1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Whetter

Name: Carly Whetter
Genre: Young Adult Urban Fantasy
Title: The Forest Song

I paint Lady Earth with her billowing white dress and sea green hair, her eyes closed and a smile on her peaceful face. Strong cedar trees surround her, and I drag my desk across the room to paint the branches above me.

In the fairytales that my father used to tell us before we were taken by sleep, Lady Earth had possessed a deep and powerful magic that everyone else wanted. But although she was powerful that did not mean that she was invulnerable. Everywhere she went the evil darkness that threatened the natural world around her followed, but there was a grove deep in the forest that would wrap safety around her like a cocoon. This is where I painted her.

"Zola, you always draw Lady Earth. Try to give the evil guy some airtime once in a while," my brother says behind me with a laugh. His voice makes me jump. I turn to see him leaning against my doorframe, arms crossed over his chest as if he’s been watching me paint for a while.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to get some blood flowing back into my legs; I started painting around noon, and it’s already dark outside. The plastic tarp covering my bed crinkles loudly beneath my weight, and I wipe my gritty hands on Dylan’s old scrubs. I turn back to my artwork with a snort. “I’m not going to paint the evil guy on my bedroom wall, Aidan. That’s asking for trouble.”

“Why not? Besides, that would be a much better story for when I tell Mom what you’ve done to your bedroom.” Aidan raises his eyebrows mischievously and kicks a paint tube for extra measure; it’s only Tuesday and I’ve already given him ammunition to use with our parents. Shit.

I hop off my bed, dropping the paintbrush on the floor, paint droplets dancing on the hardwood. He watches the droplets fall with a wide grin of satisfaction on his face, and I know I’ve made it worse.

“You wouldn’t.”

He turns unexpectedly on his heel, and with a laugh runs down the hallway of our small house and into his bedroom. Unable to close the door quick enough, he tries to keep me from coming into his room by pressing the entirety of his body weight against the door. But I’m two years older and at least fifty pounds heavier and when I shove against the door and he flies backwards.

He shrieks with laughter, raising his hands in front of his face as I pounce on him. I press my colourful hands into his skin, dragging the pigment across his face and into his fire-red hair.

“Guys,” Lynn, Aidan’s twin, groans through her open bedroom door across the hall. Aidan is laughing too hard to pay attention; his freckled face contorts as he squeezes his eyes shut. Lynn’s mattress squeaks and she stomps across the floor, slamming the door on us.

When we finally run out of air, we both lie on our backs and stare at the glow in the dark stars Aidan pressed onto the ceiling when he was younger. He told me once that he thought it was the type of sky that Lady Earth would look upon when she was in her grove: full and bright. Although he tells me there are better characters, I know Lady Earth always watches over him at night.

When our breathing slows, he finally speaks: “I won’t tell.” He laughs.

“She’ll find out anyway.” I punch him in the shoulder playfully for good measure.

#

After I’ve scrubbed my skin raw in the shower, I join my family for dinner. As I step out into the hallway, the scent of my father’s famous ham wafting up through the stone house and hiding the smell of paint, I’m still convinced that my family will know what I’ve done. I’ve been lectured enough times about paint ruining hardwood floors to know better.

But, when I walk into the dining room, all six members of my family already surrounding the table, they beckon me to join and I relax.

I move quietly, my toes squishing into the white carpet, and sit between my eldest brother, Dylan, and my father who is already shoveling mashed potatoes onto his plate. Dylan is in the midst of a story about a new intern at the hospital, his fork waving above his head animatedly.

"I couldn't just let it go," Dylan says. "The guy couldn't have been able to tell the difference between a vein and a wet noodle."

Although Dylan came back to Orville after he finished medical school and became one of the most respected medical professionals in town, his gestures make him look anything but.

My mother, furthest away from me at the other end of the table, is looking at Dylan with admiration, her red talon-like fingernails tapping against her wineglass.

Wrapping up his story, Dylan raises his glass. “Vivienne and I have announcement,” he says, looking at me. “Now that everyone is here I think this is an appropriate time to say it.”

Vivienne, Dylan’s wife, seems to grow bigger by the second, and she places her hand on her stomach as if to signal to the topic of conversation. It’s no surprise that Dylan would be the one to announce the gender of the baby; he delivers them every day but nothing has been more exciting to him in weeks than this news.

Lynn is unable to contain herself, and moves towards the edge of her seat and rests her elbows on the table, almost as if sheer proximity will allow her to hear the news first.

“It’s a boy!” Dylan proclaims, leaning over to kiss Vivienne’s cheek.

Lynn squeaks and vaults across the table to embrace Dylan, and I rise to congratulate Vivienne, pulling her into a hug. “Congratulations,” I say fondly.

"Same to you, Zola, you're going to be an aunt."

After my parents finish doting on Vivienne and we’ve all settled back down, our food now forgotten and growing cold, my father turns to me. "Now that we've broached the subject of new life, Zola, I was hoping your mother and I would be able to tell you something."

My head snaps up in surprise; I didn’t expect the topic of conversation to turn to me. I can feel my ears turn red. Growing up with three other siblings, I know that if I am suddenly the sole focus I’m in trouble.

"What's that, Dad?" I ask, aware that my voice is strained in a desperate attempt to be normal.
Aidan shoots me a maniacal grin that makes me squirm.

But I never get his answer. The next thirty seconds are in slow motion: the large bay windows behind my father give out and each shard of glass spins in front of me, glittering in the light of the swaying light fixture above the table.