“Tracy?” said Campion. “Tracy’s going to be your mentor? Oh, Fern… I’m sorry. Can’t you switch?”
Fern looked up, sharply. She was still out of breath from her headlong flight from the Dock, flurried and triumphant, perched with her wings folded any-old-how and knees drawn up on the arm of the lopsided sofa. She’d been in the middle of excitedly showing her letter to Sorrel, who wouldn’t be able to train for another year, and was therefore both thrilled for her and turning violet in the wings with jealousy.
“Why? What’s wrong with Tracy?”
Trying to put my story plot together more like
Tracy walked through the musty darkness, his wand held up like a torch, surrounding him with a globe of soft greenish-blueish light. He had been walking for hours, it felt like, days on end. He was looking, searching for something. Something important, something that nagged at the edge of his mind, drew him onwards, casting the small pool of light this way and that.
I just felt sniffly and wanted to write some sick Tracy fluff, I swear. I didn’t even mean it to be more than half a page long WHAT HAPPENED THIS TOOK ME TWO WEEKS AND IT’S NOT REALLY EVEN FLUFF
It was entirely Gemma Cresskey’s fault.
Gemma Cresskey was a kindergarten teacher, a vital moulder and shaper of young minds. This had turned out to be a problem as far as Fairy was concerned, because thanks to a messy divorce five years ago, Gemma Cresskey also happened to be the most jaded, die-hard dreamkiller in the whole of North Carolina.
It had been deep winter in Gemma Cresskey’s little corner of the Human Plane, and while Tracy had been wrestling with Gemma Cresskey’s snakish temper, deep-rooted trust issues, and absolute refusal to wear a pink tulle skirt and tights, Gemma Cresskey in turn had been wrestling with a violent cold. By the time Gemma Cresskey had completed her Tooth Fairy duty and rediscovered her passion for life, love, and elementary education, she had developed a caring mutual relationship with a very nice young history teacher named Denise, and Tracy had developed a sniffle.
She was a tangle of raw bones, gloved in quivering
Her tongue muddled through the storms, crushed words like gutter leaves,
a smashed jigsaw tumbling from her books
and her buttons to the
i’m supposed to be writing the first page of my novel tomorrow for class
but I still have no idea what to write a novel about
the only ideas I care about aren’t mine
The cough was an annoyance, a tight ball of heat at the well of his throat that stabbed when he swallowed and leapt into his voice when he spoke. It snapped his sentences in two, punctured his words, left him bent over his cupped palms, barking like a wounded fox.
(Now with BONUS LOVELY ARTS BY RUBIT after the jump!)
She’d chosen the balcony table, side-on to the bar, and the wide golden room below was full of muted conversations and good smells. The ceiling was a plated lake of silver, and the leather chairs resembled fat chocolate buttons fanned out around every table. Outside, drizzle ghosted down across the city in a limp shroud, stroking at the restaurant’s floor-length windows as if it longed to get in but honestly couldn’t be bothered to try.
Everything was elegant and well-presented and pleasant to look at, with the sole exception of her lunch companion.
Oh, he’d made an effort. When she’d spotted him in the foyer he’d been using a glass-framed print of Waterhouse’s La Belle Dame Sans Merci as a mirror and alternately combing his hair and threatening it under his breath, and he was wearing a suit-jacket which had to be on purpose if only because nobody could have designed something that looked so ghastly by accident. There had to have been malicious intent.
“There you are!”
Chell stopped in the aisle, wedging her shoulder against the humming eggshell-white curve of the wall. It bucked and shook like a nervous animal, and she gripped the plush seatback, trying to stay on her feet.
“Don’t you ‘sir’ at me like that, with your face, I thought you’d ditched me or something, looked round at the gate and you’d bloody evaporated, and now we’re probably all going to die-”
“It’s just turbulence, sir,” said the flight attendant, nervously, behind Chell. “We’re passing through a bad patch, there’s noth-”
“Look, mate, I know about turbulence, alright, I’ve read up on it, know my stuff. ‘May sometimes result in mild disruption to commercial aircraft travel,’ is what it says right here.” The Prime Minister stuck his phone under the flight attendant’s nose, then ducked and yelled as another stormy rattle shook the cabin. “AAH! That is NOT mild, that could not be described as mild under any circumstances! Come on, let me have it, I can take it, how long’ve we got? It’s the engine, isn’t it? Oh God, is that it, we’ve lost the engine?!”
#thebestpm was exactly a year old yesterday, so I tried to finish something nice and Christmassy for it, but ended up leaving it a bit too late. I also would like to link to these pictures of Larry II (read, Kevin) by Oodles again because they are lovely and exactly right.
The kitten rolled over on its back and continued to tug and suck busily on the point of the Prime Minister’s tie, which he’d shed on his way to his wardrobe in the other room. The tie, much like the kitten- and the Prime Minister himself, for that matter- was soaking wet, as cold as the sleet that battered the big window and stood in melting puddles on the carpet. Chell had shut the window firmly the second after she’d managed to pull him in from the roof, excluding the possibility that he’d make another spirited attempt to do away with himself.