Outcast of the Moon
By Kayla Bashe
Sitting on a sand dune, Reviya watched the stars. Although she hated to admit it, she had never become accustomed to the moon: shivering in the wing-numbing cold beneath a silver-sequined, yet bleak sky, the cool silver sand sifting between her fingers like a travesty of the beaches she’d once loved to luxuriate on.
She’d chosen this fate.
Better to feel loneliness’s ache on Luna’s alien shores than to face the pity of her faerie tribe. She hadn’t chosen her misshapen left hand; her fellow faeries, yellow-rose-clad, tittered at her behind perfect fingers.
They called her ogre-cursed. Sharp stones whispered her name. Their secret voices called her like the moon pulling the tides.
Because of her ugliness and their perfection and her misery and laughter and she had not requested the rockslide that rolled over her, crushing her hand, and because the obsidian’s glossy edge bore jagged perfection, such a clean line, she picked it up.
Agony and rage ripped a newborn scream from Reviya’s throat. She hacked at her arm, her wrist, until blood covered her pale skin.
From then on, the white-winged faerie moved through a susurrus of pity. Even the wind murmured: poor thing, poor girl, did you hear?- not knowing that each whisper only drove her closer to the obsidian’s silence, its efficient distractions.
The moon lacked wind.
Footsteps in the sand behind her. Reviya’s brown-blonde braids whipped around. She turned her merciless gaze to the intruder, blue eyes narrowing above a strong snub nose.
Labels: Kayla Bashe