There is an unpleasant smell in the garden; something not wholly subsumed by the freshly turned gravel and the scattered wood chips. An unfamiliar flower, perhaps, though to the Fulminous Princess’s practiced nose it has more in common with the exercise of power. She’d never thought that the stories about saint-sworn nuns were true, but …
(this is the fourth part of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) The forest floor is cool against Claire’s cheek, sun-warmed ground no match for the fearful heat radiating from every inch of her body. Her wounds burn, sharp and dripping; her eyes brim with tears and her unwise fingers still clutch the flower. Yellow and gold rise around her like a buzzing tide, each little bee-body blazing like a jewel in the sun’s bright light—a mob nerving itself for the first strike, eagerly awaiting the violence that will follow as soon as some brave soul gives the rest permission— ...
(this is the third part of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) That was a mistake. What was she thinking? She hasn’t yet brought herself to drop the flower—could she even if she wanted to? Its broken stem oozes with something that’s not honey, sticky and warm against her sweaty fingers, gripping tight— Claire’s heart pounds in her ears, beating in tune with her frantic footfalls, each step crushing insects and leaves alike beneath her filthy shoes; she’s making noise, so much noise, enough to scare off all the forest’s creatures and quiet their sounds— ...
(this is the second part of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) Breakfast is icy. There’s something wrong with the house, something beyond the crushed lawn and torn siding outside. Claire struggles to swallow half-frozen scrambled eggs and too-chunky orange juice; her parents don’t fair much better. Finally, finally, she reaches the end of her mandatory presence (denoted by her father getting up to do the dishes, and her mother receding into her morning emails). Neither of them notice when she leaves. They never do. ...