Flash Fiction: Girls, Spies, and Other Things the Faeries Stole

Hey guys! Today I’m excited to share a flash fiction/snippet/beginning of a story/SOMETHING.

Basically, I wrote it for a Twelve Dancing Princesses prompt and wanted to share it.

October is Twelve Dancing Princesses month over at The Fairy Tale Central. (If you don’t follow them, YOU SHOULD, because they’re amazing and all about fairy tales.)

As a part of that, Arielle Bailey, one of the Fairy Godmothers who run the site, has a writing prompt themed after the fairy tale of the month.

This month’s is . . .

And then you pick one of these answers to use . . .

You can join in the prompt and find all the info HERE!

(I cheated a tiny bit because I moved the prompt lines later in the story instead of starting with it, because I wanted to start somewhere else, buuut you know. :P)

I wasn’t NOT going to write something for this — I mean, it’s my favorite fairy tale!

And then I had a dream about writing something for it and took something from that, as well as a title I’d been meaning to use, and a couple of other orphan ideas waiting for a story. (By which I mean that they’ve been quietly insisting they would like a story of their own and I’ve been pretending they don’t exist because I already have TOO MANY.) And there you are!

(I apologize that it ends as it does; I hope to write more someday, when it’s not less than two weeks until NaNo. XD)

Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Girls, Spies, and Other Things the Faeries Stole

Part 1 (?)

by Deborah O’Carroll

I dismounted from my old motorbike and surveyed the huge mansion silhouetted against the lake. The location being near water was less than ideal, given the rather important selkie shifters I had offended, but this job shouldn’t involve going near the water. I hoped.

I pulled off my sunglasses and hung them on my collar as I stepped into the sunset shadow of the looming mansion and knocked on the huge elegant doors at the top of a stairway I tried not to let impress me.

A man in a suit opened the doors almost at once and looked out. “Good evening, sir. How can I help you?”

Sir, indeed. My battered leather jacket and torn jeans didn’t exactly look like sir material, and the man was three times my age. But I let it slide, just this once.

“I’m here to collect that half-million reward,” I said.

“That would require solving the mystery.”

I smirked. “Oh, I intend to.”

“And where did you hear of this opportunity?”

“Craigslist,” I grunted. He didn’t need to know that an . . . acquaintance of mine had already come trying to solve this and had disappeared.

Satisfied, he nodded and stepped back. “Right this way, sir, and I’ll introduce you to Mr. King.”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me,” I said, and adjusted the handgun tucked into the back of my jeans under my jacket as I stepped through the doorway.

“Of course not, sir.”

I shook my head, following him into the depths of the mansion. Butlers.

My interview with Mr. King was brief—he was bored and impatient, and since I liked to think that people didn’t react that way just because of me, I figured he was getting kind of tired of this whole business after the dozens who had come in search of the reward and gotten nowhere—or if they had, nobody knew where, since they’d all disappeared.

Honestly, you’d think that would be more worrying than a billionaire’s twelve adopted daughters wearing out their ballet slippers every night, but there was no accounting for the rich. He said they couldn’t perform ballet in the daytime if they did it all night, and the stage was missing them.

Whatever he wanted to do with half a million was his business, and I could certainly use it to take care of a few things, on top of tracking down my . . . acquaintance.

So here I was, in a corner of a room full of chattering teenage girls, pretty much the last place I wanted to be. Well. Other than somewhere near water.

At least the invisibility cloak I wore kept them from knowing I was here—helpfully provided by Mr. King to aid in the investigations, with an enchantment on it to return to its proper hook hanging on a wall in his office at sunup every day to prevent unwarranted thefts. Otherwise I’d have suspected the previous investigators of having made off with it—it would explain their disappearances, and one of these was worth a fortune.

As part of the pre-arranged plan, I’d slipped in while the butler brought an evening snack to the teens—well, maybe a few of them were a smidge older, closer to my age; I was terrible with ages—and waited, Mr. King’s weary “good luck” still swirling in my ears. I guess if neither the wards around the house nor the security cameras could figure out where his girls were going or how, and they seemed to be in their room from ten p.m. until morning, that had to get kind of stressful.

The girls were either chatting, reading, engaged on phones or laptops, or doing some kind of crafting. One was practicing ballet steps in the corner opposite to mine.

Absolutely nothing interesting happened until the clock hit midnight.

They all stopped what they were doing and watched the huge wall clock finish chiming, then stood up—all except the one who seemed to be the youngest, who had fallen asleep reading a book.

She woke up and groaned. “Just one night. Can’t we sleep for just one night and forget all this?”

The eldest snorted. “Sounds great. Except for the part where we’d all wake up as ghosts.”

“Come on, you don’t really believe that, do you? Just because they told us—”

“I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that faeries can’t lie,” said another girl.

“And I’m pretty sure that’s just a rumor they spread around to make themselves sound trustworthy. Have you seen how sarcastic some of them are? I’m pretty sure sarcasm is a kind of lie and I doubt they could do it if they had to tell the truth.”

I smirked. That was definitely true.

“Come on, you know why we have to—and you usually love it. If you’re tired, you can just as easily nap there. Let’s go. One more night.”

The other girl got up and they put on their ballet slippers, then lined up, following the first girl.

I tensed, ready.

They walked right into the wall and vanished.


I quickly slipped after them. The wall let me through, fortunately. On the other side, a dark shadowiness waited. I could feel that we had passed through a barrier and were now somewhere else entirely.

Faeries. This was going to be interesting.

I spied the girls disappearing in a long spiral down a winding staircase with a gleam of light waiting at the bottom.

About to slip after them, I paused. A scratch on the banister at the top caught my eye. A symbol I knew well. He had been here. And the only reason he would have left that mark was if he was in trouble and thought I’d be following and would find it. Of all the entitled—

I growled. What did that idiot get into now?

I pulled my cloak of invisibility tighter around myself and stepped onto the spiral stairs, following the twelve girls toward the source of light—and what sounded like waves.

Which meant water.

I groaned. This was not my day.

To be continued . . . ?

And there you are! I hope you enjoyed it despite ending sooner than we might like it to. XD I do really want to continue writing it sometime. Thank you for reading!

Invisible Barrier

I haven’t been writing much lately, but I thought I’d share my latest random bit of work . . . Since this is, after all, supposedly a blog about writing . . . *cough* Ahem. 😉

The other day, someone in my writing group put up a writing prompt. (Ellie is queen of prompts…) I hadn’t really done one of these before… But my brain took that and pulled out an old idea and mixed it with that, and threw in a possibility for perhaps fitting into one of my more recent story ideas (The Other Half of Everything… possibly… Which would make the “I” my character Meridian… But I’m not entirely sure), and this is what came out.

Do you like writing prompts? Do you think they’re helpful to get some words flowing? Or ultimately only useful if they’re not entirely random? Or… What are your thoughts? 🙂

Here’s the prompt, and what I wrote from it . . .


Invisible Barrier

I wandered despondently across the forsaken meadow, pulling my coat tighter around myself to ward off the sudden cooling air as dark clouds roiled across the sky. All at once I found myself sitting quite suddenly on the ground, feeling as if I had run directly into a wall. I put my hand to my forehead, half because it was smarting from smacking into something solid, and half because I was perplexed at having run into something that clearly wasn’t there.

But if I had learned anything from my time here, it was that impossible things could happen, and nothing was ever as it seemed.

I cautiously got to my feet, and very slowly and carefully stretched my hand forward. I instinctively recoiled as my fingertips found something solid but invisible. I tried again. It felt smooth and cold, like glass. But there was nothing there and I could see straight through to the other end of the meadow where the trees began again. I ran both hands up and down the solid nothing, and found that it went as high as I could reach, and all the way down to the ground at my feet. Was it blocking my way entirely? Could I not get past to the forest? I panicked for a moment, but then pushed it down, telling myself it couldn’t go forever.

I tentatively began feeling my way to the left. The invisible barrier went a little that way, and as I followed it by touch, I realized it was . . . curving. Very slowly. My fingers ran along it and I found it slowly taking me in a circle, a few feet in diameter. Then I was back where I had been standing to start with. How curious. It seemed to be an invisible cylinder, taller than I was. What on earth—? But then I reminded myself—it wasn’t. That was entirely the point.

I could walk past now, I knew, as it wasn’t blocking my way; but somehow I was reluctant to leave it. The puzzle of this curious thing kept me rooted to the spot, wondering. I should be getting on, but . . . oh, what was it?

I detested being flummoxed. It was a very uncomfortable feeling, and one I didn’t like having a hold on me for a second longer than could be helped.

I put my hands on my hips and surveyed where the nothing—or rather, the something—should be (or perhaps shouldn’t be), and let out a huff of a sigh. My breath collected . . . and stayed on the invisible barrier as if it was glass. Ah. How interesting . . . At least it must have some substance.

I leaned forward, curious, and on a whim, with my fingertip I drew a smiley face on the slightly curved surface that my breath had fogged, as I used to on cold windows. It was out of place. A smiley face in thin air in the middle of nowhere (or in this case, a meadow). It had absolutely no business being there, but then, neither did an invisible cylinder. Or me, for that matter. I certainly had no business being there.

I was about to turn away and walk on to the fringe of forest beyond, but suddenly I froze, my attention arrested as surely as if the cops had come and tied my attention up in handcuffs.

Another patch of the invisible barrier had suddenly fogged up, as if I had breathed on it again . . . And, like my smiley written with a fingertip, writing began to appear.

My breath caught in my throat and I watched, spell-bound.

After a moment it stopped and I was able to puzzle it out when I realized it was written backwards. If I imagined it was in a mirror, or that I was standing on the other side, it read: Hello?

Someone was inside the invisible barrier.

My heart beat faster. Or, I think it did. It definitely felt odd. I breathed on my side of the solid nothingness and wrote quickly: R U there?

A pause. Another area fogged.

I should say so, the words traced, backward. I supposed mine looked backward to whoever was over there.

Who are you? I wrote.

Who’s asking? came the answer.

Me, my fingertip traced. I was not entirely sure I wanted to share my name with somebody I couldn’t see.

How delightfully specific.

I never thought that words written in condensation on an invisible window could be that sarcastic.

“Can you hear me?” I said aloud, wondering if sound could pierce it.

Nothing happened. I had a sudden nervous shock as I wondered if whoever was on the other side could see me through the barrier, even though I couldn’t see them. The thought creeped me out. But then, I supposed, perhaps they wouldn’t have needed to ask who I was if they could see me. This person couldn’t have much space to move around, I thought, calculating how big it was, and shuddered. I hated claustrophobic spaces. I wondered why they were inside. And if they wanted to be.

Are you trapped? I found myself writing then.

There was a long pause. A drop of rain landed on my arm. Then another, and another. I looked up. The dark clouds in the sky had finally decided to do something about themselves and rain. The raindrops fell faster now, all around me, as I watched the invisible barrier, with a few lone raindrops trailing down it. Then a small patch on the other side fogged up again and a word appeared.


Rain began falling in sheets, sliding down the side of the whatever-it-was, clearly defining it now as a cylinder. I looked up, and saw that the shape of it tapered to a point, like a finger pointing at the sky. It was odd to see the circle in the grass in front of me, where no rain fell, and to see the rain drops gliding down seemingly on nothing, or at least glass as clean as a new car window. As the rain ran down the side, I could almost not make out the next word that appeared.




The E trailed off as if the finger drawing it had slipped slowly down the inside. Then a hand print appeared, as if someone had pressed their hand briefly against the fogged surface. My heart beat quickened again as I leaned forward. The rain was doing something to the invisible barrier, something reflective, seeming to lessen the invisibleness. Just on the other side of what I continued to think of as glass, I saw resting against it, fingertips and part of a hand, disappearing as if there were a thick fog, also invisible, making the person who belonged to the hand unseeable.

There was something familiar about that hand. As if I had seen it before.

I reached my hand tentatively toward the transparent barrier and tried to fog it and write “I’ll try,” but the falling rain wouldn’t let me. Frustrated that I couldn’t “talk” to him anymore, I tried to choke back a growl of angry distress and rested my own fingertips against it.

The hand on the other side moved, disappeared a moment . . . and then reappeared, fingertips pressed against the clear solidness just opposite where my own fingers were, as if to touch them. He must see my hand, just as I could see his!

My heart did another thing—very annoying, would you stop it already, heart?—and I moved my fingers a little.

The fingers on the other side did too, moving up slightly, and I almost felt they were trying to communicate a thought without speaking or writing: Don’t go.

My fingertips stroked the invisible barrier, through the rain coursing like tears down its cold surface, following the other fingers with my own, the movement of my fingers saying without words: I’m here. I’ll try to help.