Changeling story

Monday and Tuesday I piked on going back to the novel - or rather, I looked at it miserably for a couple of hours and then had a sudden, irresistible urge to write the changeling story.

Which I did. It's called 'Daughter of the Clay' (with apologies to Garth Nix) and I'm very happy with it, although the last scene, where she's back in Fairyland missing her earthly mother and father is a bit weak yet. Her clay-ey-ness is good, and the dragonfly-like fairies.

Here is the beginning:

Maybe it was the air-conditioning vents brought the words to me. Maybe it was the secretive softness of the women's voices, made my ears stretch to hear. I stopped trying to push the doll's arm through the narrow, spangled sleeve. I lifted my head.
     Were you not able to have other children? she asked my mother.
     Oh, I suppose I was able. I was afraid, though. I was afraid they would all turn out the same. Like Cerise.

Poor old Cerise. (Or Shorghch, in Clay language.)