Hello everyone 🙂 It’s a bit late, I know, but I thought it would be good to write something for book week this year. This year the book week theme was “Dreaming with eyes open” which got me thinking about how daydreams can present a varying array of thoughts and ideas- good, bad, confusing, and everything in between. Instead of allowing myself to use as many words as I pleased, I set a limit of only 400 words; an extremely inconvenient amount when trying to put together a compelling story. That’s why this piece of writing may seem a bit on the rushed side. Enjoy!
Falling- A 400 word story
My eyes sting.
They sting like burning coals on bare arms and sanitiser on fresh cuts.
My frozen-with-long-exposure-to-freezing-wind hands sting too, but not as much as my eyes.
“Oh dear me.”
A voice from next to me drawles,
“It looks as though we’ve had a spot of bad weather, doesn’t it Miranda?”
I’m standing, rigid, atop TinderVall tower, one of Queen Thyra of Eversovern’s many purposeless but stunningly designed structures.
Why am I standing atop a building so high and isolated?
A short while ago, Queen Thyra decided that guards would need to be set to patrol the skies from enemies after she had lost her husband in an unpredicted air attack from neighbouring kingdoms.
What happened was still fresh in the kingdom’s hearts.
Thats where people like me come in, those who are gifted because of their long-ago relatives.
Relatives who were fairies.
Faeries who passed down wings that look like miniature ones that belong on the backs of angels and gave us the title “Hawksegals.”
But Hawksegals must be trained by mentors- mine being a Hanamunan called Mr Nightingale.
Hanamunans are animals with human traits; they walk upright, talk and lead quite civilised lives.
Mr Nightingale in particular is a fox whose tweed suits are immaculately tailored to fit his nimble body and holds a brass cane with great sophistication.
Mr Nightingale dips his brow, poised as ever.
“Miss Miranda, when I say jump, jump. Alright? Let’s get this over with quickly.”
I forget to blink in consfusion, adding to the pain in my eyes.
“Sorry? You know I haven’t been able to fly before.”
He taps his cane against the roof tiling and looks down his pointed nose.
“I do. That is why you must hope with every fibre of your being that the snow below us will break your fall.”
When Mr Nightingale says you must do something, an unexplainable force makes you abide by his words.
He says, so wicked yet innocent.
“Remember that flying is a journey,”
His amber eyes dig into me.
“And that falling is inevitable at times. Well then, cheerio, off you go.”
Mr Nightingale grips his cane.
“Hold on a second, sir! You can’t actually be seri-“
A sharp prod in my back and my feet stumble.
A mangled scream chokes on fear and I plummet
Falling through the air.
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