If a Butterfly Don't Fly by Mell Eight

Author:Mell Eight [Eight, Mell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: LGBTQIA+, Fae/faeries, mythical creatures, disabilities, magic, performance arts, security guard, musicians
Publisher: NineStar Press, LLC
Published: 2021-03-21T00:00:00+00:00

Dinner at five; party’s at six.

Across the room, I see your smile.

You’re not looking at me.

You haven’t, not for a while.

Broken heart, the tears I’ve cried,

I’m done with all your lies.

Oh, yes, I’m done with your damn lies.

If a butterfly don’t fly, it falls.

You are my wings; you are my wings,

Broken wings, shattered, torn.

You are my wings, and I’m breaking free.

“The Fomoiri aren’t going to wait for us to show up before they attack. They’re out and about, no doubt doing something terrible, and we’re sitting here writing songs.” Aed scowled at the table where Raven had abandoned his guitar pick and Conn had dropped a pair of drumsticks. Merridy put the sheet music back, but kept his thoughts to himself.

Rylee let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “Aside from the suspicious activity that made me call you in, I haven’t seen anything. They’re obviously here, or they wouldn’t have attacked Merry, but I have no idea what else is going on.”

“We need to find out,” Aed replied immediately. “Go out there and start digging, see if one of them slimes out of whatever sewer they’re hiding in.”

“It’s never a bad idea to be proactive instead of reactive,” Conn agreed.

Raven shook his head. “We don’t even know where to start looking. We’d just be running around out there like chickens with our heads cut off.”

“Oh, come on! We have to do something!” Aed jumped to his feet and swung his arms around the room as if the comfortable couches they were sitting on were evidence they weren’t doing enough.

There was a cadence to their argument, a beat of sorts. Dum, dum, dum. It was slower than a heartbeat, and intense. Not the big bass drum or the lighter tom-toms. More like hitting the side of the drum for the effect. Merridy couldn’t help pulling a clean piece of staff paper over to jot down the beat.

Drums were difficult to write, mostly because there were so many different types of drum to use. They were also completely dependent on the meter—which all music was, admittedly—but when in a band, the drums often set the meter for the song, which meant Merridy’s notes had to be even more exact.

He kept writing as the argument continued with Rylee reminding them all that he hadn’t been able to find any further sign of the enemy, which only made Aed snarl more.

The beat began to change tone in Merridy’s head. Instead of from an argument, it began to take on a clacking sound: the noise of wood impacting wood.

High block, middle block, low block. Repeat! High block, middle block, low block.

And then there was the double clack of Merridy retaliating in turn, and the amount of beats he was penciling onto his paper doubled per measure.

High block, high strike, middle block, middle strike, low block, low strike. Repeat!

It was amazing and rather frightening how quickly Merridy had been picking up the art of staff fighting. The weight with a spear was different than

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