#TSLoOAG

[pallaswords]

Songbirds

Original Work (The Strange Life of One August Glass)

WC: 1,014 words

It’s been a while since I’ve managed to see a prompt and write in time for @flashfictionfridayofficial​. This was exactly the prompt I needed to tie my sketching of Important Plot Points up!

This does reference other bits I’ve written for August and haven’t posted, but I think it works well as a standalone excerpt. 

It felt like both long weeks and mere moments had passed in this strange forest. Two trials gone, one to go. August led the way through the underbrush, unsure of his destination but confident in the journey through this domain.

Benjamine’s hand in his was a tether, grounding him to his task and the world outside of the Forest Guardian’s domain. Without it, he knew he would succumb to the magic here — become something beautiful and alien all at once, like the Enchanter and Hunter Phoenixes.

After moments or hours of walking, August’s ears felt like they were straining to hear… something. He paused in step, tilting his head. Benjamine stayed quiet, looking around for any dangers.

It was a murmur at first, like a small brook running over smoothed stones. He leaned forward, trying to hear more, to discern a pattern or words in the undulating thrum. He couldn’t, not from this distance.

He took a step forward, then another, gripping Benjamine’s hand to reassure himself that he was still there. He hadn’t yet faced a trial with Benjamine at his side — for this he was thankful — but knew that this third trial was for both of them.

Together, they would face the final challenge. Together, they would overcome it. August held this in his heart, hoping that Benjamine could feel it — hoping that he felt the same convictions. A squeeze of his hand told him all he needed to know.

They walked forward, towards the sound. It clarified into a choir of voices, singing in a language August could almost understand. The chorus rose and fell, crashing like the waves against the rocks of his birthplace. It was a slow and languid undulation, unhurried in tempo. The soprano melody soared above the treetops and the bass foundation thrummed through each step the two took. The alto and tenor harmonies interwove around them both, settling on their shoulders like a hearth-warmed blanket on a winter’s day.

They entered into a clearing, or what should have been one. Instead they were greeted by a large ballroom, chandeliers sparkling and dancers as far as they could see, all whirling about to the legato chorus of voices.

No. The dancers were the chorus.

August felt Benjamine go very still. He looked at him, and saw trepidation. This setting was his, then. August gave a squeeze to Benjamine’s hand, causing him to look down. Benjamine’s eyes were wide, disbelieving. He looked close to panic, chest starting to rise and fall faster and faster.

August smiled and wordlessly placed one hand on Benjamine’s shoulder, the other brought their entwined hands up. Benjamine’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly before that steel resolve flashed in his eyes, just as it did when he found a new challenge in a research topic for a manuscript. His hand came to rest on August’s waist, and together they melded into the chorus.

The chorus picked up tempo, and into a waltz they went.

August could feel the chorus reverberating in his chest, in his throat, begging him to join the song. Oh, it was tempting. It had been years since he’d sung for himself — since he’d felt comfortable enough in his own self to do so.

Benjamine’s grip tightened minutely, pulled him a hair’s breadth closer. August looked up into those grey eyes, questioning.

Benjamine shook his head, lips firmly clamped.

All at once, August could understand the siren song of the chorus as well — its promises of safety and a gentle rest and an unburdened forever.

He looked at the chorus of dancers, saw the tears on their faces and heard the mourning in their song. And August knew.

Once, they had been like August and Benjamine, beseechers of the Forest Guardian. Once, they had been people who were rejected for their differences, who sought out sanctuary and acceptance and love in this place. Once, they had been full of hope and despair and love and hate just like him.

Now, these were but songbirds, captured in a gilded cage — crying out a warning and a plea all at once.

The chorus rose into a crescendo as August realized this, the moderate tempo sliding effortlessly up into allegro as the chorus sang their grief and prayer in unison.

He looked at Benjamine, whose eyes were steeled like that of the Hunter Phoenix. They promised protection and accompaniment until the end of all this.

August remembered the refrain of the Enchanter Phoenix, that gentle call and response they had exchanged. It rang now, in his head. It thrummed now, in his chest, coaxing his embers to flame.

Together, they opened their mouths and hearts. Together, they soared.

We are not yours.

We are not caged.

We have known pain.

We have known love.

We are not things.

We will be free.

The trapped souls of the Forest Guardian were drowned out by the sheer power of their song — a diminuendo into silence. They stood in awe.

August and Benjamine continued to sing, alto and tenor interplaying, as they made their way to the other side of the gilded ballroom. The silent chorus, the littered souls, parted around them.

August’s melody thanked the souls, conveyed his regrets that he could not save them all and that he could not give them a home. Benjamine’s harmony comforted the souls, praising their strength for making it this far and for surviving in what way they could.

Together, their voices joined in the refrain. Together, they stepped out of the crowd, out of the ballroom.

They held fast to each other, gazes held firm. Slowly, their song decreased in volume and tempo until the last notes where but whispers on the breeze.

August choked on a relieved laugh as Benjamine held him close. They had passed the last trial. Together, they had done it.

They were stood in front of a squat cottage, vines trailing up the sides. The door opened, spilling light and warmth onto the moss and grass.

Together, they entered the abode of the Forest Guardian.

[pallaswords]

Together

Original Work (The Strange Life of One August Glass)

WC: 679 words

Warnings: implied transphobia, vague violence due to said implied transphobia

 Y’all this is so far into August’s story that I’m not even considering it spoilers. I vibe with this, despite the lack of editing, but I’m going to overhaul this for sure. All in all this was a really fun exercise!

As a note: The Strange Life of One August Glass is a Historical Fiction / Romance / Supernatural/Horror set in the late 1890s in England. So that’s why they sound like they do.

[Image Description: a black banner with white lines on the background. In the center, #FFF87 I will be strong is written in white letters. End ID.]

“So,” came the voice — voices? — like tendrils from the inky black forest, “you have come. You have come and are here with a request. For me.”

August tightened his grip on Benjamine’s hand. He felt him squeeze back, but kept his gaze towards the looming trees. He could do this. They could do this. Together.

“Yes,” August said. “We have come with a request for your aid —”

The voice(s) laughed, echoing all around them. There was no directional source, no epicentre. It simply was.

Until it was not.

Silence, deep and dark as the forest itself engulfed them. No nightbirds, nor bugs, nor wind whispering through boughs and leaves. Silence so oppressive that it seemed to produce its own noise, a low thrumming hum in the back of his skull.

Benjamine squeezed his hand again — when had it started to tremble? When had he started to tremble?

August took a deep breath, then another, hoping to calm himself — but the air smelled off. The pine and petrichor muted, dulled and soured by some unknown and unidentifiable something.

He was trembling again.

“Come now, enough of this game,” Benjamine’s voice sliced through the silence, with an air of confidence that August knew he did not possess. “We not only request aid, but wish to share information.”

“Pah,” the voice(s) dismissed. “Mortals, what knowledge do you possess that I do not? Surely nothing that I am not aware of.”

“The group claiming to follow the Old Ways —”

“Are but flies flocking to a carcass, long since passed on,” the voice(s) said, near-amusement tinting the words. “No, I know them well. They and their gods mean little harm to me. This is not your request. Tell me now, and you may live.”

August stilled, trembling no more. Somehow, in some way, receiving a threat upon his life was a comfort, a familiarity. It reminded him of assholes in pubs and at Benjamine’s literary conferences alike who had cornered him, beat him, left him for dead in a back alleyway for daring to be himself — a man. He was weak then.

Now he was not.

His spine straightened and he stared directly ahead. “Esteemed One, you are a champion of outcasts, are you not?”

That laughter, omnipresent yet untraceable, came again. But the voice(s) did not speak once the laughter tapered off.

“We ourselves are outcasts, yes, but it is not we directly who need your aid. We come on behalf of the Blackwood name, for assistance and for guidance for the head of the Blackwood Estate.” August spoke clearly, with a confidence he felt — a confidence that radiated outwards. He felt Benjamine squeeze his hand. He squeezed back, not looking away from the woods.

The voice(s) hummed. August felt as if a gaze were sweeping over him, appraising him, much like one would an antique. The voice(s) hummed again.

“Does your Scholar speak for you, Nobleman?” the voice(s) asked.

“In this instance, as we are in agreement, yes,” Benjamine said. “But I will speak for myself moving forward, unless otherwise stated.”

More humming, more appraisal.

“My trials will not be easy,” the voice(s) cautioned.

“Life is not easy,” August said. “What are your trials, Esteemed One?”

A short snap of laughter. “You will find out. Enter my forest. You will find them, or they will find you.”

August glanced at Benjamine to see his face set in determination. Benjamine, as if sensing the other’s gaze, looked over to him. August gave a nod. Benjamine returned it.

“I concede to your trials,” August said.

“I concede to your trials as well,” Benjamine echoed.

“Come, my wayward souls, into my forest,” the voice(s) said, a whisper of a breeze.

Together, they started forward, hands joined.

Together, they stepped into the inky black of the forest.

Together. They could do this. Together.

I will be strong. We will be strong, August thought, a determined set to his brow as the welcoming arms of the forest engulfed them both.

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Thank you for reading and I hope that you enjoyed this! 

If you’d like to learn more about The Strange Life of One August Glass, you can visit the page and the aesthetics/inspo tag on my blog. If you’d like to be added to the taglist for updates/excerpts/etc. about it, send me an ask!

[pallaswords]

August Glass | The Strange Life of One August Glass

I took a little journey to the unknown, And I come back changed. I can feel it in my bones. I fucked with forces that our eyes can't see. Now the darkness got a hold on me.

Meet Me In The Woods / Lord Huron

I saw @ardawyn‘s beautiful post via @rhikasa for this tag game and I got inspired to do some photomanipulation. Tumblr crunched this a bit, but it still looks alright... I hope...

Rules: Pick one character from your wip, then attach one song that fits them (or their part in the journey) and tag someone else! It can be any character from your story, so there’s a possibility of having fun even in re-tags!

I tag anyone who wants to do this -- photo edit or no! 

[pallaswords]

7 & 35 for the character you last wrote about! — @rhikasa

Thank you!! The last character I wrote about is Benjamine from The Strange Life of One August Glass! 

7. Does your oc collect anything? What about of knowledge or facts? How big is their collection?

Books. Benjamine is a bit of a hoarder of books on any subject he finds interesting/relevant to whatever he’s currently writing. Subsequently, he’s a font of knowledge on specific and somewhat obscure topics. He’s a bit hopeless otherwise, but if you need an Interesting Psychology Fact Or Theory he’s got your back!

35. Does your oc have any distinguishing markings? Scars, tattoos, birthmarks, freckles, etc?

He does not have any distinguishing markings, but he often has ink stains on his fingers from writing with a reckless abandon. If The Strange Life of One August Glass were set in present day instead of the mid-to-late 1880s, I could see him having a tattoo or two related to writing!

This was so fun, thank you so much! 

100 OC Questions

[pallaswords]

Last Line Tag

@vylequinne had this as an open tag (I really hope you don’t mind the at), so hi, hello, I am here.

Here’s the last line I have for The Strange Life of One August Glass. For context’s sake, August is sitting in a chair, having just come out. It went well, so much so that he’s having trouble believing it.

“Well, I suppose I will have to emphasise the point then,” Benjamine grinned, leaning forward ever so slightly, his legs pressing lightly into August’s. “You, August Glass, are a man — damn what anyone else says — and I would adore nothing more than to get up to mischief in whatever capacity you desire.”

Consider this post an open tag as well! If you want to do it, do it! If not, no worries.