An online writing forum I like to visit offered this prompt to its aspiring writers:
Explain why your dinner guest may not see the Aurora Borealis that may be manifesting in your kitchen.
My story:
Sure, everyone around here has seen the Aurora Borealis before. Ethereal lights dancing in the sky, whispering of uncomprehending cold beauty. You always seem to know when they are out. Watching them twist and dance is hypnotic. They always seem to be just heading over the horizon to the north. They seem to whisper of mysteries barely on the edge of understanding. You like to watch them. Your husband teases you sometimes, calling you fae for standing outside in the bitter cold, staring up and to the north. Always to the north.
“My winter elf.” He would say, coming up behind you with a blanket, and wrapping both blanket and his warm arms around you. You would snuggle into the embrace, feeling warm, feeling safe. His slightly greater height made this easy, and you would rest your head on his shoulder. The lights above you dancing, whispering…. and finally withdrawing. There was a feeling of profound loss when they finally quit the sky. You would sigh, and droop in his embrace. Then turn in his arms, looking up into his face. His smile, his warm earthy brown eyes… seemed to take the chill out of the air, no matter how cold outside it was. You would smile, a warm feeling kindling in your heart, curling in your chest. Snuggled in his arms, you burrow into his chest and shoulder. Your favourite place to be, right here.
Sometimes you fear life is speeding by. You would excel if you could just apply yourself! Words from a half dozen school teachers throughout your youth, echoing above your head. Your father nodding solemnly. Their scolding tempered by knowledge. Just a single dad, doing the best he could with an odd child, a child often lost in a world of daydreams. The past seeped away, the memories of your father bittersweet. Dead some ten years, found outside in the winter, frozen in the bitter cold. Dead. And smiling. You knew he had long mourned the wife who had… just slipped away one day. The town gossips held that a flighty woman from the cities would of course be bored with small town life, and it was no surprise she had slipped out one winter night and left your strong and proud father saddled with small young you. The haughty women of the small town potlucks would always stop their whispering when you came around, but it was easy to see the dismissal in their eyes. Outsider, born of a city woman, who had swooped in and bewitched their salt-of-the-earth classmate, your father. Everyone knew everyone here, and your father was supposed to fall in love and wed the most popular girl in his highschool. Of course he would.
But he hadn’t. And now here you are all grown up, slight of limb, pale of hair and eyes in a small town filled with brown haired brown eyed hale folk. Good dependable folk, just like the man you now call your husband.
A small house, a modest affair on a small parcel of land. A small party, a dinner you invited a few of your friends to, and the more numerous friends of your husband. Your house filled with laughter from the living room, your husband surrounded by smiles. He always seemed to put people at ease, and it seemed to offset your own introverted and preoccupied manner, so you had plenty of friends as a couple. Plenty of people had come to your wedding, and sighed over such a handsome couple. Your husband couldn’t help but be himself, and people loved him for it. His habit of listening intently to what was being said to him, of offering compassion and strength, of lending a hand without being asked, of always being there when needed. All the qualities that had slowly captured your complete attention. And he had become the centre of your world, your eyes always seeking his in a crowd, finding reassurance. You tended to turn towards him like a new plant seeks the spring sunshine.
Except when the lights danced in the sky. Then your feet would take you outside, and your eyes would stare upwards. And to the north. You would listen, almost making out words… almost…. until your love would notice your absence, come out with his warm affection and cozy blanket. Your rock in the cold night.
You are in the kitchen, humming softly and cleaning up the dinner leftovers. A very nice party, now winding down with only the few close friends left. You can still hear them in the living room. And all seems well, but why is the hair on the back of your neck standing up? Why is a soft sussurus of sound just beyond hearing lapping at your awareness? You grip the plate in your hand, spine going rigid. Almost without willing, almost without wanting, you slowly turn.
Here it is. As you knew it would be. Here are the lights. Just a hint of their full beauty. In your own kitchen. The dancing glimmering lights. Your hand goes limp. The plate drops, crashing to the ground. You sway forward. Towards the back door. Towards the lights. Towards the North.
Voices cease, drawn by the noise and cold draft. The back door is open, the lights dancing there, shimmering outside. The eye watering beauty of it, colours swaying and scintillating. You are out the door, halfway across the back step, mesmerized. Yes, you can hear them! Soft voices urging you outside, of course! Now is the time, you must go and take up your destiny. A great leader, needed in the world of dancing lights. They are calling to you. Yes, there you can see a faint outline of a reaching hand. Your mother’s hand of course. You lift your own hand, taking another step. She needs you, she never meant to leave you, but you had to be raised in this world of man. Now you are ready, come take your place at her side in the light!
His voice reaches you through the voices of the light. His earthy voice, softly. “Honey, please come back from the lights.” Your husband, reaching out. The others, fearful and drawn back from the awesome sight. Your stoic husband alone daring to step forward, into the brilliantly lit backyard. You tear your eyes away from the promised land, frozen in mid stride, glancing back over your shoulder. Just one last look, you tell yourself. And see his eyes. His brown dependable eyes meeting your own brilliantly light ones. Your body turns towards him. The eyes searching your own, as they have so many times before when he has drawn you back from the lights in the sky. You can see the start of a tear gathered in the corner of his eye, waiting to plunge down his cheek. Waiting to follow the one that has fallen before. The sum of his love for you, laid bare before the light, stepping forward into the unknown and reaching out for you.
The lights whisper at your back, drawing you one more step towards the door. Your eyes lock with his, even as your feet shuffle backwards, northwards. One more step, and you are in the snowy backyard, out from under man-built roof, where the lights are almost solid, a staircase of possibility. A small smile curves one corner of your mouth. He called it your fae smile, a little sad, a little wild.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper. One tear falls from your own eyes, dropping slowly, shining all the way, and shattering in ice fragments when it hits the ground. “It’s okay, they need me to come to their world. They need me there.” You implore, trying to make him see, to make them all understand it will be okay.
“I need you here with me, my Heart. My winter fae.” His voice quavers. Your knees go weak.
With the last of your will, you tear your eyes away and hurl yourself out into the darkness. To the north.
The voices of light urge you onwards, but his earthy voice cries in anguish behind you.
Wherever you are, Be There 