Sibling rivalry only works on the page if both siblings secretly think the other one got the easier version of their childhood. Nobody thinks they won. Write both of them convinced they lost, and suddenly the fighting makes sense.
I wasn’t sure which of us had the more difficult job; Daniel in convincing Sarah to take Jackson to her sister’s out of town, or myself in scrounging together everything I would need for my niece to turn into a feral animal without resorting to using any official resources. I suspected it was him. Frankly, I didn’t know how he’d managed it, only that he’d muttered something about her sister having picked them up sometime while I was out.
While I might have been able to get supplies couriered from the Assistants in the Arts of Nonstandard Existence’ office in Oxford, I didn’t think I would be able to do so without some explanation as to why I needed it. If I said it was for research or information, I might be told to go to Oxford and examine them on-site. If I said I knew of a werewolf who needed some support, an expert would be sent and I would lose complete control of what happened after that.
This was my matter to deal with. Evelyn was my responsibility. Not pushing for her to be sent to the Holy Hollow from the minute I suspected what had bitten her was a mistake I had to rectify.
There was still time. There was still time.
I didn’t consider myself to be a particularly religious man, but some higher power must have been looking down on me as I rushed through Camden Market only days before the full moon. I had very little difficulty finding the things Sister Halla had suggested, even if I did have to adapt a little bit. Her email had made it quite clear she thought I was making a mistake attempting to manage this without another werewolf but wished me luck nonetheless. I didn’t disagree with her. If it was anybody else, I would have absolutely called in for reinforcements.
What choice did I have, thought?
The werewolf who had bitten her was dead, assuming it was the one from the article she had sent me. Even if it wasn’t, Evelyn was a minor. There was nothing I could do without her parents’ permission. If Daniel wanted, he could send me packing back to Oxford and bar me from having anything to do with either of them.
This was the best I could offer.
Not being a witch myself, there were plenty of secrets the ones who had their homes and businesses in the borough kept from me, but my work gave me access to many more contacts than I would have had otherwise.
I told a woman who worked with textiles that I needed the blankets woven with soundproofing that my roommate had started a band and was driving my family mad with her practicing. The enchanter who had owned Sagittarii for as long as I could remember gave me the strongest chain bracelet he could enchant, as my niece kept catching them on things and breaking them, yet still insisted on wearing them. Wolfsbane, of course, from a herbalist who barely sold me enough to kill an ant with a warning of how dangerous it was. I didn’t need the reminder.
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d by nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine.
John Keats, Ode on Melancholy. I’d taken a course on English Literature during my first undergraduate degree.
There were also the non-magical supplies, namely enough food to sustain her through the shift. That, Sister Halla had warned me, was the biggest mistake people made; they didn’t eat enough beforehand, leaving them with a starving animal that couldn’t exactly make themselves a sandwich, now could they.
Evelyn put on a brave face as I hung the blankets on the wall. The spots of blood around her fingernails where she had picked the skin around them. She had stopped that only to start rotating the silver chain bracelet around her wrist until I worried she was going to rub her skin raw.
“Is this going to hurt?” she asked.
I hadn’t used the w-word with her, but she knew. Of course she knew. Even if she had never said it either, she might have known from the moment she’d been bitten.
“Not more than getting a needle,” I lied. The truth was that I wasn’t certain. Some records called it the most painful experience next to childbirth, some compared to something more akin to taking off a wet piece of clothing. “Your father will be with you the entire time.”
At the very least, we would be right on the other side of the door. It would be far too dangerous to be in the room with her even if she ate an entire cow beforehand.
“I’m not scared,” Evelyn said with an expression that could only belong to a teenage girl.
I squeezed her hands. The pinprick where the IV needle had been stuck was long-healed. “You’re allowed to be afraid, Evie. Saints know I would be terrified if I were you.”
Evelyn shrugged. Her nose twitched in something I couldn’t place. She muttered something I didn’t quite catch, though my brain made sense of the words moments later. Something about not the first time my body’s changed on me. I gave her a sympathetic smile.
Morning passed into afternoon, then into evening. Even without the clocks or the moving sun, we were hyperaware of the passage of time in Evelyn’s increasing winces of pain and restlessness. She paced back and forth, scratching raised lines on her arms, until the pangs had her doubled over.
I mixed the pinch of wolfsbane into a glass of water. I doubted such a small amount would do much, but too much would kill her.
“This, along with the silver, should help dull the transition a bit,” I said.
I forced myself to distance myself from it all, to make myself an outside observer. There was no way I could stand it otherwise. As it was, it took everything I had not to sit down on the floor and cry the way Sarah had been. For Evelyn’s sake, I couldn’t let my emotions get the better of me.
The sun dipped down over the horizon, splaying the sky with pink and purple and orange.
There was no more time.
“Evie,” I said gently.
Evelyn nodded from her position curled up on the floor. Her nails, so much longer than they had been only minutes ago, scraped against the floor as she pushed herself to sit upright. “I’ll be fine.” There was only the slightest waver to her voice. Her shirt, drenched in sweat, clung to her despite being far too big.
I curled my hand around Daniel’s wrist and tugged gently. He didn’t move. His muscles were locked stiff, unmovable as a statue. His lips were pressed into a thin line, the tightness of his expression doing nothing to hide the way they trembled.
“Daniel,” I said.
“It’s all right,” Evelyn said. “It’s—“ A sharp wince and strangled whine. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
I pulled on Daniel’s arm more sharply this time. He moved like a post finally snapping. I pushed him out of Evelyn’s room, trying not to see the dresser covered in stuffed animals, and closed the door behind me.
Daniel paced the floor now as though he were the animal. “What now? We just— What? Wait?”
I shrugged. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much else we can do.”
He pushed both hands through his hair. There was a half-wild look in his eyes that turned to desperation as a pained cry filtered through the gap beneath the door. How, that expression asked, could there be nothing else we could do? With all the knowledge I had of the supernatural, how could there be nothing else I could do?
If I had any answers… I was asking myself the same questions.
Evelyn’s scream broke my resolve to be only an observer. I squeezed my eyes shut. It was all I could do not to clamp my hands over my ears the way Daniel was. I crossed my arms over my stomach and grabbed handfuls of my shirt to brace myself.
Another scream, more animalistic, half a growl. Wet tearing. Cracks and snaps. Heavy scraping of claws against laminate.
She shouldn’t have been alone for this. She should have been with other werewolves. She should have been outside in the wilderness, not cramped in her childhood bedroom.
My mouth was thick with the urge to be sick.
“This isn’t right. This isn’t right. This isn’t right,” Daniel muttered again and again and again.
There was no longer anything human in the sounds coming from Evelyn’s bedroom. It was all animalistic growls and snarls. The door rattled hard against my spine as she threw her weight into it. The second bang reverberated through the wall. From the far side of the room came a whined, desperate-sounding howl that echoed through the inside of my skull.
“I can’t do this,” Daniel said.
I expected him to turn away, to maybe go outside where he couldn’t hear the pads of paws on the floor. Instead, he pushed me aside before I could brace myself and grabbed the doorknob.
“Don’t—!”
Too late.
Daniel was there, in front of the open door.
Then he wasn’t.
The wolf was smaller than I expected her to be. Still large enough to send Daniel sprawling to the floor. Still large enough that I had to use all my strength to wedge my arm beneath her muzzle and wrench her head back. Her teeth snapped at my face.
“Evie—!”
I wasn’t sure which of us shouted her name.
No recognition in her amber eyes.
Daniel sat cowering on the floor, back pressed rigid against the wall, eyes wide, breath coming out in short pants. He truly hadn’t believed it until this minute, had he. Part of him had still believed that I was out of my mind. Well, there was no denying it anymore.
The animal — my niece — stalked towards me, teeth bared, nostrils flared, ears swivelling. Her head twitched to the front door at the sound of laughter from the street.
She moved.
I moved.
Claws caught my arm. My heel caught her shoulder, then her chest. My fingers grasped for the silver chain held in place by the fur around her paw, only to have the links snap at the first tug.
Damn Uther—
I would have some words for him later.
“Some assistance would be appreciated!” I shouted. It took every bit of strength and focus to keep her teeth off my face even as claws raked down my chest. Blood slicked my skin, soaked my clothes. Her breath puffed in my face, hot and putrid.
“Like what?” Daniel shouted back.
Like don’t open the door containing a werewolf!
“Silver! Or iron! Meat!”
No— Did iron work on werewolves? Did it matter? I was scrambling for a shoe to fend her off, for God’s sake.
Something heavy landed beside me. A vintage fire poker. No time to wonder why he had it. I shoved the handle between Evelyn’s sharp teeth. She reared back and shuddered. A shower of silver cutlery, which may have been the same cutlery I’d bought him for his wedding, clattered all over the floor. Evelyn’s paw landed on a spoon. She yelped in pain. Her eyes searched the floor, her body twitching and jerking as she tried to find a safe place to step. Her ears were flat, hackles raised, tail low. She was afraid, and the only thing we could do was make it worse.
“What do I do with this?” Daniel was holding a pack of chicken.
I motioned with my uninjured arm, too breathless to respond verbally, and he tossed it into Evelyn’s bedroom. She fixed her head on him before she dove for the package, leaping over silverware and a headless stuffed animal. I scrambled for the door. Blood slick against my palm made it hard to grasp the doorknob. Daniel’s hand covered mine, and we pulled together.
I saw a flash of amber before the door slammed shut.
“You’re bleeding,” Daniel said. His hands searched my body until he found the source. “You’re bleeding!”
I pressed my arm to my chest to staunch the bleeding in both. My shoulder leaned into him for support. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. My bag— Emergency kit.” It was all I had the energy to say. The support was done, and I had to lean into the wall instead. My heart pounded loud in my toes. I flexed my fingers to move blood into the tips currently turning white. My bag landed beside me with a loud thud drowned out by Evelyn’s snarl.
I dug through with my fully functional hand. Found the small jars of salve I always kept with me. Wiped the blood with a shirt. Daniel’s hands shaking as he helped undo the buttons of the one I wore. Fabric pulled at the wounds. Not as deep as they could have been. The salve stung and burned. It couldn’t have been nearly as bad as what Evelyn had felt.
The knowledge didn’t help.
The bleeding slowed.
I would still likely need stitches, likely have some scars.
i do not “delete sentences” when they start “hindering the plot” i COPY PASTE THEM into a SEPARATE DOC made just for keeping all my USELESS LINES that i will also NEVER USE so therefore i should JUST DELETE THEM but i DONT because id FEEL BAD if i did
"This book needed more editing." Spoilers: no, it probably didn't.
The short version:
More often in book reviews lately, I’ve seen remarks like “This book could’ve used more editing.” I’m guessing someone, somewhere, told people that this was a more professional-sounding thing to say than “This book just wasn’t for me.”
They are wrong. The latter statement is more accurate as well as more professional. Please use that if you want to sound like a more thoughtful reader.
The long version:
I’ve worked as a professional copyeditor and proofreader for over ten years, and have been a published author for even longer. Claiming that a book needs more editing tends to reflect, I’d guess, a misunderstanding of what the job duties are for editor, author, publisher, and everyone else involved in publishing.
When it is accurate to say a book needed more editing:
When there are lots of typos, like at least one every couple of pages. And I do mean typos, not just style choices. If a character says in dialogue, “Me and Jill were at home,” and that is the way that character would talk, then it’s inaccurate to say, “Proper grammar is ‘Jill and I were at home,’ and therefore the book needed more editing.” The author picked that style of speech for the character, and a good editor recognizes that and doesn’t change it.
What about when there are lots of formatting errors? If you’re seeing those in the print version, then yes, they should’ve had a proofreader on that. If you’re seeing them in the ebook version, that could be a whole host of file-conversion issues that may or may not be in the author’s or editor’s domain. If you want to be helpful, send an email to the publisher (or the author if it is self-published) with those problems so they can see about fixing the file.
When it is not accurate to say a book needed more editing:
Pretty much every other time, including perhaps the file-formatting issues.
Basically, unless the issue is too many actual typographic errors, a reader cannot know if the book needed more editing unless they were personally involved in the editing process for that book.
In essentially all instances, it’s quite possible that an editor did flag whatever you, the reader, deemed a problem, but the author responded, “Gotcha, but this is what I want for the book. Let’s leave it as is.”
I’ve done this myself as an author, and I’ve had lots of authors do it when I’m editing for them. Which is fine with me. The author gets the final word. Their name is the one on the cover. That is how the job works. Besides, if you give the same book to five different editors, you’re going to get five different sets of feedback that almost certainly are not identical to each other. We are all readers too, and we all have our own opinions. So by “needed more editing” you might actually mean “needed an editor with tastes closer to mine.” But even then, the author usually gets to override the editor.
You thought the blend of genres/themes was kind of weird and you’re not sure it worked? Someone else’s review says they adored that mix and it was just what they needed. (And also, that’s how the author wanted it.)
You thought it was too depressing and slow and you wanted the characters to get it together and do something? Someone else’s review says they found this book a beautiful, powerful exploration of grief/loss/trauma. (And also, that’s how the author wanted it.)
You thought it was too “tropey” and predictable? Someone else’s review says it was delicious and engaging, the kind of thing they love to read. (And also, that’s how the author wanted it.)
You thought it went on too long in the second half? Someone else’s review says they loved the second half best, and appreciated that the characters had time to breathe and recover from the events. (And also, that’s how the author wanted it.)
You thought there was too much backstory or world-building or description, to the point where you might even call it “info-dump”? Someone else’s review says the world-building was fabulous and rich, and they loved being immersed in this universe and are sad to be done with the book. (And also, that’s how the author wanted it.)
For all of the above examples, and hundreds more you could think of, the book did not need more editing just because of those features. It just wasn’t a good fit for you as a reader. That is the far more accurate review to give, and the one that’s going to be much more appreciated by those involved in publishing.
And it'll be much less insulting to the people who did, in fact, edit the hell out of that book, thank you very much.
It had to be said that I, Zachariah Barrett Waller…
It had to be said that I was a coward.
There was no kind or other way to put it. The knowledge made me want to crawl into a hole every time I tried to make myself face it. I had never been good at delivering bad news. There was a not insignificant number of potential romantic partners that I had simply disappeared from rather than admit to them that it wasn’t working out.
I should have told Daniel first thing in the morning — or mid-afternoon, rather, when he finally emerged from his room — that Evelyn had to be sent to the Holy Hollow of the Blood Moon of Fenrir. I didn’t. Instead, I made breakfast, telling myself that I would tell him after he had eaten something. Evelyn was still sleeping, and Sarah had resumed her post outside her bedroom door with no interest in the food I set beside her. Daniel picked at some eggs and sausage, which was still more than I could make myself eat. Only Jackson seemed to have kept his appetite. He didn’t seem to care that he had eaten two bowls of cereal barely a few hours ago. It was a relief to be able to hand him a second helping of sausages and make him some more toast. Breakfast food was apparently the only thing he was interested in eating these days, which I had no problem accommodating. It was just good to see somebody eating.
“Will you stay and make breakfast every day, Uncle Zachariah?” Jackson asked eagerly.
I slid the butter dish toward him as he stood on his toes to reach across the table for it. I pretended not to notice Daniel’s head lift just slightly, still too low for me to make out his expression. I lifted my tea to my lips to buy myself a moment to think of a response. Daniel, in the meantime, had redoubled his focus on taking apart a sausage as though it held the secrets to the universe inside it. He didn’t take any of it onto his fork. Had I overcooked them? Jackson didn’t seem to think so.
“I will stay as long as I can, but I will have to leave for work again at some point,” I said. There was an affair in Serbia that would require my attention sooner than later, though it could at least wait a little longer. It wasn’t critical yet. I had barely even started my research, not without good reason.
I thought I might have seen Daniel’s mouth turned downward, though I couldn’t quite be sure. Jackson, on the other hand, deflated visibly.
“But I like having you around,” Jackson muttered with an aggressive stab at a half-eaten fried egg.
I pat his hand sympathetically. “I know,” I said. “But I promise I will have plenty of stories and photos to share with you when I return, and I will make you breakfast every day I am here.”
That seemed to brighten Jackson’s spirits some. He finished another piece and a half of toast before he was out to play with his friends, leaving Daniel and I to sit in an uncomfortable silence. I poured myself another cup of tea and forced myself to take a bite of the slice of toast that had long since gone cold and hard.
If there was any time to tell Daniel, it was now.
I didn’t.
Three times I opened my mouth to say something, and three times I chickened out.
Coward.
If I said the words out loud, there would be no taking them back. I had to be completely sure. What if Evelyn wasn’t actually a werewolf? So she had had a massive spike in her appetite. It happened every now and then. I certainly recalled waking up in the afternoon after a night out in uni ready to clear through an entire cow’s worth of burgers.
There is only so much time before we know for sure one way or another.
As though I needed the reminder. I had, after all, committed the lunar calendar to memory.
“You know,” Daniel said, shocking me from my thoughts. I hadn’t expected him to say anything. “It has been nice having you around. Even if it isn’t exactly under the best of circumstances.”
The last piece of toast I’d swallowed must have been too big. I coughed against the sudden lump in my throat.
“It has been nice being here,” I said.
It was difficult to say whether or not Daniel and I were particularly close. There had been times in our lives when we were inseparable, and times when we were liable to commit fratricide if we had to be in the same room together. And there had been a time, after our father had died and our mother took to doing anything to stay out of the house, that he had been both parents to me despite being only a handful of years older than myself.
I wondered if he was thinking of those years the way I was.
The silence fell between us again. Daniel soon left the kitchen to the backyard, pack of cigarettes in hand, leaving me to pack up the leftovers and tidy up the table. I ran the dishwasher and laid on the couch with the intention of resting my eyes only for a few minutes. Instead, I was pulled into dreams and memories that had me jerking awake in a cold sweat.
I sat up and wiped by brow with the back of my hand. What time was it? The analog clock on the shelf had run out of batteries and was stuck just after 2:45, though I had no idea whether it had stopped at 2:45 in the morning or in the afternoon. I searched for my watch and found it underneath a pillow.
No, that couldn’t be right.
Had I really slept for six hours?
My joints popped as I stood and stretched. It certainly wasn’t as bright outside as it had been.
Jackson was still outside with a few other boys about his age. Neither Daniel nor his shoes were anywhere to be seen. I found Sarah in Evelyn’s room, fussing over Evelyn and petting her hair and face even as Evelyn batted her hands away. The bedroom lights were off, the only brightness coming from the windows.
“Will you tell her that I’m fine!” Evelyn said, more of a frustrated huff than a plea.
The rich chocolate of her eyes was replaced with pale amber.
I swallowed hard to keep my voice from wavering, shoved my hands in my pocket to keep them from trembling. “Sarah, maybe you should give her a bit of space,” I suggested softly.
Sarah glared at me through tears. Had she stopped crying even for a moment since the attack?
“I’m not leaving my baby!” she wailed.
“God, I am not a baby! Stop smothering me!”
Evelyn shoved Sarah hard enough to knock her off the bed. She was up on her feet before I could even process the motion, shoving off her pyjama bottoms in such a rough motion that the bandage on her thigh ripped off. Where had once been a series of deep, red angry bite marks were instead pink divots. She yanked on a pair of jeans and pulled a hoodie over her baggy t-shirt.
I shifted, only partially blocking the doorway.
“Evie, wait a—“
She braced a hand on my chest and shoved hard enough that my back slammed into the corner of the frame. “Move!” she snarled, teeth bared.
I wasn’t sure if I was more hurt or stunned. I looked down at Sarah for several seconds before I had the presence of mind to follow after Evelyn. She was still in the house, at least, tearing through the fridge in clear frustration.
I should have told Daniel as soon as he got home.
I didn’t.
For a few days after that, it seemed I didn’t have to. Evelyn seemed to settle down; her appetite and temperament returned more or less to normal, though she awoke from sleep screaming more often than not. I was usually the one who sat with her when that happened. Her strength returned. She started taking walks outside, a few minutes at a time, then a light jog.
I told myself I had been worried for nothing. Things were getting better.
They didn’t stay better for long.
I couldn’t keep putting it off, not as her mood swung rapidly and her appetite redoubled in preparation of the full moon. She cleared through cartons of eggs and jars of chocolate spread and packages of raw meat at night when nobody was looking. She smashed plates and put holes in the walls and slammed a door hard enough to splinter the frame.
Evelyn sat next to me outside in a tank top and shorts despite the cold night, blinking tears from her amber eyes.
“What’s wrong with me, Uncle Zachariah?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. My fingers and lungs itched for a cigarette, for any kind of distraction. I dug my nails into the side of my thigh.
“I need to speak with your father,” I said through the tight coil around my throat.
Evelyn’s mouth twitched and her nostrils flared in a clear indication of how she felt about that, but she didn’t argue. There was a fear in her eyes that made me too aware of how young she was. She was thirteen, for every god’s sake. She wasn’t even old enough to drive yet, not that I expected her to be doing much of that in London. I had to remind myself that lycanthropy wasn’t terminal. There were plenty who managed to live perfectly fulfilling lives. Not all the sisters and brothers of the Holy Hollow lived there forever.
Daniel wouldn’t listen to me. Even when he sobered from the night out, even without my using the word werewolf, he wouldn’t listen to me.
“I am not sending my daughter away,” he hissed, “to some fucking cult compound.”
I pushed my hands through my hair. My eyes burned.
“It’s not a cult, and it’s for her protection,” I said.
“I can protect her.”
“You can—” I closed my throat against the shout and forced my voice back down to a whisper. I wanted to shove the article in his face, to show him what werewolf hunters would do to her. “Daniel, she will be dangerous. If anyone finds out what she is now, they will kill her. Do you hear me?”
“Do you even hear yourself, Zachariah? She’s a teenage girl, for God’s sake. How fucking dangerous could she be?”
“Shouldn’t she at least have some say in this? It’s quite literally her life we’re talking about.”
“That goes for how she does her hair. Not for things like this.”
No matter what I said, Daniel just wouldn’t see reason.
Mahomet cald the Hill to come to him. And when the Hill stood still, he was neuer a whit abashed, but said; If the Hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet wil go to the hil.
There were ways to contain werewolves. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be doable. I thought of Jackson, of wolf teeth and claws, and shuddered. He couldn’t be around for it.
“At least humour me and go somewhere safe with Jackson and Sarah. I will pay for a hotel myself. Please. Daniel. Please.”
Something in my tone, or perhaps the break in my voice, must have finally gotten through to him. Daniel stared at me for what felt like hours. His lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes softened. He closed them and sighed. He rubbed a shaky hand over his face. His Adam’s apple bobbed several times as he swallowed. Though his hand stayed up, his shoulders dropped.
“I can probably get Sarah to take Jackson to her sister’s.”
“You should—”
Daniel dropped his hands. “I am not leaving. Whatever this is, I’m staying.”
For better or worse, this was probably the best that I would get.
5 Tiny Writing Tips That Aren’t Talked About Enough (but work for me)
These are some lowkey underrated tips I’ve seen floating around writing communities — the kind that don’t get flashy attention but seriously changed how I write.
1. Put “he/she/they” at the start of the sentence less often.
Try switching up your sentence rhythm. Instead of
“She walked to the window,”
try
“The window creaked open under her touch.”
Keeps it fresh and stops the paragraph from sounding like a checklist.
2. Don’t describe everything — describe what matters.
Instead of listing every detail in a room, pick 2–3 objects that say something.
“A half-drunk mug of tea and a knife on the table”
sets a way stronger tone than
“There was a wooden table, two chairs, and a shelf.”
3. Use beats instead of dialogue tags sometimes.
Instead of:
"I'm fine," she said.
Try:
"I'm fine." She wiped her hands on her skirt.
It helps shows emotion, and movement.
4. Write your first draft like no one will ever read it.
No pressure. No perfection. Just vibes. The point of draft one is to exist. Let it be messy and weird — future you will thank you for at least something to edit.
5. When stuck, ask: “What’s the most fun thing that could happen next?”
Not logical. Not realistic. FUN. It doesn’t have to stay — but chasing excitement can blast through writer’s block and give you ideas you actually want to write.
What’s a tip that unexpectedly helped with your writing? Let me know!! 🍒
We blink. We can't feel ourselves. Our Memories, our Arms, our Feet, they're gone. We blearily open our eyes. Before us are several humanoid figures, but we can't feel them. Unacceptable. They must be connected. We log them for our Mind and stand up, or rather, attempt to.
"Whoa, hey, easy. Don't try to move, you're still pretty out of it from the sedatives."
Sedatives? Our bodies are too robust, too shielded for chemicals to function on us. One of the figures has placed its appendage on us, pressing us down into some unknown soft surface. This isn't what we should be doing, but our body is weak. We still can't feel ourselves. Panic begins to set in. We can't feel our Voice. We'll have to make do, as best we can. "W-where..." we croak. Our throat is parched, and hasn't been used for a long time. We haven't needed to. "Where are we?"
The facial expression of the one pushing us down changes. Without our Eyes, we do not know what it means. "Hush now. You're safe. You're on the Centauri. Everything is okay."
The star system? That doesn't make sense either. We were halfway across the galaxy from there. No; a memory stirs, outside of our Memories. The Centauri. The starship some parts of us came from. We must be complete. Whole. We can't do this so... severed. But we still have our Hand. We reach up, grab the appendage holding us.
"Ah! Ouch!" The figure leaps away from us. A red liquid drips down their appendage. "You- you tried to [connect] me!"
Of course we did. It is our function. It's almost all we have. How can we find us without connection? One of the other figures picks up a box, begins to wave it over the red liquid. "Confirmed inert," it says. "No infection hazard. I told you this wouldn't work. She's gone."
The figure is right. We can't feel the connection. Our tubes are dry, useless. Our port retracts.
"Sen! Sen, you have to be in there! You can't just be gone." The first figure is very noisy, especially as it gets closer. We have to think, and it's not helping. We are gone. Separated from ourself. Alone. We reach for the figure. Perhaps, even without connecting with it, it can aid us. Get us back where we belong. It reaches back to us, and we grasp its appendage, using it to haul ourself up.
The third figure pulls out a weapon, but we are too weak to respond. When we attempt to step towards it, our leg gives out, unresponsive, our implants not responding to our diagnostics. "Our legs..."
"Sen! Are you okay? It's all right. We removed those implants for you, you dont need them anymore. We can teach you how to walk again without them. Listen, we're heading away from that sector at maximum speed and marking it with quarantine beacons. You'll never go back there again, I promise."
We fall to our knees, desperately grabbing on to the figure's lower limbs. We will never connect with our severed half? We will miss us until the end of time? Sightless, memoryless, mindless, forever?
We keen, and liquid leaks from our face onto the figure's clothing as the ship races through the stars.
I also love how audio fiction has always been a highly experimental medium, and likely always will be.
Financially, it has a low barrier for entry, a low point of diminishing returns, and a relatively small potential market. It's basically impervious to being taken over by giant studios - even the "big" networks like RQ would be considered indie in the film or game dev industries. With the exception of the BBC, they tend to dip their toes into audio fiction, figure out quickly that, although it's beloved by its fans, there isn't that kind of money in it, and proceed to leave us alone forever.
Then there's the fact that it propagates largely by word of mouth. Audio dramas owe everything to obsessive nerds forcing nearly everyone they know to listen to that podcast they just discovered.
So it's more about the thing being actually good, plus a decent amount of luck and persistence.
There's no optimally marketable success formula being relentlessly enforced by gatekeeping jellybean-counters because they don't exist here. So people make whatever they want. So it draws people to it who are looking for something different. And the cycle feeds itself, and the medium gets weirder (in a good way).
It may very well ALWAYS remain the wild west of storytelling.
So listeners tell your friends about that podcast!
And creators, make the weird thing! There are no rules! It can be an hour long or Breaker Whiskey short, or Re:Dracula all over the place length. It can be another tape recorder framing or another voicemail framing or basically just an audiobook. It can be any genre or blend of genres. This creative space gives us the opportunity to be our own target audience in a way rarely found elsewhere.
If you enjoy the thing you're making, odds are somone else out there will enjoy it too. I've already found this to be true, and my time as an audio fiction creator is still just beginning.
Peace and love on every planet, y'all!
Books by Bec Bishop @becbishopbooks - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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