Young Writers Society

All he ever wanted to do was write a novel that somebody, somewhere would want to read. he pursued this dream quietly, in his basement, and it was coming along nicely. So far not a living soul knew about it.

He was a strange person...he was the only man on planet Earth who could get along very well without human companionship. He carried out his daily routine so completely engrossed with his own mind that he was unaware he even interacted with others. He got ignored a lot, because he was sort of pale, and didn't bathe a lot, and folded his hands on his stomach like a hermit when he walked. People didn't like him, but he didn't like people either, so it all worked out.

His life had fallen into a rut that would have seemed like a solitary Hell to others, but to him was a solitary Heaven. His days were all colored a dull, depressing grey, and he was dully, depressingly happy about it. He went to work and did something - he wasn't sure what it was, but he was pretty sure it wasn't really important. Sometimes, if he remembered, he ate something. Then he wrote. He was a perfectionist, and filled countless garbage cans every night with his half-typed pages. Sometimes, about as often as he ate, he slept. Never in his bed, though. The dust on his pillows was not to be disturbed. It was tradition.

He showed no signs of ever breaking out of this monotonous rut, no sign of finishing his novel, no sign of changing. He would have continued living this half-life for the eternity - the moment - that is a lifetime, but then he got a concussion, which changed things.

That's when he started seeing the fairies.

It started out simply enough. He was coming up the long stairway, grey paint chipping off beneath the crunch of his feet to reveal grey wood below. He was wrapped in his usual dark, solitary cocoon. He didn't notice the young woman coming the opposite way, down the long narrow staircase. Had she been a normal young lady, she would have ignored him too, turning her head away and pretending the cracked paint of the walls was somehow intriguing until they had passed each other. However, by some twist of fate, this young lady acted against the code of his rut, and spoke.

"Good morning!"

He started violently and his hands came unclasped. His shoulders, stooped from countless hours at a dark typewriter, straightened and as he reached his full height his head knocked the low slanted ceiling. He started again, and his feet scrambled against the angry grey paint of the stairs. The young lady reached out a firm hand, reaching for him, but he stared at it as if it were a strange, alien thing. Then he fell. He knew he was falling because the woman's face was getting further away. He wondered why it was happening, though. It wasn't really part of the plan.

***

"Good morning, Mr. Black."

The sound was too loud, too harsh for newly awakened ears.

"Albert, the doctor is here to see you, now that you're awake."

There it was again. The bright, cheerful voice grated on Albert's ears. He kept his eyes shut, but slowly sat up, holding his head. He knew the woman wouldn't shut up if he didn't show some sign of recognition. What had she called him? Albert? It'd been such a long time since he'd heard his name coming from somebody else's lips...he had a feeling that maybe he'd forgotten it.

"Mr. Albert Black?"

Albert sighed in relief as he felt the woman leave, and her voice was replaced by another, a deeper, velvety voice.

"Mr. Black, I need to ask you a few questions."

Albert couldn't concentrate on the voice for too long. It went against habit, against everything that defined him, to listen to what anyone else said. He was beginning to get irritated, because every time he was able to block out the doctor's droning questions about his vision and his head, he'd get pinched on the arm and the doctor's stern voice would creep back into his consciousness.

"Albert, I need to ask you to open your eyes now. We need to test your vision." The doctor was getting more and more insistent.

Sighing, Albert decided the best way to get out of the situation would be to comply. He allowed his eyes to slowly flutter open. He blink rapidly against the light that suddenly his him, and he could almost feel his pupils contracting violently in protest. When his eyes felt like they were settling down, he glanced down at himself. His upper body was naked, and he saw the incredible, blinking whiteness of his skin, almost paler than the sheets that covered him from the waist down. He was skinny, but his skin sagged on his bones and created the appearance of fat. A few lone hairs sprouted randomly from his nipples, but nowhere else - which he found funny. He laughed at himself, his ridiculous body that was somehow unconnected with his mind, and it emerged a squeaky, rusty sound, not like a laugh at all. He choked and coughed on the laugh, and the doctor rushed over with a glass of water. Albert drank gratefully, feeling the slimy coating on his teeth and tongue washing away.

"Well, Albert? Look at me." The doctor waved a hand in front of Albert's face and Albert's eyes were drawn towards him. "Can you see my hand? Can you see how many fingers I'm holding up?"

Albert sighed. He focused his eyes on the doctor's strong, tanned hand and counted. There were clearly three fingers waving in front of his face. But how to tell the doctor that? He felt as if his brain were in its infancy again. He couldn't find the right words, couldn't form his lips and throat into the correct formation. Finally he forced a sound out, a half croak, half cough.

"Three? Do you see three fingers?" the doctor asked impatiently.

Albert nodded and shrugged at the same time.

Shaking his head, the doctor turned and made some notes on his clipboard. He leaned forward and made eye contact with Albert, speaking slowly. "I'm going now, Albert. Get some rest. Sleepy time."

The doctor mimed sleep to Albert, and Albert almost laughed again, but stopped himself, remember how it had emerged last time. He watched the doctor go, then sank back down into the pillows with a sigh, trying to gather his thoughts. Eventually, after struggling against the barriers against thought which he had constructed for himself throughout his solitary years, he realized that it was futile, and sank back against the pillows. He let his mind go blank, and began to sink into the same stupor which had served him so well for so long.

"Oh, no you don't!" a tiny voice seemed to call from inside Albert's head.

He felt a zapping sensation, something like a very small cattle prod, touch his earlobe. He yelped and struggled to sit back up, holding his ear and looking around frantically. His breath caught in his throat as he tried to form words again, struggling against the block in his mind. He hadn't spoken for so long.

"Who...what...ouch!" Albert rasped. His throat constricted and he coughed violently.

"Shhhh. Poor thing. Poor, stupid, human little thing." The tiny voice came again.

Albert whirled about, trying to place it, but it was coming from inside his head. He felt a tiny, soothing movement at his throat, and he felt a gush of liquid fill his mouth. He swallowed instinctively and felt instantly better, as if he could almost form the words his mind wanted to say aloud. He grasped wildly at the air in front of his throat, and started when he felt a light, feather-soft sensation against his hands. He held his hands in front of him and slowly opened them a crack. In between his thumbs he could see the shadowy hollow in the curve of his hand. In the very back of the hollow was a tiny little speck of light, no bigger than the point of a pin.

"Ouch!" Albert said again as he felt his hands sting. He opened them abruptly and the tiny light disappeared, swamped by the sunlight flooding through the curtains.

"What are you?" The words flowed easier out of his mouth, now. His mind was truly working for the first time in...well, it felt like forever. Albert never stopped to think about the human perspective. He'd been away from humans so long, he really wasn't qualified as human any more, in other people's minds at least. He didn't stop to think that most people would be frightened at voices in their heads coming apparently from tiny dots of light that could alternately zap you or sooth you, heal or burn you. He just knew that's what appeared to be happening, so he decided to believe it.

"This is unbelievable. Can you hear me?" The voice felt breathless inside Albert's mind, breathless and disbelieving.

"Yes," said Albert simply. "What are you?" He couldn't seem to say anything else, just yet. He wasn't ready.

"Oh my, oh my oh my! What will I tell everyone? They'll be so mad I discovered you!"

Albert felt that same feathery-soft sensation brushing along his bare arms, up his shoulders to his cheek. The voice was getting higher and higher in pitch as it got more excited.

"I discovered you and nobody else! Someone who can see us! Someone who can hear us! Someone who can talk to us! What'll they say?"

Albert frowned impatiently. "What are you?" he asked again, for what seemed to be the third time. Yes, he was quite sure it was the third time. Surely this excitable little thing could answer a polite, natural question.

He felt a soothing, calming presence in his mind, and heard a few deep breaths. When the voice spoke again it sounded more in control of itself.

"I'm a fifth dimension fairy. And you can see me!"