lions and girls

haley, 20, enfj. shitty writer and lion enthusiast. writing sideblog for this loser.

[pantherasleo]

god rest ye merry hufflepuffs

god rest ye merry hufflepuffs

 Athos liked Hogwarts best when it was empty.  The halls were quieter, the Slytherin common room more cozy, even the Great Hall closer and more comfortable.  Nobody bothered Athos in the library, and he could walk the grounds without having to dodge hordes of excitable first years.  Athos was glad that he'd chosen to stay at Hogwarts over the winter holidays.  Even the staff was gone—only the headmaster and the Potions professor remained, and they were perfectly content to leave Athos to his own devices.  

Athos, having been given run of the library, stretched.  He'd been reading a book on Transfiguration, because there was no one around to tell him not too, and he was half-tempted to find the caretaker's cat and turn her into a teacup.  Athos was only a second-year, but he thought he understood the theory.  

Really, Athos thought, carefully replacing the book and heading towards the dungeons, where the cat usually liked to skulk about, I should ask to stay over the summer holidays, too.  It's not like I'm going to be in the way.

If he went home over the summer, Athos would likely be stuck in dress robes from dawn til dusk, bored out of his skull and forced to talk to all of the other pureblooded kids.  Athos saw plenty of them at school already.

I could live in the kitchens with the house elves, even.  

Athos took the stairs down two at a time.  After spending a few days here by himself, he'd figured out the staircases' pattern, and knew he wouldn't fall.  He didn’t see the caretaker's cat in the Great Hall, though he did run into the Potions professor, or in the dungeons.  Disappointed, Athos turned back around and headed towards the Slytherin common room.  

Maybe I can find a mouse or something.  Would the house elves bring him a mouse, if he asked?  He didn't really know how the house elves at Hogwarts worked.  They made all the food and kept the common rooms clean, but Athos had never actually seen one.  Maybe if he figured out how to get in the kitchens—

Athos froze.  

The dungeons were completely silent, like they usually were, but Athos thought he'd heard—

Voices.  

"I can hear you!"  he said, drawing his wand.  He was only twelve, but his father had taught him some hexes over the summer holidays—"A man has to know how to defend himself," his father had said, gruffly—and Athos never missed. "Come out!"

From behind one of the pillars, a childish voice said, "Does he mean it, d'you think?"

Athos bristled.  "Of course I mean it!"  he snapped, in his most imperious tone.  "Now come out, before I have to come get you."

Two boys shuffled out from behind the pillar, looking sheepish.  One was very tall and the other very small.  The tall one wore Muggle jeans and a chunky sweater in Hufflepuff yellow and black.  The small one had robes on, and was wearing a Gryffindor tie, a Hufflepuff scarf, and what Athos thought were Ravenclaw socks.  He didn't recognize either of them, which meant they weren't in his year, and there was no way the small one was a third year.  

First years then, Athos thought, with great disgust.  Hufflepuff first years at that. He glared at the two boys suspiciously.

"What are you doing down here?" he said.  "It's winter holidays.  Shouldn't you be at home?"

"Shouldn't you?"  the big Hufflepuff—and he was very tall for a first year, a good head taller than Athos and sturdy, too, though Athos was determined not to be intimidated—shot back, scowling.  

The other one, however, smiled brightly.  "Porthos wanted to stay for Christmas," he said.  "And I wanted to stay with Porthos.  Hogwarts is bigger when it's empty, isn't it? We've been lost for hours!"

"What are you doing down here?" Athos repeated, exasperated.  "The Hufflepuff common room is two floors up."

"We know where the common room is," the big one, Porthos, said. "We just, er.  Don't know how to get there."  

Athos stared at them.  He had never seen a more mismatched pair in his life, now that he thought about it. In his parents' circles, everyone was more or less the same.  Everyone dressed the same, talked the same, had the same expressions.  

Porthos was a bit, well.  Scruffy, was the nicest way Athos could put it.  His trainers were mismatched and his jeans had been ripped and mended many times over.  The wand sticking out of the back of his jeans was decidedly secondhand.  

The other boy's robes were in good condition, and his wand had no scuffs or scratches.  He was also still smiling at Athos, wide and cheerful, while Porthos was eyeing him warily.

Athos sighed, and put away his wand.  He didn't think his Transfiguration was good enough to turn first years into water goblets, and he probably shouldn't do that anyway.  

"You're in the dungeons," he said.  "Slytherin common room's down here, not yours.  If you're looking to get back upstairs, go down this hall. There's stairs at the end."  

"Thank you!  I'm Aramis," the boy said, sticking his hand out.  "And this is Porthos."

"Athos," Athos said, and shook Aramis' hand solemnly.  He hesitated.  He didn't owe these Hufflepuffs anything, really.  They were wandering about when they shouldn't have been.  But they were also first years, and if Athos was going to make prefect like his mother wanted, he'd have to look out for all first years, not just Slytherin ones.

"You probably don't want to wander around down here when term starts back up," he warned.  "Some of the fourth and fifth years would love to hex a pair of Hufflepuffs."

Porthos snorted.  "Like to see 'em try," he said.  "Most Slytherins can't fight worth a damn."

"Punching them in the face doesn't count as a fair fight, Porthos," said Aramis.  

"Course it does.  It's not my fault none of you ever think to punch back."

Ah, Athos thought.  A Muggleborn.  

Aramis rolled his eyes.  "Come on, Porthos, let's get back before you get us in trouble, yeah?  Thanks for your help, Athos!"  He grabbed Porthos by the sleeve and tugged him off in the direction of the stairs, throwing Athos a cheerful wave over his shoulder.  

Athos watched them go, bemused.  He had never really talked to a Hufflepuff before—there were no Hufflepuffs in his extended family tree, and only one Ravenclaw—and the experience had been... different.

Athos' family wasn't awful towards Muggleborns, but they also didn't have casual conversations with them in the hallways.  

The thought of doing something that would make his father all stiff-backed and uncomfortable, would make his mother's eyebrows twitch, was enough to make Athos turn and shout down the hallway, "Wait!"

Both boys turned to look at him, confused.  

Athos flushed.  "It's—it's late," he said, lamely.  "Do you—do you want to stay in my common room?  It's not far from here, and that way you won't get in trouble if you're caught by the caretaker."

"We don't need—" Porthos started, halfway between irritated and confused, but Aramis cut him off.

"The Slytherin common room?  We haven't been there yet, Porthos!  We'd like to see it.  Wouldn’t we?"

It was Porthos' turn to sigh.  "Fine," he said, grudging.  "It's detention if we're caught out this late again anyway."

Athos raised his eyebrows.  "Do you get caught out of bed a lot?"  

Aramis and Porthos both shrugged.  "Last time was his fault," Porthos said, pointing at Aramis. "He woke up half the castle knocking over that suit of armor, it's no wonder the professors came running."

"It was dark!  I don't know the way to Ravenclaw as well."

Athos almost smiled. "Have you been to all the other common rooms, then?" Athos had only ever been in Slytherin's.  He didn't think that you were supposed to go to another House's common room.

Somewhere, in the very back of his head, Athos got the feeling that by inviting Aramis and Porthos to the Slytherin common room he was somehow ruining his chances of ever becoming a prefect.  The feeling disappeared when Porthos grinned, though.  

"Yeah," Porthos said.  "I'm in Hufflepuff, obviously, so I can get us in there." He gestured at his sweater.  "And Aramis is in Gryffindor, so we can get in there too.  Ravenclaw's a bit trickier, but as far as we can tell all you've gotta do is talk to the door, and if it likes you well enough it'll let you in."

"You're in Gryffindor?"  Athos asked, peering at Aramis.  He didn't look like a Gryffindor, even though he was wearing a scarlet and gold tie.  He also had on Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw colors, so Athos didn't feel bad about thinking Aramis was in Hufflepuff.

Aramis nodded.  "Yep," he said.

"Couldn't guess it by how often he's in my common room, though," Porthos muttered.  Athos blinked, even more confused than before.  That sounded like the kind of thing Athos' mother would say, when she disapproved of someone but didn't want to be obvious about it.   But Porthos seemed genuinely affectionate.  

Hufflepuffs are weird, Athos decided.  

"You're right next to the kitchens," Aramis said breezily. "And you've got better chairs than we do."

"That's the only reason you hang around, is it?"

"The only reason," Aramis agreed.  

Athos was already starting to regret inviting the first years into his common room, but it would be rude to uninvite them now, he supposed.  He was not very good with witty banter or casual conversations.  

Aramis and Porthos didn't seem to mind his quietness, though.  They bickered the entire way back to the common room, only pausing when Athos stopped before the door and said, a bit embarrassed, "Basilisk."

The door creaked open.  

"Basilisk," Aramis said, a bit joyfully, "that's so much better than my password!  We're snorkgack, whatever that is."

"What's a basilisk?" Asked Porthos.

"Big snake," Aramis said.  "It's supposed to be able to kill you with one look. "  

"Are you—did you grow up in the Wizarding world?"  Athos asked awkwardly, fumbling a little.  He winced.  

Aramis didn't seem offended, though.  "My mum's a witch," he said.  "Dad's Muggleborn.  You?"

"I'm—" Athos didn't think he'd ever been asked if he was pureblooded before.  Everyone just—knew.  

"Ah," Porthos said, clamoring after Aramis into the common room. "He's posh.  Or whatever the wizarding version of posh is. What d'you call it? Pureblooded?"

Athos coughed.  "Yes," he said.  "That."

Whatever Aramis and Porthos' reaction to Athos' bloodline was was quickly drowned out by Aramis' delight at the Slytherin common room.  

"Cool," he said.  "Are we underneath the lake.  This is awesome!"  And he bounced off to examine the lake outside the windows, whooping when he caught sight of the mermaids.  

Porthos sighed, and exchanged a long-suffering look with Athos.  Athos' stomach jolted.  He had never—he'd never had someone look at him like that before, like he was a co-conspirator.  

"This is," Aramis announced, "by far the most brilliant common room in the castle."

Athos rather thought the Slytherin common room looked like his parents' home. Tastefully appointed, filled with green and silver accents, a faint, persistent chill.  But he didn't know what the other common rooms looked like, so he couldn't really say for sure.  

"It's alright," he said, perhaps a little unnecessarily.  

"Nah, Aramis is right.  This is bloody great." Porthos was examining some of the more gruesome aspects of the room appreciatively.  "Is that real bone in the fireplace?"

"I... think so?"

"Wicked," said Porthos.  

After that, the ice was broken.  Aramis and Porthos were the kind of people who got along with everyone, Athos thought.  He learned that they'd befriended each other on the Hogwarts Express.  Aramis had grown up with wizards, but Porthos hadn't, and Porthos had no idea about Platform Nine and Three-Quarters or how to get to Hogwarts.  Aramis had found him staring at the pillar between Platforms Nine and Ten, and helped him get through.

"Then he punched a Gryffindor fourth year who thought he could take my chocolate frog," Aramis said.  "I almost asked the Sorting Hat to put me in Hufflepuff, so I could be in Porthos' house, but it made a good case for Gryffindor."

"Wait," Athos said, fascinated, "the Sorting Hat let you choose?"  The Sorting Hat had barely touched Athos' head before it bellowed, "Slytherin!"

Aramis nodded.  

"It didn't let me choose either," Porthos said.  "Called Hufflepuff after five seconds."  

"Some of us are more complicated," Aramis said with a sly grin.

"You're eleven," Athos pointed out without really thinking. "How complicated can you be?"

That made Aramis and Porthos howl laughing, and after that the three of them stayed up half the night, talking and laughing.  The common room was warmer than Athos ever remembered, and he let Porthos and Aramis stay in the empty four posters in his room.

For the first time since he came to Hogwarts, Athos went to bed thinking about his new friends and not about schoolwork or his parents' expectations or how he was going to get that prefect badge, and he slept very, very well.  

Athos woke up on Christmas morning early, before Porthos and Aramis had even stirred.  He blinked sleep out of his eyes and rolled over.  There was a single present at the foot of Athos' bed.  Aramis and Porthos didn't have anything, but they didn't usually sleep here, so that wasn't much of a surprise.  

Athos picked up his present gingerly, grabbed a set of clothes to change into, and slipped out of his room.  He didn't want to wake up the two first years, and he didn't want them to see whatever his parents had gotten him this year.  

Once he'd dressed, Athos found a quiet spot in the Slytherin common room to open his present.  The wrapping paper was a plain black, the ribbons green and silver, and there was a card pinned to the front, which Athos dutifully read.  His heart sank.  

Athos, it read.  To help you focus on your studies.  Merry Christmas.  

His parents had sent him a planner.  From what Athos could tell, it would actually bite him if he didn't mark off that he'd finished his homework, which was a useful gift for someone who didn't already do all their homework or try to live up to their parents' expectations or—

Athos cut himself off before he could get too upset.  His parents didn't mean anything by it.  They wanted him to succeed, is all.  

It wasn't too early to start studying for next term, so Athos left a note for Aramis and Porthos, telling them how to get back to Hufflepuff from the dungeons, and slipped out for a brief visit to the library before breakfast.

He spent an hour or two ignoring the hot miserable pit in the depths of belly, going over Transfiguration theories again, and finally, when he got too hungry to focus, got up and took the book with him.

The Great Hall was entirely empty, though there was food piled onto the Slytherin table.  Athos sighed and sat down, piling bread and treacle onto his plate, reviewing theories in his head.  The idea behind Transfiguration is interconnectedness, he thought, trying to commit it to memory.  The idea behind Transfiguration is interconnectedness.  The idea behind—

"Oy!" Shouted Porthos.  "There you are!" Porthos loped into the Great Hall and dropped into the spot on Athos' right side.  Aramis flopped down onto his left.  They both grabbed plates and started squabbling over the rolls.  Athos blinked, bemused.  

"Er," he said.  "Hello?"

"Mornin'," Porthos said cheerfully, mouth full.  "You don't mind if we sit with you, d'you?  Our table's empty.  No point in having two empty tables, is there?"

"No point at all," Aramis agreed, and Athos saw that the smaller boy was wearing, underneath his Hufflepuff scarf and Ravenclaw socks and Gryffindor tie, a set of Slytherin robes that were at least a size too big for him. Aramis caught Athos' eye and grinned. "Merry Christmas, Athos," he said.

Something warm was growing in Athos' belly, drowning out everything else. "Merry Christmas," he said. "Now get your hands of my treacle tart, Gryffindor.  I will jinx you if I have to."

Aramis grinned, fond.  "Nah," he said, "you won't."  And he was right.  

[scrptrx]

Playlists for Writing

Listen on Spotify or Spotify Web Player

     Music to write or study to! These playlists are works in progress and are continuously growing. Titled after like-themed action movie and game music, the playlists each have their own personality, and encourage different moods or activity levels. Most music is from soundtracks. The calmest playlists, Temple Ruins and Party Camp, are useful for getting into the writing or studying mood. This music is less distracting. Once your pace is set, or if you want to get in the mood to write an action scene, Boss Fight is the playlist for you. Tavern Nights, of course, is a fun-filled playlist, but it can be more distracting, and Field Music is right in the middle.

     All playlists are available to follow on Spotify, and can also be accessed via the web player with a free Spotify account. Just click on the [listen] for the link. Please do not hesitate to suggest music/changes to me, either here or on Spotify.

Title: Temple Ruins Mood: tense, eerie, dark Volume: quiet, few musical swells Action: creeping through a dark ruin Instruments: minimal orchestral Lyrics: few (non-English)

[listen]

Title: Party Camp Mood: calm, mysterious, romantic Volume: soft, somewhat dynamic Action: resting after a long day traveling  Instruments: minimal orchestral Lyrics: few (mostly non-English)

[listen]

Title: Field Music Mood: cheerful, adventurous Volume: low to medium, dynamic Action: traveling with your companions Instruments: orchestral Lyrics: few (non-English)

[listen]

Title: Tavern Nights Mood: cheerful as well as sombre Volume: medium to high, dynamic Action: eating and drinking with the locals Instruments: mainly guitar and fiddle  Lyrics: yes (including English)

[listen]

Title: Boss Fight Mood: angry, dangerous, scary Volume: mainly loud, dynamic Action: slaying demons and dragons Instruments: full orchestral Lyrics: few (non-English)

[listen]

[writingwithcolor]

Hi! I'm writing a short-story for my English class and it's mostly about two women and one is praising the other. I was wondering if there's a correct way to properly praise the beauty of a poc without it coming across as, well like a fetish. I once read bell hooks and how some poc are often label as a fetish, how do I accurate portray the praise of a poc without making it a fetish? Sorry if this is in your FAQ or if I'm being rude in anyway, I'm just not sure how to phrase this question, thanks

Praising Beauty Without Fetishizing PoC

Hi there,

Here are some things to keep in mind:

Avoid fetishing language. The most obvious way to avoid disrespectfully praising someone’s beauty is to avoid fetishizing language. So, while you can compliment skin color, don’t compare skin to food and especially not chocolate or sweets. Read more on why this is problematic in Part 1 of the Skin Tone Guide.

Don’t be over the top. Going out your way to lavish a PoC in detail of just how fascinating you find their skin and eyes and hair can be..over the top. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with describing these features in positive ways, but I believe there’s a such thing as slathering on the detail to a point where the character might feel patronized or objectified. For example, I (Colette) appreciate compliments about my natural hair as long as they’re left at that. But when a compliment turns me into a spectacle (Omg! I absolutely love your hair! It’s so big! I wish my hair was like that. How do you get it to curl that way?)…I feel uncomfortable.

Let us be beautiful! On the other hand, we don’t want you to be afraid to call People of Color beautiful or handsome. Media, at times, likes to avoid these words and focus on how striking, exotic (A definition you should definitely avoid!) fierce, and sexy we are. These descriptions, time after time, are oversexualizing and othering. Mediums across the board are reluctant to portray us as soft (particularly dark-skinned Black women) and beautiful. There’s a great article that discusses this but the title evades me. I’ll update if I find it!

Be mindful of your focus: Avoid describing or only spending minimal time on the “ethnic” features often ‘praised’ in a fetish-y way. For example, I (Lesya) would get very uncomfortable if Native cheekbones were extensively described, because that is so often associated with Native “exoticism.”

Avoid othering. Also, making sure to describe the same features in other ethnic groups. Like, if every single person regardless of skin colour had their cheekbones described, that would be fine. If you only describe Native cheekbones and never discuss another ethnicity’s cheekbones? That comes across as Off, to me.

Describe characters thoughtfully: Please don’t copy every other writer’s wording; actually look at the character you’re writing about through the eyes of the other character. A lot of writers use the same lines as everyone else because they’re used to reading those lines without thinking about whether or not they know what the words mean or if that’s how one person in group X would see another person in group X. Also, it might be a good idea to read fiction where one woman in the group you’re writing about is praising another woman in the group you’re writing about just to see how they did it and what features they complimented.

~Mods Colette, Lesya, and Shira

[pantherasleo]

Dragon-slayer (Short Fiction #2)

Dragon-slayer

                 Ella and her companions had been in the dark for three days.  Captain Lyro had given them a torch, a sack of salt beef, and a horn before he’d sealed them in Nighthawk Peak.  “The torch is for light,” he had said, “the salt beef to eat or to please whatever beasts you might find in the dark, and the horn for if your week passes and you can’t find your way out.  Blow it, and I’ll come find you.”

Blow it, and fail your Trial, Ella Winesea thought, edging ahead of Rasha’s magelight, keeping one hand on the smooth tunnel wall and the other on Storm, her sword.  Their torch had burned out after the first day, and they had lost their salt beef over the side of an ancient tower.  All they had left now was the horn.  Ella was carrying it, the smooth curve of it snug against her side, and she didn’t intend to let Rasha or Galfarin give up and call for help.  

If we get out of here, we’ll be proper Nighthawks, Ella told herself. Hunger and sore feet would mean nothing when Lyro was pinning copper feathers onto her shoulders back in Cinder Valley.  We just have to make it out. 

“Winesea!” Rasha called, somewhere behind Ella in the dark. Her voice echoed off the tunnel walls. "Come back here!"  

Ella could feel the wet heat of a true mountain cave breathing around her.  At home in Baystone, caves were sandy and bright and full of the sound of the sea. Here, Ella couldn’t hear anything. Nighthawk Peak was dark and silent and stone.  After a life time of noise, the low roar of the Empty Sea, the bustle of cities and soldier barracks, the silence was more than enough to put Ella on edge.    

That, she thought, was most likely the point.  

If it was easy, everyone would pass and become a Nighthawk, Ella thought, but there were only eighteen Nighthawks in all of the Hands of Eredhen.  Every Nighthawk had to pass the Trial of Nighthawk Peak, Captain Lyro had told Ella and her companions.  Each young Eagle Guard who wished to join the ranks of the elite scouts and outriders was sealed within the hollow mountain and given one week to make it back across the Hands to Cinder Valley, where their Convocation was based.  

“Nighthawk Peak is ancient and treacherous,” Lyro had told them, his golden eyes shining.  “It is the birthplace of the Eagle Guard, the home of a thousand elf-kings, and the mountain remembers.  Those who aren’t worthy of their feathers will be trapped in the mountain, and those who are will find their way back into the light.”

All of that was superstitious nonsense, meant to scare fledgling Eagle Guards.  Nighthawk Peak was only a lump of rock, like the rest of the Hands.  Elf-kings had lived here once, but that was hundreds of years ago, before Allrin Sky-cleaver united the southerlands with the rest of the kingdom.  This Trial was supposed to test the skills of Eagle Guards, their ability to scout out dangerous locations, follow old tracks, and find their way out of foreign territory, that was all.

There is a way out, Ella told herself, pressing on.  There is a way out.  

"Winesea!"  Rasha shouted again, a sharp edge in her voice, and Ella reluctantly slowed to a stop. She tapped her fingers on Storm’s pommel.  Storm had been made for her long-dead uncle Idrin, and the pommel was shaped like a seagull’s head.  Ella’s father had given it to her as a gift when she joined the Eagles.  Ella ran a finger over its smooth silver beak, took a breath, and forced herself to be patient.  

"I'm here," Ella called back, wishing that her companions moved faster.  Without the torch, Rasha and Galfarin had to rely on Rasha’s magelight, and after two days Rasha didn’t have enough energy to put forth any light bright enough to illuminate more than a few feet in front of her.  Ella did not have the ability to see in near-complete darkness like a true elf, but she was elvish enough that she could make out the way ahead. "The river is this way." Stop shouting, she wanted to say, but did not.  Rasha was a year older than Ella, and had seniority in the Guard.  If they passed their Trial, Rasha would lead them.  

Besides, it wasn’t like Rasha was going to wake anything here. Lyro had claimed that Nighthawk Peak was a holy, haunted place, but Ella knew for a fact that his people didn’t hold with ghosts.  All of the stories he had told her about the Peak, tales of Ilming Dragon-slayer the First Elf, of King Alad and his cruelty, of the first Eagle Guard who had slit their throats rather than bow before Allrin Sky-cleaver, were just tales. There were no howling spirits in these tunnels, no starving dragons waiting to enact their revenge on Ilming's children.  

“You keep saying that,” Rasha muttered, coming into view, “but we’ve been in this tunnel for a day and a half, and the Dragonstongue River is nowhere to be found.” Galfarin loomed behind her, a big, black-haired northerman with a scar across his throat and a greatsword strapped across his back like a mother would carry a babe.  Rasha, in comparison, looked a child.  She was rangy and small, as were most reachmen, and she hid her golden hair underneath a red silk headscarf.  

“It’s close,” Ella insisted.  “I can smell it.” The Dragonstongue River, the longest river in all of Einyas, was little more than a trickle here, true, but the river did come from deep below Nighthawk Peak.  As it wound through the Hands of Eredhen, out of the mountains and into the vales and valleys of the southerlands, it would gain strength.  But here it was nothing.  Ella could feel it moving in the darkness ahead of her.  It smelled like raw earth and iron.

“We’re out of food, so it had better be close,” Rasha said. “And you should stay close, too. You’re the only one of us who can really see down here.” Higher up in the Peak, that hadn’t been the case. Light had come into the hollow mountain from a thousand breaks and gaps in its stone skin, bathing the ruins of the mountain elves in gloom and motes of dust.  

The tunnels that wound underneath those ruins were a different case. Ella knew that she should at least try and stay with her companions—Nighthawks always scouted with at least one partner—but they moved so slowly, so cautiously.  A real Nighthawk was brave and swift and fierce, able to move through the ragged Hands without trouble.  Rasha and Galfarin were too timid, too caught up in watching their feet.

Galfarin, seemingly oblivious to Rasha’s ill temper, smiled at Ella and carefully signed, I’m ready to get out of here.  I want my bed.  

“I am too,” Ella said.  “I want my copper feathers.” Their current feathers, the mark of their ranks as Eagle Guards, were all iron, thin and hard, and they rustled whenever one of them moved.  Galfarin grinned, shaking his shoulders.  His feathers sang.  

“If we don’t find the river soon, we won’t make it,” Rasha warned.  “We’re fifty leagues from Cinder Valley.  It took us a week to ride here, and that was in good weather."  She examined the ancient walls, her magelight illuminating the fierce faces of mountain warriors and mages.  The fabled ruins of Nighthawk Peak amounted to a long, dark tunnel, its sides carved smooth millennia ago by the old Elf-kings and their people.  

My mother’s people, Ella thought. Limestone ivy had been wrought into the ceiling and protective enchantments into the walls in curving, miniscule Old Elvish.  Ella did not understand a word.  She could say hello in the new tongue, yuu-ha.  She could name herself.  She could not read what was written here.  

"Nighthawks are a cut above," Ella said, repeating what Captain Lyro had told her the first night she'd spent at the Cinder Valley Roost, fresh out of training.  He had thrown an arm around her shoulders, called her "cousin," and shown her what life was like in the Hands of Eredhen.    

Rasha snorted.  "So you say," she said.  "But we’re human—well, Gal and I am—and we have only four days.  Unless there’s a boat or some horses waiting for us outside the Peak, we’re not going to get back to the Roost in time.  You Hens might be able to breathe underwater, but we can’t.”

“I can’t breathe underwater either,” Ella snapped, bristling. Ella wasn't a true elf.  She wasn't even a half-blood.  She was what her father called—lovingly, she assumed—a Hennish mutt.  All through her mother's bloodline human men had lain with the wild mountain elves in the Hands of Eredhen, and those half-bloods had lain with other half-bloods, and with men, and with elves, until Ella was born to a Hen and a northerman, copper-skinned and dark-haired and with a mountain elf's black, reflective eyes.  

She did not mind being a mutt, most of the time.   She was fast and strong, and though the elvish talent for magic had passed out of her bloodline generations ago she had sharper senses than most men, more stamina.  Being Hennish was an advantage for a solider, especially a soldier stationed in a wild and ferocious place like the Hands.

“We’ll make it,” Ella growled.  We have to make it.  I will not be just a foot soldier all my life.  I won’t spend my days on top of a wall, waiting for raiders to come to me.  Nighthawks rode out into the Hands of Eredhen. They scouted out raiders’ camps and protected travelers coming up from the south.  They brokered peace with the mountainfolk and linked the Eagle Guard Roosts together, carried messages, spent their nights on windswept mountain peaks, watching the world below them.

Ella had been dreaming of earning her copper feathers since she'd come to the Cinder Valley Roost.  If she had stayed in Baystone, she would have wanted to become a Sea-eagle instead.  If she had taken a post in the Western Reaches, she would have fought for a Falcon’s silver feathers.  

But the Hands of Eredhen was an enormous mountain range. It made up Einyas's entire southern border, and was home to the last true wilderness in the kingdom.  Some of the older Eagles even swore that the great old beasts, dragons and gryphons and lightning-callers, could be seen in the mists now and again, winging their way from peak to peak.

Here, the Guard needed Nighthawks, so a Nighthawk I will be.

Rasha looked doubtful still.  

Not what I can do, Ella said to herself, repeating an Eagle Guard’s creed, trying for patience, but what I must. The mountain air shifted. "This is our last test," Ella insisted.  "If we pass, we will be full Nighthawks.  Lyro wouldn't have set us up to fail, he needs us too badly.  There are only eighteen Nighthawks left.  There will be a boat near the river, or something near enough that we can fashion one, and then we can ride the current back to Cinder Valley."

Rasha shook her head, mouth set unhappily, but said only, "Lead the way, then."

Galfarin left Rasha's side and loped up to join Ella. He was human all through, blind in the black tunnels, but he rested one of his big hands on Ella's elbow and seemed perfectly content to follow her in the dark.  

Ella hid a smile.  She and Rasha had their quarrels—most of them centered on Captain Lyro and his fondness for Ella—but Galfarin had been with Ella since they were unfledged trainees back in Tirothell, learning how to swing swords together.

Can you see me?  Galfarin signed with his free hand, slowly.  

"Yes," Ella said.  

I heard, Galfarin signed, and hesitated.  He was still not used to Unified Sign, and his fingers were often slow as he searched for words.  I heard that this is a dragon's tomb.  

"A dragon's tomb?" Ella frowned.    

Galfarin nodded, wan in the magelight.  A very old one, he spelled.  I do not know elvish, but Captain Lyro mentioned someone called Ilming.

Ella groaned.  Damn Lyro and his stories.  She didn't have time for this.  "Ilming Dragon-slayer," she said.   Down the long, dark tunnel, the mountain seemed to sigh.  The darkness felt like a great heart beating.    

"Why do I know that name?"  Rasha asked, a frown in her voice.  

"Ilming Dragon-slayer is supposed to be the First Elf,” Ella explained, tiredly.  "Living elves worship her as their mother."  There was more that Ella could say.  Lyro had told her about yah-hen, the First Star, about the creation of the world and the history of the elves who had come out from beneath the mountains.  Ilming had slain a dragon, the stories said, and stolen from his bones the secret of magic, which she taught to her sons Dige and Kitbe.  

Around them, the mountain whispered, old and knowing. Ella felt something shift.  The air, for a moment, tasted different.  She smelled fresh green earth and ash and fire. Wind ruffled her hair and a deep, grumbling voice filled her, echoed in her bones.  She reached for Storm again instinctively.  

As soon as the strange feeling came, it passed away again. Nighthawk Peak felt like just a mountain.

We don’t have time to share stories, Ella thought.  We have to get out of here.  We only have four days.  "Ilming is only a story," she said firmly.  "And Lyro was drunk.  He's religious when he's in his cups.  The desert elves worship Ilming just like the mountainfolk do. Come on.  The river is close."

"Why do they call it the Dragonstongue, do you think?" Rasha mused.  "That’s an odd name for a river."  For once she kept pace with Ella and Galfarin, her little magelight flickering.  

"No idea," Ella said shortly, even though she did know.  Lyro had told her the story months ago, when he had been trying to connect Ella to his history, to what he saw as their shared people.

“Long ago,” he had intoned, “when the stars were eyes, the Dragon-slayer tricked the young dragon Red Scale into giving her magic, so that she could prevent a civil war between her sons.”  Ilming then slew the dragon and returned to her people.  When the elder dragons discovered Red Scale's body, their tears were so many the Dragonstongue was born from their weeping. They had then laid a curse on his bones, so that if ever Ilming's children came to him seeking more secrets, he would rise again and devour them.  

Wait, Galfarin signed, listen

Ella listened hard, and sure enough, she heard the sigh of water running over rock, barely more than a whisper.  She grinned.  Finally they could get out of this place.  Lyro would be waiting for them in Cinder Valley with copper feathers and a drink.

"Come on," she said, and led the way.  

Their tunnel opened up into a great, light cavern.  At the far end, Ella saw orange light and tasted sweet mountain wind where the Dragonstongue spilled out down the side of Nighthawk Peak and down through the Hands.  The river, only a handful of feet across and shallow, flowed from beneath a great mural carved into the wall opposite the mouth of the cave.    

The mural showed an elf woman, her features sharp and kind and cruel all at once, hands outspread.  In her right hand she held a fistful of grain and was attended by a broad-shouldered elf man.  In her left she held a fistful of flames and was attended by a leaner elf.  Around these three were hundreds of other elves, all looking at the elf woman with expressions worn away by time.

"Light's end," Rasha said, sounding impressed despite herself.  "Who is that?"  

"Ilming Dragon-slayer," Ella said, knowing the woman instinctively.  "And her sons, Dige and Kitbe.  The First Elves."  

"Interesting," Rasha said, and turned away.  Unlike the tunnel they had just come through, this cave was rough and jagged, its walls full of dark hollows and jutting rocks. Only the mural had been carved here. The rest of it was wild.  “Judging by the light outside, we’re not going to have much daylight left.  If we’re going to find or make a boat, we need to do it soon.  Winesea, search over there.  You’ll be able to see without me.  Galfarin, you’re with me.”

Gal nodded, and Ella did as Rasha asked without a fight. Wind came into the cave through its mouth, wind and sunlight and the promise of her copper feathers.  

We did it, Ella thought giddily.  We found a way out!  All they had to do was make it down the Dragonstongue.  She tested the river and found that here it only went up a little past her knees, so she waded across it to the other side of the cave, blinked hard to adjust to the dark, and started searching for a boat.

Knowing Lyro, he wouldn’t want to make a boat or a raft too easy to find, but with so few Nighthawks, he couldn’t afford to make it too difficult either.  

Lyro wants us to pass, Ella told herself, examining the shadows and hollows that made up the cave.  The rock here was mossy and slippery, speckled here and there with the bones of small animals or a tough tangle of roots.  A strange scent hung in the air, earthy and hot.

Fire?  she thought.  It had been months since the last Eagles would have come here for their Trial, but perhaps Lyro had been here, hiding a boat.  Ella put it out of her mind and kept searching.  She heard Galfarin and Rasha stumbling around on the other side of the shallow river, muttering curses as they searched.  Near the mouth of the cave, Ella saw a low shadow, darker than the rest, hidden in a hollow made by an overhanging rock.

Carefully, she reached out and touched it.  Her fingers found rough wood.  The boat!  

“I found it!”  Ella called, grinning.  She wrapped both hands around the boat and pulled, dragging it out of its hiding place into better light.  The boat was little more than a fisherman’s skiff, a rowboat just large enough for three people.  Ella turned to find her companions, and the wind shifted again.

This time, the scent of fire was fresh and strong, and it came with other smells, the stink of sweat-stained leather, the spice of mountain tea, horseflesh, steel, and blood.  

We’re not alone, Ella realized, and she reached for her sword, a warning cry on her lips, but she was too late.  A mountain elf erupted out of the shadows, his eyes shining green with reflected light, and lunged at Ella.  She jerked back, lost her footing, and fell back into the Dragonstongue.  

For a moment, she couldn’t see or hear anything.  The river wasn’t too deep, but it was deep enough that it closed over her head.  The water was black and shockingly cold.  In her armor, light as it was, Ella sank.  She struggled, forcing her legs underneath her, and hauled herself upright, gulping in air. She drew Storm in a clean, smooth movement, swinging around to find her attacker, and found herself in the middle of a war.  

Half the cave lay in darkness.  The other half was lit by orange sunlight and Rasha, who had thrown a magelight up into the air where it hovered, a small, weak sun, revealing fifteen or sixteen raiders, all shrieking and stamping and slashing at her companions. Their leather armor was old and scratched.  Most of them were mountain elves, dark-haired and wild-eyed, but a few were Hens like Ella, and a few looked to be humans.  

Raiders!  Ella thought.  She didn’t have time to ask herself why they were here, so far north of their villages, or why they had chosen Nighthawk Peak to shelter in when there were thousands of caves all through the Hands, and none others sacred to the Eagle Guard.  

Shouting, Ella leaped up out of the river and made for the nearest raider.  He half-turned to meet her, baring all of his teeth, and swung his sword towards her head. Ella was faster.  She ducked his blade, drew Storm back in a precise, practiced motion, and stabbed the raider through his chest.  Her blade bit through boiled leather and into flesh.  Her attacker yowled.  The iron stink of blood hit the air.    

The impact rattled through Ella’s fingertips.  All around her, the mountain elves were screaming. Rasha was fighting with a pair of knives, spitting curses, and Galfarin fought three raiders at once.  His greatsword sang as it fell, cutting one elf to the bone, parting another from his blade hand.    

And then Ella could not watch her partners but was forced to defend her own life, crossing steel with a scrawny Hen who couldn’t be any older than Ella herself.  She struck fast and hard, determined to keep him off balance.  

The Hen’s blade was curved and deadly sharp.  He moved like a wind dancer from the desert, graceful, circling, his sword singing as it came for her throat. Ella parried it and danced closer; his reach was longer than hers, and if she moved too far from him, she would be at his mercy.    

"Ar-yah," Rasha snarled, and a gout of white fire boomed into existence, illuminating the cave.  Raiders screamed.  Ella half-turned, distracted by the heat and blinking away spots of light.  The sudden brightness disoriented her, and if she had been a full elf, it would have blinded her to go from gloomy dark to light so suddenly.  Their attackers, though, were truly blind.  They clawed at their eyes and broke off their attacks, tripping over each other as they tried to fall back across the river and regroup on the darker side of the cave.  

Ella’s opponent recovered quicker than his full-blooded companions, and lashed out with his curved sword.  His blade slipped past hers, turning Storm aside, and scored a vicious gash across the meat of her forearm.  

Ella screamed.  The Hen tried to finish her with an upward flick of his blade, but Ella jerked out of the way and he cut open her cheek instead of her throat.  

Her blood splattered to the ground.  Howling, Ella leapt forward, knocking the Hen’s blade aside, and drove her own sword through the junction between his chest plate and his pauldron.  She felt Storm skate off bone.  The Hen choked, blood spilling from his throat, and his sword, still wet with Ella’s blood, clattered to the cave floor.  

There was a tremendous crash, like thunder or falling rocks, and a flash of light.  The world heaved as though struck, and Ella fell again.  

Far beneath them, the mountain began to shudder.  It starting shaking slowly, like a horse riding itself of flies, and then shivered harder, cracks ripping open in the floor and rocks crumbling on the walls around them.  Dazed, Ella struggled to her feet.  Blood ran down her face and wrist, over her knuckles, and down onto the old stone underneath her.  The walls moaned.  Dust rained down over them and the raiders startled and fled, shouting at each other in their own language, leaving their dead behind.  

"Ella!"  Rasha staggered upright, her eyes wild.  The stone around her was burned black, and three elves lay cooking where they had fallen. Across the cavern, on the other side of the Dragonstongue, Galfarin drew his blade from the belly of another dead elf. He shook himself, and blood and dust flew from his shoulders.    

"What's happening?"  Rasha shouted.  The mountain groaned and roared.  The earth beneath Ella's feet pitched as would the deck of her father's ship, and the mountain's shaking echoed in Ella's bones.  "What did you do?"  

"I didn't do anything!"  Ella shouted back.  Her blood steamed on the stones.  "It's an earthquake, one of the elves must have—"  

But no, that made no sense.  No mountain-born creature would start a quake in a cave.  Mountains were ancient things, unpredictable. Setting such a quake into motion was as like to kill the spell caster as it was to kill their enemies.  

On the far wall of the cavern where the river spilled out from the carved feet of Ilming Dragon-Slayer, the mural of the First Elf cracked cleanly down her middle.  Some ancient instinct bid Ella to leap at Rasha and she did, tackling the mage to the ground, screaming at Galfarin to get down.    

Without warning or ceremony, the mural burst outward. The stonework erupted.  Parts of the cave ceiling tore themselves loose and crashing down.  Rocks fell all around them, cracking the floor, churning the shallow river, stirring up great clouds of thick, dark dust.  For several long moments, Ella couldn’t see.  She couldn’t hear.  She felt her blood on her skin and Rasha stirring feebly beneath her.  She felt a heartbeat outside of her own, great and ponderous, its pace slow but beginning to quicken.  

The crashing and crumbling gradually stopped.  The dust began to settle.  Ella heard Galfarin’s cough and her own choking breath, and reeled back up to her feet, pulling Rasha with her.    

"Ella," Rasha said, reaching out for her.  For the first time, the mage sounded frightened. "What the—"  

A yawning maw now lay where the carving of Ilming Dragon-slayer had stood, surrounded by broken faces and runes.  Despite the light that still came from the mouth of the cave, the new maw was in deep, thick darkness.    

Inside it, Ella heard some great thing breathing.    

Carefully, still bidden by instinct alone, guided by an ache at the back of her teeth, pulled by a feeling nestled against her breastbone, Ella made her way towards the maw.  Rasha tugged at her armor, but Ella shrugged out of her grasp.  Galfarin's hands flashed, but Ella did not stop to understand what he was saying.  She stepped past the empty limestone face of Ilming and into the maw of the newly-made cave.    

Inside, the maw was warm, warm and wet and full of breath, the scent of dust and things long asleep.  Ella's eyes adjusted to the new darkness quickly.  Her heart hammered in her ears.  Her blood dripped and steamed onto the ground.

"Hello?"  she called. The heartbeat quickened. The breathing deepened.  It pressed against Ella's chest and skull, bore down like a closed fist.  Her iron feathers rattled.    

"Yuu-ha?" Ella said, thinking of Ilming.  

The darkness moved.  There was a great creaking and groaning, the sound of stones sliding together and bones shifting.  Something like a snake uncoiled, swept its sinuous body over the earth.    

A pair of luminous red eyes, bigger than Ella was tall, opened. Teeth flashed.   

"Yuu-ha," said the dragon, its voice a mountain quake. Hello, it said.  "Ai-yah ere?" Who are you?  

In the dark, Ella could only guess at the size of it. Ilming slew no dragon, Ella realized. The legends and stories were wrong. The beast Ilming was supposed to have slain for her magic was yet alive.  Its eyes were bright and full of strange lights, starlight and firelight and the lights of ships far out at sea, torches burning on their prows to guide them home.  

It has eyes like the night sky, Ella realized.

"I am Ella," she told the dragon, aware of how small she sounded next to it, how young.  "Yah-a Eleanor.  Ai-yah ere?"    

The dragon shook itself and Ella backed out of the maw, out into the light.  The dragon followed her.  Every step it took made what was left of Nighthawk Peak tremble.  Every breath it took was a hot wind.    

"Yah-a Dramum," the dragon growled.  Its scales were ghostly white, plated like a coat of feathers over its massive head, its long, graceful neck.  One scale on the side of its jaw was as red as blood.  Rasha swore.  Galfarin snarled.    

The dragon was so wide its shoulders brushed each side of the cave.  It drew another breath, and fire sparked between its terrible teeth.  "Dramum Red Scale, I am called.  And you, Ilming's daughter, have much to answer for."

[pantherasleo]

alewife

Alewife

I met Ama Palermo when I was twenty-six and on the last year of my PhD.  Back then, I perpetually smelled like dead fish, old water, and sunscreen, which is weird because I never killed any fish, changed my waders every two months, and burned regardless of quality or quantity of sunscreen and stopped applying it. Ama was a little woman from the Yucatán peninsula, dark-haired and gentle, but tough and wiry.  Her arms were corded with muscle and she had a strength in her hands like no woman—and very few men—I'd met before or since.  

"I'm Ama," she said, in a light, clear voice. "I'm your new post doc."

The day she came to Black Bass Research Outpost Twenty-Two, the lake was still flecked with ice floes and the wind that came down off the Upper Peninsula still had a vicious bite.  I remember thinking it unseasonable for mid-April, but after eight years of work on the Great Lakes I'd grown used to the cold.  

Ama, though she put on a brave face, was not.  The first month she was with us, she walked around in an alpaca fleece hoodie with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.  We called her "Superama," which she took to good-naturedly, and asked her when she'd move the earth closer to the sun so we could warm up and actually get research going.  

"Soon," she'd say, and smile.  

By May we were all antsy and eager to get out on the water. There were five of us at the station. Me, a PhD student in Fisheries Science, specializing in migratory patterns; Paul and Antoine, Masters students in Applied Aquatic Ecology; Suzy, who angled, ran our equipment, and broke and mended our ancient computer on a weekly cycle—and now Ama.  

Technically, as a post doc, she should have been in charge of the station, but as we found out one night at Crappie's, she was a folklorist, not a scientist.  

We freaked out.  Outpost Twenty-Two wasn't a dangerous research station, not like some of the Alaskan salmon monitoring stations or the harpy eagle outposts in the Amazon, but it wasn't all that safe either.  We'd spend days out on the lake.  Heatstroke and sun poisoning were always at the back of everybody's minds. And if Ama fell off a boat and drowned, or stepped on a rusty fish hook and got tetanus, or was struck by one of the million other little tragedies that could befall someone out here, one of us would be responsible.  

In 2009, when I met Ama, the economy was in the shitter. Nobody had any money to keep their houses or feed their kids, let alone fund a pack of twenty-somethings out on Lake Michigan.  Everyone who was at Outpost Twenty-Two had fought tooth and nail to get the money to be there, and none of us had that much to spare.

"Shit," Paul announced, after Ama had told us that she was a folklorist with next to no field experience.  "I like you and all, but I sure as hell ain't paying your hospital bills."  

The rest of us loudly and emphatically agreed.  

Ama had only laughed.  "I have my own grant," she assured us.  "You don't have to worry."  And to prove her point, she bought the next round of beers. That calmed us all down.  If Ama had a grant, none of us had to worry about her. It wasn't ideal, having someone hanging around the research station who wouldn't be helping with anything we were doing, but she'd be an annoyance at worst, not a financial liability.  

"How does a Doctor of Philosophy in Folklore end up hanging around with a bunch of lake people?"  I asked.  Ama grinned, flashing teeth and a deep dimple.  

"Budget cuts," she said.  "My advisor thought it would be more, eh, cost-effective if I bunked with you instead of at a hotel or drove from Northern Michigan. I'm sorry, I thought you knew."

We all shrugged.  I hadn't heard from my advisor in a month and a half.  Paul and his advisor, who hated any piece of technology younger than 1980, had been known to communicate through smoke signals.  We all got it.  We finished our drinks, teased Ama about her dimples and Antoine about his inability to hold pisswater beer, and headed back out into the cold.

The next few weeks passed quickly.  We could feel the wind warming up and the lake start to thaw, so we spent all of our time checking lines and kicking the rust off our equipment. Ama fit in well enough; she drank like a scientist, swore like a scientist, and cursed out her subjects and data sets like a scientist, so we accepted her like a scientist.  Ama split her time between helping us and running around the UP collecting folk stories.  

"I'm writing an anthology," she said, "comparing regional folktales from the Yucatán up through here.  I'm calling it Twenty-Eight Degrees."  

"Why?"

Ama laughed at me again.  "You're a smart man.  You've got Google.  Figure it out, ese."

Our summer season started, as it always did, with death.

The second weekend in May, we all woke up to the smell of rotting fish.  The waves had brought in hundreds of them.  Big steelhead and fat bass and massive alewives, carp the size of dogs, tiny minnows and darters, crappie by the dozen.  All of them flashed and shone in the sun.  Their scales stuck to my feet like sand.  

The shoreline was thick with them as far as the eye could see in either direction.  Seagulls had come by the thousands and bald eagles flew low to pick the freshest carcasses out of the waves.  Suzy's dog, Bruno, went mad with excitement and had to be locked inside. If we let him out he'd gorge himself silly on dead fish.  We'd usually let the die-off sit for a few days, but this year the smell was unbearable.  We ended up shoveling the fish into shallow, sandy graves, bandanas wrapped around our faces and candles always burning on the station deck to keep the smell out.  

Ama, who'd never seen a die-off, was horrified.  

"What, they don't get this down in the Yucatán?" Paul drawled.  He was a good ol' boy from Louisiana and pronounced it yuck-ah-ton.

"No," said Ama, looking troubled.  Her face was wet with sympathy.  "Why does this happen?"

I shrugged.  "There's not enough oxygen in the water in the wintertime," I said.  "And the surface waters are too cold.  Fish either have to starve for oxygen or risk freezing to death.  When enough of them do die, there's more oxygen to go around for the rest."  

"That's horrible!"  

I shrugged again with one shoulder, awkwardly.  It was just something that happened.  The sun came up and the winters were cold and every season at Black Bass started with a die-off.   I was more concerned with the migrations of the alewives.  

Alewives, Alosa psuedoherengus, are strange fish. They're anadromous, meaning that they spend most of their adult lives in the sea, only returning to fresh water when it's time for them to breed.  They have an amazing ability to find the exact stream, pond, or lake that they were born in, too.  And some of them have found that they liked freshwater so much that they stayed; in the 1960s alewives colonized Lake Huron and Lake Michigan and stayed there year round, displacing some native fish but ultimately not disturbing the ecosystem too much.  They're good sport fish, alewives.  Strong fighters.  They're not terribly big fish, only growing to about a foot or so, and by the time all of the fisheries and environmentalists caught on it was too late to do anything about them.  The lakes got used to them.  

And then, two or three years ago, they started disappearing. Not just dying out, which happens, but vanishing completely.  Alewives spawn in the summer, and last year, not a single fish was caught on its way from the sea to the lakes and streams where it would spawn.  

At first, I thought it was because no one had been looking. But I'd asked around and nobody—not the EPA, not CEPA, not the Division of Natural Resources, not any of the hundreds of research stations and university labs set up along the Great Lakes—had caught one alewife in the normal spawning season of March through August.    

In the autumn, though, thousands of 'wives were caught heading to the ocean.  Not returning from breeding, not making their seasonal migration back and forth, just leaving.  They went out to sea, disappeared into the deep, and stayed there.  The migration, it seemed, was final.

Now, bass were my favorite kind of fish.  I loved them, and had loved them since I was a kid and my dad taught me how to fish with a string, a stick, and a hook fashioned out of the side of a Campbell's soup can.  But the Lakes depended on the 'wives.   They were important predators for other fish, important prey for the birds, and important sport fish for the tourists.  

So the National Science Foundation gave my advisor three hundred thousand dollars in '07, before the recession, and my advisor turned me loose on Lake Michigan.  I followed alewives all summer long, trying to figure out where they were going and why.

We all had theories.  I thought that chemical changes brought on by agriculture and industrial dumping in the lake made it too hard for the alewives to regulate salt; they're not freshwater fish, so keeping their internal salt balance constant without the help of salty water was hard for them.  Antoine thought it was a new predator, some trout or bass species that had finally figured out that alewives were good to eat.  Suzy didn't care.  Paul thought it was the next step in a cycle no one had ever had the technology to observe before.  

And Ama, once I explained to her what I was doing and why, thought it sounded like a fairytale.  

"Oh," she said, "it sounds like an éxodo.  A journey to the Promised Land.  La tierra de leche y miel."  

I didn't speak Spanish, and I didn't particularly care for fairytales in my scientific studies, but Ama wanted to go with me while I followed the alewives from Lake Michigan out to the Atlantic Ocean, and I had a hundred thousand dollars left, so I put up with her stories and let her come.

"I promise I won't get in your way," she said, grinning.  "I have these to sort through."  And she waved a stack of papers, both typed and hand-written, as thick as my arms.  While Suzy, Paul, and I had been cleaning our gear and getting everything ready for the summer season, Ama had been traveling.  She went all over the UP and the coast of Lake Michigan, meeting with anyone who could tell her a story.  She'd been up to the L'Anse Reservation and Sault Ste. Marie to record the stories of the Soo Tribe, down to the copper and tin mines to pry old miner's legends and ghost stories up from the earth, to every small town and village that dotted the coastline, chasing Dogman and bush monkeys and the local Bigfoot knockoff that terrorized a bunch of drunk college kids on Spring Break.

Ama had told us about all of these little stories over beer and homemade mac and cheese, picking bits of fried skin off the side of some fresh-caught bass.  Her passion lit her up.  Paul and Antoine thought that Ama was weird for caring about a bunch of local legends as much as she did, and maybe she was, but Ama listened whenever we started ranting about migratory patterns and the new disease that was decimating bass fry, so I gave her a pass.  

I liked the way her hands moved when she talked.  

"So?"  Ama said, looking me up and down.  She was too stubborn for her own good, sometimes.  I'd watched Ama chase down stories to the point of exhaustion, needle Antoine past the point of a joke.  She got into a fight with a cashier at Meijer once because she refused to let him get away with calling her mamacita.  Ama wouldn't back down for anything.  

"So," I said.

"Can I come?"  

"You know how to swim?"  

Ama rolled her eyes.  "Not really," she said, "but that's why we have life jackets, no?"

I sighed.  "If you drown, I'm not writing your anthology," I warned.  "I can't write for shit.  Drives my advisor crazy."  

First, we went out on the lake and caught fish by the hundreds. Suzy came, which meant that there were always fish in the boat, and Ama held them down, corded forearms bulging, while I clipped GPS tags to their fins and threw them back.  Suzy firmly believed that you couldn't fish without being at least a little drunk, so we had a cooler full of beer and a portable fryer full of perch.  May passed in a haze of Oculto, some kind of Tex-Mex beer Ama loved, and conversation. We were always covered in bits of scales.  

Ama kept all of the scales she found stuck in her hair and to the heels of her hands.  She dried them out and punched fine, delicate holes in them, strung them together and made necklaces, bracelets, and garlands out of fishing line that she draped all around the station and the boat like iridescent scallops of chain mail.

"You know the story of Salmon Boy?"  She asked me one day, fashioning another string of scales.    

"No," I said.  

"It's a Haida legend," Ama said.  "I spent three months in Alaska as an undergrad recording Haida folklore."

"Who's Salmon Boy?"  

Ama flicked a scale at me.  "An arrogant chulo.  He thought he was better than the fish that fed him."

"Can I go on record and say that I don't like where this is going?"  

Ama smacked my arm and continued.  "The boy was out fishing one day and he fell into a river where the salmon ran.  The salmon, who knew the boy was disrespectful and arrogant, drowned him and carried him off to their land."

"How?"  I said, mostly to see what Ama would do.  "Fish don't have hands."  

Ama didn't laugh.  "The salmon were in the river to breed," she said. "And because the Salmon People were kind, they left their physical bodies every year behind for the birds and the bears and the people who needed them to survive and returned to their world as spirits.

"They took the arrogant boy with them, leaving his body bloated and drowned in the river where it fed the birds and fed the bears, shed their own scales, and brought him to their land.  And when he got there, the boy was amazed, because the salmon in their own land were just like people.  They lived in huts beside the sea and loved each other and cared for their children, and the boy learned that he had been cruel and disrespectful to a people as complex as his own.  The boy begged forgiveness, and stayed with the salmon for many years.  

"One season, the salmon sent the boy back to his tribe, where he lived for many more years healing and teaching the children of his village to respect all of the birds of the air and the beasts of the land and the fish of the sea."  

"I do know this story," I said, surprised.  

Ama looked me up and down.  "How does it end, then?"  She said.  I couldn't tell if she was mad at me for interrupting or pleased that I knew the story.

"The Salmon Boy died."  I took another drink to avoid the look in her eyes.  "And when he did, his village put his body in the river where he spun around four times and sank."  

"Very good," Ama said, and she finally smiled.

"So, what?  Am I supposed to be Salmon Boy?"

Ama cracked up.  "No," she said, giggling.  "You're a white boy, ese.  That's cultural appropriation.  It's just a story."      

"What's a fairytale scholar doing on a fishing boat in Michigan?"  Suzy asked once I'd stopped blushing and Ama stopped laughing.  Suzy knocked back another Oculto and watched her line swinging out over the water.  We'd pulled the nets in for the day.  I had thirty-three GPS tags left.  We'd be ready to head back to Black Bass tomorrow.  

"There's more stories here than back home," said Ama, half-asleep.  The sky was clear and open, a riot of distant light.  I could see the Milky Way feathering out above us.  I remember seeing the stars swim like millions of little fish, dancing in the darkness.  

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," said Ama.  "The stories here—they're new.  There's still magia in them.  You don't have people dissecting them all the time, reducing them down to bones."  The way she said it made me think of fish carcasses washed up on shore.  Picked clean and gleaming.  Nothing left for anyone.

"I didn't think stories could get like that," I said.  "They're just words.  How can they get—old?  Dried out?"  

Ama laughed.  "What was the last book you read?"  

"Uh."  As a general rule, PhD students didn't read for pleasure.   We read academic journals and Nature publications, but we didn't do anything else but cry, binge Breaking Bad on Netflix, and bleed for our doctorates.  "The Hunger Games, probably?"

"Ah," said Ama.  "La diosa Artemis.  How did reading it make you feel?"

I frowned and shot a glance at Suzy.  There was a fish on her line, bucking and heaving beneath the water, and she'd lost interest.  

"It didn't really," I said.  "It was fun, I guess?  It was just a story."

"A story you've heard before."  And when she said it I knew she was right.  It was an old story, dressed up like a new one.  A lone hero, a girl in the woods, a boy, a villain, a choice.  Put together a little differently, said Ama, so it still had a bit of the magic of newer stories—and she said that with purpose, magia, like she believed that magic was really real—still had the power to captivate and inspire, but it was weaker, she said, and getting weaker still.  

"The stories are changing," said Ama. "They're moving.  Going somewhere else."

"La tierra del leche y miel?"  I guessed, and grinned.  Ama had lost me.  I didn't get it.  Stories were stories.  You took them with you in your Kindle or your iPad, in your bookshelf, in your DVD player. They didn't go anywhere, not really.  Not like my fish, whose movements could be quantified, anyway, whose patterns could be tracked, observed, and recorded.  I was not a philosophical person; I liked numbers.  I liked data.  I liked fish in my hands.  

Ama seemed to sense that she'd lost me, and only smiled. "It's all right," she said. "Not even my advisor understood, not really.  I only got the funding for this post doc because I convinced your government that preserving some of these stories could buy them a lot of goodwill."

So you lied, I thought, because no anthology was going to fix any of the problems that plagued the people up here; the poverty, the dying mine towns, the lakes that were losing their fish, not like some hard scientific data and an EPA grant would, but I just finished my beer and said nothing.

By June, the fish were moving, and Ama and I were ready to follow.  We piled all of our gear and three weeks' worth of food into a battered yacht my advisor conned off his old advisor in a poker game, and started after the alewives.  

There were a hundred ways for our fish to get to the ocean. The Great Lakes are connected to the Atlantic by a spider web of rivers and streams, and the fish could have lost us down a narrow canal or a whitewater river, but they didn't.  We followed them around the broad edge of Michigan into Lake Huron, down to Erie, back up to Ontario, and spent three days in Toronto sleeping in real beds while the fish milled about in the lake.  

"Maybe they're settling here," I said, looking out at the water.  The sun had set over the western basin, turning both sky and water a deep, bruised blue.  A few strips of moonlight shivered on the waves.  If the entire population of alewives was moving to Lake Ontario, there would be a problem—there are hundreds of thousands of 'wives in Lake Michigan and Lake Superior alone.  If they were coming to Ontario, there would be trouble.  They would decimate the prey populations and send the fisheries, which depended on Ontario to stock their rivers, into a collapse.  It would be an economic disaster.  

Ama shrugged, and went to walk on the beach while I made a few panicked, slightly drunken phone calls to people I knew who took care of Lake Ontario.  I kept one eye on Ama—the paperwork would be hell if she died on my watch—and listened to my friend Georgia, who worked for the Canadian EPA and knew more about fish than anyone but Suzy.

"They're not staying here, not permanently," Georgia told me.  "Alewives don't like our lake much.  It's too shallow for them.  We've been getting huge influxes recently, but they're not staying.  They'll head up the St. Lawrence as soon as the flooding goes down.  Massive rainstorm last week," she added, and then hung up on me to go corral some interns.  

I found Ama down the beach, sitting on the rocky shore, and she had her palms cupped together and water running slowly out between her fingers.  I frowned.

"What'cha got there?"  I asked, and flopped down beside her.  The lake was dark and quiet, but I knew that below the surface thousands of fish were darting around each other, dancing, twisting, seething, feeding, being fed on.  It made it hard to sleep, thinking about the alewives and their journey.  I felt like I had to stay awake with them.  I had to watch out for predators.  I had to make it to the ocean too.  

Ama showed me.  In her cupped palms was a fish, a tiny silver thing no longer than my little finger.  It swam around in Ama's cupped hands, bumping against her fingers, completely oblivious to the fact that its world was draining out from underneath it. "What kind of fish is it?" She asked.  

I shrugged.  "It's hard to tell when they're that small," I said.  It looked like a juvenile alewife, but I'd never seen one that small before.  

Ama put it back in the shallows, where it hung suspended for a moment and then disappeared, its tiny, perfect scales flashing in the moon before it vanished into the water.  "Why do you think your fish are leaving?"  

"I don't know," I said, because we'd taken chemical readings all the way from Black Bass to Toronto, salt readings and a battery of ELISA tests for nitrogen levels and phosphorous levels, coliform tests for E. coli, measures of algal levels and cyanobacteria and manmade chemicals like atrazine, DDT, PCBs and HCBs.  Nothing in the lakes was different than it had been for the last few decades. My theory was shot.  I was had no idea why the fish were moving.  I had passed the point of panic and moved into gray despair.  

I was defending my thesis in two months.  Worse, if I couldn't find out why the alewives were leaving, the whole economy of the Great Lakes could collapse.  We depended on the fish for so much.  Yeah, there wasn't a huge market for alewives, but tourism was huge and the entire food web of Lake Michigan depended on them.  If the 'wives disappeared, the zooplankton would boom. All of the zebra mussels and crustaceans that were overtaking the Great Lakes would run wild.  The bass and walleye and whitefish wouldn't have anything to eat.  

The die-offs would get worse.  

But I had just two months left, and I was starting to feel like this trip was just me spending NSF's money while taking a nice vacation through the Great Lakes.  There was nothing I could do.  What kind of data analysis could I get done in two months?  What kind of conclusions could I draw?  None of the chemical readings had panned out.  

I had spent three years as an undergrad studying fish in Lake Michigan.  Two years as a Masters student.  Four as a PhD.  My thesis was called, A comprehensive analysis of the migratory patterns of economically critical Great Lakes fish. And I couldn't figure out why the alewives were migrating. The weight of my failure left me fuzzy and apathetic. "Why do you think my fish are leaving?"

"Why do people leave?"

"What?"  

Ama smiled.  "Why do people leave?  Human beings have been moving from one place to another for as long as we've had legs. You know of Palenque?"

I watched the waves—smaller here than they could get out on Lake Michigan, and warmer, and full of flashing silver fish—and shook my head.

"Palenque was a Mayan city," Ama said, waving a hand. "A beautiful place, with good fields, plenty of water, places to raise livestock and children.  Una tierra de leche y miel.  But it was abandoned.  Its people moved away.  The forest took it back, and it was a long time before we found Palenque again."

"Why was it abandoned?" I asked, curious.  I was a shitty student in any subject that didn't involve fish, but Ama had a storyteller's voice and a storyteller's rhythm, and listening to her felt different than sitting down and taking notes.

Ama waved a hand.  She had graceful fingers.  I had never really noticed before. "No sé, she said.  "We haven't found a reason.  The people just... left.  Moved. Because they wanted to.  Because there was something better somewhere else. Because they didn't want to be where they were anymore."  

"Fish aren't people," I argued.  "They're fish.  They don't think like we do.  They don't want things like we do.  They go where they go based on instinct, that's all."

Ama raised an eyebrow, and her dark eyes shone silver in the moonlight.  "If you say," she said, and lay back against the beach, arms thrown out, hair fanned behind her.  "Though if I was telling the story, I'd tell it differently."

I snorted, irritated, and pulled my knees to my chest. It was cold for late June, but the wind wasn't too biting and I wanted to stay by the water anyway.  I didn't ask Ama for her story and she didn't offer it, not then.  

I think I hurt her feelings.  She'd always been friendly and helpful and I'd turned her down out of hand, but I could be as stubborn as she was.  I didn't want to hear her stories.  We sat by the water and Ama scribbled in her notebook by flashlight, jabbing her pen against the pages, muttering under her breath in Spanish, and I watched the waves.

We went back to our hotel angry.  We didn't say goodnight.  

In the morning, we restocked and headed out again, following the little glowing dots on my computer screen.  We'd tagged four hundred alewives back in Michigan. About three hundred tags were still active, and most of them were clustered together, heading for the mouth of the St. Lawrence River.  We followed.  

The river was calm and the fish moved steadily, stopping every few days to spend sometimes as much as a week in one place.  They didn't seem to be in any rush to get anywhere.  We caught a few, recorded their weights and lengths, and threw them back.  They hadn't lost much weight despite the hundreds of miles they'd gone.  They were, for all intents and purposes, strong and healthy.  They fought our lines like tigers.  

Ama and I didn't talk about stories anymore.  There was plenty else to talk about—the weather, her hometown, my hometown, what we wanted to do with our  lives—and neither of us wanted to make the other feel uncomfortable, so we kept our talk civil and shallow.  I spent a lot of time tinkering with my thesis.  Ama read and wrote.   I didn't find any answers for the alewives' migration, but I started watching birds.  They weren't so different from fish.  Lying on my back on the deck of the boat I could watch them swim through the sky, winging their way from horizon to horizon.  Watching them did something to ease the gray despair in my guts.  I started keeping track of them, scribbling down the sizes of their flocks and the species I saw, the patterns of their movements.  It felt good to have some data again.  

I had never been this far north.  Michigan was my home but even the UP's miles of dense, dark woods and acres of clear water had nothing compared to these forests.  This far north the woods were all boreal shield, all spruce and towering northern pine.  The water was cold and clear, the St. Lawrence an inexorable force pulling us towards the sea.  The stars were like nothing I've ever seen.

Ama started telling me stories again, describing the gods and goddesses who made up the heavens, the Greek tragedies, the Algonquin monsters and the Malecite heroes, great bears and fish that shed their scales and walked on the earth before vanishing back into the river or the sea.

"Why do you want to write this book?"  I asked.  "Is it really that important to you?"

"Why do you want to find out where the alewives are going?"  Ama shot back.  Her eyes flashed with a challenge.  

I snorted.  "I want to get a job," I said.  

"And that's it?"

"That's it," I said, and left it at that. Ama didn't push, but she didn't tell me why she wanted to write her anthology either.        

The fish, as fish do, kept swimming.  

Finally, in August, we were nearing the delta of the river, where freshwater met salt, and I could taste the ocean in the air and hear the gulls crying, and Ama said, "Look."

I didn't see anything, at first.  Just waves and wind and the sea opening up like a reflection of the sky, and then our boat began to hit something.  Hundreds of somethings.  The boat twitched back and forth and we could feel each impact in the soles of our feet.

"Not out," said Ama, "down," and I looked down into the water.  

We were surrounded by fish.  There must have been thousands of them, all swimming around the boat like we were one of them, bumping into it with their heads and bodies, jostling their neighbors, and flashing their fins and tails.  At first I thought I must be crazy, because the fish swimming all around us were too big to be alewives; they were all longer than my arm, fat and sleek, but their silver scales were a dead giveaway, and the longer I looked the more of them I saw.  There were the massive ones, great giants that must have come from the very depths of Lake Michigan and were swimming, half-blind, only with the help of their neighbors, and smaller ones, and impossibly tiny ones that didn't even have to swim, just had to stay afloat while the force of the rest of the migration carried them on.  

I could hear them, too.  Their fins stirred the water like waves on the shore and they thudded and thumped against the sides of our boat, splashed up to the surface and vanished back down into the depths of the river.  The river itself was quiet, deep and slow-moving as it was, but the ocean sang.

We drifted out to sea with the alewives, and all around us was a river of living silver.  Their scales shone in the sun.  They took us out into the open ocean and circled us, Ama laughing and me standing there slack-jawed and awestruck, a great, slow turn of fish spiraling from the surface to the sea.  I leaned down as far as I could, clinging to the railing with one hand and reaching down with the other, my fingertips just barely brushing the water.  The fish didn't seem to care and they were cool and wet against my fingers, dozens of them bumping against my hands as they passed.

"You're going to fall," Ama said, grabbing the back of my shirt.  "Who's at risk of drowning now, Sam?"

"I'm not gonna fall," I said, but pulled my hand back.  The alewives spun around us again in their slow spiral, and then they flashed their fins at us and were gone.  

"Are you writing this down?"  Ama said, still laughing.  "Because this seems scientifically relevant, no?"  

I jotted down my observations, but I didn't have the words to say what I knew, what I'd seen watching those fish.  We weren't ever going to see alewives in the Great Lakes again. I don't know how I knew that but I knew.  I knew.

That night, with the stars above us and the fish below, I asked Ama to tell me a story.  

She laughed.  "What kind of story?" she asked.  

"Tell me about the fish," I said.  

Ama looked at me with her dark eyes, her strong shoulders held straight, and said, "Había una vez, there was a scientist who did not believe in magic. The rest of the story you've got to tell for yourself," she said.  "That way, it will be a new story.  A new fairytale."  

"I'm not a storyteller," I said.  I wasn't angry or irritated with Ama anymore, just tired.  Just frustrated.  I wanted an answer and she didn't seem to want to give me one.  I wanted it to mean something, this migration, and I didn't know how to make it work.  "I'm not a writer.  I'm just a grad student."

Ama shook her head.  "Doesn't matter," she said.  "Anyone can tell a story, even a stubborn graduate student.  There are scientists who are great writers."

"Well, I'm not one of them," I snapped.  "I'm good at numbers.  Graphs.  I ever make you an ANOVA? I can make great ANOVAs.  I can catch a fish.  But that's it."

"Why did the people of Palenque leave?" Ama asked, refusing to back down and let me off the hook.  She crossed her arms and planted her feet on the wet deck of our boat and waited.  

"I—what?  I don't know. I'm not an anthropologist."

"I left Mexico because I wanted something different," Ama said.  "I didn't know what that was, but I wanted something new.  So I came here.  I'm writing my anthology because I traveled across twenty-eight degrees of the earth and found that everyone had a story to tell me.  That's it.  It's not a long story, but it's mine, entiendes?  Now you tell one."  

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.  I didn't know what to say.  Where to start.  Writing a scientific paper is straightforward.  There's a process.  You start with your idea—we wanted to know why the alewives were leaving—and follow it up with how you studied them, what you found, and what you thought it meant.

I told Ama this, and she smiled.  "Exactly," she said.  "So, once upon a time..."

Feeling like an idiot, I said, "Once upon a time, uh. The alewives were leaving Lake Michigan. No one knew why, so we—so I—decided to follow them."  

And I went on like that for almost an hour, halting and stumbling, while Ama smiled and nodded and added a detail here and there.  I talked about the journey, the different lakes, the long stretch of the St. Lawrence, following blinking lights and the fish moving underneath us.  I talked about the wind and the waves, about the great river of alewives, and when I was done Ama tilted her head back and said to the sky, "There.  That's a story I've never heard before."  

My throat hurt.  "I don't know what I'm going to do now," I told her, because I didn't.

Ama shrugged.  "What you've always done.  You'll get your PhD and then you'll move somewhere else and start over.  You'll do something new."  

I didn't know what to say to that, and her certainty scared me, and my brain was still stuck on the image of those alewives, the thousands of them circling us, stirring the water, and then disappearing into the deep.

After the migration ended, there was really nothing else to do but say goodbye to Ama and begin the long trip back.  I offered Ama a ride, but she fell in love with the folklore of Quebec and wanted to stay.  She'd heard my story, after all, and now she was after something new.  So I left Ama on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean and sailed away, watching her get smaller and smaller until she was nothing but a speck in the sun, her sunglasses catching the light, before the trees swallowed her up and I lost sight of her.  

Back in Black Bass, my friends flocked around me and asked me how the trip was, if I found where the fish were going, if I found out why. I told them, and made a few adjustments to my thesis.  At the end of August I got up before a board of advisors, opened my PowerPoint, and took a deep breath.  I stood in front of a picture of Ama and me, a big alewife held up between us, me sunburnt and tall, Ama with her powerful wrists wrapped around the 'wife's tail. We were both laughing.  

"Whenever you're ready," my advisor told me.  

I smiled.  We still had no idea why the alewives left, but I had ideas.  Maybe the oceans had more food now, or fewer predators, or the water was warmer.  Maybe after generations of freshwater the alewives were ready to go back to drinking salt.  Maybe there was something deeper to it, some instinct that alewives had that we didn't.

I was going to find out what had happened to the 'wives.  I wanted an answer.  I wanted a story.  "Once upon a time," I said, "there was a fish that lived in Lake Michigan."      

[nerds-are-cool]

if you’re struggling for AU ideas take a look-see at this list i wrote for my friend who dubbed it “better than the 10 commandments" 

1)     Coffee shop AU

i)       Barista and person who has a ridiculous coffee order

ii)      I’m worried about your coffee dependency

iii)     you accidentally poured boiling hot coffee over me so you’re responsible for taking me to A&E

iv)     you give me a different fake name every time you come into starbucks and I just want to know your real name bc ur cute but here I am scrawling “batman” onto your stupid cappuccino

2)      Flower shop AU

i)       You buy a weird amount of flowers and I’m concerned as to why

ii)      I’m allergic to flowers but I work in a flower shop – you’re a customer who’s very confused as to why I’d do that

iii)     (this is also a good way to incorporate flower meanings eg, buying certain colours/types for person to represent feelings etc.)

3)      Library AU

i)       You’re overdue on this book and I want it so I’m tracking u the fuck down

ii)      I work in the library and I’m a little concerned for your health bc you never stop studying

iii)     The library’s pretty empty save for you and me and OH that couple making out loudly in the shelves somewhere

4)      Awful first time meeting

i)       I accidentally punched you in the face when I was too overexcited about something

ii)      I thought you were my friend who’s just done something awful to me (read: cut my hair while I slept, dyed all of my clothes pink, etc. etc.) because you look similar from behind so I stormed up to you and shoved you from behind while calling you an asshole

iii)     You get the gist to this one

iv)     Oooh when you told me your name I thought you were joking because it’s fucking awful and I made a joke about it and things got awkward real fucking fast (perfect for a Hannibal au just saying)

5)      Weird places to meet/awkward meetings in general

i)       We live in the same block of flats but haven’t ever talked and Sunday morning we were both doing the walk of shame and had to stand in the lift together

ii)      “okay I know that being in the woods at 2am is a weird thing to be doing but my friend called me and- wait, why are you in the woods at 2am, fuck I’m going to die aren’t I?”

iii)     A personal favourite of mine – first day at a new job and oh fuck my boss is the person I drunkenly hooked up with last weekend/night

iv)     We keep accidentally running into each other I’m not a stalker I swear

v)      You live across from me in our apartments and we smile when we see each other but we don’t really know each other and oh you’re the stripper at my friend’s stag do/hen night fuck this is really uncomfortable

vi)     “My shower’s broken but I’ve got a date tonight could I possibly use your shower please?” “Oh sure (neighbour that I’ve been crushing on for the past six months) of course you can use my shower to get ready for your date (fuck fuck fuck)”

6)      Friends to romance – pining and all that wonderful shit

i)       You’ve got a date tonight and you asked for advice on what to wear but I’m so in love with you and damn you look good in the outfit I picked out for you

ii)      I really like you but you’re my best friend’s ex

iii)     You’ve liked me for ages and were really obvious about it and I didn’t like all the attention but now you’re over me I really miss it and fuck I think I like you too?

iv)     Somewhere along the way of getting into bar fights together, staying up all night with movie marathons, other friendship things, I’ve fallen in love with you but oh my god this could ruin EVERYTHING

v)      Friends with benefits oh wait I like you

7)      FAKE DATING HOLY SHIT I LIVE FOR THIS

i)       It’s my highschool reunion and I need a hot date so I can rub it in the faces of the people who hated me

ii)      My homophobic parents are coming to visit will you pretend to date me as an extra “fuck you”?

iii)     There’s a person who won’t stop bugging me will you pretend to be my partner so that they’ll fuck off?

iv)     I told my sister I have a boyfriend so she’d stop trying to set me up with people but now she’s coming to visit and I’m in too deep I need a fake boyf ASAP

8)      Soulmate aus

i)       The first words your true love(s) will say to you are tattooed on you and why the fuck are their first words something really ridiculous like ‘I’ll pay you a tenner to punch me in the face’ or ‘quick what’s your favourite animal’ or ‘fucking shit hell holy fuck wow oh my god jesus h Christ fuck me’ etc. or even worse a really ridiculous song lyric like  the opening lines of uptown funk or a high school musical song or smthing did you have to serenade me the first time you saw me asshole?

ii)      You get an ‘impression’ of your soulmate when you turn 18 or something but all I got was a strong smell of bananas or an overwhelming feeling that Thatcher was a good prime minister or an image in my mind of a fucking unicorn

iii)     The more ridiculous the better actually

iv)     Something like whenever your soulmate sings a duet you can’t help but join in and my fucking soulmate is in a goddamn band but I can’t sing for shit

v)      Or maybe something like soulmates always sneeze at the same time and I cant be sure but me and this kid in my French class just sneezed at the same time are we soulmates or was it a coincidence (proceed w character trying to make themselves sneeze around said person to see what’s what)

9)      Alternate universes for real

i)       Mermaids

ii)      Siren and asexual pirate who doesn’t understand why all his crew are losing their shit that person has a nice voice sure but what the fuck is happening

iii)     Hogwarts

iv)     We live in a world where the greek gods are real and you went and got yourself cursed and now I have to go on a fucking quest to sort this shit out why do I love you again?

v)      Pacific rim au (either they’re drift compatible or one of them is a ranger and the other stresses constantly bc what if they die yes I have read a fic like this no I didn’t come up with this one but it’s fucking good) (also if you haven’t seen that film go watch it now)

vi)     Literally any movie or book universe you like tbh just go for it

10)   Other aus that I like

i)       I wanted to go on the ferris wheel but there has to be two people to a cart come on random person let’s go oh wait are we stuck at the top? Fuck

ii)      We work in the same office and you have a goddamn squeaky chair and you wONT FUCKING STOP SQUEAKING IT BECAUSE YOU KNOW IT ANNOYS ME

iii)     Our mutual friend set us up on a blind date and I thought I’d hate it but you’re actually… kind of funny? But because I expected to hate it in no way am I going to let you change my mind just because you’re gorgeous and funny and intelligent oh no my friend is not winning this

iv)     It started to snow and I’m the only one of our friends who would go outside with you – I soon found out why none of the others would go out in the snow with you (this works best if they’re new friends who don’t know each other all that well) when you shoved a handful of snow down my back and declared snow war

v)      It’s nowhere near Christmas it’s literally still November would you calm down about Christmas wait no why are you getting the tree out no stop please stop (if you do this pre-relationship you can have the grouchy one secretly finding the other’s excitement endearing and falling in love with them actually that works for established relationship too)

vi)     Current partner got a new job in America (or other country far away) and we’re getting by on skype calls and emails but it’s not easy and then I met someone new (can be poly or can be finding the OTP person)

vii)   You want us both to get in shape and I hate working out/running but your ass looks really good in shorts oh the things I do for my friends and their nice asses

viii)  Carrying on from 10.vii. you’ve caught me checking you out in what I thought was a subtle way too many times and now you’re calling me out on it what do I do???

ix)     You’re an actor/other famous person that I really admire and I just saw you in the street and as I was debating whether or not to say hi you came up to me and started flirting what do I do??

x)      You were waving at your friend behind me but I got confused and waved back at you and now I’m dying of embarrassment but you think it’s cute

xi)     I sat down in the wrong class and I’m panicking but don’t want to get up and leave because the class has started and you think it’s hilarious and shut up you dumb fuck you don’t know me aahhh

xii)   I’m a waiter at this wedding and you’re a drunk guest who will not stop hitting on me please I’m trying to work no I can’t dance with you omg let me find you some water

xiii)  Our best friends are that awful ‘cute’ couple that make-out in public and call each other “sweetie” and “sugar” and “babe” and god they’re awful let’s talk about how awful they are – develops into “shit we’re the awful couple now”

xiv)  You pissed me off in class so I threw a book at your head and now I’m in detention and jesus fuck I hate you so much and the teacher made me apologise and wait you’re cuter up close and the way you talk is kind of nice actually oh fuck no

Okay I could go on forever but this is over 1,500 words of auing already I have too many ideas christ

send me some to @theskyis-forever

[july-19th-club]

@gayladypilots this is right down ur alley right

[spyderinej]

yes, yes it is

[nepenthenet]

this weeks prompts:

where is the fear of god?

it happened in the garden

how to kill a king

seven summers

[nepenthenet]

this weeks prompts:

where is the fear of god?

it happened in the garden

how to kill a king

seven summers

[pantherasleo]

shoal (short fiction #1)

Shoal

               Two things happened to Bobcat Brooks the summer he turned eleven, the first of which was the discovery of a battered old sailboat half-buried in the bank of the Wabash River and the second of which was the death of Ella Tallmadge.  Bobcat was the one who found the sailboat, even though he let Maryanne Tallmadge tell everyone that she found it and hauled it out of the mud with her bare hands.  He named it, too.  Maryanne wanted to call the boat The Mermaid, on account of the stories her father Catfish had been telling her, but Bobcat had just finished Treasure Island at school and christened the boat Hispaniola with black paint while Maryanne wasn't looking.     

“We’re pirates now,” Maryanne boasted, muddy bare feet planted on the Hispaniola’s splintered deck.  “It’s a good thing you’ve already got a pirate name, huh?”

Bobcat only grinned. The Hispaniola wasn't much of a pirate ship.  It was barely even a sailboat; its aluminum siding was dented and scratched, its paint peeling, its one sail just sackcloth stretched over a few taut ropes and a branch mast and boom.  It had a half-rotten wooden plank for a seat and one chipped oar.  Catfish Tallmadge was surprised it even stayed above water at all.   

Ella Tallmadge, Maryanne’s mother, died two weeks after Bobcat found the Hispaniola and only a few days after he and Maryanne got it water-worthy again.  The whole riverside community was stunned.  They didn't have much, the river folk, only houseboats and rusty trailers, flooded kitchens in the spring and cold bedrooms in the fall, but they looked out for each other. Nobody, not even Maryanne, knew that Ella had taken sick. She’d gone into the Wabash every day from April until June, collecting smooth, flat river stones to sell to tourists or to grind up into medicines.  She sold her flowers and ferns to the neighbors every Tuesday while Catfish caught big old garpike by hand and tanned their green and white sides into fine leather, telling stories while he worked.  Bobcat remembered seeing Ella and Maryanne and Catfish on the deck of their houseboat, drinking beer and eating fried fish, their deck light a warm beacon across the river.   

Everybody who lived on the river knew that Maryanne took after her mother. She had her father’s big dark eyes and fondness of crazy stories, but she had her mama’s tangled hair and muddy heels and deep love for the water.  

“I was born knowin’ how to swim,” Maryanne would say, throwing a skinny arm over Bobcat’s shoulders.  “’s how I met Bobcat here, right, Bobby?  The fish told me to go find him, so I swam across the river right into his front yard.  We was meant to be friends.”

“Nearly drowned doing it, too,” Bobcat would say, elbowing Maryanne back. He’d never seen her talk to fish, but she claimed she could do it and Maryanne could make anything true; a houseboat could be a great castle, a knot of stringy trees an enchanted forest, a sailboat a pirate ship.  Bobcat believed her.

One night in July, not too long after Ella died, Maryanne heard her father, Catfish, talking to his fishing buddies.  Bobcat was with her like he always was, knees muddy and the edges of his shirt dotted with cattails and burrs from crawling up the bank to a spot where they could lie and listen to Catfish’s thick whiskey drawl.  He wished he was home. It was too humid to do anything but lie in bed and read.  The heat hung over the Wabash like a cloud of mosquitoes, buzzing and prickling. 

"Maryanne's mama was a mermaid," Catfish was saying.  He was a big man who shared none of Maryanne's features except for those eyes, dark and deep like a hungry fish at the bottom of the river.  He wore his dark beard braided into long tails like the whiskers on a catfish. "I caught her down at the mouth of the Little Wabash when I was a young man and brought her here to live with me.  She had to go back to her own.  Mermaids can't live on land long, you know.  That's why we have a houseboat, so Ella could be near the water."     

All of Catfish’s buddies guffawed and stamped their feet and smoked.  A few of them nodded. Bobcat knew the difference between Catfish’s drunken stories and the truth, but Maryanne grew up thinking she had river magic, like her mama, and Maryanne didn’t.  

“That’s what we’re gonna do,” Maryanne breathed. “We’re gonna go find the mermaids and get my mama back.”  

Bobcat blinked.  In the dark Maryanne was just a pair of eyes and a smile.  “Maryanne,” he said, not sure how to go about telling her that her daddy was just drunk and missing her mother.  “You know mermaids ain’t real, right?  And if they were, they’d live in the ocean.  That’s what mer means.  It’s French for ocean.”

“Shut up, you big geek,” Maryanne snorted.  She only went to school about half the time, usually only when the Wabash was frozen solid or Catfish got tired of her hanging around while he and Ella worked.  “And c’mon.  The Little Wabash ain’t far; with the Hispaniola we could be there by morning and back before your daddy notices.”  

Bobcat shook his head.  “No.  It’s stupid.” Usually he went with Maryanne everywhere, but he was eleven now, and he knew better than to try and go downriver in the middle of the night.  It hadn’t rained much all summer so the water was slow and friendly, but it could turn on them in a second, Bobcat knew. If they went all the way down to the Little Wabash there’d be no one around to help.  

“Fine,” Maryanne said, sliding down the bank to the water’s edge.  “I’ll go by myself.  You can stay here, you chicken.”

“Maryanne!”  Bobcat hissed, grabbing her shoulder and trying to pull her back up the bank.  He didn’t want Catfish to know that they’d been spying.  Maryanne was too slippery, though, and dove out of Bobcat’s grip and right into the river.

Muttering under his breath, Bobcat jumped in after her, wading into the river and reaching out for Maryanne and the Hispaniola.  Maryanne found his hand and helped him up into the boat.  They kept the Hispaniola tied to Maryanne’s houseboat so it wouldn’t float down the river in the dark, and Maryanne stole Bobcat’s pocketknife to cut it loose.  Bobcat grabbed the chipped oar and used it to shove the sailboat out of the shallows, and then the current had them and they were on their way down the Wabash River.  

Maryanne grinned.  “I knew you’d come, Bobby.  Now heave to, sailor!  We’re gonna have to row, I think.  The river’s too slow.”

"Why do you always get to be the captain?" Bobcat grumbled, reaching for the oar again.  "I'm the one who found the boat."   

"I'm prettier," Maryanne said.  "And meaner, too."  That was true.  Right after her mama died, Bucky, one of the trailer park kids, told Maryanne that her mama died because she wasn't married to Catfish and that was a mortal sin.  Maryanne had shoved Bucky into the river and held him there, kicking, until Bobcat and another girl had managed to drag her off.  Maryanne was as strong as an alligator gar; Bobcat had needed to half-strangle her to get her to let go.   

"He deserved it," Maryanne had said fiercely.  "He was bein' an ignorant little shit."

Bobcat only sighed and started to paddle awkwardly with the oar.  Maryanne, taking pity on him, pulled a big stick out of the river and started to paddle on the other side.  This way, they were able to limp down the dark stretch of the river.  "How're we gonna get the boat back upstream?" Bobcat asked.  Usually, the Wabash was slow-moving and easy to move around in, but Bobcat didn't want to go too far and have to fight the current back home.   

"The fish will help us get back," said Maryanne confidently.  "And we ain't goin' that far.  Just to the mouth of the Little Wabash, where my daddy caught my mama."   

By the time the sun started to come up, painting the Wabash a fine, delicate gray, like the first sky of winter, Bobcat had mostly gotten over his annoyance and was starting to enjoy their adventure.  They'd never taken the Hispaniola out of sight of Bobcat's house before.  His mother wouldn't let him.  Some boy down in Arkansas had gone down the Mississippi in a rowboat and drowned, she'd heard, and she didn't want the same thing to happen to Bobcat.  He was a strong swimmer, though not as strong as Maryanne, and anyway if he did start to drown Maryanne had promised to ask the shoals of sunfish to catch him and bring him back up to the surface.   

All of the other river kids believed that Maryanne had magical powers, even Bucky Swanson. Maryanne was strong and could hold her breath underwater for twice as long as anybody else.  She claimed she could talk to fish and feel the river moving inside of her blood.  Catfish Tallmadge could pull a brook trout out of a puddle of rainwater, people said.  Ella had been her own kind of magical, able to grow any plant she wanted, able to cure most any ill.  Of course Maryanne had the river magic.

Bobcat didn't know what he believed.  He'd seen Maryanne do all kinds of weird and wonderful things.  Once she touched a patch of dry grass and a salamander burst from it.  Another time, Bobcat fell and cut his knees on some sharp rocks and when Maryanne cleaned the mud and silt away, there weren't any cuts at all.  She certainly looked like a river spirit, always wild-haired and muddy, her dark eyes always laughing.  But most of the kids Bobcat knew looked like that. 

As they sailed down the river, Maryanne sang "Crossing Muddy Waters" and played games with the birds that flocked to the banks, following the Hispaniola's progress.   

"You bring any food?"  Bobcat asked, after they'd been sailing for a handful of hours.  The sky was still gray, lightening by degrees, and he was hungry and thirsty.  Maryanne drank river water without thinking about it; she never got sick.  Bobcat was more cautious. 

"I've got jerky," Maryanne said, handing over a few thick, salty slices.  "There's water under the seat, too.  I know you've got a landlubber's belly."   

Bobcat stuck his tongue out at her, but ate the jerky and drank the water anyway.  "What are you gonna do if you do find a mermaid?"  The river was carrying them on its own now, a gentle tug like a parent pulling a child by the hand.  If Bobcat listened he could almost hear whispering.  He dangled one hand over the side of the boat, letting the river wind through his fingers.     

"Ask her about my mama,” Maryanne said promptly.  “Ask her about me, too.  It’s okay if my mama doesn’t wanna come back, I guess.  I just wanna know if I can visit every once and awhile.  I know Dad misses her too.”

Bobcat didn't say anything for a while.  He listened to Maryanne singing, Baby's gone and I don't know why, she let out this morning like a rusty shot in a hollow sky and thought about his own parents.  His mother was healthy and cheerful, his father built like a mountain. He didn’t know what he’d do if they died.  Catfish would take him in, probably.  Maryanne already talked like Bobcat was her brother instead of just her best friend. He’d live in the houseboat and feel the water moving underneath him and listen to Maryanne whispering to the fish through the floor.  

"I'll help you catch one," Bobcat finally said.  "So that way you can show everybody."   

Maryanne beamed at him, slapped him on the back, and stole a piece of jerky.  The water turned from a dark predawn blue to a murky, silty brown and the river got wider, wilder.  The current picked up speed and white foam hissed and slapped at the sides of the Hispaniola.  The water began to roar, a low growling sound that reminded Bobcat of his father’s old, mean dog.  Both rivermouth and dog, he reasoned, were likely to bite if he wasn’t careful.  

Bobcat reached down with the oar and dug it into the river bottom, trying to anchor the sailboat. "We're here," Maryanne said, pointing.  On the Illinois side another river opened up.  Bobcat listened hard but couldn't hear any fish whispering or any magic over the low howl of running water.  

Maryanne leaned over the side, scanning the river with hungry eyes.  The Hispaniola rocked with her, causing Bobcat to yelp.  "Don't do that!"  he said.  "The water's too rough.  I don't wanna fall in."   

"It's not that deep, though," Maryanne said.  "I can see the bottom.  You'd be fine, Bobby."  

Bobcat couldn't see the bottom, and said so.  All he saw was churning mud and cold foam, dead leaves and broken branches swirling around their boat.  The Little Wabash joined the Wabash in a tide of brown and white.  On the far bank a log lay submerged in mud, its sides scraped smooth by the relentless press of the river. "Still, be careful, okay?  The last thing you need to do is drown." 

"I wouldn't drown," Maryanne boasted.  "My mama is a mermaid.  I'd grow gills and live in the river with her."  She leaned forward again, pitching the boat, and water slopped over the sides, soaking Bobcat's feet.   He could feel the current tugging at his ankles.

"Maryanne!"  

"Don't be a baby," Maryanne laughed, leaning even farther, until the Hispaniola was tilted nearly sideways and water was rushing in.   

"Knock it off!"  Bobcat shouted, grabbing Maryanne by the shoulder and dragging her back into the boat.  Fear made him reckless.  "Your mama's not a mermaid!  She's dead!  And you're gonna be dead too if you keep doing that!"  

Maryanne jerked her shoulder out of Bobcat's grip.  "She is too!"  Bobcat had known Maryanne for seven years and he'd never seen her cry.  She wasn't crying now—fish don't cry, she used to tell him—but her eyes were wild and staring, red and full.  Bobcat reached for her again and she smacked his hand away.   

"Maryanne, you know your daddy's just telling you stories, right?"  Bobcat said, trying to be gentle, like his mom had been when his cat died.  He didn’t know how to do this.  He’d never argued with Maryanne before.  He didn’t know how.  "There's no such thing as mermaids.  Or--or river magic.  You can't really talk to fish.  If you fall in the river you're gonna drown."  

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, you coward,” Maryanne snapped back, and looked away, out across the mouth of the Little Wabash.  “You’re just a chickenshit, Robert Brooks.  You don’t believe me ‘cause you’re scared to.”

Bobcat flinched.  “Am not,” he muttered, looking away too.  On the Indiana side of the river the sun was coming up, a slash of warm pink and fiery orange, turning the water pale and riotous. “Maryanne,” he said, still looking out of the boat, at the muddy bank and the cornfields clustered up against the riverside, the broad beginnings of the Appalachian mountains a smudge low in the distance.  “Your mama’s dead.  You’ve gotta—you’ve gotta let it go.  We’re not babies anymore.  Your daddy’s just… telling stories.”  

“Hush,” Maryanne said suddenly, sitting up very straight.  Her face was screwed up like she was listening hard, but when Bobcat tried to listen all he could hear was the rush of the water and the sound of birds waking. And then Maryanne, eyes still red and puffy, smiled, and stood up.  

“Maryanne.”  Bobcat knew what she was going to do before she did it. “Maryanne!”  

“You’ll see,” Maryanne told him, and jumped off the Hispaniola into the mouth of the Little Wabash.  

“Maryanne!”  Bobcat lunged for her, but he missed her shirtsleeve by thin inches and lost his grip on the oar too, and the current shoved the Hispaniola downstream.  “Maryanne!”  Bobby screamed, waiting for her to resurface.  She was a better swimmer than Bobcat, she could keep her head above water even in the middle of a flash flood.  She’d be all right.  

“Maryanne!”  He fought with the oar, trying to dig it back into the bottom of the river, but all he managed to do was spin the nose of the Hispaniola around, facing upstream, and wedge the boat up against some rocks near the bank.  Bobcat jumped out of the sailboat and struggled into the water, wading in until the current slapped over his chest and his feet slipped in the mud.  

The water was cold and unrelenting. It knocked the air out of his chest and threatened to rise and rush over his head. It stung like saltwater. Bobcat had to turn back around, gasping, eyes burning, and paddle back towards the bank.  He collapsed in the shallows, shivering, looking out across the river to the wild place where the Little Wabash met its parent.  He couldn’t hear anything over his own breath and the birds.  Maryanne didn’t come back up.  She could hold her breath twice as long as Bobcat, but not this long.  

“What am I gonna tell your dad?” Bobcat screamed at the water. “What am I gonna do, Maryanne?”

The river didn’t talk to Bobcat like it talked to Maryanne.  He sat there in the shallows for a long time, until the sun rose all the way and turned the river blue again and burned the tears off Bobcat’s cheeks.  After a while he stood up, still looking at the spot where his friend had disappeared, the white swirls of foam, the muddy waves, and started walking through the water.  There was no way he’d get the Hispaniola back upstream, and he didn’t want to anyway.  He didn’t want anything to do with it.  He didn’t feel much like a pirate now; he felt like a kid, skinny and lost, wet to the bone and lonely.  

“Sorry, Maryanne,” Bobby muttered, rubbing his eyes.  The water stung.  “I shouldn’t’ve let you come.  I should’ve talked to your daddy first.” He didn’t know what to do without Maryanne. It was always Maryanne and Bobcat, not Bobcat by himself.  

Something brushed against his leg. Bobcat looked down and didn’t see anything in the clouded water.  It must have been a fish, he thought, or a piece of driftwood.  A drowned field mouse if he was really unlucky.  

He kept walking, water sloshing, and something brushed by his leg again.  “Damnit!” Bobcat swore, reaching down to yank his leg out of the water, and stopped.  

There was a fish in the river next to him, so big Bobcat could only see the green and white speckled sides of an alligator gar, the pink fins, the strong tail.  The gar's back broke the surface of the water, brushing against Bobcat's fingers, and then disappeared back down into the deep part of the river, where Bobcat knew that he would never see it again.  

“Maryanne?”  he asked.  

The river was quiet.  

“Maryanne,” he shouted, taking a step into deeper water, and then he saw them, a whole shoal of them, big fish with strong tails and dark, wild hair, stuck with bits of shells and rocks and scales. He couldn’t be sure, looking at them in the murky water, if they had faces or not, but he thought he saw Maryanne’s.

When he got back home, old Catfish was sitting on the deck of his houseboat, line dangling in the water. “Where’s Maryanne, Bobby?” Catfish asked, not looking at Bobcat but out at the water.  

“She’s gone to live with her mama,” Bobcat said, truthfully.  

“You see her go?”  said Catfish.  

“Yeah,” Bobcat said.  “Yeah, I did.”

“Well,” Catfish said, and he wasn’t crying either.  Fish don’t cry, Bobcat remembered. “That’s alright then.  C’mere, Robbie, come pull up a chair.  Grab a line.  Fishin’s good for sadness.”  

“I ain’t sad,” Bobcat said, but he did as he was told, hauling himself up out of the shallows into the houseboat and taking a seat next to Catfish.  

“Well, fish anyway.  You never know what you’re gonna bring up, boy.”  

“I guess that’s true,” Bobcat said, nodding, and tossed his line out into the water.             

[ourwritingtherapy-blog]

52 short stories in 52 weeks

1. A story entitled “A New Beginning”.

2. A story about rising to a challenge.

3. A retelling of a fairytale.

4. A story about three siblings.

5. A story set in London.

6.  A story about finding something that has been lost.

7. A story about a journey.

8. A story set during a war.

9. A creepy story.

10. A story featuring a countdown.

11. A story set at a full moon.

12. A story about a contest or competition.

13. A story that takes place entirely inside a vehicle. 

14. A story from a villain’s perspective.

15. A story set at a concert or festival.

16. A story that begins with a gunshot.

17. A story set in a country you’ve never been to.

18. A story about a historical figure.

19. A story set in a theatre.

20. A story written in 2nd person narrative.

21. A story set on another planet.

22. A story written from the perspective of someone dead/undead

23. A story about a birthday.

24. A story that ends on a cliffhanger.

25. A story set at the summer solstice.

26. A story about nostalgia.

27. A story that features a song or poem.

28. A story that ends at sunrise.

29. A story opening with the words “F*** you!”

30. A story about a magical object.

31. A story set at sea.

32. A story about a curse.

33. A story set 100 years in the future.

34. A story about loneliness.

35. A story that features a real recent newspaper article.

36. A story written from an animal’s perspective.

37. A story about a scientific discovery.

38. A story set on another planet.

39. A story with only one character.

40. A story about a secret.

41. A romance that ends in tragedy.

42. A tragedy that ends in romance.

43. A retelling of a recent Hollywood movie.

44. A story that takes place the year you were born.

45. A story about a near-death experience.

46. A story about anger.

47. A story about a magic spell.

48. A story set in a strange small town.

49. A story about justice being done.

50. A creation myth.

51. A story set at Christmas.

52. A story entitled “The End”.

[sulienapgwien]

@avacrowders pick one of these and we’ll swap stories

[allshesaidwasyes]

Ooooh ok i gotta think abt this

[prklife-deactivated20210303]

It’s really beautiful

[vahsaw]

VANISHING by Hayato Wakabayashi

[writeworld-blog]

A Few Tips and Resources for Writing Characters of Color

Anonymous asked: do you have any tips for writing poc characters when you, yourself, are white?

The simple, honest answer is that you need to be very careful because you have never been a POC and therefore are in danger of portraying a group of people insensitively, unfairly, disastrously―you get the idea.

This concept is known as “Writing the Other”, and it basically refers to writing about characters whose racial heritage, sexual orientation, religion, etc. differ from your own. It can be intimidating, especially since Writing the Other incorrectly can harm you the writer, your readers, and the people about whom you write.

That being said:

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: I’ve never died, but I’ve written a death scene. I’ve never waved a magic wand or dueled a dragon or gone to Mars, but I can write about it. Why is that? Imagination and research. (x)

Mostly lots and lots of research. We’re going to give you a great resource in the links below to get you started.

“But remember, there are two ways to dehumanize someone: by dismissing them, and by idolizing them.” ― David Wong

Try to write without pity or condescension or idealism in your heart. This is a sure way to mess up writing any character, but most especially a character based on a real group of people who are culturally different from you.

Instead, write characters with dignity and who are grounded in reality. Write honest characters.

Now for those resources we promised:

The Term POC

Writing Characters of Color

Gee, I don’t know how to research writing Characters of Color tastefully

Demographics, Representation, and Fiction

Describing Skin Tone

Describing a Completely New Race

More on Inclusiveness, Art, and Just Writing

So Tell Me: Is it bad to not have POC in your entire novel?

Writing Racially and Culturally Diverse Characters (short answer)

Need more?

How to Write a POC Character Part I: The Authentic Race

Writing about PoC’s

Writing the Other

Describing Skin Colors

Why Writing People of Color Is Hard

Additional tips on writing PoC characters

This Is a Towel: Skin Deep

Thank you for your question! If you have any concerns or suggestions about this article or writing in general, hit up our ask box!

-C

[danielle-writes]

Some advice for when you’re writing and find yourself stuck in the middle of a scene:

kill someone

ask this question: “What could go wrong?” and write exactly how it goes wrong

switch the POV from your current character to another - a minor character, the antagonist, anyone

stop writing whatever scene you’re struggling with and skip to the next one you want to write

write the ending

write a sex scene

use a scene prompt

use sentence starters

read someone else’s writing

Never delete. Never read what you’ve already written. Pass Go, collect your $200, and keep going.

[bookcharactersthough]

This is the literal best writing advice I have ever read. Period.

[thewritersphere]

[offvocalremade]

I FOUND A REALLY NEAT THING FOR WRITERS OR FOR PEOPLE MAKING NEW OCS

[offvocalremade]

WHERE DO ALL THESE RANDOM BURSTS OF NOTES KEEP COMING FROM

[joehillsthrills-deactivated2019]

There are a lot of ways for a novelist to create suspense, but also really only two: one a trick, one an art. The trick is to keep a secret. Or many secrets, even. In Lee Child’s books, Jack Reacher always has a big mystery to crack, but there are a series of smaller mysteries in the meantime, too, a new one appearing as soon as the last is resolved. J. K. Rowling is another master of this technique — Who gave Harry that Firebolt? How is Rita Skeeter getting her info? The art, meanwhile, the thing that makes “Pride and Prejudice” so superbly suspenseful, more suspenseful than the slickest spy novel, is to write stories in which characters must make decisions. “Breaking Bad” kept a few secrets from its audience, but for the most part it was fantastically adept at forcing Walter and Jesse into choice, into action. The same is true of “Freedom,” or “My Brilliant Friend,” or “Anna Karenina,” all novels that are hard to stop reading even when it seems as if it should be easy.

Charles Finch, in his round up of the summer thrillers in the New York Times Book Review. Just clipping this into the Tumblr, because I thought it was such an elegant formulation… the trick vs the art. The whole piece is worth a look for people who need a warm weather fix of suspense. (via joehillsthrills)