Writing prompt snippet: a confrontation

 Niss heard the clink of something being left in the large metal bowl. Silence for a beat, then the sun-walker started talking, getting louder all the time. She sounded angry. Niss wondered who she was talking to. She hadn't heard anyone else.

Footsteps, walking away. Niss crept out from her hiding space and made for the bowl that sat in front of the Old One. A handful of batteries. Good. The others would be pleased. 

She scooped them up and turned to head back through the tunnels, but her hands were dusty from crawling and one of the batteries slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor.

"Hey!" 

Niss reached down and grabbed the errant battery, before hopping through the rubble and back to safety. Dropping to all fours, she started to head for home.

She heard a noise behind her, and something touched her foot. She kicked out. There was a sharp cry, and she gave a quick grin that soon faded when her foot was grabbed.

"That's stealing, you sacrilegious little shit." 

Niss scrabbled at the sides of her tunnel, but couldn't catch hold of anything. She was pulled back out into the nasty open space.

The sun-walker grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her round, only to shove her away again at the last second. Niss stumbled backwards onto the floor.

She tried to get up, but her ankle hurt, and she stifled a sob. She grasped the batteries tightly in her small hand.

Writing Prompt Snippet: Something precious stolen

 I found a little lead plant ID label the other day while walking the dog. It must have been for some variety of primula, as I could see the letters PRIM stamped onto it.  I put it in my pocket and took it home.  I found a tiny glass jar for it and sat it on the table. Then today I was racking my brains about what the "stolen treasure" could be in the writing prompt that Stephen gave me for our challenge. I decided the lead tag had to be something to do with it, and then I decided that young Niss from the first prompt was in the same story as Asha.

Asha is looking for the Primogenitor sample because she's been hired to find it. Niss is interested in the sample because it's what she and her kind were originally created from. They are hypersensitive to sunlight, it ages them prematurely, and the older you are, the more it affects you. So the young children of their kind are the ones that interact with the human world, until they can't. Humans regard them as monsters that live in the shadows and forgotten places, and hope that they will eventually die out.

Asha's reluctant alliance with Niss is purely to retrieve the sample.

Asha put her shoulder to the door and shoved. It gave a little. She wedged the end of the crowbar into the gap and glanced around for her companion. 

Niss crawled out from underneath an abandoned truck and hung back in the shadows.

"Hey, you, get over here."

Asha grunted as she yanked the crowbar outwards. The door gave a creaking groan, and then something cracked.

Asha kicked at the base of the door and it finally swung open. She nodded her head towards the opening and Niss scuttled forward into the darkness. Pausing a moment to turn on her torch, Asha followed cautiously.

The centre of the lab was trashed, broken glass beakers and sensors strewn across the floor. A table lay on its side at the end of the room, blocking off another doorway.

Flicking the torch from one side to the other, Asha picked her way through the mess. The glass crunched underfoot. She dragged the table to the side and shone the torch into the space beyond.

"Hey, small thing, where are you?"

Niss ran forward.

"You go check it out."

Niss disappeared into the darkness, returning almost seconds later to tug at Asha's coat.

She followed the young girl into the room, holding the torch above her head to cast a wider spread of light.

The case was empty. In the dim light, Asha could see a metal tag lying on the table, twisted out of shape. The letters PRIM were just visible.

The Primogenitor sample was gone. 

Creative Play

 I need to get back into writing. I've got a full book to edit, and I do really just love juggling words around and seeing what shapes they make as they land on the page.

I recently had a friend staying over the winter break, and we both wanted to work on our writing. We did a couple of writing sessions in a coffee shop in town, but the thing that really helped me was sitting down and giving each other timed prompts. We each chose a double-part prompt for the other, and set a 15 minute timer.

It didn't feel like work, it felt like playing. It was scary knowing the time was ticking down and I still didn't have anything written on the page, but the second time was easier. 

For the first one, I couldn't think how to start, so I did a bit of brainstorming on the page just to put pen to paper. The prompt was "a young girl, looking up a shadowy staircase". I wanted to know WHO the girl was, WHERE the staircase led to, WHY it was shadowy and WHAT the emotions were that I wanted to convey. And then I wanted to subvert initial expectations. 

Once I'd got those in place, it was easier to begin writing. I decided that the shadows weren't scary, they were safe; it was the patches of light that held the danger. I wanted her to be determined to reach her goal and confident that she knew how to achieve it. 

Niss scanned the steps before her. There were patches of shadow scattered across her route, and she totted up the distances between them; how many steps from one patch of safety to the next.

The harsh light poured in through the gaps in the walls. She'd have to move quickly. Pulling her hood over her head, she darted up the staircase. At the top she paused, and surveyed the corridor ahead. From the plans, she knew that her target was located in one of the far rooms. The ceiling here had collapsed, leaving whole swathes of the floor in sunlight.

The next prompt was "a religious idol; a worshipper who is not content". I found this time it was much easier to begin, and only jotted a few brief notes before starting to write.

The chapel was out of the way, and it took Asha almost half a day to get there. She'd left early, so as to be sure of getting back before night fell on the ruins.

Eventually she spotted the entrance to the alley that led to her destination. Sandwiched between the tall buildings, it almost looked like a dead end, but among the rubble and debris she spotted the door.

She tore away the plywood that boarded it up, and stepped into the gloom. 

It was a mostly empty space, long since stripped of the wooden pews, and any valuable metal taken away to be melted down.

The idol was placed on the raised end of the room, staring with empty eyes at an invisible congregation. Asha approached and typed her prayer into the keypad at the side.

The idol's eyes flickered to life and Asha grudgingly crouched in front of it to drop a handful of batteries in the offering bowl.

After we'd both read our snippets out loud, we had to choose our favourite of the other person's for them to develop with a further prompt. I'm to develop the world/character from the second one, with the additional prompt of "something precious stolen". 

(The first two prompts I gave were "a talisman, in a sci fi world" and "a technological world overtaken by nature; a struggle". I then chose the first one for my friend to develop, with the additional prompt of "an incident over food".)

If you feel inspired by any of these prompts, I'd love to see what you come up with!

Burns the Lover

 Ma mither aye minds me tae keep ma ain counsel, sae ye willna be hearing ony gossip frae me. Hairst time is busy eneugh onyways, nae time tae be staunin aroon clatterin. Ahve tae walk oer tae Mount Oliphant tae help wi the hairst this day’s morn, afore the sun is oot his bed. Aye, an the walk back i the derk o evening tae. But mind, ahm nae my lane the walk back. Young Rab frae Mount Oliphant aye taks me hame.

It’s the custom heareabouts tae partner lad an lass thegither at hairst time, working the field at ane time. Rab taks the weeder-clips an ah walk ahint him gaitherin the stalkies. It’s simple eneugh but hard efter a while. Ah cover ma hair wi a cloot tae keep the stour frae it, but ane time we flung oursels oan the foggage tae tak a bite o summat, twa three curls brust oot an Rab leans oer tae tuck them back in trigly. Ah near turnit red wi the shame o it but luikin aroon naebody hae mindit it. Ah ate ma bit bread an Missus Burns’ fine yowe-milk kebbuck whiles Rab sate on a patch o sedge grinnin lik a loon an slappin his hauns on his breeks.

They say he’s a queer-lik lad wi mony fancies, fond o his faither’s buiks an trampin lang hours his lane oer the fields. He disna mind takin time oot tae see me hame tho, his lang legs stridin ahead an ah have tae maist rin tae keep up wi him. An yet he slaes his pace ance we get near the hoose an looks laggardly, draggin his heels i the dirt. Ah times hae tae gie him a push tae be aff.

Ah nivir kenned a lad be sae blate an bashfu afore - maist o them ainly want aye thing an are nae best pleased when ye say them nay. But Rab he taks ma haun sae doucely an pluckit oot the thristle burrs an nettle stings frae ma fingers. An when ah sing for the sheer joy o the sun an the day ah hear him whistle sae sweetly in tune wi me. He says he kens o the laird’s son wha wrote the words tae the tune, an he can dae as weel if no better. But I dinna mind much o it, lads are aye boastin this or that. ‘Fair words butter nae parsnips’, as ma mither aye says.

He’s an unco chiel richt eneugh. An ah’ll tell ye a tale as shaws it. It was near eneugh the derk o the day, wi the sun glimmering oot oer the trees an the shadows stretching lang oer the field. We’d had a weary day o it an I was fain tae be aff awa hame. But there wis ane patch o bear-corn left an a big burr-thristle i the midst o it, a stalk near as thick as ma wrist, tapped wi a croun o prickles. Rab he casts the weeder-clips aside an stauns in a maze starin at this muckle thristle.

 Nell, he says, Nell, ah canna touch the thristle. 

Why no? (I wis fair snappish wi him, fer the wanting tae be aff)

It’s the symbol of Scotland, he says, an it’s richt dear tae me just this moment.

Like ah said - an unco chiel. But ah think ah love him aw the same.

Hairst - harvest

Clattering - chattering

Weeder-clips - shears for weeding

Ahint - behind

Cloot - a piece of cloth, a rag

Foggage - grass for winter grazing

Brust - burst

Trigly - neatly, tidily

Yowe - ewe

Sedge - rushes

Loon - rascal

Breeks - breeches, trousers

Laggardly - to loiter or fall behind

Blate - shyness, sheepishness, modest

Doucely - sweetly

Thristle - thistle

Kens - knows

Unco - strange

Chiel - a young

 man

Fain - eager

Bear-corn - barley

Burns the Fermer

 Ah wis a puir faitherless lad fae Lochlie, an Maister Burns brocht me wi him when they cam here tae Mossgiel Ferm. He wis aye luikin oot for me, even hefting me up oan his shouthers ane day as we cam hame frae the field. Ah wis the wee ane of all the lads on the ferm - the runt of the pack, the ane that aye got his erse kicked in a fecht. But still, ah wis a richt pawkie wee lad, an gleg wi it. Ah kenned if ah ettled tae fin ma place ah’d need tae fin summat mair nor fechting tae win the day. 

Sae ane nicht ance aw us lads were in the loft oer the stable where we slept, ah twistit ma lips an pullit unco faces. ‘Girnin Davie’ they callit me, an lauched themsels til the tears cam frae their een. I wis cuttin sic a caper and loupin oer the wooden boards that the auld yin doon the stair cam up tae tell us aff fer makin sic a din - an on the Lord’s Day tae! 

We aw were thrashit fer oor ain guid by the maister, but efter it, he wis richt kind and said we ainly needit summat tae keep us oot o mischief. Sae that wis how it startit that I learnt the English frae him. The ither twa were na gey gleg an ettled tae be awa, but ah wis jist fine wi it. 

Ance a week, on a Sunday nicht, efter prayers, Maister Burns aye lets me stay doon frae the loft an teaches me tae speak sae fine like ony gentleman. He hears me read aloud frae his buiks an leaves me tae study oer them whiles he swings back on his chair an writes. He writes poems an is even having a buik o his ain published. He tellit me he’s written a poem about all o us here at Mossgiel, an ah get a mention in it tae. ‘Wee Davock’ he calls me, an a like that even better nor ‘Girnin Davie’.

Aye, now that I can speak the English I have grand plans. Nae mair fechtin fer wee Davie Hutcheson fae Lochlie! I still have a guid Scots tongue in my head though and can use it tae. Ane o the other lads, Willie Patrick, wis aye at me fer liking the buik learning mair than fechtin in the yaird. But I callit him a lang-leggit loon wi a face lik bleared sowans, an Gaudsman John near brak his breeks wi lauchin an wouldna let Willie say a word agin me ony mair that nicht, nor fecht me neither. 

Instead he tuik us baith aside an tellit us o what happened that day on the field while he was gauding the horses for Maister Burns, wha was mindin the ploo. They cam upon a wee mousie that rin oot o its bield an Maister Burns callit tae John tae stoppit the horses an turned the ploo aside. He widna move on til he’d seen the mousie rin awa oer the riggs towards the foggage around the edge o the field.

‘He’ll be makin a rhyme on it, nae doot,’ ah said, an the ither twa lauched at the thocht o a poem for a wee mousie. But I gat the last lauch fer Maister Burns read oot some verses o it to John and John said he couldna understaun near hauf o it.

Pawkie - wily

Gleg - quick-witted, smart

Ettled - intended

Summat - something

Unco - strange

Girnin - showing the teeth, grimacing

Lauched - laughed

Een - eyes

Loupin - to dart, to dash

Yin - one

Sic - such

Loon - rogue, rascal

Bleared - watery, thin

Sowans - dish made by soaking oats in water.

Gaudsman - one who guides the horses for the plough

Breeks - breeches, trousers

Bield - shelter, nest

Foggage - grass for winter grazing

The Muckle Cauldron

Is it a tale of witches you're speering after now? Ach, awa wi you, you've had all my tales. Well, mebbee not all. You've heard about the brounies and the bogles, and you know well enow to poke a hole in your eggshells so as the witches canna use them to sink ships. And about elf-shot cattle that sicken and dinnae thrive when a witch puts a spell on them. But I've ane tale left that you've no heard. Pull up that wee stool then and mind you dinnae stop peelin those tatties.  When I wis a wee lassie, I was aye slipping off to do ma ain thing, or threepin at the auld folks to tell me a story - aye, jist like you now, altho I flatter mesel that I'm no as auld as they yins.

But this time I'd been caught and told to clear out the auld threshing barn. It was a richt stoorie place - fu o spiders. So I wisnae best pleased and I didnae tak ower much time wi my task. I carried out all the sticks and stalkies to the midden at the back o the yaird, and swept a bit stoor an oose oer the threshold. This still left a wheen o trashtrie frae the hoose at the far end, and I amused mesel by luikin through it. Maist o it was trashed - a luggie that had tint it's chain, a yoke wi a muckle crack in it, twa bits o a bowl I mind my sister brak on the hearth. But there was ane thing that caught my een - a muckle great cauldron, fat and blackened wi fire. It had unco marks around the rim, and seemed to grow in size before ma verra een. All o a sudden the air aroun me grew derksome an I shivered in the cauld. I ran oot the barn screaming o bogles and lang leggity beasties.

They gathered roun and speired at me what the matter was but not ane o them ever minded seeing the cauldron afore. All but the auldest auld yin who nodded and minded a story she'd heard as a wee lassie, jist like I was. A loon wha minded the plough was makin his way hame frae the smiddy, an the road took him along towards the auld Kirk o Alloway. It was an eerie place then as it is now, wi hoolets an siclike craturs, an weel-kent as a place o ferlies an unco doings. The nicht was mirk, the rain was plashing and spattering doon, an the wind squalling amang the trees. As he drew close to the Kirk he noted a bricht glow glimmerin roun the auld stanes. His thochts turned to witches, and the verra Deil himsel, wha was said tae sit in state in the ruins.

Noo there are twa thochts as to why he did what he did next. Ane says that the Almichty above gave him courage; anither has it that he'd got unco fou at the Smiddy. For whatsoever reason, he took ae step towards the Kirk, an anither, an reached the windae afore he knew what his ain feet were daein. An eerie glow cam frae a fire made up in the middle o the ruins. The place was empty. He heard a soughing noise frae ahint him, and turned tae see derk shapes o men, and wimmin, in the field by the Kirk. Ane by ane, they each pullit up a stalk o the ragwort and cried out some word or words that he didnae catch. An ane by ane each rose into the sky wi shouts and skirls. The ploughboy was left alane. 

The flames frae the fire still danced though, sae he loupit up through the windae an drapt doon intae the empty Kirk. Atop the fire he saw a muckle cauldron, black as pitch. The contents seethed and jouked - heids o bairns no yet blessed by a meenister, lang banes o those hangit on a gibbet, an ither foulsome things. He seized the side of the cauldron an rocked it back an forth on its chain, makin the foul liquid spill oer the lip. He poured oot the contents onto the hearth an unhooked the jinkin chain. Empty noo, the cauldron didnae seem sae heavy, sae he raised it oer his head and tuik it hame, where it stayed in his faimly doon through the years tae this day.

The ithers aw laughed an clappit the grandame for the tale, an slipped back awa tae field and fireside. My fright almaist forgotten in the sun, I spiered at grannie to go wi me tae the barn, an see the muckle cauldron for herself. She hirpled oer the yaird an in at the barn. The corner was still derk an fu o shadows. A wee mousie rin oot oer the stanes but she paid it no mind. The cauldron sat there, lowring at us. 

"Thon's but a gey guid parritch kettle," grannie said, an seized it by the handle to swing in the crook of her arm. She scoured it and rinsed it, and set it on the hearth and cooked her sowans in it on the morn. An afore ye ask, she didna dee til some years after that, an ne'er took ill afore her last. Sae mayhap it was but a tale. An what happened tae the cauldron ye ask? Whit did ye think ye were peeling tatties intae?

Glossary

speering (asking)

elf-shot (flint arrowhead thought to be made by fairies)

threepin  (insisting or persisting)

stoorie (dusty)

midden (rubbish pit)

oose (fluff)

wheen (indefinite quantity)

trashtrie (worthless rubbish)

luggie (bucket/pail with 'lugs' or ears rising up from the staves)

tint (lost)

muckle (big)

unco (strange)

loon (rascal)

hoolets (owls)

ferlies (unusual sight)

mirk (dark, gloomy)

fou (drunk)

soughing (noise as of wind through trees)

skirl (shrill, piercing sound, shriek)

loupit (hopped)

jouked (bobbed)

jinkin (making a chinking noise)

clappit (pat affectionly)

grandame (grandmother or great grandmother)

hirple (to walk slowly, to hobble)

lowring (scowling)

parritch (porridge)

sowans (a dish made by soaking oats in water) 

[Brats Xmas Special] Not just for Christmas

 "There's lots of trees outside - why do we have to bring one inside?" Dee asked, helping to drag the felled pine through the snow.

"Just because." Sparrow answered shortly, out of breath from wielding the axe and now hauling the tree back to the house.

"It's tradition!" Tekla chirped, running alongside in her rubber boots, stumbling a little in the snow.

Dee tugged harder on the branches and followed in Sparrow's footsteps. He stamped his feet into the packed snow, but his toes still felt cold, despite the two pairs of socks. He curled them up inside his too-big shoes and thought of the hot food that would be waiting for them when they got back to the house.

"That's funny...." Sparrow dropped the trunk of the pine and pointed ahead. "There's no smoke from the chimney."

Dee's face fell. No smoke meant no fire, and no fire meant no hot food.

"I'll go see!" Tekla ran ahead before Sparrow could stop her. They hurried to catch up, but not before Tekla came running out of the house again. "There's no one there!"

They forced the tree in through the door and into the room with the fireplace. It was, as Tekla had said, empty. The remains of a fire smouldered in the grate, and their belongings were scattered around the room as they had been when they left to get the tree.

There was a noise at the door and shortly after, the other three came into the room. Bee was first, her staff tapping on the floor, then Zed, with as much firewood as he could carry with one arm. Rat was last, holding a struggling puppy in her arms, scratching and nipping with sharp baby teeth. Rat gently bit the puppy on the ear in retaliation. It squealed and wriggled to be set free, but she crouched down in the corner, still holding it tightly in her strong little arms. Tekla ran over to look.

Sparrow pointed at the fire. "You were supposed to be cooking!"

Zed hung his head. 

"Rat disappeared." Bee said. "We had to find her."

Zed hurried over to the fire and knelt down by it. "At least I brought back some firewood..."

"And what is that?" Sparrow's finger swung round to Rat and the puppy. 

"She won't let it go."

Tekla turned her face to Sparrow, "Can we keep it? Please? Please?"

But Sparrow was busy rummaging through the packs for food. She took her knife and started chopping potatoes and carrots on a plank of wood, scraping them into a metal pan as she did so. Zed poured in some water from the canister and set it at one side of the fire, nestled in the embers. Dee came back with more water from the pump and placed the bucket by the fireplace. Bee busied herself stuffing items back into the packs and generally tidying.

"Where's the bird?" Sparrow asked.

Zed pointed to a plastic bucket behind her and she reached in and pulled out the carcass of a turkey. A few feathers still stuck to the skin, and she plucked these off, grimacing as she did so. Although she was well used to eating meat now, the details of preparation still left her feeling a bit sick. She took her knife and messily cut into the flesh of the bird. She stripped as much of the meat as she could and put it in the frying pan which she then sat in the middle of the fire. "Keep an eye on that, Zed."

She went outside to wash her hands at the pump, and came back in ready to decorate the tree. They set it up in a corner of the room in a bucket filled with stones. Sparrow had found some red fabric and tore it into strips to drape around the branches. And in the kitchen Dee had found a roll of tinfoil. Sparrow took this and showed Tekla and Bee how to thread pieces of it onto string to make a garland. In a cupboard under the stairs they found a box of candles and they placed these on the floor around the tree so that the tinfoil glittered in a circle of light.

"It looks like stars..."Dee said to Bee.

Bee thought that Christmas smelt of pine needles and fire smoke. She felt the prickly branches of the tree and gently set the tinfoil garland swinging so that it made a sh-sh-sh sound as the pieces rubbed together.

"Now we need presents," Sparrow said.

"What's presents?" Dee asked.

"Things you give one another."

"Nice things..." Tekla added.

Dee thought a bit. He didn't have much but he did have a few collected things. He pulled out a handful from his pocket.

"Not now!" Sparrow said, "They have to be wrapped first. In secret." She produced a stack of old newspapers and put them in the middle of the floor. Everyone took a sheet and scurried away to odd corners of the house. Even Rat grabbed a crumpled bit of paper in her fist and took it away.

After the food was all eaten, Sparrow said it was time to do presents. Rat and Tekla sat in the corner, feeding the puppy strips of leftover turkey. Sparrow went first. She gave Bee one of her old school ribbons, one of the satin ones that felt so nice when you ran your finger over them. Dee gave Zed one of his precious bottle tops with pictures printed on. Tekla gave Rat a long coloured feather. Rat looked as though she was thinking very hard and then pushed the puppy into the middle of the circle, covered with the sheet of newspaper. The puppy whined and nosed at the paper. 

Sparrow lifted the paper off. "I suppose we're keeping the puppy then..."

Mercy Evans had three shoes

Mercy Evans had three shoes. Not three pairs of shoes, you understand, but three individual shoes. Her full name was God-Is-Merciful Evans, but as her Granpa said, if God was so darned merciful then he wouldn't have let her parents drown.

Unfortunately, Mercy didn't meet her Granpa until she was four years old, by which time she'd already been hastily baptised under the care of her Great Aunt Prudence. Great Aunt Prudence believed in God's Mercy, Obedience of Children, and Humble Gratefulness of Poor Orphans. Young Merciful was a great test of these beliefs, but Great Aunt Prudence knew that we were not put on this earth for pleasure and trusted that she would get her reward hereafter.

One day, when young Merciful was being particularly trying, Great Aunt Prudence took down a tiny shoe from a glass case on the mantlepiece. She placed it solemnly on the table by her chair. She informed young Merciful that her parents had been Wicked Sinners who perished in a shipwreck as part of the Awful Justice of God. A baby had been found at the bottom of the lifeboat, wearing a nightshirt made from a pillowcase, and one soft shoe. A handkerchief had been wrapped around her neck to keep out the cold sea air. This handkerchief was intricately embroidered with the letters A and E in navy blue. These details had been reported by the newspapers at the time of the shipwreck, in an attempt to find any relations of the poor nameless baby.

Prudence Evans (not yet called Great Aunt) recognised the description of the handkerchief as one of a set she had presented to her only nephew, Arthur. After a (brief and never to be spoken of) wrestling with her conscience, Prudence wrote to the harbour master claiming the handkerchief and, reluctantly, the child.

The harbour master's wife brought the baby in a fishing creel. She'd wrapped the little shoe in the handkerchief, and wrapped that in the pillowcase dress. Although it was spoiled by seawater stains, she'd laundered the dress along with the handkerchief, and clothed the baby in a napkin, binder and shirt belonging to her own child.

Great Aunt Prudence (as she now was) discarded the dress as fit only for rags. She unfolded the handkerchief and admired her embroidery. Glancing at the baby she gave a dissatisfied sniff. "I shall have to engage a Young Person. You'll need to stay until I do."

But the harbour master's wife was not impressed by Great Aunt Prudence. She had socks to darn, and bread to bake, and an unruly household to manage. Putting the creel on the hall table, she kissed the baby and marched to the door. "And you can send the clothes and the creel back with the carrier."

[North 16] The princess talks to herself

 She turned back to see Arkel's head poking down through the gap between the door and the wall.

"Are you talking to yourself?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"No, I'm..." Irena faltered, confused. She shifted her legs in the small space, and stood up, suddenly conscious that she almost missed the other girl who was not her.

"You're crazy." Arkel said cheerfully.

[North 15] A walk through the city

She slid herself off the edge, remembering at the last minute to bend her knees like Arkel had taught her when they were climbing in the caves. It still hurt though, and she'd scraped all the palms of her hands. She got shakily to her feet and stumbled to the corner. She heard Arkel's voice muffled in the doorway, and then it fell silent. The street was dark, so she shuffled forward, feeling her way along the wall with her sore hands outstretched. The doorway was even darker than the street, and she hesitated before stepping into it.

"Ow!"

She stood on something moving on the ground. The thing stood up. The face was at the same height as her own. She looked into the eyes of her double, and saw frightened recognition there.

"Why are you following me around?" It hissed.

[North 11] a friend of thieves

Irena dipped a hand into the bucket and scattered a handful of the dry sand. "I didn't do anything. At least...I was hungry, so I ate some berries. He said I was a thief, but I'm not a thief. A thief is..." she turned to look at Gia and Arkel, both of whom were staring at her. Gia had her fists on her hips, and Arkel had his arms folded.

"Did you pay?"

"You ARE a thief!"

Gia and Arkel spoke at the same time, Gia with her lip curled scornfully, and Arkel with something like delight in his voice.

Irena dropped the bucket, the sand spilling out onto the stone floor. "I'm not a thief, or a northwitch, or a gutter-rat or a...a... a chicken."

[North 10] Not quite the very best thieves in all of Astia

Gia started to run as well, and Irena was forced into a trot to keep up, her bare feet stumbling in the sandy dirt. She turned a corner and ran straight into the back of Gia, who grabbed hold of her sleeve and pulled her down into a crouch behind some stacked bales of fabric. Just in front of them, the street surface dropped away, with only small wooden platforms and a shaky staircase filling the gap. Hundreds of feet below, the river was like a strip of ragged grey silk, flecked with white. The wooden slats of the staircase were old and worn, and the only handrail was a sagging rope attached at intervals to the wall with rusty metal fixings.

Irena scrambled back from the dizzying sight. "I'm not going down there on that! It doesn't look safe at all," she cried out.

Gia jumped on her, and shoved a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. Arkel smirked, "Don't worry, we're not going down on the shakeway."

There was a rumbling sound, followed by creaking. He pointed up over his head, "We're going on THAT."

Above them, a last great bale of fabric was being loaded onto a large wooden platform. It began to descend, slowly at first, but gathering more speed as the momentum built up. Arkel got up from the ground and turned to grin at Irena. "Ready?"

The well at the end of the world

The river went deeper than Brim's head, and wider than he could swim. Mam had taught him in the shallows when he grew big enough to collect the water by himself. The river mud felt squidgy between his toes, and little dark fish darted away from his thrashing feet as he churned up the silt and gravel at the bottom. 

In the hot months, clouds of insects hung above the brown water. The shallows became a dry bed of river-pebbles with mud in-between and lank green grass. During the cold months, the river was a roaring black streak against the hoar-frost spikes that coated the bank. At all times it stretched out beyond sight on either side of the well-trodden path from the cottage. The river, the dead forest and the endless cliffs - all three were boundaries that marked the edge of the world. 

That morning, the well was dry.  Brim put his whole weight on the pump handle, swinging his feet free from the ground, but not a drop came from the spout, only a horrible sucking gurgle from far below.

'Oh leave off, Brim...' Mam called from the cottage door. 'Take the buckets and run to the river instead.'

 It was hot. The tall grass moved listlessly in the light breeze and his feet thudded on the dusty path. It would be cooler at the river. He could fill the buckets first and go for a swim after. He could swim first and wait for the water to settle before dipping the buckets into the water. There would be fish to guddle for, and maybe a dragonfly. 

The last bit of the path crossed the ghost track. He jumped over the marker and touched the post for luck. Now he was definitely going to catch a fish, he felt sure of it; something was different about today. Just a few more steps and he'd be at the river.

But the river was gone. The hollowed out scoop of the land where the river had been was there, but nothing else. He shaded his eyes and squinted at the emptiness. No, it wasn't all empty. The fish were the same colour as the dried out mud. They looked like the stone fish he had dug up out of the endless cliffs - grey, shrunken, and dead.

He ran all the way back to the cottage, the chains that held the empty buckets jangling fiercely.

***

As Brim clambered into bed that night he could hear the wind batter around the cottage. The outer door creaked on its hinges with the force of the storm, but the shutters on the windows were strong, and the blankets stopped any dust from blowing through the cracks. Really bad storms were rare, maybe two or three a year, but it was best to be prepared. This one had whipped up just after he'd got back from the river. He had seen it coming over the dead forest - a grey cloud that swarmed like insects, growing larger as it neared the endless cliffs.

He was used to the wind. Sometimes he would crawl to the edge of the cliffs and lie on his stomach, stretching his hand over the side to push against the updraught. If he closed his eyes it was like he was flying. Scraps of bark or dead leaves would be tugged from his hands and whisked away into the nothingness. He watched them fall and wondered what was at the bottom.

Every year since he could remember, the winds had been increasing. The cliff was crumbling away, and with each inch that it vanished, the nothingness crept closer to the cottage. The winds that came from the cliffs were strong and cold and clean - they dried the clothes on the line and blew the dust from the roof, and sang Brim to sleep as he lay on the other side of the wall.

The winds that came from the dead forest brought dust that settled on the garden, turning everything grey, and making Mam and Brim cough if they breathed it in. Sometimes the two winds met each other overhead, and then there was nothing to do but sit in the house until it passed.

***

It was quiet when Brim woke. Mam was still sleeping in the bed opposite, the sheet tangled around her legs. He pulled the blanket away from the bottom of the door and slid the bolts back. Sunlight and warmth poured into the dark cottage from outside. He curled his toes back from the pile of dust that fell over the threshold. His boots were right by the door and he shoved his feet inside. As an afterthought he grabbed the broom from the cupboard and carefully swept the chalky dust away from the door, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his pajamas.

After he'd finished sweeping the area around the door he stopped to rest. The dust from the dead forest covered the area around the house, sitting in clumps on top of the tarp draped over the vegetable patch and piled up in little heaps and drifts on the other side of the fence. Everything was very still. When he glanced over at the dead forest he could see the haze spreading out from the trees, tendrils reaching towards the cottage. He shivered, despite the heat.

'Work before breakfast?' Mam joined him, putting an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close for a hug.

He pointed at the dead forest, 'I don't think we've got time for breakfast - look.'

She squinted at the haze, putting up her hand to shield her eyes. 'Nah, it'll be fine. Them old ghosts won't bother us in this sunlight.'

'But...'

She clapped him on the shoulder, ' Come on - there's blueberry pancakes.'

***

After breakfast they both began the regular garden clear-up. All the dust had to be swept up and taken outside of the garden boundary. Normally they would take it as far as the dead forest, but with the ghosts so close they just tipped it in a heap on the other side of the fence.

Brim swept the area around the well. This wasn't strictly in the garden boundary, but it was safest to keep the well clean too - even if it had run dry.

He heard a noise from inside the well, under the heavy wooden boards. The pump came up through the middle of the boards, which meant that the water that wasn't there now never had to be exposed to the dust. The noise came again. It sounded like something knocking on the side of the metal pipe that ran right down to the water level. He looked over to where Mam was adding more dust to the heap, and walked across to the well-cover. It was still securely fastened and the padlock on it was strong.

Bang, bang, bang! BANG.

He jumped back. Even Mam had heard that.

'You OK?'

'There's something in the well!' he shouted back.

'Water -- I hope.'

Mam fetched the key from inside the cottage. When they hauled the boards off the stone base the knocking stopped. They both gazed down the dark hole in silence.

'Some help would be nice.' The voice was old and cross. Brim peered over the side of the well. He could see some sort of hunched-over figure clutching onto the pipe.

***

Brim sat on the bed, hands clasped round his knees.  Mam was fussing over the old lady; draping her in blankets and offering her hot soup.

'Is there anything else I can get you?'

The old lady shook her head, and let her eyes wander all over the inside of the cottage: looking at the faded labels on the seed drawers, the battered pans hung up by the stove, and the trapdoor leading down to the food store. Finally she turned her gaze to Brim. He raised his chin slightly and tried to out stare her. She raised one arm from out of the bundle of blankets and crooked a finger at him. Brim glanced at Mam. She nodded, and he reluctantly unfolded his legs from the bed and slumped over to the stove.

'You have a strong young man for a son. Looks a mite sulky though.'

Mam looked up from stirring the soup, 'We don't...we don't get many visitors. He's just shy.'

'Hmph.' said the visitor, looking Brim up and down as if she could see right through to where his heart thudded in his rib-cage, as if it was a frightened bird trapped under the tarp. 'More like we don't get ANY visitors. Who are you? Mam - why did you let her in? She could be from the forest for all we know.'

Mam shushed Brim and sent him down to the food store to fetch the wheat crackers for sprinkling on the soup.

The old lady chuckled to herself. 'I like this one. He'll do.'

'But don't let it go to your head, mind,' she continued,raising her voice. 'I'm only choosing you because I got no one else.'

Mam shoved a bowl of soup and a spoon into the old lady's lap. 'Boy's got a point. Eat.' She stood between Brim and the visitor, arms folded, still holding the soup ladle. 'I've given you food and shelter, and that's all I've a mind to give you until you explain. What were you doing in our well? And what's all this talk of choosing?'

The old lady nodded her head appreciatively, 'That's good soup. Any more?' She rattled her spoon against the side of the empty bowl.

Brim, helping himself from the pot, curved a protective arm around his soup and shook his head quickly.

Mam brandished the ladle at him, and glared at the visitor. 'Brim, give her your bowl.'

'Aw, but...'

'Don't argue.' She poked the lady with the ladle. 'Talk. Now. Or I open that door, push you out, and let the ghosts get you.'

The visitor cackled again. 'Ghosts! Is that what you call them? Them's not ghosts, dearie me, no. Them's memories.' The spoon clattered in another empty bowl. 'Soup finished? Got anything else?'

***

[tbc]

[North 7] the princess discovers the market

The square was filled with tables, laid out in straggly rows, and loaded with all manner of things, from bowls stacked three apiece to sacks full to brimming with smooth shelled nuts. Where there wasn't a table, stuff was simply spread on the ground instead, filling every available space that wasn't needed for the passage of people. Irena wandered in and out of the tables, unnoticed. She saw fragrant-scented, pale yellow apples laid out in trays, fluttering song birds caught in thin woven baskets, and bite-sized, fragile looking fruits the colour of a bruise. She remembered they tasted grainy, but sweet, and picked one up as she walked past. Juice ran down her chin as she bit into it, and she wiped it away with the heel of her hand.

[North fragment] sleeping

Asa was snoring in the bottom bunk. Berit burrowed her head under the blanket. It was scratchy, but warm.

'Ugh, Ber....stop hogging the cover...' her elder sister Frith pulled the top blanket away and wrapped herself up in it.

Shivering, Berit aimed a kick at her sister. A howl came from the other end of the bed and someone tugged hard on Berit's foot. Inge's face hovered above Berit.

'What did you do that for!' 

Berit made a face and pushed her back to the end of the bed. Below, Asa continued to snore. Inge bounced up and down on Berit's legs. 'I wasn't doing anything and you kicked me for nothing and then you pushed me...'

Sighing, Berit felt for the edge of the bed. Her hand batted at the smooth wood and then fell away into space. Pulling her legs out of the reach of Inge, she slowly lowered herself over the side, feeling with her bare feet for the wooden floorboards. 

Inge stopped bouncing, ' Where are you going?'

'To get some peace.'

Curling her toes against the cold, she pulled away the rough sacking that covered the lower bunk. Asa lay on his back, mouth open, and Erdan was bunched up at the other end of the bed, fast asleep, his dark hair falling over his eyes. Berit reached out and pinched the fleshy part of Asa's nose between her finger and thumb.

'One, two, three....' she counted under her breath. On the fourth count, Asa's eyes opened and he let out a gasp of air. Berit smiled and drew her hand away. His eyes flickered shut again, and his breathing became clearer. 

'Oh thank the ancestors for that...' Frith drawled from the darkness, as Berit swung herself back up onto the bed. She took the under blanket as a peace offering from Frith, and Inge burrowed into a nest of her own making at the other end of the bed.

[North 6] the princess explores the gardens

'Just stay still...' She wasn't sure herself quite why she wanted the bird, only that it was something alive, and undemanding. Underneath the soft feathers it felt tough and wiry, but also fragile - as though if she held too tightly it would break. She loosened her grip, and the chicken, sensing weakness, tried to flap away. She curved her arm around it, feeling the brush of feathers against her wrist, and the comforting warmth from its body through her coat.

[North 4] the princess makes a decision

Gagging, she took the foul-tasting cloth from her mouth, and dropped it to the floor. Her fumbling hands told her there was no way to open the door from the inside. She stamped her foot and called out in a shrill little voice that the woman would be sorry for daring to lay hands on her in such a manner, but no one replied. She hammered on the rough inside of the door with her hands until her wrists ached, and she slumped to the stone floor, angry at herself for the sobs that she was choking back. Princesses did not cry. Nurse had been very strict about that. Excess emotion was unbecoming in young ladies, and unforgivable in royalty. What nurse would think about her behaviour this morning didn't bear thinking about. She gave a whimper. Her stomach hurt and her head felt funny. She wished she had some food. She'd give anything to have her breakfast in front of her right now. Even cold porridge seemed appealing, although given the way she was feeling now, her manners might not be all that nurse would wish of a princess.

[brats] the girl

[This is just a snippet I wrote trying to get a feel for the world. It won't occur in the actual story, but something like it might.]

The girl held her satchel upside down and shook it. Pencil stubs and coloured beads added to the mess on the rug. A penny rolled away in a slow curve on the uneven floor. Her last reading book, caught by the shoulder strap, landed open, pages flapping in the breeze from the broken window. The girl thought of birds taking off from a rooftop at the end of summer. She had never been so aware of noise before.

Holding her breath, she tiptoed past the room where her parents lay. The door was half open, and she could just see her little sister's hand peeking out from under the covers. Mim slept on a mattress on the floor of their parents' room, beneath the window, so she could see the stars at night; the stars that were brighter than ever since the street lamps stopped working.

But Mim didn't move, and the girl went into the kitchen. She took the last three apples from the bowl on the table, the tin of apricots from the shelf, and found a bag of rice that pulled her shoulder down with the weight of it in the satchel. She took the rice out and sat it on the table.

'Where's a knife...'

A knife was found at the back of a drawer. She slit the bag open, and a few grains spilled out through the sides. Cupping her hand, she scooped the contents out and into the satchel. She did this until half the bag was gone, enjoying the feel of her fingers against the silky-slippery rice.

An alarm clock made her jump, and the last handful scattered across the table and the tiles. She looked over her shoulder into the hall. Still ringing. A few grains of rice were stuck to her hand but she brushed them away against her jumper.

The ringing was louder in the hall. She put all her weight against the bedroom door to push it open, and caught her foot on Mim's mattress.

'Sorry...'

She could barely hear her own voice over the noise of the alarm clock. It was coming from the corner of the room. Picking her way through the mess, she clambered awkwardly onto the edge of the bed and swung her legs over to the other side.

'Sorry...' she whispered to her parents, 'So sorry...'

She shuffled over to the corner and picked the alarm clock up, knocking the lever with her finger. It stopped. Her breathing was the loudest thing in the house. She dropped the clock. It whirred briefly and then stopped with a metallic clunk. The girl stood in the middle of it all, listening to the sound of her breath going in and out and in. The birds outside began to sing as the light crept slowly over the sky.

On her way out through the kitchen she paused. The knife lay on the table where she'd left it. She picked it up, feeling the weight of it as if for the first time. It felt odd. She gripped the handle, and her wrist shook.

She put it in the bag and shut the door behind her.

[North 3] the princess visits the kitchen

There was an open door just past the cabinet. She darted into the room and took a deep breath. On the table just in front of her was a plate piled high with little bread rolls, shiny with glaze. She could smell them - warm and sugary. She reached out a hand to take the top one. As she lifted it off, a figure emerged from an alcove in the corner. Startled, the princess dropped the roll, causing half the pile to tumble off the plate and onto the floor.

'What the...'

The princess ducked underneath the table. Footsteps came nearer.

'Pot boy, if that's you, I'll have your hide...'

[North 2] the princess dresses herself

The doors of the chest swung open easily. A bewildering row of garments hung at eye-level, with a shelf for boots and shoes below. There was a soft, warm scent like lavender and honey, mixed with a sharper scent that the princess did not recognise. She grabbed at the first pair of boots and the sharp scent grew stronger. Wrinkling her nose, she sniffed the shiny leather, leaving a tiny smudge, which she tried to rub off with her finger.

Sitting on the floor, she held one boot in both hands and tried to put it on. After several tries, she threw the stupid boot under the stupid bed, and threw the other one after it for good measure. When Etta put her boots on for her she made it look easy.