Scribbled Thoughts

The Dead Man’s Palace

VIII

Witches do not live forever

but our lifespan is ten times greater

than ordinary mortals.

I was young, very young

when the dead man’s reign came to an end.

But I’d met him and promised

to revive and guide him, one day.

My dear daughter,

you have grown up governed by your whims

and so never learnt the real history of this land.

Your gift is powerful and rare,

but it had been seen before.

And it nearly destroyed everything.

The dead man’s people populated a kingdom,

the now barren wasteland this palace occupies.

It used to be the most prosperous,

envied but respected by all,

for no one dared attack a race of immortals.

They lived forever,

their bodies aging into their prime

before halting its natural cycle.

In exchange for eternal youth

their blood turned cold

and they needed to feed on other’s

life source to gain strength.

Many were willing, for the process

was harmless if done in moderation,

and the dead clan rewarded

those they fed on.

Their favourite energy source

was people gifted with magic,

for they could absorb it for a time

and experience a power they could not keep.

Magic flows in our veins,

and those whose blood is cold and still

cannot create such a substance.

Magic users were torn on their position.

Some saw the benefit of an alliance

while others feared the misfortune it could cause.

In the end, they were right to fear,

but not from the dead clan’s side.

The warlock arrived from a distant land,

settling briefly on the clan kingdom’s border,

waiting for a member to approach him.

Like you, he could enchant anyone

into his bidding just by breathing,

and the dead clan were just as vulnerable.

The warlock found it amusing to turn

families against each other.

Sons murdered fathers, mothers murdered daughters,

the weak decimated the strong

and then died from their wounds.

For years he toyed with them

until only the royal family remained.

These he’d set up a special entertainment with,

commanding them to not feed

and seeing how long before they fell into a death-sleep.

How do I know this?

Because I was there, of course.

That warlock was my father.

You see, dear Cecilia, your gift is hereditary,

but it always skips a generation.

My father had it, but my grandfather didn’t.

He and I were given a different purpose.

Immunity.

Your magic can never influence me,

and neither could my fathers.

Not only that, I can, for a brief time

shield others from the enchantment.

And that was why I was there.

My father found it extra amusing

to have me shield one of the royals

so they were aware of the chaos their kingdom was in.

They were restrained and forced to

watch brutal murders and tortures,

witness the collapse of everything they’d built.

Soon he beheaded those in their death-sleep

when he realised they were draining his energy.

It made the last sane member lose all hope.

I feared my father, but I feared

the dead clan’s retribution too,

and so I waited until only one remained,

close to falling into death-sleep,

before I slit my father’s throat as he slept.

My father died too quickly for

the dead man to steal his energy,

and I wouldn’t have given it to him then,

knowing he’d kill me too.

Instead, as he started falling

into his death-sleep I made a vow.

One day, after I’d found faithful subjects

to help revive his kingdom,

I would wake him, and guide him.

In return he would keep me safe,

and forgive my involvement in his clan’s destruction.

His kingdom is still a barren wasteland,

but I found descendants of his

non-clan subjects who’d escaped,

still loyal and willing to return

when he awoke.

But I encountered a problem.

I could not wake the dead man.

My own magic wasn’t sufficient,

and other potential candidates I tricked

into coming died before he woke.

I knew there was only one type of magic

strong enough to wake him,

but it had to be an untrained user,

someone who wasn’t even aware

their magic was being drained,

so he would kill them when he woke

and needed to physically feed.

I was the only person who

could produce such a creature.

It took four hundred years of trying

before I succeeded.

Perhaps the gift is running thin,

or perhaps it was the same for our ancestors,

and my father also had many

giftless siblings.

Oh yes, silly Cecilia, you are

not my only child.

I have lain with kings, nobles, peasants,

and carried their spawn to full-term,

leaving the result with them.

I only stayed with the first,

my sweet, perfect Isaac,

and couldn’t understand why he

aged and died a mortal.

My darling boy.

Staying was pointless, failures were a

waste of my time,

and a success would spark

enough attention that I could return.

And so you did, dear girl.

Tricking you to come here was easy enough…

But now what do I do with you?

He should have killed you

when he began to wake,

did you innately sense that and

have the servant take your place,

or was it coincidence?

Either way, I can’t let you live

and have history repeat itself.

I’m sorry.  

The Dead Man’s Palace

VII

Cecilia felt a tugging.

It wasn’t physical, but an urgent grasp

pulled at her being, poking and irritating enough

that she surfaced from sleep.

A woman stood beside her bed,

face stern and disapproving.

She looked deceptively young, early twenties,

but her grey eyes spoke of older experience.

Her hair was the same dirty blonde as Cecilia’s.

‘No disguise this time, mother?’

Cecilia croaked out, throat dry,

changing her sarcastic tone to bleak.

Lidea’s eyes narrowed, and Cecilia

felt a strange vulnerability she’d never had before.

‘You idiot girl, what have you done?’

Cecilia refused to ask Lidea what she meant

and didn’t protest when she strode from the room.

Instead she listened, noticing the usual

empty-silence of the dead man’s palace

was gone, replaced with the familiar

bustle of servants and visitors she’d grown up with.

Her body felt weak, but her mind was clear,

the mad whisperings that had plagued her gone.

But she felt cold with loss, sensing something

essential had been drained from her.

She gasped as memories of her task came back,

falling out of the bed in her haste to

make her weakened limbs function.

I’m so weak and hungry.

How long was I asleep?

‘Havana? Havana!’

Had she imagined the slave girl?

Had her delirium and desperation

brought to life such a boring companion?

‘Finally awake, are you?’

A servant whose face was coated in wrinkles

entered the room, carrying a tray of food.

‘Mistress Lidea insisted you were looked after,

but I can’t see why.

What a lazy creature you are.’

Cecilia was shocked into silence.

No one had ever looked at her or

ever wanted to think ill of her before,

now both Lidea and a servant were viewing

her like she was ordinary.

‘How dare you talk to me like that?

Do you know who I am?’

The servant smirked, dumping the tray

on the floor out of Cecilia’s reach.

‘Of course, His Majesty told everyone.

You’re the future queen’s useless servant.’

The next few days taught Cecilia

what being powerless truly was.

She was fed but stripped down

and forced into rough and unattractive clothes.

Her delicate skin itched from the material,

but she was not permitted to properly bathe

and ease her suffering.

All day long she was trapped in the kitchen,

scrubbing pots and plates clean

while suffocating in the stifling heat.

No one listened to her insistent story,

so she stopped trying,

Instead, she focused on listening.

Their preparations were for the wedding,

and Havana would be crowned after.

Cecilia noted the admiration and glazed devotion

as they spoke of the king and future queen,

recognising the constant state people had

shown her for most of her life.

Realisation settled on her then,

the feeling of emptiness she now had,

the magic she’d been born with

and used without knowing.

And the witch,

her mother,

who had tricked her into

giving her power to the corpse.

From the excited gossip Cecilia knew

everyone, even servants, would be allowed

to attend the crowning.

So she kept her head down,

working quietly,

waiting.

Cecilia didn’t get to see the wedding

but she decided it was probably for the best.

To see the traitor marry instead of her

would have broke her will.

The crowning would be formal, official,

with no declarations of affections

or weepy emotions.

This ceremony would feed her resolve,

not hinder it.

All the guests assembled in the throne room,

standing in rows according to rank,

servants to the back.

A red carpet led to the two thrones,

currently empty,

with only the archbishop waiting

by a table in front of them.

Cecilia couldn’t see the crown and tiara

very well at her distance,

but envy grew in her all the same.

Trumpets began to play as

the two newlyweds entered,

walking confidently down the walkway.

Cecilia barely looked at the man,

her hatred focused on Havana,

who looked ridiculous in such fine clothes.

She was pale, eye haunted,

but she walked with her head high,

her arm resting on her husband’s.

The ceremony was long and tedious

and it was only when they’d both been crowned

and turned to face their audience

that Havana’s eyes finally found Cecilia’s.

Distance seemed to melt away as Havana flinched,

visibly shakened. Her husband looked at her

in concern, his gaze trying to follow his wife’s

to see the cause of her distress…

Lidea appeared in front of Cecilia,

blocking her view and pulling her from the room.

‘What are you doing?’ Lidea demanded.

‘You caused this, so don’t regret it now!’

‘I caused nothing!’ Cecilia screamed.

‘I was robbed of my rightful reward!

And you, you wanted me to die!

You wanted him to drain my magic and kill me!’

‘Yes,’ Lidea said, no hesitation, no regret.

‘For the sake of the future, you needed to die.’

And so, finally, she told Cecilia her story.

The Dead Man’s Palace

VI

Havana’s quiet but terrifying routine was over.

As soon as she woke that final morning,

greeted by the once-corpse man,

the bright but silent palace was filled with life.

The front door echoed open and voices

rose to their location on the second floor.

The man seemed unconcerned at the invasion.

The excited twittering drew near,

steps heading straight to their occupied room.

Havana was still woozy with blood loss,

her vision swaying as people began to enter

-servants and nobles clustered together-

and sinking into a submissive bow,

knees touching the reflective floor

and heads lower than their spines.

The man expressed no pleasure

from their biddable postures,

sparing them only a quick glance

and a dismissive nod.

‘My future bride needs rest,

and I want the wedding preparations

to begin immediately.’

He’d been staring at Havana,

a hungry glint in his eyes

that made her step away.

A sudden thought darkened his features,

searching through the assembled devotees.

‘Where’s the witch? Where’s Lidea?’

Havana was insistently led to

a large bedchamber, already occupied

with a heavy portion of food,

both cold and hot, raw and cooked.

She found herself staring at a bloody steak

with longing before self-repulsion

pulled her away.

The iron smell was enticing her

like an intoxicating flower.

She ignored it and collapsed on the

freshly made-up bed, too weak

to blanch at her impropriety.

When she became aware again

her mouth was filled with the now-cold steak,

blood dripping down her chin

and staining her skin.

She paused in horror, but after

a few moments her eyes drooped with resignation

as she continued to tear into the meat.

When she next woke the food carnage

she’d left had been removed.

A maid stood waiting, her smile firm

despite the blood coating Havana and the bed.

‘The bath is ready for you, my lady.’

Havana’s mind was clearer now,

but a lack of conviction made her follow.

How would she begin to explain she was a slave?

Hadn’t they noticed her appearance?

They entered a wood-panelled room

where a full-length iron bath waited.

She stripped without any prompting,

colouring the water red as soon as she

sank into it. She froze again,

memories surfacing of the past week.

The maid scrubbed at Havana’s skin, humming.

They dressed her in a beautiful yellow gown

that made her feel stiff with shame.

She had never even touched material so fine before

and now it clung to her skin,

exposing her as deceitful.

But still she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

‘His Majesty wishes to see you.’

Dread and fear was there,

but a wave of longing and excitement

also entered her, footsteps

no longer reluctant as she was

led to the ground floor.

The throne floor was grand,

white like the rest of the palace,

its bright reflective floor hurting Havana’s eyes.

Tapestries different shades of red

decorated the walls, proudly displaying

the same family crest.

A white ankh.

The corpse man sat on a white throne,

now wearing a white suit and a red cape,

a crown resting naturally on his head.

‘Ah, my saviour,’ he cooed,

making Havana’s mind melt into confusion again,

‘I hope you feel recovered.’

He stepped down from his throne,

waving a hand, a motion that had every servant

and guard scatter from the room.

‘Our wedding will be soon,

your reward for feeding me your magic

for fifteen months, and your life for a week.

You are a delightful surprise, my love,

I have never tasted such energy.’

He cupped Havana’s face in his hands,

breathing in deeply with his mouth

pressed against her neck.

‘Perhaps I was too greedy,

I can’t sense it in you anymore.’

He withdrew a little, bringing his own

wrist to his mouth and biting down.

The copper tang made Havana’s mouth water.

The man laughed, amused but tender.

‘Oh yes, my eager darling,

it’s my turn to share.

I can’t have a weak wife at my side.’

Havana wasn’t sure if she

grabbed his wrist or he lifted it to her mouth,

but she couldn’t deny the eagerness.

She sucked at it, drawing out every

drop of blood she could.

A strength and confidence she’d

never experienced flooded through her

with every swallow, washing away

the obedient, meek slave girl

with no name.

At his tugging she let go,

still high on power to be too greedy.

‘Ah yes, I forgot. The servants found

a woman sleeping in a room upstairs.

Pretty, but looking half-starved.

Who is she?’

The euphoria snapped away

as Havana gasped, horror and shame

resurfacing, making her remember.

Miss Cecilia! How could I forget?

She looked up at the man,

seeing the terrifying creature instead

of being drunk on his beauty and blood.

What have I become?

‘She’s no one.’ Havana spoke,

voice sounding confident, eyes challenging.

‘Just a slave I bought, who did

nothing but sleep.’

Her fate was sealed now,

she was already part-monster,

but she would protect Miss Cecilia,

no matter what it took.

The Dead Man’s Palace

V

Cecilia’s sleep hadn’t been natural,

once she’d succumbed to its embrace

it tightened around her, crushing

any lingering resistance and

suffocating her in subconscious torment.

Her mind hungered for something she didn’t understand,

feeling the blood in her veins

pulse with need.

She tried to move, but only felt

a twitch of a finger or a flicker of her eyelids.

She gave up, no strength left to resist,

and fell into dreams and memories

too revealing for comfort.

The Queen had died long ago,

Cecilia had never met her.

Her father’s wife had breathed her last,

never experiencing a child growing inside her.

But Cecilia existed as a whispered shame.

A witch had been summoned to cure the queen’s barrenness,

but instead she took the king’s seed inside herself

and Cecilia was the result.

The witch was comfortably settled in a guest room

while a mournful queen lost hope.

Her husband no longer needed her,

resented her useless existence,

but she loved him and wanted him

to think well of her.

So she waited, retreating from society

and staying in her chambers,

causing rumours to spread

that she was fighting a deadly illness.

When the witch’s labour pains began

the queen slit her wrists,

bleeding out her life.

The goodbye note she left her husband implored him:

Tell the world I died giving you an heir,

make the child legitimate using my name,

and be happy, my love,

in the way I failed to make you.

Sense rather than loyalty made the king obey.

The witch was paid well to revoke

any claim on her daughter, and left peacefully.

Cecilia was raised knowing nothing,

believing her blood was pure,

her future secure.

Any unusual signs around her she

dismissed as normal for her status.

Her nanny let her play whatever she wanted,

her tutor only taught her topics

she expressed interest in.

Servants were attentive to her every whim,

and women of her status clambered

around for the chance to please her,

no matter what she asked.

For her eighteenth birthday she demanded

every household carve a wooden gift in celebration.

The quality had varied, but it had been done,

without protest, and no one had

even questioned her decision to have it all

stacked together and set alight.

The bonfire had been mesmerising.

But the fire drew the witch to her offspring,

hearing more rumours of strange events,

like how the princess had commanded a guest’s daughter

to strip naked during a ball,

ruining her reputation forever,

all because her dress had been similar to Cecilia’s.

She disguised herself as an old woman

and called up to Cecilia on a balcony,

asking for money,

Cecilia ordered the maid’s around her

to throw down their life savings,

and only grew annoyed when the witch

asked for Cecilia’s own money to be given.

So she cursed her own daughter

to prevent a future calamity occurring.

Cecilia had demanded she guide her to the dead man,

and it was during that journey

she learned of her real legacy.

Her mother had left her at the palace’s door,

no hesitation or concern,

and as the year of solitude passed

Cecilia began to understand.

The dead man drained her life,

he drained her natural magic.

Her mother wanted her to become ordinary,

and then shackled to a corpse.

She vowed she would win,

she would overcome the curse and

bend this man to her will.

She would make her mother pay

and all would love and obey her,

as they should.

Her exhausted body craved power,

a power she felt the corpse possessed,

and once she woke up, she would take it,

never letting someone manipulate her again.

But when Cecilia finally woke up

everything had changed.

The Dead Man’s Palace

IV

Three months of her new life

left Havana grateful but apprehensive everyday.

Her new master was unpredictable and unnerving,

one minute laughing and touching Havana,

fascinated by her skin.

Other times she was cold, harsh,

snapping orders and watching critically

as Havana went about her tasks.

Once she commanded her to wash

the dead man, observing with a strange hunger

as Havana carefully removed his clothes

and began washing his unsullied skin with a cloth.

His chest was unnaturally still for his complexion,

appearing healthy and peaceful instead of dead,

Miss Cecilia giggled as she watched,

her eyes fever-bright, following

Havana’s movement with open curiosity.

‘I’ve never been alone with a man before this year.

I’d be ruined if people knew of this.’

She laughed, not averting her eyes as Havana

washed his male parts.

‘Is marriage really worth all this?

If I was someone like you, I could be

alone with a man and no one would care.

Maybe I am like you.

It’s been over a year

and no one has come to find me.’

She lapsed into silence as Havana

redressed the dead man,

his body a little warm under his touch.

‘Maybe none of this is real.’

Cecilia narrowed her eyes, swaying

as she gazed at the corpse.

‘He moves sometimes.

His eyes flutter, his fingers twitch.

I even saw him breathe once,

and I felt my own being sucked away.’

Havana made a choice then

to fight her natural reaction

of meek obedience and speak up.

‘Miss Cecilia, maybe you should rest.

I can keep watch for a while in your place.’

Cecilia blinked at her, slow and confused,

before a laugh bubbled out.

‘Yes, of course! I should have thought of that!

I’m so tired, and there’s still a week left.

Three days. Just give me three days of freedom.

That’s a good girl.’

The first two days nothing happened.

Havana saw no movement,

felt no chill,

and spent her time humming to herself.

But the third morning, before dawn

when the world was still coated in shadows,

she felt a stirring that changed everything.  

She’d been dosing in the chair

when a fierce shiver ran down her spine,

bolting her awake.

A shape loomed in front of her,

a blurred figure in the moonlight.

Are you the one who’s watched over me?

The question was whispered straight into her mind,

freezing her limbs at the other-worldly intrusion.

I’m so close.

Just a little more.

Give me more, and I will reward you.

A hand caressed her neck

and still she couldn’t move.

The figure bent to kiss it,

beginning to suck, gentle at first,

but soon increasing the pressure.

The piercing of her skin was more

painful than the small wound should have been,

but the sucking set fire through her nerves,

the feeling of her very life being violently

torn from her.

She woke at noon, dizzy and confused.

Food was already set out, waiting,

but only she and the dead man were present.

He still lay in the centre of the room

but his chest was gently rising and falling,

and though his eyes were closed,

a smile had settled onto his features.

Havana briefly left the room

to check on Miss Cecilia, sleeping next door,

but her mistress was still in an

exhausted slumber.

As always the palace was empty,

the food preparers a mystery.

Havana went back to the room and ate,

tasting nothing but eating all the same,

her eyes never leaving the sleeping man.

This time she was awake when he rose,

his movement silent but fast,

grabbing her before she could think of struggling.

Good, good, you’re still here.

Offer your life to me again, my sweet saviour,

and I will reward you with a wedding.

She woke the next day feeling weak,

beginning to understand the deterioration

of her new master.

Just being near the dead man had

been enough for him to suck away

her life energy, allowing him

to grow stronger over the year.

Now he was able to move and

steal the life-force he needed directly.

‘I can’t wake her up,’ Havana said,

her voice shaky but determined.

‘I won’t let this monster hurt Miss Cecilia.’

The cycle continued for four more days,

and Havana wondered if she’d live to see the morning

as she grew so weak she couldn’t move.

But that final day she awoke to see

the man alive, a triumphant smile

fixed in place as he looked at her.

‘You have lifted my curse

and so, as promised,

I’ll reward you,

by making you my bride.’

The Dead Man’s Palace

III

Three months of happy delirium followed

as the girl remembered what having company felt like.

The voice she’d barely used for a year was

forced out to express her delight.

The slave girl couldn’t sit still without twitching,

her hands moving to grasp at tasks

like a comfort blanket.

The girl would gently hold them in her own,

caressing the rough skin, almost

tasting the life they must have lived.

‘You must call me Cecilia, I haven’t heard it in so long.

Do you have a name?’

The slave girl shook her head at first

before noticing Cecilia’s pointed look.

‘No, Miss Cecilia.’

Cecilia carefully considered her

for some days, assessing to determine

her personality and character.

‘From now on, your name is Havana.’

The corpse unnerved her new friend

so Cecilia let her take over all meal preparations.

Her creations were mediocre

-clearly she hadn’t been a kitchen slave-

but Cecilia made sure to nibble on each offering.

Food didn’t appeal to her much,

not since arriving in the palace.

She used to be beautiful,

she used to have pride,

but a year in solitude had

stripped everything away.

‘I’m here for redemption,’ she told Havana,

laughing at her shocked expression.

‘Do I look so innocent that you can’t

imagine I’ve done unforgiveable things?’

Cecilia debated teasing her further,

enjoying shaping a new version of herself

through this blank-slate of a girl.

Her conscience pricked at Havana’s pained look,

so she softened her wicked smile into

a more honest, heart-broken one.

‘My father is a king and I grew up

happy and generous.

One day I was on the balcony with my maids

when an old lady walked by and asked for money.

I threw down a bag, and she asked for more.

I threw down another bag, and she still asked for more.

I got angry, and refused,

surely two bags was enough when she hadn’t

done anything to earn it.

But instead of being grateful, she called up:

‘I curse you for your conceitedness,

deciding how much another needs.

So now I will choose your future path

and you won’t like where it leads.

‘As a young, beautiful woman

matrimony is your plan,

but you will never marry

until you find the dead man.

‘And so I left all I knew

and travelled to this palace.

In here I found the dead man,

who I must watch over until he wakes.’

She looked at Havana then, gripping her arms

as a wave of anxiety overwhelmed her.

‘Please don’t leave me, Havana.

There’s only three months and one week left.

Please.’

For a year she’d been here,

getting weaker, thinner,

hearing whispers in her mind,

becoming delirious from lack of sleep.

She’d seen the corpse twitch,

was convinced it looked healthier

as she grew frail.

But she couldn’t stop now.

She couldn’t give up on

lifting the curse.

Havana’s hands lightly rested over Cecilia’s,

a reassuring caress that allowed

Cecilia to ease her death grip.

‘I promise, Miss Cecilia,

I will never leave you,

and I’ll always protect you.’

The Dead Man’s Palace

II

Slave Girl didn’t have a name,

no one had ever thought to give her one,

even herself.

She’d rarely seen her reflection,

distorted in puddles, glass shards,

uneven shiny surfaces.

Others said she was ugly, with a nose

too squashed to suit her face,

hair too dirty and unkempt to be attractive,

lips too thin and chapped to be tempting,

skin too calloused and sun-kissed to entice.

A life of malnutrition left her feminine curves

underdeveloped and overlooked.

She was thankful for this; she’d seen

what happened to girls who caught men’s eyes.

Her earliest memories were of dirt and

aching limbs, soil inside cuts and the

constant dampness of putrid sweat.

Harsh voices echo in her past,

full of commands and demands that she

never considered disobeying.

She knew no different.

She didn’t know what a parent was,

no one had claimed to be hers.

Nights had been spent in overcrowded huts,

her small comfort of a mat to lay on

wrenched from her by stronger slaves.

Her only sense of belonging came

when her voice could join the others

during the short freedom between

eating and sleep time.

Only then did she realise

she was an individual, her sound distinct.

It was strong and clear, pleasant to hear

but impressive only to the musical ignorant.

Some guidance would have made her worth something.

But she was overlooked as useful when

her owners fell on hard times,

and sold those not essential.

She was not beautiful, she was not a strong man.

And so she was forced from her only home,

bought by a slave trader at auction.

She spent months chained like an animal with others like her,

forced to walk behind a cart while

her new master shouted ‘Slave girls for sale!’

They travelled in towns, villages, even unsavoury lands,

reaching a castle everyone in the area avoided.

When a young woman appeared at the window

Slave Girl’s master almost lost his composure.

‘For sale? Please sell me one!’ she begged,

pale as death and eyes haunted with madness.

She would not come down, head always

turning to look behind her.

Instead she threw a heavy bag of coins

at their master, its thud on the ground

satisfying his greed. Even so, he counted the

many coins carefully.

‘Any will do, just send them in, alone.’

She was chosen because no one else had wanted her.

It was the perfect chance to discard unsellable stock.

She entered the castle in the dull afternoon

and squinted at the bright entrance that greeted her.

Lamps burned in every corner, forbidding shadows

from forming. Forbidding any hiding.

Light reflected off the polished marble floors,

leaving her disorientated and stumbling towards the stairs.

Her bare feet was leaving a dirty trail,

her flesh causing a squeak of protest.

No one came to greet her, and she was

too conditioned to call out.

She waited, expecting a head servant to direct her,

but nothing disturbed the light.

‘Where are you?’ A far-off call from upstairs rang out.

Slave Girl ascended the stairs, not answering,

but following the sound.

She saw the pale girl peeking out of a room.

She looked tired and ill, hair limp and dull,

eyes glazed, her body frail and thin.

But a beautiful smile broke across her face

at the sight of Slave Girl.

‘Oh thank you! Thank you for being here!

I need you.’

And from that short meeting, Slave Girl

already knew she’d do anything for this person.

Anything.

This is based off an Italian folk tale called The Dead Man’s Palace. It’s another long one with ten parts. This is the first draft, I’m in the process of writing a more polished version right now.

The Dead Man’s Palace

I

The dead man didn’t start to decay

like a normal corpse should,

but it felt old, forgotten, smelling of dust

and stale fabric. The skin was tight,

straining over bones with a yellowed paper texture.

The hair was a lush black, but straw-like to touch.

The clothes were worn, a distant memory of wealth,

a clue of sophistication and class.

All the castle rooms were brightly lit,

well-kept, yet she never saw a soul,

never sensed any presence.

The dead man was laid on a stone slab

in the centre of the room, with a single

chair set up beside it. Hard and uncomfortable.

She found meals waiting in the kitchen,

the cupboards stocked with provisions.

She had no worries to distract her from her task;

to obey the note left at the dead man’s feet

and watch over him for a year, three months and a week.

Then she’d be his bride.

A year passed in solitude, boredom,

sleep-deprived but determined she watched, and

noticed the corpse begin to change.

His skin was now soft, his limbs relaxed,

but pale, drained of the sun’s presence.

His hair was clean, smelling of blossoms.

Her hair had smelt of blossoms,

but now it was dull and lifeless.

Her skin was dry. She was tired all the time.

Her mind played tricks now, imagining the

dead man twitching, his eyelids fluttering,

her waking to find him in a different

position than before.

The call from outside of ‘Slave girls for sale!’

brought relieved sobs to the surface

as she rushed to the window.

Any company would do.

This is based off of The Armless Maiden, which is one of my favourite fairy tales. I do wan to come back to this and polish it at some point (and think of a better title).

Fish

I wasn’t created with a real reason.

In fact, I was born an ordinary lake fish,

with a simple fishy brain

and eyes that only saw

an underwater world.

I was hours old when I was

scooped from my home,

the comforting waters

replaced with invisible barriers.

Beyond my limited roaming space

was a shapeless world of confusing colours.

Ripples of disturbance indicated

the arrival of flaky food

that floated on the surface,

forcing me to bob and

taste dangerous air in order

to gain the substance to live.

I understood, much later, the events

that happened to me.

At the time it was only pain

and confusion and a transformation

I didn’t understand or want.

I longed for death without knowing

what death was.

But luckily, that wasn’t to be my story.

My capturer was a witch,

neither good nor bad,

but lonely and curious,

living in a cottage near the lake

after society became too taxing

for her to be part of.

She was talented with growing

and healing, but had

few customers to distract her.

I became her hobby.

She mixed substances and enchanted liquid,

adding a few drops into my home

each day, like adjusting

my body to poison.

My happy absent-minded movements

ended as my nerves screamed

with every twitch.

My mind and vision expanded

beyond what my species should,

registering the world beyond

and interpreting the witch’s sound

into actual sense.

She would read aloud,

at first just to mask the emptiness,

but as she noticed my focused attention

she directed her words to me,

her tone more energetic,

her material more educational,

her life containing a purpose.

Soon my body grew too big to stay

in my restricting habitat.

My scales were pale green tipped with silver.

My eyes amber and knowing,

my demeaner appearing wise with

two long whiskers near my mouth.

The witch returned me to the lake,

trusting I was too changed

to ignore her.

Each day she’d visit and rub

concoctions onto my scales,

while reading or delivering her own lectures.

After a year I was the size of a cat,

where her ointments changed into magic spells,

bathing me in warm light that soothed

and awoke my new potential.

Can you hear me? I tried speaking one day,

unable to form vocal words but

directing the thought to her.

Her startled stuttering spoke of my success.

From her mind I finally learned her name,

Anya, and with this discovery she

finally gave me one, Galina,

because I calmed her with my presence

in a way human company never had.

Many more years passed

with her pouring magic into me,

until one day I left my physical body behind

without even noticing,

taking my place as the spirit of the lake.

Her magic no longer affected me;

I was beyond her level now.

Our friendship continued until the

day she stopped breathing,

peacefully while at the lake’s side.

With the stronger resident’s help

we submerged her body, allowing

others to feast and return her

healing and growing nature to the earth.

Many lifetimes passed,

her cottage discovered and claimed by others.

Some would talk to or worship me,

others would avoid me entirely.

But no one needed me.

They lived simple lives

and didn’t need the help

of a lake spirit to fix it.

Until her, or so I thought.

The cottage was occupied by an old woodcutter,

alone in widowhood, who acknowledged

me but was too respectful to approach often.

The woman was young, but already a mother,

the baby strapped to her back

as she bent at the lake’s edge.

Her feet were bare, her clothes

a plain brown woollen shift,

and she had no arms,

just useless stubs too small

to grasp any kind of item.

Desperate thirst drove her to try

lap up the lake water like a dog.

I felt the disturbance as the baby

slipped from her back into my domain.

She followed immediately,

a mother’s instinct driving her to

both their deaths.

Finally, I could be of use.

As the spirit of this lake, I would save you if you wish.

Or I can save your child. You must choose.

Choices had always been essential

in Anya’s tales, and so I offered one.

Perhaps the woman would remain

from grief, and I’d have a friend,

or the baby would be raised by the lake’s residents,

becoming our own.

In the water she tried to scream her words,

but her thoughts were clear enough

that sound wasn’t needed.

‘My arms! Give me hands and I will save us both!’

Her determination shocked me,

this mutilated creature still so defiant of fate,

resenting her own helplessness and only

longing for essential limbs

her other kind took for granted.

Her past flashed through my mind.

An evil sister-in-law who tricked

her own husband into chopping his sister’s arms off.

A prince who married her when he

saw someone who’d depend on him forever.

In-laws who sent her away to die

in the woods because a letter deceived them.

And still she only asked for arms.

Around her I formed a whirlpool,

spinning her around in water rich with healing magic.

Small phantom fish rubbed against her stubs,

dissipating as her flesh began to form.

As soon as her hands were her own again

she grabbed her baby and swan upwards

towards life.

She stayed at the lake’s edge,

holding her son for the first time,

crying in delight at what

other parents took for granted.

And I understood how fierce

an emotion love could be.

In the morning she called out a thank you,

that would not do.

There is no need for thanks.

It is your own courage that reached out

and took back what was once severed from you.

Grafted again to the old stock

the new tree bears fruit.

Go in peace.

She stayed with the old woodcutter,

tending to housework and her son,

waiting for her husband to come,

but content with her life if he didn’t.

She’d visit me and ask my story,

ponder my lonely existence

and explain human needs and dreams to me.

‘If I ever return to the palace,

I will let those in need know of you,

and you can give them a chance

like you did me.’

The prince found her once he returned from war,

shy in the presence of the confident lady

she could now be.

‘Come home, Marion,’ he pleaded,

his love and devotion to her genuine.

‘Not yet,’ she said, with a sad smile

I could now understand.

‘When I first came to you, I was a

creature of the woods.

You pitied me and gave me shelter.

But now I am a woman

and you must court me as a woman.’

The courting period wasn’t long

and I missed her when she left,

returning to her old but new life.

As promised, many people began to visit,

eager to meet me and tell their stories,

to earn a blessing from the lake spirit.

I hear many tales and help many people,

but none are as courageous or memorable as her.

This one is still very rough but is an idea I’ve tried to make work for a while. I already want to change quite a bit of it for the next draft.

Position Available

It was always a demanding job,

but it used to be rewarding.

They were grateful for your help,

leaving positive, glowing reviews

and still talking about you years later.

It was considered an honour

for their request to be chosen,

a life-changing moment that

reshaped all expectations and prospects.

We would share their stories,

compare our successful cases,

note any unique solutions

and brag our personal touches.

It used to be pure-hearted maidens

longing for a happy ending,

a kinder world they could thrive in

rather than just benefit from.

Their prays and wishes made

life better for more than just them.

They just wanted one wish,

one chance, to prove themselves,

and the rest they did alone.

Not anymore.

I had spent countless years perfecting my entrance,

adjusting when glitter was too conspicuous.

It tended to linger on clothing, hair,

or even on the ground, becoming a

signature sign of a Fairy Godmother’s involvement.

A meeting had been called when a client

was killed mid-contact, her step-mother

pushing her down a long flight of stone stairs

when she noticed the sparkling evidence

in her blonde locks.

New rules were created, their upkeep

strict with the threat of our wings being stripped

if any were broken.

The days of flashy entrances,

magical displays and breathtaking transformations

were over.

My once splendid gown was now

a covert brown, blending with the

often-humble settings I was summoned to.

I’d arrived with a small poof of smoke,

buzzing around at the size of a fly.

The room wasn’t the usual typically bare,

with only the essentials present.

This one had a bed, a window,

even an old dressing table covered in fabric

with a manikin in the corner,

a half-finished dress pinned to its surface.

My new client was asleep in the bed,

lightly snoring as the moon illuminated her beauty.

They were always beautiful.

I’d once asked why we never answered

the prays of plain or unattractive girls,

perhaps even some men,

but was only given a tight smile

and told my concerns had been ‘noted’.

This girl was dark and tan,

hair wavy and skin smooth.

Her repeated pray had been a vague help me

and so I wondered what it was she longed for.

Freedom? Love? Confidence?

Hopefully not a Prince,

there weren’t many eligible ones left.

With another poof I became human-sized

and knelt by the bed,

kind smile adjusted for business hours

as I began my trademark opening:

‘Have no fear, wipe your tears,

your Fairy Godmother has appeared,

no matter your woes or circumstance,

the path to happiness will be cleared.’

The snoring ceased and her eyes opened,

frowning in sleep-induced confusion.

I waited, watching as she awoke,

hoping for a joyful greeting,

but was rewarded an irritated grunt

as she sat up, glaring.

‘It’s about time. Three months?

What kind of service is this?’

I stayed silent, once it had been from shock,

but this response was more common now,

and silence, I’d learnt, was the best route.

The girl groaned in frustration

and after a few minutes of nervous shuffling

she stilled and looked at me directly.

‘I need your help.

I need you to take away my baby.’