by Mia Taylor
At least this time I didn’t do anything wrong.
“I implore you to call the police,” Bea replied haughtily. “I’ll wait right here.”
The girl and the woman had a staring contest for what felt like an eternity to Fallon, but it was clear to see the blonde was losing her nerve against the super-composed Beatrice.
“You can tell them that Beatrice Wexley is standing in a store she owns, being threatened by a clueless millennial,” Beatrice continued. Fallon’s chin jerked upward to read the look on the barista’s face and realized that Beatrice was speaking the truth.
“Oh my God!” Britta squeaked. “I—I am so sorry, Ms. Wexley! I had no idea—”
“Obviously,” Beatrice sighed. “Now, will you stop being a brat and ring up our order?”
“Yes, ma’am! I’m sorry!” she blubbered. “If I had known—it’s just that woman—”
“That woman,” Bea spat, “happens to be a very dear friend of mine. Apologize to her at once!”
Britta’s face turned waxen, her jaw gaping slightly as she realized that disobeying the CEO would result in her dismissal.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed, her tone barely audible.
“I didn’t hear you. Fallon, did you hear her?”
“Yes,” Fallon said quickly, averting her eyes. It wasn’t her way to stick it to the blonde, no matter how much she might deserve it.
Beatrice eyed her high school friend worriedly.
“Fine. Ring it up.”
Britta swallowed visibly, miserably adhering to Bea’s instructions as Fallon reluctantly shuffled forward to rejoin her.
“I didn’t realize you owned this chain,” Fallon murmured as they took their number and wandered toward a table near the back of the shop. She idly wondered if that was the reason that she always returned to the café, as if some sixth sense was guiding her toward a lost sense of community with one of the only people who had ever shown her kindness.
Bea chuckled dryly.
“How would you? I haven’t seen you in years.”
They sat, facing one another for a silent moment, Fallon searching for something to say to her benefactor.
“I’m sorry,” they blurted out in unison. Fallon looked at Bea in surprise.
“Why are you sorry?” Fallon asked in disbelief. “You just stuck up for me against Britta!”
Bea grimaced at the mention of the girl’s name but she shook her short hair.
“I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner, Fallon. It wasn’t for lack of trying, I assure you.”
A mirthless smile touched Fallon’s lips.
“What good what that have done?”
“Well, I suppose I would have been able offer you a job that much sooner then.”
Fallon gaped in shock.
“What?” she mumbled. “Why? I’m not qualified to do anything at all.”
Bea’s smile widened and for the first time ever, Fallon noticed a gleaming set of eyeteeth which seemed more fang than tooth.
“You sell yourself short. I remember how smart you were in high school. You can put your mind to anything.”
Fallon wasn’t sure she shared Bea’s confidence, but she didn’t want to seem petulant, lest the offer was genuine.
“Why would you do that for me?” she murmured, uncomprehendingly.
“Because that’s what friends are for,” Bea replied and for some reason, Fallon was filled with a great sense of unease.
Chapter Two
Life Before Daniel
It was surreal to Fallon but as the days passed, she slowly became aware of the fact that she was not, in fact, hallucinating. It had happened before, after all, when she had been so malnourished, the hours would blur into a haze of nothingness until she finally managed to sustain herself in some way.
How many times have I gotten through life by the skin of my teeth? Fallon thought. Could that struggle actually be behind me?
The week following Beatrice’s unexpected arrival in her life was unlike anything Fallon had known. For all the terrible experiences she had endured in her twenty-four years, she had never known kindness like that which Beatrice had bestowed upon her.
It felt too good to be true, but Fallon desperately tried not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She had known Bea for years, even if they had fallen out of touch. She had no reason to think warily of her old friend, but as she stood in her new apartment, scared to touch the stainless-steel appliances, her gut instinct told her that the gift horse was one of a Trojan variety.
From the depth of her handbag, a cell phone rang and Fallon started, still not used to the foreign sound of the electronics which belonged to her. For five years she had lived minute to minute in the same clothes. She could barely remember how to answer the phone, let alone understand the apps and gadgets which came with it.
I really am like a primitive animal, she thought, slightly disgusted with herself as she reached into the purse. There was only one person with the number but Fallon found herself staring at the screen in fascination as Bea’s face illuminated the screen.
“How’s it going?” Bea chirped. “Hungry?”
As soon as the words left Bea’s lips, Fallon’s stomach growled. She chuckled slightly.
“I guess I am,” she replied.
“Good. I’m sending a car for you. You’ll come to my place. I’m having a shindig.”
“A shindig?” Fallon mumbled, the two syllables rolling around in her ears like a foreign language.
“A party, a get-together,” Bea replied, her smile overtaking the screen. “You know.”
“Oh…” Fallon sighed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Bea…”
“Why not? Did Maurice not get you everything you need? I am going to kill that man—”
“No, no!” Fallon protested. “My wardrobe is overflowing.”
And it was. There were pants, shirts, skirts, blouses, suits and dresses until kingdom come. Accessories lined the huge dresser top and Fallon was sure if she lived to be a hundred, she would never wear everything that filled the walk-in closet of the two-bedroom condo in which Bea had set her up.
“Then what’s the problem?” the CEO demanded, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “There are some people I want you to meet.”
There was the problem—meeting other people. Even if her hair was clean and freshly styled into a flattering layered cut around her high cheekbones, Fallon was still a socially inept homeless girl in her own mind. What could she possibly have in common with a bunch of socialites and businessmen? She was having a hard enough time working in the quiet back offices at Ambrosia Inc. where Bea had her filing and learning data entry.
“When you get your bearings among the paperwork,” Bea promised her, “we’ll get you something in a higher paygrade. Think of this as starting in the mailroom.”
Fallon did not understand why Bea was going out of her way to help her, but she dared not bring it up again. She got the feeling that her gratitude was annoying her new/old friend.
“I—of course I’ll come,” Fallon offered breathlessly, determined not to offend Bea. “What time?”
“The car will be in the lobby at eight. It’s not too formal, don’t worry.”
Bea was gone before Fallon could speak again and the brunette stared at the phone blankly after the call disconnected.
Reluctantly, she set the device on the table and turned back to stare at the apartment, again wondering what she had done to be in the right place at precisely the right time.
Did Bea simply take pity on me or was she truly looking for me? I imagine my face must have been on the surveillance cameras at the coffeehouse and if she was truly searching for me, she might have seen me there. But that seems so farfetched, especially for a simple act of kindness.
For her part, Bea never mentioned Fallon’s situation, not once. She didn’t seem to acknowledge that her school chum was homeless or that anything about their relationship had changed despite not having seen one anoth
er in years.
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Found by Kalgrin
Slave to the Dragons
Chapter One
Anya hated working on the plantations. She hated every single cotton plant she saw, and the wheat fields she needed to scythe through – but so did every human in this place. The only thing everyone hated more than the bone-breaking work, the relentless sun beating on them from above, and the muddy ditches from when the rains fell – were their overlords.
In this world, in this place, being a human meant a life sentence. An overseer passed the group of humans working now, a bored look on his face, steely gray eyes scouring for signs of slacking. Inside his human exterior lay a monster. A great, fanged and wingless serpent which looked down on all humans it enslaved – a wyrm. They saw humans as stupid, lazy, and disposable, and Anya couldn’t remember a time when the wyrms hadn’t been in power. Her grandpa spoke of his grandma talking about the cruel treatment from their masters. They spoke of how one step out of line might get you beaten to death – and skies forbid you were an attractive woman.
Anya did everything in her power to look ugly, and so did the other women in her plantation. The foolish and vain ones got taken first, to be tossed about in the lordling’s quarters like a doll.
If she got pregnant as well – that meant instant execution. Wyrms didn’t want their DNA mixing with lower caste humans. Didn’t stop them fucking around with women, though. Anya smeared mud on her face, kept her bucket washes to a minimum, let her hair grow untidy and unkempt, and always slouched and hooded her eyes. She also pulled peculiar expressions whenever a wyrm addressed her, though sometimes it got her whipped. Under the advice of her mother as well, she bound her breasts, which had started inconveniently erupting out of her chest at the age of thirteen.
“You hafta reduce all signs you’re a fertile, pretty woman,” Kendra would say, perhaps while stuffing wild, repugnant-smelling garlic inside her daughter’s mouth. “Can’t be taking any risks. Don’t want you being taken like my last one.”
Last one. Humans tried to have as many children as possible because they knew most of them would die. Anya’s oldest sister got taken when she was eleven and never returned. Her young brother died of the illness that ravaged the serf village just outside the plantation, which made the gracious Lord Osmer whip his serfs even harder to get the harvest produce he required. Now Anya’s family – five children, including her – worked extra hard to help provide for their single remaining grandfather. The youngest, of course, couldn’t work, but the six- and eight-year-olds could. If the wyrms found out about Grandpa Horace no longer being fit for work, however, he’d also die.
She never knew her father, because people often didn’t form relationships, unless they were determined to risk loss for the sake of love. Her mother didn’t mind. It was their way, the way of many men and women here, but the ones who stuck together were treated with grudging respect. The ones who lost, however, broke down the hardest. You saw enough people grinding their knuckles into the dust, their eyes bloated out from tears, to know the costs.
Their masters, of course, encouraged large families so they could have more serfs without needing to buy from auctions. It also gave the wyrms something to kill every now and then for entertainment, as the humans struggled to accommodate and feed themselves.
All Anya did was dream and dream of escape, to find a way out of this terrible scenario, before it ground her into nothing. Maybe to one of the cities. Although she’d still be a second-class citizen, at least she’d have more nooks and crannies to hide in, or could set up business as a respectable merchant in the slums. She’d only visited the city once, helping to carry things for her lord – saw the streets and the stalls and the rickety houses. Better than her current life, working in the fields, shivering in little huts.
“Work faster, the crops won’t harvest themselves. You get food and homes, you should repay the kindness of your lord by producing more!” The overseer cracked his whip. Unlike the serfs, dressed in rags and cobbled-together clothes, the overseer wore finely tailored garments, from a linen blouse to a red waistcoat, along with black breeches, white socks, and shoes. His angular face lingered on Anya for a moment, who had momentarily slowed in her work. Then he sneered.
“Filthy animal.” He slashed the whip over her back, and she cringed, before speeding up her work, dreaming of swinging the scythe at him and cleaving his entitled behind in two.
That is, if she could even cut through his flesh. No. The only way to kill these beasts was through poison or magic. And magic was just wistful fantasy.
At sundown, they were allowed to stop, though two people had collapsed from dehydration. Anya didn’t think they’d be seeing those people again. She went back to the village, where the dwindling community gathered in their self-designated leader’s house – there to help soothe moods and fight despair.
There, the complaints began. Aching backs, burnt skins, and elder Tam helped where he could. People helped treat one another with the remedies they knew, though many of their community also preferred to stay in their homes, not wanting to risk any wrath if the wyrms took offense to these gatherings.
Anya watched as her mother took a salve to help treat her burns, looking at the gaunt, beaten down faces of people who had lost all willpower to fight. It angered her, seeing their despair. Seeing their rejection. Any chance of making a rousing, heroic speech would be greeted with blank stares and fear. Anya knew the drill, because she’d tried a few times before. Still, for the sake of it, she raised her voice above the murmurs.
“Every day I come back home and I see bruised bodies and ruined souls. Every day I see children starving and elders hiding. Every day could be our last day, and yet we let these masters do as they wish to us, we let them break our bones and our minds and our souls. When does it stop? When does all this stop?” Anya waved her hand across the tightly packed room. A few of the younger adults nodded with her, but the elders ignored her.
“Oh, shut up, will you?” a man said, scowling at Anya. “You’ll get us in trouble, wench.”
“I’m sick of this treatment!” Anya fired back, standing her ground. “And I’m sick of people like you treating your fellow humans like they’re nothing. We get enough of that from the overseers. Do you have no pride? Are you a craven husk of a creature, scrabbling for scraps in the dark?”
More murmurs. “You should be quiet,” her mother whispered, tugging on Anya’s shoulder. “You can’t draw attention to yourself.”
“Quiet,” an older woman said, backing the man. She was wizened, with muddy blue eyes, rubbing at a tender spot on her wrist. “You won’t get anything out of this lot, child. It’s admirable. Really. But you can’t stir the broken. Some have families, some are just worried about getting food and not being hit. They don’t have time to dream.”
“I’m not broken,” the man insisted. “I’m just not stupid. This is our lot. We accept it, or we die.”
Agreement from the others. Anya let out a sigh. A man with dark eyes approached Anya from the side and hissed, “Listen, I’ll help you out, here. You can’t keep doing this. We may have informers, willing to rat out to the overseers for some extra bread. You’re doing this too often. I know it must hurt, but you can’t keep it up. We’ve been like this for generations. People like you have gone missing for speaking up.” The man squeezed her shoulder, his brown eyes sad. He had scars all along his bare legs.
Anya wasn’t satisfied with any of the answers. The oppressive atmosphere of the room stifled her, dragging her down into its pit. No one here wanted to do anything. No one cared. They just wanted to be left alone, to sleep, to eat, to do their jobs without interference. Afraid of the whip, afraid of an overseer’s wrath, always fucking afraid.
She loathed the fear, simply because she made a choice at a young age. A logical choice. If she didn’t like something, then she needed to
change it. There was no point staying with what you hated.
Yet the years dribbled by, and her measly attempts at stirring the populace amounted to naught. Whenever she grabbed a few people’s minds, something atrocious happened to grind them back into the dirt again. Her dreams of escape always got thwarted as well. The traders who passed through didn’t want anything to do with anyone in the villages, other than bartering goods out of them.
Nothing felt worthwhile. And Anya felt the influence of despair pressing onto her, teasing her into its clutches. She worried if she kept this up, she’d become one of the very people she pitied and despised.
She went to bed hungry, dirty, worn out, knowing she’d need to get up at first light tomorrow to do exactly the same thing. Her mother, grandpa, and four younger siblings slumbered in the tiny hut, with barely any room to move. Two infant boys, snuffling. Two older girls with lank, short hair, and faces as filthy as Anya’s.
Cries rang out in the middle of the night, sending Anya bolt upright. Her mother and siblings had awoken, and peered outside the hut. Then, her mother rushed to Anya, face drained of all color. “Overseers. They’re rifling through the huts right now. Looking for dissenters. You gotta get out. You gotta escape.”
“What?” It didn’t make sense. “I did nothing wrong.”
“It wuz your speech. I reckon someone reported you,” her mother sobbed, blue eyes clouded with tears, wrinkled face grieving as if she’d already lost her daughter. “Oh, you were my prettiest, my brightest, and we hid you so well, but you couldn’t hide yourself.” Her mother let out a whimper. “Go, go now. Through here – you gotta go through the pit.”
Trembling, confused, Anya was shoved to the back of the hut where a rug lay, and her mother lifted it up to reveal a small hole. Her sisters hissed her on, and she squeezed through the hole in panic, landing in excrement and pee. She heard her mother place the rug back over the gap, and tried not to retch as she clawed her way through the cesspit towards the small hole, used for airing out the stench.