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Message A Fiction Writing Portfolio By Rachel Ewing ____________________________________________________

I am Rachel Ewing, a high school senior, and these are my works. Throughout the semester, we worked on different writing exercises, each with a different focus. Some worked on imagery, others on dialogue, others point of view. The larger stories (including 'In the Backseat' and 'The Dishes Get Done') gave us a chance to show off what we'd learned over the course of the semester. My personal favorite is 'The Cocoon', which you will find at the back of the portfolio. I hope you enjoy!

In the Backseat "What were you thinking?" My voice was strained as I checked the rearview mirror, catching sight of my grandmother's curly white hair. I forced my eyes back to the road. "You could have gotten hurt." Arriving at the station that morning to find my grandma in custody had sent an abrupt shock through me, one which hadn't quite faded yet. I had taken care of DUI cases before, but somehow seeing her sweet, wrinkled face go slack with alcohol was something worse. "Where are we going?" she slurred, looking out the window at the cars zipping by. I pursed my lips. "Allison?" "I'm taking you home." I gripped the wheel. "Thank you, dear." The old woman let out a yawn, settling down in the back seat as her eyes drooped. I should have let her sleep, but the frustration inside me hadn't died yet. I wanted to shake some sense back into her. Lucky for her, I was currently at the wheel. "Grandma, you know you shouldn't drink that much." I told her, slamming on the brakes as I realized the stoplight ahead of me had turned red without my notice. I usually didn't think twice about the wine she pulled out for every dinner party, but suddenly I wanted to rush into her house and dump it all down the drain. "Especially not at your age." "Sweetheart, I'm at the age where I'm gonna do whatever I like." She retorted simply. Her head swayed as I turned a sharp corner.

"You'd better not." I growled, taking one hand off the wheel to rub furiously at my eyes. The back came away smeared with mascara. "So help me, grandma, I'll take away your license." "Aw sweetie, don't be mad." She leaned closer, one bony hand squeezing my shoulder. I swallowed back the lump in my throat. Behind me, a horn blared, and I instinctively hit the brakes. Cursing my teary eyes, I noticed I was drifting out of my lane. I sighed and pulled over, thinking darkly of how ironic it would be if I got pulled over for reckless driving. Safely parked, I slumped in my seat, letting the tears start to slip down my face and pointedly ignoring the children outside, who had stopped to watch and whisper. I shouldn't have taken the police car. Grandma made a sympathetic noise and tried to hug me from the backseat, though as she was still buckled up, her arms didn't reach far. I felt eight years old as I twisted around to look at her, one hand coming up to cover hers. "I could have lost you." I whispered. She carefully brushed back the hair that had fallen into my face, some semblance of sobriety returning to her wizened features. "Do you know what that would do to me? To Mom?" A tiny frown pursed her lips, and she bowed her head. I wasn't the only one who was crying, now. "I'm sorry Ally." she murmured, "Sometimes I get to thinking about Marty, and I just reach for the glass. I don't know I'm doing it." A sob shook her, and I looked on helplessly as she curled into herself. It had only been a few weeks since my grandpa had died, leaving me a wreck a few times each week. The anger in me abated slightly as I reminded myself that

I wasn't the only one who was hurt by his loss. "It's like I'm living with his ghost." my grandmother continued, "I'll walk by the coffee pot and wonder why it isn't brewing, and I'll remember all over again." Her words brought on a fresh round of tears, and before I could stop myself, I had swung the door open, stepping out of the car and slipping into the backseat beside her. I wrapped my arms around her securely, and she clung to me as we both cried. I took in slow, shaky breaths, breathing in her old lady smell mingled with perfume and spirits. One hand brushed through her thinning curls, and I looked up at the car’s gray ceiling, thanking the Lord that this beautiful woman was still alive, and promising to keep her that way. I don't know how long we sat there, but eventually we pulled away, both blinking back tears. I shot a glance at the steering wheel and steeled myself. "I should get you home." I told her steadily, and she nodded. With a brief hesitation, I added, "I'll see you again after work. We can do something together." She swallowed, then stroked my hair again, tucking the golden strands back behind my ears. "That sounds lovely, dear."

Clean The air was icy and still as death, no breeze disturbing the smooth surface of the lake. A man sat on the nearby stones, where splatters of mud had dried on the pale gray surface. His breath clouded in the air, then dissipated into nothing. He was alone by the lakeside. This was no romantic hideout. Dead, gnarled trees bent over the water, graying and hollow inside, crowding out the younger, greener saplings. They would remain there for years until finally rotting away, too stubborn to leave, even in death. Clumps of algae crept along the brown water, blocking out the sun. Twigs and leaves and swirls of silt eddied in the lake. The man smiled with chapped lips, and his fingers dug into the prickly weeds stretching up from the cracks in the stone. He let go, and, one hand braced on the craggy rock, began to descend, boots slipping on moss and mud and who knew what else. He grunted as his knee caught against the stone, scraping away skin, but continued his descent. The shore wasn't the sandy beach of vacations long ago, but a collage of pebbles and dirt and algae clumps, all wet and shining in the light of the half moon. A few drowned weeds had tried and failed to sprout, leaving them sprawled out and lifeless across the shore. His boots trod them further into the mud rocks, where they were hidden from sight, and he crouched by the water, which, as if sensing his presence, shivered just slightly. Without ceremony, he pulled his shirt over his head, then plunged it into the depths. He tugged and wrung at the fabric, watching new colors

bleed through the soft brown of the water. Still, it didn't feel clean. The man hardly felt the chill as he plunged in the shirt again and again, trying to wash it clean. The lake trembled with his efforts, silt and algae fleeing from the violent splashes he created. Still, the shirt felt filthy. The man continued on under the half moon's watchful gaze, washing the shirt repeatedly, tears and splashes of dirty water streaming down his face, but never feeling clean.

Tearing The tightly fitted lace of my formal dress felt way too hot as I scanned the crowd, looking through the forest of legs and trying to find my son. Soft classical music floated through the air, along with the ambience of small talk. At the very least, there was no crying. "Dawson, for goodness' sake." I mumbled, shoving my way past the suits and dresses, looking for a flash of his curls. I was stupid for letting him down, but he kept tugging on the neckline of my dress and kicking at my stomach, and I just hadn't been able to stand it anymore! "Marie? Are you alright?" It was Layla, one of the bridesmaids, looking beyond beautiful with her hair and dress and arms all loaded with flowers. "It's Dawson." I sighed. "He got away from me and- well-" I gestured to the tightly packed guests. Anna must have had a tight budget, because the church's sanctuary had barely enough room to fit all the guests. Layla nodded, a look of determination crossing her face as she dumped her armful of flowers on the cupcake table and hooked her arm around mine, pushing through the guests like Moses through the red sea. "Has anyone seen Dawson?" she called, voice rising above the chatter. Murmurs erupted as the adults began to swivel around, searching for a spare toddler. "We'll find him. Don't worry." She patted my arm reassuringly. "I just hope-" I was cut off by Anna's cry of surprise. The two newlyweds were stationed at the far end of the room, still receiving their congratulations, until the bride turned away, nearly tripping as she

clutched the skirt of her dress. Clinging to the train, chubby hands grabbing for a string of pearly beads, was Dawson. Layla spotted him at the same moment I did, and together we started to run- or as close as we could get in our ridiculous heels. "Dawson, no!" I warned, but it was too late. With a rip that seemed to tear my dignity in half, a handful of delicate fabric broke off in Dawson's hands, and he fell back to the floor, staring at the stuff in fascination. Gasps rippled around the room as I scooped Dawson into my arms, pulling away his slobbery fingers as he tried to stuff the lace into his mouth. I bounced him gently, too nervous to look up into Anna's eyes. "You little stinker." I whispered, carefully filtering out all the not-so-appropriate things I wanted to say. He grinned, grabbing a handful of my sleeve and trying to rip that, too. "Guess he loved your dress, too." Layla said, sounding much too cheerful for the grim situation. Anna laughed, running her fingers over the spot where the fabric had torn. "Hey, we got through the wedding pictures." I slowly met her gaze, wrapping my arms a little tighter around my son. "I am so, so sorry." She shrugged, then nudged her husband. "It's fine. It's not like I'm planning to get married again." She ruffled Dawson's hair, and we all smiled.

Waiting Room Elmer could not concentrate. He sat in the stiff plastic chair, the table in front of him piled with documents and ran his fingers through thick, messy hair. Instead of reading the details of his daughter's surgery, his eyes kept pivoting around the room. His OCD-ridden brain kept noting the off-white hues of the hospital, how some of the flooring seemed discolored, like patches of tiles had been replaced, and the rest left alone. It grated at him. The hum of fluorescent light and the buzz of chatter was much too loud, and the people's faces much too happy. Two nurses stood chatting happily, looking pretty and carefree and not like they were running on anxiety and caffeine. Elmer stood up abruptly, leaving the papers behind as he began to pace down the hallway. His eyes scanned the numbers next to each door, printed out in chipped white letters, counting up to where they had left his daughter. As he passed beneath a flickering light laden with dead bugs, he hoped and prayed that this place, which seemed shadier and less sanitary by the minute, could really help his little girl. He sucked a breath as he saw the door, and his sweaty palm met the cold metal handle. Subconsciously trying to smooth out both his jacket and his expression, he opened the door. A nurse stood there, her hand just reaching for the handle, blocking his way. She stepped back a little, and beneath her stupid-looking hat, her face registered surprise, then irritation, then a fake, steely sweetness.

"I'm sorry Mr. Johnson, but Lily isn't ready for visitors right now." She said, smiling in a not-quite-sympathetic way. "Why don't you go back to the waiting room?" "I want to see her." Elmer said stiffly, squaring his shoulders. "I want to talk to her." The nurse pursed her lips for a second before they stretched up again, and her pale arm crept for the door handle once more. "Lily is getting some much-needed rest." she said softly, curtly. "So, I'd suggest you keep your voice down. As the doctor promised, we'll alert you when she's well enough for company." Elmer's eyes flashed. His eyes caught on the strand of frizzy, dark hair hanging over the woman's shoulder, having fallen out of her hairdo. He noticed a tiny red spot blooming from beside her eyebrow. "I know my daughter." He said, voice thick with concealed rage. "And she'll want to see me, even if she's tired. I don't care what some fancy doctor's got to say about it." His hand slipped away from the door, balling into a fist by his side. The nurse pales, flashes him a quick smile, and slams the door shut. He hears the faint click of the lock from inside. A muffled voice calling for the police. So much for not disturbing Lily.

Playing Doctor This was so so so not fair. Hattie was four years old, and was already an expert in many things. Most of all, she was an expert in playing doctor, and her mother was not. If her mother was an expert, she would let Hattie into her older sister's room, because if Isla was really so sick, Hattie could make her better, and that's just how it was. She had done it a million times before, and each of her family members had, in turn, sprung back up, healthy and happy and congratulating Hattie on a job well-done. So that afternoon, the second she got home from daycare, Hattie opened her toy box and pulled out the pink stethoscope and her doctor's kit, scattering stuffed animals in the process. She bent the plastic so it hooked in place around her neck, then began to climb the stairs toward Isla's room. "Isla, I'm going to make you better!" she cried, running up to her sister's door and twisting on the handle. It was stuck fast, and Hattie kicked at the door, trying to make it open. It worked, and with a soft click, the door swung open, revealing Isla on the other side. "Are we playing doctor today?" Isla asked. Hattie narrowed her eyes. Isla wasn't even coughing. Was she still sick? "I'm gonna make you better." Hattie repeated, pointing imperiously at the Isla's bed. "Lay down." Isla smiled, then boosted Hattie onto the mattress before lying down. Hattie bounced excitedly, scrawling up to Isla's head so she could press the end of the stethoscope to her heart, then her head, then her stomach.

"How's it look, doc?" Isla asked, her voice a little raspy. Hattie frowned. "You are sick." She announced, clicking open her doctor's kit and pulling out a bulky thermometer. She held it to Isla's forehead and frowned. "You have a fever." "Yep, I do." Isla sighed. "Can you make me better?" "What are you doing?" Hattie looked up to see her mother in the doorway. "I'm making Isla better!" "Isla, I told you not to let her in your room. You need your rest until we drive up tomorrow." "She's not hurting anything." "She is if she gets sick, too." Hattie let out a squawk as her mother pulled her off the bed, setting her back on the floor. "I need up!" she cried, tugging on her mother's leg. "Sorry." Isla sat up, picking up the thermometer from where Hattie had dropped it and handing it back. Hattie was too mad to take it, crossing her arms. "Hattie, take care of your toys." "I'm not done!" "Hattie." At the sharp look, Hattie grabbed her thermometer and stuffed it in the plastic medical case. "It's not fair!"

"Hattie, get out. I need to talk to your sister." "Mommy-" "Get out." And Hattie ran out, wailing at the injustice of it all.

The Dishes get Done I was flying. Or at least, something similar. How else could I explain the giddy rush in my head as I sat on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, staring at those two lines? Quiet tears streamed down my face, and I laughed as I scrubbed them away, getting back to my feet. The tiny bathroom with its cracked wallpaper and threadbare towels had never looked so beautiful. It smelled like soap and aftershave and the promise of something new. I had to tell Josh. But, I realized, looking in the mirror at my flyaway hair and worn T-shirt, I didn't want to do it like this. It should be special. He'd be home in a few hours, but that was more than enough time to prepare some decent homemade food, the kind we never had time for anymore. With a skip in my step, I changed into an old dress- white with bright yellow flowers on the skirt- and smoothed my hair back into place. I tucked the results into my pocket, where they'd be safe until the big reveal. Running through recipes in my head, I pulled out a wrinkled apron and tied it carefully around my waist. It was silly, of course, but I couldn't stop myself from running my fingers over each crease that covered my stomach. The smile never left my face. Before long, the kitchen was filled with the sound of sizzling, a thousand different smells floating through the air while I flew around,

checking on each food. After a thousand days at the diner, I'd forgotten how special food could be. Once all the vegetables were safely off the stove, and all that was left was to wait for the chicken, I turned my attention to the table. There was a tablecloth packed away in a drawer- someone's idea for a wedding gift- that I spread out, sweeping away the papers and knickknacks and unpaid bills. A few small candles, and it felt like any fancy restaurant. All that was left was to wait for Josh. When he came home, he beamed down at me, bending to peck my cheek before making his way to the table. It was like he already knew. "You're in a good mood today." "I've got something to tell you!" His eyes widened, seeing the food. "This looks amazing. When did you get time for this?" "Diner's closed today." I reminded him. "Had to take care of some health inspection stuff." "One good thing after another." he sat down, beginning to cut off a slice of meat. "Amy, there's something I wanted to talk to you about." "Yeah?" I sat down too, digging in while Josh paused. "You know how I've been feeling about work lately?" I nodded, my heart skipping. He'd gotten a promotion. I knew it. He was well overdue and any reasonable boss would see that. "Well, I've decided that I'm

resigning." A white envelope smacked onto the table. "I'm turning this in tomorrow." The food in my stomach turned leaden. "You what?" The last rays of evening light streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating the foamy white water in the sink. With a sauce-streaked plate in hand, I began to scrub, putting all my effort into cleaning the dish and not breaking it. The scent of detergent didn't quite cover up the grease underneath. I flinched as my hands plunged into the water, accidentally splashing myself with soap. Grimacing, I grabbed a towel, rubbing it away before it got in my eyes. "Careful, there." Josh almost laughed as he saw my expression. I glanced back, seeing him lounging in the doorway, looking far too cheerful. Without a word, I threw the towel aside and returned to the plate. "Aw, Amy, you can't really be mad at me." The plate let out a defiant clank as I set it out, then reached for a bowl. "Amy, you've got to dry them first." He reached for the wet plate, and I slapped his hand away. "Don't mansplain dishes to me, Josh." "So you are mad, then." The vigorous scrubbing sent soap suds flying into his face. Maybe on accident, maybe not. Next dish. "Amy, let me do that. You did the cooking-"

"Yes, Josh. Yes, I did the cooking. You're the one who didn't do your share." His hand froze midway to the sink, and he cussed softly. "Well, guess what, Amy? Maybe I don't like doing the dishes. Maybe I find it unfulfilling, and all I want is for my wife to support me when I tell her I'm not going to do the dishes anymore!" "And maybe you should have discussed things with her beforehand!" I rounded on him, brandishing a salad plate and sending water flying in every direction. "Maybe, Josh, you should have considered that she doesn't like doing the dishes, either! They are gross, and tedious, and she knows that. But if nobody does the dishes, Joshua, they pile up!" I swiped a towel across the plate, setting it where it belonged. Grasping around in the water, I felt a knife graze my hand, and bit my lip against the pain. "Amy?'" He must have seen the tears in my eyes. "It's just a cut." I pulled my hand out and tried to rinse away the trickle of blood. "Let me get it." "No!" "Let me get it." he insisted. His hand felt warm as he pulled mine close, dabbing gently with the drying towel before fishing the first-aid kit out of a nearby pantry. The faucet ran behind me, but I couldn't bring myself to turn it off, not yet. "There." he said, once the bandage was on. "Like it never happened." "Josh? I'm sorry." I whispered. "Don't be." He gently nudged me aside, shut off the faucet, and found the knife, cleaning off its jagged edge. "You're right." "I don't want you to be unhappy." "I don't want you to take everything on yourself."

"I can dry." Carefully, I took the dripping bowl from his hands.

The Cocoon “Where were you last night?” Dark, beetle-like wings blocked his way, pushing him back. Dearil glowered. His parents weren't usually back until dawn, too late to notice his absence. According to their expressions, that wasn’t the case this morning. “I was just out in the glens.” “I knew it!” His mother’s wings flared in agitation as she gripped his shoulders. “Dearil, you know you’re not old enough-” “I wasn’t doing anything! It’s not dangerous to watch. No one saw me.” Dearil wrenched away, wishing he had wings of his own to shove her off with. His mother was much too paranoid for someone who hadn’t even visited the human realm herself. If he told her what he’d really been doing for the past few months, she would lock him away until his metamorphosis, ‘for his own protection’. Not that he needed any protection from Eleri. Dearil had been cautious at first, watching the human girl from afar. He knew the stories of what humans did to fae they caught trying to whisk away their children. But Eleri liked to be alone, wandering far away from the safety of the village, and she didn’t carry any weapons. Besides, he was still a nymph Until he grew his wings, no human could tell he was fae. “Ah, let him.” His father, more accustomed to the humans, showed no sign of fear. “He’s near his metamorphosis anyhow, and he’ll need a healthy understanding of the humans if he wants to perform the switch.” The switch. The legendary exchange of faerie child for human one. The reason so many fae looked at his father with reverence. Dearil had learned early on that bringing a human to the faerie realm was rewarded greatly in the courts. They were musical, strange creatures, eternally stuck

in their nymphhood, never growing wings. The queen adored them, particularly the children. So much so that she’d send faerie children to take their places, unknown to the human parents. So much so that when Dearil came back with a human for the court, he would be revered as the youngest faerie to win her favor. But not if his mother had anything to say about it. “He can get his ‘healthy understanding’ through studies.” She turned back toward him. “I don’t want you in those glens. Imagine if you started your metamorphosis, and some human found your cocoon? There’s a reason you ain’t allowed.” Dearil nodded, turned, and rolled his eyes. His mother never had any vision. She didn’t see the reward beyond the risk. But he wasn’t worried about Eleri. All he’d have to focus on was sneaking out. … “Dearil! You ain’t been here in so long!” Eleri’s eyes lit up at the sight of him, and he smiled. With a ribbon in her dark hair, and her skirt fanned out around her, he could already picture her in the courts, dressed with gold and diamonds. “Sorry, Eleri.” he replied in his most timid voice. “I wanted to, but- well-” “That’s alright.” She beamed. “I’ve been in trouble aplenty. I know what it’s like.” He laughed, because he couldn’t imagine Eleri in trouble. Not in the misbehaving kind, anyway. “So how have you been?” He sat beside her. “Ah, I think my teachers hate me. They keep sending me home early. Not that I’d return to Ma. I go hide in the forests and glens. Nobody ever

looks there. Too afraid of faeries.” A wistful smile crossed her face. She glanced over at him. “D’you think I’ll ever find it?” “Find it?” “The faerie realm?” He froze. Eleri didn’t believe in the faerie realm. Or so he’d thought. If she believed all the myths, she wouldn’t go wandering around where fae might snatch her away. She wouldn’t meet with him. “I dunno, maybe. The stories say it’s near impossible.” “I don’t believe the stories.” Her cheeks flushed, but she leaned closer. “Imagine it, Dearil, a whole land of musicians and poets and fae folk. No more trouble at school, no more parents. No more danger.” He frowned. “Ah, I’d give anything to go.” “No more danger?” “Don’t mind that part. I- I didn’t mean anything by it.” She combed a hand through her curls. “Say, where d’you think it would be?” “Sorry?” “The faerie realm. Where would they hide it? Some tales say it’s over by the stream, or in the hills, or even in the glens. But I ain’t never seen fae folk near those parts.” “You ain’t telling me you’ve seen faeries?” He nudged her playfully, and a strange look crossed her face. “Maybe. I certainly ain't hidin’ from ‘em.” Dearil grimaced at the new development. If Eleri was going around looking for the fae realm, some other faerie might find her and take her to court. After months of preparation, he couldn’t take it if someone else stole her away. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind before, but now it consumed him, turning his expression dark. “You look mad.”

“You’re sayin’ one day I might come lookin for you, and you’d be gone with the fae folk?” “But Dearil, you-” Her hands twitched in her lap, and she reached to smooth her skirts. “You’d know where I’d gone, at least.” “I don’t want you goin’ off with someone!” He stamped his foot, towering above her now. All the false sweetness was gone. “You’ve gotta stick with me.” “Then come with me! We could leave tonight! Please, I want to leave. I want to go.” Tonight? Dearil stopped, heart pounding, thoughts racing. This was his chance. She was actually asking him to take her to the faerie realm. No one was around to witness it. Only one thing stopped him. He’d be going into metamorphosis tomorrow. If he was stuck in a cocoon, unable to vouch for himself, some other fae might steal the credit. He could just picture it, some older fae leading her off to court while his instincts forced him to spin his cocoon, waiting for weeks before he finally emerged. “We ain’t goin’ tonight. I’ll come see you soon, and then we can both go, you got it?” “When are you coming?” “A few weeks or so. You’ll wait for me?” “A few weeks? I’m not waitin’ a few weeks. Let’s go tomorrow.” “We’ll go when I say so.” “We need to go soon!” He wasn’t the only one angry now. There was a fierce sort of desperation in Eleri’s eyes. “So help me, Dearil, I’ll go find it myself if you don’t meet me here tomorrow.” “You wouldn’t.”

“Would so.” “Eleri, you out there in the glens?” They both jumped, and Eleri cowered back from the lantern in the distance. “That’s my Ma. You’d best run. She’ll have brought a weapon to fend off any faeries. Or boys, for that matter. Unless we’re runnin’ now?” “Not now, Eleri.” He shoved her away from him, but she quickly clutched his arm. “Tomorrow, then. You promise?” “Eleri who do you think you’re talkin’ to?” “No one, Ma!” Dearil vanished before she could confront him again. He kicked at a nearby stone. She didn’t have to be so impatient all of a sudden. Further out in the glens, the lantern’s light flickered over Eleri, looking small next to her Ma. It swung out in either direction as the older woman scanned for fae folk. He kept walking. … The next evening, he felt it. There was a stiffness in his back, a strange fuzzy feeling in his mind. Dearil knew it was coming. He’d felt inklings of it for months. Today, he would spin his cocoon. There were hugs from his mother, rare words of comfort from his father, but they already felt distant in his mind. His mother was already promising festivities when he emerged, but no glimmer of excitement could penetrate the numbness. A prickle of pain in his palms, and suddenly silk was spilling out in streams of white, sticky and soft. It tangled onto the floor of his room, pressed into the wall, latching onto everything it could. Dearil thought metamorphosis would be a sleepy affair. One day he would fall asleep, and ten days later he would wake up transformed. He’d

seen the big, cushy-looking cocoons from a distance and felt envious of the faeries inside. How lovely would it be to curl up in a pile of silk and sleep for days? He hadn’t expected it to be so claustrophobic. When the outer shell of the cocoon was woven, blocking out the light and the last slivers of his parents’ faces, the silk did not cease. It kept spooling out until all sound faded away, until Dearil was so heavily padded that he could not move, could barely breathe. The air was damp and warm and might-or-might-not have oxygen left. The darkness and silence were suffocating, the only sensation left being the tender soreness were his wings were beginning to unfurl, occupying what little space he had left. In the seconds, minutes, hours, days that passed, Dearil thought of snares and darkness and poems and the girl who ran through the glen, searching for the faerie realm. Was it because she felt trapped, cocooned away in the human realm? What darkness was she running from? Why hadn’t he asked? When at last the silk tore loose, letting in a trickle of frigid air and blinding light, Dearil was thinking of Eleri. Many hands pulled him out, stripping away the silk. His whole body was tingling with pins and needles. Everything was far too loud, far too bright. The unfamiliar weight of his wings kept throwing him off balance, and the fact that his legs kept wobbling didn’t help. He couldn’t focus. Even when the room stopped spinning and he regained his balance, his mind wandered back to the claustrophobia of his cocoon, to the fear in Eleri’s eyes on the night he’d left.

Was she here now, in the faerie realm? Had she found some one else to take her, as she’d threatened? The thought no longer filled him with jealousy. It took a few hours for him to convince his parents that a celebration was not necessary, and no, of course he was okay, and he did not want company, just some fresh air and time alone. He guessed that no one who had spent so much time in a cocoon had requested more time alone before. At last, he was back in the glen, bathed in gold from the sunset’s light. It cast strange reflections on his wings, reminding him to stay out of sight, lest a human spot him. That had never been much of a problem before. Would Eleri be mad when she saw his transformation? When she knew what he was? “Eleri?” he whispered, then called out a little louder. He didn’t want to draw her mother’s attention, if the woman happened to be out tonight. He scanned the glens for any flash of a pastel dress. Maybe she was out searching tonight, trying to find the entrance to the faerie realm. He already knew she hadn’t found it. No new arrivals had come while he was asleep. So Dearil took to the woods, searched around each hill and along every riverbed, calling out for Eleri. She couldn’t be at home tonight, could she? Would he have the courage to get that close, his wings impossible to hide once inside? He’d just circled around to the woods outside her family’s cottage when his foot bumped against something sticky and soft. His breath caught. It was too close to the house not to be seen. The few shrubs and rocks around it provided only meager cover: A bloody heap of silk, shredded to bits.

A Reflection For a long time, I wasn't a writer. In my elementary days, I would start writing stories, but never made it past fifty words or so before quitting. Then, Covid hit, and being stuck inside with a lot of free time caught up to me. Gradually, I grew the discipline I needed to finish my first novel, quickly followed by several more. I joined this class with the hopes that I could learn more about fantasy writing. Fantasy has always been my favorite genre, and after years of writing it, I wanted a teacher's instruction and feedback. While this turned out not to be a fantasy-centered course as I'd originally assumed, it did teach me a lot about writing. I've learned a lot about writing effective dialogue, and cut a lot of transition scenes that dragged down my old stories. Short stories are not my usual style, as my focus is on novels, but they've helped me cut out unnecessary plot points in my longer works, keeping only what serves a greater purpose in the story. They've also helped me learn to revise. I find it difficult to rewrite and reword my longer works, as there's so much to go through per piece. With shorter stories like these, the task is no longer daunting. As I mentioned in my cover page, 'The Cocoon' is my favorite story of the semester. I wrote down the plot in a fit of inspiration months before, and was thrilled when I finally got a prompt that fit. With a longer word limit and free reign over the contents, I was able to write a story that fascinates me, blending in snippets of folklore and a dark plot twist. I think this story really highlights how my writing has changed since the beginning of the semester. Overall, I'm glad to have taken this class.