Mr O’Boyle was in his senior years and lived alone in a quiet cul-de-sac in the suburbs of an unforgiving town.  His cupboards were bare, his house was cold, and few lights were lit to burn a hole in his solitude.

Atta had grown up in a different environment, a world apart spoilt by ample means.  Her family lived in an era where their planet was on the brink of a crisis – lords fought for land and fuel and gained neither, for both were being rapidly depleted.  Paranoia sulked on every corner and leaders passed their problems around like viruses, each problem mutating cleverly and rapidly becoming immune to old fashioned common sense.

Mr O’Boyle shivered.  He eyed his coal basket with a similar gaze to that of a lost soul for a bottle of gin.  The old clock by the fridge ticked stubbornly and argued time with each echo that bounced from the cold stone walls.  Mr O’Boyle listened and remained still in the warmth of his decrepid chair.

Several hundred years passed on Atta’s planet.  Her great-great-great grandchildren grew without knowing of the hardships their predecessors had battled through, and were genetically sound, intelligent and resourceful.  Commerce had grown clever in its old age, and had thrown its resources into science and learning.  Tolerance of material value had melted away and revealed bright young tendrils of self-sufficiency underneath. 

Mr O’Boyle slowly stood and his bones (dismissive of his longing for pain relief and warmth) slowed his crossing to the fireplace.  He stooped slowly to pile the tinder and charcoal together into a flammable tent, then reached for a box of matches which he slowly slid open.  His tremors reverberated through the tips of his fingers making the simple act of lighting a match pure torture.

A small child played under an apple tree, turning leaves to pure energy with her new birthday toy; She watched each glow and fizzle with mild amusement while her grandmother still regarded the effect with pure unbridled disbelief.  The third sun was rising rapidly and reminded them of dinner and avoidance of evening heat.  They stretched their hands towards each other and stood up, brushing fibres from their clothes.  They walked home and chatted about the way things were.

The match connected and snapped in half as the last one had done before it.  Mr O’Boyle sighed and removed another, sucking his breath in an attempt to quiet his shuddering hands.  This third match connected and burst into life.  It travelled rapidly to the wood in the fire and was nested underneath, its energy enveloping everything above it so that Mr O’Boyle himself was bathed in a warm pool of flickering heat.

Atta’s world imploded, a fact unknown to its occupants who had by this time grown scarce.  The old world ceased to exist in the blink of a sparrow’s eye, and a new one was born of parallel molecular structure.  Atta’s world soon learned the skills of simple cell creation and began to adapt.

Mr O’Boyle basked in the fiery glow, and decided to make a cup of tea in the spirit of self-indulgence. By the time it was made, Atta’s world had invented the car.

Meanwhile the fire burned incomprehensibly slowly turning it’s dissolving carbon flakes to dust.

There’s a ship over there; out at sea, out of reach
Though I’ve stood on her deck once or twice.
It sails its free course; while here on my beach,
The people seem bound by advice.

There’s word on the street of this boat out at sea
How the blazes and curses burn wild!
Their fear and distrust is too heavy for me,
I revolt by the phrase of a child.

How loud they proclaim that I’m burning my hands
While their courage is turning to ice,
And I know faith of heart drives me out of these sands
By my trust, not some dangerous vice.

Such promise I see on that wind-swept ship,
How the sun turns her splinters to gold.
And I watch as the waves kiss each climax and dip
While the sails let old secrets unfold.

If I swim out to sea like I’ve done once before
Will they cannon her stern out of fear?
Should I wallow in incubus here on the shore
I know courage would soon dissapear.

Too long did I stay as I pondered my fate
For I see the horizon’s in flames,
So as Zion is lost through a watery gate
I start to search for yet another bright idea…

Addendum; Ummm, it’s been pointed out to me that I should probably take some sort of credit for this blah.  Indeed and I did not rip it off the internet.  I take full shame and responsibility for I did write it my very own self.

The woman haunted the forest daily, walking off her worries for her missing child, for to stay at home was far too difficult.  She grew apart from her husband, who had become annoyed with her ravings and her distance.  Each day she spent longer and longer in the woods searching for clues, searching for the magpie that had visited her on the evening of the wasp’s revenge.  Finally the day arrived that would have marked the entrance of her child into the world and she wept.  The entire day found the woman, who had now grown thin and haggard, curled beneath a hawthorn tree lamenting her loss, until the sun began to set.

As the moon started it’s ascent, a soft voice entered the woman’s consciousness.  She lifted her head and found a small creature standing before her.  It was an ugly and wrinkled little thing with tufts of hair poking randomly from underneath it’s tattered clothing.  She caught a scent of rotting earth mixed with sweet warm honey smells of gorse, and knew she was encountering something very strange indeed.  She sat up and concentrated on the creature, allowing it’s voice to become clear in her head.

It told her, despite her disbelief, that it was a faery who had been watching her for many weeks, that knew of both her and her child.  It explained that her child had been chosen by the insect folk to be their queen, that the fate of the child had been marked for many moons, and that these folk were not to be underestimated.  It told her that her sorrow had softened the hearts of many of the faeryfolk who lived in this particular Hawthorn Tree that the woman had chosen as a mourning post, and that they wished to help her.

The woman began to weep again as the information sank in.  She wept both because it all sounded so ridiculously strange, and because the solution seemed so complicated, but the faery slapped her and told her in very stern tones to listen properly and to mute her emotion until the solution was explained, for it would only be explained once, as faeries are very impatient folk.

On hearing the answer to her sorry situation, she went home and began to follow through with her instructions.

She sat cross-legged in her garden for ten full days and ten full nights and became very still.  So still, in fact, that the animals and birds which frequented this spot soon forgot she was there.  Foxes nibbled at her bare thin toes, and robins pecked at her ears.  She ignored them all until finally it arrived, the creature she wanted so dearly.  The magpie came to rest on her knee and cocked it’s head, listening for messages in the earth.  Quick as lightening, the woman grabbed the bird tightly by the neck and shook it, for this was the creature which had stolen her child.  It was in fact, not a magpie at all, but a faery in disguise who had been sent to deliver the unborn child to the forest.  The woman felt the bird’s neck snap, and it fell limp.  She watched in satisfaction as the cruel glint ebbed away from it’s eyes.  She then began to slowly pluck the black and white plumes from it’s body until it’s chest was bared.  Then, as instructed, she tore the magpie’s heart from it’s breast and placed it carefully in a jar in her pocket.

She served the remains of the magpie that night to her husband disguised in a stew, and went to bed, to sleep like she hadn’t slept in months.

Her husband rose from his bed that night and wandered.  His eyes grew steely and black and led him with an un-named conviction back to the forest.  He had no awareness as he stepped throught the undergrowth with his shovel in hand, his mind was not present as he began to dig through the undergrowth.  A tiny body slowly appeared as he dug, and when he saw that it was a baby, small and limp and dead, he was not shocked.  He removed his coat and wrapped the infant tightly, then brought it home to place it beside his wife on the bed.  He then lay down and resumed his slumber.

The woman woke soon after, found the cold bundle beside her, and shrieked with joy.  She opened the small jar containing the magpie’s heart and poked the tiny organ between the cool white gums of the infant.  Then she slept, cocooning the baby’s body against her breast until morning.

When she woke, the room was filled with morning light.  She sat up instantly to find a small pink baby gazing into her eyes and gurgling with affection.  She screamed with delight to her husband’s alarm, and despite the amazing story she unfolded for the benefit of his ears, she found that the forgetfulness spell had lifted, and heard how the last few months had passed for her husband as those of any other expectant family would.

The incident was soon forgotten as the baby grew, the darkness of the sinister tale was swallowed by the love felt for the tiny child.  And, as time passed, they even grew accustomed to the ominous buzzing sound that eminated from the child’s crib each night as it slept.