Political Nightmare

By Rainbow Maccabre

The girl who was blessed when Daddy killed Mommy; the bird lady born with four arms and no wings; King Kess's trans widower; the most forgettable prince who ever died; secret agents popping up everywhere; and the mind controlling bunny rabbit. 

Who will put an end to Vasagne's dark conspiracy.

Political Nightmare weaves a plot through past and present to arrange a story full of twists. This book will give you nightmares.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rainbow Maccabre
• Release date: Sep 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393038696

Rainbow Maccabre

Rainbow Maccabre is a computer geek. Her favourite games are Bloodborne and the Dark Souls franchise. In these games, she dies over and over, learning the boss's manoeuvres and taking more risks. When that boss is finally dead at her feet, the euphoria that rushes through Rainbow Maccabre lets her know, if just for that moment, she can achieve anything. The grittier side draws her in the most. She lines her stories with a sinister edge. Apologies in advance for any mental scars she might inflict. Writing, for her, is a way to explore the darkness and confront her humanity.   Currently 32 years old, she came out as trans half her lifetime ago, in a place called Warsop, Mansfield. Being part of a controversial demographic has left her with an interest in controversial topics which are sometimes hidden. These topics are brought to light in her thought provoking stories. One such story, ‘Razorlips’, won a 75 word competition and Rainbow Maccabre was so proud, she had it adapted to a personalised comic strip, tattooed on her arm.

Book preview

POLITICAL NIGHTMARE

BY

RAINBOW MACCABRE

Copyright © 2019 Rainbow Maccabre

All rights reserved

ISBN: 9781691494521

CHAPTER 1: SPECIAL

1: Shereve’s Present

The pain Shereve had gone through squeezing out her eggs still throbs even now, weeks later. Bladder on the verge of bursting, there’s no point going to the toilet. She’ll only need it again the second her arse leaves the seat.

If only she’d been born a mamasape. When they squeeze ‘em out, they receive a readymade child to snuggle.

She should be out with her recruits, training the next generation of dragon fighters. Instead, she’s stuck on maternity, babysitting eggs. Eight of them rest on the tangled straw nest. In a few years’ time, the children inside’ll be running and racing around the house. She should enjoy this peace while she can.

She’s been having a recurring dream, this past week. In it, her heart tickles, and her chest explodes, light turning the eggs into powder.

Professor Clinus, her psychiatrist, knows about the dream. He thinks it means she’ll birth a Blessed. It’s a bit of a stretch, if you ask her. She’ll just be happy to have eight healthy kids.

You know what they say about a watched pot, says Hucknall, his black feather beard jiggling.

I’m sick of staring at them, though, I really am. I wanna hear their first tweets. I wanna know if any have wings or if they take after me.

I hope they do take after you. He places an arm around her, tickling the feathers on her neck. They’d be the most beautiful ornis the world’s ever seen. She giggles and he pecks her cheek.

They click their beaks together, clacking tongues. Her heart swells, twanging pain of her groin an afterthought.

From the nest comes tiny scratching sounds, paper scribbles. Did you hear that?

Rising to his feet he yells, Hyacinthe, you’re needed. They’re hatching.

On the biggest, grainiest egg, the size of her head, a crack creeps its way down. She wills it to go faster.

The egg next to it sheds a triangle, one of their little fingers poking through to say hello.

The House Carer, Hyacinthe, has things under control, gold feathers shining pure white where sunlight hits her, the shortest beak Shereve’s ever seen. She dusts away the specks, checking the hatchlings’ airways.

Hucknall hugs Shereve from behind. She grips his arms and sways side to side, dancing to the song of birth, sang by her very own chicklings.

An egg at the back... it hasn’t moved. Not once.

A bristle against her forearm, a new-born dangling from Hyacinth’s hands. Do you wanna hold your first hatched, Commander?

She clutches her child, weight of a pebble. Their skin looks so delicate without feathers, beating hearts wrapped in pink tissue. She can’t wait to see what colour their feathers’ll be. She’s hoping green like her dad, or black like Hucknall. They’ll probably be grey like her, though. Grey’s boring.

She’s trying her best not to worry about the uncracked egg, but as children are passed to her for their first cuddles, it’s difficult to take her eyes away from it. She should be cuddling the chick inside that egg, too. It’s missing all the fun, this special moment.

A dark line spreads down the egg’s centre, then disappears: a trick of the light. She yells, Close those bleeding curtains, Hyacinthe. She needs to focus, remain strong and calm, like on the battlefield.

Hucknall’s grip tightens. He’s probably scared she’ll run over and crack the egg open herself. And honestly, without him here to stop her...

Shhhhh, don’t worry. Some hatch later than others. He strokes his finger across her cheek.

Picturing his finger in her mouth, she clenches her beak as hard as she can. Why does he always have to patronise her!

She walks forward, shrugging his arm off her shoulder when he tries to hold her back.

She places all her palms together. Please wake up, baby, please. I’m begging. Eyes closed, she descends to her knees. If she can’t make sure that all her children hatch, then what good is she as a mother? She’s staying right here, in this spot, until her baby wakes up, no matter how long it takes.

2: Shereve’s Past

It didn’t matter that her side felt stabbed by blades every time she raised her knee, or if her sweat soaked feathers made her arms thrice the weight. Shereve kept going, trainers slapping the floor, using the strength in all four arms to propel herself forward like there was a dragon chasing her down the dirt path.

Flying wasn’t everything. She could move faster on two legs than anyone at her school with wings. This was ‘her proving it’.

She didn’t look up, keeping her attention on the path. Almost at the end, she did her best to pound her feet faster, pouncing to give one last rocket shot to the end.

She stretched to place her toe on the chalk, and relinquished every muscle, letting the momentum bring her to a slow stop.

The crowd above her applauded and tweeted, but she daren’t look up. She hadn’t wanted to see the other competitors, flying up there. For all she knew, they already finished ages ago, leaving her in last place.

She slumped to the floor and leant backwards on her top two hands, massaging her calf with her lower hands. Someone fluttered towards her. Nan swished her way down, beak bent in a smile. Higher up, rows of chairs sat on a stage made of floatwood, creaking against the wind. Wheezing, she looked away, at the floor. That stage was too heavy to be floating above her head!

Good on you, Shereve. You’ve done it. You’ve got first place.

She leaned forward and clenched her fists, grinning. I’d stand up and give you a cuddle...

Well if you can’t come up here, I’ll have to come to you. As usual. Nan sat, wrapping her arm around Shereve’s shoulder. I can see some of the other competitors. They must be at least a minute or two behind.

She refused to look up.

I was hoping you’d grow out of this, said Nan.

Grow out of what?

Your fear of the sky. It’s not natural. I don’t understand why we can’t just get you a swan, or an eagle so you can fly with us. You can’t spend your life with your feet on the ground.

Shereve sighed. They’d had this conversation so many times, she didn’t even care anymore. If only there was another four-armed orni with no wings. She’d get them to explain what it felt like to be in the sky, unable to control how you moved.

I know you don’t like having this conversation-

I’m sick of it, Nan! She tugged herself away from Nan’s arm. I’ve just came in first, for crying out loud. This is supposed to be a happy moment for me, but you’ve gone and ruined it!

She stood and Nan followed suit. I don’t mean to nag, but I don’t like seeing you by yourself all the time. Maybe you’d have more friends if-

I’ve already got friends. Just because I like spending time alone doesn’t mean I’m sad or anything. I just like being alone.

But maybe you wouldn’t like being alone so much if you learn to live in the sky, with us. I’ve still got those wings I’ve sewn for you if you’d rather ride without an animal.

She clenched her beak so much, a chip flew off its end.

Nan grabbed Shereve’s arm. Don’t you snap your beak at me, young lady.

She wrenched away and squared up to Nan, yelling, That’s it. Enough. I’m tired of telling you time and time again. You’ll never get me to fly. Not air polo, not cloud surfing, nothing! So why don’t you get it into your thick skull: I’m not interested in flying. End of.

If she looked at Nan’s face for one second longer, she’d have had to slap her one. She turned and stomped away.

An apple lump bulged in her side, near her kidneys. Stumbling, she dropped into sitting position, clutching her strained muscle.

Nan’s hand massaged alongside Shereve’s, loosening the knots. You really have put yourself out, today, haven’t you?

She couldn’t think of a reply. Too busy getting her breath back.

3: Shereve’s Present

She jerks awake on her side in the straw, a thump of guilt when she realises, she’d fallen asleep. What if this egg hatched and she wasn’t awake to see it?

You’re not gonna hatch, though, are you? It’s been way more than an hour. The window’s pitch black; the rest hatched before sundown. There’s nothing she can do but face it. She’s laid a rotten egg.

She strokes her palm across it. How should she act? There’s nothing left to fight for. She can’t exactly be angry, because there’s no one to be angry at.

She tries her best to force tears, keeping her eyes open. It’s not very respectful, finding out your child’s unborn and not spilling a tear. She doesn’t seem to have any in her. She doesn’t remember the last time she cried.

There is one thing she can do. It’s not much. She tries her best to think of a unisex name, one that she likes the sound of. Stace. Your name’s Stace. She splays her palms either side Stace’s egg and lifts. It’s lighter than a cuppa.

She cradles it atop her bosom, closes her eyes and imagines Stace listening. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Stace. What she says next, she’s lost count of how many times she’d said it before on the battlefield: Your place can neither be filled nor forgotten.

The room brightens, a sun atop her eyelids. The egg vibrates, chattering her jaw.

Whoops! She drops the egg.

She steps back head feathers clenched in fists. The egg radiates light, bouncing in prisms on the walls, shining on Hucknall’s beard as he sleeps. She can’t see any of her other children.

She kicks him awake, shouting, Our child. Our child.

He stretches and shields his eyes. Morning already?

No. Our child, she shouts. It’s Blessed! I think it’s Blessed. How the hell did Professor Clinus figure this out from a dream?

Hucknall gasps and stands, the fastest she’s ever seen him move. It’s bright, I’ll tell you that.

She says, I think we’re about to meet the next greatest warrior.

I doubt it, says Hucknall. If he’s Blessed, he’ll more likely be a healer. Or a sorcerer.

What makes you so sure ‘he’ll’ be a boy?

Hucknall taps an index on his nose. Instinct.

The light fades and smoke rises, like glowing metal hitting water. The eggshell crumbles to dust, revealing two flailing baby arms, and two... It’s got four arms! An extra set sprouting from its ribcage, higher than her extra set on her abdomen.

Stace coughs and tweets. She rushes over and scoops him up in her own two lower arms, straining their connection to her abdomen. With her two upper arms attached at her shoulders, she plucks the shell away from her Stace’s beak. This is the only one like me. Its eyes have a silver ring around the outside, just like hers. It’ll be difficult not to favourite this one. I hope it is a boy. It’s hard being a woman in the army.

What are you complaining about? Hucknall asks. You were and still are the best warrior in all of Kood.

And I’ll remind everyone of that soon enough. She lets it nip at her fingers. Maybe, one day, we’ll fight alongside.

CHAPTER 2: BLESSED

1: Paisley’s Past

Every evening, Paisley’d heard the lion growling as it carried Dad Dad into the garage. She’d always wait by the door to greet him. He’d pick her up and spin her like a helicopter. He’d watch all her cartoons with her, drawing her favourite characters for her to put on her bedroom wall. And every night, he’d read her favourite story, But Where Did the Moon Go?  She’d giggle at all the different voices and faces he made.

This day, she worried she wouldn’t make it back to greet him. In a field near the forest, her and Mommy picked strawberries.

Neither of them had watches on. Stars blinked through the swirling grey sky. Mommy, if we’re not back on time, we might hurt Dad Dad’s feelings.

Oh, he’ll survive, said Mommy, voice smooth as bedtime milk. He’s being an idiot, lately.

But you said all men are supposed to be idiots.

They’re not ‘supposed’ to be idiots, darling. They just ‘are’. She looked at the sky. You’re right, though. Come along, lady.

They trundled, fields of squelchy soil caking her wellingtons. Strawberry juice stuck the fur on the back of her fingers together.

They made it out of the forest’s entrance, across the road from her house. Her brain itched, filled with a crackling, like static on a telly. What’s that sound, Mommy?

I don’t hear anything, darling.

They stopped, the only sound from the wind rustling the trees. You must be imagining things, lady, she said, leading by hand, across the road. Your hands are filthy.

She stood in front of a gate that was bigger even than Dad Dad. It clanged open in front of her and she ran down the path to the door.

Don’t touch that door, not when you’re filthy, shouted Mommy.

She hid her hands behind her back and tried to lick the strawberry juice from her face.

Inside, she tugged her wellingtons off, and squelched the mud in her hands, sprinkling it onto the floor.

Come over here, you silly sausage, said Mommy. She wiped all the mud and strawberry juice off with baby wipes, a bitter taste lingering on the tip of Paisley’s tongue. What’re you like!

Dad Dad was already there when she entered the living room. Welcome home, Dad Dad.

He kept staring at the telly. He didn’t even say hello.

She walked over to give him a cuddle and was sent backwards. He’d shoved her away and she landed on her bottom.

Her eyes became ouches and she wailed at the top of her lungs. Mommy came in, shouting, What have you done with her? She’s only four. You can’t hit her like you do me!

Mommy pulled her into a soft hug and her feelings were a little less hurt, lump in her throat fading.

Dad Dad, still staring at the telly, hadn’t even moved.

Dad Dad isn’t well at the moment. Let’s stay out of his way, darling.

She carried her into the kitchen and placed her on the ground. She could see right up Mommy’s nose, a bogey hanging for its life.

Pointing a brush and looking down at her, she said, Let’s have a look at your tail, lady.

She tried to hide her tail, but it was bigger than her, and underneath the muck and grass stains, even whiter than her tummy fur. No, Mommy, I don’t like brushing.

Well it wouldn’t get into that state if you stopped dragging it across the floor.

#

She woke up on a non-school day and the first thing she remembered was that Dad Dad hadn’t read her a story the night before. She hoped he was feeling better. He normally took her to the park when she wasn’t at school. Only when he was in a good mood, though.

She lay in bed waiting for Mommy to come and wake her up. Even though she had a clock in her room, she couldn’t tell the time. It felt like it was late, though. Trotting of hooves went past her house, the sun shining really high in the sky.

She rolled out of bed and stumbled to the door, pacifier still in her mouth. She tried to open the door, but something blocked it. They’d never locked her in her bedroom before, not even when she was still in diapers.

She rattled the knob. She threw her body weight against it. Banging her fists against the varnished wood only made them throb.

Toys! All over her bedroom! All she had to do was play and eventually, someone would come and rescue her.

Every so often, she tapped on the door and shouted, I want to go out!

Eventually, she felt hungry, a hand grabbing the inside of her growling stomach. Night cloaked her room and she couldn’t reach the light switch. She lay down next to the door and cried so much, she threw up, bile burning her throat and making her cough. She couldn’t get out to use the toilet and kicked her soiled clothes under the bed. The pee pee made her thighs sting.

A force pushed down on her, bundling her in, enclosing her, smothering her. It isn’t fair, she screeched. It isn’t blooming fair. She stood, ran to her window, turned, and launched herself at her bedroom door.

In that moment, nothing could stop her going through that door. She was going to yell at Mommy and Dad Dad for hurting her feelings.

Her back hit, the boom of a big bass drum on her lungs. Chair legs screeched on the other side of the door. Wood clattered, and the door opened enough for her to poke fingers through. She pushed, the back of the chair reflecting the moon’s silver. It was too dark to see to the other end of the corridor. And there could’ve been a monster there, watching, waiting, licking its lips. The drool from its lips’d wash her downstairs; she’d drown in a pool of monster spit. Could you imagine?

She clambered over the chair. Her bald palms touching the floor gave a shiver in her fur, coldness creeping up. She toddled as fast as she could, down the stairs and towards the living room.

Mommy lied on the floor, eyes staring directly at the light bulb, a knife poked in her throat. Around her, scarlet blood curdled into the carpet: an angel painted red.

Dad Dad was crying, and saying, Stay away, sweetheart, don’t touch her.

He came to scoop her up. She ducked under his arms and ran to Mommy. When she tried to hug her better, Mommy’s head became an adult bowling ball, a lock of hair ripping out in her hands. Sorry, Mommy. Her face fur turned darker, absorbing Paisley’s tears. Mommy, it’s time to wake up.

She sobbed her eyes out. Mommy can’t have gone away! She was supposed to stay and love her. Mommy belonged here forever and ever and she wasn’t allowed to be so red!

Hiss hiss. Hiss hiss. Hiss hiss.

Shocked she was, jumped out of her coat when the metal clanged beside her. The knife’d fallen out. The hissing disappeared, and two spouts of blood flew far enough to hit the wall. The wound closed, zipped by an invisible hand.

Mommy wheezed.

Dad Dad never said a word. He lay Mommy on the sofa, helped clean the living room, and rolled up the rug, taking it out of the house. She watched from the window as he threw the rug in the bin, the echoing clonk of his pegged leg.

A while later, he rode his lion through the black iron gates, out of Paisley’s life. Not a single day went by without her thinking about him, about what he did. Even so, nothing or no one could ever stop her from loving Dad Dad. It wasn’t his fault if he was poorly.

2: Paisley’s Present

Mommy wheezes, Paisley Antoinette Fairwater, how many times have I told you not to drag your train? She rakes a brush through Paisley’s tail, dust puffing. Her fur’s lighter than her shoulder length head hair, tomato orange flecked with blond and bronze. Mommy’s the same colour but mixed with dandelion fluff.

But it gets too heavy, Mommy. Paisley has the fluffiest, bushiest tail in school. It’s wider than her waist, and almost twice her height. People keep telling her how they’re ‘so jealous’ and they wished they had a tail like hers. Personally, she’d prefer a tail that doesn’t feel like she’s got a twenty-ton canon weighing her butt down.

She winces as Mommy brushes through a finger-sized lock. Ouch, Mommy.

Hold still. She smacks her tail with the brush. It wouldn’t get like this if you could learn to keep it off the floor.

Some of the other parents look over, being nosy ‘cause of Mommy’s voice. Paisley’s use to it. She ‘does’ feel like an eye buffet, though. It’s bad manners to stare.

Lissa and two of her friends walk past, head and shoulders above Paisley, their blond tails in the air, skirts barely covering their bums. Other school kids move to the side, clearing a path for the three elite. Lissa looks at Paisley and says, Bwush my tail, Mommy. Her friends bend over, laughing like she’s the queen of comedy or something. There’s so many other people to pick on; why does Lissa have to pick on Paisley!

Mommy, you can brush it at home. Everyone’s watching.

Let me just get this one bit, says Mommy, aaand... there!

Ouch!

Paisley holds Mommy’s hand, through the school gates. The parking lot’s filled with neighing from unicorns of all sizes and colours: pale red, dark blue, orange, pink, white and black. Most are harnessed to metal cars, and some of the bigger cars have up to four unicorns pulling.

Her unicorn, Beetroot, is the closest to the gate. Mommy’s allowed to keep him in the headmaster’s space. If anyone tries to kidnap Paisley, they have less of a chance.

Beetroot hasn’t got a car behind him. Mommy prefers riding on-back. She says it’s the only thing that takes her mind from her throat pain.

Beetroot lowers his head, his baby pink mane floating beneath his glistening, dark purple horn. Paisley strokes her palm down the twist, and scratches his scalp. He giggles. She’s the only person he lets touch his horn. If anyone else attempts, he’ll try and bite their fingers