Mini Writings #4



(kind of somewhat written for my crush??? who knows??? not me, fam.)

Gold, darling, thick in your veins. You are cut and you bleed and red streams down your arm, but truly, that blood is gold. At least to me. Every moment, every laugh, every love. Every thought, every smile, every tear. You say you are human and your soul is crimson red, but can't you see that's only an illusion you harbor? You are gold like laughter, gold like sunshine, gold like life. Not red like human greed and corruption, but gold.


(I wrote this scene for this post last week, and it accidentally spawned an entire duology idea. Oops?)

Abraxas leaps across Zilrone’s roofs, an arrow zooming towards a target. He wishes he could allow himself to enjoy this night, these sensations: cold wind snapping his hair, adrenaline rushing beneath his skin, But these feelings merely skate on the edge of consciousness; the red tiles and thatched roofs beneath his feet zip by in a dim blur. His entire soul is bent to one thought and one only. He is focus personified; all his energy, mental and physical, is being exhausted in pursuit of his goal. He has no existence outside of it.

This is why he’s the best assassin in Zilrone.

Well, one of them.

He eases down his energy, slowing his shadow-run as he lands on the Temple roof. Clutching a feather-pendant in his palm, he prays briefly that Cebisile will forgive his trespass. Then he promptly strides forward and begins climbing over the domes of her sanctuary.

He eventually reaches the designated spot, easing into the shadow of one of the outermost domes. Beneath him, raucous laughter and yellow light from the Boar’s Head Tavern spill into the street. Beside him, another figure crouches in the dark.

“A greeting would be nice,” murmurs Abraxas.

“You being on time would be nice,” retorts Kasinda, his partner-in-crime.

Abraxas permits himself to crack a smile. “Her lover was going to come meet her tonight. That carpenter apprentice, remember? I had to take care of him. Have you seen her yet?”

“Yes,” replies Kasinda. “She comes by the window on occasion.”

Abraxas nods. Their target tonight is uniquely powerful and uniquely dangerous, though she does not know it. She is Verys Salingora, innkeeper’s little daughter - and Zilrone’s princess, hidden since birth.

Tonight, Abraxas and Kasinda have been contracted by enemies of the royal family to kill her.

And when the best assassins in Zilrone are set on a target’s tail, that target never, ever survives.



The little girl never quite understood. Never quite understood what was wrong with what she did, never quite understood why people called her a demon. Lots of other people could do the things she did. Her friend Selena, for example, coaxed flowers open with just a whisper and a breath. Light streamed from the palms of Gabriel, the boy at school with the shiny shoes.

And Elya Katyovich could summon wolves.

It was hard to do on purpose - the wolves did not like being ordered here or there like slaves. But whenever she was cold outside because her coat had holes, or lonely because people wouldn’t play with her, or breaking and bleeding because of the stones neighbors threw her way, then the wolves would come.

They weren’t real wolves, of course. Real wolves had not been mellowed by the experience of dying; they were not tame enough yet to be beckoned by magic. Elya’s wolves were the spirits of wolves, wispy and misty and cool to the touch. Yet their eyes were bright, and every little fur was outlined - they might as well have been living, except for the fact that they passed through walls. Whenever Elya needed comfort, no matter what walls she was locked behind or outside of, the wolves would come. They licked her pale wrists and buried their heads in her black skirts. Whether it was raining or foggy, dark or darker, they always found a way in.

But as much as Elya understood the wolves and the wolves understood her, she couldn’t understand what problem other people had with her gift. She tried, she did! Auntie Tatiana told her to try, and she’d tried very hard. But many others had magic gifts, and they were praised and respected as elders in their villages. Yet Auntie said Elya was acting out and misbehaving when she summoned wolves. She was to stop the devil magic immediately! Elya said she couldn’t help her magic. Auntie beat her with a stick until she was purple as a sunset.

She locked herself in her room, a closet-sized thing with a shattered mirror in one corner and a pile of blankets in the other. She remembered her old room, one with a real bed and a fireplace and her dolls. But Auntie said she could not go back there until she ceased her magic, so she was stuck in the closet with the shattered glass on the floor. Her knees were cut every time she crawled around.

She locked herself in with the glass and the forlorn pile of blankets, and sure enough, the wolves came. They licked and whimpered at her bruises, and she whispered to them, voice and soul cracking, “I’m sorry, but you mustn’t come anymore when other people are about. Just when it’s just us.”

And they answered, sadly, “We can help it no more than you.”

Months went by, and the wolves kept coming. Elya’s skin kept bruising until it seemed permanently that way; she couldn’t find a way to lay where something didn’t hurt. She thought something might be broken, too, for whenever she breathed it felt like being stabbed. But whenever she tried to go to the doctor, he screamed and threw loose herbs at her, then rocks, then old pill bottles - anything to make her go away.

So away she went, back to her closet and back, when Auntie let her, to school. She liked learning, although she wished she could do it without the other children staring and snickering. And without getting beaten so badly she couldn’t walk straight whenever the wolves materialized in class.

The seventh time that happened, Auntie beat her until she could barely keep her eyes open. Then she woke up to find herself in chains, in a dirty and padded room, with Auntie and the doctor staring at her from behind a wall of glass.

Elya tried to speak. She could not. Everything hurt, and everything screamed, and everything was on fire. She whimpered out a request for water.

“No,” said the doctor, both to her and to Auntie. “Giving no relief from the pain will be a good incentive for her to stop this behavior. You were right in taking her here, Tatiana. Here she will be taught.”

“Good,” spat out Auntie. “You,” she snarled at Elya, “have dishonored my name more times than I can count, and I haven’t been anything but good to you. I should have left you to rot in the streets. Do you know how much of my life you’ve ruined?” She twirled on her heel and stomped away. The doctor followed. Elya cried.

And the wolves were there.

The wolves were there through the electric shocks, one after another until she was screaming, and the knives cutting off her fingers so she couldn’t use them to beckon to the wolves. Nevermind that she’d never used them in the first place. The wolves were there as she lost her tongue so she could not call to them, then her eyes so she could not see them. The wolves were there until the very end, until not three days after her seventh birthday, when Elya Katyovich closed her eyelids on the world forever.


(kinda want to expand this into a short story. or maybe a novelette??)

I wait for him on the windowsill, our windowsill. The one he used to crawl in at night when dad was asleep so we could kiss under the covers and he wouldn't know. The one he threw rocks at. The one we sat on and held hands and dangled our legs over the edge. We traced cars with our feet and carefully avoided splinters. We talked about his dad and my dad and his dream of studying animation and my dream of studying analytics. We talked and we talked and, after a while, when our voices got tired and watery sunlight peeped over the horizon, we just kissed.

But now I'm going to another place, another window. This one will be ours no more. This is the last day I can sit on it and run my fingers across its wood, physically touch the memories hidden in that peeling paint. Dad is taking me to another town, another tiny Georgia town where being gay is punishable by expulsion in this life and damnation in the next. This one was barely big enough to stretch my legs; I can't imagine how I'll fit in the next one. Maybe if I curl up into a ball so small nothing of me is visible anymore and the universe forgets I exist.

Dad moves around in the living room, then slams the door behind him as he drags more suitcases out into the apartment hallway. As if on queue, Xavier's head pops up above the sill.

"Hey."

"Hey."

These may be the last words we ever say to each other, but we don't care. Our lips do the talking for now.

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Let's chat! Which writing was your favorite? What do you imagine happening in those pictures? Comment below, and remember that you are all very beautiful pickles. <3

Namarië,
Ellie
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6 comments:

  1. OH MY GOSH THE FIRST ONE REMINDS ME OF THE GOLD FLOWING QUOTE FROM THE WAVES BY VIRGINIA WOOLF YES. Ok the one about the wolves like...my heart.....ok....agh....I can't it's so sad. You're such a good writer Ellie :)

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  2. THE MINI WRITING ABOUT THE WOLVES BROKE ME. I love your writing, Ellie. And that last one...*dives into pillow fort and dissolves in tears*

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    1. OH MY GOODNESS THANK YOU.

      - Ellie

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