The girl on the cot stirred, and I leaned forward. Her eyes fluttered open, then closed again. Then opened, then closed. I let out the breath I was holding and slumped back into my chair. No, it was another false alarm.

I picked up the book on my lap again, but I had only made it a few sentences when a weak voice said, “Where am I?”

My book tumbled to the floor, and I jumped to my feet. “Ari! You’re awake!”

She didn’t say anything, but I could see that my outburst had startled her. I knelt beside her bed and spoke more gently this time. “How do you feel?”

“Who are you?”

The words hit me like a punch in the gut. How could I have forgotten? After all the days I’d spent sitting by her bedside, reminding myself over and over again of what I had done…I knew it. I knew it perhaps better than anyone. But still, in my excitement to see her finally awake, I had forgotten that when she woke, I would be a stranger to her.

“Ari.” I leaned forward to look into her eyes. I was met with a blank stare. “What do you remember?”

The stare turned from me to the ceiling, and her blankets rose and fell with her deep breathing. “I remember…a prison cell, and a machine. Wires attached to my head, and a voice telling me everything would be alright.”

I arched an eyebrow. That was more than most prisoners remembered. Perhaps there was hope, after all.

“Anything else?”

Ari closed her eyes. “There were guards…most of them ignored me, but one of them always looked at me when she passed. She was kinder than the others.” Her eyes popped open, and she turned her head towards me. “Was it you?”

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. I swallowed hard, and after a long silence, I whispered, “So you do remember me. But—” I hesitated, afraid to ask. I didn’t want to know the answer. “Do you remember anything else about me?”

Ari thought for a moment, but then shook her head. “No.”

If her asking who I was had been a punch in the gut, this was a blade in my heart. How many prisoners had I captured and begun the process of wiping their memories? Too many to count, and even if Ari didn’t remember it, she had done far more than me. Every time, we had watched together as their memories slowly faded, leaving them as an empty shell of themselves. It was a precaution, we’d been told, making sure none of them could ever remember where they came from and escape…or worse, start a revolt.

But nothing could have prepared me for the pain of seeing it happen to Ari. Nothing could ease the guilt of knowing I had been the one to start the process. In one sense, I was relieved that she didn’t know what I had done to her, but the relief was only a small comfort for the knowledge that she also wouldn’t remember the many years of friendship before that.

All this time I sat lost in thought, Ari’s eyes were ever on me, that blank stare that made me wish it was my memory that had been erased. Then, I wouldn’t have to live with the regrets.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to meet those eyes. They were vibrant blue and had always been Ari’s pride and joy.

I had to say something. I couldn’t just go on like this, pretending like nothing had happened. I swallowed again, this time audibly, and I leaned forward, resting my arms on the edge of the cot.

“Ari, I have something I need to tell you.”

She only blinked in response.

“I know you won’t remember any of this, but…I need to apologize. I don’t ask you to forgive me, that’s too much to hope. But you need to know that I’m sorry.” My voice broke as I stifled a sob, and my eyes stung with tears. “You were right. We were on the wrong side. I should’ve seen it for myself. I should’ve listened to you! But instead, I treated you like a traitor when you were just fighting to undo a little bit of the evil we were trapped in. And in the end, I was the one who betrayed you.”

Tears flowed freely down my cheeks now, and I sniffed. My eyes darted around the room and landed on a tissue box on the bedside table. I grabbed one and blew my nose, hoping beyond all hope that when I looked back at Ari, there would be something—anything—in her face other than that blank stare.

But there wasn’t. She continued to watch me, confused and unaware.

I blew my nose again before going on. “It’s my fault that you’re like this. I turned you in, and I arrested you. I stood by and watched as they interrogated you and then wiped your memory. I got up the courage to act when I heard that they were going to brainwash you and bring you back onto their side. I couldn’t let that happen. But by the time I got you out, you didn’t even know who I was.”

The sob I’d been holding in came out now. I turned to get another tissue, pulling the sheets out handfuls at a time until the box was almost empty. I buried my face in them, unable to look at Ari any longer—unable to see her looking at me. Once, she would’ve been the only person I trusted to see me ugly-cry like this. But now, her presence was judgmental, a reminder of my own guilt.

I had hoped that as she grew stronger, even if she didn’t remember her past, perhaps our friendship would form anew, as it had when we first met. But now, in telling her what I had done, I had ruined any chance of that. She wouldn’t want anything to do with me, for good reason.

As I slumped over, still hiding my face in the mass of disgusting, wet tissues, I felt a hand on my back. I turned slowly to see Ari sitting up in her bed, her bright blue eyes trained on me. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to see through my blurred tears.

Then my heart leapt, because her gaze had changed. Her eyes held something more than the nothingness from a moment before. I didn’t dare speak.

Ari reached into her pocket and pulled out a necklace. She held it up for me to see, and I instantly recognized it. It was crudely made of neon colored beads, with a scratched, faded, plastic star charm in the center. I had made it for her when we were children, as a symbol of our never ending friendship.

“It’s starting to come back,” Ari whispered. “I know you. You’re my best friend.”

“You remember,” I sobbed, shaking my head. “I’m your best friend who betrayed you.”

“No.” The corners of Ari’s lips turned up in a smile, and she lifted the necklace, putting it over my head and around my neck. “You’re my best friend who saved me.”

Romana from Romana Stewart; Historian of Worlds and Elisabeth G. Biggs from The Key of E are both dear friends, and since we all had blogs with our own unique subscribers, we decided on a crazy plan to bring some attention to each other’s websites: a collaborative short story. We’d each write one part of it, equally as ridiculous as the others, post on the same day, and leave a little riddle with the link to where to find the other parts.

It was a success, as far as I’m concerned, because the least we did was have fun. But what we didn’t know is that within two weeks of posting our short story, titled “A Goose In The Works,” I was going to shut down my Wordpress blog. I wasn’t getting much attention on it anymore, and I’d started it when I was sixteen. The publication of Firefly Tales was coming up, and being officially published for the first time, I wanted to start over with my online presence, bringing it from my sixteen-year-old vision to the one that had developed over the years between.

And so, in a strangely hilarious twist of fate, “A Goose In The Works” was the last real post I made on my Wordpress site, thus defeating the purpose of the entire scheme.

I decided that whole experience was too good (or at least too entertaining) to let die with a teenager’s attempt at a blog, so I’m reposting it here, with the same goal: to send people in the direction of my friends.

Also, I’ve never posted any fiction on here, so of course, why not make the horrible decision to make my first excerpt one of the most humiliating things I’ve ever written?

So, without further ado, “A Goose In The Works.” You can find part 1 here and part 3 here. But be sure to read in the correct order, or you might end up even more confused that you already will be by our favorite Goose Fairy, Dragon Rider, and Potter’s shenanigans.

Isobel Thibault had seen a lot in her relatively short life. “All in a day’s work for a Dragon Rider,” was one of her favorite sayings.

However, cleaning a goose’s ashes from a potter’s kiln and then performing a funeral for them was not a usual part of that day’s work.

As she knelt down in front of the open kiln, now cooled, and leaned inside to scoop up the ashes, she mused on the first time she had met Mauricette the Goose Fairy.

It had been shortly after she had come to this town, one of her many stops as a fugitive Dragon Rider. She’d just finished a particularly grand adventure and was ready for a bit of rest, but from the moment she’d laid eyes on the woman with feathered wings, holding a staff and followed by a flock of more geese than Isobel had ever seen, she’d known this would be no ordinary respite. It was a town where anything could happen, and this just proved that anything would.

Isobel gently poured the ashes from her hand into a clay jar she’d pilfered from Irene’s shelf. Irene would want to be buried in her own handiwork, Isobel thought with a grim smile. The goose wouldn’t care one way or another, but it was fitting. But she jumped as something clattered behind her, dropping the jar. It shattered in the kiln among the remaining ashes, and Isobel whirled around just in time to see the bear trap flip-flopping the remainder of its way towards her.

“Steve,” she breathed, putting a hand over her heart. “You frightened me nearly to death.”

The trap raised its top half in answer, and Isobel laughed. “You’re right. I shouldn’t startle so easily. Not in this town, especially. But if you’re going to insist upon watching me, then bring me another jar. It was your fault this one broke.”

The trap clanked its jaws together, and Isobel immediately thought better of her request. “Never mind. I can fetch it myself.”

She stood up, muttering under her breath about sentient bear traps and crazed potters.

The second attempt to gather the ashes was more successful, though Steve the Bear Trap remained near the entire time, slightly unnerving Isobel. But at last, she was finished and able to leave the pottery shop.

As soon as she stepped out the front door, however, she wished she was back inside, for she was suddenly assaulted by crowds thronging to know what had happened. As if Isobel was even the best person to answer. For that, she would need to talk to Mauricette. Knowing the Goose Fairy, it was unlikely that she’d stayed with the guards after her arrest. No doubt she had escaped immediately and was hiding somewhere. But as it was impossible to move through the crowd, finding Mauricette would have to wait.

“Where is Irene?”

“Is she truly dead?”

“What did that fairy do to her?”

“Are we safe from the magic?”

“We should burn the rest of the geese!”

“Then we would all die!”

Isobel’s head ached. She clutched the jar of ashes in one arm and rubbed her temples with the other hand.

“Listen!” she cried, holding up her free arm for silence. “Do I look like I know how fairy magic works? I was simply chosen by the guards —for no reason whatsoever— to conduct the funeral arrangements in the stead of family. All I know is that this jar is full of ashes: goose ashes. And that goose was once Irene Evanson.”

“That fairy witch killed her!” A woman cried.

“No,” a man near the front growled, pointing at Isobel. “She killed her. She suggested burning the changeling.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Isobel backed up, but only could a step before she hit the wall of Irene’s shop. “I didn’t know any better! Where I come from, if you burn a changeling, the Fae give back the person they stole. How was I supposed to know Goose Fairies abide by a different code?”

There was a collective silence, and Isobel took advantage of the moment, holding up the jar of ashes for everyone to see. “Listen. Irene is dead, and whether she technically killed her or not, Mauricette meant mischief. So I suggest that we all go on with the funeral preparations, as we would with any other death.”

As if burying the ashes of a goose-changeling-transformation could be compared to any other funeral in the history of the world. Isobel almost smiled, but she held it in check. Even she had to admit the whole situation was entertaining, if seen in the right light.

“I have a question!” A new voice entered the commotion, and the crowd parted as a young man pushed his way to the front. He wore impeccably clean black trousers, with a vest to match, and a high collar, as well as large round spectacles that made his eyes look twice the size that they must have actually been.

“I am the newest town Sexton,” the man announced, as if it made all the difference. “As well as Undertaker, Ash-Smeller, Church Bell-Ringer, Substitute Judge, Schoolmaster, and Tax Collector.”

Isobel stared, mouth open, at the man. She had never seen him in her life, and he seemed far too young to hold so many positions. At last, she managed to say, “That is quite a lot of occupations.”

“I used to be a Messenger,” the man offered, standing up straighter and brushing off his already spotless clothes. “But I relinquished my position, due to occupational hazards. But that is beside the point. This point is, I would like undeniable proof that these ashes do indeed belong to Irene, and that this is not all some practical joke.”

Isobel blinked, unimpressed by his addition to his list. As he had said, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that he was asking questions, questions she needed to provide an answer for.

“Proof?” She said, raising her eyebrows. “Was not the enchantment put over us this morning proof enough? We thought we were chasing Irene, but it was a goose, put under a spell by the Goose Fairy!”

The sexton squinted, a comedic effect underneath his spectacles, and he stepped towards Isobel. “I would like to see the ashes for myself.”

Uncertain of what else to do, Isobel handed over the jar. The sexton squinted inside, pinched up a few of the ashes, then sniffed them.

“It is as I expected,” he said, looking back up at Isobel. “These are goose ashes. Not human ashes.”

“Of course they are!” one of the townsmen shouted. “That fairy transformed the human into a goose! Where have you been all morning?”

“Friend,” the sexton said, turning to face the crowd —and still holding the jar, to Isobel’s annoyance. “It is impossible for a woman to turn into a goose.”

“But didn’t we see it happen?” Isobel asked. All she wanted was to get out of there, away from the nosy priest’s questions. “Right before our eyes, we saw Irene turn into the goose!”

In technicality, it had been an illusion put on the goose, but that was beside the point if it would get rid of the sexton, who was apparently such an expert in different kinds of ashes.

“Such spells are evil,” the sexton said.

“Of course they are. That is why we are here in the first place, conducting a funeral for a goose that was once a human.” Isobel sighed. If this went on any longer, she was going to call for her dragon to come save her.

“And who are you, and what relation are you to the deceased?” The sexton arched an eyebrow.

“I am Isobel Thibault, and I am a mere friend of Irene – nay, not even friend, acquaintance. But in the absence of family, I must perform the duties. And to do such duties, I must request that you hand the ashes back to me.” She held out her hand, her patience wearing thin.

“What rites must be performed for a goose?” The sexton tilted his body, so that the ashes were positioned farther away from Isobel.

“The same ones that must be performed for a departed woman, who had the unfortunate experience of being put under an enchantment and turning into a goose.”

“I demand a test, to see if this truly is as you say.”

“What kind of test can you do?” Isobel’s headache was back, and worse. “Would you like to see another innocent villager turned into a goose? Shall we pick a volunteer?”

A gasp came from the crowd, and the sexton shook his head wildly so that his spectacles fell off his face and clattered to the ground. “No, no! I shall not be party to fairy spells.”

“Then I suggest that you hand back the ashes, and allow us to perform the funeral.”

The sexton squinted at Isobel once more, then after a brief pause, handed her the jar. Isobel let out a sigh of relief, then whistled, long and clear. A moment later, a rush of wind came over the town, and the form of a great green dragon, scales sparkling in the sun, filled the sky. The crowd at last scattered, a few women screaming, which provided room for Isobel’s dragon companion to land in the courtyard. Holding the ashes closely to her chest, Isobel climbed up into the saddle, nodding at the priest.

“I thank you for your concern,” she said, “And I hope to see you at the funeral. Perhaps you may help us in finding the best plot for the grave, one in sight of her beloved pottery shop.”

With those words, she clicked her tongue, and her dragon took to the skies. Isobel practically felt the sexton’s eyes on her, and she guided her winged steed upwards where she could have a view of the whole town.

She had to talk to Mauricette – and warn her.

Well, that’s all for today. I hope you enjoyed. And if you’re interested in more stories involving Isobel, let me know in the comments! She is a completely original character from my own fantasy world, so maybe, just maybe she’ll show up again sometime.