# data[].attributes.body
One last time, pick a spot to say farewell. She didn’t go to the woods because she wanted to live, she went because she wanted to die, deliberately. Maybe here where the trees whispered and the branches creaked, where a distant woodpecker held an eerie communion in the gloom beneath the oaks and rowan.

Here were cherry blossom, pink petals falling like snow onto to the long green grass that was dotted with bluebells. Bryn sank down among them, caring little about the heavy damp earth. When she lay down the bluebells made for an luscious sea she could drown in. Like a practice run. An endless vista of cobalt and indigo, stretching out, rippling in the breeze.

Delicate and sweet, the scent of the flowers lulled her, along with the earliest of the bees, and the day was warm and gentle. She saw faces in the trees, and she was not afraid. She had spent so many days in the cradle of these woods. And so she slept.

A cacophony of ringing bells roused her, and she surged into wakefulness still in the ocean of green and blue, another girl seated beside her, smiling.

“If you fall asleep in bluebells the faeries will take you away,” the strange girl announced, teasing, shaking the flowers, but they made no sound now. Bryn rubbed her eyes. The sun had moved. It was afternoon.

As the light changed, so did the girl, and for a moment she looked like an old woman. Bryn jumped, startled at the illusion, but it passed like the cloud did and she laughed at herself.

With waking, so her problems and pain returned, and she slumped. “Will you take me away?” she pondered aloud, then immediately felt ridiculous.

“Perhaps. The world is full of weeping, or so I understand.” That smile now, it seemed slightly too sharp, almost sinister. Then it softened. “You could come for a day. Be my maid of honour. I will be married today, for it is Beltane.”

She held out her hand, and after only a moment of hesitation Bryn took it. It was impossible to resist. Like everything was a spell; the dappled sunlight, the cool green shade, the scent of the wood, earthy and rich, the tickling touch of her fingertips.

A crown of woven blossom and bluebells was placed upon her hair. Bryn hid behind her companion as the groom approached; a strange man clothed in leaves, who had antlers growing from his head!

“Isn’t he marvellous?” the girl confided. “He is mine, as every year.” She rolled her eyes. “Such a shame he will be dead at midsummer.” As if she sensed Bryn’s sudden alarm, she squeezed her hand. “Oh, don’t worry, my dear. He’s just an aspect. And men do battle with themselves eternally, all of them do. Haven’t you found that?”

Astonished at the simple truth, Bryn allowed herself to be led to a place at a high table that was fashioned entirely from the woods. She watched the wedding, and she knew there were other guests, but she could not have said who they were. Only the beauty of the girl and how much she seemed like spring, like hope eternal, the sunlit air shining with pollen like golden confetti. Perhaps it was just the peculiar trick of the light that made her see the old woman again, just for a second.

When it was over, the girl returned. “Do you want to go back, or will you serve me? Stay with me. I could use you, for certain.”

Bryn sighed, as in love with this faery being as the strange man with the antlers was. “I stay,” she said, spellbound.

For many years she remained as a servant, half of every year melting and then freezing her in place, so that she never even thought to leave. She worked and did many tasks, for some unknown purpose. The Lady seemed childlike and fussy all at once, sometimes mothering her when she was sick. Until long decades passed and Bryn was old and used up. Her bones creaked and her joints were stiff. The Lady served Bryn tea in her favourite chair, and she couldn’t remember when their roles had been reversed, but the enchantment held as new and strong as the first day.

“You’re old!” she accused, peering through eyes that were dull now, but worked well enough to see the Lady had aged, just like her. “I knew it.”

“Dear heart, I was always ancient. You saw, but didn’t know it. Now you know it as well as see it.”

“Did I do you well?” Bryn asked. It seemed important.

The girl who was a lady who was a hag smiled that ever so sharp smile. “Oh, much more than that. You’re happy now?”

Bryn was surprised to find that she was happy. She felt as if she had been useful and enjoyed and that she had enjoyed it in her turn. A life well lived. “Yes. But, I think I’m tired.”

“I know, but not too tired to go home.”

Home… it seemed so far away. Strange how it didn’t hurt to think of it anymore. Her problems back then seemed so easily surmountable from this place of wisdom. We are who we are. The Lady was a girl again. She clicked her fingers, and -

Bryn awoke in the bluebells alone, her own true young self. She ran home, only there realising she still wore the crown of flowers.

All of her life she remembered her service, in that other place, out of time, and all three aspects lived in her. The girl, the mother, the crone, giving her wisdom beyond her years, care where it was needed, and a young heart when everything was heavy. A life well lived was the gift given, for her witness of a vow to life that must eternally repeat.

# data[].attributes.body
Full House

The crowd of mannequins were silent witnesses to the abasement and suffering of the victim. Reaching the focal point of the exhibition, Redding frowned.

At a sharp nod the sheet was drawn back to reveal a headless human torso combined with the arms and legs of a dummy, wired together to keep it upright. A card set before it said: Acrolith.

The killer, like the media, considered himself an artist instead of an abject attention seeker. Redding paid attention. It was a professional courtesy.

“Dust it,” Redding said.

Just make one mistake.

This time they found a partial print.

Bingo.

# data[].attributes.body
Prompt: The dead speak to us through the sounds made by musical instruments.
Challenge: Alliteration
Song used: Lily was Here

Fiction. Please do not reproduce without permission.

As she entered the room it felt like it had been months, but it was more likely weeks since she was last here. The days seemed to melt into each other lately, like so many grey clouds and layers of snow. The room was white and bare of furniture but for a couple of chairs. She averted her gaze from the intrusive sharp silver of the music stand, feeling too sensitive, and then saw what she wanted. As if ashamed to be noticed, the polished shapes and warm curves hid under a veil of dust. Perhaps they were more attuned to each other than she imagined.

Trails made by her fingertips showed up clearly on the lustre of the wood, but it could be swept away and played. Something hushed in the room when she sat down and picked it up, the still-familiar weight and shape fitting naturally into her cradled arms and lap. She rubbed her hands together once, checking they were dry enough, and brushed a single pam down over the strings, saying hello with the touch, relishing the resonant metallic gasp that answered.

When the dust had gone the world was waiting, counting, as she checked the tuning and let her fingers dance in an absent warm up, something she hadn’t needed to think about for years. It wasn’t so much counting as feeling; sensing the timbre of the piece that wanted to be played, and picking it out of the silence.

The first couple of bars came easily; cool, distant and melancholy, then she paused, waiting for an answer that could never come, but hearing it all the same. So clear in her mind, her own haunted notes repeated back to her in the mellow and lazy tones of the saxophone. A sudden smile as she repeated the melody again, waiting for the echo, distorted into a kind sinful satiny sound that wasn’t at all the same.

They spoke to each other. The sounds she made were clean and crisp with a touch of vibrato, but the answering saxophone just wouldn’t keep to the path she’d set, and wandered wild and wilful into phrases of elated freedom she was sure the notes didn’t possess when she played them. It made her want to laugh, and it was at last the relief and comfort she longed for.

At times she played a quiet, unobtrusive accompaniment, her fingers sliding up and down the fret board to touch the harmonics in something that was more of a caress than actual playing. The strings bent, satisfying and obedient to the calluses on her fingertips, giving the simply repeated refrain a sonorous depth of feeling the saxophone couldn’t match. The sound of it was pleasure paired with desire.

When it was over, she opened her eyes and the world was overly bright. Full of light and far too empty again. As if bidden, her eyes fell to the other side of the room where a saxophone stood upright, itself covered with a fine layer of dust that it had never been allowed to gather before. A sudden aching loss stopped her breath for a moment; then all too soon it passed because it must, because she lived, and it was all right. She hadn’t expected to see anything else really, and after a minute or so two of silent contemplation she reverently lay her instrument down and left the room.

Remember me.

Language was barely sufficient for souls, and she hadn’t heard it as such, but as one of those last sudden demanding staccato phrases from the saxophone in her mind, clear and more lucid than words. Remember me.

All she had to do was close her eyes to recall how Lily had looked in the muted light of candles, body arched up from the bed, her ribcage a beautiful organic symmetry that begged to be touched, to be traced by tongue and fingertips. The curve of her pelvis and hipbone were irresistible, all of it leading her down and deeper into the core of her, luscious heat, and a taste that was not quite sweet, but addictive as sugar.

Lily too could be played like an instrument, and a faint smile of longing and lust tugged at her lips, remembering how she sounded when she moaned, begged and whispered. Now it was all over, and neither of them would play again. She sighed.

There would always be places where spirits lingered, where the dead still spoke and friends and lovers could meet. She was remembered. She was here. It seemed less painful now because they had loved, and in her mind she made plans to begin practicing again, even if she was alone.

~ finis ~

# data[].attributes.body
I'm alone,
Because I found you,
The way I never wanted to.
And I saw you,
But too late to see you go,
Too late to say goodbye.
Too late, too soon,
I found you,
Found the loss of you,
And I feel old.