Some writing I did for the fun of it. Have many ideas floating around my head, and sometimes need to get the voices out. Writing is the only way. One day I will take all my ideas and make them into a novel of sorts. But I am buy, so alas, today is not that day.
Once upon a time, on this very earth you stand upon, lived a coven of witches and warlocks, the likes of which you have never seen. Their purpose on our earth was to bring forth the magic that had been stifled eons ago when the very last dragon was slayed. Now dragons are peculiar creatures, or rather, were, because they appear to be ferocious giants with wings, who destroy all that stands in their way, pillage gold for their own selfish aesthetic reasons and kill innocent knights in shining armour. However, this is only what they appear to have done. But remember this, nothing is what it seems. Since the last dragon was spotted hundreds of years ago, we only know their fierceness through the ‘once upon a time’ stories that humans have written throughout the ages. Stories written either blindly or to blind humans to the truth of it all.
I am no human, or at least, I am not a human with her eyes sealed shut by the puppet masters. Therefore I can tell you the truth, because I too am a witch, descended from the coven. Ascended and sent to earth to take a blade to the web of lies that has slowly spun its way through the continents. I am here to shatter the illusion you have all created to keep yourselves safe.
Let us start by debasing the myth of Dragons. Dragons were not monsters. In fact, they were harbingers of Light. They held within their blood, the ability to besmudge the darkness from this earth. The blood they spilled was no accident. The soil of this earth needs blood to breathe. The blood of the brave, to be exact. Hence the massacre of any knight who tried to slay a dragon. And the reason for their deep obsession with hording gold has been mistold as well, a broken telephone of a tale. The true reason is a simple complexity, one a greedy man cannot fathom; they stole gold because gold has the power to wipe light from this earth for good. The greed and selfishness that it bled onto the human race was more than Light could bear, and so dragons tried, but to no avail, to wipe it from this earth. Bu evil… is indestructible, as you will come to know.
This coven of witches and warlocks was named after the race of dragon, for they were the only Light left in the world, along, of course, with the Fey Weavers. Drago… A coven so powerful it had to be destroyed… So one by one, the Dark Scythes of Under Land convinced the puppet masters of the world-above that every witch and warlock was to be engulfed in flames, an irony that almost amused the Drago. Fire being their greatest friend and the human source of all things light. Each and every one of my family was burnt at the stake. All that remains are their remains, ashes in the wind.
Many innocent lives were taken, and centuries later, there are no first blood Dragon’s alive. But like the phoenix, from the ashes of destruction, we will rise again. And that is where I come in. I am a descendant, a daughter of a daughter of the Drago Coven, and at this moment in time, I do not yet know this. In fact, I, and the rest of the world around me, take me to be a mere mortal, a weird and ugly freak, to be ignored or stepped on. That is all I am good for. I see no light at the end of my tunnel, nor do I see it inside me. But it is there, like a flickering candle in the dark, a hope for humanity, a spark… My name is Glenda, and I am a good witch.
However, I do not know anything of this, only my name and what that little spark tells me. For sixteen years I have listened to its whisper. And straining to hear has almost driven me mad… For now, I live in the town of Lone with my adoptive parents, who, bless their souls, are the most normal of normal’s I have ever seen. We have nothing in common and I fear that in time they will come to loathe my existence, because everything I am is everything they stand against. Propriety is their middle name, and Norm their surname. How then, have I come to live with such people? How then, have I no idea of my lineage? How then can I listen to my spark of light when in my world, it is ever so wrong to do so? I am ridiculed because of these whispers in the dark, which tell me I am not Home. Why do I see things no one else does? Why do I fall into almost dream like worlds where nothing conceivably real IS real? And why can no one understand me? Why am I so alone? What have I done to deserve to have a monster in my head, a polarity I can’t escape. A feeling that I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here. And it’s even worse at school. At least my parents truly love me. They may not understand me but they care and are kind. They have my best interests at heart. If only they knew what my heart sung to me. But they try, and I am forever grateful, despite this deep ache in my gut. At school it is a constant fight to stay out of the fiery pits of hell. Only in this here hell the demons take the form of perfectly immaculate human girls with gleaming blond hair, almost as if it were spun out of sunshine. However, they are nothing like the sunshine I know. Their looks are deceiving, because as we well know, nothing is what it seems. Every day is a nightmare from which I cannot wake up. I have no friends. If someone were to try and be my friend, the driplets (I have dubbed them driplets because they are totally rain on my parade) would have their necks. They have turned the entire school population into zombies, and it is abhorrent to behold. They rule the school with their sneers, smirks, jeers and unnaturally long finger nails. The click of their stilettos on the stallico floor is, to me, the sound of a bullet entering my gut and flying straight through. It always hits bulls eye, and it always hurts like the hell I live in.
A day in my life goes something like this:
I wake up from a dream where I am sitting on a dirt road, and I am surrounded by cats. Cats of every colour mew and prance and rub up against me. And I can hear their purrs as if they were talking to me, and I can see their wide green eyes mirroring mine. I feel their soft fur and the brevity of having almost no space to breathe. I wake up feeling like I’ve been on a long trip. And I am more exhausted than before. I wake to the sound of Dana, my mother’s voice. She has her head popped round the door, and her soft eyes meet my bleary ones before she steps into the room and pulls open my curtains, letting the brilliant light Of Lone tumble in. ‘Rise to shine, sleepy head’ she says, and walks straight out again, leaving the door open behind her. I can smell breakfast wafting in from downstairs. I lie in bed, trying to remember the conversation I had with a black and white cat in my dream but it comes out as nonsense and I moan in frustration, rubbing my eyes to adjust to the real world again, before heaving myself out of bed. I take in my surroundings, although familiar to me, this does not feel like home; my room is covered in posters and articles, stories ripped from the pages of my favourite fantasy novels. Poetry that keeps me warm at night. The colour of the walls is green but it can barely be seen of the masses of scraps of paper, filled with my sketches of my dreams, tacked to its front. Books scatter my desk, as well as pens and pots of paint. I arrange them neatly before choosing my clothes for the day, as I know Dana will not tolerate a messy living space. I, however, am messy by nature. I am too busy feeling and thinking on the inside to worry about what the outside world looks like. I pull of my nightie and toss it into my washing basket, as it is drenched in sweat, like I ran a marathon in my sleep, and perhaps I did. Stranger things have happened to me in the dark of night than that. I stand before my gilded mirror, bare and scrawny and heave a great sigh before banishing my appearance by throwing on a loose fitting green shirt with gold embroidery and some denim shorts I find on my floor. As I lace up my doc martens I hear a sound, almost like laughter, but infringed in melody. I stop mid lace and go to my window, and peer out. It looks onto the across the road neighbours peculiar little house, with its lustrous over grown garden and elongated chimney. The sound comes from there and it is music to my ears. I almost forget that o have a day of torture ahead of me and giggle to myself, seeing a woman with black hair, streaked with purple kneeling in front of a daisy. It looks as if she is having a full blown conversation with the flower, and that the flower is a rather humorous companion. I peer closer still at the curious site and see she has a watering jug in her hand. I dismiss the theory that the flowers are her friends, as this is a ridiculous notion that would be frowned upon in society. As a rule, we humans don’t pay much attention to our surroundings, especially nature. Perhaps because nature is the only magical thing left on this godforsaken planet. ‘Glenda! Your breakfast is getting cold!’ Dana calls from the bottom of the stairs in her usual sing song voice. I turn away from my thoughts and leave my room, jumping the stairs two at a time. Both Kevin and Dana are at the bottom, their arms crossed and their eyebrows raised, in complete mirrored unison they say ‘you’ll trip if you continue to walk in such a fashion.’ I scoff but end up tripping over my unlaced boot and landing at their feet. I blush a dark shade before getting up, brushing imaginary lint from my knees, and without looking at either of them, take my place at the dining room table. It is laden with fruit salad, pancakes, crispy bacon and a jug of freshly pressed orange juice. ‘Guys, I can’t eat all of this so early in the morning.’ ‘Pish posh. You can and you will. We were thinking perhaps the reason you are always so tired is because you don’t eat enough.’ Dana chided ‘and maybe that’s why you are so scrawny. Girls your age are rather buxom creatures, yet you look like a waif. We want to take care of you Glenda. And your mother has been slaving over the stove since seven. So eat up!’ Kevin smiles and pats my shoulder, squeezing me reassuringly. I know they mean well, so I take a pancake and dig in. they stand and stare at me, sad smiles playing on their faces. It makes me uncomfortable. Mid-chew I cannot bare it any longer ‘I’m alright, really. And I feel even better now I have had a wholesome meal. Thanks so much guys. You’re the best.’ I stand up and kiss them both of the cheek, making them glow. I then pick up my backpack and am out the door, hastingly adding a shouted goodbye. Once the door is closed I heave a sigh of relief. On top of all the sham and drudgery I have to face on a day to day basis, I also have to bear the burden of burdening my sweet parents, who can’t grasp that I am different. They just want me to have friends and go out on a Friday to the movies like everyone else my age. Instead I sit at home with my music as loud as it can go, painting picture after picture of stranger scenes, dark and beautiful in context. No wonder they are freaking out. I need to act more like them. More normal. After all, norm is our last name. I wish I were more solid. I wish I weren’t so tired. I wish I were more hungry. I wish I had a friend to go out with on a Friday night.
After gathering my thoughts I head out. School is only a few blocks from my house and the walk does me some good. The town is a beautiful one, laden with manicured lawns and great gardens. Statues and fountains and cobbled stone streets. I live in paradise. Why am I complaining?
The parking lot is already packed with the sleekest cars in the blandest colours, and students mils around in packs. There is a buzz of noise that hovers over the entire student body and I almost want to cover my ears at the sound. The glare of the sun glints off the many platinum blond heads that bob up and down as they walk past me, studiously ignoring the fact that I am trying to get through. Most pupils at Lone Castle High are one and the same. It isn’t like the movies here, where there are different cliques for different interests. The Goth’s sitting together and the nerds sitting together. No, there is no minority (besides me) here. The school is built around the confines of an old castle that used to house Lone’s founders. There are still random turrets amidst the new age cinder and block building. These we use for chemistry and drama classes. The feel of the gothic castle is long gone, replaced by stainless steel and mowed grass. Lone takes pride in its educational facility, as it is a private school, with only a few hundred kids attending each year, all handpicked for their drive and talent. I, although invisible to my peers, am what is seen as ‘talented’. Not when it comes to anything school related, but ask me to paint a picture, or write a sonnet and I am your girl. Thus my parents, as well meaning as they are, insisted I enrol here, rather than the local High school, which resides a bus ride away. I am grateful for ‘the opportunity to rise and shine’ as Dana puts it, but being in such a close knit class has its draw backs. I enter the large building through wrought iron doors which slam shut loudly behind me and make me jump. I whirl around out of habit and hit straight into someone. My nose smarts and my eyes begin to water. The face I have hit with mine is but a blonde blur. ‘Watch where you’re going with that thing!’ it snarls, poking my nose before shoving me aside and into the wall. I hear vicious sniggering and I don’t need to be able to see to know who the perpetrator it. That laugh haunts me. My vision returns as I see Claire Riches strut past me, nose in the air, hair and hips swinging in harmony. Her outfit is one to be marvelled at. I don’t know how she manages to feel comfortable. Her dress is as tight as can be on her slender frame, pink and white checked, flawlessly creaseless, as if hung in a plastic bag in the wardrobe until she decides to put it on, which I can guarantee is the case, and as short as is allowed at school. She manages to strut by my speedily and with such confidence in super high white wedges, her posse, the driplets, in tow, equally bedecked in tight fitting clothes and high heels. I do not have time to seethe because the bell goes. A long and melodious chant, another left over relic from the castle. One has to pull a thick rope for it to toll. It is located in the West end. A place forbidden for students to enter. In fact, I have never seen the one who rings the bell, nor have I witnessed any teachers ever enter or leave the West Wing Tower. I scurry to my first period before I am attacked by the throng of students wanting to get to class. First period is mathematics. I sit right at the back. I am the first to arrive, thankfully, and I settle in by imagining myself invisible. I take out my pencil case and last night’s incomplete homework as well as a calculator I do not intend to use. In-between the pages if my maths book lies a note pad that I scribble on throughout each maths lesson. The act of drawing and writing helps me maintain the air of invisibility, and also soothes my wrath. I hate being here. Don’t get me wrong. I do not dislike school. In fact, I enjoy learning anything and everything I can. But the people that make up Lone Castle make it a miserable place and learning is a distant dream when I am constantly under attack. Case in point, although I sit quietly at the back, minding my own business, a boy with coiffed blond hair and a football jersey that I never see him without comes up to me and just stands in front of my desk. At first I ignore him and go on drawing little boxes on my notepad. He clears his throat and I am forced to look up. Our eyes meet, my iridescent light green cats eyes to his cold pale blue ones, almost dopey looking. ‘Can I help you?’ I ask, staring him down. ‘No. can I help you?’ he laughs. I furrow my brow in confusion and turn my gaze away. At this moment the class is already full and everyone is staring at us, their backs twisted in their seats. Lucas, for that is his name, sees them staring and grins, feeding off of their attention he swipes his hand over my desk and sends all my stationary and books flying to the left. ‘You dropped your shit. And while you’re done there where you belong, stay down. This is my seat.’ He nudges me off my chair and sits down, plonking his bag onto the table. I am stunned, because Lucas has never personally sought me out before. And I am humiliated, having to bend down in front of every sniggering teenager and retrieve my work. Before I have time to grab my book of poems it is swiped from beneath my fingertips. I look up to see Claire fingering though it, a sneer on her pretty face. ‘What do we have here? Is this your diary, Glenda? Oh my gosh, it is!’ she squeals in sickening delight. ‘Give that back, Claire, its mine!’ I try grabbing it from her but she tosses it to Gemma, who, giggling starts to read. I stand there, mortified, as my own personal words come alive in her nasty nasal voice. Each word she sullies with sarcasm. I cannot move.
‘If I were the sky
I’d always be high
But the world would drown in rain
And every day it’d begin again
If I were the ocean I couldn’t drown
The sinking feeling wouldn’t stay around
If I were a mountain I could stand tall
At the edge of it all
I wouldn’t fall
If I were a tree I’d be happy just to be
My roots would drink from the ground
And I’d have all the wisdom the forest has found
If I were silence I wouldn’t need to speak
I wouldn’t have to explain why this runs so deep
Why each time I am back on my feet
The rug is pulled out from underneath me’
She stops, looks at the words she has just now read out loud and contorts her face into the epitome of disgust before tearing out the page and proclaiming ‘what IS this hippy rubbish? Are you trying to turn yourself into a tree, Glenda? Can you do that sort of thing nowadays? What with being a witch and all. Look! You even have warts and a big nose to prove it. Well then, go on, turn yourself into a tree. I double dare you.’ I find her words pathetic. The fact that she cannot understand my poem and has warped it into such silly nonsense makes me feel above it all. Bravado builds in my heart and I feel warmth flood my being, I am not afraid. ‘If I could do magic, do you not think I would have already turned you and your cronies into what you already truly are?’ I try to grab the book but she lifts it above her head ‘and what, do you think we are, witch?’ she snarls ‘you are zombies! Slaves to the norm!’ I shout, jumping up and grabbing my book from her hand. Everyone is laughing now and some are even chanting ‘witch, witch, witch.’ I wish I were a witch, I think, and then I would show you. With your heads filled with stuffing, you are all nothing better than zombies. Tears prick my eyes. I do not feel warm anymore. I feel defeated. The chanting gets louder as the driplets join in. Claire takes the seat next to Lucas, and kisses him on the cheek. I stand stock still, unable to move, although I want to run and never look back. Of course. Lucas singled me out because he and Claire are an item now. And when you’re with Claire, you do her dirty work. It all makes sense. She sits their mouthing witch at me, but smiling sweetly. Mister Carson walks in at this very moment, ‘settle down now, class. Plenty of time for chit-chat later. I want you all to run to page 7 of your new text boo-‘ he sees me standing there and his cheery disposition drops like my stomach. ‘Glenda. The bell has rung. Get to your seat immediately or face the consequences. We have no time for your dilly dallying.’ ‘And what is that mess on my clean floor!’ he shakes his head as if I were the greatest disappointment to walk through his door, and perhaps I am. ‘Pick. It. Up.’ he says through gritted teeth, before turning away and bending to pick up a black marker from his draw. I do as I am told, kneeling at Lucas’s feet. My pencils have rolled this way and that and I am having a hard time finding them. Lucas’s foot comes down hard on my hand and I scream ‘fuck!’ before I have the time to stop myself. ‘Right! That’s it! I have had enough out of you for one day, Miss Norm. Principles office, now!’ he points to the door. I am almost glad to leave. I gather the rest of my belongings and make my way to the front. A small chant of witch, witch, witch.’ Wafts through as I make my exit.
I almost sigh with relief as I turn the corner and the chant dies. But relief does not come, because my journey away from the jeers and leers of my class mates leads me ever closer to the wrath of my school’s principal, who, until now, I have never met in person. I have only seen him from afar, as he preaches pride and patriarchy to the entire student body every Monday at assembly. I do not want today to be the day we meet. Although he seems like a well-meaning person, his punishment quota is notorious amongst us, and I don’t want to find out what sort of punishment he has in mind for me. Will be it a weeks’ worth of homework, to be done after school, where I must stay overnight until it is finished? Repainting the science block? Scraping the toxic mould from the West Wing? These thoughts tire me out and when I reach the glass door of his secretary’s office I walk straight passed, my feet nonethewiser to having reached my destination. To hell with it. I retrieve my books from my locker and push the great front doors open. The fresh air on my tear stained face is cool. I allow myself that sigh of relief, shrug my bag onto my shoulder, and make my way home. I didn’t even make it past first period today. I am slightly disappointed in myself. And the disappointment grows with each step I take. Until I am heavy with fiery hatred, coursing through my veins, pumping my heart with venom. I hate myself for so easily succumbing to victimization at the hands of vapid fools. And I hate those vapid fools for their empty headed viciousness. They fear what they do not understand. But how can I be so different that they cannot understand me? I am human, just like them. Aren’t i? Kevin is at work, and Dana is at cooking class, so the house is peacefully empty. I throw my bag down and race myself downstairs, to the basement, my only private space. My parents never come down here, as an unspoken rule. Here is where I paint. And listen to my music as loud as I please. The walls are thick concrete and the cellar is so deep under the house that no one ever hears me. I can cry, I can scream, I can curse this wicked world for throwing me so haphazardly into the wrong family, and no one will be the wiser. Today I head straight for my couch, emerald in colour, and velvet in texture, and bury my head in the many scatter cushions. I scream. I scream until my lungs are grated and raw. I scream until I am exhausted, and deaf, and can no longer hear the chant of ‘witch, witch, witch’ playing like a merry go round tune in my head. When all I hear is a ringing nose in my ears and it seems like hours have passed, I sit up, and take a look around. The shelves are lined with my paintings. I never know where I get my ideas from. There’s a whole series of a woman who looks like me, slowly catching fire. There’s dark smog, mixed with blood red, hanging about her, as the flames grow higher and higher, forming a halo around her head. Her eyes are closed. And she looks like she accepts her fate. I long to be like that painting. A martyr of strength and acceptance. I get up to better look at my paintings. I touch the smooth canvas with my fingertips and smell the oil paints lying next to them. I pick a new, clean canvas up from the desk and set it up on my easel, squeezing a dollop of yellow onto my pallet. I meticulously clean my brush with linseed oil before dipping it lovingly into the paint. As I put the paintbrush to paper, begin to feel warm, soft, better. Like a gust of wind came and blew all my troubles away. This feeling intensifies, and the warmth turns to heat. I am painting vehemently now, without thinking, because I am distracted by this spreading heat, which grows hotter and hotter by the second. I start to sweat. I feel uncomfortable, but it isn’t unpleasant. I feel light. I feel like I imagine a feather would feel, floating along the currents of the wind. I stop painting to better experience this strange sensation. Looking down, to my surprise, I find my feet are no longer touching the basements floor. I am floating! My eyes widen as suddenly I feel a jolt beneath my ribcage, which yanks me backwards. I am flying through the air and I cannot stop myself, nor do I want to. I feel saner than I have ever felt. More normal, in mid-air, streaming through the sky. I begin to laugh and as I do I hit the back wall. Something terrifyingly beautiful happens now. I am outside looking in, as my whole body explodes in a cataclysmic shower of rainbows. On closer inspection, the pieces of me flying in every which direction are little puzzle pieces, glimmering like puddles of petrol. I am inside and outside and I am free
Fiction This 