Your Pride is Knocked

　　'Egor, the boy needs to know how to fight,' Momo says defensively.

　　'Fight? Why?' Egors tuts. You can see he hates the word. He is a tender person. I realise.

　　'In case we go into battle.'

　　'And in that case, we can do the fighting.'

　　'Just some basics. For protection.'

　　'He knows the basics. He's got the basics. His mind. His experience. He shouldn't even need to reach for a weapon. Remember, a weapon is last -'

　　'Last resort. I know, I know. I just wanted to, you know ... educate.'

　　'You mean, behave like a little boy. Go read him one of your poems instead Momo. Do something productive.'

　　Momo does as he is told. I've noticed the power Egor has abroad. Momo sighs deeply as he puts the gun in his hands down. I recognise his embarrassment. I have felt like that a million times before, when you think you are more responsible or cool than you are. Your pride is knocked. Bit by bit I am seeing bits of myself in all of the Ablegares and it kind of feels good to relate.

Lorali, P306-307
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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She Coloured and Coloured and Coloured

　　The boys would eventually get bored and leave. She would turn to him, freckles and eyes and prettiness, and say, 'What have you been drawing then?'

　　'The sea,' he would answer as normal and then ask, 'Can you draw?'

　　And she would say, 'No. I prefer colouring.'

　　'Here you are then.' Iris tore out a sheet of paper from his sketchpad, quickly drew a few circles for her to work with and handed her the pencils. 'You can colour these. That will give you something to do.'

　　And she was so touched. Happy to be included. She coloured and coloured and coloured until every circle was completely stacked with colour and when she was done he drew double the amount of circles and when she was done he drew double the amount the circles and when she was done he drew double again. And each time she filled the lines with colour. I think she loved them all the more because she was filling in his hand-drawn pencil lines.

Lorali, P252
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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Because There's No Colour in My Eyes

　　She was on the outside too. On the other side of the line of what it meant to be accepted. Not the brightest bulb in the box, but she loved to sing and dance and play, and she was pretty. She loved to sit with Iris whilst he did his drawings. Ask what colour he was going to shade each with. He said no colour. He did line drawings. When she asked why, he replied, 'Because there's no colour in my eyes.'

　　He didn't mind her being there. He was shy so even if he wanted her gone he wouldn't have found the strength to say so. Luckily he didn't want her to go anywhere. Their friendship bound them together.

Lorali, P251
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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Live Your Life Like You're Pretending

　　Not that it matters an awful amount in the grand play of things.

　　And it is play. All of it.

　　It's not real.

　　You have to live your life like you're pretending. An actor living a character's life. Otherwise you won't take risks. You won't live.

Lorali, P250
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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Because of Their Language

　　'Yeah, see? Everybody is looking for you because you've ruined everything. People are dying and it's all your fault. You're dangerous. You might not mean to be, but you are. You don't belong here. You aren't one of us. It's better if you leave, Lorali. For Rory, for everyone. I've come to take you home.'

　　'This is my home!' I argue back. Real tears are coming now. Weakness. Where is all this water on my face coming from? I sniff. How does he know all this? 'You're lying!'

　　'I wish I was.'

　　'Stop it!' I scream. I cover my ears. I wish Rory were here. Just so I could hear the words come from his mouth for myself. Even though they would kill me. My mother always told me that Walkers are cowards. That they hide behind words. That they hide behind others. That they are an untrustworthy species because of their language. Where we use our bodies, they use words. But I thought my mother was trying to scare me and to kill my interest in them. Or perhaps I was stupid enough to think Rory wasn't the same as everybody else.

　　……

Lorali, P217
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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Not As Much As Forgetting

　　'How do you, you know, keep memories ... from when you were a child? Do your memories show on your tails?' Rory asks me. His head is cocked to the side, his jaw clenched. I can feel his heat. He is trying to keep upbeat.

　　'Tapestries. Yes. If a Mer wants to remember something they leave it on their tapestry. The important things will imprint there anyway. Like a birthmark. If you want to remember something in particular, you have to scratch it in, or scar it.'

　　'Does it hurt?'

　　'Not as much as forgetting.'

Lorali, P184
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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I Like being this Side of the Water

　　The fire is crackling. There's a strange smell from our wet clothes steaming in the heat. The fire is fantastic. Beautiful. I wish the mood could be happier. I like the air. Even though my lungs hurt. I like the sound of the waves. The hush of them. I like being this side of the water.

Lorali, P184
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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It is A Secret

　　We are up in the attic again. Just like yesterday. The sun is snaking in through the slats in the roof. The lighthouse is drinking up the light. In so many ways it reminds me of home. The way it seems so muted and detached from the rest of Walker life. Like it has fallen off the edge of the world. Like a shipwreck. It is a secret. Back in the Whirl we are all so fearful of being found by the Walkers. Of being outed and exposed.

Lorali, P160
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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The Weight of The Sleeping

　　'I enjoyed the weight of the sleeping. It was heavy. Like a stone in my body. I woke only once and that was because I was entirely thirsty but the tap was there and so were all these strange shadows. Then I went right back to sleep again. Like a stone. In my body. That I had accidently swallowed.' Lorali tilts her head, expecting me to agree.

Lorali, P151
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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A Safe Haven Where We Relax

　　Flynn is frying up this well thick ham to have with mashed potatoes, peas and mustard. This is the kind of food that Iris likes to eat. I think Lorali is confused by her senses but I think everything is confusing her, so it is kind of hard to tell. The rich smoky smell is flooding the lighthouse as the sun drops and the moon begins to shine, giving the lighthouse a UFO igloo glow. Mum and Elvis are calling now. I think I should probably call them back soon, just so they don't worry. Candles and lamps are lit and the house becomes warm again. A safe haven where we relax.

Lorali, P136
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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Post itself to Nowhere

　　'OK, don't laugh,' she says for the fifth time. She is giggling herself though. And that is making me laugh. My back is against the wall outside the bathroom. Flynn and Iris are pottering around downstairs deciding what to make us for dinner. How was time got so lost? It's one of those days that seems to fold itself away into a tiny envelope and post itself to nowhere. Guilt begins to ache in the pit of my belly like a bug. Mum. College. How disappointed she will be when she realises I haven't shown up. Surely this a better life experience than anything I could learn in a classroom ... but it doesn't numb the fear. ... ...

Lorali, P135
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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The Petrified Forest

　　Queen Keppel has been visiting the petrified forest. A state of in-between. A purgatory, if you like. As all Mer have crossed from human life at some point, the petrified forest acts as a gateway to their past, as little of it as they can remember, to wonder and reflect, to gather thoughts and emotions. It works in this spectacularly magical way because it is shared by both Walkers and Mer. When the tide is low the forest rises to the surface, like an island studded with hundreds of blackened trees, reached by Walkers by the rug of the sand I leave when I go away. I watch from distance. Dogs and children play hide-and-seek around the stark claws, clamber the wrists and fingers of these skeletal trunks, and engrave their names into the dead skin of the wood. But when the water is balanced, I return and the forest's usual state is low and deep and here it flourishes: every naked spike of every tree flowers and blossoms in the wildest shades of green. It blooms immediately, like the change from winter to summer in an English garden in one swift move. The floor, rich with seagrass and nettles and various exotic plants - sea quills, mammoth water lilies, sea snails and worms. It is tranquil private paradise that I am very proud of. This was Lorali's favourite place; she would relax in the green shrubbery for hours on end, playing with the fishes and seahorses. Her only escape from her mother's kingdom. Carmine would show her circles that Iris had drawn and together they would colour them with the rainbow oils they found in the scum of my roof. Lorali didn't know those oils were pollution. Dregs of spoilt poison from the petrol and fuel to drive engines across my skin. At least they found a use for it.

　　Now Keppel haunts the petrified forest, curling through the precious maze of wildwood as though it were some labyrinth, hoping to find her daughter or some sign from the Walker world that she is safe, but the only imprints she sees are the scores her daughter made when she was young. Now they bear the scars of Keppel's own clawing, spreading, desperate fingertips, as though she believes Lorali will be wound around the roots, hiding somewhere beneath the bark. Her head hangs low in loss and longing. Letting me carry her.

Lorali, P94-95
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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The Cetus

　　Now it's dark. The moon, a skinned onion, white and mighty, with reluctance I'm sure, helps to guide the Cetus through my calm.

　　I can't be biased, though I can tell you that the Cetus is most feared pirate ship in the world. A villainous, wicked ship, with its crew, the Cavities, even worse. To call you ship such a name only certifies that the pirates abroad are bloodless and nasty; that they fear nothing and have little respect for the water and all that inhabits it. Any right-minded sailor or pirate with a regard for superstition knows that just saying 'Cetus' on board is a terrible omen, so you can imagine the statement these women and men are making. With charcoal-black sails, masts like cindered kindling and an engine that pollutes a vile sludgy smoke into my bodies, they hum over my surface. Other than the purr of the engine, the pirates' snorts and the vile spitting, the only other sound is the clanging knell that hangs round the neck of the mermaid skeleton roped to the mast of the ship. The brittle, dry salt-drenched bones. And not just any mermaid skeleton; this is the carcass of Neta, Lorali's grandmother.

Lorali, P75-76
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1

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