Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

After Exodus

A short story I wrote about what happens when the people are gone, and the animals have free reign in the city. It could be the beginning to a longer piece in which I explore what happened to the people, but for now I’m leaving it as a standalone story and leaving the fate of the people to the reader’s imagination.

The people left. That fact remains in their place. With no one to flutter for, the bunting lies still in the wind; the rain clatters against rooftops that no longer have anyone to shelter. Empty paper cups and brightly coloured napkins are the only things to walk down the high street now, garish reminders of what came before. The city is still. Cars are empty on the road, doors still open. A few engines still purr, as if waiting for reassurance.

The people left.

Perhaps they will come back.

The city streets are slick with rain. Rocks slide in the downpour. Mud churns. Alone – the people left, finally! – a fox struts through an empty house. Now the roof gives him shelter, the carpeted floor provides him comfort. The people have gone, and this is his world now, this small world with warm seats and soft beds and stacks of food. The people left, and he  is happy.

In the final room, a squalling child sends him scampering away.

Outside, his vixen waits in the undergrowth. They rub muzzles, but she scoffs when he tells her what he found. “A human cub? And you ran?”

The fox darts a look back to the house. “What do we do with it?”

He has strange notions of taking it in and raising it as their own in this new, humanless world. The vixen snarls. “Kill it. We have our own cubs to feed.”

But when the fox gathers his courage to return up the soft stairs, across that carpeted hallway and into the final room, the child is no longer alone. Big blue eyes look at him curiously over the head of a mutt with spiky dark hair and alert ears.

The mutt is only just as big as the fox. Not to be dissuaded – he thinks of the vixen and their hungry cubs – the fox lowers himself in a predatory position and growls, “Mine.”

The mutt barks. The fox flees.

The people are gone, but they’ll return. The mutt is sure of that. His humans would never leave their pup. He turns back to the child, licks the dried tears off her cheeks with his rough tongue.

“All will be well,” he grumbles, and the child laughs and bops him on the nose. He licks her fingers. “This much I promise.”

He lies down beside the child, and waits.

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

Time of Devils

A short fantasy story of a young woman on a journey for answers.

Better the devil you know, the old saying goes. But Ella knows some devils too dark to mention, and has always questioned the validity of old sayings and the people who say them. What if the devil she doesn’t know is better? Perhaps the devil she has never met has answers.

She keeps track on her bedroom wall. The devils she’s met. The devils she has yet to meet. Gods and goddesses, demons and angers – all devils to her. She’s met them at crossroads and places of mystical power. She’s met them at bus stops and cafes and, on one occasion, the checkout at Primark. And every time she meets one she asks it the same question.

”Why am I?”

The devils are tricky. They answer what and who but not why. The great god Woden told her she is both human and not; the erudite Apollo told her she is a twenty-seven year old humanoid of magical descent. The what is answered. In Japan, a Kami spirit told her her name is Eleanor; another cut in that she is curious and determined. The who is answered. But not one of the devils will answer why.

The closest any have come was a tribal deity deep in the American south, who shrugged with a gruff, “The Greeks were always procreating.”

Always procreating, perhaps, but the important word is ‘were’. Belief has waned. The devils rest. She is the first Demi-God in six centuries and all she wants is to know why.

As a child, she had simply enjoyed it. Things happened when she was around. Lightning danced for her. Clouds separated. The ocean waved. But then the devils closer to home started using words like freak and abomination, and she sought out the old devils for answers.

Her next chance was hard to find. He no longer keeps to the old ways; her usual channels could not reach him. In the end, whispers of her search found him and he approached her.

They meet in a rundown Wetherspoons in a busy British town. He is older than she expected, grizzled and grey rather than chiselled and blond.

“Sister,” he greets her.

The Greeks were always procreating. She has no idea how many brothers and sisters she has.

She takes the seat opposite him, not looking away from his eyes. The devils play tricks. But his expression is warm and his smile is kind.

”You have a question for me?”

She asks her question. The man nods.

”An intelligent question. Or an incredibly stupid one. You are because an old man met a young woman and thought he’d give love one last chance.”

There has to be more. She must have a purpose.

He smiles. “You are because the time of gods is over.”

Now is the time of devils.

“No. Now it is simply time. The gods and the devils, they have no place in this world now. But there is beauty, and that is why you are.”

She doesn’t understand. The devil-god smiles.

”Once, I delivered messages across the skies. I saw such beautiful, magical things. I miss that. But our father, he saw beauty and magic in the everyday. He saw it in the budding trees and the changing seasons. He saw it in the humans.” He leans closer, and for a second he looks younger, brighter. More godly. “You are because the time of gods may be over, but our father is content to be a man.”

So she has no purpose. No reason to be.

”Your purpose is to exist.” Her brother smiles. “Isn’t that enough?”

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

The Drawn Sword

A fantasy short story that is loosely based on the premise of my novel, Otherworld. 

The newcomer is a little younger than the rest of the group, early sixties perhaps, and he’s come alone. The seats on either side of him remain empty, despite how packed the room is. I can’t help but watch him as Abi gives her usual introduction about how drawing can draw out memories; he already has pen to paper.

When the introduction is over, I head towards him. One of my duties as a volunteer is to greet new people, but I’m drawn to him anyway.

“Hi John.”

He glances up at me, then, with a small smile, to his name badge. “Hello. Aren’t you a little young for this group?”

I pull back the chair beside him and sit down. “I’m a volunteer here.”

”Ah.” He smiles at me again, but quickly turns his attention back to his drawing. “I was dragged here by my daughter. She seems to think getting out of my bubble may be good for me.”

”Your daughter may be onto something.”

I look at his drawing. Everyone draws something different, and every drawing has a meaning unique to the individual. Newcomer’s are often uncertain on how to start, and want to talk to their carers or us. Not John. He draws confidently and competently.

“A sword?”

He nods, not looking up.

“Why a sword?”

My half-baked study of psychology throws ideas around. He sees his illness as attacking; perhaps he is defending. But he smiles. “No reason. Just a memory.”

“Would you tell me about it?”

“Oh,” he waves his free hand, “You don’t want to hear about that old stuff.”

“Actually, that’s one of the reasons I’m here. To hear your stories.”

He smiles. “My daughter liked my stories when she was your age. But it was a long time ago; I may not remember everything.”

“That’s okay. Maybe I can hear what you do remember.”

He’s adding some shadow to the blade now. For a moment I think perhaps he won’t share. He wouldn’t be the first. Even though I know he has that right, I want to push him, to hear the memory that sparked this drawing which is so lifelike and so unexpected. He sighs, ever so softly, and says, “Ah, but it is a good story.

“I was eighteen when I met her. The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She was in the woods behind my house, and she was running away from home. I wanted to help. I asked her why she was running, and she told me her brother was trying to kill her.”

“With the sword?” I ask.

“No, no. The sword was mine. Or, at least, it would be. You see, she wasn’t from around here. She was a princess, of sorts, and her brother was a king. He wanted to rule over our world, as well as his. I had saved her and convinced her to go home rather than run, and when she went back she took me with her.”

I stare. The sword has a detailed hilt now, so lovingly and convincingly drawn I could pick it off the page. Conversations continue around us. I don’t think anyone else heard.

“You’re talking about another world, aren’t you?”

I’ve heard many incredible stories since I started volunteering here, but this is another level.

“Our twin world,” he says. “And it was magical. Sorcerers and gods, a dragon and a princess. And she was the most magical thing about it. I had never met someone so incredibly brave, and clever. Cutting too – her tongue was sharper than the sword!” He smiles down at the picture. “The day I married her — well, that’s another story. The sword.”

“Was it hers?”

“Once. But she gifted it to me. You see, the king was threatening earth, and so it was up to someone from here to defend it.” His voice lowers, grows soft and thoughtful so I have to strain to hear it. “I saved the world. I forget a lot of things these days, but I’ll never forget that.”

He talks for the rest of the session, his voice low but steady and confident. He tells me about wonderful, impossible things: oceans of crystal lilac, creatures with intelligent thought and magical words, battles where only the mind fights. And all the time he draws, so that the sword leaps off the page, as real as the wrinkles on his hands.

When he falls silent and lowers his pencil, I feel like I’ve been jolted out of a beautiful dream. Abi is wrapping up. She shoots me a look: I’m supposed to go around the group, I’ve never stayed with one person for the whole session before.

He pushes his chair back and makes to stand up. I reach out instinctively – I want to hear more, to listen to this master storyteller a little longer.

My hand touches his arm.

And I am there, watching a young man with startling green eyes struggle to lift a sword far too large for him, blood dripping down a gash on his forehead, a dark purple bruise on his cheekbone. His hands shake and there are tears in his eyes.

He gently pushes my hand away. I look up into a small, sad smile and green eyes dulled by time. “Being the hero isn’t always easy,” he says.

He reaches for his coat. He’s about to leave. I don’t know what to say, so I gesture to the drawing. “Your picture.”

“Keep it.” He throws his coat over his shoulder, and smiles. “Who knows? We may need it again someday.

I touch the paper and, just for a second, I can feel it. A solid hilt. A firm object under my hand. I look down at the drawing and see the glint of metal.

When I look up, the newcomer has gone.

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

The Fountain

A fantasy short story about wishes. A stranger visits a fountain famous for its wish-granting qualities. 

They say the fountain grants wishes, though who they are and when they said this remains unknown. Still, every day the tourists come and throw their coins and make their desperate pleas. I want a promotion. I want a family. I want fame. The wishes sink to the bottom of the fountain with the coins, and rust.

She comes on a cold day in October, when the leaves have abandoned the trees and trail across the streets instead. Her footsteps do not stir the leaves, or the dirt beneath them. She walks with purpose, and that purpose is the fountain. The tourists gather, and she moves among them, a leaf blowing past on the wind, noticed, but barely.

Once upon a time, they made their pleas to her.

Now she rusts like the wishes at the bottom of the fountain, her skin mottled by age, her piercing eyes now dulled. They say the fountain grants wishes: she sees no evidence of this, only the rotting tributes that had once been offered to her. When did they start putting their faith in things, not her? Too long ago. Perhaps she noticed, perhaps she was too tired to act, perhaps she encouraged it. She doesn’t remember anymore.

She lowers herself onto the side of the fountain and looks out over the bustling square. If anyone notices her, it is only fleetingly. Their attention wanders. There are colourful stalls and the smell of cinnamon and the sparkling fountain with all it promises.

I wish my husband would care more.

I wish I could go to the concert.

I wish my boss appreciated me.

So many selfish wishes, pushing against the fountains base with the weight of the sins they represent. Once upon a time, they had wished for peace. And she had granted it, glimpses of the world they could have if only they would work for it.

But people are shallow, and greedy. They want peace but wage war. They ask for favour and offer rusting coins in return.

She will keep ageing. She won’t die. Her kind weren’t made for that. But perhaps she will sleep by this fountain, which represents all she had once been, and perhaps the fountain will grant her wish for rest.

“Let her wake up. Please let her wake up.”

She looks up at the voice beside her. A young man, clutching his coin so hard his knuckles are white. He releases it with a sigh and as it hits the water she hears his wish.

I wish my daughter would wake up. 

A car, a scream, a shriek of alarms. She listens to the sounds, and she smiles. Yes: they are selfish, and greedy, and ungrateful, but then they are only human.

When the man leaves, she reaches into the fountain and plucks his coin from the cold water. After this, she will rest. But first, perhaps one more wish.

The coin gleams a brilliant gold it had never been before she touched it. She holds it to her lips, and breathes on it until it fades away into the cold autumn day.

And in a hospital, miles away, a little girl opens her eyes.