When Sandy met the fishmonger she had long given up on humanity. She lived in cottage in the highlands, writing stories and painting the mountains and trees and squirrels. When she needed anything she went on an hour walk to a little village by the nice loch. The village has a charming café, she thought sometimes. But that day she had decided to get lost, for it was truly a fine day to do just that. The wind blowing in her silvered hair, Sandy trudged into Later she was wandering around a sweet village that she didn’t know the name of. The water beside the houses was salt water, she was told, so the fish trade wasn’t half bad. Sandy dropped onto a picnic-blanket cloaked rock which had a beautiful view of almost everything, then tucked into her cucumber and humus sandwiches. The blanket she sat on used to have an intricate pattern sewn into it but years of paint splattered the earthy colours of her seat. Reaching into her age-old backpack, she fished out a sketchbook of beautiful canvas paper and some bright paints. She set them out in front of her, and spent seconds adjusting the position of her equipment. “Perfect!” she muttered to her self. Over the fifty years Sandy had spent with minimal human contact, she had unknowingly become a very softly spoken person with hearing good for birdie gossip and branch creaks. “Miserable weather we’re having, eh?” said a gruff voice that startled her with a short bark of laughter. She hurriedly looked around in anger and then fright for whoever had disturbed her content. Her eyes fell on a stocky man that resembled either a bear or a sea lion and was clothed in a random amount of colour. His beard was brown stroked with age and his ears were covered by a woollen hat dirtied by moths, mud and salt water. He stood on a fishing boat, holding a bluish net cloaked in spinach-like seaweed. Sandy didn’t speak and ate her sandwich, eyes slightly wide at the disturbance. He snorted. “Not much of a talker lass?” “I’m older than you.” Sandy replied, shocked at her ability to speak to a stranger. “You don’t look it, lass. What, forty years, give or take?” “Sixty” said Sandy sadly, twirling her paintbrush. “Fifty-eight,” he exchanged. Sandy grunted, too quiet to hear. She soaked the brush hairs into some yellow paint and began to stroke the paper. “What’re you doin, lass?” asked he after a short moment. “Being quiet.” Sandy half whispered. “Eh?” “Quiet.” Sandy heard the man laugh then she didn’t hear him. She looked up to see if he had abandoned her and saw him working at his fishing instead.
——
Sandy looked fondly at the finished painting in the frame and then smiled at the wedding picture next to it. They married years after their meeting and it was a happy wedding. Sandy was no longer alone with the birds.
The day Harriet returned was an awful day, to go down in the village’s history forever.
I remember a determined knock at the door halfway through tea that didn’t cease until I opened it. There she lay, mutilated and bloody on the doorstep, unmoving save the wind in her hair.
Harriet wasn’t meant to return, you see- but she did, and the powerful forces that bind our world together punished her.
I cried when we were told by the priest that we must bury her with the suicides or we too will face the wrath.
Adelaide settled on talking to her shadow, who was very wise. The girl enjoyed the company of others but it was never as refreshing as the sickening comfort of the dark friend that sunk into her bones. “What will I do, shadow?” she asked, making sure to maintain politeness. ~you have no choice but to play with his feelings too, young adelaide ~, grinned the abyssal presence. “But, shadow, would that not be rather rude?” ~to reject your love was insulting too, dear~ it reminded, lacing what seemed to be fingers with hers. ~we shall coat our words in honey and then stab his back, and when he is vulnerable we can torture him slowly~ Adelaide’s shadow was growing aroused by the mention of sin with each syllable, a tongue-like shape hanging out of the hole in its “face” When the creature noticed the discontentment in Adelaide’s reaction he recollected himself quickly. ~oh, sweet untainted adelaide. you know i could never do something to harm you! after all, i am a but part of you giving some much needed advice. these thoughts are your thoughts and you must act on them at once!~ The girl, whose age a delicate 9, grinned in realisation. “We must attack now” she breathed, her rosy cheeks pinned in a deadly smile. She felt her companion slide into her bones and she gave a satisfied shudder.
~good girl adelaide ~
Jean was peacefully drifting off, sinking into his bed’s comfort. He smiled warmly to reassure the sobs that grew with each passing moment. “Bye, Rachel” he whispered huskily, eyes finally shut. The content he felt in this moment was euphoric. The feeling of love that wrapped around him was a blanket, soft on his skin, a welcomed weight and warm.
The man opened his eyes and he saw nothing, the space around him had no colour nor shade but it made him grin. He smelt nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing, tasted nothing and yet his euphoria was incredibly apparent. “Wake up” a voice commanded coldly, dry but not, low but high, drifting along the nonexistent air but right next to him, a beautiful sound but so ugly. The voice seemed to hold no emotion nor pitch nor gender but still carried warmly. That makes no sense, mused the man. Then again nothing does. But he was not afraid- everything felt so right (but so detached)- he knew he would be when he was alive. Alive? The thought terrified him, so foreign and foreboding. He felt tiny in the presence of that horrible word. “What?” said the man, even though he didn’t. The voice told him that he’s now dead, even though it didn’t. And the man who now held no recollection of anything thought he heard a laugh from his own lips though he couldn’t hear. He happily thought about his new beginning- the beginning of an eternity in the out and thought how funny that the word Jean was so familiar.
In 1955, Tolkien elaborated phonaesthetics which is the study of beautiful words regarding only the sound they make. He thought that cellar door was the most beautiful thing to hear.
Harriet was but a spoken word from the lips of no one. Her name used to fill me with happiness but now it drowns me in grief. For you see, a variable ultimately has no meaning and will disappear for no reason.
Harriet is meaningless so she went away and her name died on my lips. The beautiful sound no longer sung in the air.
As the prince’s lips touched the sleeping girl’s, he felt his own eyelids heavy. With a sob-like breath that wrenched his body and pulled at his lungs sharply, the dwarves watched as he too crumbled to the grassy floor. “Oh dear,” Dopey told himself. And for once, the stupid little man was right, thought Grumpy as he looked upon the dreadful sight. The prince’s face was a glassy, milk-white such as that of Snow’s and his lips that before brushed the sleeping woman’s now where chapped and faded. “Oh!” said Sleepy, then he mumbled into Bashful’s ear, who looked bashful at the secret plan. “Ooh, I don’t know, Sleepy...” But his companion was already snoring. So Bashful took a deep breath and waddled up to Snow White’s sleeping figure- looking sheepish in the spotlight. The silly bearded fella then decided to kiss the woman in question. Grumpy felt almost faint in response. Why were his brothers so downright stupid, he yelled in his head- turning an angry colour. As if in reply to his private scream, Bashful sucked in a breath and collapsed on top of the Prince. Sleepy, who had woken up in time to see the previous turn of events, moaned in grief. He had just put to sleep his own brother! The man crawled over and clutched his hand- but the contact made him sway and close his eyes. “What a pickle!” exclaimed Happy, causing Grumpy to stare in dumbstruck and despise. “But don’t worry, guys! I have an idea- we could just shake their shoulders or something to wake them up!” Grumpy scoffed. “As much as I long to splash ten seas on their faces, Sleepy didn’t succeed much, did he?” But Dopey was already on the case, rushing up to his pal Sleepy to shake his shoulders then fall very asleep. “Oh well done, Happy!” said Grumpy.
Grumpy did not know what happened in those next few seconds but he did know two things: only him and Happy (of all people!) were left and that he was very, very angry.
