On a Wing and a PlayDay

Some people, when they come to ask you to join them in a venture – or an adventure – you can't say no.  @KellyAnneBlount is just such a person.  After being a fan of hers already, and participating in the last Block Party (and now the upcoming one), I was overjoyed when she won the chance to write the final chapter in my Incarnate story on Wattpad.  And she smashed it.

So, when she asked if I'd like to be a part of an amazing new anthology, there was no way I could refuse and, looking at my fellow authors who are also taking part, I'm honoured to have my name up there with theirs.

And so, this is how the epic path to the completed story was walked...

A year ago and more, my daughter, 12 at the time, gave me an idea for a story.  A mermaid would, instead of gaining legs by magic, have her tail hacked off and have human legs sewn on – legs stolen from someone she'd murdered.

My twelve, now thirteen, year old gave me that idea.  Can you tell she's my girl?  I'm so proud.

Anywho.  We were at a place called the Captain's Cove.  It's a play area for children – all ball pools and slides – and we were talking about that story, And the Meek Shall Walk.  I told her how amazing it was that she'd given me something which had become so popular, being called both 'savage' and 'beautiful.'  I was already planning on moving on to Red Queen, my retelling of Alice in Wonderland's Queen of Hearts story (with some Mortal Sin thrown in).  But that wasn't enough for Meg.  No, she wasn't content with me already having projects.  She wanted to throw another literary spanner in my plans.

Ed Sheeran was playing over the Cove's speakers.  He was singing about love gone wrong.  A nice cheery tune, as you can imagine.  Wings popped into her head, randomly it seems.  She connected the two and, whilst running around after her little sister, it developed.

When she came back to where I was sitting, writing, her mouth, as it's wont to do, erupted.  In about three seconds flat, she told me a story.  Or the barest bones of one, at least.  I had to ask questions.  She had pretty much vomited the words in my face – in a good way, of course.

Still, Meg had given me the start of something.  I liked it.  A lot.  The problem was, I had enough on.  Since finishing And the Meek Shall Walk, I've written for no less than seven anthologies.  Sharing Nightmares.  Dark Dreams.  Dark December.  The Cryptic.  The Decameron.  I'd also produced the story Tender Walks The Demon (which the amazing Kelly Anne Blount, host of this here Block Party, kindly finished) for the movie Incarnate.  Plus I had a birthday and a trip to Iceland.  It was a busy time, even without working on Red Queen and And the Meek Shall Swim.  So the story got was put to one side.  Id work on it later.  Possibly much later.

You notice I only mentioned six anthologies above?  Oh, you didn't?  Go check.  See?  Yes, six.  The seventh was a little beauty, coming March, called Snow.  I needed to write a story to a specific criteria.  When I thought about it, with a little modification, Meg's story fitted perfectly.  So what if I was busy?  So what if her idea had been put to one side until such a time as I could fit it in.

Now was that time.

I asked Meg to go over her idea.  She wrote some notes for me but left them at her grandparents'.  So she wrote some more.  I took her jottings and started the story, changing the bits I needed to, to suit the criteria set out by Kelly.  By the time I'd finished, I have to admit, I liked what I'd produced.  Not that I shouldn't, but this was a story unlike others I've written.  There's heartbreak, lost love and a choice which could change the fate of the world.

OK, so not entirely different.

Either way, below is the opening of Wings.  Mary Iamandi, who was good enough to edit the piece, has done a fabulous job of tightening up the flow.  Lucy Rhodes has, quite simply, blown me away with the stunning cover she created.  I hope it appeals to you.

Enjoy.

Blurb

A stream of failed relationships lay in the wake of Megan's chaotic path.

When she secludes herself in her friend's remote cabin, needing to escape yet another heart she's destroyed because of her own dark issues, she just wants to drink wine and stare at a dirty wall, letting the rest of the world drift by.

But, when she feels an itch on her back, and picks at it, a new destiny is revealed - one which could have far reaching consequences for Megan and the rest of the world.

Does she draw back the arrow and let slip the hounds of love, or choose to let the world know how it feels to be her?  Empty.  Discarded.  Useless.

A gift, in the wrong hands, can be a curse.

Wings

The screams echoed through the empty room.

The sobs followed the screams with a heart wrenching loss which would pull at the emotions of any close enough to hear.  But there was no-one.  The log cabin had been specifically chosen for its remote location.  A getaway.  A retreat, in the warlike sense of the world.  Wounds needed to be healed.  The body of her life, lying prone on the floor of her emotion, was not the only casualty.  There were many.  Too many.

But she didn't care about them.  The hurt or hurting were collateral damage.  It had to be so.  She cared about herself.  Somebody had to, didn't they?  Nobody else was willing to step up to the mark and rescue the fallen maiden.  She had to pick herself up.  Carry herself there.  Even Claudia, her old friend, hadn't delved deeply into her problems or really asked why she needed to run away.

Running away.  That's what she was doing, she knew.  Rather than stand and fight or, if nothing else, stand and take the hits, she flew.  There were not many places for her to go to.  She realised Claudia's offer of her parents' cabin if needed or fancied was only half hearted.  It was something one said.

"Your parents have a log cabin?  That's cool!"

"Sure.  You can borrow it whenever you like."

It wasn't quite like that, not so simple, but that was the essence of the conversation.  Claudia had been Megan's friend since school, though distance and situation had stretched the bond they once had.  They still kept in touch.  It was less frequent as time went by, with weeks secretly clubbing together to form months where they hadn't spoken to each other.  Social Media 'likes' were the occasional touches on the life of the friends as the daily river of experience swept them along.  So, when Megan asked if she could take Claudia up on her offer to chill at the cabin, the latter agreed but had an appointment to go to or the dinner was in the oven.  Or something.

It was fine.  Megan didn't need or really want anyone to know apart from those affected.  Sympathy would be patronising and, more to be expected, frustration or disdain would be condescending.  She would deserve the comments.  Some of them anyway.  Not all.  It wasn't her fault.  Not entirely.  It never was.  She was self-destructive sometimes, she would admit.  It was a gift, she'd say.  But it was unintentional.

She wanted to be happy and, when happiness was within her grasp, she would become afraid.  She'd feel unworthy.  Then she'd take a match and would set alight the glimmer of good which had done its best to light up her existence.  It would flare for a brief moment before crumbling to ash.

There would be no phoenix to rise, gloriously renewed, from the embers.  There would only be Megan, crawling.  Her hands and face blackened and her clothes torn.

Mentally and spiritually, at least.

The log cabin was as remote as she could possibly imagine.  Surrounded by acres of trees and having only one road in and out, she could easily feel threatened or vulnerable.  If someone was hunting in the forest or on the run from the authorities and came across the cabin, they would find a solitary woman with a world of sorrow weighing heavy on her back.  Defenceless apart from a cry which would be heard as far as the tree line and was useless against any intruder - unless the cry were to attract a passing squirrel, Megan would be unable to prevent a potential attack.  Thoughts of such violence failed to occur to her, however.  They were confined to the shadowy corners of her mind, the open spaces of her consciousness being crowded with repeated showings of her fall from grace.

The boyfriend.  The growing relationship which had progressed almost to the point of cohabitation.  The pressure building inside and the ignorance of knowing why.  The shortness of breath as she saw him messaging someone else.  Anyone else.  A glance at another woman which had to be - had to be - attraction rather than a simple look.  The agony as her increased paranoia made him back off from wanting to move in and begin to call her less.  The accusations from her.  Accusing friends of lying.  Of sleeping with him.  Of him cheating.

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