Chapter 1
Roses. So beautiful. So pretty. So complex. Such a... Vivid red. Blood red. I reach out and pluck one from the lattice fencing. Slowly, I twirl it in between my forefinger and thumb. OUCH! One of the many, many sharp thorns pricks my thumb. I stop twirling the rose.
I look at it carefully, studying it, thinking: did roses have thorns before? I don’t remember them, if they ever did. But, I tell myself “it’s not as if the thorns could have just sprouted just now. I must have just been very lucky not to have pricked myself before.”
When I’m thinking deeply about something I always twirl roses. ALWAYS. Sometimes I can’t explain it, like the time when I was on holiday at the north pole. I remember being very thoughtful, wondering about snow and would we turn into snowmen if we ate enough and also worrying about if we would be able to see Santa’s grotto because
It was underground
Or
It was buried in snow.
(Don’t ask why I was thinking about this, I was a weird kid) and when I looked down, I suddenly noticed there was a rose in my hand that I was twirling. How it got there, I don’t know, because we were at THE NORTH POLE. for goodness’ sake, but it WAS there.
My thumb’s throbbing now, so I decided to go out of our garden and into the wild forest next to it to see if I can find something to reduce the pain. I’m guessing you’ve never been there, so I’ll describe it to you. The forest itself is very pretty, consisting of pine and spruce trees. Every so often, you’ll come across a large clearing that will probably be great for a picnic- all the ones I’ve found have been are- that will be partially be inhabited by several wild animals.
But there is one sinister thing about the forest. At the entrance, just beside the gate, there are mini gravestones. They’re made of all sorts of things- clay, pebbles, mud, wood, lolly sticks, stones, laminated paper, feathers, etc.- think of a tiny thing, there’s a good chance it’ll be in the graveyard. And there’s exactly two thousand and twenty-one (the year last year). Yep. EXACTLY two thousand and twenty-one. I counted. And they’re all gravestones. But not only is there one gravestone per year, but there’s also one for each year. One person died each year from the year one to last year, two thousand and twenty-one. Exactly one...
As I wander through the wood, I look for the ingredients for the ointment grandma makes to help with stinging nettle stings. I’m hoping it works for rose thorns too. All I need to get is:
Thirteen stinging
Seven dock leaves
Twelve acorns
Eleven cotton plants’ cotton strands
And
Twenty-nine moonfungi
I’ve found everything but three moonfungi, when I come across a clearing. This clearing in particular is larger than all the ones I’ve found previously and is beautiful, with daisies and dandelions, tulips and pansies everywhere. I can see a number of burrows and nests, most of which have very tiny signs. I suppose my little sister Layla, aged seven, put them there.
I look up at the sky, expecting to see the dazzlingly bright sun or amazing fluffy white clouds, but I only see stars. Wow. I must have forgotten the time. I think.
Then I notice something. A sign. I take a few steps back so I can see it properly. It says ’Mutadh Kil’an bis delicious. “’Mutadh Kil’an bis velocious?” I say, confused “Weird...”
I feel it almost instantly- the burning, the growing, the pinching, and the pushing.
I look at my watch. It’s 11 pm, but the watch is going up 2 seconds at a time. It was fine a second ago, before I read the sign. The sign!
Wait... Bis velocious... Where had I heard that before?... Latin, that was it... I search my brain for what it means. After what seems like an eternity, I remember. Twice as fast, that was it, but that didn’t make any sense.
What did mutahd mean? Oh yeah, mutate, in Gaelic. Scottish Gaelic
So the sign said mutate __(something)_ twice as fast. Strange... but at least it explained everything. In the time I’ve been trying to work out what it means, 10 minutes have passed. Twenty, according to my watch.
I’m already about half my size, no, a quarter. The burning’s starting to subside, but it’s still there. Another two minutes pass, according to my watch, and I’m about 10cm tall. The insides of my arms are tickling me now, and pushing out feathers. “OW! OUCH! OWWWWW! OUCH! OUCH! OUCH! OWW!” I scream. “IT HURTS!”
After about 3 and a half minutes, it stops hurting. In fact, it even feels kind of nice.
That goes on for about 5 more minutes, and when that’s happening, I can feel my lips hardening and pulling out. I can’t imagine how this would feel if it didn’t feel painless, but I’m guessing it would be extremely painful.
Two things happen after that- two of my toes on each foot pop out of existence, and the other three thin, turn black and lengthen, and my toes grow. My legs also thin and turn black, and harden.
The other thing that happens is all the bits of my body that are not now covered by feathers start becoming furry. Not furry like a dog, but a fluffy, bird type of furry.
Oh, and one last thing happens, to my eyes this time. They move, back, and around to the side of my face, become smaller, and I’m sure they turned all black and beady.
“Help!” I shout- or at least try to. It doesn’t come out in my voice- it’s a tweet. Another bird comes up to me, this one not like me, but a brilliant rainbow. “Who do you want to remember you?” it asks. “Brenda.”. I say it without hesitation. “Brenda, my best friend.” “Very well.” The bird tweets in reply. I don’t know why, but I can understand it. “Here is a nest for you!”
And with that, it flies away.
My watch is on the ground. It’s back to normal now. It says the time is twelve zero-one pm.
Days later, I return to the graveyard. It has one more grave. One with my name on it. 2022. The year I disappeared.
With that, I spread my white wings and soared into the air. I’m a dove now, and no one will ever hurt me again. Everyone here is like me, an animal, supposed to be dead.
THE END
