Her Flight

Prologue

| WET SANDCASTLES |

Each night under the twilight moon, children frequent upon the cloudy floors of heaven, waltz between willow trees and bathe in shallow creeks. They awake when birds call them to the outside green, their mother astounded by the smile gracing their surly lips - wondering of days when all there was to be worried for was the sun setting too early. Their small feet rush to race the last cloud of the dragging evening.

And as children pass through the fields, shiny black shoes kicking up sprouting flowers and growing memories – taller children (hidden underneath the frightful masks of adulthood) smile bittersweetly. Their own shoes and memories lay forgotten underneath wrecked toy cars and olden trees, out to bleach and corrode beneath the suns blister. Older men and women watch through recently scrubbed windowsills, tears gathering as their feet itch to run after the fleeing mirage.

The inevitable death of one’s childhood is most often mourned too late. Not understanding their loss, if not buried deep underneath their newly built homes. If not mercilessly strangled to a tainted photograph of what once was, of a war lost in rusted metal cans and fuzzy blue towels.

A sandcastles towers crumble easily from an incoming tide - the sand all but pliant underneath the force of the inevitable.

Mother would remind her own children every evening when the green leaves fell victim to the crunch of their shoes. Would whisper in minted breath and lipstick covered words to appreciate what’s in front of their curious hands – to enjoy what one day will be forgotten. She whistles to them a tune of her own dead memories, and they squeal before running out in laughter.

Father taught his children between the lines of books. Told them to sound each and every loop and line, to remember the scratch of pages between their tiny fingers. Showed them to not rush through the story, to fall in love with each and every hero and villain, to keep their tales close to their chest and lessons close to their mouths. He taught them that rushing through the slow walk of minutes and seconds will burn your wrinkled feet and turn your back hunched. He left them there, blowing dust off books and tapping the spines like one would with the keys of a piano. He played them lullabies all through twilight.

Marian would perhaps never forget these lessons, these tales. Yet, much like her childhood that lay between her trembling palms - she would not appreciate or perhaps understand - the warnings her parents had begged her and her brother to heed.

And yet came a day, not much different from many others, when the sun shone and wind blew, yet came the inevitable tide that swept her away into the thrashing ocean. The evening her brother flew.

Chapter 01

| THE OLD WITCH |

A squawk of a bird caught the children’s attention, its wavering wings flattening against the winds. Marian watched as it glided and swam through the puffy clouds – like beige kites swarming in the sky, searching for prey in the boundless ocean beneath it. It’s glittering feathers and spindly claws tucked inwards as it continued its search, its predatory gaze moving through the rolling waves.

“They’re pretty, ain’t they?” Marian’s brother whispered under his breath, eyes following the retreating soldier.

She nodded, though she didn’t think they were that pretty. Their talons were a little awkward and scary, their eyes beady and a little dumb looking on either side of its head.

“Wouldn’t that feel nice? The wind between your fingers?” he continued to question. She noticed his hands unconsciously gripping the fraying ropes of the swing as he kicked his feet back and forth. The wooden seat was attached precariously underneath the tree – facing a cliffside painted in an afternoon glow.

Marian crinkled her nose in distaste and his question – if anything, it sounded a little restricting – having to abide by the rules of the sky, forced to move in parallel with the fleeing clouds like a kite tethered to the wind. She agreed insincerely.

Marian and Peyton were born 3 minutes apart from one another, both screeching the same tone and wailing the same complaints, both a healthy weight and little hair on their heads, both with reddened cheeks and innocent smiles.

Their mother wondered when the day came that they stopped being so similar.

“Wanna’ go annoy the baker?” Marian asked clicking her tongue, absently playing with the stains on her dress. The brown and greens spread across the fabric like bruises, and she giggled as she pushed the dirt around. It made funny shapes and forms, plastered into the cotton.

“You know he don’t like that.” Peyton frowned,

“That’s kinda the point, Tony!”

“Don’t call me Tony!”

Marian was loud - loud and impulsive – a perfect little knight in their fairy tales. Her hair reached out like welcoming hands, a fair blonde like that of her mothers (a colour many envied).

Peyton had always been more aware of people. He was quiet and considerate, his voice never the loudest in the room, but always the most caring. His posture was hunched into himself, like thin paper folding into intricate origami, and yet he stood on strong legs. He always beat Marian in races with his lithe form.

“Tony suits you better than Peyton.”

“Mummy clearly didn’t think so-”

“Yes, well, she named me Marian didn’ she? Cant exactly trust her judgment-”

“-and what’s wrong with Marian?”

“It so... boring! It’s boring, pretty and very, very blegh!”

“That ain’t even a word! And what’s wrong with havin’ a pretty name?”

Marian rolled her eyes. She had problems with pretty things. She would ruin her best dresses, untidy her most intricate hairstyles, and purposely write with her left hand. Despite their mother’s best efforts, she never quite got Marian to behave. She still scolds the young girl, but Peyton thinks it’s more to do with habit than any actual hope that Marian would change.

“Nothin’s wrong with it – now c’mon, let’s go anno- I mean… ‘visit’ Mr. Nestle.”

“You’re a right bully you know that Anne?”

“Don’t call me that, Tony!”

They rushed back up the mountain, squabbling and bickering like skittish birds pecking at the last worm. Their feet stamping expertly over broken twigs and logs, mounds, and unexpected holes – knowing the terrain better than their own house.

When they rushed through the wet hills and into the warm home, they didn’t get very far until mother was calling them back.

“There you two are! Go get your coats – we’re going down to welcome a new neighbor.” She told them, stepping down the stairs. Her dress hit her knees, soft and pressed, hair naturally curled and down. She always put that small amount of effort into her presentation, although many could notice she had a natural beauty. She held herself humbly, with a kind smile and sweeter eyes – although now, the hazel gaze was squinting something fierce at the mold looking patches on Marians dress.

“Marian?” she questioned in a dangerous tone – the mouth fitted comfortably around that 3-syllable word. She was used to how it folded around her tongue, how it was spit out in disappointment.

“Yes mummy?” the small girl questioned back.

“My memory may be wrong, but I seem to recall telling you to change out of your summer dress before playing outside.” Just as she finished her sentence, Marian ran past her, bounding up the stairs.

“Really? Sorry mummy! I’ll make sure to put it in the sink!”

Mother simply sighed, exasperated, a delicate hand coming to grasp her face.

“Go get her, Peyton, make sure she isn’t wasting any time trying to find a ‘suitable’ outfit.” She asks, moving to the kitchen.

“Of course, mummy.”

--

As Peyton bounded up the stairs, footsteps closely echoing that of his sisters, he hears familiar bangs and crashes of closing and opening closet doors. He knows before he enters the room that the floor would likely be flooded by a sea of garments and toys.

Opening the oak door, he is treated with the predictable sight, and jumps over a few pants and skirts to sit down comfortably on his quilt. She danced around the room, expertly stepping over everything on the floor as if it were littered with land mines. He heard her humming a song that sounded more like mosquitoes having a polite chat over tea with its dull tones and strange pauses. She almost steps on her brown leather book, and he’s quick to bend down and snatch it up before gravity pulled her back down (like the reliable dance partner it is). She continues to hum.

“You should probably hurry up – mummy’s waiting and soon she’ll start tapping her foot.” He teases with a serious and fearful tone.

“Oh no!” Marian gasped, “Not the treacherous tap! It echoes across the empty hallway, louder than the roar of the most vicious dragon!” her arms flailed around her, nearly tripping on a conveniently placed boot. He giggles, setting down the leather book beside him.

“So,” she begins, finally settling down enough the scour through the mess she made on the floor. Sometimes, Peyton thinks that she does this to pretend she’s a pirate, scourging for treasure across piles of rubbish. He wouldn’t be surprised, he thought as she inspected a shirt closely before discarding it behind her.

“Who’d ya’ think is the new neighbor?”

Peyton hummed and shrugged his shoulders, reaching into his bedside to grab his own book. The cover was a pale blue, though the edges were worn and browned.

“C’mon – lets put a little thought into this. Ooh! What if it’s a dragon lady that used to sail the seas with her crew – the ‘Book club’!” she giggled and pranced around the room.

“or – or maybe it’s a grouchy old grandma that steals Halloween candy from little kids pumpkins!”

Peyton frowned – he didn’t like witches, at least none of the ones in Marians stories. They were mean, bringing reality and sadness into a world of fantasy and joy.

“Hey, now.” Peyton focused once more on his sister. She was in the middle of the room, hands crossed with a grumpy look on her face.

“Why are you frowning? You’re not allowed to frown while you’re using your imagination. It’s against the rules.”

“What rules?”

“No changing the subject!”

Peyton ignored her and began to pick up the clothes from the floor. He didn’t get very far before all he could see was the frizzy hair he accidentally got into his mouth as Marian put him in a familiar head lock. She had pushed them to the floor, and he yelped as his limbs twisted and buckled under her momentum.

“Don’t you worry your little head Tony – it won’t be an evil witch who likes to eat children.”

“Who will it be then?” Peyton grumbled, kicking out a boot that was uncomfortably digging into his thigh.

“It’s going to be a nice old lady who feeds us hot buns and sweets every time we help her up the stairs.”

“Like Mrs. February?”

“Like Mrs. February.”

Mrs. February was a sweet old lady that made rare appearances throughout Marians stories. She was known for her pretty teacups, and welcoming tea parties – where she would invite both villains and heroes, attempting to bridge the gap between the two (It never worked, but Peyton always giggled at her attempts). Peyton liked to think of her as the grandma neither of them had.

“Now come on! I think I can hear mummy’s tapping!”

They continue their search for clothes, with Peyton closely following anything Marian does to keep her on track.

Once they reach the bottom of the stairs, they take a detour on their mothers’ demand to go downstairs and say bye to their father.

“Dad!” Marian yelled once she stepped off the last stair, running to the man hunched over the counter.

He quickly turned his lanky form, grunting as she ran into him full speed.

“Hey there sweetheart – where are you two off to?” he asks as he bends down to finish tying one of Marians shoelaces.

“’m not sure, I think mummy mentioned a new neighbor – we’re gonna go see who it is.”

“Why aren’t you at work today dad?” Peyton asked, stepping calmly behind his sister. He sneakily gazed at the tall table, seeing leather covers and black ink scattered across the wood.

“I decided to do some work at home – Tuesdays are always busy, it’s nice to get away from all the noise.”

“Although,” he continued, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “With you two around - the office is looking like a right paradise.”

Marian ignored him, and unlike Peyton, had no issues nosily poking around the supplies on the desk.

“Is this another book, dad?” she questioned, accidentally dipping her hand in a pot of ink. Peyton rolled his eyes, already darting off to grab a damp cloth so she could wipe the dirtied fingers.

“Yes, I think your brother would especially like this one.” Her responded once Peyton shuffled back. The boy, now more curious, stood on his tippy toes to see the print and title plastered onto wooden backings.

“Fred Neur! Is this the fourth addition?” he questioned excitingly, gripping the blue book he had brought down from his room.

Fred Neur was a writer in the town over and had brought his book to his dad’s office for printing and publishing. Peyton quickly fell in love with the stories the man told, the tales of heroes and villains calling to his boyish heart.

Literature in the William household replaced gods and deities seen in others. It ruled the household with an iron fist, and its residents worshiped it like nothing else. Their mother, while not working and instead deciding to keep their home, had grown up in a library down by the bay. There, she had found their father, who had stopped by to talk with the owner about a new supply of books coming through town.

As destiny calls for it, their first meeting inevitably became first love and first marriage – and soon enough, their newly built home in the hills became a temple for letters and tales. 2 years later and the twins were born into a house where wallpapers were replaced by bookcases and each room had a writing desk. Their favourite poems were etched into their headboards and bedtime stories were a family event.

Marian, by the age of 6, had written her first story. It wasn’t a very impressive one, about a horse named Percival that began to terrorize a nearby town, but Peyton became her biggest fan. He would read it to her parents almost every night until she wrote a new one, which she did after a few weeks. There are only so many times that you can hear about Percival breaking windows and stepping on flower gardens before it became a tiring tale. Now days, she would write stories and poems (if anything, just to keep her brother happy) and he would read them. A loving cycle that made their dad smile all sappy and proud - and their mum, content and hopeful.

“Yes, and a little birdie told me he has already begun a fifth.” Dad winked down at the excited boy and finished cleaning off Marians hand. He looked around, checking in case anyone was watching (there wasn’t), before picking up a copy of the manuscript and handing it to Peyton.

Peyton smile was wide and reaching, and his feet floated as he gave his dad a kiss on his cheek before running back up the stairs.

Peyton had already cracked open the book – he’d been re-reading the previous edition for a few weeks now. Marian had to guide him from tripping into walls and furniture that scattered across the hallway. At the end of it, their mother was putting on a scarf, a wicket basket held snuggly in the crook of her elbow.

“Another one?” mother sighs fondly, tightening the wool around her neck. She watches in exasperation as Peyton nearly trips over the shoes rack, closely saved by a well-practiced hand.

“You’d think dad would know better by now.” Marian shakes her head but does nothing but continue to help Peyton into his coat without taking his gaze from the book.

She finally huffs in frustration, tightly grabbing his arm and dragging him out into the quickly cooling air. Her patience only extended so far.

“C’mon! I’ll beat you down the hill!”

Soon enough, the trio were once again walking through the damp grass, the long stems coming up to reach their knees as they raced along the pathway.

Peyton skipped from rock to rock, hand tightly around the small satchel resting on his hip. He quickly catches his large brimmed hat before it flew from the wind, smiling as the air hit his reddened face. Not far behind him, Marian followed his steps, familiar huffs and puffs of exhaustion escaping her like the revving of a car. It was getting colder by the hour; the first beginnings of a persistent winter fell down in layers – and Marian wondered about the temperamental weather near their home.

The thin coat of snow around them seemed fake – bright and fragile, crumbling near his feet when he jumped. Despite the darkening of the night, the snow glowed and overwhelmed his vision with its icy breath.

“Tony! Wait up!” Peyton rolled his eyes but paused in his journey.

“Jeez Tones,” Marian huffed once she was near, “How can you even run without trippin’? We’re basically walking on water here!”

“Stop being dramatic,” Peyton grumbled, but if anything, it made her worse. She gasped, placing a hand to her chest – but the icy air she inhaled shot the back of her throat and she began coughing. It didn’t take much to elicit laughter from Peyton, at least not when it was at his sisters’ expense.

“C’mon you two! We’re almost there!” their mother called them back, and Peyton was surprised to see she was already ahead of them. They began running again, continuing to jump across the landscape like restless deer and foxes.

They had seen the house from up the hill, the blackened dot becoming clearly against the white landscape. The neighbor’s house was towering and rotten, windows fogged and blurry with no light escaping them. The chimney blew out large puffs of black smoke, spluttering against the icy clouds.

Mother nudges Peyton, who had already began reading again, and sends him a reprimanding glance she had long ago learnt from her own mother. She watches in bemusement as the boy sheepishly lowers the book from his face, however kept a thumb in between the pages to mark his position.

They stand for a moment in silence, before mother once again knocks with her reddened knuckles. Before she could finish, the door slowly swings open, revealing an older, straight backed lady with squinting eyes. The twin’s glance at each other apprehensively, but with some hope in their smiles.

“Yes?” she answers in a grouchy tone, and Peyton notices how she grips a quivering cane between her blood red nails. His smile falters a bit.

“Hi ma’am, we just wanted to welcome you into our neighborhood – we live just up the hill, you see, and wanted to check in that everything was ok.” Mother explained in a calm, pleasant tone. She gestured down to the weighing basket, and a smell of newly baked apple pie wafted through the air.

“Name?” the lady griped, not bothering to glance down at the basket.

“The Williams, ma’am.”

“Very well,” she gazed down at Marian and Peyton hiding behind their mother’s long skirt. Without another word, she beckoned them into the dark hallway, her crooked finger twisting unpleasantly.

--

title: Her Flight

genre: Literary Fiction

age range: 16+

word count: Word count of this excerpt: 3313, Current word count of narrative: 17789

author name: Camila Ferrand

why your project is a good fit: This project will create a smart analysis of the loss of childhood from a unique persepctive - touching on subjects currently in the spotlight, including the femanist view, affects of domestic violence and the idea of creating a career.

synopsis: No current synopsis

target audience: Young adults, however older ages will also be able to relate and appreciate to the future events

education: Currently in highschool

experience: No passed experience, beside a couple of published poems

likes/hobbies: I enjoy writing narriatives and poems, painting and politics

hometown: Australia, SA

age: 16