“Write a short romantic story whether that be, historical, fantasy, erotica, rom-com, YA, Christmas romance etc…”

Author’s note: Three years ago, when I was taking part in The Literal Challenge’s ‘Like The Prose 2020’ competition, I wrote a short story involving a radio programme in which scholars discussed the Middle English poem ‘The Song of Pardal and Enara’ (https://writingatjaneandrews.com/2020/06/09/like-the-prose-day9/). (The poem doesn’t exist: I made it up for the purposes of the story.) When I was asked to choose one of the stories I’d written so far and rewrite it from a different perspective for another challenge, I wrote the story of the two ‘Lovebirds’ in prose (Like The Prose Day 29 | The Addicted Writer (writingatjaneandrews.com)). The following story is another variation of Pardal and Enara’s story, but this time, I’ve written it as a fairytale so I can give them both the happy ending they deserve.

The Ice Mountain

They had both grown up in the same village, sweethearts from the time they could toddle. He can still see her now, only five or six summers old, sitting in the meadow surrounded by daisies. She’d shown him how to thread the yellow and white flowers into a delicate chain and he’d placed it on her head, declaring her his queen. Back then, they hadn’t envisaged anything would ever separate them. They were Pardal and Enara: everyone in the village linked their names together.

She was thirteen summers when he’d kissed her for the first time and her lips had been as sweet as cherries. Harvest time came and went, but still he did not have the courage to ask her father if he might court her properly. Instead, they stole away as often as they could, spending innocent hours together, his head in her lap whilst she threaded daisies into a crown for him. He was still a boy; but if he could become apprenticed to the village bard, he would have a trade to offer her father, a way of showing he could provide for a family.

At first she laughed at him as he sat strumming his lute, trying to learn the fingerings. But when she realised he was serious about his apprenticeship – and that he was striving so hard for love of her – she took pity on him and sat by his side, accompanying his voice with her own sweet soprano. As he grew more confident, he whittled wood to make himself a set of pipes, and then he would play the songs she loved while her clear, pure notes chased his. And when he kissed her now, they both heard the stars singing.

Four more summers passed before their betrothal. He danced with her at Summersfest as he did every year, and when the village maidens shyly laid their wreaths at the feet of their intended, Enara laid hers at his. The following day, his parents met with hers and it was agreed that the handfasting would take place in six days’ time. Six days did not seem long to wait, but the promised celebration did not happen, for on the eve of their union, Enara disappeared.

*

Pardal sets his empty flagon down upon the table and regards the assembled company. This is the fiftieth if not the hundredth time he’s told his tale, travelling from one end of the land to the other in an attempt to find his bride and rescue her; but although he has stopped at every tavern, singing each night for his supper, no one can help him. As hours drag into days and days blur into one another, he finds his mind returning again and again to the happiness he and Enara had known in their village.

And he wonders if he will ever kiss her again.

Night after night, as he brings forth his pipes and his lute, his heart is heavy as he thinks of the girl with golden hair that he has loved and lost. He still sings the songs he first learned in an attempt to woo her, but the words now catch in his throat: they’re a reminder of everything he no longer has.

                        “He lost the girl with the golden hair

                        O, he lost his lover so bonny and fair

He lost the girl with the golden hair

To the king of the icy mountain.”

*

He’s putting away his lute one night when he notices the crone standing in front of him. The local wise woman. His heart quickens at the sight of her.

            “Your notes are true, Pardal of the Three Bridges,” she says, “but not your words. Your love has been stolen away by a sorcerer, not a king.”

            “Do you know where she is?” He hardly dares to hope.

            She nods slowly, something akin to pity in her eyes.

            “Far away,” she says, her cracked voice weaving a spell around him as he listens, “in a land where the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, there is a mountain made of solid ice. Atop the mountain stands a castle: that too is built from ice, and within that castle your bride is imprisoned. She has been frozen by Gelus, the ice sorcerer, because she refuses to marry him.”

            “How do I find the way?”

            “You must travel for a year and a day,” she tells him, “across the Sea of Glass and through the Forest of Forgetting. If you survive such a journey, you will find the land you are seeking. But be warned: the way is long and arduous, and the mountain is impossible to climb. It is a fool’s errand, Pardal Goldentongue, and one that bodes ill for anyone who undertakes it.”

            “Nevertheless, I must try,” he replies. “Mayhap I will perish in the attempt, but I could not sleep at night knowing that I had a chance to rescue my love and did not take it.”

            “Then may the gods watch over you.” She pauses. “Never forget the power of song. It will bring you hope when you feel only despair and warmth when you feel cold; it will sustain you when your belly roars with hunger and bring healing when you need it most.”

            Her shawl flurries around her and she is gone.

*

He continues to work his way across the land, never stopping more than one night in the same place; always earning his bed and board with the songs that make children dance and lovers gaze at each other dreamy-eyed. Sometimes he plays so softly that the mice cease their scurrying and sit spellbound, twitching their whiskers; spiders pause spinning their webs and sway in time to the lilting notes that tumble from his lute. At other times, the lively tunes from his pipe set the whole tavern jigging so that laughter fills the air and the tavern master’s takings are doubled. But every night, he ends with the song the wise woman mentioned: the ballad of the girl stolen by the king of the icy mountain; and each day brings him a little closer to his goal.

            It is many months before he reaches the Sea of Glass. He gazes at the crystalline waves and wonders if he can walk across them. But as soon as he sets foot upon the frozen water, it turna to liquid and he knows that to attempt such a crossing would be perilous. His heart stills. Has he come so far only to be defeated?

            Unable to think of anything else he can try, he takes up his lute and begins to play a song that speaks of wind and waves and a kingdom under the sea. On and on he plays, until his voice is hoarse and his fingers sore; and when he stops, he is surprised to hear a voice coming from the sea before him.

            “Your song has moved us, Child of Earth, and so we will grant you a boon. Choose wisely, for once spoken, words cannot be returned.”

            The speaker is a beautiful woman, rising out of the sea. A delicate crown sits upon her waist-length silver hair, and when he looks at her, she is both young and old at the same time.

            “Grant me passage across the sea,” he begs her, “for I must rescue my true love who has been stolen away from me by Gelus, the ice sorcerer.”

            At this she sighs and the sound is the whisper of the ocean. “Crossing my sea would avail you naught,” says she, “for on the other side lies the Forest of Forgetting, and once you set foot inside it, you will no longer remember your true love.”

            “Nevertheless, I must try,” Pardal replies. “Mayhap it will turn out as you say, but I could not sleep at night knowing that I had a chance to rescue my love and did not take it.”

            “Then may the gods watch over you,” says the Queen of the Sea. She pauses. “When you enter the forest, do not forget the power of song. If your voice charmed me, it will charm my sister also; and she and only she has the power to help you through her realm.”

            She raises her arms and the sea becomes glass once more.

“Walk in safety, Child of Earth,” she says.

Pardal stretches out his foot and steps upon the solid surface. Walking carefully, he soon reaches the far shore and sees the Forest of Forgetting stretching out before him. He turns to thank his benefactress, but the waves flurry around her and she is gone.

*

The Forest of Forgetting looks dark and mysterious. Tall trees tower above Pardal as he approaches the entrance. For a moment, he pauses, heeding the warning the Queen of the Sea gave him: “once you set foot inside it, you will no longer remember your true love.”

Unable to think of anything else he can try, he takes up his lute once more and begins to play a song that speaks of the wind blowing through twigs and branches, and sap flowing through the veins of the trees. He sings of birds building their nests and squirrels scampering along boughs. On and on he plays, until his voice is hoarse and his fingers sore; and when he stops, he is surprised to hear a voice coming from the forest before him.

            “Your tune has moved us, Child of Song, and so we will grant you a boon. Choose wisely, for once spoken, words cannot be returned.”

            The speaker is a beautiful woman, emerging from one of the trees. A delicate crown sits upon her waist-length green hair, and when he looks at her, she is both young and old at the same time.

            “Grant me passage through your forest,” he begs her, “for I must rescue my true love who has been stolen away from me by Gelus, the ice sorcerer.”

            At this she sighs and the sound is the soughing of the wind in the trees. “Safe passage through my forest would avail you naught,” says she, “for if Gelus has stolen your true love, she will be entombed in ice in the sorcerer’s castle and no no-one can rescue her.”

            “Nevertheless, I must try,” Pardal replies. “Mayhap it will turn out as you say, but I could not sleep at night knowing that I had a chance to rescue my love and did not take it.”

            “Then may the gods watch over you,” says the Queen of the Forest. She pauses. “When you reach the Ice Mountain, do not forget the power of song. It will bring you strength when you feel weary and joy when you feel sorrow; it will sustain you when all else seems hopeless and it will reunite the two broken halves of the whole.”

            She raises her arms and Pardal finds that he has traversed the forest in the blink of an eye. He turns to thank his benefactress, but leaves swirl around her and she is gone.

*

It takes many months before he finally reaches the land where the sun rises in the west and sets in the east and sees the mountain made of solid ice. His once youthful face now sports a beard, and his clothing hangs from him in tattered rags. Nevertheless, the sight of the mountain makes his heart leap for he knows that he has almost reached his beloved Enara.

            Try as he might, the mountain seems impossible to climb. His feet and fingers fumble for purchase only to slide off the smooth, slippery surface. For a night and a day he tries, and still he remains at the bottom. Has he come so far only to be defeated?

            “Do not forget the power of song…”

            His voice charmed the Queen of the Sea and the Queen of the Forest but it cannot charm a mountain.

            “Do not forget the power of song…”

            His voice is not his only instrument. He has his lute and his pipes.

            Plucking his pipes from his knapsack, he regards them thoughtfully. Perhaps they could help him in another way.

            Carefully, he pulls his pipes apart. Using the wooden tubes as chisels, he carves steps into the ice and begins to climb. On and on he goes, higher and higher, scaling the mountain with sheer determination. At first, his fingers hurt with the cold; then they become numb; and finally, frostbite sets in – but he will not give up. Cold seeps into his bones and his bloodstream almost freezes, but he carries on.

            Finally, he reaches the top, exhausted and broken, and trudges towards the castle. The door is frozen shut, but he has come too far to let something like this stop him. Ignoring the pain in his blackened fingers, he takes up his lute and begins to play. Despite the icy cold seeping inside his head, he manages to coax some semblance of a tune from the weary strings, and each note he plays shimmers in the air until the whole mountaintop rings with the sound and the door creaks slowly open.

            Inside the vast, empty castle, endless corridors stretch before him. He will walk every one of them if he has to – if this is the only way to find Enara.

            As if in a dream, he begins to drag himself down the first passageway, pushing open heavy oaken doors, desperately calling for his love.

            At last, he finds her – encased in a block of ice. She has been frozen as the crone foretold. His fingers are now too stiff and cold to play his lute, so he sings. His chest hurts with each note that rips from him, but he will not give up. He sings of the fields and streams in their village, of the flowers and birds and summer sunshine; and finally, he sings of his love for Enara.

            Inside her block of ice, Enara begins to sing too; and as their voices join, the ice around her melts.

*

Enara runs to her lover but he is half-dead from cold and exhaustion. Flinging her arms around him, she sings. He has no voice left, but hers is clear and true. As she sings, the blood begins to flow once more in his veins and his colour is restored. Hand in hand, they stand and sing, and the castle of ice melts around them.

“Is there a song that you hold special? If so, play it and really listen to the lyrics and then write a story about where that song takes you to.

Bonus points: Use song lyrics in your story.”

Author’s note: This isn’t exactly a song I hold special: it’s more a case of taking a song where the lyrics lend themselves easily to being turned into a short story. I remember thinking for a long time that the song by The Moody Blues was called ‘Knights in White Satin’ (it was years before I saw it written down), and so in my head, the line conjured up an image totally different from what the song was actually about. For some reason, the (erroneous) title always made me think of Tennyson’s poem about ‘The Lady of Shalott’, and so that’s what I’ve gone with. However, I’m pleased that I’ve managed to take part of the actual lyrics – “Gazing at people / Some hand in hand / Just what I’m going through / They can’t understand” – and incorporate that (albeit slightly paraphrased) into my story.

Knight in White Satin

Winter

From an early age, I had learned to beware the window.

My earliest memories are of being rocked to sleep in the arms of a comforting presence. There was a pleasing softness and squishiness about her and a comforting milky smell. I would later learn that this woman’s name was Tilda and that she was my nurse. My mother had died giving birth to me, but I did not know that then, and so, until I was some four or five years of age, I thought Tilda was my mother for she certainly cared for me as if I were her own, feeding me, singing to me, brushing my hair every morning and night.

She it was who taught me to sew. I was adept with a needle long before I could wield a pen and form stumbling letters, dipping my quill in the glass ink pot and making so many blots on the parchment that Tilda was driven to scold. I still remember holding my blunt bodkin, threaded with a colourful ribbon of silk, learning to pass the needle in and out of a piece of linen; although I wonder now what purpose was served by my learning such a skill, for all knew that I would never marry – could never marry – for what man would be willing to tie himself to a girl such as I? The stone walls of my tower room were my world; I could not expect anyone else to willingly share it with me.

But I digress. I had no thought of any husband when first I learned the small neat stitches of embroidery. My child’s fingers laboured to master satin stitch and crewel stitch that I might sit with Tilda, working on the same pillow. I had not thought then that my life’s work would be a tapestry so intricate that it would occupy every moment of my waking hours from first light until dusk.

I still remember well my seventh naming day when the large tapestry frame was carried in by eight servants, another eight following them with the mirror that would become my window on the world. And thus my task was explained to me: I was to observe the outside world through its reflected pattern in the mirror, and I was to reproduce each detail faithfully. Poppies and cornflowers romped in fields of golden wheat either side of a winding river, and a road snaked its way along too, leading to many-towered Camelot. At first, my eye saw only the wonders of nature, for flowers and trees seemed beauteous indeed compared to the stone walls that surrounded me; then, as I grew older, I began to take an interest in the people who passed by on the road, and to make stories for myself about who they were and what they were doing. They flitted across the mirror like shadows in a puppet play, yet it sometimes seemed that they were more substantial than I.

Summer

Swathes of silk still shroud the forbidden window, but daylight always manages to creep through, spilling onto the flagstones in puddles of muted pinks and greens and yellows. At times, I long to pull the hangings aside and gaze out on the world below. I don’t, of course: it has been imprinted on my heart that the window is dangerous and that were I to look outside just once, for just the smallest moment, the curse laid on me at birth would take effect and I would topple to my doom.

Shadows are not so tiresome when one knows the reality is fatal.

My hands fly over the tapestry. I have learned much since those first tentative attempts with a bodkin. An old woman with a basket takes shape upon the road, her form outlined in stem stitch, whilst off to the right, the sun beats down upon fields of barley and rye. I do not include the figures the mirror showed me earlier: a young swain and his lass who disappeared hand in hand into the long grass and emerged again some time later. I have no name for the thing between them that puts a smile on his lips and a blush in her cheek, but I long for it with every one of my fourteen summers.

Winter

The candlelight flickers. It is not late – only six of the bells, but the natural light in this room faded some time ago. I can no longer see to make the feather stitches necessary to complete the corner I am working on; and besides, the absence of light outside is reflected in the mirror within. How can I weave the unseen world about me when its shadow is obscured by darkness?

Spring

My tapestry continues to grow, the mirror furnishing me with fresh subjects each day. Bold knights gallop towards Camelot; merchants returned from the sea display their wares. Did our Lord feel thus when He separated light and darkness, land and water? When He admired the handiwork of his creation, did He experience the pride that I feel now when I regard the microcosm I have made in coloured silks?

Summer

I watch the seasons change through the mirror’s eye. Winter is cold and bare; spring brings hints of life; and summer bursts with joyous fecundity. Sunlight glints off the water in my woven river – or, at least, an impression of what I think sunlight must look like in real life. I still live in a world of shadows, seeing only my mirror’s version of reality, but the curse is an effective deterrent and the window remains shrouded.

I could have ignored it for ever had it not been for the knight in white satin.

The mirror shows a sky so blue it almost hurts the eyes. The road is busy today, it seems: a farmer walks past, driving his geese to market; a procession of nuns, stiff and severe in their long, black dresses and starched, white wimples follows at a more sedate pace. Their lips move as in prayer, but the mirror shares only sights not sounds.

And then, I see him. Shining armour peeps out from beneath the white satin surcoat he wears over it. His carriage is tall and straight; he bears himself like one of royal blood. His proud horse steps down the road as if carrying a king, and the jewel-bedecked bridle glitters in the sunlight. As my eyes hungrily devour the scene in the mirror, a light breeze catches the plumes on his helmet, making them flutter, and his polished vambraces gleam. A spark of lightning ignites inside me and I move as one in a dream towards the forbidden window, knowing that I am no longer satisfied with shadows. This man is my destiny: I must gaze upon his true face.

Ignoring the curse, I pull the hangings aside.

Time slows and then stills. I am as immobile as the figures in my tapestry: a woman poised on a precipice of destruction. A single grain of sand falls through the hourglass and I feel my life unravelling.

For an endless moment, I am frozen in time. If my knight in white satin would but only raise his head, he would see my face and I his. I could die happily knowing that I have gazed on true beauty.

He does not look up.

The Fates pluck my life-thread from the tapestry they have been weaving these past fifteen years. Embracing the inevitable, I let myself topple from the window, knowing that I am moving towards my death.

“Today’s prompt is: write a short fantasy story.”

Author’s note: As with Day 1 and Day 3, I’ve taken an idea I have for a full-length novel and decided to consumer test it by writing it as a short story. (Additional note: It’s just under 9,000 words as I got a little carried away, so be warned if you were after a quick read.) Werewolf stories seem to be in vogue at the moment; I blame it all on the ‘Twilight’ saga. Typical tropes include fated mates (people who are predestined to be together), pack Alphas (male leaders) who are all well over 6 feet tall, and Lunas (female leaders bonded to the Alphas) who are often physically and/or emotionally fragile but display huge amounts of resilience by surviving abuse and bullying. From what I can gather, there seems to be a lot of emphasis on the Lunas wearing pretty clothes and being carried around by the big strong Alphas, but a lot of people (myself included) think that there’s too much toxic masculine hegemony in a lot of the stories, so I’ve decided to give mine a bit of a twist.

Still interested? Then check out Day 5’s story.

The Wolf and the Witch-Child

As I walk down the aisle, resplendent in my white gown, I can feel the eyes of the whole pack upon me. I know some of them are wondering why the new Alpha chose me – it can’t just be because my father’s the retiring Alpha; and I can sense the inner wolves of a row of girls just ahead of me, growling with frustration because it’s me and not one of them.

Ahead of me, my groom waits. Not a muscle twitches; he doesn’t even turn his head to look at me. I try to make out who it is, my heart desperately hoping that it isn’t Aaron. Shafts of sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows of the tiny Gothic church obscure my vision so that I have only a blurred impression of height and strength; but his wolf calls to mine and I know that we are fated mates. Against my will, I am being dragged towards him, my need for him so urgent that it almost overwhelms me. The moon goddess herself has decreed that I will love both man and wolf, and my howl is now no longer one of frustrated denial but a song of joyful acceptance.

I reach his side and lift my veil to see his face, but his human form has disappeared and a pure white wolf stands in his place.

And that is the point where I always wake up.

*

“So, you have no idea who your fated mate is, then?” Galen’s question sounds casual, but he knows how on edge I’ve been feeling ever since I started having the wedding dream almost six weeks ago.

            We’re sprawled on the river bank, enjoying the last rays of the late September sun. At our feet, water gurgles contentedly. I come here a lot when I want to be quiet and reflective – and so does Galen. It’s our ‘happy place’.

            “Nothing,” I tell him now. “Every time I get close enough to see him, he’s a wolf. It could be anyone in the pack.”

                        “And how do you feel about that?” he persists. “Is there anyone in particular you’d like it to be?”

“No one,” I say, “and definitely not Aaron. He’s been strutting around for ages convinced he’s going to be the next Alpha and that somehow that gives him the right to take me as his mate.”

“Hmm, a guy who’s potentially the next Alpha, six four with rippling pecs and a bad-ass attitude. Yeah, I can see why you’d be averse to marrying someone like that,” Galen says lightly, his green eyes searching my face as if to check for tell-tale signs that I’m lying.

I bite my lip. Aaron is good-looking; but he’s also arrogant. What’s more, he’s got a mean streak – especially when it comes to Galen.

“I couldn’t be with someone who treats my best friend like dirt,” I say at last, my heart thumping as I wonder if Galen will understand what I’m trying to say.

He gives a bitter laugh. “It’s not as if I’m the only one – the whole pack treats me and my mom like pariahs.” His fingers tug self-consciously at the iron collar around his neck. “These anti-charm bracelets we’re forced to wear… They’re not exactly a badge of honor, are they?”

Galen was six years old when a group of pack-scouts found him and his mother in the woods – along with the body of a dead shifter. She admitted she was a witch and that the child was hers – perhaps she thought the Betas who made up the scout-party would be afraid of her if she confessed what she was; but what she didn’t know was that the scouts had a shaman in their midst: one with the power to neutralise her witchcraft. The iron collar he snapped around her neck was fastened by wolf-magic – as was the one he used to subdue her son. She must have come across the wolf by chance because he wasn’t from our pack – maybe he’d been tracking her or something: some kind of rogue mercenary hunting magical creatures for easy gold; but whatever the story was, she kept quiet about it, and that made her look even guiltier.

My gaze rests on him now: about 5’10 and slender but wiry. Over a decade of working in the stables, learning how to handle wild stallions, shovelling muck for hours on end, feeding, watering and grooming around thirty horses, give or take, has chiselled his body and honed his muscles just as effectively as the hours that Aaron and his cronies spend in the gym, pumping iron. There’s a quiet confidence about Galen: he doesn’t need to flex and pose like the alphas-in-waiting; he’s not trying to impress anyone. Galen is Galen – and that’s why I love him.

I’ve never told him this – what would be the point? I’m the Alpha’s daughter – his only child – and I can’t inherit my father’s title. Instead, I’ll become the Luna of my dad’s successor: the fiercest and bravest of the would-be Alphas. For months now, Aaron and the others have been duelling each other, practicing their moves in preparation for the big contest that’s taking place this weekend. Whoever wins will be crowned Alpha and I’ll have to marry him.

“You could always refuse, you know.” Galen breaks the silence that stretches between us. “I know tradition’s important to your people, but this is the twenty-first century, Cass. You’re not your father’s property – at least, you shouldn’t let yourself think you are.”

His dark hair flops over his forehead and he brushes it away with irritation. I stare at his long, pale fingers, imagining how it would feel if he were brushing the hair away from my face not his; wondering what it would be like if he kissed me.

“You need to live up to your name,” he says now. “Cassandra means ‘Warrior’. It’s time you started to fight for what you want.”

“Some warrior!” I sniff. “I haven’t shifted yet.”

In my dreams, my wolf is definitely there – so much a part of me that I struggle to know where one of us leaves off and the other begins. I thought I would shift on my sixteenth birthday – like so many of my friends did – but almost a year later, my wolf is still silent, causing me to wonder if I might not be a throwback: a shifter without the ability to shift.

“It’ll happen,” Galen says, trying to reassure me. He squeezes my shoulder, sending a million tiny sensations shooting through my entire body. I close my eyes, unable to keep looking at him without wanting something I know I can’t have.

“Cass?” There’s a note of uncertainty in Galen’s voice now. “Are you okay? Did I say something that upset you?”

Willing myself not to fall apart, I open my eyes again. I’m lost, and I know it. No matter who gets chosen as the Alpha, I’ll never be able to feel the same hopeless longing for him that sits in my belly now when I look at the boy who’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember.

*

“What would your father say if he could see you?”

            Malice drips from Aaron’s question as he strides towards us, surrounded by his normal entourage of adoring girls and sycophantic Betas. There’s no doubt he’s got some sort of charisma – at Winfold High, he was always the leader of the cool kids; and since he turned eighteen and became a full-time Beta, he’s been roaming the pack compound in the same arrogant way he used to stroll the school corridors.

            I feel my face flush at his words. Galen and I weren’t doing anything, but I know it’s not the done thing to be found in the witch-child’s company. If anyone who mattered saw Alpha Quade’s daughter hanging out with a collared servant, I’d be confined to my room for a week.

            “Keep your distance,” Aaron orders, looking at Galen as if he’s something nasty he’s stepped in. “I don’t want my mate to be contaminated by a piece of filth like you.”

            Galen says nothing, but color begins to stain his cheeks. He’s used to abuse – verbal and physical; he’s lived with it for twelve years.

            “I’m not your mate,” I say through gritted teeth.

            Aaron ignores me. “Step away,” he says. “You should be knee deep in horse shit in the stables, not talking to the Alpha’s daughter as if you’re one of us.”

            “I’ve finished mucking out the stables for today,” Galen tells him. His complexion’s returned to normal; he looks totally unfazed by Aaron’s attempt to bully him.

Aaron steps closer to Galen, attempting to intimidate him with his superior height and weight. Galen doesn’t flinch: instead, he eyes Aaron as if they’re equals. My stomach tightens. This is going to end badly.

“I told you to leave.” Aaron’s voice is almost a growl; his wolf’s not out, but it sounds like he’s not far away.

“I’m spending time with my friend.” Galen sounds calm although he must be shaking inside.

Without warning, Aaron lunges forward, trying to land a punch on Galen’s face. Something bubbles inside me – fear? anger? – but before I can let myself give in to this strange gut reaction, Galen sidesteps and dodges Aaron’s blow. The two of them face off, fists raised as if they’re in a high school boxing match, and my heart sinks. Aaron’s a dirty fighter. He was school boxing champion but only because he ignored the rules when the coach wasn’t looking.

I turn away momentarily, not wanting to watch Galen being beaten to a pulp. Aaron’s always had it in for him: it’s as if he’s jealous of him in some way.

“Stay away from my woman.” Aaron’s issuing a warning.

I spin round, facing them again. “You don’t own me! We’re not even dating.”

“I think Cass has a right to make her own decisions,” Galen says mildly.

Aaron growls under his breath. I can see the hatred in his eyes and I know he’s going to punish us both for daring to stand up to him. He needs to prove to himself and everyone else that he’s alpha material – to show them how easily he can subdue a helpless human – and believe me, Galen is as helpless as a non-magical human while he’s wearing that collar. It’s been welded to him since he was captured, despite him not showing any signs of magic either then or now. He might be the son of a witch, but he and his mother have been powerless since they were taken prisoner.

They’re still dancing round each other, eyes narrowed, focusing on the moment. Time stills; it’s as if the universe pauses to watch the two of them.

My heart twists. I already know what the outcome will be. Aaron is the strongest and fastest Beta in the pack, and Galen… Galen is intelligent and sensitive – the sort of person I’d want as my Alpha if he were a wolf; the mate I long for but know I can never have.

Aaron throws another punch. Galen avoids it neatly – his reflexes are surprisingly fast. Aaron shoots out a foot, trying to trip his opponent, but Galen bends his body, keeping his balance. When Aaron grabs hold of him, Galen twists and somehow manages to use Aaron’s own strength against him, making the Beta stumble.

“Don’t just stand there watching!” Aaron roars in frustration.

Horror-struck, I watch as four of his cronies hurry forward. Five against one. I’m detached from my body, forced to stand by as a helpless observer as they grab Galen and hold him still for Aaron to hit. I want to rush over and drag them off. I want to protect my mate.

Without thinking about what I’m doing, I release my inner wolf.

*

She’s been there all the time, just under the surface, waiting until I needed her. Her strength flows through my veins and I’m aware of a strange sensation as I drop to all fours and begin to arch my back. I’ve heard other people talk about shifting for the first time and how it feels as if all your bones are breaking at once; they don’t tell you how that stab of intense pain pales into insignificance beside the thrill of your wolf exploding out of you.

            Letting my wolf instinct control me, I leap at Aaron, knocking him off balance, not caring if he shifts too. My wolf is ready to take on his.

            He sprawls on the floor, his face thunder. His eyes are turning yellow; I can sense his wolf itching to come out.

            Back off, my wolf tells him.

            Surprisingly, his eyes return to their normal ice blue. “Let him go,” Aaron says out loud, injecting a note of boredom into his voice. “He’s not worth the effort.”

            He clambers to his feet, trying to make out nothing untoward has happened. His lackeys are still holding Galen. I growl at them to release him.

“Let’s get out of here,” Aaron says. Lowering his voice, he murmurs, “This isn’t over, Cass. Your witch friend had better watch his back.”

I move between him and Galen, daring Aaron to see what happens if he tries to touch him again.

“We’re not wasting any more time with these losers.” The arrogance is back in Aaron’s voice. “When I’m Alpha, I’ll make sure they both obey me.”

I continue to stand guard over Galen until Aaron and his entourage have walked away. Once we’re alone, he drops to his knees in front of me and fondles my tufted wolf ears.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his fingers stroking through my dark, silken fur.

I growl with pleasure.

I know I need to shift back now that Galen’s out of danger but I’m enjoying the sensation of being touched by him. Wanting to prolong the physical contact, I push my nose into his chest, then look up at him. Our eyes meet.

For an endless moment, we gaze at each other. My wolf’s retreating: I want to be human once more so I can feel Galen’s hand stroking my back, his lips pressed against mine.

I’m mid-shift when I realize that human Cass will be naked. My clothes ripped when I transformed.

“Uh, Cass…” Galen must have come to the same conclusion as me because he pulls away from me and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m not looking at you,” he continues, eyes closed. “You can put my shirt on to cover your dignity until we get back to the Alpha house.”

Now fully human, I take the shirt from his outstretched hand. He’s a good ten inches taller than I am so the shirt’s long enough on me to pass for a mini-dress – but only just.

“You can open your eyes now,” I say, fastening the last button.

His green eyes flicker as he takes in the sight of me in his shirt. Am I imagining it, or is there something between us: some current of electricity that makes me tingle all over from just being near him?

It would be the perfect moment for our first kiss, but he’s holding back. Perhaps he doesn’t feel the same way I do.

“We’d better get going,” he says awkwardly. “I don’t want you to get into trouble because of me. If Aaron’s told your father…”

“What, told my father that he’s a bully who attacked you for no reason? Or that he had to get reinforcements because you were beating him in a fight? Get real, Galen. He’s not going to say anything that puts him in a less than perfect light. You know how much he wants to be Alpha.”

Then a thought strikes me. Aaron managed to land several blows while his friends were holding Galen. “How badly are you hurt?” I ask.

Galen shrugs. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure you haven’t got cracked ribs? I thought I heard something shatter when he hit you.”

Galen shakes his head. “It hurt at the time, but it’s fine now.”

Even though I’ve only shifted once, I know that superfast healing is part of what we do as wolves. Is it a witch thing too?

“Have you inherited your mother’s witch-power?”

“I don’t know.” He won’t look me in the eye.

And just like that, the potential closeness between us is gone.

*

We’re careful for the next few days. I don’t want to give Aaron any more incentive to hate Galen. We don’t go to our happy place by the river; instead, we hang out in the stables, grooming the horses side by side while we talk in low voices about the future.

            “We could run away together,” he says. “I don’t want to spend my whole life in a collar, and you don’t want to be forced to marry the next Alpha.”

            My heart skips a beat. We’d be fugitives, forever on the run – but we’d be together.

            “Let’s do it,” I say, counting rapidly in my head. “Today’s Wednesday and my father’s announcing the new Alpha on Saturday. That means we need to leave tomorrow or the day after.”

            “I’m ready to leave at any time,” he says. He hesitates. “Can we take my mom? I don’t like the idea of her being left here on her own.”

            My heart stills at the idea of what Aaron might do to her if he thought she knew where we’d gone. He wouldn’t think twice about torturing a defenceless woman to get information – or to punish her for her son’s disobedience. Besides, I like Myrna. Despite being a servant, she’s been a mother-figure to me ever since my mom died three years ago.

            “Let’s go and tell her now,” I say. She’ll be in one of the Alpha house bedrooms at the moment – she always changes the sheets on Wednesdays – but everyone else should be out so we won’t have to answer awkward questions.

            We find her pretty quickly – or what’s left of her. She’s lying on the floor of one of the guest rooms, her face a mass of vicious looking scratches and a hole in her neck where her throat’s been torn out. Clean bedlinen is scattered on the floor around her: she must have been carrying it when she was attacked.

            Galen lets out a small grief-stricken sound. His face is deathly pale. I want to put my arms around him and comfort him, but his grief is too new, too raw.

“Aaron,” he says at last.

I nod.

“I need to find him,” Galen says. His voice is tight. “I need to make him pay for what he’s done.”

“No!” I catch hold of his arm, afraid he’ll walk out of the room and start looking for Aaron straightaway. “You can’t fight him. He’s setting you up so he’ll have a legitimate excuse to kill you.”

“He killed my mother!”

“We don’t have proof,” I remind him. “And Aaron’s going to be the new Alpha. You can’t accuse him of murder – it’ll be seen as treason.”

Pain rolls off him in waves. Pain mixed with anger and something else I can’t yet define.

“I can’t lose you, Galen.” It’s the closest I can come to confessing my love for him.

“Tonight,” he says, his jaw set. “There’s some kind of event in the Beta house. Aaron and his myrmidons are going to be drinking all night – I overheard two of them talking about it when I was mucking out earlier. That’s an advantage of being a servant: no one notices you when you’re just getting on with your job. … We’ll sneak away while they’re busy partying. I don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to.” He looks at me. The sweet, sensitive boy I grew up with has been replaced with a young man who knows the weight of grief. “You don’t have to do this, Cass – not unless you really want to.”

But I do have to do this. My need for Galen is a slow burning ache inside me. I have to be where he is: if he’s not in my life, I’ll cease to exist.

“I’ll go and pack now,” I say. “Nothing much – just a few clothes and essentials. Nothing that won’t fit in a rucksack.”

“How are you going to leave your house without being spotted with a rucksack?”

“I’ll throw it out of the window,” I say, the plan forming as I speak. “If it lands in the bushes, no one will see it.”

“I hope you’re a good shot,” Galen says soberly, “because if anyone sees your bag and realizes what you’re doing…”

I reach up to squeeze his shoulder. “Nothing’s going to go wrong. I promise.”

*

Only, something does go wrong – not with packing my rucksack; not with throwing it out of the window – what goes wrong is far worse than anything I could have anticipated.

            The first inkling I have that our plans are about to be scuppered is when my father enters my room just after I’ve heaved my bag out of the window. At first, I think he’s seen it land in the bushes outside; but as he starts speaking, I realize that this was something far more serious.

            “Who normally cuts your hair?” he demands, striding across the floor to scrutinise me at close range.

            “What?”

            “Who does your hair? Would they have time to do something with it before tonight?”

            My hand flies instinctively to my ponytail. I haven’t had a haircut for about three years – ever since Galen let slip that he likes long hair. It’s waist-length when I don’t tie it up, but it’s too impractical to walk around with it loose all the time.

            He’s opening my closet door and rifling through the contents before I have time to reply. “You need more dresses. The future Luna should be stylish and sophisticated. You’ll have to borrow something that’s more appropriate for the big announcement. Are any of the other girls your size?”

            Big announcement?

            “What’s happening tonight?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

            He finally turns aside from my clothes rail to look at me. “I’m announcing the new Alpha tonight. Now that you’ve shifted for the first time, there’s no point in waiting. After all, it’s going to be your engagement party too.” He pauses. “I wanted to surprise you, so I’ve got a team decorating the Beta house and the caterers are there now, setting up. But then I thought you’d rather know in advance so you have time to get ready. You need to make a good impression, Cassandra. There’ll be Alphas from other packs. It’s an important night for us – and Aaron.”

            Aaron. My heart sinks even though I’d anticipated this. I can’t do this. If my engagement’s announced officially, I’ll never be able to leave.

            “Can’t we do this tomorrow?” I blurt out, desperation making my voice squeak. “That would give me time to get my hair and nails done, and buy a new dress, and…”

            “No.” It’s the pack Alpha not my father who answers the question. “The celebration’s taking place tonight and that’s final.” He consults his watch. “You’ve got just under four hours to get ready.”

And just like that, all my dreams of escaping are dashed to pieces. If I don’t show up at the feast, my dad and Aaron will come looking for me – along with a bunch of Alphas from other packs. Galen won’t stand a chance.

*

Under the pretext of going to see a friend to borrow a dress, I sneak back to the stables to let Galen know the worst. His face lights up when he sees me, and my gut twists when I realize I won’t be able to spend time with him from now on. I know without being told that Aaron will guard me possessively as soon as our engagement’s announced. He’s had girlfriends in the past but they’ve only ever been casual – a warm up for the main event of marrying the Alpha’s daughter. Nevertheless, I’ve seen the bruises around eyes that dared to look in the direction of other men. Aaron doesn’t share his toys. Perhaps it’s just as well that Galen’s leaving because it would only be a matter of time before Aaron found an excuse to beat him up again, knowing how much it would upset me.

            “That was quick.” He’s still carrying the horror of his loss – there’s a haunted expression in his eyes that wasn’t there before; but his face quirks into a half-smile as if he’s pleased I’m there.

            “Change of plan,” I tell him. “You’ll have to leave on your own.”

            For a moment, he says nothing; then, “Do you mind telling me why?” His voice is deliberately casual but I can sense his heart breaking inside.

            “That thing in the Beta house – it’s my engagement party.” The words drag themselves unwillingly from my lips. “My father’s naming Aaron as the new Alpha and me as the new Luna.”

“I see.” Galen turns away from me and begins brushing one of the horses. An invisible wall of resentment shimmers between us. “So you’re going to marry him – after what he did to my mom.” The words are flat. Lifeless.

“I don’t want to marry him.” Tears are forming in my eyes. “But I have to.” I take a deep breath. “It’s the only way to keep you safe.”

The brush he’s been using clatters to the floor as Galen spins round to look at me again.

“Cass?”

And then his arms are around me and his lips are on mine, and I’m swimming and flying at the same time, and I know I’ve finally come home.

*

“I’ve wanted to do that for years,” he says as we finally break apart.

            Blood’s thrumming in my ears; my pulse is racing. “Don’t stop,” I say softly, reaching for him again, but he shakes his head, grinning.

            “There’ll be plenty of time for that later – when we’re far away from here.”

            “We’re still leaving? But I can’t. What about…?”

            “We’ll find a way.”

            Somehow, his lips find mine once more and we cling to each other. My bones turn to water as he kisses me and I feel ready to fall apart.

            “What about your witch-magic?” I ask as we finally come up for air.

            He grimaces. “I don’t know if I have any. I’ve been collared most of my life.”

            I stand on tiptoe, stretching up to feel the iron collar around his neck. I know that it’s fastened with wolf-magic, but I don’t know anyone with that skill. The shaman who imprisoned Galen and Myrna left us years ago, and he was the only person I’ve met who knew how to use it.

            Galen’s fingers close over mine. “Maybe we need to join forces,” he says. “Combine your wolf and my magic.”

            It’s a slender chance but we have to take it. I let his fingers guide mine over the cold, smooth metal, tracing it all the way around until they meet something that feels different.

“It’s a catch,” I say in surprise, fumbling to open it. But the collar remains locked and I want to howl with frustration.

“Let me try,” he says. The catch springs apart in seconds and we look at each other.

“Was that you or me?” he asks.

I shake my head in ignorance of the answer.

Galen removes the collar, staring at it wonderingly.

“Try some magic,” I tell him.

“I don’t know how,” he begins, then smiles as an idea comes to him. “What are your favourite flowers?”

“Pansies,” I say immediately.

He grabs my hand. “I don’t know if this will work, but it’s worth a try.”

I let him lead me outside the stable. Several large ceramic tubs filled with earth are dotted under the windowsill of the adjoining house. “The gardeners are getting them ready for replanting,” Galen says. Gazing at the tubs, he begins to mutter something under his breath. As I watch, tiny shoots spring up that grow and blossom until…

“Pansies,” I breathe. They’re a riot of color: purples, lilacs, whites, yellows… “Are they real?” I ask next.

Galen nods. “I saw one of the gardeners planting seeds earlier today. All I did was speed up the growing process.” He pauses. “My mom couldn’t use her magic once she was collared, but she told me about it – how she used to be able to speed up time or slow it down. She said magic’s not about creating something out of nothing: it’s about using what’s already there but intensifying it.”

He pulls me back into the stable and our lips meet again in a long, lingering kiss. “If I could, I’d freeze time to make that last forever,” he says.

I’m about to nod in agreement when a thought strikes me. “You can freeze time.”

“Uh, I guess so. I haven’t tried yet, but I think I’ve just demonstrated that I can speed it up.”

I break away from him, walking up and down to help me concentrate. “Do you think you could freeze time tonight?” I ask. “As in, for long enough for us to get away?”

He looks startled. “I don’t know, but I can try.”

“Then tonight,” I tell him, pushing his long, dark locks out of his eyes, “you and I are going to walk out of the Beta house and no one is going to stop us.”

*

The Beta house is packed by the time Dad and I enter. The folding doors that separate the ground floor rooms have been pushed back to create one huge space set up with tables like a wedding reception. White and silver balloons adorn the walls and there are banners that say ‘Congratulations!’ A long trestle table at one end of the room groans under the weight of platters of food and there are opened bottles of wine on every table. Dad glances at me and then nods approvingly. I’m wearing a figure-hugging gown in pale blue that matches my eyes, and my uncut hair is twisted into an elegant knot on top of my head. Stylish and sophisticated, just like he wanted.  

Across the room, I spot Galen acting as a waiter. He’s wearing the collar again, but it no longer has magical properties. He said it would make people see him as less of a threat. I catch his eye and he gives a barely perceptible nod. That means he’s ready, although I know he still has mixed feelings about this. Once he realized he could use witch-magic, Galen had wanted us to leave straight away, but I told him that if I wasn’t there for the festivities, Dad and the visiting Alphas would come looking for me and that I doubted any kind of magic would be able to prevent them from executing the servant who’d run away with me.

“And tell me what’s going to give us a better chance of escaping if we’re both at this party,” he’d said.

            I’d explained that the whole pack would be there. “It means everyone’s in one place for you to freeze them,” I told him. “It’ll give us a better head start.”

            Lost in my thoughts, I’m unaware of anything else until my wolf growls and my skin prickles. I turn around to find Aaron eying me hungrily as if I’m a raw steak.

            “Glad you made the effort to dress up for me.” Arrogance oozes from his pores. He knows he’s the pack’s golden boy – how could any woman resist his sun-streaked hair and muscled physique?

            “The dress isn’t for you,” I tell him. “My father wanted me to look the part for the visiting Alphas.”

            He reaches a hand towards me and I step away from his touch. For a moment, his eyes narrow, and then he lets out a derisive snort. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you, Cass – once you’re officially my Luna.”

            “Go to hell!” I snap at him. My wolf growls impatiently, but I keep her in check. Just another hour or so, I tell her, and then Galen and I will be leaving.

            “You’re beautiful when you’re annoyed.” He’s laughing at me now, secure in the knowledge that I’m his – whether or not I want to be. He places a possessive hand on my shoulder before I can wriggle away from him: he’s claiming me in front of the entire pack.

            I’m angry enough to shift, but I don’t. Instead, I keep telling myself that I only have to put up with this for a little longer. I turn away from Aaron, my eyes searching the room, trying not to stare too obviously at the mate my heart has chosen. In less than an hour, we’ll be free; but I can’t help the icy sense of foreboding that’s seeping through my veins.

*

It’s tradition for everyone to sit down to eat and drink before the official announcement of the new Alpha. Dad’s been leader here for as long as I can remember, but over the years, I’ve accompanied him to other Alpha ceremonies in various packs across the county, so I know how these ceremonies unfold. I used to love the excitement of waiting for the big reveal, and I didn’t realize at the time that I was being shown off like a prize broodmare – without any sons of his own to become Alpha after him, Dad was using me as bait to entice worthy candidates. That’s how Aaron ended up being part of our pack: he was only fourteen when Dad and I visited Willow Creek five years ago, but he already had a reputation for being faster and stronger than anyone else who was still of school age. He knew he wouldn’t make Alpha anytime soon if he stayed where he was – the guy taking up the mantle while we were there was in his early twenties so it looked like he’d be around for a long time; but Aaron was happy to transfer to Forest Glen on the understanding that he’d be made Beta as soon as he was old enough and that he’d be training with the other potential Alphas.

            My suspicions that Aaron really is going to be the next Alpha are confirmed when we take our seats at the top table. Dad has the centre seat, with me sitting next to him and Aaron on my other side – a Luna hemmed in by two Alphas so I can’t escape. The visiting Alphas are also on our table – each with his own Luna. I’m feeling claustrophobic before the eating and drinking starts.

            On one side of me, Dad is discussing pack policy with Alpha Aimilios from Tall Pines; on the other, Aaron is trying to woo me with what he thinks is sexy talk, fuelled by the vast quantities of wine he’s knocking back. I ignore all of it, not wanting to engage in any more conversation with him. Then, as the meal progresses, his comments stop being suggestive and become downright crude.

            I’m relieved when Dad finally calls for silence and tells the assembled company that he’s about to announce the new Alpha. Galen’s hovering nearby with a platter of chicken; I catch his eye and he nods.

            As the crowd begins to quieten down, Galen starts muttering words under his breath. At first, I don’t see any difference; then gradually, Dad’s voice begins to drag to a halt as time slows down and finally freezes.

Galen walks over to the top table and takes my hand. I’m aware of what’s going on but I’m as immobile as everyone else.

“C’mon, Cass!” Glen sounds impatient. “We need to leave now. I don’t know how long I can freeze time for.”

I can’t move, my mind tells him.

I don’t know whether he can hear me or not – wolves can mind-link, but I don’t know if witches do that too – but a look of comprehension suddenly dawns on his face. “You’re frozen like the others.”

Scooping me out of my chair, he begins to carry me away from the table and out of the hall. Aaron’s eyes flash fury. I can’t help feeling a sense of smug satisfaction.

*

We’re approaching the threshold of the hall when time starts again. I suddenly realize that I can move my fingers, but everything’s in triple slow motion. Horror squeezes my heart as I watch Aaron force himself to his feet, attempting to come after us. He looks like he’s moving through treacle.

            “I’m sorry, Cass.” Galen begins muttering again, but it’s too late: before he can refreeze time, four heavily-built shifters rush in from outside and grab hold of us. Of course – there would have been Beta bodyguards left on duty outside the Beta house. I saw them when Dad and I arrived, but I just assumed they’d come in and join us once all the guests had arrived.

            By now, Aaron’s reached us and my father isn’t far behind.

“Glad you were able to get here in time,” Dad says, addressing his remark to the Betas holding us. “I wasn’t sure if you’d been affected too when I sent the mind-link.”

“By the time you’d alerted us to the danger, it was too late,” one of them says. “We found we couldn’t move at our normal speed – everything had slowed to about a hundredth of what it should have been.”

Galen’s magic had still reached them outside, but it hadn’t been strong enough to freeze them. And when time had restarted slowly in the hall, it had kicked in at full strength outdoors. I try not to look at Galen, not wanting to make things worse. If necessary, I’ll take responsibility myself for freezing time: I can claim I found the spell in a book and that I had no idea what it would do.

Dad’s looking at me now as if he doesn’t know who I am anymore. His face is a mixture of disgust and disappointment, and I know he must be embarrassed too. I’ve let him down in front of the whole pack – and all the visiting Alphas.

I open my mouth to tell him I’m sorry, but Aaron gets in first. “I think we have grounds here for a trial,” he says, his voice steel. “It’s quite obvious that Cassandra was being taken against her will. The witch-child-” – and here he spat in Galen’s face – “is guilty of kidnapping the future Luna. And as her intended mate, it is my right to challenge him to fight to the death in a Wolf Duel.”

“You can’t!” I burst out, terror making me reckless. “Galen’s a witch. He can’t shift. He doesn’t stand a chance!”

            Aaron is smirking at us both. He knows exactly what will happen. He’ll tear Galen’s throat out in front of me and I’ll be forced to watch.

*

            “At least give him a different opponent,” I continue wildly. Someone who doesn’t hate Galen as much as Aaron does. “Or make Aaron fight in human form.” Galen’s beaten Aaron before in a fair fight. He can do it again.

            My father’s shaking his head and I can see that the other Alphas are in agreement. “You know the rules, Cassandra: once someone challenge someone else to a Wolf Duel, the fight is between those two only. And of course Aaron needs to shift: it’s a Wolf Duel, not a Man Duel.” His tone is cold and emotionless. He wants to get this over quickly.

            Ice begins creeping through my bones. I sway on my feet, fear making me unsteady despite the bodyguards holding me, then right myself once more. Plunging into the depths of my soul and finding a strength I hadn’t known I possessed, I meet Aaron’s eyes. “I cast the spell – not him. If anyone should be facing you in a Wolf Duel, it’s me.”

A shocked hush falls over the room and I inwardly curse myself for forgetting that supersensitive hearing is all part of the wolf package. Then again, everyone would still have heard me if I’d whispered.

            Aaron doesn’t bother lowering his own voice as he replies. If anything, he projects it so that everyone can hear easily. “My poor little Luna. He’s bewitched your mind. Doesn’t that prove that he needs to be eradicated?”

            The crowd’s wolves murmur angrily. If I’m not careful, there’ll be more than person shifting into a crazed killer today.

            Cass… Galen’s voice in my mind. So, witches can do it as well as wolves… Don’t worry – I  know how to use my magic now. I’m not afraid of Aaron.

            “And we’ll make sure it’s a fair fight,” Aaron continues. He beckons to one of the men standing with my father. “Alpha, we need your shaman.”

            The shifter he’s addressed, a tall man in his forties with grey hair and a hatchet-face, nods in the direction of someone who looks like he might be of Zimbabwean descent. Like most shamans these days, he’s clad in a business suit rather than a robe, but the white painted tribal markings on his face leave me in doubt as to his profession.

            “Mr Zwane,” the Alpha says by way of introduction.

            From his breast pocket, Mr Zwane takes a stick of blue chalk. Without saying a word, he begins drawing a large ring on the floor: the battle arena. The crowd that had surged forward to gawp at Galen and me shrinks away again.

            At first, I don’t understand what’s going on. My father pulls Mr Zwane aside and mutters something to him, gesturing at Galen and his collar. Mr Zwane shakes his head.

They know the collar doesn’t work anymore, Galen tells me. The shaman’s creating a space that prohibits magic in the same way. Once I step inside that circle, I’ll be powerless.

The circle’s complete. Mr Zwane takes an odd-shaped instrument from his trouser pocket. It looks very old – as if it’s been carved from the bone of a sabre-toothed tiger or the ivory tusk of an extinct mammoth. Vivid blue and red feathers are tied to one end of it with scarlet thread. Mr Zwane walks around the perimeter of the circle, shaking the – whatever it is – and muttering strange, unintelligible words. The hairs rise on the back of my neck as he does so, and by the way other people’s inner wolves are fidgeting, I can guess that everyone else feels as disconcerted as I do. Even Aaron looks slightly uncomfortable.

Mr Zwane finishes his ritual and nods at my father. “It’s done,” he says. “100% witch-proof.”

“Then we can start right away,” Aaron interjects. He begins unbuttoning his shirt. Someone in the crowd whistles.

I watch in stupefied silence, wondering why he’s taking off his clothes. His body’s well-muscled, but it doesn’t interest me at all. Surely he doesn’t expect me to agree to being his Luna just because he’s stripped down to his boxers?

And then my heart hammers as the pieces fall into place. Aaron’s getting ready to shift. He’s not going to give Galen a chance to best him again like that other day at the lake.

He’s going to wolf out as soon as the contest starts, and Galen won’t be able to defend himself.

*

Tears prick at my eyes as Galen’s dragged into the circle to face Aaron. They eye each other warily, the almost naked 6’4 hunk and his 5’10 fully clothed opponent. It’s almost like David and Goliath, except Galen doesn’t even have a slingshot to defend himself with. For a brief moment, I dare to hope that the shaman was wrong and that Galen will be able to freeze Aaron, but when I catch Galen’s eye, he gives a tiny shake of his head and I know the battle’s already lost.

            “Wolves of Forest Glen…” Dad’s voice rings out confidently. “…Visiting Alphas… One of our pack has brought an accusation against the witch-child, Galen. Alpha-Elect Aaron claims his right to ask for a Wolf Duel. Let the Moon Goddess herself decide who is right: if the accusation is just, may Aaron defeat his enemy…” Cheers break out around the room at this. “…But if the witch-child has been wrongly accused, let the Goddess herself protect him.” The accompanying silence is a pretty clear indication of whose side the audience is on. “May the loser’s death be swift.”

            The words are barely out of his mouth when Aaron drops onto all fours and begins to shift. His eyes have turned yellow and his back arches; he’s almost doubling in size. Within moments, a huge shaggy wolf stands opposite Galen emitting a low rumble of hatred.

            I gaze at my would-be lover, realising that it’s the first time I’ve seen him in wolf-form. I’d imagined his coat would be golden, like the streaks in his hair, but Wolf-Aaron’s fur is a dark grey color. It’s standing on end now as he crouches, ready to spring at his prey.

            I can’t bear to watch Galen being torn limb from limb, but I can’t look away either. I need to commit this scene to memory so that some time in the future, I can make Aaron pay for it. Clenching my fists so hard that my nails dig into my palms, I force myself to keep watching.

            Galen drops to his own knees, and for a moment, I think he’s trying to protect himself by crouching in a fetal position, protecting his throat; but as I continue to stare, something incredible happens. Galen’s entire body starts to shimmer. It takes a few seconds for me to work out that he’s glowing with sweat from the exertion of… shifting. This should be Aaron’s perfect moment: he can easily defeat someone whose body is transforming for the first time; whose bones are breaking and resetting; who’s confused by discovering he’s not what he’s grown up believing he is.

            Only he doesn’t. Aaron seems as mesmerized as the rest of us, staring in awed silence as Galen steps forward in wolf-form: the white wolf of my dreams.

*

Almost as a delayed reaction, Wolf-Aaron regains his composure and springs at Galen. Galen meets him mid-leap, and the two hurtle to the ground, grappling together, teeth biting, claws ripping, no holds barred. Galen’s human form may be physically inferior to Aaron’s, but his wolf is bigger, stronger. I gaze at the powerful jaws and know that they won’t struggle to rip Aaron’s throat out. Galen’s not just going to defend himself: he’s going to execute the person who murdered his mother.

            And a part of me feels glad. I want to see Aaron suffer; I want him to know what it feels like when someone more powerful inflicts pain on him.

            The air around us is thick with tension as the fight continues. The cheers for Aaron have died down; it’s no longer an unequal fight between wolf and witch but an evenly matched contest of strength and skill.

            That’s when it hits me. If Galen wins, he’ll have beaten the new Alpha. And that means…

            My concentration returns to the scene before me. Aaron’s tiring: he’s not used to fighting someone with stamina to match his own. But Galen’s been forced into manual labour for the past twelve years, working fourteen-hour shifts with barely a break, endlessly repeating physically demanding tasks. Charged with adrenaline, he’s almost a blur, dodging Aaron’s attacks and inflicting plenty of damage of his own. Meanwhile, Aaron’s bleeding from a scratch near his right eye, and his left ear is torn; he’s dragging one of his back legs as if it pains him.

            It’s not hard to guess how this is going to end.

            There’s a sudden last-ditch surge of strength from Aaron as he sees his Alpha crown slipping away from him. With a howl of fury, he aims himself at Galen’s throat only to be batted back with such force that he flies across the arena, landing on his back with the wind knocked out of his sails. Broken and bleeding, he lies there, a helpless victim, as Wolf-Galen casually saunters over to him and stands looking down at him with contempt.

            Aaron knows he’s defeated. He offers Galen his throat. The room stills as everyone waits for the kill. I’m waiting too, dancing on toes of anticipation. Nobody, not even my father, can refuse to let me take Galen as my mate now he’s proved himself in front of the pack.

            Galen bares his teeth, ready to exact revenge for his mother. The silence is deafening.

            Slowly, Galen withdraws from Aaron and transforms back into his human form. Someone has the presence of mind to hand him a scarf to veil his modesty. At his feet, Aaron twitches, but Galen quells him with a look.

            “A strong leader knows how to show mercy,” he says. His voice is quiet, but we all hear it. He’s mind-linking everyone here. “Aaron deserves death, but I choose to let him live…” The sharp intake of breath that ripples round the room tells me that no one was expecting this. To be honest, I wasn’t either.

            “I’m the new Alpha!” The words escape in a howl from Aaron, now no longer in wolf form. “You don’t have the right…”

            “Silence!” My father’s whiplash command startles me. “You were Alpha-in-waiting,” he tells Aaron, making sure that the assembled company hears his words, “and you threw it away in a petty act of vengeance, duelling someone you were certain you would defeat.” He takes a deep breath. “I will not let my wolves be led by anyone reckless. This error of judgement nearly cost you your life…” He pauses to glance at Galen – a look full of surprise and grudging respect – then continues, “…The next time, you could endanger the whole pack. From now on, you are no longer a part of Forest Glen.”

            The bruises on Aaron’s body are livid – but not as livid as the expression on his face.

            “You have twelve hours,” my father says. “If you’re still in the compound after that, I’ll give Galen permission to finish what you started.”

            Heads are nodding all around the room. People are agreeing with my father’s decision to banish Aaron. He’s gone from hero to zero in a matter of minutes.

            “Ga-len!” somebody shouts and the crowd joins in. “Ga-len! Ga-len! Ga-len!”

            My father’s smiling. He’s actually pleased that people are shouting Galen’s name. “Let’s do this properly,” he says, calling for silence. “Galen…” He fumbles for the surname.

            “Galen Witch-child,” I say helpfully.

            “Galen Braveheart,” my father corrects me. “Galen Braveheart, you have proven yourself in battle as a warrior, but you have also demonstrated self-control and sober judgement. I can think of no better man to lead as Alpha in my stead.”

            “I accept your offer.” Galen’s language is as formal as my father’s. “And ask for the gift of your daughter as my Luna.”

            Before my father can reply, Galen reaches out and grabs my hand. Pulling me towards him, he whispers, “I know you wanted to leave, but I think we can both afford to stick around now.”

            And then he kisses me in front of my father and the whole pack, and the crowd goes wild.

*

“So,” I say as we sit by the river, once more in our happy place, “your mom was a witch and your dad was a werewolf.”

            Galen nods.

            “And you’re a…” What? Is there even a name for what Galen is?

            “A bit of both,” he says. He pulls me closer so that I’m snuggled into him with his hand stroking my shoulder. It all seems so natural – as if we’re meant to be together.

            “Why didn’t you tell me about your wolf heritage before?” I ask now.

            He looks uncomfortable. “My mom never really talked about it. When your pack found us, we were on the run. I can’t remember much because I was so little when it all happened, but I think my dad must have been the dead shifter – the one they thought my mom had killed. He must have died trying to protect us. My mom had no idea who your scouts were or how they’d react if they found out she was the mate of a wolf… I think she was worried I’d be killed if anyone found out I was a half-breed. That might have been why we were running away in the first place.”

            “That’s all behind you now,” I say. “The pack’s accepted you as their new Alpha. No one cares what happened in the past.”

            “Maybe…” He sounds thoughtful. “I think it will take a while to work out how to balance my witch- and wolf-sides, though.”

            “We’ve got all the time in the world,” I tell him.

And then he starts to kiss me, and time stands still without the need for magic.

“Today’s prompt is simple: write a sixty second comedic monologue.”

Author’s note: As I edge my way closer to my sixties, I’m constantly forgetting how old I am until I mention something like ‘Opal Fruits’ to the children I teach and they look at me blankly. ‘Opal Fruits’ were renamed ‘Starburst’ in 1998 – a decade before any of these children were born. It does make me think about the importance of brand names for products and whether certain things would be as successful were they named something else, and that’s where the inspiration for this monologue came from.

Additional note – I know it’s supposed to be a 60 second monologue, but the ‘Veet’ section alone (381 words) took 2 minutes when I read it aloud, and the entire piece is 1342 words, meaning that it would take at least 7 minutes to perform this.

‘Avez-vous un Snickers?’

 Have you ever stopped to think about some of our big brand names and asked yourself whether these products would be more successful if they had a slightly different name? Several years ago, Pizza Hut ran an ad campaign where they pretended they were rebranding themselves as Pasta Hut – the point being that they wanted people to realise that they didn’t just make pizzas. And here in the UK, we often rebrand items so that we’re calling them by the same name as the rest of the world – ‘Veet’, ‘Cif’ and ‘Snickers’ all had different names in Britain when I was growing up.

The problem is that these new international names often don’t make as much sense to us as the original name did. ‘Veet’ hair removal cream used to be ‘Immac’ – presumably because your underarms would be immaculately smooth after using the product. ‘Immac’ made sense, but ‘Veet’… That’s not a word – well, not in English anyway. Of course, it does sound like the French word ‘vite’ which means fast, so I’m guessing that the company who makes the stuff wants to subliminally advertise how quickly it does the job. I can picture the scene now in a French business meeting where all the advertising consultants are discussing the rebranding of their product for the UK market: (over the top comedy French accent) Ah, zeese Eengleesh, zey are so stupide, n’est-ce-pas? Zey will not realise what ‘Veet’ means…

And let’s be honest, the majority of English people are so useless at learning other languages that they really don’t know what the word ‘vite’ means – it actually sounds like ‘feet’. You can picture the scene in the chemist’s, can’t you?

Me: Have you got any ‘Veet’ cream, please?

Pharmacist hands me a tube of anti-fungal cream.

Me: Erm, ‘Veet’ aerosol?

Pharmacist presents me with peppermint cooling foot spray.

Me: ‘Veet’ wax strips?

Pharmacist gives me strange look as if wondering what sort of Hobbit feet I possess if I need to wax them.

And then I remembered what my friend Stephanie told me when I was 13: “Joanne Berry says the changing rooms in C & A smell like Immac.”

Joanne Berry says the changing rooms at C & A smell like ‘Veet’/feet – it makes perfect sense now.

‘Cif’ bathroom cleaner’s something else that’s had a rebrand. For decades of my life, it was known as ‘Jif’. Again, this is something that makes sense – you can get the cleaning done in a jif if you use this product. The problem is that this phrase works for us but not the rest of the world. The closest the French come to ‘in a jiffy’ is ‘dans un instant’ and the Germans say ‘im Handumdrehen’ which translates to ‘in no time’ or ‘in the blink of an eye’ but doesn’t have the catchiness of ‘in a jif’. And like ‘Veet’, the word ‘Cif’ doesn’t mean anything in English – unless you use it as an abbreviation for a sexually transmitted disease. I mean, can you imagine the confusion that would cause when a wife sends her husband off to the supermarket to buy cleaning products and then receives a text saying, “I’ve got the Cif”? Some women would take that as an admission of adultery.

But these problems with rebranding pale into insignificance beside the way that our beloved sweets have suffered over the years. I’ve mentioned ‘Opal Fruits’ – or ‘Starburst’ as they’re now known – and they’re a prime example of an original name that made more sense than the new name. As soon as you read ‘Opal Fruits’ on the packet, you knew what to expect: sweets that taste like fruit. But when you see ‘Starburst’, that doesn’t tell you anything. For a start, a star isn’t exactly something I’d want to put in my mouth – it’s a luminous spheroid of plasma tied together with self-gravity – yum! The sun is a star and I certainly don’t want a burning ball of light in my mouth, thank you very much. And as for it bursting…

‘Starburst’ is still quite a recent rebrand though as it was only twenty-five years ago. What really changed the face of British sweet eating was the renaming of the iconic ‘Marathon’ chocolate bar to ‘Snickers’ in 1990. ‘Marathon’ made sense – it was advertised with a mock up of an athlete about to run a long-distance race-. Someone handed him a ‘Marathon’ bar just as he was about to start and instead of chomping it down in one bite, the guy stood there for what seemed like twenty minutes biting through all the layers of chocolate, caramel and peanuts. It was called a ‘Marathon’ because it took a long time to finish it.

We were the only country that called it that. Everywhere else in the world called it a ‘Snickers’ bar, so eventually, a huge ad campaign was brought out to introduce the new name in England. We saw a French girl – you could tell she was French because she was wearing a beret – walking into one shop after another with the same question every time: “Avez-vous un Snickers?” Scores of bewildered shopkeepers shook their heads, not having a clue what she wanted, and I’m not surprised. Yet again, it’s a word that doesn’t make sense in English – or at least, not in the context of a chocolate bar. It’s the sound a horse makes, or the sound of a scornful laugh – neither of which springs to mind when you’re feeling peckish. In the advert, you’d be forgiven for thinking that she’s asking for underwear because it sounds like she wants some knickers. And since when was that the way to name a chocolate bar? All the other brands from the same family are named after astronomical features: ‘Mars’, ‘Galaxy’, ‘Milky Way’ – we’ve got connotations of a chocolate universe going on here. And then we get to ‘Snickers’ – grab an item of underwear and stick an ‘s’ on the front. You might as well call it ‘Sunderpants’ or ‘S’why fronts’… S’thong… S’G-string… I could go on all night.

But you do have to be careful with some of the original names for chocolate bars too. The ‘Topic’ bar was another product from the Mars stable. It was like a ‘Marathon’, but instead of “Comes up peanuts, slice after slice”, ‘Topic’ promised “A hazelnut in every bite.” My ex-husband loved ‘Marathon’ bars as a child but didn’t like ‘Topics’, so when he went on a residential trip with the top year of primary school at the age of 11 and was given a ‘Topic’ in his packed lunch, he decided to take it home for his dad – you know, the way that boys go on trips and bring back presents they haven’t actually bought because they spent all their money on football stickers at the start of the week. My brother did that when he went away to Scotland on a school trip – he handed out all the fruit he hadn’t eaten all week so my older brother got an orange, I got an orange, and my mum had two apples. Anyway, my ex-husband (who was not my ex-husband at the time but my fourteen-years-into-the-future husband) came home from his school trip on the Friday evening and gave his dad the ‘Topic’, his dad ate it, and that was the end of that… Until Monday morning when everyone was walking to school and a girl called Jenny asked my ex-husband if he’d finished the project they’d been given to do for homework. Only, she didn’t call it a project: she called it a topic.

You can see where this is going, can’t you?

Jenny (thick northern accent): Have you got your topic?

Ex-husband (aged 11): No.

Jenny: But Miss said we had to hand them in this morning.

Ex-husband (panicking): No one said we had to bring them into school.

Jenny: So where is it then?

Ex-husband: I gave it to my dad and he’s eaten it.

There would have been none of that confusion with a ‘Marathon’.

“Today we are going to write a story about friendship, the good, the bad, the ugly. Are your characters siblings, neighbours, or perhaps roommates (maybe a mix of both.).”

Author’s note: For years, I’ve wanted to write a novel loosely based on the story of Goldilocks in which the central figure destroys the lives of three of her childhood friends. I quite often write the idea as a short story first to see if it works. For this version, I’ve gone with an American setting, but the characters and storyline might easily migrate their way back across The Pond at some stage.

Who’s Been Eating My Porridge?

I stare at the details on my phone. Yes, this is the right address. It’s been fourteen years since I left here, but the memories haven’t faded – and over the next few months, those girls are going to regret what they did to me.

*

It’s a beautiful spring morning as Jodie opens the door to greet the woman who’s called her about renting the room. Aurelia wafts into the room on a cloud of expensive perfume, sunlight catching her long, golden curls. Jodie could feel threatened by the sight of this goddess, but she’s clad reassuringly in faded jeans and a top that’s more K-Mart than Gucci, and besides, there’s a reassuring smile on her face, so Jodie smiles back too and leads her to the currently unused second bedroom.

            “I used to have a lodger,” she babbles nervously, “but she moved state a couple months ago and I haven’t got round to finding a replacement yet.” She pauses as a thought strikes her. “How did you know about this room? I haven’t advertised yet.”

            Aurelia regards her coolly. “You work for Watson’s, don’t you? I went to college with a girl who works there now and she mentioned it when I told her I was moving to this area.”

            It’s a half-truth: Lacey and I did meet at college and have kept in touch. I couldn’t believe it when she said she’d taken a job in my old home town, or that those three witches would still be living here. She knew all about what they did to me, of course, and she promised she’d keep me updated on what they were doing

            “Lacey Jenkins,” Aurelia says when Jodie looks at her quizzically.

            Jodie’s face lights up. “Oh, Lacey! We’ve started eating lunch together recently – she’s such a good listener.”

And it seems as if that’s the only reference Aurelia is going to need because minutes later, the two of them are sitting on Jodie’s back porch, sipping peppermint tea and sorting out a date for Aurelia to move in. Phase 1 has begun, and Jodie has no idea what’s in store for her.

*

The smell of fried chicken permeates the air, mingling with the chattering voices of Jodie and her three best friends. It’s strange how quickly Aurelia has become part of their coterie, despite being a newcomer to the town. Jodie, Helen and Meg grew up here and went through school together, drifting apart momentarily to attend their various colleges before returning to the place they loved and the friendship they’d forged, but Aurelia’s slotted in so well you might almost think she was one of the original set.

“Jodie, that was amazing,” Helen says, clearing her plate of every last delectable morsel. “No one makes chicken the way you do.”

“Make sure you’ve left room for dessert,” her friend warns. “Aurelia’s made chocolate fudge brownies and they’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

There’s a flurry of plates and a clinking of cutlery as Meg helps Jodie to carry the empty dishes into the kitchen, bringing back a tray of chocolatey goodness and a family sized tub of ice cream. Jodie digs her spoon into the gooey richness and savours the taste on her tongue before she turns to the others, eyes bright with excitement, and says, “I can’t hold it in any longer. There’s a vacancy for a PA at Watson’s, and I’ve decided to apply.”

Helen and Meg know how much this means to Jodie: she’s been a secretary now for a little over a year, but she’s always dreamed of bigger and better things.

“I was wondering…” – and here Jodie sounds a little hesitant – “if the three of you would look through my personal statement for the application form and let me know how it reads.”

An hour later, the four of them have analysed every sentence in detail, crossing out a word here, adding a phrase there. Jodie knows she can’t improve it any further, so she excuses herself for a few moments and begins copying her personal statement onto the official form.

“Isn’t it an online form?” Helen asks in surprise; but apparently, the company values handwritten applications.

“They probably hire a graphology expert to analyse what you’ve written,” Aurelia says jokingly.

Jodie looks worried at the suggestion and they all hurry to reassure her.

It’s getting late and Helen and Meg need to leave. It’s another twenty minutes after that when Jodie finally feels satisfied that she can’t see any errors with grammar or punctuation. She’s ready to put the form in an envelope, but she can’t find hers anywhere.

“I’ve got some in my room,” Aurelia tells her. “Fold it to the size you want and I’ll find one that fits.”

Jodie triple-folds and then Aurelia disappears with the form. She returns with a sealed envelope and tells Jodie to write the details on the front.

“I sealed it to stop you spending another hour re-reading and obsessing,” she says firmly. “Now, are you delivering this by hand or mailing it?”

Jodie pops the sealed envelope into the in-tray at reception the following morning, knowing that she’s done her best; but she’s not prepared for the shock a week later when Aurelia guiltily confesses to her that she applied as well – or the crushing devastation she feels when her lodger is offered the job.

You knew how much I wanted to be class president, but you ran for it anyway. This is what they call karma, Jodie Mitchell. I’m going to do to each one of you what you did to me.

*

The others are understandably sad for Jodie, but at least the job’s gone to another person in their friendship group. “You’ll be able to eat lunch together every day,” they say consolingly, but Jodie isn’t so sure she likes Aurelia anymore. Friends don’t steal other friends’ dream jobs.

Aurelia knows Jodie’s angrier than she’s letting on. “The atmosphere in her apartment is so uncomfortable at the moment,” she tells Helen as they meet up for coffee without the other two one lunchbreak. “I know she wanted the job herself, but it went to the best candidate and now she’s acting like I set out to hurt her on purpose.”

She can’t prove anything. When I replaced her application form with a blank piece of paper, I hid the evidence under my pillow and burned the form when she’d gone to work the next day.

“She does have a mean streak, I’ll give you that,” Helen concedes. “There was this girl in Middle School who spilled a drink on her…” What was her name? Gilda? No, Goldie. “– and Jodie was so mad at her that she made her life a misery for the next two years.” She gives an embarrassed laugh. “Actually, we all did. She moved out of town when she was thirteen and I’ve often wondered if it was because of what we did to her.”

Laughing about me behind my back. Not inviting me to any of the parties. Telling people I had lice. No one would have wanted to stick around after being treated like that.

“She had long golden hair,” Helen says conversationally, “like you. But once we started the headlice rumour, she had it all shaved off.”

“Speaking of hairstyles…” Aurelia pauses. “Do you still want me to do something with yours?”

Helen nods enthusiastically. “I still can’t believe that’s not your natural color. I can never get a home dye-job to look that good. And the salon around here charges such astronomical prices!”

“This weekend, then?” Aurelia keeps her voice casual, but she feels a bubble of satisfaction rising within her. Phase 2 is on track and Helen won’t know what’s hit her until it’s too late.

*

Helen wriggles excitedly on her hard, kitchen chair, a plastic cape around her neck as the acrid smell of ammonia fills the air. From time to time, she takes a quick peek at the image on front of the packaging, visualising herself floating into work on Monday morning with long, coppery locks cascading to her shoulders. Jodie’s a natural redhead and Meg’s part-Japanese heritage means that she’s inherited glossy black hair and almond shaped eyes, but Helen’s always felt like the plainer one, her mousey-brown color nowhere near as vibrant and exciting as that of her friends.

“We knew she didn’t really have headlice,” she says suddenly.

Aurelia’s fingers stiffen in the process of applying the color, but she recovers and lets Helen continue.

“Jodie was jealous of her,” Helen says now, blissfully unaware of the drama being played out on her scalp. “Goldie’s hair was longer than anyone else’s and it was a really pretty color – like yours, but natural. That’s why we started the story – because Jodie didn’t want anyone else being prettier than she was.”

I cried for weeks after my hair was cut off. I remember Jodie telling me I looked like a herring; and as for you, Helen… Karma’s about to teach you what it’s like to be called ‘Baldy’.

“I think that’s everything covered now,” she says as she stands back and surveys her handiwork. “You need to set a timer for twenty minutes and then shampoo it off. There’s color-protect conditioner in the box.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Helen says gratefully, sipping the camomile tea that Aurelia’s made for her.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay for the big reveal,” Aurelia tells her, picking up her things and preparing to leave, “only you know I’m moving my stuff out of Jodie’s today. Meg’s said I can lodge with her and Harry for the time being until I find a more permanent place.”

“The rent-money will come in handy for them both,” Helen agrees, beginning to feel a little sleepy. “it’s sad that you and Jodie aren’t talking anymore though – it makes it awkward for Meg and me when we want to get together.”

“I’ll let myself out,” Aurelia says, kissing Helen on the cheek. “You look nice and comfy where you are.” And the Lunesta tablet in your tea should make sure you stay that way for the next 6-8 hours. “Make sure you rinse it off in 20 minutes, though, otherwise your hair might be damaged.”

Helen yawns as the door clicks shut. Her eyes close; and within seconds, she is fast asleep.

*

Meg stares at Aurelia in horror. “She did what?”

“She fell asleep with hair dye on her head and she slept for 8 hours,” Aurelia whispers. “I told her to rinse it off after 20 minutes, but after 8 hours, it was breaking off in her hands wherever she touched it. There was nothing the stylist could do to save it.”

“She must be heartbroken,” Meg says. “She was so excited about getting that color.”

“I did warn her about the risks of using a box dye,” Aurelia says now, “but she seemed obsessed with the idea of saving money by letting me do it for her. And she’s just had to pay over $100 for a professional to cut it all off.”

Meg eyes Aurelia warily. There’s something a little odd about this tale, but she can’t quite work it out. Why would Helen fall asleep in the middle of the day, for one thing? And stay asleep for 8 hours?

“I feel awful,” Aurelia continues – “but I had no idea she’d do something like that.”

A faint memory stirs within Meg of a golden-haired girl daring her to pull Tommy Lundberg’s pants down in the playground when they were six. Meg had been in so much trouble with the principal, even though she’d sworn – what was her name? Yes, that was it: Goldie – had told her to do it. She could still hear the girl’s voice now: “I had no idea she’d do something like that, Miss Williams.”

She looks at Aurelia and shudders involuntarily.

*

Aurelia’s been living with Meg and Harry for two weeks now and it’s given her an insight into their relationship. Meg teaches high school and brings work home with her every evening. While Aurelia and Harry giggle over stupid shows on TV, Meg sits at the table, grading history papers, turning round every now and then to shush them when they get too noisy. When that happens, Aurelia rolls her eyes at Harry as if to say, ‘What a killjoy!’  and then Meg will stump off into the bedroom, banging the door behind her as she tries to ward off the uneasy feeling that her relationship is falling apart.

The other morning, she came out of the shower to find Harry and Aurelia laughing and joking over coffee and cinnamon rolls. Harry doesn’t normally eat breakfast, and her stomach had rolled tighter than one of the pastries as she watched her friend and her lover acting for all the world like a married couple.

Today, Harry leaves before Meg can remind him that she’s got parent-teacher meetings this evening. She meant to ask him if he wanted her to bring back dinner since she won’t be done till 7.30, but Aurelia assures her that she’ll cook for the three of them and so Meg thanks her, wondering now if she’s misjudged her lodger after all. She’ll text Harry anyway and tell him to expect her by 8. She hates it when they don’t have a proper goodbye in the mornings.

*

When Harry arrives home, at first, he thinks there’s been a power cut. Candles are burning on the dining table but the rest of the room is in semi-darkness. He’s slightly confused when he smells food – didn’t Meg say she’d be home late tonight? And then Aurelia walks out of the kitchen, looking like sunshine and smelling like Christmas, and he forgets all about Meg when he notices that the top buttons on Aurelia’s blouse have somehow come undone.

Aurelia’s poured him a large glass of red wine. He doesn’t normally drink on a week night, but his senses are already reeling from the sight and the scent of her and he takes a large gulp to steady his nerves. “I hope you’re hungry,” she says teasingly, “because I’ve made steak Diane.”

Meg made them both stop eating red meat some time ago. Every so often, he indulges in a sneaky burger when he’s out with workmates and then feels guilty afterwards. He knows he should say no to Aurelia, but the thought of that tender juiciness is too appealing.

“What about Meg?” he asks. “I think she’s expecting dinner when she gets back from the parent-teacher meeting.”

“You mean the school concert,” Aurelia corrects him.

Harry’s throat flutters as if something is suddenly trapped in his windpipe. “I’m sure she said it was a parent-teacher meeting,” he says uncertainly.

“Yes,” Aurelia says a little too quickly, “I’m sure I got it wrong.” But he can’t help but notice the uneasy expression on her face.

He grabs his wine and tries to drown his insecurity.

*

The bottle of wine stands empty. Aurelia turns to Harry, sitting beside her on the sofa, and grins flirtatiously. “Should we open another one?”

He ought to say no – his head’s already swimming with alcohol and angst and a surfeit of pheromones; but Meg is somewhere else and it looks like she lied to them both; and Aurelia’s fingers are lightly trailing up and down his bare arm, making him feel as confused as a teenager. She leans forward for his glass and he thinks he could fall into her cleavage and be safe from all the emotional turmoil; and then his eyes meet hers, and their lips mesh, and he somehow finds himself kissing Aurelia as if his life depends on it.

And that’s how Meg finds them when she opens the door and walks in a few minutes later.

*

For a moment, Meg feels as if she’s been punched in the stomach. Unable to move, to speak, to breathe, she watches her world collapse around her, pain twisting her gut until she thinks she’ll be sick.

The two of them break apart guiltily and Aurelia speaks first. “Meg… I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to find out like this.”

It’s as if Meg’s life is a snow-globe, turned upside down and shaken violently, and all she can do is watch the pieces settle.

“Get out,” she says as she finds her voice. “Both of you – get out. NOW!”

“Meg! Baby!”

Harry’s voice is desperate, but she stops her ears to his pleas. How could he do this to her? And why? The empty wine bottle offers some clue, but even so…

“I want you both to leave now,” she repeats.

She waits until they have gone before she lets the tears fall.

*

When we were eight, our teacher decided we would enter a float in the town’s annual carnival. That year, there was a fairy tale theme and the teacher chose me to be Goldilocks because of my hair. No prizes for guessing who the three bears were.

Maybe that’s what started the animosity – none of the others could forgive me for being the centre of attention; but what really hurt the most was the way Meg knew I liked Artie Beaumont and decided to steal him away from me. I’ll never forget the hurt I felt when she told Artie I’d badmouthed him to her and Helen and Jodie – or the smug expression on her face when he kissed her in the playground.

Revenge is sweet. Sometimes, you have to wait a while, but when it comes, it’s never too hot or too cold, always just right.

“Today’s prompt is pretty simple really… write a horror story. It could also be a spooky story that you would tell around a campfire with the flashlight pointed up towards your face for visual spooky effects.”

Author’s note: I’m not really one for reading, writing or watching horror. However, a few years ago whilst researching Scandinavian folklore for a different story, I came across the Icelandic legend of the Yule Cat: a huge and vicious cat who lurks about the snowy countryside during Christmas time and eats people who have not received any new clothes to wear for the Christmas festivities. You can read about the Yule Cat and the figures associated with it here: Icelandic Christmas folklore – Wikipedia

The Children Who Had No New Clothes For Christmas Eve

“Beware the Yule Cat, my little ones, when the snow is cold and the moon is fat…”               

Ömmu’s voice is soft and lilting within the cosy darkness of the winter evening, but the firelight casts strange shadows upon her face as she speaks so that Gunnar and his siblings are not sure whether this is really their grandmother or the giantess Grýla hunting for naughty children to devour.               

Inside the little house, everything is cosy and warm. The four children sit beneath a fur blanket, sipping hot chocolate and listening, wide eyed, to the twilight tale.               

“Tell us again about the Yule Lads,” eight-year-old Helga begs.               

Every year, Ömmu recounts the story of Grýla and her gigantic children. Their father says it is made-up nonsense used to frighten children into good behaviour, but Helga and her brothers know this is not true: Ömmu saw Pottaskefill when she was a girl, and even though her face is now wrinkled and her hair is white, she still remembers the outrage she felt when she crept downstairs one snowy December morning and found the hulking lout finishing up the leftover kjötsúpa from the night before.              

“Of course, half of them stole food of one kind or another,” Ömmu says, her tone reflective. Her eyes mist over as she revisits the past, and Helga and Gunnar and the four year old twins, İsak and Anna, are dragged into the story with her – running past the smokehouse and spying Bjúgnakrækir in the act of swiping sausages, or tiptoeing into the kitchen to catch Þvörusleikir licking all the wooden spoons. So thrilling are Ömmu’s recollections that Gunnar can feel the smoke tickling his nostrils as he hides in the rafters of the reykhús, his mouth watering at the aroma of birch-smoked hangikjöt and kindabjúgu.              Meanwhile, Helga is caught up in the wild romping of Hurðaskellir and Gluggagægir as the former runs through door after door, slamming each one loudly, and his brother stops to peep in every window, looking for things to steal. In Ömmu’s homespun fantasies, Helga is as naughty as the thirteen brothers, but Gunnar knows she was first in her class this week.            

“The Jólakötturinn,” İsak and Anna chorus. “Tell us more about the Yule Cat, Ömmu.”            

“The Yule Cat is as tall as a house.” Ömmu lowers her voice to a dramatic whisper. “His legs are tree trunks and his eyes are dinner plates. When he growls, it is the sound of the ocean crashing on the rocks and his mouth is a cavern wide enough to swallow you whole.”              

İsak shrieks and Anna giggles. Gunnar pretends he is not listening, but everyone knows the Yule Cat story is his favourite folk tale.              

“And if you listen very carefully…” –  Ömmu’s voice is now so quiet the children have to strain to hear it – “you will hear the sound of his tail swishing through the snow as he prowls the streets, looking for the naughty children who have no new clothes for Christmas Eve.”

Helga and Gunnar exchange worrid looks. They have no new clothes for Christmas, but Mamma said it was because Pabbi had bought a new car and there were no króna left to spend on socks and sweaters.           

“The Jólakötturinn prowls the streets of Iceland,” Ömmu continues, “peering into windows to see which children have no new clothes. First, he eats their supper…” ­– İsak squeaks with outrage – “and then he eats the children!”              

Her skinny arms grab her younger grandson and she pretends to bite off his head. Helga and Anna scream.              

“Shame on you, Móðir!” Mamma scolds, bustling into the room and depositing a heap of knitted scarves and hats onto the fur covered couch. Then, turning to her children, she adds, “Put your new clothes on now – before the Jólakötturinn arrives.”               

And with a sigh of relief, Gunnar and Helga do as she asks.

For three years (2019-2021), I signed up for an annual writing challenge, ‘Like the Prose’, which involved writing a short story every day for the whole of June – each day, a writing prompt would be sent out at midnight and participants had 36 hours to write and submit a story. Last year and this year, Like the Prose didn’t run their June challenge, but a friend of mine took up the mantle and devised her own prompts every day in June. Although I’d signed up to receive daily prompts, she forgot to add me onto the mailing list until Day 18, so I decided to keep all the prompts and do the challenge in August (school holidays so more time), keeping to the same rules. Every day, I’ll post the story inspired by the previous day’s prompt.

Happy reading!

“Today’s prompt is inspired by The Midnight Library by Matt Haig. … Write a story where you wake up in a different life.”

Author’s note: I took my inspiration for this one from body swap stories such as Freaky Friday, but I couldn’t resist a few tongue-in-cheek references to Barbie and Ken as well. (Thank you, Greta Gerwig.) This story clocks in at 1, 089 words but is more of a first chapter than a self-contained story.

If you think this would make a good YA romcom, please let me know – I already have a few ideas about how the rest of the story will pan out, so I’d love to know if anyone would be interested in reading the full-length version.

I’m a Barbie girl

Ken: Friday, 7am

It seems like only seconds since I closed my eyes last night, but my alarm’s going off already, reminding me that there’s still just over a week left to go until school’s out for the summer. Trying to ignore the persistent beeping sound, I huddle deeper under the covers, trying to recapture the dream I was having. I know it was a good one.

I can’t ignore it any longer. Poking my head out from under the quilt, I yell, ‘Off!’, relieved that voice activation means I don’t have to open my eyes let alone sit up. The irritating beeping sound continues. I curse, and fumble for my cell phone. It’s not where I left it.

Swearing enough to qualify for a lead role in any Tarantino movie, I finally force my eyes open and try to work out where my phone is. Only… This pastel pink boudoir isn’t my bedroom, and the boobs I see peeping up at me from beneath a Minnie Mouse nightshirt definitely aren’t mine. Somehow, while I slept, I seem to have turned into a woman – and not just any woman either: unless I’m very much mistaken, the body I’m inhabiting belongs to Barbara Finsterson. But if I’m in her body, who’s in mine?

Friday, 7.15am

I still have no idea how I’ve managed to morph into Babs. (She hates it when people call her that, but not as much as being called ‘Barbie’ instead of Barbara.) What I do know is that I’m the only boy in school who’s seen Barbie Finsterson in the nude. Yep, that’s right – I checked out my new body about ten minutes ago. Who would have thought that underneath those prissy little button-through sweaters and conservative shirts was a set of curves that could give Jennifer Lawrence a run for her money?

I don’t know how long I’ll spend in this body; what I do know, is that I don’t want to forget what Babs looks like when I’m back to being the real me, so I’ve taken a few naked snapshots of myself as Barbie and emailed them to my Ken address. I can think of plenty of guys at school who’d pay good money to see those.

Friday, 7.25am

Uh oh. Barbie’s phone’s just pinged with an email alert. It’s been sent from my email address but I didn’t write a word of it.

What the hell do you think you’re doing?

She sounds pissed.

Sorry. Who is this? I decide to play dumb.

You know exactly who I am, Ken Masters. You’ve just sent a naked picture of me to yourself – only since we seem to have swapped places, you’ve sent a naked picture of me to me.

No! I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. I sit there a while longer, precious seconds ticking away whilst I wonder what to say next.

Uh, sorry? I hazard at last. She doesn’t even dignify this last attempt with a reply.

I try again. I apologise for my behaviour, Barbie-

BARBARA! she responds, the capital letters leaving me in no doubt that she’s yelling at me.

I’m sorry, Barbara. I promise I won’t show the photos of you to any of my friends.

You’re damn right you won’t. Because you’re going to delete that photo of me from my phone right now, and I’m going to delete it from your phone.

For a brief moment, I toy with the idea of sending her photo to Todd or Jackson or one of the other guys. They’d think Babs sent it, but still…

Is it deleted? Because if it isn’t, I can take a photo of your junk right now and send it to your friends via What’sApp. I have all your contacts right here.

She wouldn’t – would she?

It’s deleted.

I’m expecting her to say thank you, but the response she types back surprises me. I didn’t realise Barbie Finsterson knew any words like that.

Friday, 7.35am

“Barbara! Have you overslept?”

I guess the voice I hear through the bedroom door must be Barbie’s mom. School starts at 8.30 and I can drive there in 5 minutes, so I don’t know why she sounds so snarky.

Hold on – Ken can drive to school in 5 minutes, but I don’t know where Barbie lives or even if she can drive. “I’m getting dressed,” I call back, opening the closet to grab some clothes.

A sea of dull, muted colors greets me. This girl needs a makeover – she’s got a hot body but she hides it all the time in oversized shirts and long skirts that make her look like she’s trying to be an Amish wife. I pull piles of folded clothes from the shelves. This girl doesn’t even own a pair of jeans.

“Your oatmeal’s getting cold.”

I hate oatmeal. Breakfast for me is usually pancakes and waffles. I have a stay-at-home mom and four younger siblings, so there’s always a stack of food on the table.

“Not hungry,” I call back, struggling with my bra clasp. How do girls manage to fasten these things behind their backs?

Conceding defeat, I decide that today Barbie will go braless. It’s not as if anyone will know – the shirt and pants I’m wearing completely disguise my shape.

Friday, 8.35am

It takes far longer than 5 minutes for Barbie to get to school. For one thing, she lives about 10 miles away from Edgemont High; for another, she can’t drive. I’ve just had to endure forty minutes in a car with a woman who acts like she’s auditioning for ‘The Stepford Wives’ – and not the comedy remake with Nicole Kidman. From stuff Barbie’s mom said as she was driving me to school this morning, I’ve learned three things: 1. Barbie’s parents are divorced and her mom thinks her dad doesn’t pay enough alimony; 2. Barbie’s mom drives her to school every morning because she’s convinced Barbie will be murdered if she takes public transport; and 3. Barbie’s mom treats Barbie like she’s still 12.  I never thought I’d feel sorry for Barbie Finsterson – she’s always so aloof – like she thinks she’s better than everyone else; but spending just one car trip with her mother has made me realise how crap life is for that girl.

Wait up – that girl is currently me. And unless I can figure out how Barbie and I swapped places and how we can change back again, I’ll be stuck with her life – mom and all – for the foreseeable future.

What inspires you as a writer?

It’s a little over two and a half years since I set up this site, not really having much clue about what I was doing but thinking that it would be a good way to promote my own writing. I still have no idea how to run a website properly, and I’ve done very little in terms of promoting my own writing apart from posting my daily entries in June each year for The Literal Challenge’s ‘Like The Prose’ contest – before realising that doing so effectively shoots me in the foot as it means I can’t enter any of those pieces for other writing competitions.

Having an extremely time-consuming job as an English teacher in a secondary school means I don’t get as much time to write as I would like to – particularly since I’m also doing an MA in Creative Writing which is another 20-40 hours a week of study on top of the 45+ hours in school each week. So, all in all, I don’t seem to have much to share on my blog page.

That’s when I started re-thinking this site. Writing is a way of life. As Margaret Atwood has said in one of her ads for her online Masterclass, ‘You become a writer by writing. There is no other way. So do it. Do it more. Do it better. Fail. Fail better.’ However, reading is equally important: reading ‘good’ literature expands our vocabulary and improves our own writing style. It opens us up to new ways of looking at the world and fresh ways of describing characters and events. I often tell my GCSE students that I can tell from looking at their creative writing who the readers are in the class – because the ones who read the most are the ones whose writing is richer in vocabulary, more imaginative in ideas and more elegant in terms of style.

So, this year, I’m going to try to post something every day – not to showcase my own writing but to share words from other writers that I find particularly inspiring, challenging or beautifully written. Let’s start with a quotation from a 19th century French novelist:

“La parole humaine est un chaudron fêlé où nous battons des mélodies à faire danser les ours quand on voudrait attendrir les étoiles.” Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary.

I’ve read two different translations of this, neither of which does the original French justice. One reads, “Language is a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, while all the while we long to move the stars to pity.” whilst another says that “Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap out crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.” My own translation is as follows: “Human speech is a cracked cauldron where we beat melodies to make bears dance when we would like to soften the hearts of the stars.” Whichever way you look at it, Flaubert is saying that human speech will always be inadequate at expressing our truest longings and desires – but he says it in such a beautiful and poetic way that his statement seems contradictory.

What are your thoughts on this quotation?

Once again, Like The Prose has come to an end. I managed to submit all thirty stories on time but didn’t always manage to post them on this website on the day they were written (hence posting Day 30 a day late).

Day 30’s theme was beginnings – which got me thinking, how would someone cope with having to begin life as a different version of himself or herself? The American TV series ‘Quantam Leap’ (1989-1993) dealt with a character who woke up in a different body every day, and there are several novels which deal with a similar premise, such as ‘The Seven Lives of Evelyn Hardcastle’ by Stuart Turton or ‘Every Day’ by David Leviathan.

But what if my protagonist wasn’t human? I decided to write this one about an angel who is forced to experience something new when he temporarily relinquishes his angelic powers because he’s fallen in love with a human woman. It’s my own take on the morality plays from the middle ages.

Beginning

It was gone six o’clock when Marie finally finished her shift at the homeless centre. Wrapping her scarf around her neck for protection against the chill November air, she left the building, longing for the warmth of her tiny flat and the companionship of her cat. She loved what she did at the centre, but it wore her down sometimes. It was good to know she was providing a service for people who needed it, but it could be a thankless task – lots of rough sleepers would far rather be given a bottle of whisky than a mug of hot soup. Nevertheless, she tried to dole out smiles along with the soup and sandwiches. Any of those lonely individuals could be her parents or grandparents, her brother or sister-in-law, her nieces or nephew.

A blond, young man passed her on the street. “You’ve been doing a great job in there!” he called and she felt instantly encouraged. She continued on her way, not noticing the three youths following her at a distance; oblivious to a dark-haired man who watched from the shadows, smirking at the assault that was to come.

“She doesn’t deserve that.” The blond man spoke quietly at his darker companion’s side. “You had your chance with her years ago, and you lost. Leave her alone, Samael.”

“You’re somewhat overprotective for a ministering angel,” the demon replied contemptuously. “Isn’t your job merely to lift fallen spirits – metaphorically of course –“ he sniggered at his own joke – “and soothe fevered brows?” Before Joel could answer, Samael continued, “Don’t tell me you have feelings for this human! You know the rules forbid it.”

Joel listened with only half an ear, one eye watching the street and the youths who were creeping ever closer to Marie. She’d heard their footsteps now and turned fearfully, trying to gauge whether to run.

At this point, Joel could bear it no longer. Dropping his visible persona, he shimmered into the gap between Marie and her pursuers, shielding her from their view with his feathery wings. The would-be assailants paused, baffled. Had she disappeared down a side street? Meanwhile, Joel escorted Marie to the safety of the bus stop, keeping her out of human sight until the bus arrived and she climbed aboard. He retained his hidden presence until she had reached her destination, walking her to her front door without her realising that he was there.

As Marie’s front door clicked shut, Samael grabbed hold of Joel’s shoulder. “You’ve gone too far this time – you know we don’t interfere with the course laid out.”

“So you weren’t getting involved yourself when you pointed those thugs in the girl’s direction?” Joel challenged.

Samael pretended not to hear.

“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Joel protested.

“Well, we’ll let the Boss decide, shall we?” And Samael parted the veil that separated the world of men from the spiritual realm and dragged Joel into the Boardroom.

*

“Is there a reason why the two of you are here?” The archangel looked sternly from one to the other.

“This junior“ – Samael struggled to conceal his disgust – “has developed a romantic attachment for a mortal.”

“Well, this is most irregular,” Raphael sighed, clicking his fingers. A golden book hovered in the air before him. A slight nod from the archangel caused the book to flip open, pages turning of their own accord until the section Raphael wanted was on display. “Let me see… Hmm… A young lady named Marie Fellows who works at a homeless shelter. I can understand the attraction: you both spend your time ministering to others. Is there any reason why a friendship should not be cultivated?”

“It’s against the rules!” Samael hissed.

The archangel settled his gold-rimmed spectacles more firmly on his nose and peered over the top of them at the demon.

“That’s not the case,” he said mildly. “In the past, there were some unfortunate incidents when supernatural beings – on both sides – pursued carnal relations with men and women…” For a moment, he was lost in thought. “The mythologies called their children demi-gods,” he mused.

“I’ve done nothing improper,” Joel insisted.

“Yes,” Raphael agreed, “I can see it all written down here. You feel affection for her; you think she’s pretty;” – the junior angel blushed – “but you haven’t introduced yourself or said anything about your feelings. May I ask what your long-term intentions are?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Joel stammered. “I think I’d just envisaged watching over her for the rest of her life.”

“But you know there’s no such thing as a guardian angel? That idea’s merely a human fabrication because they like to think they’re special enough to warrant the attention of a being whose sole purpose is to protect and guide them,” Raphael declared. “What you’ve described sounds remarkably like the institution the mortals call marriage. Are you telling me you would relinquish your wings for this woman?”

Joel hesitated, torn between his longing to look after Marie and his desire to serve the rest of humanity.

“I think this is a moot point,” Samael interjected. He glared balefully at Joel. “If he has feelings for this person, then he’ll be neglecting his care of the others in his assigned district. Surely he should be moved elsewhere and another appointed in his place?”

Joel’s heart stood still at the thought of never again seeing his beloved. “I don’t want to stop helping other people,” he said slowly, “but I don’t want to abandon Marie either.”

“I believe there is a way you can do both.” Raphael twitched a finger and the book’s pages turned again. “If she can fall in love with you – without knowing your true identity – then she will have bound her destiny to yours and the two of you could eventually have what’s been known as a ‘mixed marriage’.”

The junior angel looked up, scarcely able to believe what he had heard.

“However,” Raphael warned, “there are rules which must be followed: you have twenty-four hours to win her heart; and for that length of time, you will be stripped of your angelic powers. You will spend one day in her company in the guise of a human, and if she offers you a kiss before the day is over, you will be deemed to have won her heart.”

Joel’s wings sagged again. How could any human fall in love in only one earth day?

Beside him, Samael smirked. “I take it that if the angel’s unsuccessful, he will be reassigned?”

Raphael nodded. “Your success or failure will be recorded in the book,” he told Joel. “For the time being, your powers will be kept here –“

A golden casket appeared before him. Raphael motioned with his finger and Joel felt a strange sensation as if his angelic power were being squeezed out of him and into the ornate box. Was this what it felt like to be mortal? To feel so weak and unsure, so unknowing?

“Take him back to the world of men,” Raphael instructed and Samael dragged Joel through the curtain once more, depositing him in an unceremonious heap on the ground.

“Make the most of your next twenty four hours,” the demon hissed in the angel’s ear, “because I still have my powers and I’m going to see to it that the woman you’re so fond of gives herself to me and not to you.”

*

Dawn was just breaking as Joel arrived at the homeless shelter. How did the humans manage? he thought. As an angel, he was used to keeping going all the time – never sleeping, never eating, never having to relieve himself; but just eight hours or so as a mortal had exhausted him. He’d never imagined what it would be like to have a body that didn’t repair itself either. Gingerly touching his jaw and shoulder, he thought again of the man who’d assaulted him. It was much easier to restrain someone if you were invisible and had superhuman strength. Now he knew where the phrase ‘As weak as mankind’ came from!

The notice outside the shelter proclaimed that Saint Peter’s was ‘Open 24/7’. Joel pushed the door open and stepped inside, wondering how to offer his services.

The elderly lady sitting at the desk by the door clucked sympathetically when she saw him. “You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you? Let me find the First Aid box.”

It was a novelty to be ministered to rather than the other way around. Joel let the kindly soul inspect the cuts and bruises he’d sustained as he patrolled the streets, wondering why these people kept going in the face of such adversity. At least he was normally immune to physical damage, but these mortals constantly put their own lives at risk when they chose to interact with the lost and lonely on their streets. He felt a fresh surge of pride for Marie and her co-workers as he realised how difficult their task was compared to his own.

By the time Marie arrived, Joel had consumed several cups of tea and three rounds of toast, all while making breakfast for whoever else wanted it. No longer able to know instinctively what troubled people’s hearts – that kind of empathy was locked away with his other powers for the time being – he had discovered that listening to them was a powerful way of gleaning information. Beryl, the woman who had attended to his injuries, had lost her husband over six months ago. She could have let bitterness consume her, but instead, she’d chosen to devote her time to helping others. Justin was the nervous looking man in charge of the kitchen. He’d been partway through catering college when he’d suffered a nervous breakdown and dropped out of his course. He’d lived on the streets for a while himself after that, relying on handouts from passing strangers, until eventually he’d plucked up courage to walk through the hostel doors and ask for a bowl of soup. He was now renting a room in another volunteer’s house and trying to complete his catering qualification part time.

As for the homeless themselves… Joel didn’t need angelic powers to see that they were broken and dejected. A strong aroma of alcohol accompanied some of them, and most of them were unwashed and unhygienic, but the shelter welcomed them all. He felt humbled by the humans’ capacity for kindness.

*

Marie’s first task that day was to sort the donated clothing in the stockroom upstairs into different types and sizes. They had a new volunteer – a blond man who looked vaguely familiar – and he offered to help her straight away. As they checked pockets and examined labels for sizing, she found him asking her questions about what had motivated her to do this kind of work. She didn’t normally tell people her life story, but this stranger was incredibly easy to talk to; besides, she somehow sensed that he wouldn’t judge her, so she told him about her wild student days and how she’d got involved with ‘the wrong man’.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she said at one stage. “Anyway, the upshot of it was that by the time I did my Finals, I was six months’ pregnant. I somehow scraped a pass and we moved in together, but Sam drank a lot and he was a mean drunk – you know, violent.” She paused momentarily, her face etched with pain. “A few weeks before the baby was due, we got into a fight and he pushed me down the stairs – he’d been drinking heavily all day.” She swallowed. “I lost the baby…”

She’d lost a lot more than that, crying uncontrollably for months afterwards, hating herself for not walking away sooner from a man who’d treated her so badly. Anti-depressants had numbed her to the pain for a while, but eventually she’d wanted to clear her head and start living again. It had been a painful process, but two years further down the line, here she was.

“Thanks for listening,” she told the blond stranger.

Joel smiled sympathetically. “Any time.”

*

It wasn’t until she and Joel were sitting down to take their lunch break together that the new vicar from Holy Trinity arrived. She’d never seen him before, but he introduced himself straightaway, telling her how pleased he was that the centre was doing the Lord’s work by caring for the poor. Forgetting all about the blond man she’d been getting to know, Marie stared into the vicar’s eyes, mesmerised by his devilishly handsome features, feeling her heart flutter when he took her hand in his and pressed it warmly. Almost before she knew what was happening, she had agreed to go for dinner with the reverend that evening so they could discuss fund raising ideas he’d had for the centre.

Joe’s hope cooled with their soup as he heard Marie making her plans.

“Until later, then,” the vicar said, turning to go. He paused just long enough to let Joel see his true features: disguising himself as a man of God was one of Samael’s favourite subterfuges.

*

“Do you think it’s wise to go out with someone you don’t know?” Joel asked as Marie was collecting her things together at the end of the day.

She pulled out a mirror and applied lipstick. “It’s not a date – it’s talking about helping the centre. And it’s really none of your business anyway.”

If he’d still had his powers, he would have cloaked himself with invisibility and stood watch over her while she and the reverend dined in an unpretentious restaurant a few streets away. As it was, he was forced to stand outside, peering in through the window every so often to check that Marie was okay. He knew Samael would not be content with merely stealing Marie away from him: he would try to hurt her in some way to make Joel suffer.

*

Not being able to hear what was said at the couple’s table when normally he sensed people’s thoughts and feelings and could hear audible voices over a span of several miles was making Joel nervous. Peeping through the restaurant window once more, he saw Marie rise to visit the ladies’ room. Seconds later, a waiter delivered drinks: something alcoholic for Samael and a large mug that Joel knew would contain hot chocolate – Marie had confided to him earlier that she didn’t eat dessert but loved to round off her meal with a hot, sweet, chocolatey beverage. As he watched, Samael made a stirring motion above the mug with his finger. Even without his angelic powers, Joel knew instantly that the demon had drugged the drink.

He was on the verge of barging in and pouring the mug’s contents on the floor when Marie returned from the ladies’ and began sipping her drink. Joel watched her with a heavy heart. He knew that Marie hadn’t dated anyone since her miscarriage (how much she’d told him in their brief time together in the stockroom!) and he was worried that she might be led astray too easily tonight. It was obvious to him that Samael had evil intentions; but would Marie be able to resist the demon’s charms when they were so attractively packaged?

*

When they left the restaurant some fifteen minutes later, Marie let the reverend take her arm, surprised at how unsteady she felt on her feet. She must be more tired than she had thought because she hadn’t drunk any wine and yet she could hardly walk in a straight line.

Joel followed at a distance. He was certain Samael knew of his presence – all supernatural beings have a sixth sense that alerts them to each other’s proximity – but he felt compelled to keep Marie within sight, just in case Samael tried to harm her in some way.

Instead of taking Marie to the bus stop, Samael had obviously talked her into walking all the way home. They crossed the road with Joel following and entered the park. Joel quickened his pace slightly, an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. He had to protect Marie – even if it meant losing the challenge he had been set.

The pale moonlight of the November sky cast night time shadows on the path in front of Marie. Her head was as fuzzy as it had been when she was taking her medication so that she felt as if she was wading through treacle as they walked along.

Suddenly, the reverend stopped. “Do you know the real reason why I asked you out tonight?”

His question surprised her. “To talk about the centre,” she said stupidly.

“I don’t care about the centre.” Now he was beginning to reveal his true colours. “What I want is you.”

His hands were grabbing for her in the dark. She froze in terror, suddenly back in the past with Sam’s hands moving over her in the same way.

“You know you want it.”

Was that Sam’s voice or the reverend’s?

“No!” she forced out, but his hand had grasped her wrists and he was forcing her backwards, pressing himself against her aggressively, his eyes full of malice. How could she have ever thought him handsome?

“Please! I don’t want to…”

His hand struck her and pain exploded across her cheekbone. He’s going to kill me! she thought wildly.

“Leave her alone!” Joel faced his rival bravely. He still ached from the earlier street assault, but he had to do something to help Marie.

Samael smirked as the defenceless angel approached. Using every ounce of his supernatural strength, he let his fist connect with Joel’s face before throwing him to the ground and delivering a few well aimed kicks. Powerless to protect himself, Joel took the full impact of his rival’s heavy boots, gasping as his head exploded into a galaxy of stars. Meanwhile, Samael stared with satisfaction at the bloody, beaten mass before him, then turned back to his prey – only to experience a burning, stinging sensation in his eyes that made him recoil in shock.

Marie held her pepper spray in front of her defiantly, her other hand clutching her mobile phone. “I’ve just called 999,” she told Samael, “and there’ll be a police car here in a couple of minutes.”

The demon melted away into the darkness, satisfied that he had at least prevented Joel from achieving his reward. Meanwhile, Marie gazed at the figure on the ground, her heart welling with gratitude for what he had done.

“Thank you,” she whispered, gently kissing his cheek; and at that moment, Joel felt angelic strength flowing through him once more as his body began to repair itself and the air glowed with the miracle of love.

Above his head, invisible wings unfurled.

It was definitely the start of something wonderful.

The penultimate day of the challenge asked me to go back to a previous story and rewrite it from a different perspective. I chose to return to my first story this year and write about Jimli, the bizarre mythological creature that my 17 year old son and I dreamed up a few weeks ago. In the first story, it was unclear whether Jimli existed or was just a bizarre idea in the mind of the protagonist’s work colleague. Here, Jimli becomes the star of the story and we learn a little more about him and how he is viewed in other countries as well as the Czech Republic.

Still Waiting for Jimli

Many believe that he is  just a figment of people’s imagination and indeed, at one time, this was true; but the idea simmered and bubbled, growing stronger and more powerful every day until, one winter’s night when the air was cold and the moon was fat, Jimli shimmered into being.

The Czech people will tell you that Jimli is many things, but their tales only scratch at the surface of his true terror. He has one hundred relatives and they are all his father – and his shoes are made from their skin. He eats his hatchlings, and then he weeps over his greed. His children are many and every one of them sows death and destruction. As for Jimli himself, he is the eventual nemesis of the living and the scourge of the dead. Whole villages wait for his appearance when one of their number hovers in the doorway between life and death, but his carriage is drawn by ten fat slugs and so the hour of death comes slowly. Nevertheless, all must wait for Jimli, whether young or old, for if Jimli does not see them waiting, he will hunt them down and steal their breath while they sleep.

In some countries, Jimli is known by other names. In Iceland, he is called þjófur tímans, which means ‘thief of time‘, and he is linked to the Yule Cat which prowls the land in December and eats the naughty children who are not given new clothes for Christmas. The Icelandic legends give him a chariot of bones and he is depicted with long fingernails and toenails which freeze into  icicles around the doors and windows of the houses where his victims dwell. The Finnish version looks a little like a Strömkarl, but instead of playing a fiendish fiddle to lure people to a watery grave, this incarnation sings loudly and tunelessly until dogs howl and windows crack and the townspeople hide under their beds in fright. He lives in a waterfall made from the tears of the children he has stolen away.

People sometimes ask what will happen if they do not keep the traditions and welcome Jimli when he walks abroad. Some mistakenly leave gifts of food, but Jimli has no interest in pork and oranges; instead, all who anticipate his coming should decorate their homes with branches of hazel and rowan for these are known to ward off evil spirits; and those who wish Jimli to smile on their families should leave gifts for him on their doorsteps: screwdrivers in muslin bags tied with ribbon, or tiny cakes in the shape of seahorses.

But for those who do not make him welcome, Jimli will enter through the window and then he will find the sleeper’s bed. And he will place his hairy hand on the sleeper’s shoulder and shake the sleeper to wake him up. And the sleeper’s eyes will open but at the same moment, his blood will freeze in his veins and he will be one of the mrtvoly: the living corpses who have no place in heaven or in hell but must wander the streets of memory for thousands of years until they turn into dust. Then, and only then, will Jimli forgive them, and he will dance with the unarmed raindrops and sing with the spiders in the dilapidated fortress of despair.