I don't write many older characters. I suppose age - as with most things - is relative in fiction. When I began writing The Watcher's Heir (my will-be-finished-one-day high fantasy epic), I was still at school and my hero began the story aged 25, an age I could not imagine ever reaching but an age I thought would still be considered young by many. If I ever manage to finish and edit that story, I'll be extending his - and a few others' - age! Having grown older, I've realised the advantages and the benefits of age. Of course, it's a bit of a disappointment that I'm never asked for ID in the shop anymore, or that people assume I'm my younger sisters' mother(!). But, on the whole, the pros have far outweighed the cons. The biggest con in terms of writing, is that it's difficult not to put an old head on young shoulders. Looking through books - both my own and those written by other people - it is clear just how easy it is to slip into the "ol...
For today's #HistFicThursdays blog, I'm delighted to be sharing this flash fiction piece from Judith. Set in the realm of magical realism, this is a story of Ancient Greece...
The Mermaid of the Aegean
Thessalonike’s sigh as she awakens becomes the wind upon the waves, spiralling over the deep. The foam is her hair: the curls she inherited from her father… she still feels the water which washed them, trickling from the flask. She had laughed at how it tickled her scalp and ran into her ears as her brother poured it onto her head, his own curls bent over hers in devoted concentration.
It was that memory which had propelled her from the earth and into the sea when word came of his death, casting herself into the ocean to escape a world without him. Yet she had awoken from sleep not death, her body and soul still united in the deep… and the enduring significance of that flask excruciatingly clear.
Her wrath at him for destroying her death split the sea into grey ribbons, and her screams of fury became a twisted echo of her childhood laughter. She despised him for the love she felt, and the love which led him to waste the water of immortality on her. Men perished in her rage, as they had perished in his, screaming to a saviour whose face and name she couldn’t recognise.
Then, when her anger subsided, she could no longer recall the truth of the news from Babylon, and it remains confused in her mind. She seeks nothing more than the answer from passing sailors, calling to them as they gaze down at her in horror.
“Is King Alexander alive?”
Most often, she cannot remember their response, but awakens from a nightmare to find herself surrounded by detritus and the floating corpses of those she asked.
She and the water are unpredictable.
Yet occasionally, sailors look down with combined fear and pity, and call out an answer which offers the balm she seeks to soothe the Aegean.
“He lives and reigns, and conquers over all.”
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