Here is a small collection of stories that have been read at events such as Edinburgh Sparks, I hope you enjoy!

The King's Tailor

It was a sweet, sad Sunday when the prince first bought my fabrics. I cannot remember the occasion, some harvest festival or royal tournament. What I do remember is his eyes, deep murky blue, a bleeding ocean, flecks of white like the foam of troubled waters. Our eyes interlocked and I knew that very moment that I wished to lose myself within them. To raise sails on a proud ship and voyage upon the seas that sat within his pupils. To weather the winds of his soul and watch the sun rise across his skin. 

My fingers grazed his gloved hand as he paid me handsomely. I felt satisfied— this would be my first and last brush with something holy, someone all together divine. 

But this was far from the end of things. The prince liked my work, sought my fabrics again. He coveted the tender things my hands had wrought with such passion that he bought my loyalty. Granted me station within his family home. For him it was good business, for me it was freedom. Away from meagre livings and into the gentle hands of royalty. He made me vow to serve him alone, and I spoke the words proudly, for he had earned my heart long ago. 

Time passed, and the prince became a king, I continued to sew and stitch in his honour and in the space between his kingly duties something formed between us. A not-quite friendship that lived only in the twilight hours, too fragile to survive the sunlight, too innocent to make it through the night.

There were times, when celebrations too grand for my attendance came to an end, that he would invite me into the aftermath, we would eat the scraps of feasts and drink whatever had been left in glasses. It was not the habit of royalty, unbefitting a king. But I think he knew that. For when the drink had a strong hold on him he would sit close to me like a stubborn shadow, whisper compliments in my ear that I knew he could not have concocted in those brief moments alone. 

Sometimes, some precious times, he would run a drunken hand through my hair or his fingers across my stomach, as if seeking something precious beneath my clothes, but whatever he sought he never found. Surrendering his search before he crossed the line. On those gentle evenings there was not a threshold of my body I would not have let him cross, I think some part of him knew. Maybe that knowledge was all the pleasure he needed from me.

The king once told me that he could feel the love sewn into every outfit I stitched for him. That it was what made me the greatest tailor in his lands. I remember the fear those words brought forth, worried that he could tell. That somehow he could feel where my mind was as I worked so tirelessly for him. How I imagined each fabric folding across his bare skin, how I had learned the dimensions of his body like scripture, the pride I found in knowing that the clothing that cradled him had spent so long in my hands, how the echo of my fingertips caressed his frame whenever he wore my handiwork. Over the years it became an obsession, maybe at points a perversion, I won’t pretend to know the difference. Only that my love starved mind eked out an existence through service alone. I knew I could never be with him, but I could still be a part of him, subsumed by his will, consumed by his presence. I learned to crave his teeth upon my skin, wished for him to devour me in my entirety. In those years I could imagine no greater honour than finding a place within his stomach.

Then it began, my world tore at the seams. It was born in rumours, suggestions, long trips away. My king had taken a lover of high esteem. She was to marry him, bind their lands and bring about a brighter future. On the day of their engagement I could taste blood on my tongue. I was lost, adrift in the sea of my own mind.

I am certain I could have found my peace with it, learned to love the queen as I did the king. If it weren’t for my lord’s request. I was to craft twin outfits for the day of their matrimony. The thought of sewing the uniforms of their love, that they would strip from one another in the tender hours of the night. It shattered me.

But I am nothing if not loyal. Nothing. So I did as I was commanded. Forged their clothing without malice, with dedication and care. But my heart was no longer in it, no longer beating. It all became so clear to me as I worked, I had bound my heart in something unattainable, poured my passions into an endless maw, because it was safer, simpler. To know that a shadow was all I could be meant I never need risk a thing. I had entombed myself in petrified passion, in half born yearning and through it I had become something less than human, hollowed myself out for the pleasure of a man who only ever looked beyond me.

I am writing these words on the day of his marriage, the more poetic parts of me want to believe that they are making their vows this very moment. But I will never know, for I am leaving, tonight. I am heading north, where they say the men are kinder. 

I am going to find someone who can love me in the daylight, or I am going to die trying. 

I never told anyone of my feelings, not a word, not a soul. So I am leaving this letter, tucked under the bed that was mine for far too many years. Hoping one day someone might read it, and know that I was real, that I existed. That the love I bore within me could have drowned this whole kingdom if I had ever let it. 

And if, by some miracle, these words find their way to my king— I want you to know it was an honour serving you all these years. But the oceans within your eyes wore away at me, eroded all that I once was, and for that I can never forgive you.

Correspondence

Dear Marcus,

It worked! Course if you’re reading this then you already knew that. Been about 12 hours since touch-down and the team is in high spirits, going to launch this letter back through the vortex, just have to assume it’ll reach you. Though there’s a good chance I’ll overshoot if my maths is a little off, so this message might end up in the hands of some medieval peasant. Thought about including a quick heads up about the black plague just in case, but then I heard your voice in my head telling me there's no way they'll be able to read it.

If I close my eyes I can hear your voice perfectly, all gravely and lilted.

I’ve taken a little part of you with me out here, smuggled you away in my memories. I don't know if that’s romantic but I like to pretend it is.

Dear Marcus,

That's two months now, the colony is thriving and Otto says there’s been no temporal anomalies. Time is officially stable!

Longest months of my life-- must feel like nothing on your side. 

That’s the silver lining. Six months for me ‘ill be six hours for you.  

Gonna try and write a bunch of letters, I keep imagining them bursting through the vortex on your end all at the same moment. Half a year of my life pouring out around you. I imagine you reading each one with that look of tender focus that suits you so well. I hope I write enough to fill in the time, but don’t be late for your launch reading my nonsense if I send too much. 

Dear Marcus,

The vortex opened, but you didn’t come through. No one did. 

No word, not even a signal. Dead air.

Otto doesn’t know what's wrong. I shouldn’t have gone through alone, I’m honestly just as mad myself as I am worried about you.

I hope you’re safe.

And hurry up.

It’s rough out here.

Dear Marcus,

Otto discovered a rift in the vortex. Which means my letters have probably turned to dust before they reach the other side, also explains why no one’s tried coming through. 

You’ll almost definitely never read this. Might as well throw these into a fire. 

If by some miracle this makes it through, here’s a recap of the forty letter’s you’ve missed:

I love you, I hate this, I need you here with me.

Dear Marcus,

This need I have, to see your face again, it's purpled like a bruise, getting old and settling in. I fall asleep with it, I wake up with it, it lines my throat and burns my eyes. 

As awful as I feel, I'm terrified of it fading. How long would it take to forget you, if I don’t keep reopening the wound? 

I’m working full time with Otto, trying to find a solution. You'd like him if you were here, he has your laugh.

Dear Marcus,

The time is starting to show in the folds on my face and I don’t even know about my mind. One day you’ll arrive, youthful and unchanged and I’ll be edging toward old age. What do I do if your eyes don’t meet mine? If you look at me with that smile you reserve for strangers. How do I fill you in on all the time we lost?

How do I explain Otto to you?

Marcus,

You’re dead and no one is reading this. A week must have passed for you and you calculated how much time that would have been on my end. Willing to chance it, you risked the vortex and it reduced you to dust. I probably breathed you in during my morning routine, staring into the vortex. That gaping wound in time. 

You’re dead and have been for a long time, which means I'm not waiting for you, you’re haunting me. 

Otto proposed. I said yes. 

Because death did us part Marcus, and I have to move on.

He has soft hands, a kind smile, but he doesn’t have your heart or your mind.

When he looks at me I know he loves me, but all I feel for him is compromise.

He deserves better, I have more to give, so I need to stop pouring myself into the nothingness.

This has to stop. 

But you know me, I had to finish these letters on a neat number.

So here’s to nine hundred, rest well Marcus.

I’ll be joining you soon.