Unfortunately, I have not been able to keep up with my planned twice weekly posting. I am sincerely sorry for that, but in order to try and maintain a consistent posting schedule, I am going to try for twice a month. This may still be unattainable on some occasions, but I will do my absolute best. Thank you for bearing with me.

Late into the night, so late that it is almost morning, a single soul lies awake, surrounded by books and loose papers covered in scrawled notes. She is searching. She has to find him. He’s lost. He’s in danger. She flips frantically through the pages.

Her eyes burn, her head pounds. She takes a shaky breath and pushes forward. He is not nearby. He is not far away. He is somewhere Other. She cannot reach him. He is somewhere she has not been, has not heard of. She is searching with a blindfold.

She has to keep going. The longer he is lost, the more he may be Changed. If he is Changed, she cannot fix him, cannot truly bring him back.

She pushes down her rising panic. Breathes in. Then out. Keep reading. Keep looking. Next page. Next chapter, next book. Has she slept? It doesn’t matter. She has to find him. She shoves the scattered books out of her way as she reaches for the next one. She doesn’t read the title. She scans the pages.

Not here. Not here.


A hint. A fragment. But it’s something. She’d missed it before.

Digging through the discarded pages of notes and lays them on the floor in front of her. She has a point of focus now, and nothing else matters.

There. A name. A description.

More pages. More books. Light begins to stream through the window. She doesn’t notice.

A map. A doorway. She needs one more thing. Something to keep her from getting lost herself. What could possibly tether her here, when the only thing that is important is bringing him back? Finding him is all that matters.

She has it. She doesn’t stop to think. She doesn’t read the warnings. She just goes.

She is not prepared.

Song of the Island

Along the coast of the mainland sits a line of sleepy islands, home to generations of sailors and their wives. Every year before the sailors leave for the season, the Islanders row out onto the water and light candles in little bowls, one for each sailor. These are good luck charms, wishes from their families for the men to return home safely. There is a feast, a fire, and dances, and in the morning the men board their ships and bid farewell to stoic wives and sniffling children.
The women do not speak of the risks born of the sea. The do not dare whisper the names of the things that could cut through the boats like fins through the waves.

There is one, though, a wife alone in a cottage near the shore, who spends her time bent over bowls of water and murmuring to her garden. She does not merely pray for her husband’s return. She searches the waves beneath his ship and watches for the smallest threat.

She is only worrying herself sick, the old mothers whisper. There is nothing to be done for the men on the water, magic or no.

Some of the kinder women make gentle offers to distract her, but they only succeed for an hour or so and she is back to her work, staring unblinking into a mirror as she works her mending.

There are always casualties, the others tell her softly. We can do nothing for it.

Then the sirens came, news of their arrival on the rocky path home rippling through the town. The stoic masks falter, and whispers ride on the wind.

Her search now narrowed to a razor sharp focus, she abandons her chores and spends each day secluded in her home. The others do not know what to make of this, and eventually leave her to her oddities.

On a cloudy night that threatened rainfall, she emerges, running barefoot through the town, screaming words that the wind renders indecipherable. She gathers the women of the island, and tells them that they must follow her, they must listen, they must come. It takes several moments for the old mothers to make sense of her rambling, but when they do they follow her with determined steps.

She leads the march down to the docks and waist-deep in the water, and she sings. She sings a child’s skipping song, and then a wedding reel. She sings of home and family and as the women of the island join her, their voices rise on the once-uncaring wind. The many voices of the human women rise over the waves and out along the sea.

The song covers the ocean for days, and when the men sail past the sirens, the only spell that pulls them is towards home.

So it is that every year the women of the island make their way wordlessly to the water, opening their mouths only to sing, to drown out the sirens and bring their sailors home.

Musings 4: Too Many Ideas

It’s a common joke amongst writers, that we can’t focus on a single story concept without being distracted by several others. This often leads to dozens of started works and no finished products, which can be hard on a person’s sense of accomplishment. I had this problem bad. I had shelves filled with notebooks that had only a few pages of writing in them, and would simultaneously be thinking about yet another new story. I don’t do well at sitting down and planning out my ideas, I’d always prefer to just jump into the writing.

So I talked to a couple of friends, and eventually one told me to make what he called a “skeleton journal”. This was, he explained, where you wrote down all your ideas for your story in no particular order or format. Simply put, it’s where you infodump your ideas and worry about a set draft later. I took this idea and ran with it, and the best part was that it gave me a place to put my notes from all the research I would be doing for that story.

Now, I personally found through this method that I didn’t have as much of a story as I thought I did. A few chapters worth, at most. And for a while, it kind of stung. I wanted to be this decently famous novelist, who was well known for gripping reads and fun new takes on tired tropes. Meanwhile, I couldn’t even come up with a novel-length story. All my favorite pieces were only a few pages long and I had no intention of building on them.

And then I had an epiphany. I wasn’t having problems writing stories, I was having problems writing long stories. This was a relatively fixable issue, but more than that, short stories exist. That is a genre. One that I could, with some adjustments, fit my work into. Thus my focus shifted, and I finally filled a notebook. And then another. I had tangible proof that I was writing, and that I was making progress.

This eventually led to the blog you’re reading this on, actually. In school, I had wanted to publish a story of some kind before I graduated. For several complicated reasons, this never happened, but writing short stories freed me from that disappointment. I wasn’t leaving ideas unfinished, I was creating the foundations for something that I could come back and build on if I had the inspiration to do so, and if not, what existed already was enough. And then I realized that I could publish those short stories, if not on paper or in a bookstore.

I’m obviously not where I want to be yet. This blog is so small I can hardly call it a platform. But my writing is being seen, by infinitely more people than it would have been if I had kept it shut in my beloved and beat-up Walmart journals. So I want to suggest to anyone who has too many ideas and not enough brain space, consider starting with a short story or three, and move on to a skeleton journal. Or stop at the short story, if that’s what you want.

I find that being in a state of slight disorganization frees me from needing to have every detail planned out before I start writing. But that’s just me. All I want to do is to encourage you to try new methods if your current ones aren’t working.

The Wists

I am very sorry for being gone so long. When I mentioned a hiatus in my last post, I was expecting at most a few weeks while I built up a backlog of short stories. Unfortunately, due to personal reasons, I have not been able to create that backlog. As such, I cannot promise a consistent upload schedule at this time. Thank you for sticking with me.

When the humans first started to fear us, they avoided our realm. When they realized that they could use our magic and our land, they began negotiating. Caravans of ambassadors and gifts swarmed our forests. They offered us food we did not eat, cloth we did not wear, and tools we did not use. They were flustered. They offered us their daughters, to be bound to our king in marriage. We have no king. We do not marry.

Then they were angry. We had offended them, denied their hospitality and goodwill, and so we were now their enemies. They flung themselves at us, and when they went through us, directed their anger at our homes. They cut down our trees, burned our hills, stole our herbs and our water.

They upset our Mothers. So we retaliated. For the first time in centuries, Wists pulled their forms in close, and we made ourselves sharp. We cut them down like they did our trees, burned their homes as they did ours. They did not stop, and their blood tainted our land.

It was a subtle change, at first. A shift in the soil, a vague scent in the air. But as the battle waged, we felt our homes reject it, and then reject us. So we ceased our raging and retreated into our most hidden homes, hoping that the humans would take what they wanted and leave, the target of their anger now gone.

But they did not leave. They sought us out, searching for ways to harm us further. Their failure to discover anything only fueled their fervor. Eventually, they found our source, and we fell.

We became good at hiding. So good that some of us began hiding from each other. The humans were convinced they knew our number, and so they believed that we were nearly eradicated. We hoped that after they were done hunting us, after their anger had settled, we could reemerge a safe distance from them, perhaps when their sons and daughters had forgotten us.

It was then that she came, singing in the language of the wind a ballad of one who approached a wounded animal caught in a hunter’s trap, entreating the creature to trust them enough to let them help. Many thought it a trap, as the humans were clever and without honor. But she continued her song for days, walking barefoot and unarmed through the trees.

When at last we approached her, she told us that she wished to help our kind, and that she had an idea that would prevent the other humans hunting us to extinction. She offered herself as a vessel, for us to use her body as our own and share her form. In a human body, our magic would be a lesser threat, and she would weave a story of how she tamed and conquered us, sharing the secret only to those we deemed worthy to continue her work. We would be tethered to the world as we had not been before, but we would be safer.

We were fearful, worried that we would need to shed her blood and taint ourselves once more. We spent many nights arguing how the bond would be forged, and who would forge it with her. The human waited patiently for our verdict.

When at last we had made our decision, we set about preparing her to hold our magic within herself. The biggest risk, we realized, was that entering her form would tear her apart and destroy both parties.

The time finally came, and she knelt before us as we gathered ourselves around her like armor. The chosen Wist began the forging of the bond, and we held her fast as her body loosened to accept the newcomer, pulled ourselves tighter to bring her back.

We had not known what to expect, but still we were shocked when, once finished, the two had fully intertwined into a single being, neither human nor Wist.

We asked who she was, and she said, “I am both and neither. The individuals are no more than memories. I am tethered.”

When she returned to the humans, their hunt for our extinction became a hunt for our power. We revealed ourselves only to those who sang her song. A strange new peace was reached, and though few humans truly understood us, it was a great deal more than there had been.

The tethered ones were claimed as human, and were hailed as wise and talented beings. The legend spread that these people had conquered us, and when those who were tethered would hear it, they would share a hidden smile. Best not to let the humans see how little they truly know.

The Prince’s Death (part 2)

I am very sorry for my absence, and this post also serves as a hiatus announcement. I have been dealing with a lot of medical problems and have not been able to write. Thank you for your patience and please enjoy part 2 of this story.

The next night, I met Prince Oryn in the tack room, long after the stable hands had gone to sleep. He was cross-legged on the floor, braiding hay. Silently, I sat down in front of him.

He set the hay in his lap. “You said you’d make me look sick. How real is it?”

I smoothed out my skirt. ” You’ll be tired, but it won’t hurt. The herbs I intend to use will mimic a fever and drain your face of color. It won’t last after you stop taking it.” I explained.

“And how will you make me look dead?” he asked, fidgeting with the braid of hay. “Do you have an herb to stop my heart? My breathing?”

I scoffed. “None that you would wake up from, which rather contradicts my plan.”

“Then how?”

“A fetch.”

He looked at me, confused. “That’s fey magic. You’re not fey.”

“I spent enough time in Rêve to learn a little of their magic.”

He thought for a moment, tying off the braid and starting a new one. “Can the fetch not take my place the moment I fall ill?”

I shook my head. “I cannot keep the magic that long, and it could not impersonate you that exactly.” His shoulders sagged. “Not excited about being weak and frail?” I asked with a soft smile.

“It doesn’t seem comfortable, and I’m putting quite a lot of trust in you, seeing how you’ve hidden a large secret from me for so long.”

I winced. “You understand why I did that, don’t you?”

“Of course.” he said. “But I’m nervous. I didn’t actually expect a way out of my birthright.”

“You would make a fine king.” I said quietly.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m selfish enough to value my freedom over it, which may contradict the thought.”

“You do want to do this, don’t you? I don’t want to force your hand.”

He laughed a little, then met my eyes. “I do. This is a miracle to me. A chance I never thought I’d have. When do we start?”

“Timing is the most important part. If you get sick out of nowhere, people might guess that you’re being poisoned. We need to wait until summer, when fever takes many unfortunate souls. I will begin collecting the herbs, and we will wait until the first bout of sickness strikes.”

“So I have about two months before we carry this through.”

“I nodded. “and if at any time you change your mind, I will honor that. It’s only final when they think you are dead.”

“Thank you, Eletta, but you can’t get rid of me so easily.” he said with a grin.

I smiled back at him. “Is that not precisely what I am doing, your majesty?”

He stood and offered his arm to help me up. “Eletta isn’t your real name, is it?” he asked.


“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you after you are buried.” I said, and we walked back inside in silence.

The Prince’s Death (part 1)

Prompt: When I was younger I used to pray to every falling star to make me a bastard, now I just hope to die before I’m forced to wear the crown.

“Your parents are expecting you, your majesty.” I told the prince, standing in the doorway to his chambers. He was sitting curled up on his bed, reading.

He stood with a sigh. “Must I go? Couldn’t you tell them I’ve fallen ill?”

“No, my lord. Your fiancée is here to see you, and you are already running late. Your parents will not be pleased.” I said, trying to straighten his jacket as he walked.

He shrugged off my efforts to tidy his appearance and set off at a brisk walk. “I can hear them now,” he adopted a deeper, nasally tone. “A king is to be punctual. It demonstrates reliability.” he dropped the tone and made a face. “As if a king has nothing more to worry about.” he turned to face me, walking backwards. “Tell me, Eletta, do you envy my position?”

“My answer has not changed, my prince. I want for nothing as it is.”

He grinned. “Not even a respite from your stubborn charge?” I shook my head, smiling.

“I do believe their majesties would like to see your face as you enter, not your back.” I said. He shrugged and turned back around.

“You know,” he began quietly. “I used to pray to every falling star, every known god, to make me a bastard. Now I just hope to die before the burden of the crown falls to me.”

I was silent for a moment. “Sire, I do not like to think of your death. If I may propose a slight alternative?” I whispered as we reached the entrance to the throne room.

He turned around again and hugged me. “Tonight.” he muttered in my ear before striding confidently through the doors. I announced his arrival and returned to my chores.

He found me after dinner, as he often did. He sat down patiently at a nearby table as I prepared the next day’s meal.

“Do you know what Eletta means in Whebosh?” I asked.

“Little elf.” he translated. “Why?” I smiled, and for the first time since coming to the palace, I pushed my hair behind my ear. He inhaled sharply. “I see. What is your plan?”

“You say you’d rather die than wear the crown. I believe you, but I’d prefer to see you live. I propose a compromise, of sorts.”

“How so?”

“Fake your own death.” I said. “It musn’t look like an assassination, but I can make it look like you’re falling ill. We would leave just before you are buried.”

“Will they not notice a missing body?” he asked.

“You underestimate my magic, Prince Oryn. There will be a body buried.”

“You won’t-“

“Kill anyone?” I looked up from my work to meet his gaze. “Rob a grave? Of course not. I prefer more delicate methods.”

“Then how?” he insisted.

“Later. Cook will be here soon. Meet me in the stables tomorrow night.” I tossed him an apple before he left. “Sleep well, my prince.” I said, covering my ear once more.

“Goodnight, Eletta.” he said, looking thoughtful.

Forest Born (part 1)

In the wild corners of the world, home to strange magic and ancient creatures, lie great forests and fields seldom seen by human eyes. And ruling over these lands are those few are brave enough to name. Called the Folk, the Fair Ones, the Good Neighbors, the Fey could almost be mistaken for humans until one is too close for safety. They are known tricksters and troublemakers, prone to flights of fancy and fits of rage in equal measure.

Villages living on the edge of these lands are common prey to these Strangers. Enticing men and women into their territory to enspell them, gifting young children and expectant mothers with curses disguised as blessings. But by far the most complex of their games, and among their favorite, is that of replacing a child. Particularly bored Fey will hide themselves from human eyes and ride the wind into open windows, searching for an unguarded nursery. When one is found they will free the sleeping infant from their cradle, and leave in its place one of their own kind, made to look as exactly like the stolen babe as a reflection in a pond. The forest-born child, now removed from their mother and the magic that cradled them tighter than any parent, will cry an endless sea of tears, and the unfortunate humans will empty their larders in an effort to sate the changeling’s ceaseless appetite.

There are a handful of tricks to preventing such a kidnapping, and many more to convince the fairy thief to return the traded child, but to say which are effective would be as useless as determining how best to convince the wind to change direction. Should the wind even deign to listen is a question itself, and the argument that sways its path one day may be stubbornly ignored the next. The simplest solution, and the one most chose to take, was to stay away from such areas that attracted the attention of the troublesome folk.

Still there sat a village, hidden away and remembered by few, who stubbornly maintained their homes at the borders of the wildlands. When a child was taken, the parents would bundle up the offending replacement, roll up their sleeves and trudge their way into the forest to make the trade themselves. This was their way with their dangerous neighbors, to the amusement or annoyance of the forest people, one could not know.

So it happened that on one such occasion, when a child that was human was replaced by one that was distinctly not, the parents simply lifted the child from its bed and sang a lullaby to soothe him. It was with this wisdom that the parents handled every challenge they faced. When he ate his fill and still complained of hunger, his father went as deep into the forest as he dared to find the copper-colored berries none in the village dared pick. When he woke in the night, inconsolable, his mother sang to him of falling leaves and twisting vines.

They were, of course, asked by their human neighbors why they had not made the journey to retrieve their human offspring, but the pair provided no satisfactory answer. Once, his father said that a fair trade was made, and it was all the elder women spoke about for weeks. Later, his mother simply said that the child was hers, regardless of how he came to sleep in her crib, and would say no more when pressed.

Chosen Bride

This is a reimagining of a very old idea of mine that was initially intended to be a longer work. Because of this, there will likely be other posts related to this one. Please let me know what you think and how you might like to see this story progress.

In the palace of the emperor lives an honored group of maidens, known for their beauty and prodigious skill. Families of every background can send their daughters to court in hopes of joining them and eventually finding a husband. Men of the court took pride in affording the many services these women offer, among them singing, dancing, and magic, but their true worth was in their knowledge. Called the Dala, their most important skill is the trading of secrets and advising those wise enough to ask. It is for this reason that Prince Nerin sought to choose his bride form among their ranks.

Prince Nerin knew his duties well, and sought to use his rule to bring about an age of great prosperity for his father’s empire. He was well studied, and believed it more important to stabilize his territory rather than expand it, as his predecessors had chosen. In this vein, he had announced that he would not choose a foreign queen, and instead wed one of the Dala.

Many of the Dala threw themselves into their craft and wardrobes in their effort to catch the Prince’s attention. The least subtle among them would find themselves taking strolls along a path that would lead them past his highness. From the time of the announcement, the dining hall of the Dala buzzed with excitement as they shared their strategies for catching the eye of the prince.

Dala Mavka, however, made only a passive effort. She had heard firsthand the stories surrounding the previous consorts, and had decided that no amount of power or wealth could convince her to live under such scrutiny. She did not confide this opinion to the other Dala, or in fact any other living soul, and merely tried to pass her lack of effort as humility or shyness. When her friend Sema, a guard assigned to the Dala quarters, asked why she wasn’t trying as much as the others, she merely told him, “There are far more worthy women to receive the title of consort than I. Why waste my effort?”

Prince Nerin met with each of the Dala in turn, and when Mavka’s turn came, she resolved to be as plainly polite as she could. Surely the other Dala had already told him all the information he could want, and she was not so proud as to think that her talents were outstanding enough to need to downplay them. She entered his chamber carrying a hand woven robe she had beaded with hundreds of tiny gray pearls. Keeping her head down, she presented the garment to the prince, who politely complimented her workmanship.

“If it pleases your highness,” she said, “I have been asked to perform for you.”

He motioned for her to begin with disinterest, but she was pleased to note that by the end of the dance the prince was enraptured. She kept her motions light and elegant as she served their meal and waited for him to speak.

“You are a gifted dancer.” he admitted as she sat. “But what can you tell me of the empire?”

“Many things, your highness, though perhaps few of them of use to you.” she replied simply. “I could recite many moments in history that your highness has certainly heard before. I could sing the poems written of your father’s bravery in battle. And I could inform you of every scrap of gossip that is whispered throughout this palace. But none of these things would make you a better ruler.”

She felt his gaze on her as he studied her and asked, “Then what could you tell me that would make me a better ruler?”

“Nothing, your highness.” she said.

“Nothing?” he repeated. “Are you so quick to admit your own uselessness?”

“Yes, your highness.” she stated, wondering if this was some sort of test she was failing. She pressed on. “There is nothing I could possibly say that would change the type of ruler you will become. I can only give you my own knowledge and opinion. What you do with such knowledge is entirely your own choice.” she waited to see his reaction, wondering if she had offended him.

His posture seemed thoughtful, though, and when she lifted her gaze to his face, she found her vision clouded. She could not even determine what he looked like, much less gauge his expression. She wondered why he had chosen to put on such a spell.

Finally he spoke. “You are wise, Dala Mavka, and honest. I thank you for your insight.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice.

Hesitantly she asked, “Are you mocking me, your highness?”

“Not at all. Merely reflecting on your efforts to disinterest me.” he said.

A hint of panic lodged in her throat. “I am doing no such thing!” she insisted. “Every Dala has put in much effort to impress your highness. It would be arrogant and ungrateful of me to hide my talents.”

He seemed to be smiling. “I do not mean to insult your abilities, Dala. Your craftmanship is exquisite. But I refer to your conversation, and lack of flattery. You wish to disinterest me and offend me just enough that I will look elsewhere for my consort. Why?”

She stumbled for words, trying to understand how he had seen through her so clearly. “The others are far more deserving of your attention, your highness.” she stuttered. “Your consort must be one who will support you in all things-“

He raised a hand to stop her rambling. “Do you think so? Should I not have a wife who is willing to challenge me in the event that I might make a mistake? Should I surround myself with those who merely echo my own thoughts back at me?” he pressed.

“I meant no offense, your highness.” she blurted.

“Of course not.” he said. “And I am not offended. I merely wish for you to understand. May I be frank with you?”

She felt like she was floundering, stumbling through the conversation with the grace of a newborn pup. “Of course, your highness.”

“The Dala that I have met previously have done nothing but flatter and preen. Even the most intelligent and impressive among them fell over themselves in their attempts to impress me. I desire a bride who can be honest without being rude, wise without being proud. You are the only one thus far to meet these expectations.” he explained.

She stared at him outright now. “Surely my lord does not think so highly of me after a single meeting?”

He laughed, and the sound was one that was inexplicably familiar. “Do you not recognize me, Mavka? Perhaps I should remove the spell.”

At his words he passed his hand over his face, and his features came into clear relief. She looked at his crooked nose and solid chin, the glint of glee in his bright green eyes. As if to confirm what she was seeing, he removed his elegant outer robe to reveal a guard’s uniform. She had never before met the prince, but this man was familiar.

“Sema?” she asked, bewildered. “Is this a trick?”

“Of a sort.” he said, his voice changed to the one she recognized. “More like the reveal of one. I do apologize for lying to you, all this time.”

She leaned back, unable to comprehend what this meant. She had spoken to Sema that morning. He had helped to calm her nerves about this meeting. He had been her first friend to make upon her arrival at the palace mere months ago. The guard whom she had confided in the most was the heir to the throne and future ruler of the empire. Her first instinct was to shove him, as she had so often done when Sema had played a trick on her. Her second was to kneel down and beg forgiveness for all the times she’d shoved the prince.

“You… Pretended to be a guard in your own court.” she said numbly.

“I did.” he admitted. “It was the best way to stop all the preening.”

“You told me the prince was an arrogant prick.” she added.

“Something I have been told on many occasions.” he agreed.

“You told me this morning that I had nothing to worry about!” she accused.

He stifled a laugh as she glared at him. “You didn’t though, did you? You were afraid of meeting a stuffy, vain stranger.”

“And instead I have the privilege of meeting a stuffy, vain acquaintance.” she said before she had the chance to regret it. She clapped her hands over her mouth in horror, but the prince was laughing again. “This isn’t funny!” she said. “Do you know what people would say if they heard me speak to you like that?”

“They already have.” he noted. “There were many times you did so quite loudly.”

She thought back to all the times she had scolded him in front of the other Dala and their guards. “Those soldiers…?” she asked.

“Knew my true identity and were tasked with protecting me. My father’s idea, really. It would have been better if they hadn’t known, either.”

Mavka was mortified. That meant that half the palace guards knew how she had spoken to the prince. “And the others?” she asked. “Have you revealed your trickery to them?”

“The others took no notice of Sema.” he replied. “I didn’t even have to enchant my features for them.”

She sighed. “So I was the only fool among them.”

The prince’s manner softened. “No, Mavka. You were the only one to take notice of the people around you. None of the others could call a single guard by name. They are too busy gossiping about the noblemen. You’re not a fool.” he assured her.

“And how shall I address you now? Sema? My lord?” she asked.

“Nerin, if you don’t mind.” he said.

“I couldn’t possibly!” she argued. “You are far too highly ranked above me.”

“It is no more ridiculous a request as when you called me Sema. That was, after all, my childhood nickname.”

Mavka left the meal furious at her friend, but comforted by the thought that with all she had said and done with Sema, there was no chance of Prince Nerin choosing her as his bride. He had simply been teasing her when he had called her wise. The other Dala were not so vain as all that, after all.

Unfortunately, this train of thinking was interrupted as she entered the Dala’s quarters to find them all sitting before their mirrors, discussing how best to attract his highness’ attention.

To the Wolves

Once again, this is an old piece of writing, so please let me know what I could do to improve it. Written 8 November 2017

One night, in an act of desperation and extreme sorrow, I literally threw myself to the wolves. Just after midnight, I ran, leaving my shoes and cloak behind. I continued deep into the forest until I was exhausted and my toes were numb. Lost, tired, and melancholy I curled up against a stump and watched for the glint if yellow-green eyes.

When they finally arrived, my eyelids were heavy and I was shivering. The first to approach me was black as the night around me. As such, the only part of him I could see clearly was his eyes. We looked at each other for what felt like an eternity, and eventually he walked up and lay himself down next to me. At that, the rest of the pack followed suit, and I fell asleep in the midst of a living blanket.

This was only the first surprise, for when I woke, I discovered not only did they have no wish to end my life, but they could speak. I discovered this shortly after waking, as the night-colored wolf asked me if I was warm enough.

After my initial shock wore off, I told the pack my story, and they accepted me as one of them. For the wolves were all once like me, and the dark one who approached me was the first, a sorcerer who’d wanted true separation from mankind. They taught me how to change form and I have been running with them ever since.

One night, I threw myself to the wolves, only to learn of their gentleness.

Into Battle

Prompt: “My sword is bright. My arm is strong. My grip is sure.” Written 11 November 2017 (like the last post, let me know what you think I could do to improve this post, as I might rewrite it in the future)

I stepped quietly into the tent, adjusting my armguard and watched as the soldier knelt, eyes closed with his sword in his hands.

“My sword is bright” he chanted. “My arm is strong. My grip is sure.” I leaned on a post and sighed loudly.

“And my patience with these pre-battle affirmations is wearing thin. Are we going to battle or not? The enemy does not wait.” I informed him.

“Are you so eager to ride into bloodshed?” he asked.

“Ride? I do not ride. I run headfirst, screaming and cursing, like a true mercenary.” he glared.

“Good men die on the battlefield, you blasphemous woman.” he growled.

“Good men die off the battlefield, you lumbering oaf. Daily.” I replied. “Now get ready to go, husband. I meant it when I said our dear friend will not wait.”

“The dear friend who wants to kill us, you mean.”

I grinned. “Yes, him. Now hurry up.”