yet more of these drabbles
Mar. 18th, 2026 09:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deird1This is for my urban fantasy setting, previously seen here and here.
Slowly but surely, I seem to be doing a thing…
Concert
Most people react to fey-song by blocking their ears. “Don’t listen to the tune, or hum along, else you might be tempted into their circles.”
Personally, Mrs Galloway has always found coffee fairly effective.
As the first snatches of fey-song reach her ears, she gets up and starts brewing espresso. Then she sits and sips, windows wide open, listening to the melody.
She can almost picture the dance, its complex steps, and the fair ones twirling in perfect time. It must be a sight.
The coffee could use some sugar, but that might be risking it a bit too much.
Encroaching
August stands on concrete, looking at the old wall that has definitely become Wilded. Her hand is held just millimetres from the bricks, trying to determine if they’re giving off heat, or giving off cold, or just making her skin tingle.
She looks down. The grass that used to be concrete has inched further today – it’s currently at her toes. Tomorrow there will be even more. Tiny cracks in the concrete are already tinging green around the edges.
If she was sensible, she’d go home. If she was braver, she’d reach forward and touch the wall.
August’s fingers hover, undecided.
Beginning
How do you do it deliberately?
The ground is scorched dry, and the veggie patch looks resigned to its fate. Yesterday’s predicted storm passed straight over them, emptying itself on the hills. The forecast is for unrelenting, unceasing sunshine.
It couldn’t hurt to try.
Tegan’s never done this before. She sits outside, hugging her knees, frowning at the sky.
How does rain work? She doesn’t know the science, but she knows how rain feels. Maybe that’s enough.
She closes her eyes, concentrates. Wind, and that specific smell, and the air should be more… fresh…
The first drop hits her hand.
Others
The Warwick Bridge Coven consists of Trix and three other people who won’t give their names.
“We like to keep a low profile,” says the woman with glasses. “But you can call me ‘Author’.”
August sits nervously as Author holds a wooden spoon and explains that it’s not the chemical makeup of the wood that matters, so much as its history as a cooking implement. “Its essence is what it is, and has been, alongside how it’s perceived.” Her gaze is piercing. “Does that make sense to you?”
“Um… yes?” She couldn’t have sounded less convincing.
Trix rolls her eyes.
Civics test
Why is sorcery considered an illegal form of magic?
Trix knows what answer they want: Because unlike natural magic, sorcery does not come from within. It’s uncanny, and must be discouraged. Straight out of the textbook.
God damn is she sick of the textbook.
She remembers Uncle Vick holding his amulet. The light emanating from it. The broken guitar strings reattaching. The wood mending itself. The instrument newly whole. The music. Her delight. His grin.
…an illegal form of magic?
Trix grabs her pen and writes: Because this country is fucking paranoid.
Another detention incoming, but it’ll be worth it.
Trap
August is about to go inside when he interrupts her train of thought.
“’Scuse me.” He looks sixteen, maybe seventeen. And cute. “Do you know how to find Eucalpyt Drive? I’m lost.”
She smiles, and starts, “Yeah, it’s right past–” and then stops abruptly.
The voice doesn’t match the face.
The boy smiles at her, waiting patiently.
Something is off. There’s a… dissonance, as if the face in front of her is almost a mask. The voice is friendly. But it… grates.
August can’t manage any words. She fumbles for the doorknob, and steps backward over the threshold, to safety.
Baking
The muffins smell delicious, fresh from the oven.
“Some of my ingredients are the regular kind. Some aren’t.”
“Such as?”
“A pinch of starlight, perhaps. Or a few drops of Beatles lyrics.”
“How…”
“Rock beats are quite good for enhancing perception.” She holds out the plate. “Go on, while it’s hot.”
Caroline takes one, and cautiously tries it.
Suddenly she is gasping, reeling, and the world is bright, too bright around her as her ears flood with birdsong, footsteps, snippets of conversation.
Mrs Galloway is watching her. She raises an eyebrow. “What do you think? A bit more nutmeg, maybe?”
Unworthy
There’s only so much you can rewrite the laws of reality. Reality tends to bite you in the arse, eventually. But one thing you can do is steal a resource from something – or someone– nearby, and use it up yourself. It all balances out.
David’s favourite resource is time.
There are so many people who don’t value time. Like the sloppily dressed teenager at the busstop, mindlessly scrolling on his phone. David takes forty minutes from him, to use that evening on research. He’s writing a definitive work on fey bargains and deals.
The teenager would only have wasted it.
Under cover
Healing someone can be met with gratitude. Or fear. Or sometimes violence. By his mid-teens, Jack knows to keep it hidden.
“You the first aid student?”
Jack nods, and the coach helps his limping player into a chair. His knee’s already swelling, and he winces at Jack’s gentle touches. “God, it kills.”
“Mmm, I see.”
“Am I alright?”
If Jack’s any judge, it’s a cracked patella. Could keep him off the field for months.
Jack hands him an icepack and a juice, and diagnoses it as a “slight sprain”. By the time the juice is finished, that’s all it is.
Slowly but surely, I seem to be doing a thing…
Concert
Most people react to fey-song by blocking their ears. “Don’t listen to the tune, or hum along, else you might be tempted into their circles.”
Personally, Mrs Galloway has always found coffee fairly effective.
As the first snatches of fey-song reach her ears, she gets up and starts brewing espresso. Then she sits and sips, windows wide open, listening to the melody.
She can almost picture the dance, its complex steps, and the fair ones twirling in perfect time. It must be a sight.
The coffee could use some sugar, but that might be risking it a bit too much.
Encroaching
August stands on concrete, looking at the old wall that has definitely become Wilded. Her hand is held just millimetres from the bricks, trying to determine if they’re giving off heat, or giving off cold, or just making her skin tingle.
She looks down. The grass that used to be concrete has inched further today – it’s currently at her toes. Tomorrow there will be even more. Tiny cracks in the concrete are already tinging green around the edges.
If she was sensible, she’d go home. If she was braver, she’d reach forward and touch the wall.
August’s fingers hover, undecided.
Beginning
How do you do it deliberately?
The ground is scorched dry, and the veggie patch looks resigned to its fate. Yesterday’s predicted storm passed straight over them, emptying itself on the hills. The forecast is for unrelenting, unceasing sunshine.
It couldn’t hurt to try.
Tegan’s never done this before. She sits outside, hugging her knees, frowning at the sky.
How does rain work? She doesn’t know the science, but she knows how rain feels. Maybe that’s enough.
She closes her eyes, concentrates. Wind, and that specific smell, and the air should be more… fresh…
The first drop hits her hand.
Others
The Warwick Bridge Coven consists of Trix and three other people who won’t give their names.
“We like to keep a low profile,” says the woman with glasses. “But you can call me ‘Author’.”
August sits nervously as Author holds a wooden spoon and explains that it’s not the chemical makeup of the wood that matters, so much as its history as a cooking implement. “Its essence is what it is, and has been, alongside how it’s perceived.” Her gaze is piercing. “Does that make sense to you?”
“Um… yes?” She couldn’t have sounded less convincing.
Trix rolls her eyes.
Civics test
Why is sorcery considered an illegal form of magic?
Trix knows what answer they want: Because unlike natural magic, sorcery does not come from within. It’s uncanny, and must be discouraged. Straight out of the textbook.
God damn is she sick of the textbook.
She remembers Uncle Vick holding his amulet. The light emanating from it. The broken guitar strings reattaching. The wood mending itself. The instrument newly whole. The music. Her delight. His grin.
…an illegal form of magic?
Trix grabs her pen and writes: Because this country is fucking paranoid.
Another detention incoming, but it’ll be worth it.
Trap
August is about to go inside when he interrupts her train of thought.
“’Scuse me.” He looks sixteen, maybe seventeen. And cute. “Do you know how to find Eucalpyt Drive? I’m lost.”
She smiles, and starts, “Yeah, it’s right past–” and then stops abruptly.
The voice doesn’t match the face.
The boy smiles at her, waiting patiently.
Something is off. There’s a… dissonance, as if the face in front of her is almost a mask. The voice is friendly. But it… grates.
August can’t manage any words. She fumbles for the doorknob, and steps backward over the threshold, to safety.
Baking
The muffins smell delicious, fresh from the oven.
“Some of my ingredients are the regular kind. Some aren’t.”
“Such as?”
“A pinch of starlight, perhaps. Or a few drops of Beatles lyrics.”
“How…”
“Rock beats are quite good for enhancing perception.” She holds out the plate. “Go on, while it’s hot.”
Caroline takes one, and cautiously tries it.
Suddenly she is gasping, reeling, and the world is bright, too bright around her as her ears flood with birdsong, footsteps, snippets of conversation.
Mrs Galloway is watching her. She raises an eyebrow. “What do you think? A bit more nutmeg, maybe?”
Unworthy
There’s only so much you can rewrite the laws of reality. Reality tends to bite you in the arse, eventually. But one thing you can do is steal a resource from something – or someone– nearby, and use it up yourself. It all balances out.
David’s favourite resource is time.
There are so many people who don’t value time. Like the sloppily dressed teenager at the busstop, mindlessly scrolling on his phone. David takes forty minutes from him, to use that evening on research. He’s writing a definitive work on fey bargains and deals.
The teenager would only have wasted it.
Under cover
Healing someone can be met with gratitude. Or fear. Or sometimes violence. By his mid-teens, Jack knows to keep it hidden.
“You the first aid student?”
Jack nods, and the coach helps his limping player into a chair. His knee’s already swelling, and he winces at Jack’s gentle touches. “God, it kills.”
“Mmm, I see.”
“Am I alright?”
If Jack’s any judge, it’s a cracked patella. Could keep him off the field for months.
Jack hands him an icepack and a juice, and diagnoses it as a “slight sprain”. By the time the juice is finished, that’s all it is.