it firmly, but gently. “My name is Evelyn Padstow.”
His face formed a look that was all too familiar to me. “The Padstows?”
Even this far away from the capital, I could never quite escape them. My great-grandfather was the first great industrialist, having invented the steam technology that now ran the backbone of our great nation. The pride, of course, was the steam trains which allowed the expansion out west, ever furthering our borders. If I never heard again about how wonderful and important my family was, it would be too soon.
I nodded a bit curtly at Cailan.
“Sorry. Sore subject, huh? I’ve just never met anyone—“ he paused, thinking carefully, “well, anyone so highbrow. I guess.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m just a teacher, nothing more, Mr.—“ I realised he never gave me a family name.
“Just Cailan, Miss Padstow.” He tipped his hat as he said this.
I laughed. “Then call me Evelyn. Now, I believe you owe me some sort of explanation for saving your life. Was I imagining that you looked different before?”
“No. You saw what I truly look like. I’m a Shifter. We can take many forms, but what you see now is the one I use to blend in.”
Unthinking, I reached out to touch his arm, reassuring myself he was actually real. He smiled at me. “There are more like you out there?”
“A few, yes. Not nearly as many as there used to be, sadly. You, however, are truly rare. I haven’t heard of one of your kind having existed for the better part of a century.”
I looked down at my hands, almost afraid of what he was going to say next. For years I hid my magics, and not just at the behest of my family, though they were certainly frightened of my abilities. No, I’d sworn never to use them again after— I shook my mind clear. It didn’t matter now. I was simply relieved nothing had gone wrong this morning.
Cailan must have sensed my conflict, softly putting his hands over mine. “Let me guess, you and that steam technology your family invented don’t get along so well.”
“No, definitely not. That’s part of why I moved so far away. How did you know?”
“Magics and tech are two sides of the same coin. They don’t live in the same space well. As tech has taken over our society, magic has been slowly dying out. To put it bluntly, you shouldn’t really exist.”
“That doesn’t really explain what I am.”
He gave a lopsided grin. “You’re a Witch, and I’m guessing quite a pure one, at that. The healing you performed on me is some very powerful magics. It’s no wonder it drained you so thoroughly, untrained as you are.”
“A witch? With the green skin and broomsticks and black cats?”
Cailan laughed heartily. “You have looked in a mirror recently, haven’t you? Obviously, none of that is true.”
~ ~ ~
If you got this far and actually would like to see where this goes, comment below. I wouldn't mind continuing to expand on this. :)
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