reason to stand up and deliver this full-throated baritone monologue about leaving her alone or facing my wrath. Maybe, if I was lucky, it would be followed by a slow clap from the rest of the students in the cafeteria.
That was another version of the story I was writing about her.
But no one ever gave her any grief that I saw. She left people alone, and they left her alone.
I felt like we were dancing. Not together, not at a dimly lit gym prom or anything. But—
maneuvering
. Jockeying for position. The daily, silent half smiles and nods in the hall meant something, didn’t they? They had to. Or maybe I needed them to.
At lunch one day about a month into sophomore year, the cover of the book Becky was reading had an excellent illustration of a dragon on the cover. A fantasy novel. And that got me thinking.
STALEMATE
by Tyler Darcy
The elf wore only an iridescent sash spun from spider silk. She perched high in a pine tree, clinging to a decaying branch with talon toes. The elf stood, balanced precariously on the tired old limb. She inhaled deeply—and relaxed her grip.
She fell, gravity yanking her feet. Then, like whips, her limber fingers lashed out and caught thebranch. She arched her delicate, feline spine once, twice, then flew through the night sky.
A pinprick of light in the distance beckoned her, and she veered unerringly toward it. The light was a campfire, burning brightly and with no remorse. In its warmth dozed a knight, his armor patiently reflecting the surroundings nearby.
The elf landed without sound, laughing to herself;
she
had no reflection.
The knight awoke with a start, his hand falling to his sword hilt. The elf met his eyes, and locked with them in mortal, silent combat.
He spoke her name, his voice trembling. The elf laughed tinkling bells but did not answer. She paced toward him, like mercury over iron, passing through brambles that earlier had sliced the warrior’s clothing.
“Dance with me,” she purred, and pulled a crimson scarf from some unseen place in her sash. The elf snapped it toward him and giggled.
The knight leaped to his feet and slashed at her shapely form, his face twisted with rage. She contorted her body slightly, letting the blade slip past her milky belly. Giggling again, she pirouetted, waving the scarf and coiling it around the blade in a lover’s embrace. She tugged lightly on the scarf, sending the weapon soaring into the darkness.
The knight retreated, pulling a dagger fromhis boot. On and on the girl laughed. The warrior swung the dagger with a rage resembling glee, but the elf moved like the flame of a candle, insubstantial and beautiful. She whipped the scarf at him, one corner cutting deeply across his cheek. The knight licked blood from his face and roared.
Through the night they danced together. The knight’s clothing became a bloody latticework, while the elf skipped and pranced without injury.
As dawn arrived gray and cold, the knight threw aside his weapon and leaped at the elf. He gripped her wrists, clamping them against her thighs. The knight leaned forward and smashed a kiss against her apple lips, then withdrew.
The girl laughed again as she had at the beginning. She waved the scarf at him one final time and was gone, leaving the scarlet cloth to float gently to the ground.
“You remember that sort of fantasy story I wrote sophomore year?” I ask Robby. “The real short one for English?”
He belches. “Um … no. And don’t change the subject. I’m talking about Sydney.”
“So am I, actually.”
“I ’member it,” Justin says. He spies into the bottle, which must be bone-dry by now, and makes as if to throw it into the parking lot. I tense, waiting for him to send thebottle hurtling to the concrete and smashing to bits, but then he laughs and sets the bottle down on the table.
“The chick was hot,” Justin says.
“How do you know?” I ask. “I didn’t describe her.”
“That was the thing,” Justin says.
That was another version of the story I was writing about her.
But no one ever gave her any grief that I saw. She left people alone, and they left her alone.
I felt like we were dancing. Not together, not at a dimly lit gym prom or anything. But—
maneuvering
. Jockeying for position. The daily, silent half smiles and nods in the hall meant something, didn’t they? They had to. Or maybe I needed them to.
At lunch one day about a month into sophomore year, the cover of the book Becky was reading had an excellent illustration of a dragon on the cover. A fantasy novel. And that got me thinking.
STALEMATE
by Tyler Darcy
The elf wore only an iridescent sash spun from spider silk. She perched high in a pine tree, clinging to a decaying branch with talon toes. The elf stood, balanced precariously on the tired old limb. She inhaled deeply—and relaxed her grip.
She fell, gravity yanking her feet. Then, like whips, her limber fingers lashed out and caught thebranch. She arched her delicate, feline spine once, twice, then flew through the night sky.
A pinprick of light in the distance beckoned her, and she veered unerringly toward it. The light was a campfire, burning brightly and with no remorse. In its warmth dozed a knight, his armor patiently reflecting the surroundings nearby.
The elf landed without sound, laughing to herself;
she
had no reflection.
The knight awoke with a start, his hand falling to his sword hilt. The elf met his eyes, and locked with them in mortal, silent combat.
He spoke her name, his voice trembling. The elf laughed tinkling bells but did not answer. She paced toward him, like mercury over iron, passing through brambles that earlier had sliced the warrior’s clothing.
“Dance with me,” she purred, and pulled a crimson scarf from some unseen place in her sash. The elf snapped it toward him and giggled.
The knight leaped to his feet and slashed at her shapely form, his face twisted with rage. She contorted her body slightly, letting the blade slip past her milky belly. Giggling again, she pirouetted, waving the scarf and coiling it around the blade in a lover’s embrace. She tugged lightly on the scarf, sending the weapon soaring into the darkness.
The knight retreated, pulling a dagger fromhis boot. On and on the girl laughed. The warrior swung the dagger with a rage resembling glee, but the elf moved like the flame of a candle, insubstantial and beautiful. She whipped the scarf at him, one corner cutting deeply across his cheek. The knight licked blood from his face and roared.
Through the night they danced together. The knight’s clothing became a bloody latticework, while the elf skipped and pranced without injury.
As dawn arrived gray and cold, the knight threw aside his weapon and leaped at the elf. He gripped her wrists, clamping them against her thighs. The knight leaned forward and smashed a kiss against her apple lips, then withdrew.
The girl laughed again as she had at the beginning. She waved the scarf at him one final time and was gone, leaving the scarlet cloth to float gently to the ground.
“You remember that sort of fantasy story I wrote sophomore year?” I ask Robby. “The real short one for English?”
He belches. “Um … no. And don’t change the subject. I’m talking about Sydney.”
“So am I, actually.”
“I ’member it,” Justin says. He spies into the bottle, which must be bone-dry by now, and makes as if to throw it into the parking lot. I tense, waiting for him to send thebottle hurtling to the concrete and smashing to bits, but then he laughs and sets the bottle down on the table.
“The chick was hot,” Justin says.
“How do you know?” I ask. “I didn’t describe her.”
“That was the thing,” Justin says.
Similar Books
