the-villiage-idiom

[the-villiage-idiom]

By Any Other Name, Pt3

Before the first strikes against civilian populations were ordered, I knew love and freedom. Now I know what a boot feels like on my back when it’s holding me down. In those bygone days, I wouldn’t have broken any laws, and yet my actions would have been the same. The militant stance on population control since the Coup had left many people living in the slums near the walls, particularly Autos and Outliers, living in fear.

Not that that was surprising; the radiation shields worked well if you lived in the picturesque future utopia that was the city centre. But closer to the walls, where a crack in the concrete was potentially fatal, the number of Autos and Outliers was much higher. The enhancements, whether genetic or robotic, were all a symptom of people just trying to survive. But the Coalition viewed it as people seeking to leave humanity behind in order to feel absolved about their plots to depose those in power and annihilate the insurgents. Between us, I’d always thought it was a good idea, but one they evidently saw coming.

So it was a real shock when I discovered who our benefactor was. It also allowed the makings of a plan finally form in my head. Tin Man had sat me down and revealed that he had been arrested but offered a deal; either face life in prison, or join the Peacekeepers. He had chosen the latter. I didn’t blame him, that was the survivor’s move. But he also revealed that it was the daughter of the self-proclaimed king of our city who funded the Insurgency.

I smiled broadly. With an Insurgent inside the Peacekeepers, and someone close to the Coalition’s Inner Circle, we were now better prepared to strike at the heart of those who oppressed us than ever before. There was just one crucial element missing from this plan. What I needed was a game-changer. Something that would immediately take this from being the boldest failure we’d ever make, to potentially our first victory. I needed the Wastelanders.

[the-villiage-idiom]

By Any Other Name, Pt2

Before those sworn to protect us rebelled and staged a coup, my family lived in a peaceful neighbourhood. I don’t remember much, I was only an infant when the walls went up as the sky burned red from the fires and bloodshed of war. Every now and then I’ll have a flash of my father on the back porch, smiling, or of a deep blue sky with a few lazy white clouds drifting across them. The most frequent flashback I get, however, is eating ice-cream on the pier with my mother when the first warhead struck down a few miles off the coast. Since then, I’ve survived off instinct, chased by a looming fear that any day could be my last.

Some people had decided to safeguard their future and invested in high-grade technological prosthetics: some got eyes, some got hands, but only a few had managed to get the works. One of my associates, since friendship was a concept I couldn’t afford to indulge in if I was to survive, had the works. In a world where everyone under 21 had no names, we’d called him Tin Man. Since then, his government designation number had been replaced with a name that reflected his personality and career assignment, but the classics die hard. Both being scavengers inside the city, we frequently hunted for scrap or bounty together, and he came in very handy for a big score in both. Being an Outlier myself, the relationship could be best described as symbiotic. A real mutual back-scratching, sometimes in more than a few ways. It had never occurred to either of us how important the other was to our individual survival. We had both decided to live by a code of emotional detachment, so that nothing and no one stood in the way of our survival. It had never occurred to either of us, that is, until we had no other option but to confront that issue. And we’d both proven how easily scratching the other’s back could become an eye for an eye. And I wanted my pound of flesh

[the-villiage-idiom]

By Any Other Name, Pt1

Before the city fell to ruins, we were happy. More than that, we were free to carve our our destinies, and explore our own identities. But not anymore. Now, everything was predetermined for you but those in power. They claimed it was to preserve our way of life, but through all of the misery it caused, our way of life had gone, and we were left to do nothing more than survive.

I wouldn’t exactly call what I loved in a slum. That would be too generous. And to call it a camp also wasn’t accurate, because that supplies the connotation that we elected to live this way and enjoy it. Either way, the crumbling facade of the building we survived in was nestled right into the corner of the city, pressed hard up against a corner of the Wall. I could never figure out if it really was to keep the creatures out, or to keep us in.

I was never really sure what had come first: the neurological virus, or the extraterrestrial contact, or if either of them actually existed. But either way, the two had met in the middle and caused people to regress to a more animalistic stage of evolution. It was freaky to watch, and I had watched it more time than I cared to count. Inversely, some of the population had evolved forward, developing unique abilities. The government, desperate to control these rare cases, had allowed them the freedom to leave the confines of our quarantine. Wastelanders. The only restraints still imposed upon them was that they search the searing wastes for remnants of a war we’d left behind. The idea, I could only guess, was to use the old weapons against the bestial hoards should they ever try to attack. Not that it was in their nature anymore, but the government needed to get these idols out of the city to maintain control. I sat on the roof most nights, and stared out over the vast badlands that lay just outside the city. I wanted, more than anything to be a Wastelander. To be free to scour the endless wilds, digging up forgotten relics from a time before.

[the-villiage-idiom]

Only The Good Die Young, pt10

Both the attacks flashed before my eyes like a twisted highlight reel. I didn’t remember some images, and I was too painfully aware of others. The courtyard and the gardens looked familiar. I grabbed my side, the scar tissue fading from a deep red to a pale white, almost the same shade as the parts of my body that weren’t sunkissed. The statues seemed to speak to me, but the sound didn’t echo off any of the walls that held me in.

“Look into the font before you and realise your fate” I looked down at the surface of the water in front of me and the shimmering ripples seemed to shift in ways that showed me blurred images of a life I didn’t recognise. I looked back up at the statues, but the light had gone from their eyes, the colour from their faces. As I looked around, bewildered, the gate opposite me silently swung open. As I approached the seething mass behind it, it smoothed out to a perfectly smooth reflective surface. When I touched it, the surface shifted like jelly on a plate. As I stared at it, I saw my face slowly morph into that of a different person.

—-

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Of all the incredible things I had been shown since stepping into this amazing, creepy, wonderful place, this mirror was by far the biggest head spin. The frame was intricate, and had what I assumed was a useless knob on the side of it, but as Evan turned it, a flurry of faces flashed in front of my eyes, replacing my own in my reflection.

“What is this?”

“It’s got some weird ancient Latin name, but we just call it a rear view mirror. Although, instead of showing you the physical world behind you, it reflects your spiritual background, and all the past lives you’ve lived.”

“So, you’re telling me that this woman I’m looking at is me?” I asked, disbelievingly.

“Yeah. And twenty years ago, she was murdered. I’ll bet you can guess how she died.” Evan prompted.

I ran my hands across the circular birthmark on my side, remembering the dreams that had brought me to this point.

“She was shot, wasn’t she?”

[the-villiage-idiom]

Only The Good Die Young, pt9

After looking at a map of the city, it quickly became apparent that both the likely places to find Evan were closer to each other than I had originally thought. Separated by only a few blocks and an overpass, the abandoned ferry terminal and the Eastside Cemetery held a pretty heavy and important place in Evan’s life; one is where his girlfriend’s body was found, in the backseat of a burnt out car, and the other was were she was buried. The suburb was surprisingly quiet for one so close to the middle of the city, but it was one that was ruled more by a gangland turf war than by the law. Still, with rent being what it was, some people didn’t have any other options but to live their, and Rani was one of them.

I had never truly known Rani, but we had run with similar crowds, and I’d stood at the back when I attended her funeral. So showing up with some flowers wasn’t that surprising of a suggestion, and as we drove across the harbour, I’d wished I’d come up with it. Kyla would never let me live it down.

I looked down at the old weather-beaten Pier 28 from my seat in the gridlocked rush hour in the middle of the bridge. I could make out the rough shape of his hoodie as he tossed a lone rose into the harbour, something I came to realise was a heartbreakingly frequent routine of his. He lingered a moment as the traffic began to shuffle forwards, before he turned and disappeared under the tree line of the park behind him.

Against all odds, we managed to beat him to the cemetery, and I was kneeling in front of the tombstone, laying my flowers and picking a few stray weeds when he arrived. He exhaled heavily, seemingly knowing my question before I could even make small talk, let alone segue into my real question.

“The answer you’re looking for is far crazier than you think” he said, his voice even. His was looking at the ground, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie when I turned to look at him.

“All the same, I’ve got to know” I said.

“If you’re truly ready to face this question head-on, no matter the consequences, follow me. I cannot stress enough though, do not do so light-heartedly.”

“Can you give me the short version first?”

“You’re an old soul, and you’ve been here before.”

[the-villiage-idiom]

Only The Good Die Young, pt8

My head foggier than I can ever remember it being, I stumbled into a small grey courtyard. Soundlessly, a seemingly heavy oak door swung shut behind me. When I made to push it open, it wouldn’t budge. There was no door knob or handle with which to pull the door, and the only shape I could make out between the small gap at the edge was that of a thick bar locking me in. I turned and stepped into the centre where a raised platform and a bird bath stood. I noticed three other paths, all blocked off by similar oak doors. As I stood and looked around, small flashes of light and colour flashed across different parts of the garden. The roses were red and pink and yellow for a moment, and then they faded back to the same monotonous shade of grey as everything else. Small veins of blue momentarily illuminated the dull marble columns before fading away.

I listened hard to the screaming silence around me. It was disturbing and made me uneasy. No breeze moved the trees, though the leaves still swayed. The was no sound of fish in the pond that circled around beneath the four paths like a silent moat, nor the buzzing of bees among the flowers, and yet I saw them, clear as day. I dipped my hand into the water in the font before me, but the cold did not register on my fingers and when I lifted them out, they felt as dry as they were only seconds earlier.

The grey vault of clouds above me began to part and three beams of light illuminated statues above three of the paths. The statue to my left held a golden sword in his hand, and it’s colour didn’t shift like the static of a television set the same as the rest of this garden. The statue to my right held a silver scale. And the statue the stood over the gate before me held a copper key and an iron scroll. As the light intensified on its form, the iron scroll unravelled and one end dropped to its feet. There was a great sound that echoed off the silence and filled the air with vibrations. As I stood in the middle of the gardens, the doors they were guarding began to glow softly.

[the-villiage-idiom]

Only The Good Die Young, pt7

“Hey, wait!” I yelled, seeing the boy weaving expertly through the packed crowd of shoppers. The boy hesitated and looked over his shoulder. He shook his head and it looked like he was debating with someone. He shrugged and turned to go down the escalators into the nearby subway station.

“Oh, come on.” I pushed my way through the swarming crowds. Almost as if controlled by the boy, a fresh wave of people poured out of the subway as I reached the staircase. It was only as I was halfway down that I realised what it meant. Almost desperate, I jumped up onto the strip in between the escalators and slid down them like all the heroes in those action movies do. I saw the boy sitting down in one of the trains as the doors began closing. I sprinted forwards, my arm outstretched, trying to stop the train with all my willpower. But sometimes a will does not equal a way. The doors closed and as I slammed into the side of the train, it began to slowly pull out of the station.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” The boy looked up, taking his hoodie off and I met his gaze. His eyes were a vibrant, almost unbelievably beautiful shade of green, and I recognised a half-exposed tattoo on his neck. As I stepped back behind the yellow line I finally managed to put all the pieces together, and remember who that boy was. The one that maintained eye contact until the train was completely gone.

“Evan.” I breathed softly as I stood on the platform. Kyla eventually joined me, placing her hand on my shoulder. She may as well have been talking to herself with how much I heard her say. My thoughts were still on finding Evan. He had answers, I was sure of it. But with the summer break having only just started it wasn’t like I could just bump into him in the hallway after gym. And then I remembered something. The only thing, besides his name, that I knew about him. And it limited the number of likely places I would find him down to two.

[the-villiage-idiom]

Only The Good Die Young, pt6

The street was quiet as I walked home. Normally, I’d have been worried about walking alone in the dark, but since moving to a new neighbourhood, I was able to focus my worries on more trivial subjects. At least, it seemed like a new neighbourhood; none of the houses looked familiar, the smell in the air didn’t invoke any nostalgia, and the sun seemed to set differently. A dog barked a few streets away, the sound echoing of the buildings, and I flinched, looked over my shoulder instinctively, and then something inside me screamed for me to run.

A car drove past, lightly spraying me with mist, except that it hadn’t rained in days. The sun, though almost hidden from view was still radiating waves of unbearable heat, and when I looked down at myself, what moisture was on my clothes was from my own sweat.

I held my bag closer as I stepped off the kerb to cross the street. Fear and paranoia gripped me as I half-jogged across the road. I worried about the valuables I carried. Not in my bag, but around my neck, and wrist, and finger. Then my thoughts turned to the even more priceless valuables I had in my life. To my family. To my friends. To the job I enjoyed.

A block down the road was a bus shelter. Two men were sitting in it, and as I stared, one of them looked up at me. I couldn’t place it, but what I saw in his eyes I didn’t like. Subconsciously, I felt my hand reach into my purse as I turned to walk away. My plan was to round the next corner and as soon as I was out of sight of the men I would run. I would forsake my heels and sprint barefoot if I had to. The flaw in my plan was that the men apparently had the same idea, only they could run quicker. As they gained on me I turned around and held my pistol to them. My pistol. The thought sent me into shock, which my assailant used to his advantage as he quickly grabbed me to take the gun from me. I wasn’t going down so easily this time. In the struggle I not only fought for my own protection but to make sense of what was a flashback and what wasn’t. It was only when I realised the gun had gone off in the scuffle and I lay bleeding into the gutter that it all was. This was a cruel world, and in that moment, I openly welcomed the next.

[the-villiage-idiom]

Only The Good Die Young, Pt5

The Seer’s store was full of crystals and dream catchers. One wall was fully devoted to a bookshelf full of leather bound volumes with intricate symbols embossed on the side. A table lined the wall adjacent, with stacks of Tarot decks and Rune stones. A sweet smelling incense burned on the counter. A guy who I recognised from school was speaking in hushed tones to himself in a corner by a ouija board display.

“Wait here, I’ll go get her” Kyla said. As she approached the counter, an elderly woman in a beautiful flowing gown came out from behind a red velvet curtain behind the counter.

“Kyla” she said, her beautiful voice trying to sound dramatic and mysterious. “I’ve been expecting you. And you’ve brought your sister, I see. Alison, come closer and let me look at you properly”

I stepped forward hesitantly, but the elderly woman seemingly took no notice of it. Upon reaching the counter, I placed my hands on the edge, unsure of how to act in the moment.

“Relax, child. You’re putting out so much negative energy I’ll have to do a cleansing after you leave” the woman laugh lightly enough, and behind me Kyla attempted to hide her smile. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was an ill-advised idea.

The woman pulled out a deck of tarot cards and pulled a crystal ball closer.

“Your choice. Either shuffle the cards until you’re happy with them or simply place your hands on the crystal ball.”

The crystal ball seemed like the least hassle, and I still wasn’t completely sold on the whole situation, so I put my hands on it gently, and exhaled long and quiet. The woman took a seat on a stool behind the counter and let her face get nice and close to the ball. She seemed to enter a trance, unbreakable, even when the guy in the back corner knocked a scrying bowl display over, and hastily recovered it. I looked around at him, and his expression said more than I could understand.

He turned and left, continuing his low muttering as the doorbells jingled behind him. When I turned back around, the old woman smiled at me.

“You found an answer to your question by coming today, didn’t you?”

“Thanks, Adelaide. I owe you!” Kyla said as I turned to follow the boy. The boy that somehow knew what was happening to me.

[the-villiage-idiom]

Only The Good Die Young, Pt4

I woke up in an ambulance, an oxygen mask on my face. When I tried to move, pain shot through my entire body. The blurry form of the paramedic seated beside me emitted a muffled inaudible sound. When I tried to remember how I’d ended up in this situation, I drew mental blanks. I made to roll over, and was suddenly in a hospital bed. My room had a nice view of the city lights and the harbour beyond, which I could see perfectly fine now. A uniformed police officer stood beside my bed. He explained to me what had happened, at least as far as he knew. He asked if I could remember anything else about my situation, and apparently unlocked by the detective’s synopsis, I spilled forth my entire traumatic experience, right down to a detailed image of the catcaller’s face. After writing a good three pages worth of notes in his little notepad, the officer thanked me and told me he’d be back in a day or so to check on my recovery. As he walked out, a nurse walked in, and started scanning the medical charts and monitors. She asked if I was hungry, and more as a coping mechanism for the horrors I now remembered, I responded with a sarcastic remark about the Pope being Catholic. The nurse smiled and uttered something I didn’t catch. I rolled back over to look out the window, only to be greeted by the blinding light of a sunrise. The snoring figure in my bedside chair, I eventually discovered, was my father, who had arrived late the night before and insisted on staying by my side until I was recovered enough to go home. Beside me was an empty meal tray, meaning that the nurse had brought me food, but my dad had eaten it. I ended up spending a few weeks in hospital, recovering from both physical and psychological trauma. I endured a frustrating amount of time relearning how to walk and talk, which had been put down in my record as effects of my trauma. When I was eventually released, I no longer knew who I had been before.

[the-villiage-idiom]

Only The Good Die Young, Pt3

The book I checked out was a page turner. Within the first night of reading it, I had come up with a half dozen explanations of what my birthmark could have meant, and had even convinced myself that I must have had at least one previous life; I wasn’t usually one to give credit to things like astrology or tarot, but the so-called evidence lying on my bed before me gave me reason to speculate. Could something as far fetched as reincarnation actually be possible? Was there an afterlife, or are our souls being perpetually recycled, while our memories are erased, causing us to make the same mistakes again and again in some dark form of spiritual destiny?

There was a knock at my door; though the faintest of greeting wafted in through the crack in the door, I knew it was my sister Kyla. She was a big believer in this sort of stuff - a connoisseur of crystal healing, the paragon of palmistry and an advocate for astrology.

“Come in” I said, smiling and shifting the book to make space on my bed for her to sit.

“I’d noticed.” She said, gesturing to the open time on my pillow. “But uncharacteristic for you to take an interest in religion and mythology. I thought you were unapologetically agnostic.”

“I am, but correlations can’t be ignored. Besides, the entries in here don’t definitively confirm any subject they address. Rather, they outline the common themes and motifs across a wide array of belief systems.” I said, perhaps a little too defensively.

“And they offer an answer to your dream problem, don’t they?” I nodded. Kyla smiled, and it simultaneously made me feel relieved and uneasy.

“Tomorrow, could you humour me and have a psychic give you a full reading? Stars, cards, palms, crystal ball, the whole deal??”

I looked down at the book beside me, at it’s intricate diagrams and flowing text, and for the first time, I found myself completely curious about the subject.

“What could it hurt?”

[the-villiage-idiom]

Acing pacing in your writing

I’ve read too many books and watched too many shows where pacing has ruined a good story. So, here are some of my tips for getting pacing right:

1. Don’t take too long to get to the inciting incident

Look, showing the ordinary life of your protagonist might be interesting if there’s something strange about their life, but readers want stuff to happen.

At least with genre fiction, you shouldn’t take too long to get to the action - the event that gets the story going.

If you can do it well and have readers invested from the start, you can start with the inciting incident. However, for most works I would recommend having it in the second chapter.

Your readers want to know what the story is about, not what the character thinks of his English teacher

2. Keep it moving, but don’t rush

Action is important. It drives the story and it’s interesting. You should make sure to put enough action in your work. Things should be happening.

BUT a novel is not a play or a movie or a comic. What makes reading a full-length novel so entertaining is the detail. The in-depth characterisation and description. The emotion and thought processes.

So, keep it moving, but don’t sacrifice the juicy details. Don’t skip from one action or dialogue scene to the next without taking your readers deeper into the intricacies of the story and characters.

It’s a delicate balance that can only truly be found by reading a lot and practicing.

3. Avoid a sagging middle

Your beginning is solid. Your end is exciting. But the middle is a chaotic mess that bores the reader. Trust me, it happens more than you might believe.

Sagging middle syndrome is a thing, and the only way to avoid it is to plan.

Look, I like pantsing, but planning the middle of your novel will help your pacing exponentially.

Make a rough outline of what needs to happen to get your characters to the climax. Add a few lighter/character-driven scenes where there are too many action scenes in the sequence. Remove events which are unnecessary. And make sure that everything makes sense!

This counts for second books in series as well. It should be good on its own, not just as a filler.

4. Don’t fast forward to the end

I’m looking at you, Game of Thrones.

If you’ve built up the story and set up everything for the final big bang, you have to deliver.

Keep the pacing somewhat similar to that of the rest of the story. Your readers have gotten used to it. And if they’re still reading at that point, they probably like that pace. Don’t write a relatively slow book and then have the climax be over in three pages.

I know you want the climax to be exciting. So, yes, make it a little more fast-paced than the middle. But not massively different.

5. Trust your characters

As with every aspect of creative writing, character is most important.

Is your character experiencing the scene quickly and choppily? Or are they slowing down and taking in everything?

If you stick with what your characters are feeling, you will get it right.

Look, exams have fried my brain. So, this isn’t the most well-formulated post I’ve made. But I hope that it can be helpful.

Reblog if you found these tips useful. Comment with your own pacing tips. Follow me for similar content.

[the-villiage-idiom]

Only The Good Die Young, pt2

The street was quiet as I walked home. Normally, I’d have been worried about walking alone in the dark, but since moving to a new neighbourhood, I was able to focus my worries on more trivial subjects. A few streets away, the normally concerning sound of a barking dog echoed off the houses and I flinched, looking over my shoulder instinctively.

A car drove past, lightly spraying me with a mist of water from the fresh rainfall. I’d forgotten an umbrella, and so was already beginning to soak through. It wasn’t heavy enough that I couldn’t enjoy the cool reprieve from what was looking to be a scorching summer, though.

I held my bag closer as I stepped off the kerb to cross the street, not out of fear or paranoia, but out of habit. Not that I had anything important in it; I’d learned to keep my cash and cards in a small wallet. I deliberately wore any pants that I could find that had pockets so that, in the event of a mugging, the thugs would take my bag, which was a decoy, and I would then run home and stash my valuables.

Tonight, however, it was just as well. Misfortune befell me when, as I stepped up onto the sidewalk on the other side of the road, I was greeted by a small group of men, nicely dressed, whose eyes reminded me of my life in the lower class suburbs. They looked at me hungrily; like I was a piece of meat. Their intention was clear, and whether they would act on it or not, I was already reaching for my can of pepper spray. As I made to walk up the path away from them, I was catcalled and humiliated. One man tried to approach me, in what I imagine he thought was an unthreatening way. He made to apologise for his friends actions, casting blame on intoxication. It was an excuse I’d heard before, and never accepted. I told the man politely to leave me alone, but had walked too quickly than I realised, and the other men were now also in pursuit. Adrenaline suddenly pumping through my veins I made to run off, only to be chased into an alley and cornered. I held my bag out, just begging for them to take it and leave, but the catcaller leant down to where I was curled up, and whispered sinisterly in my ear that he had other ideas.

[the-villiage-idiom]

Only The Good Die Young, pt1

Every time I closed my eyes, for as long as I could remember, I would always see flashes. They usually caused me to wake up screaming in the middle of the night. As I grew older, I began to wonder when I’d ever experienced the horrible tragedy that played inside my eyelids. The images were blurry, like I was watching them from behind a sheet of frosted glass. But every other sense was dialled up: I could hear the rain as it poured down heavily over the fight. I could taste the cold steel of the blade held in my mouth. I could smell the blood that dripped from my lips. I could even feel the bullet as it penetrated my side. I’d gone to psychologists and dream interpreters, but had found nothing. And every night, the same scene would play out in my dreams, like the reruns of the terrible telenovelas that were always on in the middle of the day. It was only by chance that I found something that even began to explain what could have been happening.

I was in the public library one day, checking out what had to be my millionth book on the psychology of dreams, when a guy bumped into me. The piles of books we were both carrying tumbled to the ground. He smiled apologetically at me as we both knelt down to pick up the books. Where mine were all focused on my problem, his covered a variety of different topics, from conspiracy theories and religious cults to martial arts and survival guides. I picked up a book about the spiritual beliefs in the afterlife, intended to pass it to the boy immediately, but my eyes must have hovered over the title for a moment longer than I thought.

“Some cultures believe that if you live a good life you will be reborn. Sometimes this is as an animal, or as a tree, but other cultures believe that the birthmark is a scar from your past life, showing how you died. It’s quite fascinating, actually.”

“Do you mind if I...?”

“I was returning it anyway. I found all I needed from it. Religious Studies assignment”

I checked the book out, and put the rest back on the shelves. Not because I didn’t think they wouldn’t help more than this one. But because when the dream version of me died, the real version of me would find herself sitting bolt upright, clutching her side. Where a small circular birthmark was located.

[the-villiage-idiom]

Sugar and Spice, pt10

Everything about Taryn was a dream come true: even the car she drove. Even as she pulled in, and never having seen her car before then, I knew it was her. I leaned against Brooke’s car in my best attempt at a candid pose that also said that I was waiting for her to take me. She pulled into the space right beside us, her window down.

“Have either of you seen my parrot? She’s the most beautiful chick you’d ever see.” I leaned down to her window, our faces inches apart.

“What does she look like?” I said playfully. Taryn didn’t answer straight away. She stroked the side of my face, and played with my hair for a moment.

“She looks like this.” she said, pulling my face closer, and pressing her lips to mine. The world fell away from me.

Taryn and Brooke were making polite conversation when I came around. They must have picked me up off the ground and put me into Taryn’s car.

“...she’s definitely told me all about you. I think she’s the luckiest girl to have a true friend like you. I’d never tell her this, but I honestly thought she’d realised she could do better than me this morning.”

“Are you kidding? She told me your name first thing this morning. We just had to go deal with some personal issues today.”

“Well, thank you for looking after her today. She’s changed my whole world and I don’t know what I would’ve done without her. Is that crazy to say? What?” Taryn turned around to see what Brooke was looking at. I wrapped my arms around her neck.

“My day has been crazy My life is crazy. But what I say next isn’t. I love you, too.” We kissed.

“Polly, look” Brooke still seemed surprised. I broke off the kiss, but held onto Taryn as I looked over my shoulder. A cold shiver shot through my body, and my limbs went numb with shock. I slipped out of Taryn’s embrace as I stepped forward, reaching out in front of me. Her face felt real enough, and she held my hand against her cheek, her giggle rising like bubbles in glass of soda. I waited a moment for the age lines to register, but they never did.

“Hi, Polly. I guess I got some explaining to do” Rachel said.

[the-villiage-idiom]

Sugar and Spice, pt9

By the time I’d finished dealing with everything that had happened, I was ready to just go back to bed. As the sun sank over the harbour, casting an orange glow across the glass facades of the city, I finally had enough time to check my phone for the first time that day.

One Missed Call.

I smiled, knowing that of everyone in my life right now, this could only have been Taryn. I opened my voicemail, and the sweet sound of her voice flowed through the speaker.

“Hey, Polly, I don’t know where you went this morning, but I’m really hoping I’ll see you at home tonight.” There was an awkward pause at the end before the message cut out. I filled in the blank for myself with three little words she probably felt were too premature to say.

Brooke and I were still sitting in the car at the lookout. I turned to see her looking at me.

“So what the deal with you and this guy? I hadn’t seen you all weekend, and I kept thinking you were gonna show up on my doorstep, bloody and beaten.”

“Well, I think, first of all... you should probably know it’s me and this girl.” Brooke did a double take, her eyes widening. “You can’t tell anyone, even Troy. It’s my story to tell.”

“Of course. So what happened?”

“We had breakfast, and walked down by the waterfront, we went and saw a movie. You know, regular first date stuff. But we also drank far too much wine two nights in a row, and did some rather graphic things to each other between the sheets. I would’ve spent today on a physical rollercoaster with her, but instead was dragged onto this emotional rollercoaster with you.” Brooke’s face fell. “That came out wrong. You know I love you. I just... I love her too and I want to explore this because it both excites and terrifies me at the same time, only I don’t feel anything except happiness when I’m with her.” I paused a moment, while we both thought about our relationships. “And I’d honestly like to go back to her now.”

[the-villiage-idiom]

Sugar and Spice, pt8

Brooke managed to bullshit her way out of the awkward situation by suggesting that alcohol had nullified the medication. Whether she was telling a lie, or withholding some of the truth, I couldn’t tell. Regardless, fifteen minutes later we were backing out of the driveway.

“Let’s go get something greasy to eat from a drive thru and go somewhere quiet. I gotta tell you something” Brooke said, as we eased into the flow of traffic.

- - -

The view of Cobalt from the lookout on Mt Carmine could only have been more beautiful if I was sharing it with Taryn. After scarfing my third cheeseburger, I finally turned my attention to Brooke.

“Okay. Spill.” I said, picking up my shake and taking a big sip.

“I think I’ve accidentally got you caught up in some real shit. And I think Rachel might have been a part of it.” Brooke looked more scared than I’d ever seen her.

“Okay, you better start making sense real soon...”

“The guy that was spiking drinks was Riley. And he was only at Cloud Nine because I’d asked him to do me a favour before I left to meet you, and he followed me there.”

“Oh God. Really, Brooke? Riley fucking Hume! You didn’t ask him to rate your sexual performance or anything?”

“What? Ew, no. Not on his luckiest day. Besides, I could never do anything like that to Troy, you know that.”

“So what happened?”

“I’m trying to get out of town, but you know Mum will never go for it. But Riley said he knows a way to make it happen, and with his dad running that massive company of his, you know, I kinda think he might actually have the resources.”

“Brooke...” my voice trailed off, but the tone of disbelief lingered. “That’s what University is for! You apply for somewhere far away from this shithole, and during your first semester, you audition for a stage show or something and then you drop out to pursue your real dreams. You don’t ask Riley Hume for any favours, not with the real reasons we both know he said yes. Chances are he thinks his luckiest day is coming soon”