“How long have you known about this?” Stacey tried her best to be empathetic. The look of confusion on the tiger’s face suggested this was a new thing. For both of us, she thought.
It had started out normal. Daniel was a local pub manager, one kid (she had two of her own, no judgment there), into standard family activities like camping and whatnot. His stoicism, however, came off pedestrian. She had been almost bored, when suddenly whiskers grew from his beard.
Daniel began to cough. Stacey reached for the water jug, freezing as Daniel began to turn orange. After a moment she realized she was looking at fur. The fear on her face was mirrored in his as he watched his nails grow and harden.
Without a word he fled to the restrooms. Stacey sat there holding the jug, wondering what on earth just happened. She barely registered the faces of the other patrons. After several minutes, she calmly set the jug down and followed him.
Thankfully the place was quiet. Stacey stood in the corridor trying to come up with a plan. She needed to find Daniel…the tiger. She ignored the thought that she was most likely the one in danger. A low growl behind a set of ferns near the foyer mirror made it a struggle not to run away. Slowly, she made herself turn around.
There, crouched as if waiting for attack, was a tiger. A rather large, rather sharp clawed tiger…wearing Daniel’s necklace. Almost in reflex, Stacey extended her hand toward the wide eyed creature. He whimpered softly and leaned into her palm.
“What should I do?” Stacey was lost, both for words and ideas. The Daniel tiger just leaned into her further. A hug, she could do that.
Here be dragons! Giant reptiles of many varieties have worn the name, what imagery comes to mind when you think of dragons? Is a dragon the fearsome creature of mediaeval legend? Or does a more snakelike creature from folklore come to mind?
Smaugust began in 2016. Stories of dragons have fascinated people world over for aeons. As a writer of fantasy most of us are going to want to write a dragon story at some point, and Smaugust provides us with a great opportunity to do so.
Most of the monthly themes on the blog began as prompts for visual artists, but there is no good reason we as writers can’t use them too. Either as a stand-alone piece, or as an addition to your other work use one or all of these prompts to get your creativity flowing.
Prompts & Ideas
Week one: But I want to ride it! Forget slaying, tell us about the time your character convinced a dragon to let them ride it. Whether for need or fun, write about a human who gets to ride a dragon. Was the dragon happy about it? Begrudgingly accepted the ride? Is it the dragon’s goal?
Week Two: The Lair was Empty. They were ready for battle, but no one was home. Are they nervous? Dare they touch anything? What happens if the dragon comes back? How would it play on the mind of adventurers to find an empty lair after months of searching?
Week Three: The treasure wasn’t what they expected. Maybe the greatest prize turns out to be books. Maybe a person? A pie? Is the character happy or mad about it? This could be an exploration of what “treasure” means or the perspective of different characters about the treasure.
Week Four: It’ll hatch any day now. Who is waiting for the special moment and why? Will be be a pet or sold? Do they want dragons or is this unexpected chaos? What goes into raising baby dragons?
Ava sat across from the madwoman, trying to process what she had just heard. It was not the craziest thing she had heard, not by a long shot, but from Emma it was just lunacy
“So, you’re going to a festival, where you will choose a man by “stars” and let him knock you up?”
“More or less.”
“What the fuck?” She was having a difficult time picturing the upmarket executive as a werebear baby mama.
“As I said, it is a clan tradition. Every five years each of us, still blessed with fertility and single, come together to increase the clan size. I know you don’t see it this way Ava but it is an honor to bear a child conceived at the equinox moot.”
“But you have no kids.” Ava had gotten stuck on ‘five years’.
“I do, I was lucky enough to conceive the second and third time. They live at the clan’s reserve. Mila, my eldest, will be 10 soon and old enough to return with me.” The joy in her face touched Ava, though imagining her friend with a 10 year old daughter was strange. There was a pause in the conversations and she struggled to phrase her next question politely.
“Um, do you know who the father is?”
“Stars Ava, yes. It’s not a free-for-all. You meet, you date, the one you connect with most is your bonded one for that moot. Mila’s father will be arriving in town shortly after we return.”
Ava really didn’t know where to go from there. It seemed like the craziest cult crap and yet here sat a woman she considered logical and intelligent, off to do exactly that.
“Wait, what if you meet someone?”
“The moot is only for single clan members. I would still be expected to bear children but it would be with that partner.” Ava let that roll around in her head for a minute, then shrugged. Not her circus, not her cubs.
“How long do you want me to house sit for, and when does the cat get fed?”
More than anything else, Tanner wished for a snake. Venomous or not, didn’t matter. Maybe straight poison was the way to go. All he knew was the “humane” trap did anything but its job. The damned thing was still in the roof.
Scuttle, scuttle, thump. Possums had been bad enough. Tanner had seen his share of city vermin, but this was a new one. Possum…shifters. When he’d finally gained the courage to go in the roof, he’d been met with a strung out young man who lunged at him. Animal management had been less than helpful. Between them and the local police he’d felt like a tennis ball.
The scurrying sound let Tanner know the shifter was still intoxicated. After two months he had gotten an understanding of the thing’s routine. Wake up, leave, return plastered, shift, run around the roof until dawn. Almost the same as his previous housemate, and just as regular on the rent. His resentment might have softened, but there were only two days left. Two more days and the cops had the right to arrest the shifter. He was looking forward to a silent night.
Loryn sighed as she laid her head upon the stone. The cold soothed the throbbing, which only let in more memories. The girl’s face, their cries, her failure. What could she say? The many valid reasons she was too late to save them wouldn’t bring back their homes. The runner had arrived half in a fever. By the time he was able to tell her what happened she already knew she was too late. She had torn through the forest as fast as she could, hoping to at least arrive before the enemy left. Luck was not with her. She arrived in time to see the smolder of what used to be a happy town.
Loryn left them to their grief. There would be much to do in the way of repair and recovery, and it was evident the gold was gone. She quietly withdrew, intending to head back to the outpost she had been at before. The spring hunting had made it a crowded place. She needed to get back to the woods. The forest was her home. Despite the need for them, heroes are not generally well paid. She felt a brief moment of bitterness when she thought of the town. Leveled now, but they’d once known comfort. It was a feeling she hadn’t known since childhood.
The bitterness grew to form a tear. The unwanted daughter, the smallest page, the traitor, the exile. Just once, it would have been nice to be the friend, the lover. Loryn had settled for the hero, the one loved by those who benefit. The one sent on her way when the dragon was gone or the crisis averted. Worst still was the one blamed when disaster was not stopped. The one who failed to prevent every danger. Loryn knew how fast the hero could change to scapegoat. She took her leave before the mob formed. And as always, it was back to the woods she went. She tried to sit up, managing to get on her elbows, content with the slight lift in elevation.
This time, however, was different. The troll that sprang from the bushes just outside the town took her completely by surprise. Trolls were not common in that area. They were certainly not known for stealth. At the time it happened she had no time to puzzle it out, all her focus had been on surviving. Trolls are quick, despite their size. It had taken her by surprise, giving her a deep gouge in her thigh and knocking her into a tree. Though she had won, she was badly hurt. It was odd enough that she considered going back to the village to warn them.
Now, however, it was beginning to strike Loryn as more than odd. It had been no ordinary troll. Something tugged at the back of her mind, a detail that made a chill run through her. The beast had smiled. The thought of a troll with an emotional register disturbed her. It had smiled after scratching her. She traced the wound through her leg. It had already shrunk to the size of a small paper cut.
Loryn sprang to her legs, dizzy and frightened that feat was even possible after the beating she’d had. Her breath took on a low rumble and she lumbered forward on unsteady legs. She had no idea what was happening, the pains coursed through her so quickly she barely had time to register them all. A blinding pain shot across her jaw, echoed in her lower back. Raising a hand to her mouth she felt with horror her lower canines grow, piercing her upper lip. She gingerly lifted and removed it, only to let out a mute scream as she felt her insides come out through her tailbone.
She screamed and a roar issued forth. She reached behind her to feel her tailbone lengthened, covered with stretched thin skin, fur coming forth at the end. She collapsed, rolling to her side and crying. An itch began to crawl along her skin. She fought the urge to scratch, but gave in and met a short by coarse layer of fur.
A snapped branch in the bushes took her attention. She turned to gaze at what looked to be the oldest troll in existence hobbling towards her. His face had a look of concern, which just increased her fear. Trolls are savages, yet he seemed to approach her as though she was a wild creature. He stopped beside her head and peered down into her face.
“This should not have been possible. We need to have a conversation, my child.”
I was left in a state of annoyance upon finishing your litany of arrogance. ‘It’s so easy’ and ‘I do what I want when I want’ were quite bad enough. You then added insult with ‘I don’t know why you struggle so.”
Allow me to explain, though I’m sure it will simply entertain rather than enlighten you. As a birdshifter, my daily experiences are quite different to yours. I am marred with obligation you know nothing about. Can you comprehend what it is like to have your nest continuously relocated by “Shifter Rights” advocates? All of them seem to believe I’d be happier surrounded by nature. I cannot convince them I like the library roof.
I even went as far as attempting to live like you, in an apartment. Simply unacceptable. All of a sudden I was introduced to “cleaning”, what a waste of time. Simply to remain in one place required me to direct large portions of my day to removing shed feathers and carcasses. I need the open air for my nest.
And what would you, with your predator’s instincts, know of food scarcity? The humans are forever headed towards a “safe society”, which means alleyway murders are at an all time low. I am a scavenger, not a predator, yet I find myself having to lure humans into an accident more and more frequently. Yes I could consume the various rodents and marsupials littering the city, as you so readily pointed out, but why? There used to be more than enough humans, I’ll not lower my standard of eating now. Please, I beseech of you, invite me the next time you are hunting in a campground.
Though truly, the bane of my existence are the other birds. You need only deal with your pride. When in bird form I am at the mercy of all and any feathered fool who wishes to give me their life story. It is always the same story with Pigeons, as they are too stupid to come up with anything new. The finches act like five year olds and the kookaburras are bullies. Only the magpies are worth talking to, but even they are subject to impulse and dart off halfway through a sentence.
I dare not leave this cesspit, for at least there is some food here and the humans are amusing at times. I do not know what concentration of people can be found outside of it. I may take you up on your offer to host me, if only to see what life is like outside of concrete and steel.
Happy end of June! I thought it was time for a check in, as half the year has passed us now. I’m hoping you all are enjoying the blog. I’d love to know what stories you’ve enjoyed the most. I’ve had a lot of fun exploring the different genres and the fine lines between them.
I’ve also been getting more into my art however. I’ve developed these little mushroom men as a kind of personal mascot, though I do have plans to turn them into a comic over time. These grew out of a monthly art challenge called Funguary that happened in February this year. It was hosted by feefal and was a ton of fun.
I’ve noticed a trend to my stories, in that they tend to fall into one of two universes. A cozy urban fantasy universe or a darker more fairy tale based universe. I’ve attempted to better label these stories, as readers of one may not want to get halfway through a story set in the other before realizing it. I’m going to go back through my stories over the next month and assemble them into better lists in The Library, grouping together the ones that fall into these universes.
Going forward, it is my goal to share more. I’m going to attempt these updates quarterly at the very least, and I’m going to try to share my art on social media as well as my stories. I’m also starting a monthly newsletter that will be something of a link roundup for you of all stories and articles, their genres and corresponding universe if there is one. It will also highlight any new art or items in the shop, and give details of any events upcoming that I’m hoping to attend. You can subscribe to the newsletter at the bottom of the site.
That’s it for this round. I’ll check in again soon.
She had a good mind to give him a permanent ban. Of all the things she’d endured while working here, a solid two thirds were brought about by him.
The imp stood there in the middle of the room with a can of bug spray and a swatter. She loved that he was sweet enough to bring her flowers but wished he’d looked for pests first.
Somewhere among the books was a spider. It appeared the same as any other spider, but one bite was enough to create an itch that spread across the whole body and lasted for many days. It had eluded the imp so long the librarian had joined in the hunt.
After much futile searching, the librarian began flipping through the phone directory, looking for magical pest control, when she saw the tiny creature descend on a thin silver thread, right in front of the imp.
He caught sight of it shortly after and having carefully lined him up, swatted as hard as he could. His squeal was barely heard over the librarian’s laughter. He stormed off to get something cold for his nose, unaware of the spider crawling up his back.
The heat was worse than usual this year. The basin we called a township was used to searing temperatures and hellish humidity. This year was a new record.
The naive among us hoped it would be too hot for them to rise this summer. The rest of us knew. We prepared. Every summer, just on the solstice, the pixie eggs hatched. Thousands of the batlike creatures swarmed out of the trees, searching for their queen. They ravaged through town, feasting on or infecting anyone in their path.
When the heat hit in earnest we began boarding up windows and doors, covering chimneys with mesh and stockpiling food. No one left their house during hatching season. Well, almost no one. There were always one or two dumb ones. Natural selection, the wife said.
This year was different though. Everybody felt it. They were almost a month late. The dumb ones grew in number, maybe they were right. Maybe it was too hot. A quiet tension grew as resolve started to ebb.
That’s what I remember most. The silence right before the tsunami of pixies descended and the screaming began.
Julycanthropy began as an artist challenge in 2016/17 and as you can guess, all things werewolf is the theme. However, all things shapeshifting work for this month. Werewolves are the obvious choice but any animal, real or mythical could work for this. The act of shapeshifting has been attributed to many animals across global mythology, so there is a wide array of ideas to choose from.
Most of the monthly themes on the blog began as prompts for visual artists, but there is no good reason we as writers can’t use them too. Either as a stand alone piece, or as an addition to your other work use one or all of these prompts to get your creativity flowing.
Prompts & Ideas
Week One: Wings. Is it just visible wings on a human frame? Do they morph into a bird? Were they a bird first or a human? Write a monologue from the perspective of a bird shifter.
All kinds of animals have been used in stories as alternate forms, and each tells us something about the character. Stereotypes of certain animals, such as a dog’s loyalty or a snake’s cunning, form part of the character’s personality. What if the character were naturally the opposite? What if the girl who changes into a bear was a ballerina? What if the swan was the star quarterback? What do they wish others simply understood?
Week Two: What about the locals? How does the average human feel about “them shifters”? Are they advocating rights? Avoiding at all costs? Or maybe they are hunting them? The process of transformation is dramatic enough that everyone would have an opinion of some sort. Give us a story of the transformation process from the perspective of a stranger.
Try writing this as a guidebook. A guide to hunting, negotiating, raising, any kind of guide. Write from either the perspective of a shifter trying to educate or a human who thinks they know it all.
Week Three: On the night of…Maybe it isn’t the full moon that makes your character change form. When does the magic moment happen? Is it special or an inconvenience? Write a scene in which the particular evening or timing brings about a shift that cannot be stopped.
Perhaps it isn’t tied to a night, but triggered by another event. What if your character transformed each time a song was sung in their presence? Maybe it is a deliberate event triggered by drinking a potion. What triggers the change and can anyone use this trigger?
Week Four: Surprise Shift! What if your character didn’t know they were a shapeshifter? How and when do they find out? Were they in the middle of something big or were they just trying to relax? Write the whole story about that moment.
Or write it from the perspective of someone close to them. It would surely be a shock for them too. Use their field of view to give more detail on the physical transformation or focus on the confusion and emotions of witnessing this change.
C.M. Wellsmore 