Christie O. Hall

I write about death, the afterlife, and other pleasant things. Check back on the first and third Monday of each month for a new short story!

[hanginggardenstories]

2017 THG Aspiring Author Series

The inaugural THG Aspiring Author Series was one of our favorite parts of this year. Did you see the fiction that came out of it? We hosted 5 aspiring authors this year, each one writing to a different prompt, and the stories are stunning. If you missed any of them, never fear! They are:

THE MOST TERRIFYING THING IN THE ROOM by Claire Biggs

CHECKMATE by Christie O. Hall

SHE WAS THE MOON by Kaye M.

THE MARTYR by Amber J. Gardner

ARMORED IN THE DEAD by China DeSpain

The Hanging Garden team is happy announce that we’re doing it again in 2017! We’re inviting 5 aspiring authors to contribute to the blog this year.

Here’s how it works. If you’re selected for one of the 5 guest spots, you will receive the cycle prompt (a GIF, a word, a theme – the same one shared by the rest of THG) precisely two months before your story will be featured on the blog. During that time, The Hanging Garden team will be available for your questions, concerns, and beta reads if desired.

You are eligible if:

you are unagented AND

you are unpublished AND

you have a desire to be both agented and published.

To apply, please email us at [email protected] with the following:

your name

your age

your genre and audience of choice (ie YA High Fantasy or MG Contemporary)

your status as an aspiring writer (ie querying, drafting your 3rd novel, gnashing your teeth in a post-NaNo frenzy)

a brief statement of interest – why does The Hanging Garden appeal to you?

a link to your Tumblr

DEADLINE FOR APPLICATIONS: Tuesday, December 27th

We’ve set up an auto-responder on the email account. If you get the automated response, your submission has been received and all is well. We’ll review submissions and notify all applicants by December 31st. 

Good luck! We look forward to hearing from you!

[hanginggardenstories]

Today’s the day! The deadline day! Turn in your application by midnight tonight to be considered! 

[christieohall]

I know the deadline is only a few hours away, but I HIGHLY recommend applying to this! Being apart of The Hanging Garden was one of the best experiences I had this year. Everyone involved was incredibly supportive and the feedback I got in my story was incredibly helpful. If you're an aspiring author, go apply now!

[christieohall]

The Killing Trees

It’s been so many years since someone crossed the forest that nature has overtaken all of the roads. I asked my grandma once if she knew anyone who had visited from another town, but she couldn’t remember it ever happening. And my grandma is nearly a hundred years old.

It’s not surprising, really. I mean, who would volunteer to walk through a forest that was practically guaranteed to eat you? Twice, if you planned on coming back home.

I stand on the porch, listening to the wind rip through the trees. The setting sun bounces off the leaves and it would have been pretty, if I could forget that stepping foot past the tree line would end in death. I can hear my parents in the kitchen, arguing over our dwindling stash of flour. I tune them out. My parents have been “discussing” – their words, not mine – how we’re going to survive the winter for going on three months now. Ever since the locusts ate the already failing harvest, everyone in town has been having the same discussion. Some more successfully than others.

There are whispers, of course. People who have seen how bad things are getting and want to do something about it. But the town elders are adamant that this has happened before. “Our town survived the great drought of ’92 and we’ll survive this!”

The ridiculous thing is that they might be right, but the town ‘surviving’ may involve a lot of people dying along the way.

Some days I hate that I was born here.

A crash echoes off the walls and I know my mom has thrown another dish at my dad and it shattered against the wall. I use the distraction to slip away, off the side of the porch and around the house. They’re going to be arguing for hours and there’s no use in staying and listening to it.

A few minutes down the road, I find Callie leaning against her mailbox, a jug of moonshine dangling from her fingers. I don’t ask if she’s having a bad night; they’re the only kind of night we know anymore.

“Rose’s cough has gotten worse,” Callie says as I approach. “She’s coughing up blood now. I’m surprised she hasn’t brought up a lung yet.”

I don’t answer as I walk past her. Their house is dark, but the sound of Rose’s coughing is a beacon, drawing me towards her. She’s barely conscious by the time I sit on the edge of her bed, trying not to disturb her. I hold her hand and kiss her fingertips. They’re as cold as the northern wind.

“What’s the doc say?”

“Nothing new. He ran out of meds and he doesn’t want to get more. His last assistant never came back.”

Roses coughs again, this time causing blood to dribble down her chin. I don’t blame the doctor for not wanting to get more. If he travels into the forest and doesn’t come back, we’re all screwed. But that doesn’t lessen the sting of knowing Rose will die without medicine. I lie down on the bed next to her, cradling her head in the crook of my arm. I wipe away the blood

We stay like that for a long time, until the sound of Rose’s breathing sounds more like a gurgling drain than human lungs. I motion to Callie and we walk out, then trek up the hill. Callie offers me the jug of moonshine she’s still carrying and I take a long pull.

At the top of the hill, we sit on the lone bench overlooking the forest, and pass the moonshine between us. From this height, the forest doesn’t look intimidating and there are tendrils of smoke rising from the next ridge over. If the wind shifts just right, we can almost smell what they’re cooking.

I take another swig of moonshine.  I can feel it burning all the way down and I imagine burning the whole forest down too. We stare out over the trees for a long time in silence. I think of Rose dying in bed, my parents fighting over food, and all of the unknown horrors awaiting us this winter. The trees wave in the breeze, looking almost peaceful, and it makes me wonder how dangerous the forest really is.                                                                         

It’s madness, of course. We’re all going to die out here. Everyone who was born in this town over the last hundred years has died here. But now it’s not old age that we’re fighting. Now, it’s a race between dying of starvation, exposure, or just plain old isolation.

I watch the smoke from the far away town waft through the air, gently curling in the dying light. Rage surges through me at the thought of whoever must be stoking that fire, all calm and fed, with a cabinet full of medicine.

“That’s it.” I set the moonshine down hard enough that Callie snatches it back, checking to make sure I didn’t crack the glass. It’s the last of our alcohol stash. “We’re going into the forest.”

Callie examines the jug. “You haven’t had that much to drink. What’s gotten into you?”

I gesture around us. “Do you really want to just sit here and wait to see how we’re going to die? Your sister, my girlfriend, is going to die of infection. Everyone is running out of food. Who knows what the winter is going to bring. At least if we go into the forest, we’ll be dying while fighting to survive instead of sitting here and waiting for death to find us.”

There’s a long moment when Callie stares into the forest in front of us. The longer we sit here, the harder I can feel the blood pumping through my veins. I don’t want to sit here and watch the sun set any longer. I want to get up and move and pack and make a plan.

“You said we.”

“What?” I ask.

“You said ‘we’re’ going into the forest. Not ‘I’m’ going into the forest.”

I grab the moonshine back and take another long drag. “Yes I did. Like hell I’m going in there by myself. Besides, there’s no way I can carry everything back by myself.”

Callie’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t protest. “We’ll have to get approval from the–”

“Nope. Not happening. We’re leaving first thing in the morning. I’m not going to wait long enough for someone to tell us no.”

She nods and we sit there, staring out over the forest until the only light in the sky comes from the stars.

--

Half the town is waiting for us as we approach the forest the next day. Callie must have let it slip to her parents that we were planning on going. They townspeople are lined up in two rows, from the beginning of Main Street to the edge of the forest. If they had roses in their hands, I’d feel like a queen. Instead, this feels like a funeral procession.

At the end of the line, several men stand with weapons in hand. “We’re going with you. You need protection.”

They’re going to make too much noise. Make us targets by carrying weapons to bring down the trees around us. But I don’t want to argue with large men carrying double-sided axes. So I gesture for them to go ahead of us.

Callie and I wait as the men enter the forest, until they’re too far past the tree line to see anymore. It takes less than thirty seconds for the screaming to start. There’s the rustling and cracking of branches, and then there’s silence.

I remember Rose, curled in bed earlier this morning, her breathing so shallow I had to lay my ear upon her chest to reassure myself she was still alive. We have to enter the forest. The only other option is giving up and waiting for death to stroll through the front door.

Callie and I join hands and take a step forward, before the townspeople can stop us. We each place a hand on a nearby tree trunk, each making a silent plea for safe passage. There’s a slight rustling of branches and a few leaves fall at our feet.

We walk into the forest together, hoping our prayer was enough to keep us safe.

[christieohall]

Burn It Down

I burned down my first house when I was eight. It was brushed off as an accident, of course. No one ever suspects a girl for dangerous deeds. The babysitter was fired for not paying close enough attention to me, my parents refused to buy matches or candles for the next couple of years, and we moved into a new house thanks to the insurance money.

 When they warn you against committing arson, they leave out the part about how much fun it is. The rush that runs through your body as you watch the fire consume something. The power. The control.

 The second time I burned down a building, I was more careful. I was thirteen years old and had found an abandoned house out on the edge of the woods. Nature had retaken the house a long time before, and there was nothing inside but dust, forgotten memories, and rotting wood.

 I sat and watched the whole thing, until nothing but ash remained. I’ll never forget how the flames reached out towards the trees, as if aching for them like a long-lost lover. There was barely anything left of it by the time the firefighters showed up, but they kept the fire from spreading.

 What a pity.

 They fill your head with nonsense like “fire is dangerous” and “don’t play with matches” from the time you can walk. Really, it’s because they don’t want you to know the truth. Arson is easy.

 1.       Find a mark.

2.       Light a match.

3.       Watch it burn.

 There are technicalities, of course. Some marks aren’t naturally flammable and need a little extra coaxing. Others are so large that lighting a match and dropping it might cause your person to go up in flames too, but there are ways around that. The most important thing is that you start the fire, then you wait and watch until it’s over. And don’t. Get. Caught.

 A month later, another house burned down in town, but I didn’t do it. I raced to the scene, wanting to watch the whole thing crumble, but I missed the best parts. The roof had already collapsed in and the beams on the porch had given out. The house wasn’t salvageable, but the firefighters had already extinguished most of the flames.

 I searched the crowd, looking for the arsonist. This house was in a popular part of town, so a small crowd had formed. It only took me a moment to find her.

 A girl, about my age, was standing with her parents, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She was smiling, and there was a glint in her eyes that was all too excited. Her parents tried to usher her away, but she kept turning back to watch.

 I caught her eye before her parents finally dragged her off. She smiled at me and a different kind of flame shot through my body.

 It’s possible that I peaked too early. It’s difficult to return to burning sticks and toys and random things you find in your house when you’ve seen flames crawl up the side of a wall, burn through ceilings, and light up the night sky. But I didn’t care. If I hadn’t started so big, I never would have met her.

 After that night, the girl and I developed a courtship through the flames. She burned down a house in the suburbs, so I torched a boutique a few blocks away. I set fire to a small chapel and she set the court house ablaze.

 It was a slow-burning relationship. We had to be careful, of course, but there are enough crime shows on TV nowadays to teach you the basics.

 Months would go by between fires and we kept our marks random. Never in the same neighborhood. No similarities between owners. Always wore gloves. Always used materials that could be picked up at any convenience store.

 On the night of my sixteenth birthday, the town sports arena caught fire.

 Half the town had arrived by the time I made it downtown, but it was clear that the fire had been set too well. Dozens of firetrucks surrounded the building, trying to put the blaze out, but it was as if their efforts only coaxed the fire more.

 It was magnificent.

 A hand slid into mine, and I looked away from the flames to see the other arsonist standing next to me. She smiled, and the rush running through her body from setting the fire made its way into me. I smiled back.

 “Today’s my birthday,” I said.

 “Do you like my present?”

 I forced myself to stop staring at her long blonde hair and look back at the flames, entwining her fingers with mine. The fire wrapped around the sports arena in a loving embrace, squeezing the life out of it.

 “For your next birthday, we should burn down the whole town.”

 Her voice was low and casual, as if she was suggesting that we get coffee or go to the movies. I ran my thumb along her palm, unable to articulate how much I would like that.

 “They’re really going to be looking for you now. We’ll have to be careful.”

 She shrugged. “They won’t find anything.”

 We watched the flames caress the walls of the sports arena until they finally gave out. There was a loud crash as the roof caved in, and more flames spilled out from the top. It was the best birthday present I could’ve hoped for.

 She tugged on my hand and I let her pull me back through the crowd, to the outside edge. A few people had been giving us looks, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because two girls were holding hands. Maybe it was because we were watching the flames adoringly. Maybe it was both. I didn’t care. All of my thoughts were consumed by the fire in front of us and the girl next to me.

 “What’s your name?” she asked.

 “Ember.”

 She smiled again, and I never wanted to spend another day without seeing it.

 “It’s nice to meet you, Ember. I’m Ash.” She snapped her finger and flames burst above her hand. It was a small thing, not bright enough to attract any extra attention around us, and completely under control. I dragged the tips of my fingers through it, watching it dance, making sure it was real. My fingers were black with soot when I pulled them away.

 I eyes were dancing when I looked up at Ash.

 “Let’s burn it all down.”

[hanginggardenstories]

CHECKMATE by Christie O. Hall

The stadium roared as the lights flickered on, and the white squares of the chessboard glowed. Yesterday, the white squares had been stained red with blood. Today, the smell of bleach hung in the air and the board shined like the night sky.

“WELCOME TO TONIGHT’S CHESS BATTLE.” Vera felt the ground shake beneath her as the voice boomed through the speakers. Her hands remained steady. Her heart did not race in anticipation.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR THE ICE QUEEN, VERA SANTOS.” A spotlight nearly blinded her as the crowd cheered. Vera didn’t bother to smile. The Ice Queen had been born long ago, with a knife in her hand and revenge in her heart. She did not cry. She did not show weakness. She did not scream when her bones shattered and she could no longer feel if they were attached to her body. It was why the crowd loved her.

She would make sure her reputation stayed intact, even though today would be the most painful match of all.

Below her platform, her duplicates took their places on the chessboard, sixteen bodies identical to hers, each dressed in a cocktail dress with weapons draped around their waists and backs. She could feel them breathing in time with her. She resisted wincing at the amplification of the crowd’s cheers. With sixteen sets of ears, eyes, and bodies, every sense in the arena became more intense.

Vera hated it, but she endured the sensory overload. One more win and Vera would be set free from this hellhole they called a prison. She forced herself to forget that her heart would always be trapped here.

Her competitor was introduced, and Vera fought to keep her face neutral; the Ice Queen had a reputation to maintain. Kyle smiled sweetly at her from her own platform. Although they were more than fifty yards apart, Vera could see the dimples in her cheeks.

The pair had spent the last year facing off against opponents, winning matches month by month, while raking in millions for the U.S. prison system. The administration had waited as long as they could before pitting their two fan favorites against each other, but the day had finally come. Both girls had eleven wins under their belt. Whoever won today would walk away with their freedom.

Vera’s heart pounded in her chest and she forced herself to breathe. Regardless of who won today, she and Kyle would never share the same bed again.

Winning or dying. There were no other options.

White goes first. Vera took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and watched as Kyle made the first move.

##

Kyle plastered a smile across her face like a beauty pageant contestant. Vera knew it from the dozens of times Kyle had used it against the wardens; it was fake and sincere all at once. The crowd loved her because they could not believe that beautiful girls were capable of doing the horrendous deeds that deserved jail time. And Kyle knew how to give the crowd what they wanted.

“Knight to D5,” Kyle said.

Vera braced for impact as Kyle’s knight duplicate pulled the sword out of the sheath hanging at her side and swung it across Vera’s duplicate pawn. As her pawn fell to the ground, the Vera standing on the platform bit her tongue as her wrist bent backwards with a resounding crack. Pain akin to a lightning bolt shot through her arm, but she did not move. Tears threatened to well in her eyes. She forced them back.

This was a chess match for her freedom, and she’d had worse injuries before. She didn’t want the prison warden to deny to release her because Vera hadn’t given a good enough show. The warden had never done this before, but Vera and Kyle had discussed the possibility. Between their matches, they had nearly doubled the income of the prison systems.

Kyle fell like a rag doll as Vera’s queen took out Kyle’s pawn. The attack caused Kyle’s knee to bend sideways, but the bone didn’t pierce her skin. Vera forced herself to watch the game attendants drag the pawn off the floor. The duplicate’s face was frozen in the same smile that Kyle was wearing. If she looked at her, saw any ounce of pain on Kyle’s face, Vera wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep going.

The Ice Queen didn’t show weakness, but she had never played against the girl she loved.

The gigantic screen to Vera’s right zoomed in on Kyle as she returned to her feet, hobbling only a little, smiling all the while. The crowd roared with applause.

Vera surveyed the chessboard below her. On their platforms, raised fifty feet in the air, the competitors had a perfect view of the chessboard. Kyle had gone for the dramatic kill, livening the audience up and getting them to cheer louder – and therefore donate more – but her bishops and rooks were scattered about, leaving her king unprotected.

After Vera won her first match, she and Kyle had played chess against each other a few times. They had argued about the best starting moves and about whether the Italian style or Russian style was best. Eventually, their arguments turned into whose bed was more comfortable to sleep in and who was the better kisser.

As Kyle did a small victory dance on her own platform, playing the crowd more than the game, Vera tried not to remember the way Kyle had blushed the first time they’d kissed. She had been shy and hesitant, nothing like the pageantry Kyle was displaying today.

“Stop thinking about her,” Vera whispered to herself. It didn’t matter if the cameras heard her talking. Let them think she was angry that Kyle was celebrating.

Vera forced herself back into the present. She needed to figure out her next move.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes so she could see through her duplicates instead. It was disorienting at first, looking through so many viewpoints at once, but she adjusted quickly. Each of her duplicates turned their head to the right, moving with a mechanical slowness, then to the left, so Vera saw the board from every direction possible.

“There,” she said, as the duplicates faced forward again. “This is how it ends.”

Kyle barely turned away from the crowd as Vera moved her rook to E8. When Kyle predictably took Vera’s knight in the next move, Vera’s lower leg shattered beneath her. She bit the inside of her lip to keep herself from crying out. She tasted blood. There was a sharp pain as the bone pierced through her skin. Vera felt the warmth of her blood as it ran down her leg. She wanted to gasp, to take a deep breath, to breathe through the pain, but she couldn’t. Not when there were this many cameras on her and her mouth was full of blood.

She clenched her fists until it felt like her nails were going to puncture tiny crescents in her palms and kept her eyes on the board. Her bone hadn’t punctured an artery. She was still alive. She could still survive this.

Ignoring the pain in her leg, Vera moved her bishop back, closer to her king, and waited. This time, she watched as Kyle studied the chessboard. The moment Kyle realized what she had to do, she looked Vera dead in the eye.

Vera nodded, answering the question that Kyle couldn’t ask in front of millions of viewers. She wanted to tell her that this was okay. She wanted to be the one to comfort Kyle, for a change, but they were too far apart and the cameras were watching. Vera hoped the nod was sufficient.

Kyle smiled brilliantly for the cameras as she ordered her bishop to take Vera’s queen. For the briefest moment, Vera saw the apology in Kyle’s eyes. And then all she felt was pain.

##

Spots of bright light filled her vision as all of Vera’s ribs broke at once. A screech escaped her lips as she fell to her knees, trying not to fall on the broken bone that already protruded from her calf. Her breathing came fast and hard as she tried to steady herself, but it only made the pain worse as her ribcage fought to expand with every breath.

The crowd had gone silent. Their Ice Queen had broken. The only sounds left in the arena were of the cameras zooming in and flashes going off around her, but Vera barely heard them. She fought to stay present, to keep the memories away, but the pain swallowed her whole.

##

“You little shit, you think you can steal from me!” Vera’s step-dad screamed at her, loud enough that the window panes shook. Vera didn’t have time to brace herself before he slammed his foot into her back, breaking more of her ribs. This wasn’t the first time he’d beaten her, but this was the first time the bastard hadn’t taken off his steel-toed boots.

She cried as her step-father rammed his shoe into her side, again and again, as he demanded where his money had gone. He was too drunk to realize he had spent it all at the bar, but it didn’t matter. He was angry and Vera was the perfect sized punching bag.

He left her, bleeding internally and sobbing, alone on their kitchen floor. Vera heard him storm off to the back bedroom, to take his anger out on Vera’s mother next. Her mother’s screams filled her ears. It was almost worse than the pain in her sides.

When her mother stopped screaming, Vera knew she was dead.

##

“Come on, Vera, you can do better than that!” A girl’s voice. But there weren’t any girls who lived with her step-dad. “What happened to the all-powerful Ice Queen, VERA?”

Vera opened her eyes and found Kyle pacing across the edge of her platform, limping and trailing blood as she walked. Vera focused on the sound of Kyle’s voice as she struggled to bring herself back to the chess game. Her step-father was dead. She had made sure of that. He had deserved to die after he spent years beating her and her mother.

Vera forced herself to kneel on the platform. Blood ran down her sides and back, where her ribs had broken through her skin. Her uniform, black to match her chess pieces, clung to her body as if she’d jumped in a swimming pool. She didn’t know how much blood she had lost, or whether she had internal damage from her ribs exploding, but she knew she was running on borrowed time.

Vera had gone eleven matches without losing her queen, knowing that it would cause her ribs to break. Once, when nearly every bone in Vera’s body had been broken, Kyle had found her in the hospital and asked why she sacrificed her knight instead of her queen. That match would’ve ended much sooner and only one arm would’ve been broken. But some pains were worse than others.

“I’m glad I killed my step-dad for a lot of reasons,” Vera said, as Kyle had held her hand. It had been one of the only parts of Vera’s body that wasn’t bandaged. “But mostly, I’m glad because I got to meet you.”

“Bishop to C4,” Vera said through clenched teeth. She hoped that Kyle could hear the thank you in her words. Thank you for bringing me back.

As Vera’s bishop took Kyle’s rook, her arm twisted backwards and she screamed, clutching her bicep. Contestants were allowed to stifle bleeding with their hands or pressure from other body parts, but not their clothing. If Kyle’s brachial artery had been hit, they would only have a minute or two left.

“Pawn to F4,” Kyle said. She smiled through the pain for the crowd, but Vera could tell she was barely holding herself together. She made eye contact with Vera, and she understood. The match was nearing its end.

Vera moved her knight next, trapping the white king in. “Check.”

The pair went back and forth, spitting their next moves almost as fast as the other could say them, as Kyle tried to save her king. Vera wanted to do this forever, so that the match would never end, but that was impossible. One of them was going to bleed out in a few minutes. The edges of Vera’s vision were already going dark.

“Pawn to H3,” Kyle said, tears running down her face as she blocked Vera’s check. She was lying on her right side, pinning her arm against the floor, trying to cut off the circulation in any way possible.

“Rook to A2. Check.” Vera tried not to think about what would happen if Kyle stopped moving her king out of harm’s way. Every time she placed her in check, Vera’s heart clenched in panic.

“King to H2.”

Vera stared at Kyle. She wanted to hold her, to wipe her tears away, to kiss her. Anything to make her pain lessen and for this match to be over. But that wasn’t possible. If either girl stepped off their platform, they forfeited immediately. The warden would kill her before she could step onto the chessboard.

“Bishop to C5. Check.”

“King to F1.” Kyle’s voice was fading. Vera wanted to scream. She’d lost too much already. She didn’t want to lose Kyle too.

Vera knew she was dying. None of her arteries had burst, but she knew there had to be some internal bleeding. She was losing feeling in her fingers and toes and her lightheadedness was impossible ignore. She had lost too much blood.

One of them had to survive. One of them had to make it out of this prison. Kyle had made her promise as much last night.

“Don’t you dare give up,” she had whispered, holding Vera’s face so that she couldn’t look away. “If you can win that game, I want you to do it. Don’t think about what it will do to me. Think about being free. The life you can have outside of this place. I want you to live for me, Vera.”

Stay conscious, Vera told herself. She couldn’t win, couldn’t keep her promise, if she passed out. At the very least, this would be the last time that she would ever see Kyle.

“Knight to C3,” Vera said. “Check.”

“King to C1.” Kyle’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the microphones around the platform picked it up. Her words echoed around the arena. Vera’s heart stopped.

Kyle didn’t stop crying, but the look she gave Vera was full of love and hope. I love you, Kyle mouthed at her. She smiled. Not the brilliant, all-teeth, pageantry smile that she gave the cameras. This one was small and shy. The way she smiled right before she kissed Vera. Vera’s vision had almost gone completely dark, but she still saw it. Somehow, she managed to smile back.

“Rook to C2.” Vera said, not looking away from Kyle’s eyes. “Checkmate.”

Then her whole world went black.

—————————————————- Christie O. Hall spent 2015 writing a short story every week. While she still writes short stories, these days she spends her time reading, cosplaying, and dreaming of the day she can move to Scotland. She lives in Kansas with her dog.

Christie is one of five guests participating in 2016 The Hanging Garden showcase of aspiring authors. Each of the five aspiring authors will contribute a story to the five story cycles of the year. The next prompt begins on Monday!

Follow Christie here: Instagram | Tumblr | Twitter

[christieohall]

I’m SO excited for everyone to finally read this story! A HUGE thank you to all of The Hanging Garden members and my fellow aspiring authors for all of your help and support! I’m honored to have my story posted alongside yours. :)

[christieohall]

Fallen Angel

I tried to hack off my wings with a pair of kitchen shears, because they were the only sharp object we had in the house. Dad had taken all of the knives and blades away after he found me lying in a pool of my own blood on the bathroom floor.

 Kitchen shears, it turns out, were pretty worthless at cutting through bone.

 --

 My wings folded around my torso, so closely pressed to my skin that you could barely see the outline of them when I wore a t-shirt. In the winter, they provided enough insulation that I barely needed a coat; Of course, I kept wearing one for appearances sake.

 Not that that mattered anymore. Not after Lily Peterson kissed me, pushing me against the wall and sliding her hands up my shirt. Not once the entire school knew I was a freak and the wings were real instead of tattoos.

 “Your wings are a gift from God,” my mother said. She repeated this daily, despite the fact that her words made acid crawl up my throat and scald everything inside me.

 --

 When the scissors didn’t do their job well enough, I went straight to the source and plucked out every feather. It hurt like the way plucking your eyebrows hurt. This time, I stayed in my room. I liked the idea of my mother having to pick feathers out of the shag carpeting.

 When I was done, I grabbed the end of one wing, now a sharp piece of bone, and twisted. I wanted to break them off my back in tiny pieces and crush them to dust under my feet.

 Your finger will break with the same amount of force needed to snap a carrot in two. What was left of my wings was the same size as a small tree branch.  I hadn’t planned ahead well enough to have kept a hammer in my room.

 “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans,” I said, my voice high and jittery like my mother.

 I collapsed face-down on my bed. I didn’t want to feel my wings against my skin.

 --

 Predictably, my mother was horrified the next day when she found my room covered in feathers. She spent an hour lecturing me, quoting scripture the whole time, while she painstakingly disentangled feathers from the carpet fibers.

 “You should be thankful. You’re His little angel here on Earth. You could do so much good.”

 I shifted in my chair, the bones of my wings pressing against my ribcage. Dozens of replies flitted through my brain, but none were sharp enough to say. I bit my tongue instead.

 When she was gone, I pulled my wings around to look at them. I thought that maybe, if I had a better look at them, I could figure out a way to destroy them. My mind drifted to thoughts of Lucifer, the first fallen angel, and I suddenly had a better idea.

 --

 I asked Lily Peterson to meet me out behind the gym, not far from the smoker’s den, a few weeks later. I was surprised when she turned the corner and leaned up against the wall next to me.

 “Did you invite me out here to make out again?” Lily asked, swinging her white-blonde hair over her shoulder. “Because if so, I’ve got some bad news for you. No one wants to kiss a chicken.”

 She laughed quietly at her own joke, but she didn’t move to leave.

 I stood up and shrugged out of my jacket. “Actually, I wanted you to be the first one to see my new wings.”

 I stretched them out as far as they would go, trapping Lily against the side of the building. The afternoon sun hit my new feathers just right, so they glinted and reflected in the light. I picked this spot just for this reason. It was worth it, to see Lily’s jaw drop.

 She didn’t speak as she walked to me, her hands reaching for my new wings. She gasped as her fingers grazed my new feathers and they drew blood.

 I grabbed Lily’s wrists before she could pull away from me. “Do you like them? I think they match the new me much better than those silly feathers did, though it took me ages to put them together.”

 My wings, which were once soft and comforting, were now sharp and cunning. I had replaced each feather with a knife blade, sharpened to cause as much damage as possible. They were my armor. My weapons. My freedom.

 I used my wing to push Lily’s white-blonde hair away from her face and tuck it behind her ear. A line of blood followed my path, but to Lily’s credit, she didn’t cringe. I kissed the top of her head before releasing her. I grabbed my jacket and walked away. Past the gym, past the school grounds, past the edges of town.

 It didn’t matter where my feet took me, as long as it was away from this town. I had plenty of work to do in this world.

 I thought of my mother and my head fell back, a cackle escaping my lips. God should have learned millennia ago about what happens when fallen angels walk the Earth.

[christieohall]

The Most Dangerous Thing

Jayden cursed the hole in the roof. Not because it let the cold, humid air in, or because it meant the roof was likely to spring another leak any moment, but because she had to put a metal pot – the only container remaining in this abandoned house – underneath it.

 Ting. Ting. Ting.

 The water droplets pinging against the pot were by far the worst torture of the evening. Jayden hadn’t slept in over two days, unwilling to lower her guard out in the open. The old house was deep in the woods, covered in vines, and in desperate need of an exterminator, but it was better than nothing. She had boarded up the windows and barricaded the doors with what little furniture was left in the house. It was good enough for her to get a couple hours of shut eye, or it would be if it weren’t raining.

 Ting. Ting. Ting.

 She was going to knock the damn pot over and let the water seep deeper into the floorboards, but thought better of it. The floor was questionable to begin with. She didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night to find that it had given out beneath her.

 Ting. Ting. Silence.

 Jayden was on her feet, knife in hand, in an instant. She could still hear the rain hitting the rooftop. For the thousandth time in the last two days, she wished she had had access a flashlight before she escaped.

 “Are you going to join me down here any time soon or do you prefer lurking?” she asked.

 A snap echoed off the walls as a red glowstick fell to the floor, just missing the metal pot. It gave off just enough light for Jayden to watch a figure slide through the hole in the ceiling. Jayden tightened her grip around the knife, hiding it against the side of her leg.

 The figure strolled over to the fireplace and created a small flame within seconds. Once the fire was really going, he pulled the hood off and sat down in front of it, warming himself.

 “There’s no need to be afraid of me. I just wanted out of the rain. I’ll be on my way once the sun comes up.”

 Jayden watched the boy stretch out in front of the fireplace. He curled his arms behind his head and made a noise that was almost snoring.

 “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. His breathing slowed and Jayden could see his body relaxing. She tightened her grip around the knife.

 “How did you find me?”

 The boy barely twitched. “Find you? Honey, I wasn’t looking for anyone. Like I said, I only wanted out of the rain.”

 Jayden moved across the floor as quietly as she could. It was the one downside of sleeping in an abandoned house. She didn’t know its floorboards, its secrets. She hoped the ting, ting, ting of the rain against the metal pot would be distracting enough.

 The floorboards didn’t give her away until she was two steps from the boy. His eyes flew open, but Jayden was on him, pinning down his arms and legs, pushing her knife against his throat, before he could react.

 “How did you find me.” She sounded more like a cobra than a girl.

 The boy pushed back on the knife, letting blood trickle down on the side of his neck. “I told you. I wasn’t looking for you. I don’t even know who you are. But I can promise you that the people who are looking for me are more dangerous than whoever is after you.” His mouth curled into a smile, as if he enjoyed being on the run. Being hunted.

 There were two prisons within a three-day journey from this house. One for boys. One for girls. They were specialized prisons, for the criminals who were too young for maximum security prisons, but too dangerous for juvie.

 Jayden pulled the knife away from his throat. “No one’s hunting me, honey,” she said. “I took care of that already.” She smiled, its edges as sharp as the knife’s blade. “You’re the one who should have been afraid, when you came through that hole in the ceiling.”

 The knife resisted for a fraction of a moment against his skin before it sliced into the boy’s side, between his ribs. Jayden twisted it slightly, making sure she punctured as many internal organs as possible. Death was quicker this way, if you had more places to bleed out from.

 “Teenage girls are the most dangerous thing in the world.”

 She kept him pinned down as he bled out, making sure that he didn’t bleed on her clothing. When he stopped struggling, she dragged his body across the floor and used his shirt to mop up the mess he had left. Then she moved her bed in front of the fireplace, adding the boy’s hoodie to her makeshift blankets.

 The rain had stopped tinging on the bottom of the metal pot. Enough water had collected for the droplets to turn to small plops instead.

 Jayden curled up in her bed and closed her eyes. Finally, she could sleep.

[christieohall]

The Last Bar at the Edge of the World

The Last Bar at the Edge of the World wasn’t technically at the edge of the world, since the planet was round, but it was the last stop for alcohol before travelers reached the swirling black abyss that had appeared in the ground a decade ago. At first, the military had quarantined it and evacuated the surrounding 100 miles, afraid that it was going to grow and swallow up the whole planet. Eventually, the conspiracy theorists started camping out, claiming that a new species was going to use it as a portal and walk through any day now. The government gave up shortly thereafter.

 Today, however, it was a tourist site. A destination for adrenaline junkies. And the most adventurous way to kill yourself since autoerotic asphyxiation.

 Ruby had arrived at The Last Bar at the Edge of the World two hours ago, promptly dropped down $200 in cash, and asked for the full bottle of their best whisky. The bartender had handed her the best bottle her money could buy and turned away.

 Cradling the drink in her hands, she surveys the people around her. The bar is full, but not packed, its occupants ranging from barely old enough to drink to a few who walk with a cane. She laughs when she finds a squirrely type in the corner, pouring over several notebooks and scribbling in another. Some scientist types couldn’t resist the place, no matter how hard they tried.

 A woman slides onto the stool next to her and stares so hard that Ruby was surprised her hair didn’t burst into flame.

 “Sorry, this bottle’s mine.” She tightens her fingers around it, just in case the woman wanted to swipe it from her.

 “I hope you’re not determined to drink alone tonight.” She waves the bartender down and orders a vodka martini. “I hope you don’t find me too forward, but I find you very attractive and I’d hate for you to have to spend your last night on earth alone.”

 Ruby risks a glance at the stranger through her curtain of hair. She’s wearing a tight black dress and her eyes haven’t moved from Ruby’s face.

 “I’m Ruby,” she says. “I’ve been playing a game all night, if you’d like to join me.”

 “Iris. Now, what’s this game you’re playing? How do I win?” There’s a glint in her eyes that makes Ruby feel dangerous. Even more dangerous than sitting in The Last Bar at the Edge of the World.

 “I’ve been studying everyone in this bar and trying to determine what brought them here. Are they going to jump into the abyss tomorrow or are they just here to look at it and hope to see the meaning of life in it?”

 Iris swings in her seat so her feet rest on Ruby’s stool and they’re leaning towards each other. “A fascinating game. I assume we’re not allowed to check with them to find out who the winner is?” At Ruby’s nod, Iris’s mouth splits into a devilish grin. “Guess we’ll just have to find a different way of figuring out a winner then.”

 Ruby ignores the flip her stomach makes and points at the boys in the back of the room. “Them. Here on a spring break trip. At least one of them will go mad. One of them will probably lose their balance and fall in, ruining the trip for the rest of them.”

 Iris clinks her glass against Ruby’s. “Well done. What about that one?” She points at a man at the opposite end of the bar. He’s staring so hard at the bottom of his glass that Ruby thinks he’s considering drowning in it.

 “He’s here to jump, definitely. Based on how his left hand keeps twitching, I’d bet that his wife just left him for another man.”

 “Or a woman.” Iris winks at her at this, and Ruby ducks her head to hide her blush.

 “Your turn,” Ruby says. “What about–”

 “You. I want to guess why you’re here.”

 Ruby pours herself another glass before making eye contact again. Iris waits until she nods before she starts guessing.

 “You’re drinking very expensive whisky, so whatever brought you here wasn’t happy. You’re here to forget something. A broken home? A broken heart? Whatever it was, it’s serious.”

 Ruby finishes her drink and pours another.

 “You’re planning to jump tomorrow, but I don’t think you want to die.”

 “And what makes you think that?”

 Iris scoots forward so that her face is six inches away from Ruby’s. Her fingers rest on the edge of Ruby’s stool, just short of Ruby’s thigh.

 “Because there’s life in your eyes. You’re jumping to find out if it really is a portal. You want to see what happens.”

 Ruby let her gaze drop to the space between them, slowly letting her hand drop until it rests on the hem of Iris’s dress. “Would you like to find out with me?”

 Iris smiles, but there’s no mischievous behind it this time. “I already know what happens next.” She places both hands on either side of Ruby’s face and pulls her closer. They’re a breath away, but Iris doesn’t pull her any closer. She waits, ever so patiently, until Ruby closes the gap between them.

 In the morning, Ruby stands at the edge of the swirling black abyss in front of her, a half-empty bottle of whisky in one hand, and Iris’s hand in the other.

 “If I’m going to die, I’m glad it’s next to someone as attractive as me,” Iris says, squeezing her hand gently.

 Ruby looks at her, her eyes dancing with the same fire that burn in Iris’s.

 “We’re not going to die. We’re going on an adventure.”

 They jump, and for a moment, before the black hole swallows them, Ruby felt alive.

[christieohall]

Not Your Chosen One

The day I was born, my name was written in the stars. As I grew older, the stars changed their shape to reflect my growth. At 5, they depicted a young girl, learning to build new, stronger cities out of blocks. At 10, an athlete training. At 17, a warrior, raising the head of a slaughtered enemy in victory.

Of course, I never did defeat the demon that had been terrorizing our nation. At 11:58 PM, the day before my 18th birthday, I zipped my bag shut, turned off my bedroom light, and climbed out the window, into the wild.

I may have been the Chosen One, the one the stars themselves picked to save this world from Great Evil. But that didn't mean I chose this life. I did not want to die in battle, my glory forever immortalized in the stars. I wanted a different life.

--

At 18, I no longer know what my constellation looks like. The stars no longer shine for me, but I do not turn back.

I determine my own fate. I get to Choose now.

[christieohall]

Snow as Red as Blood

I open the front door of the abandoned cottage to find the ground covered in snow the color of blood. I slam it shut before the sickness can come in, then search my boots, my clothes, and my gear for any other sign of infection.

There's nothing. No blood. No red marks. No hidden charms.

My gear is packed in half a minute and it takes another thirty seconds to wake Lux.

“The land's cursed. We're leaving.”

I don't give her time to see if the sickness followed us through her stuff because neither one of us knows when the snowfall started. The evergreens are already turning brown and the smell of rot hangs in the air. We wrap our scarves around our faces to keep from breathing in the sickness and run.

It takes us almost two days for the snow beneath our feet to turn white and another three hours to cleanse our gear of illness.

“Why here? Why curse this part of the forest? We're nowhere close to the Dead Lands.” Lux's hands are pink from scrubbing her boots in the freezing river. I can tell by the way she's holding them to the fire that they're not warming fast enough for her liking.

“No, this was personal. The Queen finally figured out who stole her ring.” I pull the chain out from under my clothing and flash the ring hanging on it at her. It's a ruby the size of a walnut, flanked by two diamonds.

Lux shakes her head at me. “We're better than common criminals, Raye. We were already running for our lives. Why did you feel the need to up the price on our heads?”

The ruby sparkles in the firelight and I slide it onto my finger, imagining what my life would be like if it were filled with fancy jewelry, lush furs, and five course meals. It's a stark contrast to the dead squirrels lying next to us, waiting to be skinned and roasted.

“I don't think the Queen is going to forget us any time soon. What was one more grievance against her?” I tuck the ring back under my clothes, comforted by the feeling of it settled between my breasts.

After we eat, we lay back in the grass and watch the sky above us. It's a clear night now, but the Queen has the power to summon a snowstorm within minutes. Neither of us thinks slowly decaying to death is a pleasant way to go, so Lux and I take shifts sleeping.

The first time I saw the blood snow, I was eight. Our kingdom was at war and the enemies had been at the city gates. The King and Queen ordered everyone indoors for three days. The snow fell straight from the clouds to the ground, so thick that you couldn't see through it. The smell of rotting flesh haunted the city for weeks afterwards, but the army was dispatched in a matter of hours. No one dared go outside until the three days was up, in case some of the snow had found its way inside the city walls.

The gates remained closed for two weeks, until all of the snow had melted and the Holy Sisters were called to cleanse the land. Even then, all incoming traffic was subject to intrusive searches for any red spots for another month.

The Queen's power was infinite and terrible, but the King never fully trusted her to use it well. He kept the city safe – from the Queen and from outsiders – until his death six months ago. Now, the forests, crops, and unfortunate wanderers were dying of the decay the blood snow caused, all because the Queen trusted her power more than her guards.

She deserved to lose the ring. It was never hers to begin with.

The night passes without incident and Lux and I decide to rest a while longer once the sun rises, while we know there is food nearby and the ground is safe.

“I think we should go to Sevalle,” I say between bites of squirrel.

Lux nearly spits out her food. “Sevalle? As in the kingdom we've been at war with for the last decade? Other than giving the Queen another reason to attack us, what good will that do?”

The ring feels heavy against my chest and I have to force myself not to reach for it.

“There's rumors of a magician in Sevalle. One who could help us defeat the Queen.”

I can see the debate raging in Lux's eyes. She knows I'm right, but she also knows that stepping foot into Sevalle could mean both of our deaths.

“The Queen could just as easily kill us while we're wandering the countryside, looking for our own army recruits,” I say. “At least this way, there's a chance that we could have a fully-trained, and equipped army at our disposal. I don't know about you, but I know nothing about how to train soldiers to fight.”

Lux tosses the bones of her squirrel into the fire. “We've already committed treason. Let's hope the Sevallians will give us a quick death, if they catch us.” We gather our things and head South, towards Sevalle and away from the newly cursed lands behind us.

“A princess and her handmaiden?” I say, clutching my mother's ruby ring beneath my clothing. “At the very least, we'd get a nice audience with the Sevallian king. Maybe he'd be willing to help two traitors after hearing the story of how the rightful queen was murdered and her twin sister took her place without hardly anyone noticing.”

I know Lux is grinning without looking at her. She had been my assigned playmate since I was five years old and grew into the perfect handmaiden. The Queen may have murdered my mother, but she had taken someone from Lux as well.

“I think we're going to need a bath and some nicer clothes before anyone will recognize you as a princess, Your Majesty.”

I don't acknowledge the title, but something flips in my stomach. Instead of the ring that hangs around my neck, I want a crown upon my head.

I am the rightful ruler of my kingdom and I intend to take back my throne.

[hanginggardenstories]

Thank you to everyone for spreading the word about our 2016 Aspiring Author Series! We had loads of applications which made this extremely competitive. It is with great pleasure that we welcome and congratulate…

Claire Biggs aka @theclairebarenecessities China DeSpain aka @chinadespain Amber Gardner aka @ambthecreative Christie O. Hall aka @christieohall Hebah Uddin aka @ramentic

We have one thing to say to each of you…

No no no, we mean….

Kidding. We’re totally kidding. What we actually mean to say is…

And also….

Welcome aboard. :) 

[christieohall]

I’m absolutely delighted to be joining The Hanging Garden team this year as a part of their Aspiring Author series! Now if you’ll excuse me, this will be me for the next few hours:

[christieohall]

Happy 2016!

In light of the new year and my hiatus for the last two months, I’ve decided to pick up where I left off and continue writing short stories throughout 2016. 

Over the last two months, I’ve reflected on my writing goals - both short-term and long term - and discovered that despite the last year, I truly enjoy writing short stories and hope to continue writing them for the foreseeable future.

For 2016, I plan on writing at least TWO short stories each month, always posted right here, by 10 AM CST, on Mondays. The first short story will be posted on the first Monday of each month while the second will be posted on the third Monday of the month. This means that my first new short story of 2016 will be coming this Monday, January 4!

Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me throughout this experiment. As a reminder, you’re always welcome to submit short story prompts through my ask box.

Here’s to a new year, new words, and new adventures!

[hanginggardenstories]

Calling All Aspiring Authors!

The Hanging Garden would like to invite 5 aspiring authors to contribute to the blog this year. Are you unagented? Unpublished? Interested in short fiction? Then we want to feature your fiction in 2016!

Here’s how it’ll work. If you’re selected for one of the 5 guest spots, you will receive the cycle prompt (a GIF, a word, a theme – the same one shared by the rest of THG) precisely two months before your story will be featured on the blog. During that time, The Hanging Garden team will be available for your questions, concerns, and beta reads if desired.

You are eligible if:

you are unagented AND

you are unpublished AND

you have a desire to be both agented and published.

To apply, please send us an email at [email protected] with the following:

your name

your age

your genre and audience of choice (ie YA High Fantasy or MG Contemporary)

your status as an aspiring writer (ie querying, drafting your 3rd novel, gnashing your teeth in a post-NaNo frenzy)

a brief statement of interest – why does The Hanging Garden appeal to you?

a link to your Tumblr

We’ll review submissions and notify you by the end of the year. We have no idea how many submissions to expect so we’ve set up an autorepsonder on the email account. If you get the automated response, your submission has been received and all is well. 

Good luck! We look forward to hearing from you! 

[maggie-stiefvater-deactivated20]

I’ll be teaching writing — or whatever it is that I do between the pages of a book — at this Spring retreat: http://madcapretreats.com/aspiringauthors.html

[madcapretreats]

Looking forward to hosting a workshop on writing or whatever it is Maggie does between pages of a book!

[christieohall]

True story: I attended the 2015 Anatomy of Publishing Workshop put on by Madcap Retreats and it was, hands down, one of the best decisions I’ve made this year. Writing retreats are one of the best things you can do for yourself as a writer.

[christieohall]

The End (For Now)

Thank you to everyone who has followed me for this last year! I am happy to report that as of today, I have officially completed my goal to write a short story every* week for an entire year.

I’m taking the month of November off to start my next novel-length project, inspired by my trip to Scotland this summer. I don’t know if I’ll have a new short story up in November, but I will be back in January! With at least one new short story a month.

*With the exception of one week every month (except October) that I took off to let my brain rest.

[christieohall]

Glenfinnan Bay

On a good day, running down a cliffside was a bad idea. The slate slides underneath your feet and is more likely to break off and send you flying down the side of the hill like a skateboard than to provide traction. The edge is at just the wrong angle that you can’t always see if your next step is reliable or not. And the breeze that comes off the ocean could turn to a huge gust of wind at a moment’s notice.

 Today is not a good day.

 I half ran, half fell down the cliff, praying to whatever god was listening that I would make it to the cave without breaking my neck. I want to grip the locket buried in my pocket for luck, but it’s not there. I left it at the hospital. The rain pours around me, making it difficult to see. The slate rock beneath me could be an ice skating rink and there would have be little difference in its texture.

 Lightning flashes and I’m able to see there are no new obstacles in my way. I hear a scream behind me, but I refused to turn around. One of the men chasing me must have fallen. I focus on my feet, putting one in front of the other, aiming for the secret pathway that I know will carry me to the cave.

 I hope the man fell off the cliff entirely.

 My breath comes in short bursts and the rain turns icy. I can’t feel the rest of my body. I can barely see where I’m going.

 Please don’t fall, please don’t fall, please don’t fall.

 I think of Jordan, lying in a hospital bed, connected to so many machines. I have to believe there’s enough luck in the locket to get him through the night. He has to make it. There is no other option.

 My feet slow, knowing the path to the cliff on their own, even in this horrific storm. I squat down and swing my legs over the edge of the cliff, dangling them precipitously for a few seconds before they find the ledge. The slate crumbles slightly under my feet and my hands let go of the rock above me, startled before I find good footing.

 My body weight swings me onto the slate path, less than a foot wide, and I cling to the cliffside. The rain has soaked through everything I’m wearing and it’s coming down so hard, it’s nearly blinding. I’m sure I’m bleeding somewhere, but I can’t feel it.

 Almost there. Almost there. Just keep moving.

 Too many precious seconds later, I skate around a sharp turn and enter the cave. I force my body to keep moving, to find the flashlight stashed in the cave’s entrance and to search the cave walls.

 “Come on, come on...” I flip over empty crates and fling the picnic blanket from a few weeks ago across the room.

 “Where is it?” I shout and I’m tempted to throw the flashlight across the room. “It should be here!”

 The rain pounds away outside and I can still hear the men shouting to each other. At least I made it here before them.

 “Looking for this?” a voice says.

 I turn and see Mr. Turner standing near the cave’s entrance. He’s as soaked as I am and I don’t know how he made it down here before I did, but it doesn’t matter. Something gold glitters in his hand.

 “Shit,” I say.

 I switch my flashlight off and lunge for him.

[christieohall]

The Weeping Angel

“Why would an angel land here?”

I finished scrubbing the dirt off of the corner of our grandparents' gravestone before turning around to see Jackson staring at the angel. It was perched on a rock, overlooking the entirety of the town cemetery.

No one in town could remember who had built the angel who stood watch over the cemetery, but for good reason. The angel hadn't been carved out of stone like the small cherubs that stood guard over individual graves. No, the angel had flown down from heaven, perched on a bench, and stood perfectly still until its features turned to stone.

But the angel hadn't spoken to everyone so this small detail was known by only the chosen few.

I dropped the sponge I had been using into the soap bucket. “Maybe it thought we needed a little extra protection.”

Jackson danced around like only eight year-old boys with too much energy could.

“Is that why he's so sad? Because it can't protect us?”

I walked over to my little brother and draped my arm over him. A cool autumn breeze ruffled the leaves scattered across the ground and I pulled him closer.

“Why do you think he's sad?”

I focused on squeezing warmth into his arms to distract him from my non-answer.

“Because he's crying,” Jackson said, pointing. He rolled from underneath my grasp and ran up to the base of the statue. I followed, more slowly, as the hill was steep and covered in loose leaves.

The angel had always looked a little mournful, probably because it had chosen to land in a small town where nothing ever happened. But today, there was water running down its cheeks.

“I don't think it's crying. I think it's still drying from the rain we got last night.”

Jackson bounded up to the angel and promptly climbed into its lap.

“Buddy, get down from there. You'll hurt yourself.”

He pulled an old, wadded-up tissue out of his pocket and moved to wipe away the angel's tears. I moved to stand behind him, to keep him from falling, and ended up staring straight into the angel's eyes.

It didn't blink or move suddenly. It didn't begin speaking in my head. But I did feel something, deep in my soul, where all of my deepest wants and needs existed. It tugged on my heart, making me feel the same sorrow and frustration that the angel felt as it watched over our town.

A soft touch on my cheek brought me back to the present. Jackson stood on the angel's lap, with one hand on my shoulder to steady himself, wiping away my tears that had not been there a minute ago.

“Macie, why are you crying? Did the angel make you sad too?”

I wrapped my arms around my little brother and pulled him tight, sliding him off of the angel's lap. It no longer cried, but its expression didn't change.

“Yeah, Jackson. The angel made me sad.”

“It made me sad too.”

I took his hand in mine as we walked back to our grandparents' graves. I picked up the cleaning supplies I had been using, made sure the fresh flowers had water, and we walked back to the car.

“Could we come back and bring the angels cookies tomorrow? Mom gives me cookies when I'm sad.”

I squeezed my little brother's hand as I fought back a new onslaught of tears.

“I don't think tears will help this time, buddy.”

“Then what can we do? I don't want him to be sad.”

We climbed into the car and I helped Jackson buckle properly into his carseat. We were almost home before I had an answer.

“We can keep visiting it. So it knows its not alone.”

“I'll bring my teddy bear next time, so he doesn't have to be alone.”

I suppressed a laugh at the thought of an angel cuddling a teddy bear, but I would never tell Jackson it was a bad idea. After all, sometimes it was nice to have something soft and warm to hold.

[christieohall]

Cinderella’s Daughter

My velvet dress had been heavy since the moment I put it on but now, sitting on the throne at the front of the ballroom, it weighed half a ton. It had been designed to be regal and elegant, to make my fifteen year old frame look like it could run a kingdom convincingly.

Without a king at my side, however, some would never believe me worthy.

“A ball will be a fantastic opportunity for you to meet eligible suitors,” my advisors had said. Still in the throes of grief, I had agreed, not recognizing all of the work that would go into the ball.

Hundreds of people from all over the kingdom bowed as I took my seat on the throne. Thousands more waited outside for their opportunity to meet the newly crowned queen. The ball, it turned out, was less of an opportunity to meet suitors and more of an engagement party.

The kitchens were stocked with enough food for the ball to last a month. All other duties had been swept aside. The ball would continue each night until I had found a new king, a stipulation that had been added in without my knowledge.

“You can't expect me to find a future kind and husband with just one dance.” I paced in front of my councilmen, my skirts swishing around me.

Several of the elderly men had stopped paying attention the moment it was clear that I was not perfectly acquiescing. I had plans to replace them, but no Parliament would convene until after the ball. I wanted to strangle them all.

“Your parents fell in love at first sight,” Bernard, my head advisor said. “Your father was so entranced with her after one dance that he spent weeks searching the entire kingdom from her.”

I tuned him out, having heard the story of my mother's lost slipper a million times.

I was too practical to suspect my own happily ever after from one night of dancing.

The music swelled and I was allowed to greet a few friends and close allies before I was forced to take the dance floor. Dozens of young men stepped forward, bowed before me, and offered their hands. The ones who stood out were not for good reasons. Sweaty palms, stepping on my toes, a uniform that wasn't tailored correctly.

More than once, I excused myself to use the ladies room to escape the next suitor. When the Prince of Denmark approached, I barely said the word “refreshment” before I ran off the dance floor. Ladylike behavior or not, I would not sacrifice my dignity to dance with the sleaziest man in court.

The clock chimed midnight and the night's festivities ended. My shoulders were stiff from the weight of my dress, but I knew this was only the beginning. I was determined to make this ball last so long that my advisors would be forced to call it off.

–

The next night, I was determined to dance with as few suitors as possible. My tactics lasted half the night before my head advisors caught on to my new need to “powder my nose” or get a new “refreshment.”

“Your majesty, I must insist that you spend more of your time dancing and less time gossiping with the other women at court. If you need refreshments, we can arrange small breaks between you and some of the men.”

I protested. “You cannot expect me to give up all of my queenly duties in an attempt to find a suitor. Meeting with the women in court is an important part of ruling.”

“I am very well aware, Your Majesty,” Bernard said, his voice just short of condescending. “There will be plenty of time to speak with the ladies in court during the daytime. During the ball, we'd like you to meet with your potential kings instead.”

This argument went on for a while, but Bernard was insistent, regardless of the fact that I was queen. He was more stubborn than I was and I believed that my parents' untimely death had instilled in him a great fear of being without an heir. Even though I couldn't marry until I was sixteen, a royal wedding would take months of preparation. In Bernard's eyes, even if I found a suitor tonight, I would be close to seventeen before I was married, leaving almost two years of uncertainty before we had an heir.

Bernard stayed within earshot for the entirety of the ball that night. More than once, he escorted a suitor to me, perfectly timed so that he could ask for my next dance. By the end of the night, I was exhausted, over-socialized, and unsure if keeping this up for months would kill me.

After a full week of nightly balls, Bernard let us have a night off. Not one of my suitors stood out to me, unless it was for appalling manners. Many of them were perfectly nice or good-looking. A few were even charming. Unfortunately, none of them gave off the spark that all the stories talked about when two characters fell in love.

“Please, Your Majesty. I know this is tiring, but you must try. Last night, you barely looked any of your suitors in the eye, let alone spoke to them. I know you are opposed to marrying, but this isn't about you. This is about doing what is best for your kingdom.”

Bernard's words hung in my ears for the entire night as I sat by the fire and thought about the night my parents fell in love. Even if my parents hadn't met and fell in love that night, my father would have chosen someone to marry. Royal families must have an heir.

I stared into the fire until the early hours of morning before I made a promise to myself to try.

–

Even as I made a point to look each suitor in the eye and make good conversation, a dance did not prove to be enough time to find a future king. There was a big difference between making a good first impression and being a person I would want to spend the next fifty years next to. I knew that a royal marriage didn't have to be one of love, but I didn't want to end up despising my future husband. Or worse, being annoyed by him.

When Bernard found me at the end of the second week of balls, I had a proposal ready.

“I'll give you until the end of this month and then we won't have any more balls.”

“But Your Majesty–”

“No buts. There will be no more balls after one month. First of all, they're exhausting. Second, they're going to bankrupt us. And lastly, we're going to start hosting small dinner parties instead. You can invite 10 of the suitors to dinner each night, which will give me an opportunity to have proper conversation with each and see how they interact with other members of court.”

Bernard considered this for a long while. Marriages had been arranged through balls for the better part of a century. Breaking tradition in this way would send a message to the rest of the kingdom, and it may not be seen as a good one.

“Until the end of the month,” he said, and left the room.

–

At the end of the third week, I wore a silky white fitted dress, in hopes that looking bridal-esque would entice true love's spark. I was not optimistic, but knowing that I only had a little over a week's left of balls before the dinners started, I was determined to see them through.

I made it through several dances with potential suitors without having my toes stepped on. Surprisingly, this had become the most common occurrence during these balls and I had had my shoes reinforced around the toes in order for me to dance all night.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty.”

I turned to find a young man, slightly older than the rest, bowing before me. A smile tugged on the corner of his lips as he stood.

“I know that it is custom for me to ask you to dance, but I'd rather ask you for a walk around your gardens. It is a beautiful night out.”

Surprised at this change of events, I nodded and took his arm. He led me through the ballroom, directly passed Bernard, who looked about to stop me until he saw me on the arm of a gentleman. Eyes followed us as we walked through the crowd and I directed us through a small passageway that was not open to the public, hoping to keep others from following us.

“I can't imagine how exhausting this must be for you,” he said. Once outside, he shrugged off his coat and draped it around my shoulders. It was warm from his body heat and I enjoyed how his shirt was crisp and fitted as it should be.

“Have you not been to the balls every night? I imagine it is exhausting for everyone.”

We meandered through the rose garden, the moon bright enough to light our way. For the first time in three weeks, I was comfortable.

“I arrived a few nights ago. I'm on temporary leave from the military. Captain William Price, at your service.” He bowed again, this time letting his smile spread across his face. I was surprised to find myself returning it.”

“Thank you for your service, Captain. And for giving up your leave to be here.”

Captain Price's head fell back as he let out a hearty laugh and shook his body. Without knowing what he was really laughing at, I joined in, unable to avoid its contagiousness.

“I'd rather be here than at the front lines any day.”

We walked all the way around the garden path, talking of our lives, our likes, and what we imagined our futures to look like.

“Did you always imagine having a month's worth of balls?” he asked. We had turned a corner and could see the doors back to the ballroom, but I wasn't ready to go back in yet.

“I imagined many balls, but never back-to-back like this.” I sat on a nearby bench and was pleased when Captain Price sat next to me, close enough that I could feel his body heat. “What I didn't imagine was how poor of a dancer everyone would be. My poor toes.”

He laughed at this again and I could feel his body shake the whole bench. For the first time in three weeks, the ridiculousness of the past month came into focus. Who wanted to spend every night for a month at balls, just for a chance to have one dance with the queen? I wasn't the only one in the kingdom who had put her duties on hold.

“I am glad then,” Captain Price said, taking my hands in his, “that I knew my own limits and asked you on a walk instead of a dance then. I'm afraid I would have only damaged your toes more.”

I looked into his eyes and saw the twinkle of blue in them that the military had not destroyed and my heart danced. I wanted to spend the rest of the night on this bench, sitting next to him, and the rest of the ball forgotten.

Captain Price's hands tightened against mine as he leaned in close to brush his lips against mine. It was the barest touch, but it spread fire across my skin and butterflies danced in my stomach. I breathed in his scent, wanting to remember every detail of this moment.

“Your Majesty,” a voice said. I opened my eyes to see Bernard standing a few feet away, close enough to have seen everything. “I don't mean to interrupt, but there are many other guests waiting for you inside.”

Captain Price pulled his hands away and moved to stand, but I caught his sleeve.

“You can send them all home, Bernard. There will be no more balls after tonight.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Bernard said. When he left, I was still holding on to Captain Price's sleeve as he stood next to the bench. A minute later, he hadn't moved.

I stood and pulled his coat off of my shoulders.

“I'm sorry if that was presumption of me. I should have, of course, asked for your agreement first. I see that I have made a mistake.” I handed him his jacket back and turned to try to catch Bernard before he made the announcement.

Before I made it ten feet, the captain stood before me, his eyes wide and his hands facing up, as if he were trying to calm down a wild animal.

“Please, Your Highness, I meant no offense. I was merely caught off guard.” His jacket was still balled in one hand as he bent down on one knee before me and held out his free hand.

“Stop,” I said, and Captain Price's hand fell. “I don't want a proposal.”

Slowly, Captain Price raised his head until his gaze met mine. “And what, my queen, would you like instead?”

I stepped forward, cupping his face in both of my hands. His cheeks were rough with stubble but I felt only warmth. “I would like to have dinner with you. Tomorrow night. And the next night. And every night after that, until I feel like I know you well enough to be your wife.”

His eyes twinkled again as his hands wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer.

“Or until you fall in love?” he said, his lips splitting in a mischievous grin.

I tried pulling away, but the captain's hands held firm.

“I'm afraid that if you're waiting for love before a proposal, I could ask you to marry me right now. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you.”

He stood so our bodies were inches apart. I shivered, but I didn't know if it was because of the cold or because of Captain Price's words. Regardless, his jacket was draped around my shoulders in a matter of moments.

“Let's have dinner at least once before we announce our engagement then. I'd like to keep up appearances, even if it's only for one day.”

Captain Price swept me into his arms and kissed me again, this time making my whole body go weak. A bad posture for a queen to have, but acceptable with her king standing next to her.

We returned to the now empty ballroom and I demanded a dance.

“If you promise you'll still love me when I step on your toes.”

My father loved my mother even when she fled his ball, without even telling him her name. I could handle a few sore toes.

“I promise.”