Here is a new story that I was working on for the past few weeks and decided to post it here. Keep in mind this is only the prologue, and it's a very rough draft. Just know the writing and plot design will hopefully be much better down the line. (one can only hope). Please enjoy!
Clary woke to her one-eyed cat Hazel pawing at her in a protest of hunger. She didn't want to open her eyes, though. She could see the light behind her closed lids and squeezed them tighter. But, after a few minutes of her cat's nagging, she let herself slip out of the dream world, and into the world of the waking.
Her bed groaned as she sat up and rubbed her bleary eyes, the sudden movement throwing Hazel from the bed with a disconcerted yowl.
"Sorry, Haze." The tabby gave her owner a haughty sniff and strutted off, expecting to be fed.
Turning her gaze toward the window, Clary could make out the little shapes of houses belonging to the other townsfolk. And if she squinted, she might even see them milling about the market, picking up their groceries.
On her way to the kitchen, she grabbed a light coat from her closet and slid her feet into her mother's favorite pair of bunny slippers. Humming a happy tune, the redhead slipped into her usual morning habits. She grabbed the carton of eggs from the fridge and placed them onto the marble countertop.
Today was the day for pancakes, she decided. And that's just what she did.
After a half-hour of mixing ingredients and pouring batter onto the griddle, Clary successfully made a batch of about a dozen pancakes. Unfortunately, she had no one to share them with, unless you counted Hazel, who was still pretty salty about the earlier altercation.
She did end up relenting and giving a few pieces to Hazel, who seemed to have forgotten her grudge against Clary, and became her normal happy self again. Luckily, Clary didn't have to do much cleanup and set off on her errands.
The world outside was bustling with activity as she made her way down the street and to the center of town. As her tennis shoe-clad feet slapped the pavement, she made a mental checklist of things she had to get today: food for Hazel, more fruit, some seeds for Grandma's garden-
"Oh, Clary! Where are you going so early?" Her train of thought was interrupted by one of her many neighbors, Mr. Rothschild, who'd poked his head out his window. He'd always been kind to her, if not a little dead-set in his ways, but what could you do?
"To the meadow. Grandma says it's the best spot to collect ingredients."
"You don't make sense, girl," commented Mrs. Rothschild, poking her head beside him.
"Just...don't go near the woods, Clary. A girl has disappeared, again...Gabriel's daughter."
Clary turned around and flashed one of her million-wat smiles. "I won't Mr. Rothschild."
The old man just shook his head. "You young people never listen. Fine, don't listen. Just be careful."
Clary, desperate to get away from the present conversation, quickened her pace, and replied. "I won't Mr. Rothschild."
If she'd stayed long enough to listen, she would've heard Mrs. Rothschild mutter to her husband, "She's too weird and too lonely for someone that young."
Clary believed in monsters and fairytales like all children believe in them. She wanted all of it to be real, but she suspected she was a bit wrong in that sentiment. Just like in every fairytale, her hometown was a bit wrong. Because everything and everyone was happy, they didn't have a care in the world. Which was truly not right.
The only thing that seemed to remain constant was her grandmother and her stories. Every night before going to bed, Clary's grandmother would tell her a story. They couldn't be found in any book or play or movie, but they felt so real. So real that Clary felt like she was there when her grandmother told these stories.
Almost as though her grandmother had lived through these stories herself.
"This place is the borest." Clary swiped her charcoal in a diagonal line across her sketchbook, not having any inspiration whatsoever.
"Most boring! Grammar, Clary." Her grandmother called from the opposite side of the room, a ball of yarn resting in her lap and knitting needles in her hands.
Clary looked up from her sketchbook and gave her grandmother a secret smile, as though they were both in on some practical joke. "Sometimes, I like to try out new words."
Her grandmother's smile mirrored her own. "They are not new, they are wrong."
"They are fun."
"The green people take children who only have fun."
"I'm eighteen. I am no longer kidnapping material." Clary rolled her eyes. "Besides, being taken would be a great adventure compared to this...boredom."
Her grandmother looked up sharply, her knitting forgotten. "Don't say that! The stars might be listening!"
"But I didn't say the magic words…"
"Clary don't you dare-"
"I wish...something interesting would happen to me for a change!"
Her grandmother was right, because all grandmothers are right. And that day, the stars were listening.