Zodiac Chronicles Book 1

Tristan attends what he thinks is a typical day at school. He does something atypical and pays the price for it with his blood. A small scratch, but enough to leave a lasting impression.

~6400 words

Trampled paths carved through a thin layer of snow in two opposite directions, converging on an old, small schoolhouse. The wider, well-trodden path of footprints led between a pair of farms to a road that led eventually to the village proper several miles off. The smaller path consisted of only one set of very large tracks, boot prints of an unusual size, that led to the small river beside the school. The owner of the large boots crouched by the bank and tucked a sealed bottle into the rocks along the river’s edge, well away from a collection of similar bottles. With any luck, the bottle would still be there by the time he got to it at lunchtime. Tristan turned back to the schoolhouse and eyed his large tracks, hoping that the midday sun might melt the snow enough to obscure them.

He lingered by the river to watch the other students funnel into the small door at the front of the schoolhouse. The door swung outward, held open by a kind bull on the verge of graduation. When the door had to be replaced some years ago, Tristan recalled the village carpenter stressed over the direction of the hinge for days before the installation. He returned every day afterward for a week to apologize for installing it wrong.

As he waited, he allowed his eyes to roam over the schoolhouse’s exterior. The paint chipped very slightly on the older slats of siding to reveal the numerous and varying colors the building had been over the years. He remembered well the year the teacher had organized the students for a day of painting the schoolhouse a vibrant green. The previous color, a faded pink, had been splashed by a graduating student’s experimental project for admittance into the doctor’s college in the capital. She had the carpenter and his wife provide her with information of how they treated the wood to maintain longevity and had the village’s merchers bring books back to describe how the paints earned their pigments.

The door cracked against the frame, the students finished filing inside. Tristan moved to join the wider path of boots and made his way to the door. He opened it gingerly and ascended the few short steps into the mudroom. He moved slowly, careful not to bump his large frame against the door or his horns against the doorframe or any of the other students. The village children paid him little mind, having their heavy woolen coats and other articles on the hooks along the wall. Stains marred the mudroom benches, the wood slightly bowed from years of harboring rain and melted snow. The floorboards creaked with every shift of weight, every step through the one-room schoolhouse. The whole building smelled of faintly of smoke from the small firepit and potbellied stove in the center of the main room, despite the pipe that extended up through the roof.

Tristan pulled the door closed, lifting up on the handle to set it properly in the frame. One step to the side and he lifted a small charcoal bit to scan for his name on the roster hung by the door. His eyes hesitated at the familiar names, ones he remembered from his first few years before the growth spurts started. After that, he stopped trying to remember the newcomers, to connect names on the list to faces. He found his name and checked the small box for his attendance that day.

Several of the girls seemed happy to see each other, giggling and shrieking with glee, leaning to whisper conspiratorially as they headed to their seats. Evelynn lead the group, smoothing and fussing with her hair as they walked, making sure her ringlets survived the morning. Tristan noted that the group appeared smaller, but the little herd never had the same numbers, its members dependent entirely on Evelynn’s whims.

The younger ones, the calves, moved awkwardly, as calves do, and climbed onto the benches to hang up their hats and scarves. Some preferred to stuff their things into the bins below the benches, too short to hang their things. After the removal of their hats, one of the calves became surrounded. Tristan just barely made out their young pronunciations of shock and amazement at the nubs protruding from the center one’s scalp. It would be several years for the nubs to turn into anything even resembling horns, but with the arrival of the nubs, that calf become the coolest and most mature among their little herd. He reflected on his brief moment of approval when his nubs arrived at a surprisingly young age. And struggled to forget the subsequent frustration and terror from his peers as the nubs grew larger and longer than normal at an alarming rate.

A frown pulled at his features and he dropped off his gear on his half of the mudroom. Despite moving to the furthest corner of the mudroom, none ever dared cross beyond the door except to check their attendance. He tried not to let it bother him. This left the boys of the class to wait to remove their gear. Ladies first, as the manners say. And calves have little sense of propriety. Having doffed his gear, Tristan gathered his materials for class, plus an ancient-looking leather journal.

As he finished pulling the drawstring on his pack, Tristan’s ear perked up at a voice that rose above the din.

“We didn’t think you or your brothers would make it today, Jorgus. Are you okay? What happened to your father?”

“Doesn’t really concern you, does it, Seamus.” A thud sounded as Jorgus threw his bag down on the bench under his hook. The adolescent bull had yet to grow properly into his limbs, gangly and long, his shaggy ginger hair left to grow over his eyes.

Seamus, a sturdy young bull with brown hair and a square jaw with the slightest bit of stubble, furrowed his brow. “I’d think it concerns all of us! The attacks have been happening more often, yeah? And with all our grandparents-”

Jorgus spun and growled at the older bull. “Seamus, I said drop it.” The tan and white splotched young bull jerked his head pointedly to his little herd of younger brothers.

The Jones boys, four young calves of varying ages and colorings, sported red and puffy eyes. Tristan glanced at the roster and wondered which brother belonged to which name. The youngest two of four sniffled openly, the older of the pair grabbing his younger brother by the shoulder to lead him to their desks. The youngest’s shoulders lifted and jerked in the obvious signs of barely contained sobs.

Seamus watched the calves, then shared a look with the other boys in Jorgus’s usual group. “We’ll… catch up on the way home, then?” He did his best to sound optimistic.

Tristan watched the boys offer support via a pat on the shoulder or some muttered promise and turn away one by one. The youngest, probably one of Jorgus’s brother’s friends, lingered, fussing with his pale splotchy fingers. Jorgus tilted his head slightly, the only indication on his shrouded face that he noticed the calf, and waited. A light thwack from another broke the calf’s resolve and he scurried through the room to his desk near the front and the younger Jones boys. Jorgus started to turn back to removing his winter gear and caught Tristan’s prying eye. He sneered and angled his horns at him. Tristan started and jerked back to his own preparations.

Part of him wished he could walk home with those boys, to make a group of friends and… do whatever friends do together. He wished he could talk about the orchard with them, about the plants along the path, about their crops, and the state of their land. He wanted to make friends his own age. But he knew how he looked, how they all looked more like his children than friends. Or perhaps younger brothers. He hadn’t grown any manner of stubble yet. The elder Lunars, those that heard the voices from beyond, told him that he had aged quickly, gaining a few years in a few months as a babe. Blessed by the Spirits, they called it. He called it a curse.

The commotion over, Tristan took barely a few steps to round the wall that split the classroom from the mudroom. He settled into the last bench at the table in the back left of the small open schoolhouse. This area in the back typically held the eldest students, the ones closer to the front reserved for the younger calves, or most in danger academically. He caught Seamus chatting with his neighbor on the other side of the aisle. Tristan held the bench in the back alone for years simply due to his size, too large to sit anywhere else in the room. He might block the view of the other students was the official reason, but mostly he took up a desk and a half on a good day. He tried not to think of the bad days.

Unbidden, he remembered vividly the pain in his chest the day the girl he typically sat next to, perhaps eight at the time, had complained before class that he had crushed her hand when attempting to use his ink and bone splinter pen. He barely remembered moving his arm out far enough to even touch her, painfully aware of his size even then. Not that the other students would let him forget it. The teacher had simply calmed the girl down and offered him the bench in the back. As he moved, he watched the girl’s best friend eagerly move up to take his seat with no objections from the teacher. He sat in the middle of the bench and spread out comfortably over the two-desk wide table. He felt his size for the first time and tears stung at his eyes. He looked up then as Miss Shaunessy moved to the blackboard and continued with class, though not without offering an apologetic smile. That remained his table for the following seven years.

He enjoyed the space the longer table provided over the years. In the early days of the schoolhouse, students normally shared one large desk, the top able to lift to reveal a compartment below. However, too many instances of one of the students at the desk lifting the table’s top without their partner’s consent resulted in broken pencils, splattered ink, or scattered papers. Deemed far too impractical for use by calves, the village’s carpenter frantically redesigned the furniture for single use. Tristan preferred the width, able to hide plenty of things in his desk that the others had to keep in the mudroom, under their desks, or in the river’s banks. He reveled in the ability to lean forward, elbows as wide as he wanted, his books and parchment and inkwell spread comfortably apart. He never had to worry about knocking over his own inkwell or his neighbor’s.

He placed the leather journal on the middle of the table, his inkwell on the corner with the bone splinter pen leaned away from the aisle, and his parchment squarely between the journal and the edge. Half the table for him. The other remained empty, as it did every day.

An aging Taurus woman, pale splotches covering more of her dark, umber skin every year, walked down the center aisle of the classroom to check the roster by the door. Wrinkles threatened at the corners of her eyes, a few locks of silvery hair escaped from the hair buns under each horn. She assessed the youngest calves first and shot harsh glances to the group of gossiping girls as she walked by. Evelynn greeted her with an overly saccharine, performative “Good morning!” Miss Shaunessy smiled to the girl, not nearly as hollow, but nothing like the warm and silent “Good morning” she mouthed to Tristan. At the head of the room once again, she smiled to the class and listed off her plans for lessons that day. Calves first, as their attention span dwindled as it grew toward lunch, then the higher education lessons for the older children.

“This morning will be the next chapter of history for the calves. After that, a bit of arithmetic as a class. After lunch, we will be going over the essays I assigned you last week, then we will work on our spells and rituals together before the end of the day.” Miss Shaunessy’s face pulled together slightly. “Please, pleaselook over the essays of your friends and neighbors. Some of you are very good with prose and could stand to share your skills with others.”

No names, but she stared very pointedly at a few of the students on the other side of the room. For Tristan she offered another warm smile, then an encouraging nod, all as she swung her attention back to the calves.

“All righty, little ones. Who can tell me what we went over yesterday?” A bright and happy smile took her face, her whole aura changing to matronly and polite.

As a calf, Tristan coveted her to act as his mother at home. When he brought the suggestion to his father, the bull fell into a melancholy. He remembered the oppressive silence that filled their small house for days afterwards, hating every tense and silent second. When his father finally broke the silence, he promised to tell Tristan more of his mother and encouraged him to seek out the journals and diaries she kept around the house. At his young age, Tristan did not understand all the words in the books he found. It became a nightly ritual to read the books together before bed, at least until he could read them on his own.

“We talked about the Bindings, Miss Shaunessy.” Aishling, Evelynn’s youngest sister and lookalike, waved a hand in the air.

“Very good Aishling!” Miss Shaunessy clapped brightly and started to pace as she lectured. “A very brief recap: The Bindings are what led to our ancestors, the Unbound, starting to evolve and change into what we are today. The result of these changes came in the form of the separation of what we now call Constellations. All of us here are called Taurus. But there are eleven others. Can anyone tell me what the other eleven are?”

For the first few years, Tristan eagerly engaged in the lectures about history and the Constellations and whatever else the teacher taught. But as the years moved on, he grew tired of the same information. Then the banishment to the back of the room. After that, his interests became focused on a different kind of history.

As the drone of teacher and student buzzed into the back of Tristan’s ears, his mind drifted to the work left in the orchard. Wasps had moved into a section of the trees that he needed to discourage from the area. An increasingly common occurrence, but nothing difficult. Fruits and flowers had been scattered under a few trees, easy enough to clean up and add to the compost bin or salvage for his jams and jellies. He still had several jars to fill. It might behoove him to check if any of the fruits and nuts could stand to be harvested. And that unknown flower at the edge of the orchard still haunted him. Once he identified it, he might be able to decide its fate. With the shorter days of the season, he pondered how much light he would have to work with.

Old leather straps creaked under the strain of turning pages after many years of neglect. Tristan loved the smell of these journals, the old paper and leather and glue. As the thin leather binding on the outside flopped open with a soft slap on the table, he jumped. He glanced up to find a few of the older students near him turn at the noise as they quietly “discussed” their papers. Their curiosity sated, they returned to their work. He focused his attention on the journal and the detailed diagrams with disproportionately scribbled but familiar handwriting.

The almanacs that littered his family’s home formed the physical connection between his father’s memories and his mother. Each one held notes in the margins, ink splotches, paints that bled through to the parchment beneath, the occasional hidden treasure of dried flowers between the pages. Curiously, every journal contained the same handwriting, no matter their age. Their sister journals contained a language so old not even Miss Shaunessy recognized it, though his father understood a few phrases. His father always dodged questions on how he knew those phrases and Tristan learned to limit his curiosity to what remained in the text.

Thumbing absently through the pages, scanning the detailed diagrams as they passed, he paused on a page and studied the flora depicted. He had started to lose hope that he might find his quarry, his stock of books running low. Only a few more journals and he would’ve had to ask Miss Shaunessy for the latest herbology almanac, though most of them contained the same information as his mother’s journals. But finally, his search had come to an end. It had to be the flower that appeared at the edge of the grove. He tugged a sheet of parchment out of his bundle and dipped his bone into the ink well on his desk to scribble the page number down. The journal contained that old language; he would have to seek his father’s guidance.

At midday, Valerie showed up for a visit. The village’s Postwatch visited Miss Shaunessy often, usually to drop off the special papers the teacher ordered for the roster, though not always. The pair seemed to be best friends. Valerie hauled the box of special order papers into the closet behind Miss Shaunessy’s desk and beckoned the older woman into the room. After a bit of whispering, Miss Shaunessy’s normally warm and grounded cadence shook slightly as she encouraged the students to take lunch outside. The class cheered and headed eagerly to the door. Tristan hesitated by the mudroom as the others filed out with their bundles and their herds. When no chuckles or insults found their way to him, he peeked outside and found the ground glistening with melted snow. He heaved a small sigh of relief, forced into a sharp exhale as Jorgus elbowed him out of the way. Tristan straightened up to allow the boy and his friends passage.

On his way to his things, Tristan caught sight of the Mayor’s daughter, Isolde, watching him from the other side of the mudroom. He furrowed his brow to her, a simple unspoken question. She stiffened, blushed, and turned back to her things to hastily throw her scarf over her head. It caught in her little female horns, the movement too fast or the girl still not used to her horns’ length. The flush moved to her ears as she untangled the knitted muffler to drape around her neck. He watched in amused confusion as she hurried outside with her wrapped bundle of food.

Tristan lingered in the building, watching through the windows as everyone else grabbed their bottles of milk or juice from the river bank. The hushed whispers from the closet gained a frantic and worried tone. Tristan resisted the urge to move closer and kept his focus through the windows. After the other students all split off into their herds and settled down for their meals, Tristan forced himself outside to grab his own bottle of juice. Despite a few snide remarks from the usual suspects, Tristan found his bottle where he had left it in the morning. A small thank you to the Spirits and he took his lunch around the back of the building. A small herd of rambunctious calves gathered around the smith’s son. Not keen to be injured by whatever tool the bull had brought that day, Tristan returned to his desk to eat his salad in peaceful loneliness.

The calves normally spent the time after lunch free to play outside as the older students took their lessons, but Miss Shaunessy herded them all inside with Valerie’s help. Afterwards, Valeria made her way back to her home at the Postwatch. Miss Shaunessy provided the younger calves with some harder math problems to focus on, a topic to discuss amongst themselves, and permission to borrow a few of the easier books from the bookshelf in the closet. She had to approve the book, of course, but everyone had to remain inside.

Dismissal marked an explosion of relief among the students as they darted from their desks and gathered their things. Today, however, the girls from that morning gathered together to whisper again, pointing to Jorgus occasionally. Tristan slowly gathered his books and papers and lifted his inkwell to stopper it.

“I told you to drop it!” Jorgus’s voice filled the small building, startling and quieting the girls for a moment.

Seamus and the herd of boys, all friends of the Jones brothers, shrunk away from their friend’s outburst. Tristan looked down to his desk, dotted with splatter from his inkwell, made by his jump at Jorgus’s shout, and pressed the stopper in. A bin under the bench in the mudroom held the spare cloths to clean spills with. He lifted his eyes back to the scene as the girls’ whispers grew again. Jorgus unceremoniously scooped up his things before Miss Shaunessy could approach him.

Seamus and the herd followed Jorgus and his brothers to the mudroom. Tristan rounded the wall behind his desk and crouched down to seek the box of throwaway cloth under the bench.

Miss Shaunessy clapped as she made her way through the classroom, checking desks for cleanliness. “Oh, and students! Miss Valerie informed me that from now on you are to travel in a herd as you head directly home.” A few of the students groaned. “It was also emphasized to not be out after dark for any reason. Winter has shorter periods of sun, which means you will have less time to dally. And there is always safety in numbers.”

She wandered the aisles, calling out names attached to messy desks. Liam Jones, Isolde Cennaire, the MacBanions, Kevin McGabhan. At one desk, she picked up a piece of paper and squinted at the top corner. “Oh, Jorgus Jones, it appears you left your essay here.” She placed the paper back down.

The called names sighed and headed back to tidy whatever Miss Shaunessy called them out for. It helped with the bodies attempting to cram through the door at the same time. Apparently one of them had managed to forget a whole tool. Must’ve been the young bull Tristan avoided at lunch.

After checking the whole room, Miss Shaunessy caught sight of Tristan. “Oh, Tristan, I noticed you weren’t paying very close attention during lectures today. Did you need help with anything I covered?”

Heat found Tristan’s cheeks. Miss Shaunessy noticed far more than he gave her credit for. He rarely gave her anything to pay attention to, after all. He shook his head in answer and grabbed a cloth stained with spots of paint and ink from the scrap bin. He brandished the cloth at her with a hopefully gentle smile by way of explanation.

As he stretched to his full height, she leaned back slightly to keep her eyes on his. No fear entered her features. She merely smiled back and patted his arm. She shifted out of his way and walked with him the few steps back to his desk. A small gasp drew his attention. “You don’t have anyone to walk home with, do you, dear?”

He shook his head absently as he cleaned off his desk. Silly question.

A soft and wrinkled hand lifted to tap her fingers against her chin. “You do live alone on the other side of those woods…” She paused, her eyes darting through her thoughts before focusing on him again. “Would you like me to go ask for an escort for you from town?”

His expression darkened immediately with all the heavy and unhealthy thoughts his father attempted desperately to cleanse him of. She pulled back slightly, eyes wide, and he tempered his expression with a gentle shake of his head.

An uneasy smile crossed her face. “No, I suppose you’re big enough to handle most things on your own. But you’re still just a boy, despite outward appearances. I just want to make sure you’re taken care of, is all.”

His breath hitched.

“You mean someone was attacked last night!?” A brown-haired girl with the smallest horns in the group lifted her fist to her chin, brow knit with concern.

Evelynn, the ringleader of the girls and owner of the largest horns, nodded as she made her way to the mudroom. “Isn’t it just awful? And the attacks are getting more frequent. That’s why they want us to walk in herds now.” She gestured to a pair of girls, both younger, as they scrambled for their things. “You heard that right, calves?”

The two calves, one girl and Aishling, chorused a “Yes, sissy!” and proceeded to haphazardly don their layers of clothing. The youngest children moved quickly, faster than their teenage counterparts, thanks to the small growths on their heads not yet formed into horns. Evelynn rolled her eyes and continued on to her hook to don her own set of weather gear. Miss Shaunessy smiled absently at the children and patted Tristan on the arm before wandering back toward her desk.

“But my father told me it was-“ Evelynn glanced at the group of boys across the mudroom and whispered loud enough for them to hear. “-Branach Jones that was attacked last night.” The girls shared a gasp with varying reactions of surprise. “Jorgus’s father-”

“You keep my family’s name out of your dirty mouth, Evelynn!” Jorgus burst through his group of friends, finger pointed sharply at the pale, splotchy ringleader of the gossipers.

Miss Shaunessy stopped in the middle of the building by the firepit. She shared a look with Isolde still at her desk as she turned to the commotion. Tristan dropped the rag on his desk and moved into the mudroom. Though he had no intention of intervening, his size intimidated most folk, forcing cool heads in tense situations. Noone had caught the quake in his hands yet, too focused on their own anger.

Evelynn swatted his hand away as she crossed her arms, big brown eyes glaring daggers into him. Her friends and sisters fanned out around her to cross their arms at Jorgus, though not all of them had their heart in it. One girl stayed behind, the brown-haired one, and glanced at Tristan.

Jorgus narrowed his dark eyes at Evelynn, his head angled to brandish his longer and sharper horns at the girls. His friends, too surprised at his actions, hesitated before stepping in beside their friend to brandish their horns, smaller than Jorgus’s but still as harmful if used properly. Though the youngest Joneses did not involve themselves in the standoff, their friends brandished their nubs as well, eyeing the older bulls for correctness.

Evelynn did not appear fazed, though the tremble of her voice betrayed her. “My father told me that yours was injured last night while they were hunting. He said they had to take him to the doctor because his injuries were so severe.”

All the posturing broke. Whispers of “The Doctor?” moved through both groups, each losing their members to gossip, conjecture, and fear.

“He’s fine. He’ll be home by dinner tonight and tomorrow we’ll work on tilling the land.” Jorgus cracked his neck.

Evelynn’s lip curled. “I’m sure the Doctor will also finally let the Lunars go home, too, then? I haven’t seen my Mamó in so long. I guess if you say so, it has to be true. But, then again, your family has been saying every harvest will be their biggest yet. Until counting day comes and you show up with barely a cartload.” She grinned, confident in her victory.

Jorgus tilted his head the other way, alone in his threats. “The doctor told me himself that Pa would be back by tonight.”

Miss Shaunessy stepped slowly down the center aisle toward the two little herds of teens. She caught Tristan’s eye and nodded at him to step down. He lowered his shoulders and stepped back a bit, but remained ready in case Jorgus made the wrong decision. He had no idea what he might do, but better that he get hurt than someone else.

Just as Miss Shaunessy crossed into the mudroom, the energy between the herds changed. Evelynn rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Young bulls and their posturing.” She grabbed her things and stormed out the door into the chilly winter air. “Come on, girls!”

Most of the girls shot hateful looks as they grabbed their things quickly to follow Evelynn. The brown-haired girl that did not join the posturing, moved slowly to grab her things and hesitated at the door. Jorgus crossed his arms at her. She squeaked and disappeared through the door.

Jorgus growled and stalked back to his desk. His small herd of friends and brothers stayed in the entrance and moved to begin dressing in their jackets and scarves. Isolde hesitated at her desk, but returned to packing up her things. Miss Shaunessy heaved a small sigh and trotted down the center aisle back to her desk.

It didn’t take long for the herds to drift outside to wait for any stragglers. Only Miss Shaunessy, Jorgus, and Isolde remained in the schoolhouse building. He hoped, despite his own solitude, that Jorgus or Isolde had a group to walk home with. Especially if the monster sightings proved to be true. He hoped that Jorgus’s father recovered and that Evelynn’s gossip proved to be only that. But in the case that Tristan’s hope had no basis in reality, he knew the only tangible thing to do. He knew the only thing he wanted his whole life.

“Uh, hey, Jorgus.” Tristan lifted a large hand to wave awkwardly to the young man.

Jorgus jumped at Tristan’s low timbre and backed away, eyeing him up and down as he jammed a few scraps of paper in his bag. “What do you want, cull bait?”

Tristan’s brow furrowed despite being used to the insult. “I just… uh, wanted t-to tell you that… um, I-I’m sorry about your father. I know how… how difficult it is to-to worry about your f-father and, uh… I guess you’re the-the man of the house while he’s injured. A-and at least you still have your-your mother and your little siblings-“

Jorgus’s mouth lifted in disgust as Tristan rambled, his eyes shrouded under his shaggy hair. “What are you rambling about?” He thrust the last of his items into his satchel.

Tristan lifted a hand to the shaft of his horn to grip it and rub absently, a habit from when they had hurt growing in. “If… If you need any help-“

Jorgus spun on the larger boy. “Help!? From you?” He dropped his satchel on the desk. “I can’t believe you haven’t gotten it through that thick skull of yours that nobody even wants you here.” He scoffed. “We’d want your ‘help’ even less.”

Isolde tightened the leather strap on her stack of books and papers. “Jorgus-“

Jorgus shook his head and turned to her, poking a finger at her face. “No, not even from you. Mayor’s daughter, as if that excludes you from suffering just like the rest of us.” Something imperceptible crossed Isolde’s face. “I heard your father is sick. From that plague. The one from before. That it’s coming back. Despite all that stuff your father or the doctor say.” His jaw tensed for a moment. He looked back to Tristan. “I also heard it’s your fault. You and that foreigner father of yours. Your mother knew about it and cast a spell to protect your land, but nobody else’s. That’s why you’re safe. And we’re not.”

Tristan’s arms quivered. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should’ve just gone home, alone, like he did every night. He closed his eyes and gripped his horn tighter, his other arm lifted to cover his torso. He wanted to disappear.

“And then you have the nerve! You continue living here, coming to this school, as if you have any right!” Jorgus angled his head down to brandish his horns again. “You and your father should be driven out of town!”

A sharp pain on his arm startled Tristan. He inhaled sharply. Blood blossomed on the sleeve over his torso.

“Tristan!” Miss Shaunessy bolted for the scrap fabric Tristan left on his desk.

Jorgus, stunned, raised a hand to touch his horn. It came back red. He shook his head, muttered something, and grabbed his satchel. Isolde hurried around the desks and stumbled as Jorgus pushed past her to run from the building.

“Come here, poor child.” Miss Shaunessy pressed the fabric to Tristan’s arm. “That boy… He may be a handful but ever since his horns grew out the way they did…” She looked to Tristan’s face. “Don’t take it too personally. Like you said, he’s having a rough go of it. It was nice of you to try to connect with him and offer to help out.”

Isolde hovered by the edge of the row. Tristan looked to her, chest empty. He never should’ve tried. He knew what the town thought of him and his father. He knew better. Tears welled in his eyes and he pressed his hand to the cloth. Miss Shaunessy released him with the promise of salves or something, but Tristan had to get out. He had to go home.

He moved back to his desk and found Isolde holding his satchel, all packed and tied and ready. He barely registered the act, how she had moved so fast, and accepted his bag. He dropped the fabric and satchel on the mudroom bench to slip into his woolen clothes. A stray thought reminded him to be careful of the wound bleeding onto his jacket as he only had the one. He growled. All because the town hated him. All because of a stupid rumor.

He grabbed his bag and ripped the door open. A few groups of calves lingered and chatted as they headed back toward the village. Jorgus’s brothers and their herd had waited for him, despite his protestations, and crowded him to point at his bloodied horn.

Tristan’s blood. He stomped down the short stairs. Fury overtook him, strengthening him to speak without a stutter. “All I wanted was to help, Jorgus Jones!”

Jorgus spun around at the voice. Terror pulled at his features at the massive bulk of Tristan charging toward him. He whipped back around and moved swiftly for the path that led back to town.

Tristan growled. He wanted to stop him, to make him understand, to hold him responsible for injuring him. So many emotions threatened to split him open. “Everyone should be allowed to help each other! We’re a community! That’s what it means to be a community!” In his frustration, he looked to the rest of the students that had lingered to gawk.

A loud thud drew everyone’s attention. All eyes turned to Jorgus, groaning on the ground, a large root split through fresh soil at his feet. He writhed a bit and got to his hands and knees. A shrill chuckle came from further up the path. Tristan caught Evelynn through the blur of his tears, hand in front of her mouth, as she laughed at the unfortunate bull on the ground. The rest of her group chuckled, one by one, with varying degrees of mirth. The laughter spread through the rest of the students, including Jorgus’s little herd, even his brothers. He grunted as he stood and bolted down the path, past Evelynn and her friends, horn still pink.

Tristan sniffed and continued to wipe his face, the cold winter air unpleasant on the slight moisture around his eyes. He slipped his satchel over his shoulder and checked the sleeve of his coat. A chill wind whipped past him and his hands hurt. He left his other accessories in the building. He turned around to head back inside and almost bowled over Isolde.

“Oh! Excuse me, Tristan.” She smiled brightly to him, in an uncomfortable way he could not place.

He barely nodded and attempted to move past her.

She gently placed a hand on his arm. He froze, eyes on the contact. He recognized her mitten, knitted by his father some winters ago and sold by the village seamstress Ciara. His brow furrowed. Her other mitten lifted to offer him his forgotten accessories; mittens similar to hers, a long scarf knitted by his father with a less intricate design, and a warm knitted cap that he tied around his horns. He muttered a thank you and dropped his sack on the ground to don the accessories.

She held his items as he donned them individually. “I agree with you, by the way.” He lifted his wet eyes to her. “We should be allowed to help each other, as a community. I think it’s just awful that we are so discriminatory to those that are sick and injured. Or who have been in the past.”

He nodded absently. Paranoia and fear shook his fingers. He looked up to the rest of the students, those that lingered, and found hateful glares. Isolde, the mayor’s daughter, held high regard among the town, high enough that even her father’s illness did not dull her priority among them. To find her speaking to him? He snatched his scarf and easily tossed it over his horns to drape from his shoulders.

Before she could continue, he hurriedly wandered away from her, down the path to the thick row of trees that separated his orchard from the school. He barely heard Isolde sputter after him, the crunch of dead plantlife under her boots with a few steps. He heard the whispers of the other students, however, and quickened his step. He should know better. And so should Isolde.

Tristan attends what he thinks is a typical day at school. He does something atypical and pays the price for it with his blood. A small scratch, but enough to leave a lasting impression.

~5400 words

Trampled paths carved through a thin layer of snow in two opposite directions, converging on an old, small schoolhouse. The wider, well-trodden path of footprints led between a pair of farms to a road that led eventually to the village proper a several miles off. The smaller path consisted of only one set of very large tracks, boot prints of an unusual size, that led to the small stream beside the school and back to the door. Tristan eyed his large tracks as he closed the schoolhouse door and hoped the midday sun might melt the snow enough to obscure them.

The school stood in that spot, by the thinnest part of the river, for a number of years. The most recent coat of paint faded on the building to a dull and muddy green, a project started and enacted after one of the older students tested a new magical mixture shortly before graduating to the capital’s college. The newest addition to the building a replacement window after one of the younger, more rambunctious of the students broke the glass with the tool brought from his father’s smithy.

Tristan backed away from the door and turned slowly, careful not to bump his large horns on the doorframe or any of the other students. The villager children paid him no mind, hanging their heavy woolen coats, hats, and other cold weather gear on the hooks in the mudroom. Stains marred the mudroom benches, the wood slightly bowed from years of harboring rain-slicked coats and melted snow. The floorboards creaked with every shift of weight, every step through the one-room schoolhouse. The whole building smelled faintly of smoke from the small firepit in the center of the main room and the aged wood of the old building.

Several of the girls seemed happy to see each other, giggling and shrieking with glee, leaning to whisper conspiratorially as they headed to their seats. Evelynn lead the group, fussing with her hair as they walked, making sure her ringlets survived the morning. Tristan noted that the group appeared smaller, but the little herd never had the same numbers, its members dependent on Evelynn’s whims.

The younger ones, the calves, moved awkwardly, as calves do, and climbed onto the benches to hang up their hats and scarves. Some preferred to stuff their things into the bins below the benches. After the removal of their hats, one of the calves became surrounded. Tristan just barely made out their young pronunciations of shock and amazement at the nubs protruding from the center one’s scalp. It would be several years for the nubs to turn into anything even resembling horns, but with the arrival of the nubs, that calf become the coolest and most mature among their little herd. He reflected on his brief moment of approval when his nubs arrived at a surprisingly young age. And struggled to forget the subsequent frustration and terror from his peers as the nubs grew larger and longer than normal at an alarming rate.

Tristan frowned and dropped off his gear on his half of the mudroom. Despite moving to the furthest corner of the mudroom, none ever dared cross beyond the door. This left the boys of the class to wait to remove their gear. Ladies first, as the manners say. And the calves have little sense of propriety. Having doffed his gear, Tristan gathered his materials for class, plus an ancient-looking leather journal.

“We didn’t think you’d make it today, Jorgus. Are you okay? What happened to your father?” Tristan’s ear perked up at the voice of one of the other boys.

“Doesn’t really concern you, does it, Seamus.” A thud sounded as Jorgus threw his bag down on the bench under his hook. The adolescent bull had yet to grow properly into his limbs, gangly and long, his shaggy ginger hair left to grow over his eyes.

Tristan turned and watched Seamus, a sturdy young bull with brown hair and a square jaw with the slightest bit of stubble, furrow his brow. “I’d think it concerns all of us! The attacks have been happening more often, yeah? And with all our grandparents-”

Jorgus spun and growled at the older bull. “Seamus, I said drop it.” The tan and white splotched young bull tilted his head pointedly to his little herd of younger brothers.

Four young calves of varying ages and colorings sported red and puffy eyes. The oldest of the group glared between the older bulls and moved into the schoolhouse’s room. The other two sniffled, the older of the pair grabbing the younger by the shoulder to lead him to their desks. The youngest’s shoulders lifted and jerked in the obvious signs of barely contained sobs.

Seamus watched the calves, then shared a look with the other boys in Jorgus’s usual group. “We’ll… catch up on the way home, then?” He did his best to sound optimistic.

Tristan watched the boys offer support and turn away one by one. The youngest, probably one of Jorgus’s brother’s friends, lingered, fussing with his pale splotchy fingers. Jorgus tilted his head down, the only indication on his shrouded face that he noticed the calf, and waited. A light thwack from another broke the calf’s resolve and he scurried through the room to his desk near the front. Jorgus started to turn back to removing his winter gear and caught Tristan’s prying eye. He sneered and tilted his horns at him. Tristan started and jerked back to his own preparations.

Part of him wished he could walk home with those boys, to make a group of friends and… do whatever friends do together. He wished he could talk about the orchard with them, about the plants along the path, about their crops, and the state of their land. He wanted to make friends his own age. But he knew how he looked, how they all looked more like his children than friends. Not just because of his incredible size, because as the older Lunars told him, those that heard the voices from beyond, he had aged far too quickly, gaining a few years in a few months as a babe. Blessed by the Spirits, they called it. He called it a curse.

He took the last bench at the table in the back left of the small open schoolhouse. This area in the back typically held the eldest students, the ones closer to the front reserved for the younger calves, or most in danger academically. He held the bench in the back for years simply due to his size, too large to sit anywhere else in the room. He might block the view of the other students was the official reason, but mostly he took up a desk and a half on a good day. He tried not to think of the bad days.

Unbidden, he remembered vividly the pain in his chest the day the girl he typically sat next to, perhaps eight at the time, had complained before class that he had crushed her hand when attempting to use his ink and bone splinter pen. He barely remembered swinging his arm out far enough to even touch her. The teacher had simply calmed the girl down and offered him the bench in the back. As he moved, he watched the girl’s best friend eagerly move up to take his seat with no objections from the teacher. He sat in the middle of the bench and spread out comfortably over the two-desk wide table. He felt his size for the first time and tears stung at his eyes. He looked up as Miss Shaunessy moved to the blackboard and continued with class, though not without offering an apologetic smile. That remained his table for the following seven years.

He enjoyed the space the longer table provided, a protoype desk for the others that had survived the years. In the early days of the schoolhouse, students normally shared one large desk, the top able to lift to reveal a compartment below. It eventually became deemed impractical, forcing the village’s carpenter to redesign the furniture for single use. Tristan preferred the width, able to hide plenty of things in his desk that the others had to keep in the mudroom, under their desks, or in the river’s banks.

The aging Taurus woman, the pale splotches covering more of her dark skin every year, walked down the center aisle of the classroom. Wrinkles threatened at the corners of her eyes, a few locks of silvery hair escaped from the hair buns under each horn. She assessed the youngest calves first and shot harsh glances to the group of gossiping girls as she walked by. She nodded a warm and silent “Good morning” to Tristan and turned back. At the head of the room once again, she smiled to the class and listed off her plans for lessons that day. Calves first, as their attention span dwindled as it grew toward lunch, then the higher education lessons for the older children.

“This morning will be the next chapter of history for the calves. After that, a bit of arithmetic as a class. After lunch, we will be going over the essays I assigned you last week, then we will work on our spells and rituals together before the end of the day.” Miss Shaunessy’s face pulled together slightly. “Please, please look over the essays of your friends and neighbors. Some of you are very good with prose and could stand to share your skills with others.”

No names, but she stared very pointedly at a few of the students on the other side of the room. A warm smile found Tristan, then an encouraging nod, all as she swung her attention back to the calves.

“All righty, little ones. Who can tell me what we went over yesterday?” A bright and happy smile took her face, her whole aura changing to matronly and polite.

As a calf, Tristan coveted her to act as his mother at home. When he brought the suggestion to his father, the bull fell into a melancholy. He remembered the oppressive silence that filled their small house for days afterwards, hating every tense and silent second. When his father finally broke the silence, he promised to tell Tristan more of his mother and encouraged him to seek out the journals and diaries she kept around the house. At his young age, Tristan did not understand all the words in the books he found. It became a nightly ritual to read the books together before bed, at least until he could read them on his own.

“We talked about the Bindings, Miss Shaunessy.” Aishling, Evelynn’s youngest sister and lookalike, waved a hand in the air.

“Very good Aishling!” Miss Shaunessy clapped and started to pace as she lectured. “A very brief recap: The Bindings are what led to our ancestors, the Unbound, starting to evolve and change into what we are today. The result of these changes came in the form of the separation of what we now call Constellations. All of us here are called Taurus. But there are eleven others. Can anyone tell me what the other eleven are?”

For the first few years, Tristan eagerly engaged in the lectures about history and the Constellations and whatever else the teacher taught. But as the years moved on, he grew tired of the same information. And then banished to the back of the room. After that, his interests became focused on a different kind of history.

As the drone of teacher and student buzzed into the back of Tristan’s ears, his mind drifted to the work left in the orchard. Wasps had moved into a section of the trees that he would need to discourage from the area. An increasingly common occurrence, but nothing difficult. Fruits and flowers had been scattered under a few trees, easy enough to clean up and add to the compost bin or salvage for his jams and jellies. He still had several jars to fill. It might behoove him to check if any of the fruits and nuts could stand to be harvested. With the shorter days of the season, he pondered how much light he would have to work with.

Old leather straps creaked under the strain of turning pages after so many years, the thin leather binding on the outside flopped open with a soft slap on the table. Tristan glanced up to find a few of the older students near him turn at the noise as they quietly “discussed” their papers. Their curiosity sated, they returned to their work. He focused his attention on the journal and the detailed diagrams with disproportionately scribbled but familiar handwriting.

The almanacs that littered his family’s home formed the physical connection between his father’s memories and his mother. Each one held notes in the margins, ink splotches, paints that bled through to the parchment beneath, and the same handwriting throughout. Their sister journals contained a language so old not even Miss Shaunessy recognized it, though his father understood a few phrases. His father always dodged questions on how he knew those phrases and Tristan learned to limit his curiosity to what remained in the text.

Thumbing absently through the pages, scanning the detailed diagrams as they passed, he paused on a page and studied the flora depicted. It had to be the flower that appeared at the edge of the grove a few days ago. He tugged a sheet of parchment out of his bundle and dipped his bone into the ink well on his desk to scribble the page number down.

At midday, Valerie, the village’s Postwatch, visited. Not a rare sight, as she seemed to be best friends with Miss Shaunessy, but the pair engaged in a bit of whispers. Miss Shaunessy’s normally warm and grounded cadence shook slightly as she encouraged the students to take lunch outside, the sun shining brightly for long enough to raise the temperature a few degrees. The class cheered and headed eagerly to the door. Tristan hesitated in the mudroom as the others filed out with their bundles and their herds. When no chuckles or insults found their way to him, he peeked outside and found the ground glistening with melted snow. He heaved a small sigh of relief, forced into a sharp exhale as Jorgus elbowed him out of the way. Tristan straightened up to allow the boy and his friends passage.

On his way to his things, Tristan caught sight of the Mayor’s daughter, Isolde, watching him from the other side of the mudroom. He furrowed his brow to her, a simple unspoken question. She stiffened, blushed, and turned back to her things to hastily throw her scarf over her head. It caught in her little female horns, the movement too fast or the girl still not used to her horns’ length. The flush moved to her ears as she untangled the knitted muffler to drape around her neck. He chuckled quietly, despite himself, as she hurried outside with her wrapped bundle of food. Tristan returned to his desk to eat his salad in peaceful loneliness.

The calves normally spent the afternoon free to play outside as the older students took their lessons, but Miss Shaunessy provided them with some harder math problems to focus on, a topic to discuss amongst themselves, and permission to borrow a few of the easier books from the bookshelf in the closet. She had to approve it, of course, but they all had to remain inside. While the calves groaned, the older students shrugged it off easily enough, distracted by their own lessons.

Dismissal marked an explosion of relief among the students as they darted from their desks and gathered their things. Today, however, the girls from that morning gathered together to whisper again, pointing to Jorgus occasionally. Tristan slowly gathered his books and papers and lifted his inkwell to stopper it.

“I told you to drop it!” Jorgus’s voice filled the small building, startling and quieting the girls for a moment.

Seamus and the herd of boys, all friends of the Jones brothers, shrunk away from their friend’s outburst. Tristan looked down to his desk, dotted with splatter from his inkwell, made by his jump at Jorgus’s shout, and pressed the stopper in. A bin under the bench in the mudroom held the spare cloths to clean spills with. He lifted his eyes back to the scene as the girls’ whispers grew again. Jorgus unceremoniously scooped up his things before Miss Shaunessy could approach him.

Seamus and the herd followed Jorgus and his brothers to the mudroom. Tristan rounded the wall that separated his desk from the mudroom and crouched down to seek the box of throwaway cloth under the bench.

“Oh, and students! Please do not forget to travel in a herd as you head directly home.” A few of the students groaned. “I’m just telling you what I’ve been told, sweetings. They also emphasized not being out after dark. Winter has shorter periods of sun, which means you will have less time to dally. And there is always safety in numbers.” Miss Shaunessy sauntered the length of the classroom as she spoke to fix Jorgus with a particularly intense gaze. He sneered. She turned around and caught sight of Tristan. “Oh, Tristan, I noticed you weren’t paying very close attention during lectures today. Did you need help with anything I covered?”

Heat found Tristan’s cheeks. Miss Shaunessy noticed far more than he gave her credit for. He rarely gave her anything to pay attention to, after all. He shook his head in answer and grabbed a cloth stained with spots of paint and ink from the scrap bin. He brandished the cloth at her with a hopefully gentle smile by way of explanation.

As he stretched to his full height, she leaned back slightly to keep her eyes on his, but she did not show any fear. She merely smiled back and patted his arm. She shifted out of his way and walked with him the few steps back to his desk. A small gasp drew his attention. “You don’t have anyone to head home with, do you, dear?”

He shook his head absently as he cleaned off his desk. A silly question.

A soft yet wrinkled hand lifted to tap her fingers against her chin. “You do live alone on the other side of those woods…” She paused, her eyes darting through her thoughts before focusing on him again. “Would you like me to go ask for an escort for you from town?”

His expression darkened immediately with all the heavy and unhealthy thoughts his father attempted desperately to cleanse him of. She pulled back slightly, eyes wide, and he tempered his reaction to a gentle shake of his head.

An uneasy smile crossed her face. “No, I suppose you’re big enough to handle most things on your own. But you’re still just a boy, despite outward appearances. I just want to make sure you’re taken care of, is all.”

His breath hitched.

“You mean someone was attacked last night!?” A brown-haired girl with the smallest horns in the group lifted her fist to her chin, brow knit with concern.

Evelynn, the ringleader of the girls and owner of the largest horns, nodded as she made her way to the mudroom. “Isn’t it just awful? And the attacks are getting more frequent. That’s why they want us to walk in herds now.” She gestured to a pair of girls, both younger, as they scrambled for their things. “You heard that right, calves?”

The two girls, Flora and Aishling, chorused a “Yes, sissy!” and proceeded to haphazardly don their layers of clothing. The youngest children moved quickly, faster than their teenage counterparts, thanks to the small growths on their heads not yet formed into horns. Evelynn rolled her eyes and continued on to her hook to don her own set of weather gear. Miss Shaunessy smiled absently at the children and patted Tristan on the arm before wandering back toward her desk.

“But my father told me it was-“ Evelynn glanced at the group of boys across the mudroom and whispered loud enough for them to hear. “-Branach Jones that was attacked last night.” The girls shared a gasp with varying reactions of surprise. “Jorgus’s father-”

“You keep my family’s name out of your dirty mouth, Evelynn!” Jorgus burst through his group of friends, finger pointed sharply at the pale, splotchy ringleader of the gossipers.

Miss Shaunessy stopped in the middle of the building by the firepit. She shared a look with Isolde still at her desk as she turned to the commotion. Tristan dropped the rag on his desk and moved into the mudroom. He had no intention of intervening, but his size intimidated most folk, forcing cool heads to arguments.

Evelynn swatted his hand away as she crossed her arms, big brown eyes glaring daggers into him. Her friends and sisters fanned out around her to cross their arms at Jorgus, though not all of them had their heart in it. One girl stayed behind, the brown-haired one, and glanced at Tristan.

Jorgus narrowed his dark eyes at Evelynn, his head tilted to brandish his longer and sharper horns at the girls. His friends, too surprised at his actions, hesitated before stepping in beside their friend to brandish their horns, smaller than Jorgus’s but still as harmful if used properly. Though the youngest Joneses did not involve themselves in the standoff, their friends brandished their nubs as well, eyeing the older bulls for correctness.

Evelynn did not appear fazed, though the tremble of her voice betrayed her. “My father told me that yours was injured last night while they were hunting. He said they had to take him to the doctor because his injuries were so severe.”

All the posturing broke. Whispers of “The Doctor?” moved through both groups, each losing their members to gossip, conjecture, and fear.

“He’s fine. He’ll be home by dinner tonight and tomorrow we’ll work on tilling the land.” Jorgus cracked his neck.

Evelynn’s lip curled. “I’m sure the Doctor will also finally let the Lunars go home, too? I haven’t seen my Mamó in so long. But I guess if you say so, it has to be true. But, then again, your family has been saying every harvest will be their biggest yet. Until counting day comes and you show up with barely a cartload.” She grinned, confident in her victory.

Jorgus tilted his head the other way, alone in his threats. “The doctor told me himself that Pa would be back by tonight.”

Miss Shaunessy stepped slowly down the center aisle toward the two little herds of teens. She caught Tristan’s eye and nodded at him to step down. He lowered his shoulders and stepped back a bit, but remained ready in case Jorgus made the wrong decision.

Just as Miss Shaunessy entered the mudroom, the energy between the herds changed. Evelynn rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Young bulls and their posturing.” She grabbed her things and stormed out the door into the chilly winter air. “Come on, girls!”

Most of the girls shot hateful looks as they grabbed their things quickly to follow Evelynn. Maeve, the brown-haired one, moved slowly to grab her things and hesitated at the door. Jorgus relaxed slightly and straightened his head to glare at her. Maeve squeaked and disappeared through the door.

Jorgus growled and stalked back to his desk. His small herd of friends and brothers stayed in the entrance and moved to begin dressing in their jackets and scarves. Isolde hesitated, but returned to packing up her things. Miss Shaunessy heaved a small sigh and trotted down the center aisle back to her desk.

Tristan furrowed his brow. Only Miss Shaunessy, Jorgus, and Isolde remained in the schoolhouse building. He hoped, despite his own solitude, that Jorgus or Isolde had a group to walk home with. Especially if the monster sightings proved to be true. He hoped that Jorgus’s father recovered and that Evelynn’s gossip proved to be only that. But in the case that Tristan’s hope had no basis in reality, he knew the only tangible thing to do. He knew the only thing he wanted his whole life.

“Uh, hey, Jorgus.” Tristan lifted a large hand to wave awkwardly to the young man.

Jorgus jumped at Tristan’s low timbre and backed away, eyeing him up and down as he jammed a few scraps of paper in his bag. “What do you want, cull bait?”

Tristan’s brow furrowed despite being used to the insult. “I just… uh, wanted t-to tell you that… um, I-I’m sorry about your father. I know how… how difficult it is to-to worry about your f-father and, uh… I guess you’re the-the man of the house while he’s injured. A-and at least you still have your-your mother and your little siblings-“

Jorgus’s mouth lifted in disgust as Tristan rambled, his cheeks lifted to squeeze his eyes into narrow slits, his brow furrowed. “What are you rambling about?” He thrust the last of his items into his satchel.

Tristan lifted a hand to the shaft of his horn to grip it and rub absently, a habit from when they had hurt growing in. “If… If you need any help-“

Jorgus spun on the larger boy. “Help!? From you?” He dropped his satchel on the desk. “I can’t believe you haven’t gotten it through that thick skull of yours that nobody even wants you here.” He scoffed. “We’d want your ‘help’ even less.”

Isolde tightened the leather strap on her stack of books and papers. “Jorgus-“

Jorgus shook his head and turned to her, poking a finger at her face. “No, not even from you. Mayor’s daughter, as if that excludes you from suffering just like the rest of us.” Something imperceptible crossed Isolde’s face. “I heard your father is sick. From that plague. The one from before. That it’s coming back.” He looked back to Tristan. “I also heard it’s your fault. You and that foreigner father of yours. Your mother knew about it and cast a spell to protect your land, but nobody else’s. That’s why you’re safe. And we’re not.”

Tristan’s arms quivered. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should’ve just gone home, alone, like he did every night. He closed his eyes and gripped his horn tighter, his other arm lifted to cover his torso. He should disappear.

“And then you have the nerve! You continue living here, coming to this school, as if you have any right!” Jorgus tilted his head down to brandish his horns again. “You and your father should be driven out of town!”

A sharp pain on his arm startled Tristan. Blood blossomed on the sleeve over his torso.

“Tristan!” Miss Shaunessy bolted for the scrap fabric Tristan left on his desk.

Jorgus, stunned, raised a hand to touch his horn. It came back red. He shook his head, he muttered something, and grabbed his satchel. Isolde hurried around the desks and stumbled as Jorgus pushed past her to run from the building.

“Come here, poor child.” Miss Shaunessy pressed the fabric to Tristan’s arm. “That boy… He may be a handful but ever since his horns grew out the way they did…” She looked to Tristan’s face. “Don’t take it too personally. Like you said, he’s having a rough go of it. It was nice of you to try to connect with him and offer to help out.”

Isolde hovered by the edge of the row. Tristan looked to her, chest empty. He never should’ve tried. He knew what the town thought of him and his father. He knew better. Tears welled in his eyes and he pressed his hand to the cloth. Miss Shaunessy released him with the promise of salves or something, but Tristan had to get out. He had to go home.

He moved back to his desk and found Isolde holding his satchel, all packed and tied and ready. He barely registered the act, how she had moved so fast, and accepted his bag. He dropped the fabric and satchel to slip into his weather gear. A stray thought reminded him to be careful of the wound bleeding onto his jacket as he only had the one. He growled. All because the town hated him. All because of a stupid rumor.

He grabbed his bag and ripped the door open. A few groups of kids lingered and chatted as they headed back toward the village. Jorgus’s brothers and their herd had waited for him, despite his protestations, and crowded him to point at his bloodied horn.

Tristan’s blood. He stomped down the short stairs. “All I wanted was to help, Jorgus Jones!”

Jorgus spun around at the voice. Terror pulled at his features at the massive bulk of Tristan charging toward him. He whipped back around and moved swiftly for the path that led back to town.

Tristan growled. He wanted to stop him, to make him understand, to hold him responsible for injuring him. So many emotions threatened to split him open. “Everyone should be allowed to help each other! We’re a community! That’s what it means to be a community!” In his frustration, he looked to the rest of the students that have lingered to gawk.

A loud thud drew everyone’s attention. All eyes turned to Jorgus, groaning on the ground, a large root split through the soil at his feet. He writhed a bit and got to his hands and knees. A shrill chuckle came from further up the path. Tristan caught Evelynn through the blur of his tears, hand in front of her mouth, as she laughed at the unfortunate bull. The rest of her group chuckled, one by one, with varying degrees of mirth. The laughter spread through the rest of the students, including Jorgus’s little herd, even his brothers. He grunted as he stood and bolted down the path, past Evelynn and her friends.

Tristan sniffed and continued to wipe his face, the cold winter air unpleasant on the slight moisture around his eyes. He slipped his satchel over his shoulder and checked the sleeve of his coat. A chill wind whipped past him and his hands hurt. He left his other accessories in the building. He turned around to head back inside and almost bowled over Isolde.

“Oh! Excuse me, Tristan.” She smiled brightly to him, in an uncomfortable way he could not place.

He barely nodded and attempted to move past her.

She gently placed a hand on his arm. He froze, eyes on the contact. He recognized her mitten, knitted by his father some winters ago and sold by the village seamstress Ciara. His brow furrowed. Her other mitten lifted to offer him his forgotten accessories; mittens similar to hers, a long scarf knitted by his father with a less intricate design, and a warm knitted cap that he tied around his horns. He muttered a thank you and dropped his sack on the ground to don the accessories.

She held his items as he donned them individually. “I agree with you, by the way.” He lifted his wet eyes to her. “We should be allowed to help each other, as a community. I think it’s just awful that we are so discriminatory to those that are sick and injured. Or who have been in the past.”

He nodded absently. Paranoia and fear shook his fingers. He looked up to the rest of the students, those that lingered, and found hateful glares. Isolde, the mayor’s daughter, held high regard among the town, high enough that even her father’s illness did not dull her priority among them. To find her speaking to him? He snatched his scarf and easily tossed it over his horns to drape from his shoulders.

Before she could continue, he hurriedly wandered away from her, down the path to the thick row of trees that separated his orchard from the school. He barely heard Isolde sputter after him, the crunch of dead plantlife under her boots with a few steps. He heard the whispers of the other students, however, and quickened his step. He should know better. And so should Isolde.

Home – Holiday Traditions – “Take me with you.”

Sophie intends to ask Valash to attend her closing ceremonies for the Virgo Festival in secret, but he has other plans.

~1300 words

—

In the days leading up to the end of September, Valash ventured out into the city on more than one occasion. Sophie woke to find him gone from their bed, no note left in her room or messages left with any servants. Only when he returned in the evening did she have the opportunity to ask where he had disappeared to. His only response had been a vague, noncommittal “Out.” She had several reasons not to trust him, but she also wanted to be the one to make the steps to do so, so she let him continue the routine again.

But the final day of the Virgo Festival came and with it an event that required her presence. She would perform a small ritual for the Spirits, thanking them for their blessings and wishing them well for the rest of the year. She wanted Valash to be present for the holiday’s tradition. Though with his disappearances, she found no appropriate time to ask him.

On the eve of the final day, she cornered him in his separate room, packing a small bag. “Valash?”

He glanced to her as he collected a few necessary articles from around the room. “Ah, Your Grace, I’ll just be a moment. Dinner?”

The Virgin Queen shook her head. “N-no… Why are you packing?”

The muscles of his jaw worked under the skin. “Headed home.”

Her brow lifted, a weight in her chest. “I… I thought this was your home now?”

He glanced to her again before turning to face her, his eyes wide. “Oh… Your Grace-“

“Don’t call me that!” She felt tears prickling at her nose. “You’re leaving!”

His wings fluttered ever so slightly. “Sophie.” He took a slow breath. “There’s just something I have to do. I’ll be back in a few days.”

She sniffed. “Then why the secrecy, why the formality? What are you hiding?”

Feathers fluffed and he reached into his pocket. “I… I just didn’t think anyone else would care.” He produced a handkerchief and offered it to her.

Frustration built up in her chest, her fingers tensed into claws. “Of course I’d care if you left! Why would you think otherwise!”

The handkerchief hovered awkwardly between them. “I had every intention of returning so… I suppose I didn’t think about how the leaving might affect you.”

Her eyes rolled, her nose stuffy from unshed tears. “Where are you going, then?”

He looked to the handkerchief and lowered his arm. “Lotuserna.”

The Lotus Capital had fallen into disrepair in the years following the Great Cataclysm there years prior. It existed primarily as a den for Ophiuchus and the Serpentarius people even after the defeat of Ophiuchus herself. The new Djinn would require years to fully cleanse the area of the deity’s influence.

Sophie furrowed her brow and gently drew her finger along her lower lid. “You’re going to work on the seal with Idania and Tristan?”

“No.” The handkerchief returned to his pocket and he returned to his packing routine.

“Then… Why are you going?”

“Visit my parents.”

Sophie blinked. “But… They… Valash, you don’t think-“

“Their grave.” He pushed the items into his pack with an aggressive force, his wings rustling a bit.

His sudden flare of quiet frustration caused her to shrink into herself. “I’m sorry… I just… I have the closing ceremony tomorrow and I hoped you might be able to attend.”

His brow furrowed for a moment. “I’m supposed to be your dirty little secret. Why would you want me there?”

Her teeth clicked as her jaw clenched. “I do so hate when you call yourself that. Though I will admit that I had intended for you to remain… backstage, most likely cloaked to hide your presence. I… I meant to ask you sooner and I’m sorry I haven’t, but you’ve been so secretive and I didn’t want to make you think I didn’t trust you but I’ve been so nervous and-“

His hands found hers, a warmth exuded from his that felt uncommon, though she knew better. He drew her attention to his eyes, a bid for her to focus and not get lost in her own anxiety, her rock in the quaking of her mind. She smiled at the beauty in his eyes, the colors that mixed in his irises and made them unable to categorize with one simple utterance of blueorgreenor even gray. She had yet to find the precise poetic phrasing to describe them, or the rest of him. But he grounded her, and she nodded.

“I’m sorry I didn’t think about the ceremony. It’s not as if it would fall on any other day. I just… This will be the first time I can visit my parents with a…” A meaningful expression softened his features. “With a happier story.”

The warmth from his hands spread through her arms, over her neck, and onto her face. How much of that warmth actually extended from his magic, she could not tell, but she felt the flush on her cheeks and tilted her head down to look at him through fluttered lashes. A rakish smile flashed on half his lips for the barest of moments.

“But… I’ll come back as quickly as I can to hear all about how it went.” He lifted a hand to her chin. “Is that satisfactory, Your Grace?”

She allowed him to tilt her face back up to gaze at him fully. That softness existed on his visage for much longer than any other instance. Home. She felt a deeper understanding of the word spread between them. A sudden need to stay with him bubbled within her.

“Take me with you.”

The words tumbled out of her without her permission, a thought given voice that had barely tickled at the edges of her consciousness.

His wings fluffed slightly, a muted surprise on his face. “You have to perform the ceremony, Sophie.”

She laughed once, more an exhalation than mirth. “I… Of course. I do. I have responsibilities. As a Queen, to my people, and to the Spirits. I just… I want to… share everything with you. To help tell your… happier story with your parents. If-if that’s all right with you, of course.”

That half-smile appeared and lingered for a few moments. “I’ll stay in Lotuserna for a few days, then, and await your arrival.”

Her brow furrowed. “Can you not wait to leave? We could go together.”

The smile disappeared immediately, his eyes away to any other section of the room. “I have to be there tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

She tilted her head to follow his distraction. “Why?”

He inhaled slowly, one hand drifted to the back of his neck, his wings flittering a bit. “It’s my parents’ anniversary.”

The weight of the date hit her. The last day of the Virgo Festival and the even of the Libra Festival. “Oh. Well. Do you at least have a place to stay?”

He looked to her, his hand dropping from the back of his neck. “I… I made arrangements to stay at the Virgo manse in Lotuserna. My sister is still staying there.”

His sister. A smile spread her lips but did not reach her eyes, a motion she practiced daily in the court. “Then you two can have your private memorial.”

He glanced sidelong at her. “And you will come after the ceremony…?” She heard a hope, a plea, on his voice.

Her smile brightened. “If you will have me.”

Valash’s wings almost spread, but he rolled his shoulders to control them. A quirk of having gained the limbs so late in life, this inability to control them as well as Alden or Idania could control their tails in response to emotion.

She grinned as a flush spread to his cheeks. He cleared his throat and nodded. “I’m sure my sister wouldn’t mind seeing you.”

Soothe – Fall Asleep in My Lap – “Don’t ruin this.”

After his injury, Garren goes overboard making sure William is cared for. To the point that the latter makes an escape attempt. This forces a brief conversation about boundaries and expectations.

~1100 words

—

It took months for a simple dagger wound to heal. William refused to stay still in that time. Garren trailed him through the Piscean estate they had set aside for him, tracked the Aries through the Revati markets, and even found him with a small bag at the bubble portals waiting in the queue to make his way back to the surface. William had claimed he just intended to visit Sima, but Garren knew the seas and knew that the submarine he intended to take would take him to the Cancerian settlement on the shore.

“I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: if you need something, want something, or just simply want to get moving, let me know. We don’t know what removing the-“ Garren pursed his lips and glanced at the surrounding pedestrians. “We don’t know what will happen to you now.”

William rolled his eyes and struggled to maintain his stiff posture. His back had started to hurt in recent weeks, a new symptom of getting old. “Nothing. I’m just a normal bloke now. I’ll be fine. Able to live out my years as the AllFather expected.”

Garren frowned deeply. “We don’t know that. I’m going to keep an eye on you until you’re fully healed and then-“

William sagged as they crossed the threshold into Garren’s temporary residence. “Gary, even if you’re worried about me, I can’t stay down here. All this water, all this fake air… There’s something wrong about it. Might be what’s makin’ me crazy, makin’ me heal slower.”

Garren slid the door closed behind him. “Fake air?”

William chuckled, cut short with the tiniest of grunts. “Nothing against the architecture or the skill you needed to make these bubbles, but… I’m a Fire Constellation, right? I need to be near-“

The half-breed spun around on his friend. “Fire! Of course! I’ll go get a fire going in the main room!”

The older Aries sighed and dropped his bag on the floor. Garren hurried past him and into he room with the fire pit. The house accommodated it, built a foot or so higher than other Constellations’ and hollow to promote airflow. Garren struck the flint at the dried-out driftwood in the pit that hung over the sea floor of sand. William pressed his lips together.

The fire sparked to life and the Aries had to admit, the existence of a fire within his line of sight improved his general malaise, soothed him somewhat. The half-breed spun around to him, a frantically happy expression on his face, and he gestured at the fire. William nodded begrudgingly and stepped into the room.

“There! This should help. I’ll make sure to keep it lit and stoked for you until-“

“Garren.”

The half-breed tensed immediately. His eyes fell. William hated these moments, hated having to remind someone of a reality they refused to face. He had done so for so long, breaking the news of a disappearance or a death or a refused leave. Having to break someone of a delusion they used to cope. Because reality would not wait for them to be ready. Hard truths came whether you wanted them or not.

He placed a hand on Garren’s shoulder as he lowered down to sit beside his friend. Garren kept his eyes on the dancing flame. “I can’t stay down here forever, Gary.”

The half-breed exhaled slowly with a puffing sound. “Are you sure?”

William nodded. “I’m sure. But that doesn’t mean I want to leave you, either.” Garren looked to his friend. “What?”

Garren’s expression became incredulous. “William Fymithral, are you saying you enjoy my company?”

The old Aries laughed. “Of course I do! Who else could’ve stood your nonsense for the last century, let alone four of them?”

“Then why would you run away from me?” The half-breed’s expression sunk into despair. He appeared genuinely hurt.

The speed at which Garren could shift his emotions always started William. He always felt like he understood people, could read where their feelings might shift over a conversation. But Garren held so many, perhaps due to their advanced number of years.

“I wasn’t trying to run from you, per se. I was just… tired of being cooped up? I hate to admit it, but the fire helps. So maybe… maybe it’s that part of me, the part that needs to be active and consuming. Probably overreacted, though.” He shrugged ineffectually. “I didn’t suppose someone so in tune with their own elements of water and air would be so… rigid?”

Garren narrowed his eyes at the Aries. “You’re not wrong. It wasn’t exactly right of me to keep you trapped in this bubble like a pet or something. I’m just… I’m worried.”

William nodded. “And we’ve talked about how your anxiety isn’t going to somehow stop whatever is happening to me. We have to take it as it comes. Right?”

The half-breed shrunk into his shoulders. “Yes.”

He made a gesture to pull the half-breed closer. “Burn that bridge when we get to it?”

The half-breed made a noise of ascension and allowed his friend to loop his arm around his shoulders.

“Good.” The Aries nodded and relaxed a bit. “So how about we talk about letting me go back to Hamal?” The half-breed groaned and dropped his head in William’s lap. “I should really check on my smithy, see how Marla is doing.”

Garren’s head snapped to William’s. “Marla?”

“Mmm. I told you about how I rented out my parents’ blacksmith over the years so I could keep ownership? The last resident won the last tourney if you can believe it.” William absently stroked his friend’s hair.

“I thought they stopped allowing women to fight in the tournaments.”

The Aries shook his head. “They did, for a while. But not on the books. It was a social thing. Like none of the Enforcers would wear a woman’s gear and stuff like that. She ended up having to buy a prisoner.” He chuckled. “That’s actually how I met Alden, you know.”

Garren laughed. “Oh, can you imagine if he actually got to be a Djinn?”

“Well, he’s Water-“

“Yes, yes, but even with the Water Elemental. Spirits help us.” Both men chuckled. “Do you want me to take us back to Hamal in one of my bubbles or would you rather travel?”

William’s face contorted as if he had smelled or tasted something vile. “Don’t ruin this.”

Garren frowned. “You hate my bubbles that much?”

The Aries rolled his eyes. “Gary.”

Tall Tales Home

Tall Tales is a urban/paranormal fantasy webserial. It’s currently on hiatus as I get a head start on Volume Three to (hopefully) avoid the medical hiatuses I’ve had to take in the past.

What is Urban/Paranormal Fantasy?

Paranormal Fantasy is usually listed as a form of Urban Fantasy, but that isn’t strictly accurate. It has similar elements to UF (modern setting, real-world issues, etc), but it isn’t built around an urban setting and tends to rely more on the paranormal (ghosts, psychics, the occult, etc) than on the mythological (elves, dwarves, the fae, etc). Tall Tales blends elements of both. Tall Tales also includes horror elements or, at times, outright horror stories.

What is a Webserial?

A webserial is a story told through regular updates available online. This can be done in any format, either free or behind a paywall. Tall Tales, when it isn’t on hiatus, updates five days a week, once per week on five interconnected blogs. Every story necessary to follow the plot of Tall Tales is available in early draft form for free on the website.

What Are the Volumes?

The overall plot of Tall Tales has been broken into five volumes, each composed of a number of short stories. This usually has little impact on the website (except the short stories, which are used as the primary means of navigation); however, when I finish writing a volume, I then focus on putting it through final editing stages, adding additional stories, and then self-publishing the volume as a book. You can find Volumes One & Two on Amazon, I am currently writing Volume Three. I’ve taken this opportunity to go on a scheduled hiatus and build up my publishing queue in the hopes that my recurring migraines don’t cause me to add unplanned breaks going forward. This means that now is an ideal time to catch up on the story, as there will be no new posts added to the website until August 1, 2022.

Five Blogs?

Yes,Tall Tales publishes as five blogs. Each follows a different story and is told by a different POV. The blogs cross over, and each is moving toward a shared fate. They are as follows:

1. Narrator: An unnamed narrator who tracks events that impact the story but happen beyond the POV of the other blogs. Updates on Mondays.
2. Benediction: A multi-POV collection of in-world files relating to the trial of Father Benedict de Monte, a Catholic priest tasked with hunting a global mystery cult called the Brood of Nachash. The Brood uses murder and the summoning of ancient elder gods to achieve its goals. Updates on Tuesdays.
3. Matteson, P.I.: A mostly in-world blog written by John Matteson, a human who can interact with the metaphysical realm and serves as a living source of anti-magic energy. Follows his various investigations into the supernatural and the problems this causes in his life. Updates on Wednesdays.
4. Over the Hedge: A mostly in-world blog written by Jackie Veracruz, a witch receiving training from Hecate. She is heavily focused on understanding the nature of magic and how she and her friends relate to it. Updates on Thursdays.
5. Wonderland: A mostly in-world blog written by Alice Templeton, a biology student in Greater Pittsburgh who finds herself connected to the world of magic. Updates on Fridays.

Is There Minority Representation?

Most of the stories take place in the United States or Europe after 2000, so this will assume a definition of ‘minority’ that fits that setting. I am a white male, and as such am always open to input on how to make the following characters more accurate.

• John Matteson: African-American male. It has been speculated in-story that he’s asexual, but he personally hasn’t expressed interest in answering that question. His ancestry includes a spirit that took on human form and resembled a Native American; as such, he has physical traits that resemble that ancestry, but no actual or claimed ties to any tribe.
• Jackie Veracruz: Hispanic (Honduran) bisexual woman. Entered the US as a refugee from Nicaraguan/Honduran fighting in the 1980s.
• Akshainie: A naga who shares the spotlight in most of Benediction. Her human-looking half (and her human form) is that of a woman from the border region between Pakistan and India. Her sexuality has not been discussed.
• Supporting Cast and Spirits: Other characters that appear at different points in the story include John’s family, a nonbinary friend of Jackie’s, a gay male couple, and various spirits whose forms resemble the culture from which they originate.

Is there a Taglist?

Yes. The taglist gets notified whenever my monthly newsletter is released and when a new blog post goes up on the website. This amounts to 5 posts per week when the website is updating, plus one additional post per month. It is very rare that I use the taglist to make announcements beyond the newsletter, but occasionally circumstances require that. Please ask to be added/removed/edited on the taglist. If you have been removed without requesting it, chances are tumblr no longer allowed me to tag you and I assumed you changed your url but don’t know what you changed it to.

last-holistic-renegade:

taraljc:

kiramartinauthor:

When you’re writing and you suddenly realise you DO know what happens next

When you’re writing and you realise you have to write what happens next

lizard-is-writing:

Now first, I have to say, that the plot you’re able to come up with in one day is not going to be without its flaws, but coming up with it all at once, the entire story unfolds right in front of you and makes you want to keep going with it. So, where to begin?

• What is your premise and basic plot? Pick your plot. I recommend just pulling one from this list. No plots are “original” so making yours interesting and complicated will easily distract from that fact, that and interesting characters. Characters will be something for you to work on another day, because this is plotting day. You’ll want the main plot to be fairly straight forward, because a confusing main plot will doom you if you want subplots.
  
• Decide who the characters will be. They don’t have to have names at this point. You don’t even need to know who they are other than why they have to be in the story. The more characters there are the more complicated the plot will be. If you intend to have more than one subplot, then you’ll want more characters. Multiple interconnected subplots will give the illusion that the story is very complicated and will give the reader a lot of different things to look at at all times. It also gives you the chance to develop many side characters. The plot I worked out yesterday had 13 characters, all were necessary. Decide their “roles” don’t bother with much else. This seems shallow, but this is plot. Plot is shallow.
  
• Now, decide what drives each character. Why specifically are they in this story? You can make this up. You don’t even know these characters yet. Just so long as everyone has their own motivations, you’re in the clear.
• What aren’t these characters giving away right off the bat? Give them a secret! It doesn’t have to be something that they are actively lying about or trying to hide, just find something that perhaps ties them into the plot or subplot. This is a moment to dig into subplot. This does not need to be at all connected to their drive to be present in the story.  Decide who is in love with who, what did this person do in the 70’s that’s coming back to bite them today, and what continues to haunt what-his-face to this very day. This is where you start to see the characters take shape. Don’t worry much about who they are or what they look like, just focus on what they’re doing to the story.
• What is going to change these characters? Now this will take some thinking. Everyone wants at least a few of the characters to come out changed by the end of the story, so think, how will they be different as a result of the plot/subplot? It might not be plot that changes them, but if you have a lot of characters, a few changes that are worked into the bones of the plot might help you.
• Now list out the major events of the novel with subplot in chronological order. This will be your timeline. Especially list the historical things that you want to exist in backstory. List everything you can think of. Think about where the story is going. At this point, you likely haven’t focused too much on the main plot, yeah, it’s there, but now really focus on the rising actions, how this main plot builds its conflict, then the climactic moment. Make sure you get all of that in there. This might take a few hours.
• Decide where to start writing. This part will take a LOT of thinking. It’s hard! But now that you’ve got the timeline, pick an interesting point to begin at. Something with action. Something relevant. Preferably not at the beginning of your timeline - you want to have huge reveals later on where these important things that happened prior are exposed. This is the point where you think about what information should come out when. This will be a revision of your last list, except instead of being chronological, it exists to build tension.
• Once you’ve gotten the second list done, you’ve got a plot. Does it need work? Probably. But with that said, at this point you probably have no idea who half your characters are. Save that for tomorrow, that too will be a lot of work.

Disclaimer for this post.

ohmightysmiter:

kirby-ebooks:

skaletal:

bluewavelengths:

ladyzolstice:

greyramblings:

filecreator:

crockpotcauldron:

lectorel:

crockpotcauldron:

just looked through about 700 werewolf books, good grief.

most seem to fall into two categories:

• werewolf serial killer mysteries
• domineering alpha romances

neither is really what I’m interested in.

here is what I’d want from the werewolf novel of my wildest dreams:

• good relationships, especially friendships between packmates (lone wolves are boring)
• werewolves who like being werewolves. (angsty wolves are boring)
• the practical details of werewolfery: who’s got the bail money for animal control, whether anyone’s microchipped, what you pack in a bag for a night out werewolfing
• the uses of werewolfery: hiring yourselves out as trackers or canine rescue, getting certified as service dogs, spending your free time at the library letting little kids read to a friendly doggie
• female werewolves, and no weird gross hypermasculine alpha stuff going on in werewolf culture
• queer werewolves, and no weird gross heteronormative ‘laws of nature’ stuff going on in werewolf culture
• dog jokes.

The standard urban fantasy female protagonist dating a werewolf who is not an alpha. Bonus points for it being a cute beta werewolfess who thinks her girlfriend’s perpetual posturing as the ‘baddest bitch on the block’™ is the most adorable thing ever. Extra bonus points for fuzzy baby werewolves and adopted babies. (Because actual wolf packs? Exist to raise children. They’re family units, focused around rearing cubs.)

#werewolves #queer wolves #werewolves as the foster parents of the supernatural world #if there’s a kid so much as sniffling in their general vicinity they’re going to get adopted #the fae discovered that they could straight-up hand off changlings to werewolf packs #no deception needed #magic using children of mundane parents who can’t handle it? #every pack has a dozen of them #fic ideas

okay this is one of the cutest reblogs I’ve gotten. 

imagine it

werewolves just going YES FAMILY GOOD and adopting everyone and making sure they get attention and food and understand that it’s fine to be who you are and that you’re not alone, you’re pack now

and the kids that can’t turn into wolves get to ride on the dogsleds to make sure they’re not left out during the full moon family bonding time (… you have to be an adult to pull a dogsled. mistakes have been made.)

werewolves on the PTA. werewolf den mothers. werewolf little league coaches. werewolves filling the bleachers and auditioriums and dance halls and galleries, cheering for their kids. werewolves helping kids with their homework, werewolves sewing costumes for the school play, werewolves showing kids how to change a tire

werewolves with battered kitchen tables with chewed legs. werewolves with huge family dinners. werewolves ferrying pies and casseroles and fresh baked bread back and forth between family members’ houses. werewolf extended families. massive werewolf packs that are technically only about 25% werewolf but still definitely packs

puppy teeth being left for the tooth fairy. fangs being left for the tooth fairy. cuttlebones being left for the tooth fairy. stolen teeth being left for the tooth fairy. werewolves with giant families full of kids with different needs and species.

werewolves adopting everyone. werewolves fostering everyone. werewolves who wind up with dozens of kids, all of whom are family and therefore pack.

yes good, give me more like this

ladyzolstice

i feel this in my soul

WEREWOLVES BASED ON ACTUAL WOLF PACK BEHAVIOR INSTEAD OF BULLSHIT DOMINANCE THEORY! All the werewolf fiction I’ve read involves everything falling to shit due to infighting over who gets to be alpha like WAY TO ILLUSTRATE EXACTLY WHY THIS IDEA DOESN’T WORK. You really think wolves would be successful hunters if they were constantly getting injured and wasting energy fighting each other?!

The whole idea of “alpha” dynamics is based entirely on the behaviour of wolves in captivity! If you so much as google “wolves in captivity alpha”, you’ll get a bunch of results about why it’s not representative of actual wolf behaviour.

As it turns out, if you capture, restrain, and shove together wolves from unrelated packs, they will fight and form a hierarchy of power.

Kind of like prison. Because, functionally, the exact premise of that kind of captivity is kind of like prison.

Wolves are social animals, and they interact in the wild pretty much the same way other family-centric social animals do.

Hey, you know what another family-centric social animal we’re all familiar with is?People. Just, you know, take away the oppressive idea that one parent is the definitive and unchallengeable head of the household that most of us have lived under for so long first.

Wolves are apparently group problem-solvers, and presumably, in large packs, you’re going to get squabbling and older pack members mitigating it, just like that one patient aunt or uncle or grandparent or close family friend who is essentially a relative often does in big families.

There’s a very legitimate basis for writing werewolves as friendly, community-minded folks. If your werewolves view their human neighbours as other packs not in competition with themselves, they’re likely going to be those people that the entire neighbourhood views as very nice, but “a little overwhelming.” (And maybe a little too indulgent with their kids, according to the neighbourhood snobs.)

Your gigantic werewolf family is probably going to be a litle less threatening and overtly secretive and a little more “we’re having a barbeque, when can we expect you??? you didn’t come last week, were you sick??? we were all worried- do you not eat meat?? oh, okay, I’ll have Sophie and Thaddeus pick up some Halal burgers and we’ll scrub off the second barbeque for them and some vegetable skewers, too, does that sound good?? so when can we expect you????”

(Also: werewolves taking in queer kids and mentally ill kids and kids from broken homes even though they’re mundane because they can’t comprehend how someone could not want them. Werewolves taking in street kids.)

#…a pack of werewolves living in a huge house together like one of those huge families people sort of smile incredulously at#multiple generations#a pack occupying a trailer park because it’s near the woods and there’s a certain amount of security in having a mobile home#packs being viewed by mundanes as those eccentric families that fill the school gymnasium every time there’s an event with one of their kids#packs migrating to accomodate new packmates and encountering other packs#packs fusing to form entire communities#wolves taking in mundane street kids#werewolves#writing#urban fantasy

*SLAMS FIST ON TABLE* NOW THIS IS THE KIND OF CONTENT I WANT TO SEE

thatwritergirlsblog:

Writing a sub-plot

Here are some tips for writing great sub-plots, romantic or otherwise.

1. When to introduce a sub-plot

• Of course, every story is different. However, there is some consensus that it’s good to introduce your sub-plot a little ways into your book
• The main plot needs to be established first. The readers need to know the main character(s) and understand what the story is about. They need to care about the crux of the book and the characters first.
• Then, you can introduce an intriguing subplot to keep their interest.
• Don’t wait too long, though. Anything after 1/3 through might feel forced and misplaced.

2. When to resolve the sub-plot

• The sub-plot should be resolved before the main plot is.
• Generally, you want your readers’ attention focused on the main conflict once you reach the climax.
• This means that you want to give them the resolution of the sub-plot a few pages/chapters before the big showdown of the main plot.
• You’ll see that most TV episodes also follow this guideline and it works.
• You can, roughly, aim for the ¾ mark if you’re unsure.

3. Remember the sub in sub-plot

• I love a good sub-plot, especially one about characters growing closer. However, if I pick up a sci-fi thriller from the bookstore only to read a 400 page love story, I’m gonna be disappointed.
• You classify your genre according to your main plot. What is the main conflict or purpose in your story? That should be the focus.
• A sub-plot of whichever variation is always secondary to the main storyline.
• If you focus too much on the subplot, it may overpower your real story and bump your book into a whole other genre.
• So, maybe have the romance take a backseat when the main plot comes to play.

4. When to indulge

• Let’s be honest; we all love writing our sub-plots. They often contain the scenes you envisioned when thinking up your story - the conversations and fluff, the banter and depth of character. This, unfortunately, means that it’s easy to get carried away, as I made clear in my last point.
• However, there is a part of your book in which you can indulge, a point during which you can explore the sub-plot to your heart’s desire.
• When is that point? The middle.
• Often, the main plot slows down in the middle of the book. The characters need training or there’s a period of false security etc. Many stories have a lull in the middle where the main conflict isn’t in full swing.
• And this is where the sub-plot shines. This is where characters fall in love and heroes reunite with long-lost fathers. This is where you get to place your darling scenes.
• And no, this doesn’t mean that your middle can be 200 pages and you can write an entire romance novel. It also doesn’t mean that the main plot must disappear. It’s just a stage in the story where you can let the sub-plot loose a bit.
• Also don’t leave every aspect of your sub-plot for the middle. It should be woven into your story.
• But use the middle to let the sub-plot shine.

5. Should you have a sub-plot?

• Personally, I think every story needs some form of sub-plot.
• There has to be some conflict/story/relationship that develops and adds intrigue aside from the main plot.
• Not having one could screw up your pacing, make your characters feel underdeveloped and generally make for a boring read.
• But, this is just my opinion. Each unto their own.

That’s it. Those are some basic tips on writing a sub-plot. I hope that they could be helpful. As always, my inbox and asks are open for any questions.

Reblog if you found these tips useful. Comment with the type of sub-plot you’re writing. Follow me for similar content.

inky-duchess:

Fantasy Guide to Succession Systems

We usually write royal families based on the modern or medieval ones of history. We almost always fall into the trap of Male to Male succession because… that’s usually what is done. We get confused over who is next when you kill off a cast of characters or have a strong female lead and we fall into a whole. But no longer. Here are some succession systems you can use in your fantasy setting.

Male to Male Primogeniture

This is when the firstborn son inherits everything outright from his dad. His son will inherit after him followed by his grandson and so on so forth. This is our main system of succession in real world history and fantasy. This can be an easy one to work off since there are so many examples. However, just as the real world is run by genetics, so will your fantasy land. There is a 50-50 chance of having a daughter or a son. You can’t always bank on having a son. And if you have a surplus of sons, it can lead to trouble down the road.

Female to Female Primogeniture

There are some cultures that are strictly matrilineal, with inheritance passing to mother to daughter to granddaughter and so on. This can be another easy line to follow as it is basically the system up above just gender reverse. Examples of this succession can be found in Africa such as the role of Rain Queen where only females are eligible to take the throne and the Undangs of Negeri Sembilan in Asia. There are the same kind of issues such as the possibility that a daughter may not be born.

Tanistry

This is a Gaelic system for passing on titles and lands. The Tanist/ Tánaiste is the title bestowed upon the candidate chosen to inherit the throne who acts as a second in command. The eligible candidates would arrive at a chosen place and there would be a grand discussion on who gets to be named the heir. The candidates don’t have to be a blood relative or even an ally of the current ruler. This was practised in Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Mann and was also sort of practised in the Holy Roman Empire. The Vatican uses this to some extent though they might forgo all the drink… OK probably they do. There is no real issue with this, the best candidate is chosen and everyone has a say. Of course in politics, some force might be used in order of specific favourites to succeed but hey its nothing more than what’s going on in modern politics.

Agnatic Seniority

This is another patrilineal inheritance system only this one is slightly more confusing. In this system, the succession goes from monarch to their younger brothers and then the monarch’s own sons. The monarchs children don’t inherit until the older generation have all died. Agnatic seniority bars all female descendants and their descendants from the throne.

The Ottoman Empire’s Version of the Hunger Games (or just what siblings are like)

The Ottoman Empire had a fun succession order. Oh, perhaps not order. You see when a Sultan dies, his sons fight over who gets to be the next Sultan. The Şehzades (the male issue of the Sultan) will turn on one another, often having all their brothers and half brothers massacred by guards armed with bowstrings. This fratricidal system did work in the Sultan’s favour as his throne was safe from claims of rivals. Yet if you get rid of all your heirs and you can’t sire one and you die… well bye bye dynasty. The Şehzade who usually comes out on top will be the one who is backed by the military. This practise became less awful as years went by and the brothers of the Sultan were imprisoned in the harem in chambers called the Golden Cage or kafes. Some went insane and some actually succeeded the Sultanate.

Roman Adoption

The Romans didn’t follow blood but rather the surname. Like the tanistry, a Roman noble/emperor would take stock of their relatives or even perhaps acquaintances and pick the best one. They would be given everything in the will including the right to inherit. Julius Caesar picked his great-nephew Octavian and in turn Octavian, now Augustus Caesar, chose his step-son Tiberius. If you go back through the Judo-Claudian dynasty you will see that most the heirs were adopted and not all came from the same bloodline.

Hope this helps @anomaly00

thewritingrealm:

go write three sentences on your current writing project.

ellidfics:

the960writers:

kayespivey:

I cannot emphasize enough how much you need to read thoroughly through the terms of any publication before you send your writing to them. It is mandatory that you know and understand what rights you’re giving away when you’re trying to get published.

Just the other day I was emailed by a relatively new indie journal looking for writers. They made it very clear that they did not pay writers for their work, so I figured I’d probably be passing, but I took a look at their Copyright policy out of curiosity and it was a nightmare. They wanted “non-exclusive, irrevocable, royalty-free, perpetual, worldwide license and right to use, display, reproduce, distribute, and publish the Work on the internet and on or in any medium” (that’s copy and pasted btw) and that was the first of 10 sections on their Copyright agreement page. Yikes. That’s exactly the type of publishing nightmare you don’t want to be trapped in. 

Most journals will ask for “First North American Rights” or a variation on “First Rights” which operate under the assumption that all right revert back to you and they only have the right to be the first publishers of the work. That is what you need to be looking for because you do want to retain all the rights to your work. 

You want all rights to revert back to you upon publication in case you, say, want to publish it again in the future or use it for a bookmark or post it on your blog, or anything else you might want to do with the writing you worked hard on. Any time a publisher wants more than that, be very suspicious. Anyone who wants to own your work forever and be able to do whatever they want with it without your permission is not to be trusted. Anyone who wants all that and wants you to sign away your right to ever be paid for your work is running a scam.

Protect your writing. It’s not just your intellectual property, it’s also your baby. You worked hard on it. You need to do the extra research to protect yourself so that a scammer (or even a well meaning start up) doesn’t steal you work right from under you nose and make money off of it.

Exclusive publishing rights have to have a set time frame! Do not agree to anything that doesn’t clearly state “up to five years from signature” or something like that. 

What if the publisher goes defunct? What if they get bought by another publisher who doesn’t care to promote or publish your work? You still can’t to anything with it, you don’t own it anymore!

For a thorough overview of what you should be aware of regarding your intellectual property and publishing rights, please read through this collection of post [https://kriswrites.com/business-musings/contracts-and-dealbreakers/] by Kristine Kathryn Rusch. 

Protect your IP. Do not give away your stories.

Every writer needs to read this before signing that contract:

Writer Beware!

knifebucket:

me rereading my own writing: this bitch fucking loves commas

thewritersguardianangel:

Aka, a map of how this

(^^^^ open that first for success)

connects to this:

“Whoa there,” you say. “Whoa there, Pen. This looks a lot like that other thing.”

OMG! Yes it does! That’s because they are macaroni and cheese. They belong together. 

Characters, after all, don’t just develop all by their lonesome. It is their journeys and experiences that prompt a person to change- or tests whether they are capable of change. I like to think that the bond between the hero’s journey and the character arc was not something that was created so much as “discovered” in a way. It’s always been there.

“Whoa there, Pen!” Some of you say again. “I have seen the Hero’s Journey before, but I’m pretty sure it said different things?”

Yes it probably did. The different points can have many names, but ultimately, they represent the same type of event. I chose this one because it is, to me, one of the less overly grand and therefore less overly confusing. 

Onward under the cut.

Keep reading

laffbending:

amazonpoodle:

also seriously if a character isn’t white, i promise your only descriptive options aren’t food words and varying degrees of tan. it’s okay to say brown. pale brown! light brown! golden brown! medium brown! dark brown! deep brown! so many kinds of brown!

BROWN BROWN BROWN BROWN BROWN

#brown is not a bad word #you do not need euphemisms #B R O W N