A Fairy in His Bed by Aundrea Singer and Corinna Silver

October 16, 2010

Hello! I’m Aundrea Singer. I posted here last about my short story Skunk, Bryan, Spoon (And A Badger) in the Necking Anthology, which you can read about here. Now I’m extremely happy to be able to tell you about A Fairy in His Bed, a short story in the new Myths and Magic: Legends Of Love Anthology, which I wrote with the lovely and talented Corinna Silver.

A Fairy in His Bed was actually written for the Brush Of Wings Anthology, when we saw the call for submissions late last year. We thought it would be fun to choose an otherworldly being that wasn’t an angel, and ended up with Quinn, a fairy as whimsical as he is beautiful, and Daniel Tibbits, the cynical, heartbroken writer who accidentally inherits him.

Inherits? Oh, yes….

A Fairy in His Bed was created in an eight day whirlwind of brainstorming, manic typing and a lot of laughing. I’ve rarely had so much fun writing a story, and a story has rarely come so quickly or easily as this one. Writing with my best friend made its own magic.

Equally magical was the warm reception our labor of love received at Dreamspinner. They asked if they could use A Fairy in His Bed for Myths And Magic: Legends Of Love. We were thrilled to have our story included with so many excellent authors.

Corinna and I fell quite in love with Daniel and Quinn, and we hope you do too. Here’s an excerpt of the first time Quinn and Daniel meet, though Daniel doesn’t know it….

It had been one of the worst days Daniel Tibbits had ever endured, and that was before his stupid cats tried to kill him.

“God damn it!” Daniel swore as he climbed to his feet. He brushed uselessly at the wet snow that had ground into the knees of his pant legs. He glared at the three black and white cats who were circling him unrepentantly, head-butting whatever parts they could reach and bawling at him as if Daniel had been away for months instead of barely an afternoon. Dewy sniffed at his pant leg, apparently none the worse for wear despite nearly being kicked as she tripped him. Daniel started petting her automatically, glowering the whole time. He hit the cold-stiffened cloth of his jeans a little too hard and winced, since he’d managed to scrape off what felt like sixty layers of skin off his palms when his hands had hit the icy pavement. “This is exactly what I need,” he snarled at the cats, squinting at his upturned hands in December’s early dark. They were stinging, but at least he didn’t see any blood. “With my luck, I’ll probably get gangrene,” Daniel muttered. At least his agent might get off his back if he didn’t have any fingers.

“All right, already! All right! You’re hungry, I get it!” he said to the yowling cats. “Can you at least let me get inside the house?” The cats naturally ignored him. “For Pete’s sake, it’s not like I never–ah, fuck.” Daniel took a deep breath, then closed his eyes as he let out a heavy sigh.

He’d dropped the teapot when Dewy had tripped him, and it had smashed on the walkway. Of course.

Daniel sighed again. He rubbed at his face and pushed his snow-damp hair off his forehead. It was a standard ‘Brown Betty’ teapot, the kind everyone sung about in kindergarten: short, stocky and dark red-brown. The shards were still gleaming cheerfully, scattered amongst the freshly-fallen snow.

“Fuck,” Daniel said again. He picked up one of the larger pieces and used it as a receptacle for two smaller fragments. He started searching for the other bits, but the teapot had practically exploded on the front walkway. To do the job properly he’d need a broom, and some daylight. The dark shards were nearly impossible to see in the quickly deepening twilight.

“Fuck!” Daniel threw down the pieces he’d been holding, watching them burst with vicious satisfaction against the concrete. “That’s my life, right there,” he said. “And because I’m such a fucking hack, that’s the best metaphor I can come up with.” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile.

Daniel shook his head. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” He trudged the rest of the distance from the sidewalk to the wooden steps of his front porch, fishing in his jacket pocket for his keys. The cats followed him eagerly, still giving the occasional mewl as if making sure he didn’t forget them.

The house had been built in the 1920s. The floors creaked and all the doors stuck and the stairs were treacherous, but the lights Daniel had left on that morning were shining brightly through the windows and he knew it would be cozy and warm after the freezing night outside. Right then it was all Daniel had to look forward to. He opened the door.

A short puff of warm air blew by his cheek.


You can read Aundrea Singer’s Live Journal Blog here, and I’d love to get your email at aundrea.singer@gmail.com

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