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Strange Neighbors

Jan25

For anke‘s prompt(s)

After the Fairy Road from the last Giraffe Call.

The park in the middle of the city had always been creepy, but, in its heyday, it had also been beautiful. Children had, once, played there, and the overgrowth that filled up its four quadrants had once been tamed, with tiny footpaths wriggling through like snakes. Now, only the desperate or rushed used the main roads, and only the fairies could find the foot-paths.

The apartment building on Milton, overlooking the park, had also seen better days. In its heyday, it had been a fine luxury building, and the suite size and facade still showed that. The rooms were large, the building was passably well-upkept, but the rich neighborhoods had moved North, leaving the Stanton Arms behind.

The tragedy of the park hadn’t helped, of course; no-one with children wanted to be near there. Anyone with sensitivity either was drawn there or repulsed, like magnets, depending on pole. And normal people, inasmuch as there were such things as normal people, for the most part had either heard the rumors, seen the crime rates, or just “knew” it wasn’t a good place; the reputation of the park clung to the building like coal dust from a smokestack.

That left the Arms to college students who couldn’t afford better, out-of-towners who didn’t know any better, fae who knew things about the park even the most sensitive human didn’t, the sensitive who could stand the ghosts, and Errol’s cousin Carolina, who ran an Etsy shop specializing in “genuine” fake magical artifacts with real punch.

That meant, of course, than anyone who had any sort of shady magical deal they wished to engage in ended up at the Arms and the park, seeking someone with just the right twist for their corkscrew. Which was, as Errol and his cousin well knew, one hell of a self-fulfilling prophecy.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/243615.html. You can comment here or there.

Kirkevaren

Jan21

For flofx‘s prompt, with information from this site.

I do not know how to protect my church from this.

I have been protecting this land for centuries, since they buried me at the front gate of the church-yard. I have warned them of trouble, frightened off vandals, and, on more than one occasion, reminded the good people of the town that there were things beyond the mundane.

I was a lamb, once. Once long before this existence. I can remember, vaguely, the warmth of my mother, the green of the grass, the sweetness of milk. And then there was the dirt, and then this life, this non-life existence, protecting this land.

I was the first buried here, or at least, the first buried in the hallowed ground here. Others who came before me, animals and human, were chased off, pushed off, by the blessing of the land, only their physical remains staying to sweeten the ground and grow the daisies. But others came, human and animal, some lingering, some moving on quickly.

They are all gone, too, every one of them. Nothing but a chipmunk has been buried in my ground in more years than I have ways to count. The people don’t come as often, either, nor as many, to pay homage to the dead, to remember those that have gone. It is harder and harder to make them know me, to chase off thieves and vandals.

And now… now this problem is bigger than I am. Now, this land which has only me and the old priest to protect it is being encroached upon. The city has gotten bigger and bigger, growing from a small town to a behemoth. It has pushed at the edges before, toppling the old stone wall, but always before we could hold it back, him and I. Always before there were others to help.

Now they would dig up the church-yard, they have already begun to dig, to move the remains to cold crypts, to make room for their new building. Now they would take the land from me, and me from the land, and what will i do? Guard a landfill? I am too much of this place to leave it. I am too proud to let them ruin my churchyard.

They say, those who buried me, that one must be buried alive to serve this way. And they have dug such a deep hole, there by the first of the graves. If they could see me, if they could be frightened enough by me…

…then the priest and I would have another to protect the land with us.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/238941.html. You can comment here or there.

The Fairy Road

Dec24

To [personal profile] kelkyag‘s prompt.
⛲
The park in the middle of the city had always been creepy.

It was only a city block wide, but it had been allowed – some said by design – to become overgrown and wild, so that there were only two clear paths through the whole thing, an X crossing the park, the center a circle where, once upon a time, a merry-go-round had stood. People hurried through the center now, even in the middle of the day. The ghosts of the children were too densely packed there, and too loud.

Whitney cut through there every day. It took five minutes off of her walk, if she did it right, and that meant she could catch the 6:30 bus instead of the 5:30 bus and still be to work on time (instead of fifty minutes early), which meant another hour of sleep or reading or drawing in the morning and being able to actually stay up in the evening; on the way home, it meant she could take the 5:15 instead of the 5:45 home. She walked the park from the Northwest corner to the Southeast corner, which to her was a matter of practicality, but to our story means everything.
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