Veronica tapped her lacquered nails on the mahogany table. The wall clock ticked deafeningly in the dim room, lit only by fading candlelight. Shadows flickered over her tight red dress, her glossy brown curls, her painted crimson lips. Her glazed eyes stared at the empty chair opposite and the cold plate of untouched steak and chips.
Today was meant to be a fresh start for their fractured marriage. But she should have known by now that he couldn’t – no, wouldn’t – avoid temptation. She could wait a lifetime and nothing would change.
Veronica rose calmly. She had a bag to pack.
(Word count: 100 words)
Emma H, age 26, 06/09/2017
The Queen was troubled. Dressed in her shimmering silver finery, she wore a frown and furrowed brows, long fingernails tapping an impatient tattoo on the arm of her extravagant throne. Her messenger was late.
She knew that he bore important, urgent news, but his journey had taken far longer than she had expected. She feared the worst, knowing that many of her enemies lurked in the villages and woodlands on the fringes of her kingdom. If they had recognised him, they would have killed him for sure.
Melodious strains of lilting birdsong drifted into Serena’s conscious, enticing her back from what felt like the deepest of sleeps. A soft breeze grazed her skin, wisps of hair tickling her cheeks. The air was pleasantly warm, soothing. Her long eyelashes fluttered open cautiously, bright sunlight blasting her retinas until her vision adjusted to her surroundings. She was lying in a dappled glade, shadows shifting as the light breeze played with the verdant branches. A sturdy oak tree towered over her resting place, its anchoring roots bursting through the earth. And intertwined across the ground, lilac and snow-white wildflowers filled the glade with floral fancy.
Tabitha gazed out over the land. Darkness was descending, painting the valley in a palette of smudged grey-blues and faint iridescence. The navy silhouettes of ghostly trees breached an eerie fog that had rolled in with the twilight. Tabitha knew that this was no natural fog; its milky thickness and defined shape indicated the presence of magic, there to conceal all manner of Dark deeds. She felt her skin prickle and fingertips tingle anticipatively.