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These aren't the

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stories your mother

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told you. No,

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these are the

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other stories. Today's

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episode of The

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Other Stories is

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Nick, written by

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Georgia Cook and

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narrated by Justin

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Fife. He learned later. The

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old adage often given to

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tales of fairy magic and

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fay boons, that gold will always

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transform into acorns and dust

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come morning, that babies will

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remain wailing in their cribs

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unchanged for decades after being

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bestowed upon joyous mothers, that

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the fairy folk have a cruel

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and unusual sense of humor,

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and their offerings too often

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sting. Nobody believed him when he

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had witnessed that night. between trees thick

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with summer mist, the moon hanging corn

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yellow in a bright sky with stars,

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when all the world had seemed caught

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on the cusp of fever, how a

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woman more beautiful than Aphrodite

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herself had appeared in the forest,

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whispering words of such love, such

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adoration and charm, and whisked him

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away for what might have been

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minutes, might have been years of

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delirium delights. Nobody believed him when

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he described how his head had

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transformed at the sight of

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her sight of her. grew

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bulbous and strange, sprouted fur

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and monstrous ears. His voice

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box replaced with the strangled

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cry of an ass. And truth, he

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wondered at that part himself.

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If any of that night had

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truly been a dream, he hoped

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it was that part, with teeth

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too large for his head,

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eyes too widely spaced from

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human comprehension, a face bristling

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with uncomfortable inhuman

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hair. He did not tell

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the others how much the donkey had had

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hurt even as a drunk and twisted

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back to human size, and he

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awoke on a bed of dew-sodden

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grass to the cries of his

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fellow actors calling his name. Nick

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Bautam! No time to think of

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summer dreams. There was the royal

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play to perform. The laughter and

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applause of drunken nobility, a glance

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from the Queen, he was certain

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of it. And then, just like

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that, the players were evicted, politely

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but firmly, from the Duke's castle.

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and sent back into Athens to

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resume their trades. Quince to his

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carpentry, starving to his tailor's shop,

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flute and snout and snug to

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their various work benches, and he,

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nick-bottomed to his elume, to while

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away the hours and contemplation of

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that summer night, to pluck and

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slip and weave, all the while

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his mind hovered over the deep,

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dark forests searching for fairy lights.

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It started slowly. In the weeks

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following the Duke's wedding, bottom skin

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began to itch. That squirming, uncomfortable

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way it did when his beard

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was growing in. He would sit

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at his loom and scratch, raising

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raw red hives across his jowls.

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The beard in question seemed to

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grow thicker, darker, harder to groom.

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The face beneath it began to

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ache. As if bottom's skin were

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pressing too tightly over a skull

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that was just a bit bigger

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than it had been yesterday. One

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night, as the men who

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had dubbed themselves actors for

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the Duke and Duchess gathered

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in their local inn, a

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sudden braying erupted from bottom's

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throat, drawing laughter and insults

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from his fellow amateur dramatists.

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Come now, bottom, enough jest.

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We've heard your tales before

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bottom, enough of it. When

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he tried to tell them he hadn't

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meant it, they only jeered harder accusing

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him of being a fantasist, of spinning

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tall tails from what... had already

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been a tale of a

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night. They hadn't seen the

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fairy queen. They hadn't felt

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her touch. They hadn't seen

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what he had seen.

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As bottom returned home

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that night, sore and

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itching and miserable, his feet

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straight off the path

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towards the house of a

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woman whose affections he

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often saw it when

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she opened the door. warm

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candlelight spilling over the cobblestones. Her

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expression both welcoming and faintly surprised

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to see him, he thanked the

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gods that he was not a

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man short of lovers, nor of

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people he loved. There were many in

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the life of Nick Bottom who thought him

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a fool, but many more still willing

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to share his comforts, laugh at his

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jokes. That was a mercy at least. The

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woman led him inside, to a

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bed that was every bit as

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rich and royal in bottom's eyes

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as any fake queens. His skin

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burned as she pulled him onto

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the blankets, his beard tight against

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his jaw, his scalp prickling as

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of a thousand ants were working

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over his skull. He saw in

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that moment his former lover, the

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queen of all fairies standing over

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him. He saw her amber eyes,

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saw the pale yellow moon harsh

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above the summer treetops. He saw

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red and black and glittering

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gold. Then his world exploded.

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Pain. Lance from forehead to spine.

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Bones cracking, jaws grinding, teeth forcing

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teeth from gums, skull expanding past

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the bounds of any human skull.

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It was only then, caught in

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the spires of agony, that Nick

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Bottom realized the true extent of

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his predicament. That abandonment had been

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placed over a festering wound that

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summer night in the forest. But

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it had only hidden the wound

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from view. The Fafoak had vanished

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with only a cursory thought to

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the damage they'd left behind, and no

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mind at all to clear up their mess.

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and their illusions do not last

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long. A donkey's head is not

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built for a man's body, nor

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a donkey's mind built for a

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man's agony. Bottom lept from the

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bed, blind and braying, head too

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large for a spine, eyes too

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blind to see more than a

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few feet. He ran without knowing

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where he was going, over what

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precipice he might be blundering, out

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from his home, onto the street

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through the darkened alleyways and staring

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crowds. ignorant to all but the

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blood pounding in his skull and

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the scream still ringing in his

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long, long ears. When at last

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he returned to himself, collapsed with

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exhaustion on the dusty ground, he

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found himself once more in the

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woods outside Athens. That dark expanse

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they had used as a rehearsal

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space all those weeks ago, that

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had become both stage and dreamed

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to him, and was now nothing

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less than a nightmare. He staggered

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to his feet. wheezing and disoriented

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and began to walk. He did

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not stop. His feet would

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not let him. He found

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no familiar house, no thinning

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in the trees, no suggestion

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of rooftops or roads back

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to humanity, just the forest,

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just the trees, just the

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endless glittering night. As

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hours turn to days, days to

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weeks, bottom realize the second truth

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of a fairy's blessing. They will

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not permit a soul to die

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so easily. Ferries do not

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understand human biology. Why would

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they? They have never been human.

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They who live a thousand years

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in the blink of an eye,

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who think nothing of replacing living

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children with creatures of bark and

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ash, who delight in sorrows because

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they cannot weep, take... ponderous joy

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and death because they themselves cannot

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die. A donkey for

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a single night was terrible

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enough, to feel teeth that

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weren't his own, peer through

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eyes placed sideways on a

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head too large, too ungainly

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for his neck, feeling the

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crunch of his spine, the

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terrible gurgle as flesh met

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flesh deep inside his animal

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gullet. But all could be

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endured for a lover's kiss,

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a promise of unending comfort,

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of caring scratches and feasts

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of fruit divine. To

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endure it interminably

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is hell. Years have passed

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now since that heavy night

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in Athens. Bottom does not

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even know where Athens is

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anymore. Nor what directions he

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might take to reach it.

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He does not know if

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his friends still live, if

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Theseus is still adieu. He

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senses that was all a

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long, long time ago now.

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that perhaps they were never

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truly as he remembers them.

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Perhaps they never truly existed

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at all. He does not

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remember much these days. The

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forest he walks is no

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longer the forest of Athens,

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so familiar in its magnitude,

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so full of life and

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heady sunlight. These woods are

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dark and inhospitable. Roots snatch

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at his legs, branches rip

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at his skin. Trees rise

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and cage the sky, their

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branches arcing and weaving, leaving

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only dregs of moonlight to

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mark his path. He would

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think himself mad, or perhaps

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already long dead, a creature

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straddling the border between worlds,

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unable to return to the

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sunlit world, or take the sweet

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plunge into the release of death.

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But he is not alone in

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this wood. He has seen others

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on his wanderings. Other creatures half

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transformed. Other lives transmuted on a

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fairy's whim. They slide between the

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trees as silent as ghosts. Men

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with the faces of wolves, jaws

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distended teeth. too sharp for any

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half human mouths, dribbling blood. Women

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with the heads of hairs and

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pheasants, hearing blindly into a world

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that has made them pray for

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no reason other than petty spite.

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They scatter at his approach, screeching

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and crying, and he does not

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attempt to speak with them. Bottom

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hasn't spoken now in centuries. He

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remembers only vaguely the language he

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used to speak. What human words

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felt like on a human tongue.

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Oh, fates come, come, cut thread

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and thrum, quail, crush, conclude,

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and quell. Never has he

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met a man in such

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agony as himself. One thought

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alone keeps him going, that

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these woods must belong to

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someone, someone old and proud,

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far removed from the cursed

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unfortunate stumbling through it. Bottom,

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has seen them, even less

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frequently than his fellow creations,

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but he has seen them.

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Gliding light to smoke between

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the tree trunks, eyes gleaming

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like living jewels, their feet

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never touching the dappled ground.

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At their feet scamper children,

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woven from sapling in tree

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bark, staring as bottom passes. He

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has felt their stinging jabs, sharp

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with the base of his spine,

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their nipping fingers grasping for his

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tail. He has heard their chittering

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cries as they follow him through

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the woods. The laughter varies. Once

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he heard the sharp glare of

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a huntsman's horn, followed by a

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rolling cacophony of hooves. He threw

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himself off the road just in

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time to watch a retinue of

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thundering warchargers, each one taller than

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a house, each as green as

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dappled moss. The riders hooded and

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laughing, chasing a young brown stag

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through the trees. The stag's eyes

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rolled with terror. As it stumbled

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over the roots and rocks, its

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mouth open, emitting a strangled a

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strangled human scream. Bottom pressed himself

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onto the nook of an upturned

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tree. and held his head until

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the terrible scene had passed. He

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remembers it now, not for the

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terrible prey, not for the screams

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and clattering hooves, but for the

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green of the horses. The amber

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shine in the rider's eyes. He

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has seen that shine before, in

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the gaze of a woman who

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once so very briefly called him

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beloved. Perhaps he thinks if he

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walks far enough, moves fast enough,

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he will reach the middle of

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this forest. This maze of trees

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on the outskirts of reality. There,

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he will find the fairy courts

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of old, where the sealian unseally

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sit in readiness beside their king

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and queen. On that day, the

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forest will wash once more with

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summer heat. Heady mists will swirl

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between the trees like sand rising

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from the bottom of a troubled

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stream. Bottom will emerge from the

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wilderness, blinking and exhausted and as

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ill-fitted rags. has bowed on his

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spine, and there before him will

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sit to Tanya, and all her

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regal splendor. Her amber eyes will

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seek him out, pierced the horrors

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of this endless night, and see

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him for the man he was,

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for the man she so briefly

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adored. The lingering consequence of a

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cruel practical joke. Perhaps she will

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make him human again, able to

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see and speak and return once

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more to a semblance of life.

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Perhaps she will finally permit him

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to die. Perhaps, perhaps, she

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will let him wake from

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this dream at last, and

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bottom's midsummer nightmare will finally

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end. I

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hope you enjoyed today's episode of The

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Other Stories. Nick was written by Georgia

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Cook, narrated by Justin Fife, produced by

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Jaydozia, who was a musical, for music

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by Fat Frog Studio and... Tom Robson,

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a sound effect fired by Free sound.org.

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The absolute illustration was provided

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by Luke Spooner of Carry-on House. Joshua

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Buesche is our story programmer and along

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with Jasmine Arc and the Iless Ones,

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Mary Pastrado and Cody Sarasti, they help

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to manage our community. And a big

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thanks to Benaritan, the ongoing explosion of

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content he fires out of his social

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media canon. Georgia Cook is an illustrator

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and writer from London. She is written

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for publications, Vasterian-lit and flameatory and flame

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tree press. as well as the Doctor

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Who range with Big Finish. She can

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be found on her website at Georgia

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Cook writer.com. Justin Fife is an audio

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book narrator and voice actor and he

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can be found on threads at at

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Justin.5. The other stories is a production

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of the Story Studio Hawk and Cleaver

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and it's brought to you with a

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creative comments, attribution, non-commercial, no derivatives license.

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That means don't change it, don't sell

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it, but by all me, share the

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hell out of you. Until next time.