The Flyarin have one rule. No one leaves the clearing.

It defines us. Protects us. Cements our power over the creatures of the forest and binds us together in deed and destiny. We are born, we live, and we die within our ancient oaken borders. Generations beyond count have existed here, never venturing outside the sun-drenched meadow that has granted us safety for time immemorial. Fly too far, and you’ll never return. Loose sight of home, and you’ll die frightened and alone.

Home is safe. Home is strength. Home is where we belong.

But that is not my story. 

From the moment I awoke, I knew I was different. Something called to me beyond the bounds of duty, beyond purpose and reward. A distant pull I could not ignore. The siren song of adventure.

As soon as my wings broke free of their chrysalis cocoon, I took to the sky, my childhood hours spent racing for the Outlands, propelled by the dream of a world beyond. I crested the borders of the clearing as I reached adolescence, marvelling in childish wonder at the possibilities before me. I was impulsive, naive, oblivious to the dangers waiting in the dark. Much has changed since then.

Some are granted years to walk this mortal coil, but with time comes complacency. A luxury I cannot afford. My minutes become hours, my hours are years, and soon, I too, will be lost to the wind.

This day, my life, has been a journey of discovery. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I’ve dodged falling oceans, flown with feathered warriors in the sky. I lost my heart to a firefly, felt the pain of betrayal, and stood vigil over the corpse of a friend. I stole from an enemy, learnt that sometimes the only answer is to run, and that a widow’s web is a lonely place to die. I know when the eagle flies, he’s really falling. That the lark sings because it can. I know the cicada’s song is one of heartbreak and loss, and the woodpecker wishes for a quieter life. I know that being big doesn’t mean being scary, and being small doesn’t mean you’re safe. I know there’s as much to fear in a promise as a threat, and that friends can be found in the most unlikely of places.

And I know, that for all I know, there is still so much I do not.

But the night fast approaches, and my wings grow weary. And I’ve travelled too far to return home. My heartbeat falters as the cold slows my limbs, blurring the edges of an already ageing mind. Like the legend says, I will die alone. There’s a strange comfort in that.

I don’t regret following my dreams, even if they led me here. I picture the home I left a lifetime ago and smile. For what is the point of life without a story to te…

---

*Smack*

“Did you get it?”

Reika flips over her hand to reveal the squashed remains of the insect beneath.

“Yup, that is one dead fly.”

“Gross,” Alyn grumbles before returning to her seat by the fire. “I hate flies.”

This story was written for the second round of the NYC Midnight 500-word Fiction Challenge, where participants are given 48 hours to create a story based on a series of prompts. The assigned prompts for this challenge were the action of swatting a fly and the genre of Fairytale/Fantasy.

I always love the opportunity to take part in these challenges, as they push you to create pieces outside of your typical style (although fairytales & fantasy were rather in my wheelhouse for this one). Working with unfamiliar genres, a minuscule word count, and a rapid-fire deadline means that you can create some truly unique pieces you didn’t know were in you.

Oh, and they’re super fun. Did I mention that?