original: willowdale, chapter 1: power outage

[tiny_ninja]

Title: Willowdale (Chapter 1: Power Outage)
Rating: Teen (expect this to increase?)
Summary: They say everyone is welcome in the village of Willowdale — if you can find it.
Notes: Written for Build-A-Bingo at getyourwordsout It's also a writing exercise because I'm struggling to finish my other WIPs right now. Each chapter features a different BaB prompt. I also... haven't outlined this? So who knows where it's going, because I sure don't, but I do know I'm having fun.

1: Power Outage

They say everyone is welcome in the village of Willowdale — if you can find it. Some legends tell of a winding path through the forest that will lead you into town. Others claim it’s an unassuming door on a crowded city street, only visible by those deemed worthy of joining Willowdale’s ranks. The village’s magic protects those within from the dangers of the outside world. A place without war, without poverty, without crime.

It’s also where the supernatural beings live in peace, away from the judgmental eye of the modern world. 

I remember the tales from my childhood. As a kid, I dreamed that a fairy godmother would transform a pumpkin into a carriage and take me away to Willowdale. Or a genie might grant me three wishes. Or I’d discover magical powers on my 16th birthday. 

It never happened, of course. But a girl could dream. Visions of Willowdale danced behind my eyes every night for years. I could describe every inch of a town I’d never set foot in, down the cobblestone streets and ivy-covered buildings. Bells would ring in the town square like they were welcoming me home. 

When I wake, I convince myself it isn’t real. I’m too old for fairytales. Too old for a family of my own, too old for most men — like our lives end the moment you turn 40. Society isn’t built for an independent dreamer, a battle I fight with myself every time I look in the mirror. 

I work to pay my bills, dress nice for the office, go out to drink with my friends. All things a normal 40-something woman does. At night I return to my bed and pray for another vision of Willowdale to come. In my dreams, it doesn’t matter if I work a soul-crushing job, or if last year’s jeans are a little too tight. 

I am wanted. I am welcomed. I am cherished. 

Especially by him. 

He haunts me every night with sweet smiles as his hands knead dough, though I never get his name. Long blond hair is tied at the nape of his neck, showing off his pointed ears. A tight tee reveals rippling arm muscles with each turn of the dough, but still with enough squish to make for a good cuddle. 

A bakery elf. Tall, bright, and charming. In my dreams, he’s all mine. He brings me new goods to taste test and always has my favorites on hand. He compliments my clothing and tucks me into bed. He asks about my day like it’s all he’s ever wanted to know. 

If he were real, every woman — and probably some men, too — would fawn at his feet, but he only has eyes for me. Perhaps he’s the reason why I seek refuge in my dreams every night. 

Returning home from a long day at work, I trudge up the stairs to my apartment. My feet ache after hours crammed into high-heeled shoes. All I want is to change into sweats, heat up last night’s leftovers, and binge watch cooking shows until I pass out. 

The studio apartment is cramped by New York City standards, but it’s the only place that feels like me outside of my dreams. The galley kitchen is crammed full of baking supplies, clear bins labeled with ingredients one one shelf, trays and cake pans and tins on another. My living room is cozy and eclectic, with mismatched throw pillows and a reading nook next to my cookbook shelf. If my dream man is a baker, the least I can do is learn more about the trade in my spare time. 

I moan softly as I kick off my shoes and wiggle my toes against the carpet. My landlord won’t allow pets, and I always imagined being greeted by a big, fluffy while cat upon my arrival. The kitty, too, appears in my dreams sometimes. I move through the house, dropping my keys and work bag by the door and retreat to the bedroom. Here, there are more books, more pillows, comfort radiating from every corner. I strip out of my work clothes, toss them into the laundry hamper, and change into sweatpants and an old tank top. 

Freedom, I’ve learned, is the safety and comfort of home, where you don’t have to wear a bra, or conform to anyone else’s expectations of you. Absolute heaven. 

Padding on quiet feet, I make my way back to the kitchen. Last night’s pad thai calls to me, and I pull out the styrofoam box from the fridge. As I reach up for a plate, there’s a loud popping sound, and every light goes out. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, leaving my food on the counter. Cold pad thai isn’t inedible, but it’s not my favorite, especially not after a long day of listening to my co-worker Craig bitch all afternoon about his deadlines instead of working towards them. 

Outside, every light in my neighborhood is dark. Even the headlights from passing cars seem dimmed. A dog barks in the distance. The grumbles of neighbors scrambling for candles and flashlights pass through open windows. 

I do the same, using the flashlight on my phone to find the battery-powered lanterns I keep above the stove. Once you’ve lived through one electrical grid collapse, I will never be caught unprepared again. It provides enough light to see by, casting long shadows over my apartment. 

So much for my TV marathon tonight. With my cold food and lantern in hand, I make a nest on the couch, draping a blanket over my lap. The fact that the power doesn’t return with the first few minutes is a bad sign. I log into my account with our electric company to report the outage. 

The website lists our address as “assessing” to figure out when power will be back. If we’re lucky, it’ll be within the next hour. If not, we could be out all night. I mentally tally what food is left in my fridge and how long it will last, wincing at the thought of throwing so much away. Our building lacks the backup generator of other, more expensive properties, which means I’m shit out of luck. 

It’s not until I reach for my book — the latest Ali Hazelwood release — when I notice it. A sliver of light out of the corner of my eye, in the direction of my bedroom. When I turn my head, it moves, just out of sight again. 

“Hello?” I ask into the dark. “Is someone there?” Leave it to a burglar to see a power outage as an opportunity to pillage my apartment. Joke’s on them; my money is invested in baking equipment, not in high-value items aside from my TV and laptop. 

No answer. I grasp the lantern and stand, taking small steps towards the bedroom. Again, the light retreats. The sounds of my neighbors are muffled, voices turning into background whispers in the stillness of my home. 

I nudge open the bedroom door and shine the lantern. The light on the floor scurries into my closet. I know exactly how many clothes I’ve crammed in there; there’s no way someone can fit in there, much less a grown adult trying to rob me. “Hello?” I try again. 

Grasping the closet handle, I pause. It’s just clothes in your closet, I tell myself. Your imagination is running wild because the power went out. You’re not a child, scared of the dark. 

Yet I remember the tales of my childhood. Of the magical Willowdale and its hidden entrances, a village I know but cannot travel to. It’s just a story… right? 

I drew a deep breath and slide the closet door open. Light bursts forth, warmth and comforting. It surrounds me, blinding, and I flinch away, squeezing my eyes shut. I should be afraid, considering that no one would ever believe me if I said a fireball of light emerged from my bedroom closet. 

But I’m not. I blink until the light spots disappear and look at the closet dead on. The light swirls in concentric circles, cycling through shades of blue, green, and red. It vibrates with a low hum, pleasing to my ears. 

Cassandra. 

The voice is in my head and outside of it at the same time. More than that, it knows my name, though I’ve gone by Cass for as long as I can remember. I glance around, moving the lantern across the room, but nothing is out of place. My work clothes stick out of the hamper, my pantyhouse dangling from the lid. 

“Do I know you?” I whisper back. It’s not a voice I recognize. 

Not yet, but we know you. 

That isn’t exactly assuring. I grip the lantern harder. “Are you here, in my apartment? If so, you can step out. I won’t hurt you.” Unless a threat presented itself, but in my heart, I doubt anything will happen. 

The time is not right for us to step through. You’ll have to come to us. 

“Who do you mean, us?” 

You dream of a life beyond your own, in a quiet village of magic and wonder. Do you want to see Willowdale? 

My heart clenches. Nothing about this makes sense. Maybe I hit my head at some point and didn’t realize it? I probe my hair just to be sure, but nothing hurts. Nor have I spoken about my dreams or Willowdale’s legends since I was a child. Others leave that world behind when they become an adult. 

But me… I want to escape this humdrum life, where all I have to look forward to is another day of emails and phone calls, where nothing I do has an impact. All to return to an empty apartment, maybe to bake a sweet treat that I eat alone. 

Maybe he’ll be there, the elf baker of my dreams. Maybe I can taste the bread he makes or sample the sugary frosting on his cupcakes or share a cinnamon roll with him over morning coffee. I need this, a chance to be happy, a chance to be seen. 

What happens if I go? I already know what tomorrow will hold if I stay. 

The portal will not be open much longer, my child. You must make your decision. 

I don’t think about it. I don’t fight it. I hold out my free hand towards the light. “What do I need to do?” 

A hand emerges from inside the light. Soft, pale green skin and long, clawed nails beckon me, weathered with age, palm up. When I place my hand in theirs, their fingers curl around my wrist and hold me gently. 

You must take the first step. I will guide you the rest of the way. 

My feet move without thinking. I take one step, and the ground beneath me shifts. I don’t step on my discarded dress shoes and snow boots for the upcoming winter, but my bare feet hit ticklish grass, dirt between my toes. Another step, and something snaps behind me, like I stepped on a twig, but I don’t feel anything out of place, only the warmth and comfort of the light spinning around me. 

My child, you have waited long enough for us to be ready for you. It is time to greet your future. 

The light grows brighter. I clutch the hand in mine. Another hand clasps mine, tugging me forward. 

Close your eyes and trust the path.

I do as I’m told. Eyes shut, I walk forward, unsure of the path ahead, or if this another dreamlike so many before. The worst thing that can happen is to wake in my bed and face another dull, meaningless day. Maybe that is my fate, and it’s useless to fight it. 

Or maybe I can take a leap — a step — of faith, and hope for something better. That’s what the legends of Willowdale promise. I need to know if it’s true. 

Something brushes against my cheek. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it felt like the whisper of a kiss, the kind a grandmother would give a small child. I tilt my head towards the gesture, but whoever made it is gone before I can reach for them. 

Welcome to Willowdale, the voice says, fading into the darkness. Welcome home.