Gun smoke and cigars and perhaps a hint of whiskey, that was Adone to her. A man in a sharp suit with a shirt stained in blood.

The sharp tap of shoes on the ground, a dry, husky voice followed by a gunshot and then silence.

Giggles and sunshine and just a little hint of madness, that was Florence to her. A little girl in a nightgown with fingernails that bled.

Playful humming, mocking smiles, blood splattered dresses, switchblades and the deep voice of a stuffed rabbit.

An eternally smirking face, empty eye sockets and old, ratty clothes. That was Bram to her. A ghost stuck between being a child and an adult.

A cackling laugh that will not stop, blood running like tears, blackberries stolen without a care, mimed actions of affection.

Oh, what strange things her ghosts were.

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Dead leaves and animal bones crunch under foot in the part of the forest forever frozen in autumn. Sometimes, you might find a skeleton hanging half out of a tree, caught in a jagged mouth-like opening.

Perhaps it was nature getting revenge on those who had harmed it in life. What was that saying? Nature always wins.

The ravine stretched from one end of the island to the other. Only one creature lived there, a creature with a particular diet.

Humans.

An eye in place of a head, a mouth on the torso, blood stained skin that will not be cleaned.

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off to sea, we go

Shouldn’t I be actually writing this story? Yes.

But seeing as these idiots are oblivious and take like a decade to realise they like each other, I’m doing this.

Enjoy!

Despite the bride’s many objections to having a big wedding, it was expensive, over the top etcetera, it appeared that half the city had shown up.

Nenet and Morgan had chosen to sit with Maurice who, despite the glamour of the party, had brought his barrel table aboard.

“This is boring,” Morgan stated what all three of them were thinking, a grumpy expression on his face as he picked at the sleeve of his suit.

“You said it, “ Nenet agreed, twisting her wedding ring around her finger idly. “I dont even know most of these people!”

“You did save them from Augustine,” her long-haired husband pointed out, “they probably wanted to see you up close.”

“That is…weird.”

“If you hate it so much, we could always sail away without people noticing,” Maurice had been joking but from the way Morgan’s face lit up, it was clear that the younger man had taken him seriously.

“Round up the crew, sneak out and not come back to this city for a few years,” Morgan thought aloud.

“Let’s do it!” Nenet exclaimed, pulling off the various bangles she worn as a homage to her home land. “Let’s go do something we actually want to do instead of sitting around moaning about it.”

Maurice sighed but also smiled. “I’ll round up the crew,” he said as he stood up.

The newly weds watched him walk off.

“Do you think Francis will forgive us for rejecting his hospitality?” Nenet’s tone of voice was blasé.

“He’ll have to. After all, love, you saved him from being ripped apart.”

“Hmm, I find myself regretting that now,” she chuckled and kissed him on the cheek.

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Sharp cheek bones and pointy elbows and lips slightly stained from blackberry juice, that was what she was made of.

Bram brings her blackberries, a mocking smile on his face. She asks if he stole them. He laughs and tells her not to worry about that, miming the act of kissing her on the forehead.

She goes to the cinema and watches any horror movie that’s showing, sitting alone with a bored expression. Her ghosts are far more entertaining.

It’s hard to be scared when your life’s a horror film, a continuing loop of encounters with that that isn’t safe for good little girls.

Brambles catch her black leggings and catch at her hands, scratches form and she remembers that good little girls aren’t the type to wandering through abandoned gardens.

Sugar, spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of. Except she isn’t sweet or spicy, perhaps she is sour, perhaps she is sharp, perhaps she just a little bit tart.

Everything nice? Ha. The people rotting like trash in various warehouses would most definitely say that she was not ‘everything nice’. Everything twisted, maybe.

She isn’t a good girl. She’s a very bad girl.

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“I say we go east!”

"Well, I say we go west!”

“East!”

“West!”

“What are they arguing about?” Alyss asked Nenet, watchng Maurice and Morgan have one of their rare arguments.

“Which way we should sail,” Nenet said without looking up from the scroll she was carefully inspecting with a magnifying glass. Finally, she nodded her head, put it down and stood up.

“If we want to find any clues of what Augustine is after, we’ll need to go south.”

“Why?” the usually mild mannered Maurice was in the mood to argue, it seemed.

“Because in the part where this,” she pointed to the scroll, “mentioned where it might located, it says thuos which is south backwards. Furthermore, it talks about the direction birds fly in the winter. That’s why.”

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Maurice watched the bickering duo of Nenet and Morgan in amusement, chuckling when the green eyed woman walked away in a huff and Morgan’s aggravated expression softened slightly.

“Does he know he looks pathetic?” Alyss huffed, perched precariously on the side of the barrel Maurice used as a table.

“Boy’s in love,” Maurice smirked at the black cat. “It’s not everyday you meet a woman who can take down several opponents whilst logically arguing with you.”

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by the seaside

The sand was black. The sea wasn’t much better, dark grey waves lapped at the shore, bringing up secrets that were better left undiscovered.

Thana liked it this way. With her white hair and pale skin and silver eyes, she could safely be called the only speck of brightness on the entire beach.

Could it really be called sand though? The sand was made from the crushed bones of those who had tried to stop her from taking what was hers, stained black by her own darkness.

Bare feet padded across the coarse surface until they came to a stop. Thana leaned down and picked up a bleached white skull.

Turning it side to side in her hands, she stared out at the ocean she had created a long time ago. Lurking far beneath the surface was Leviathan, stretching out across the sea floor for miles and miles, always ready to rise and come to her.

Everything was hers, everything answered to her. Good is bad. Bad is good. Love is hate. Hate is love. Life is death. Death is life. Underland was not created to adhere to the same rules as the Other World, it was made to adhere to her rules. Here, her word was absolute. Here, she alone was Queen. All came to her in the end.

She smiled, showing two rows of sharp, sharp teeth. The skull smiled back.

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The harsh winds blew, causing the few trees that dotted the landscape around the small cave to bend over backwards under their unrelenting assault.
Inside the cave, a large fire blazed, surrounded by figures who shared the same russet coloured hair and the same hazel brown eyes.

All of them watched an old male, his russet hair greying and hazel eyes filled with a quiet sort of wisdom, sit himself down on a log that took up most of the space of the area surrounding the fire. He was accompanied by an even older female, hair completely grey and face a mass of wrinkles.

The pair watched those who watched them, until the male broke the stare off to look deep into the flames.

“The tale I’m about to tell you,” he began in a slow, quiet voice, “is the story I think all of you should have been told many years ago. It is the story of how our numbers came to grow. It is how we came back from the brink of extinction.”

“It begins with a girl and ends with a woman. A woman named Cera.”

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There was beauty in her, people would say, talking in hushed voices, sneaking glances from the corner of their eyes at the girl with bright orange hair and obsidian eyes. If she spent time in the sun and put on enough weight to no longer be considered a skeleton, she could have the world.

It always made her laugh.

No matter how long she spent in the sun, her skin never darkened. No matter how much she ate, she remained the same.

A pale shadow lurking where she couldn’t be seen, just out of the corner of your eye, forever half listening to the words of the dead.

Once, when she was 14, her hair had been compared to fire and her eyes to coal.

It made sense. Her hair was the only bright thing about her, with her dark eyes and dark clothes and twisted nature, and her eyes were cold, like coals were unless they were burned.

Perhaps, just like coal, her eyes would one day be turned to ash and close forever, killing the fire.

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“When Lily and I were kids and dad hadn’t been…killed, he used to compare us to flowers. I was a white lilac, full of youthful innocence. Lilliana was a calla lily, magnificent when she chose to dance,” Beatrice smiled slightly, lost in a haze of childhood memories for a moment before she visibly shook herself.

“Well, after dad was murdered, mother continued to compare us to flowers. But this time, they were different. I was the flower that was given special soil, specific food and lots of human help to grow, she was the weed given concrete to grow in and she grew,” a sharp, bitter laugh escaped her. “She grew strong even when people tried to stop her, she grew because of some inner fire born purely out of spite. She grew up strong and independent.”