Writing Pilates

This weeks writing assignment: Have Your Character Console a Grieving Friend

Have Your Character Console a Grieving Friend

Bosomella snapped in the wind just behind her mistress, clinging to the sleeve of her cloak until they were suddenly stopped by a cold patch of hard stone. Bosomella landed hard, snapping against a gnarled tree root and hearing a crisp crack as her arm bent backwards. She thrashed a minute, pulling at the limp limb until she had it cradled against her side. And then slowly wobbled over to Miss Borka who lay quiet and still against the tree’s trunk.

Her mistress was breathing, the deep steady breaths of sleep or at least unconsciousness and at first the little undergarment fairy let the fret and worry slide from her small shoulders. But then she looked closer. Something was wrong, terribly wrong and she couldn’t quite place it. Just then Miss Borka stirred and tried to rise. The girl flopped back onto the ground with a puffed gasp.

“Somethings wrong with my feet.”

Bosomella dutifully flitted over to her mistresses feet. Expecting a shattered ankle or bloodied leg. Instead she just hovered where she was and stared, she covered her eyes and then looked again, but the scene did not change whatsoever. She flitted about for a good five minutes hoping that a solution would come to her, but finally there was nothing more but to face the indomitable Miss Borka once more.

She settled down near Miss Borka’s head, but not close enough to grab.

“What’s wrong?”

“Um…their gone.”

“What are gone.”

Bosomella scooted back slightly. This was not going to be pretty. “Your feet and most of each calf.”

Miss Borka stared at her then slowly slowly eased herself up to sitting. She stared down at the limbs in question and Bosomella could see the blood wash out of her face, leaving the smooth skin white as the moon against the darkened sky.

“Gone.” Miss Borka whispered. For indeed they were. The foot and half the calf on her left leg, the foot and two thirds of the calf on the right. Just gone. The skin tucked neatly over the stump where bone and blood and flesh had recently grown. There was no wound, just clean white skin stretched across the stumps.

Miss Borka watched her mistresses face grow slack as she stared.

“The ball.”

Bosomella could have thought of a lot of other more pressing concerns but instead she flitted cautiously onto the girl’s shoulder and gently patted her hair. No the floating monks hadn’t killed anyone this time, that was of course a relief. No maid stumbling back with a whispered message only to fall limp across the floor upon its delivery. But the monks had taken what was theirs. For every bit of limb that had dangled over their thick stone wall had simply vanished and Bosomella and Miss Borka sat staring at the clean tidy stumps in silence until their coach man finally came and carried his Mistress to the plush seats of her gilded coach and drove them quietly back the way they had come.

Bosomella watched Miss Borka stare at the passing forest and clenched her tiny fists. Why wasn’t she raging. Screaming and choking things and throwing her collection of ornamented hair combs at anything that moved. Where was the frightful terror that had captured her? Looking at Miss Borka’s still pale face, Bosomella made a vow.

This would not be the end. Her Mistress would dance, no feeble limp or loss of limb would stop her this time. Miss Borka would dance and the unsuspecting prince would fall like a rock from the sky when he beheld her. There would be no other reaction possible when her mistress stormed into the ball, terrible and beautiful and dancing.