Belinda

Belinda arrived in London at the end of August, telling her parents it was just for a fun trip abroad before college started. She knew there would be others heading to King’s Cross on September 1st. It had become a pilgrimage of sorts for fans – and this year was special. This year was the “Nineteen years later” date J.K. Rowling had written about.  She knew when she showed up, there would be people she knew there, if not by face, then by screen name.

She wasn’t even the biggest fan, it had been William who drove her crazy with Potter facts and showing her what he’d found online everyday, it was William who brought her into this online community. William who wouldn’t be with her.

 

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The Council of Literary Heroines

Norah believed that stories were true. She grew up reading and read her way through school, all the way through university. Once she graduated, she wanted to write stories. That was all she wanted to do. So she wrote. Or at least she tried to write. Mostly she read books that were like the ones she wanted to write, she read books about how to write, and she browsed Creative Writing courses online, but was too afraid to actually sign up for one. She fell into the life that so many artists fall into: that of the minimum wage job. She had to work so many hours to afford her rent and food that eventually she wrote less and less, and the stories she read became more like escapes from her reality than realities in and of themselves.

 

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A Relationship, In Text Messages

Had a great time last night. 🙂

Me too. 🙂

I don’t want to be weird, but I’d love to see you again. Coffee sometime?

I’d love that.

 

Hey babe, miss you

Miss you too. Three weeks feels so long.

I know.

I just want to jump through my phone to see you

That would be amazing.

We’ll make it, right?

Of course we will. Amor vicit omnia.

Nerd.

Geek.

Love you.

<3

 

Hey, it’s today!

I can’t wait. 🙂

I thought you were going to sleep in! I didn’t wake you up, did I?

No, I’m too excited to sleep.

Me too. Wanna make out?

Yes, but I’m pretty sure someone would notice if I took the car. 😛

I’m outside. 😉

OMG. I’ll be right there.

 

Running late

Thx

 

Need anything?

Milk

K

 

Where the hell are you?

Sorry, I’m outside

Are you coming?

Be right there

 

Getting coffee. Want one?

God yes

 

You left your fucking underwear on the floor again.

Sorry babe

Don’t call me babe. I’m pissed off at you.

Love you babe

Fuck off. I love you too.

 

Seriously, where are you?

Sorry, running late

You can’t be running late. You were supposed to be home an hour ago. I need you here now.

Still wrapping up

Wrapping up work? Or wrapping up with some chick?

FFS, wrapping up work.

You’re late every day. What am I supposed to think?

You’re supposed to trust me.

I trust you to get home when you say you will.

You know it’s crazy here right now.

You fucking forgot, didn’t you?

Shit.

Yeah, shit.

Fuck. I’m so sorry.

Not good enough.

I’m leaving now.

It’s too late, they gave away our reservation. My fucking mascara is ruined anyway.

I’m really sorry, babe.

Don’t fucking call me babe, asshole.

I’ll be home in 10.

Whatever.

 

Hey babe

What

Love you

To The Sea

And the day came when at last she took to the sea.

She stood in the prow, spray in her face, hair streaming out behind her, a proud warrior filled with purpose and strength. Behind her, the fortress lay wasted, men lying on the sand, calling and crying for her to come back, to turn, to acknowledge them in some way.

“We did this for you!” they cried. “We are broken here because of you!”

But she would not turn. She faced the wild unknown, the open ocean, dreams ahead of her and nightmares behind.

She would not go back to that land, where she was expected to stay in her tower, to stay pure and perfect and never age, never fail, never cease to do the things asked of her. She would find a new land.

She had heard stories ever since she was a child, stories of a land where a woman could be free. The stories were myth, untrue, only told under cover of darkness to women and children. Only told to the weak.

But the stories gave her strength. They brought a fierce light to her eyes and a new vigour to her muscles as she laid her plans.

They laughed long after she was gone. She was held up as an example. Her fate was that of one who heard fairy stories and believed them. She was a freak, a Jezebel, a betrayer.

Those she left behind never heard from her again. No one learned whether or not she found the mystical land of freedom, or whether she drowned alone at sea, her hair tangling in the seaweed and her body becoming food for carnivorous sea-beings.

But the young girls of the land she had left told new stories. They told stories of the woman who had single-handedly torn down her pedestal, her tower, her prison. How she left men bleeding and calling for her. How she revealed that there were deep cracks in the way they understood the world. In some stories, her ship was torn apart by storm and she was transformed into a mermaid, a symbol of the freedom that comes in death. In others, she survived, she found the new world, and she lives there still as an equal to all.