"Most accurate, blatant representation of narcissism i've read yet. The authors ability to step into an entirely different characters shoes-" uhm, they're my shoes though. But thanks I guess.
A critic said this word for word in one of my reviews.
I think the current hard magic vs soft magic discourse is blaming magic systems for problems that are actually writing problems.
A lot of the criticism aimed at hard magic systems, especially around “power scaling brain” and fantasy becoming too focused on mechanics , is identifying a real phenomenon. Some fantasy readers do approach stories like battle forums or wikis now, obsessing over rankings, loopholes, and whether systems are “balanced.”
But I also think people overcorrect when they argue soft magic is automatically better or more literary.
Hard magic doesn’t prevent theme, atmosphere, or character work. Brandon Sanderson’s (yes that debate is what prompted this post) systems are extremely structured, but books like The Stormlight Archive still explore trauma, ideology and power in interesting ways.
And also I feel like critics of soft magic aren’t entirely wrong. If magic has no visible limits, stakes can absolutely start to feel vague or unearned. Poorly written soft systems can drift into deus ex machina territory very quickly, when what can and can't happen isn't really well defined.
But neither of those problems are caused by the type of system itself.
Soft magic can still create incredible tension and emotional stakes by utilising mystery and awe. The reader not completely understanding what is happening can be very effective when done right. I love tons of books with soft magic. I'm even writing one right now. because I understand that every tool has its situations! And hard magic can still support deep themes and atmosphere. The Stormlight Archive does this very well. Tolkien and Sanderson are clearly trying to achieve very different things, and both approaches clearly resonate with readers.
I think the more useful question is: what is the magic actually doing for the story?
Curious where people here fall on this. Also these are my views in brief. I have more detailed thoughts on this topic because it keeps coming up again and again, and I feel like it links into "database consumption" a bit. And no, I don't hate romantasy.
We all now there is this tendency in fantasy of taking normal names and change their spelling to make them more elaborate/weird/foreign. Basically, the equivalent of American moms naming their children Britney but spelled Brytnee. I usually laugh about it when an author does it, but I guess I've also read some names that pull it off.
Personally, I usually invent the names of my characters from scratch, just trying what sounds good and what looks good on the page. Or if the fantasy/character is based in one specific culture, I use already existing names. Because creating a name that vaguely sounds like a language I don't speak is 1. foolish 2. probably offensive. It feels a little bit icky to tweak names from a language you don't speak or a culture you know very little about (ehem hello, fantasy authors butchering Gaelic languages ehem). There are dead languages you can butcher for fun that are not in danger of extinction AKA Latin and Classical Greek.
Of course, I also play around with words from the languages I'm fluent in, it's always fun to see what comes up. To change from English spelling rules, to Spanish, to French, adding a 'y' here, change a vocal, or add 'h' after this letter. But unless the name ends up being almost unrecognizable from the original word, I'll always choose (one of) the correct spelling(s).
So, are you Team Already-Existing-Names or Team Spelling-Is-Fun? What's your process?
CONTEXT of this scene:
Elina is a little girl that Aurelio met shortly after being turned and essentially she’ll grow close with him and he teaches her faith and praying and all that and so although it takes a bit in the beginning with them 2, she grows on him.
Now this is years later him seeing her again after she moved all those years ago but now she’s an old lady on her death bed.
Plot: A Aurelio is/was a devoted Catholic monk named whose life is destroyed after he is turned into something cursed which is essentially a vampire, although I’m still trying to figure out what to call it in my world. The story is very gothic, tragic, and heavily focused on faith, guilt, suffering, and redemption.
But Instead of becoming evil, Aurelio spends centuries trying to remain faithful to God despite believing he has been permanently separated from Him. He refuses to feed on humans, he lives in isolation, and continues helping people, praying, and carrying his faith even while holy places like a chapel and religious symbols like a crucifix physically burn him and hurts him.
A huge part of the story is his relationship with God and the idea of loving something you believe you can never truly reach again. It’s less of a horror story and more of an emotional tragedy about like exile, hope, and what it means to keep believing even when you think you’re beyond forgiveness.
So I’m creating a story and I’m creating my elevator pitch( if you don’t know,An elevator pitch is a concise, 30- to 60-second summary of who you are, what you do, or the value of an idea. Its primary goal is to spark interest and open the door to a deeper conversation,) this is mines please tell me if this is a good pitch or not and please give feedback. If yall could help that would be really great and I’m super thankful. Anyway let me know what you think and what I could do better. Thanks again
“When the world is unbalanced two gods must emerge to balance it whilst keeping their humanity In tact. “
We all know about fantasy tropes, the ones we like, the ones we don't, and everything in between. I'd love to get a discussion going about what tropes people enjoy versus what they dislike, what feels overused versus what they think the genre needs more of.
Personally I am a big fan of the enemies to allies trope. I don't know what it is but I love it when enemies, whether that be individuals or entire factions, can come together over a common cause and come out the other side as friends or allies. There is something really satisfying about it when it is done well. Found family would have to be another one that always hits for me.
A trope I don't particularly enjoy is the chosen one or destiny angle, where a protagonist becomes powerful or significant simply because it is their fate. A lot of my favourite characters and novels are ones where the protagonist isn't the destined hero or the most powerful person in the room, but rather someone who is just different. They think differently, act differently, and are compelling because of who they are rather than what they were chosen to be.
I don’t know if it is a trope or not but another thing I am not a fan of that I see in more and more modern fiction is the need to include graphic sexual relations. I am by no means a prude but I feel like the romance of love get’s lost a bit when every step is described in graphic detail.
Looking forward to hearing everyone's thoughts!
My magic system is to do with monks. All monks have Chi. Chi is a life force that everyone has in varying concentrations. It can manifest however the user wants but it has to be trained first. Some Chi techniques are harder than others so you have to start with the basics and then move up to element manipulation etc…
I have tried to come up with some skills but need some help with figuring out skills that they could learn.
Here are my ideas: Kinetic Redirection (Fluidity & Momentum) - It doesn't use brute strength. It uses Chi to manipulate the physics of a fight, using the opponent's own speed against them.
Internal Fortitude (Strength & Durability): You can harden your own body or emit a short, explosive burst of pressure from your fingertips. To deliver strong blows.
WindStride - Running faster
Windhop - Double jumping in real life
Featherfall - Slow falling
Windanchor - Using wind as a force to weigh things down
Wind burst - Short blasts of wind
Whisper Step - Silencing your steps
Wind shield - Deflects projectiles
Chi echo - echolocation
Inner mending - Healing yourself - Maybe they have to learn human anatomy to know what to heal
Lifesight - Being able to see the chi glowing in other people's bodies. This means you can assess them as a threat and see them in the dark.
Any ideas are appreciated! Thank you!
Hi guys, I'm currently in the middle of drafting my fantasy novel, yet every time I go back to earlier chapters, they look like garbage and I just have this impulse to revise and edit it on the spot before carrying on. But when I go back again, they still look like garbage, and I basically lost the enthusiasm to write.
And it's not only that, whenever I go over the plots and scenes again, I just cannot bear the text and has this urge to rewrite, and my progress ends up going on forever. I swear im in my third or fourth rewrite already and it's burning me out. I work full-time so I need to squeeze my hours to write. I've been working on this for more than a year and it just seems never-ending.
How do you cope with this?
I saw another post writing about a similar topic, and I figured I would sort of piggyback off of it. I also am not trying to denigrate any authors. I also want to make it clear that I have no issue with YA whatsoever and respect its place in the fantasy mythos.
Also, this will be pretty long, for which I apologize. I've got a lot of thoughts here, and I was unsure where to post them to get some feedback and discussion. Seeing as it pertains to writing, I thought this would be the best place.
While fantasy, as a genre, has always toed the line, and YA is a subjective/amorphous definition, I think the last 20 years of fantasy have increasingly produced more YA-level material marketed to/for adults. It's not that I think there is not a steady wave of mature material being written, but I think readers' tastes have clearly shifted.
I would like to start by mentioning Sanderson. Regardless of how anyone feels about him, he has become a pillar of the modern fantasy genre and has opened doorways for a lot of new fantasy readers. His impact cannot be overstated. His commercial success has also led to many copycats, a phenomenon not unlike what happened with Harry Potter. While Sanderson is a prolific writer, there are reasonable questions about the maturity and quality of his writing. It would not be entirely unfair to suggest that he writes what are effectively YA books aimed at a wide audience.
I don't think there's anything wrong with this or with Sanderson, but I do think there is a slight issue with perception and trends. I feel that so much modern fantasy aimed at adults is written in a way that feels more like it's aimed at young adults. Whether that be coming-of-age themes, hyper-accessible language, fast pacing (does not apply to Sanderson in all cases lol), happy endings, typical romance buildup, an unwillingness to engage in genuinely complex themes (beyond things like rebellion, good vs evil, etc), very little subtext or subtlety, and other common tropes.
Sanderson, widely regarded as the peak of modern fantasy, does not necessarily bode well for the genre in my eyes. Not because I have a personal issue with him, but because I don't think he ever pushes any boundaries or strays beyond a very, very safe middle ground of writing. He has expressly stated that he writes simply to be accessible and that he avoids misunderstandings by reiterating and explaining almost every aspect of his world and plot repeatedly. Inherently bad? No, but I think his commercial success does indeed dictate the market. But, if the author at the peak of adult fantasy is producing content that avoids any sort of depth or complexity, there are legitimate trickle-down effects.
I have heard that the current romantasy genre has had its fair share of similar issues. I have limited experience with these books, but what I have read suggests many adult characters behave like teenagers, and narrative depth or complexity isn't the goal, which is understandable.
It was less than two decades ago that George Martin was at the apex of this genre, and the work he produced was both fun and fantastical, as well as emotionally complex. There was ambiguity and uncertainty, details only to be caught on a third or fourth read. I don't think ASOIAF is the most sophisticated thing ever, but compared to modern fantasy works, it looks incredible. Steven Erikson, who is thankfully still writing, produced incredibly complex material that delves into all sorts of philosophical musings, offering a post-modernistic view of the genre. Despite Malazan's rather overbearing fanbase, Erikson is an incredibly talented and well-studied author. Susanna Clarke and Robin Hobb seem to still be writing, which is wonderful for the genre as well, particularly Clarke, as it pertains to more literary work.
I do not expect every author to reach for these same highs, and I do not expect every reader to enjoy them, but I am concerned that market pressure is commercializing fantasy to the point that more mature or literary works are being pushed aside.
There absolutely are still authors producing very high-quality fantasy work, there is no doubt, but with readers' tastes shifting to less complex material, it seems like the PR for fantasy (as a genre) in literary circles has never been worse. The genre seems to be growing in sales but shrinking in scope.
I suppose my thought here is that YA as a classifier isn't what it used to be. It has grown beyond its boundaries to the point where it means very little. If Sanderson's work is considered adult, but Earthsea (a series with sophisticated writing and serious philosophical depth if you look for it) is YA, then there is very little value in that distinction. If sex or violence are the only differentiators (not the characters' intellectual/emotional maturity, themes, or anything else mentioned above), then I am certainly concerned with the way the genre is moving. If adult content isn't able to display more sophistication than what is written for children, then what does that mean for authors?
And before someone mentions it, yes, I do know that a great deal of fantasy writing throughout the last 50 years has been anti-intellectual. But it is my subjective opinion that far less quality content is being produced in the modern, consumption-heavy market. There is so much money flowing through that publishers will only look for what's hottest.
Feel free to agree or disagree. Does anyone else feel like trends have completely consumed the fantasy industry? Is it social media, access to publishing, aesthetics over quality, hype over substance, trends, etc.? Do any writers here find it difficult to get people to engage with quality, sophisticated content because of a lack of interest in complexity?
Also, I really tried turning this into a BookTok hate post. I'm sure there are enough of those. I was/am looking for a more thoughtful discussion on writing within the genre. However, I know BookTok is the elephant in the room.
Blood Falls is a striking, five-story red waterfall flowing from the Taylor Glacier in Antarctica’s McMurdo Dry Valleys. The red color is caused by iron-rich, hypersaline water from a subglacial pool oxidizing upon contact with air. The water is 3 times saltier than seawater and remains liquid despite being surrounded by cold ice (-17°C).
TLDR: Very specific book recommendation request for SuicideSquad X epic fantasy X romance SUB plot (not Romantasy)
I'm a fantasy writer. I'm struggling to find the right comps for my current book (basically, books that my potential readers enjoy)
I tried searching for the right comps all over, it's not that I'm so damn original that I can't find anything like it. But my fantasy has a strong romance SUB-plot. It's NOT a romantasy, but the romance is definitely a major element.
The book is about A royal bastard who kidnaps 4 death-row criminals and offers them a pardon in exchange for helping her complete a quest: recovering the prophesied artifact to end the Century War. But one of the criminals she recruited is an enemy spy, and he plans to steal the artifact at the first chance.
The royal bastard and spy are, of course, each other's love interests.
Think SuicideSquad x epic fantasy
I already read Five Broken Blades (a bit too romance-oriented but overall a fair comp), The Second Death of Locke (too romance-focused) , The Melevolent Seven (too grim dark) (considering the Jasad Heir)
I won't find an exact match, but if you read a good title published in the last 5 years that has any number of these elements combined, I'd love to read it:
a band of misfits saving the realm
a cat and mouse romance sub-plot
forbidden magical powers hidden from the government.
Thank you!!
So, I was wondering people's thoughts on this subject.
What I mean by "Morally Ambivalent" is like... characters that, while they may present a relatively clear "right side" in the story (though they might not), act in ways that, due to internal conflict, "unconventional" views on morality (by the standards of their own society/the society of the readers and the writer, or simply according to generally accepted wisdom), overwhelming emotions, simple selfishness, or other confounding factors behave at times in ways that the reader is unlikely to find justifiable (and they themselves might not).
They aren't unrepentant sociopaths or necessarily even especially self-focused (maybe they can be genuinely considered selfless in a misguided sort of way), they might be deeply troubled by their own actions (while they're doing them, or in hindsight), they have genuine virtues and aren't simply purely "bad people", could even be considered unambiguously good if it weren't for specific flaws, but their actions are some of the time or even much of the time ones that are easy to criticize, in ways that can be extreme or even rightly considered monstrous, for reasons other than either ignorance or the types of weakness a reader is likely to find genuinely sympathetic.
What are people's thoughts on these types of characters? As readers, as writers, advice ON writing such characters? Especially if they're protagonists that should be, even if not necessarily wholly sympathetic then at least likable enough to avoid driving away 99% of the potential audience.
After years of studying and working, I got a job that has a relatively large amount of free time with only short bursts of intense work. So I decided to go back to my hobby of writing, this time in a slightly more serious way. The problem is that I have so many questions and have no idea how to get started.
How do I describe places? For example, how can I describe a mini colosseum without using the words 'mini colosseum'? In addition, when I was young, I wrote a short story about people visiting a city that turned to stone (including trees, animals, and humans). How can I describe it without repeating the word 'stone' every few sentences? Are there tools for this?
How do I write info dump about the world without it sounding info dump? I mean, I understand that the first or second chapter in books/novels usually has a big info dump, but they don't write everything down. So how do one spread it out later in a story?
How can I avoid sounding like a robot or an AI? Years of studying exact sciences have given me a tendency to describe things dryly, as if I were reading from a list. How can I bring life and emotions into my writing?
Speaking about AI, how okay is it to use AI? I obviously don't mean whether it's okay for AI to write the story, but what about grammatical corrections or spelling errors I may have missed? And will it make my writing sound like AI?
And last but not least, where can I publish what I write to get constructive criticism? Are there specific sites? Specific format? Subreddit?
Imagine finding an ancient book with pages deliberately removed.
Not burned. Not destroyed. Carefully taken out.
The unsettling part is that you don’t know what’s missing — but you can tell it mattered.
What interests me about this idea is that the knowledge itself isn’t forbidden. It’s incomplete. Anyone trying to reconstruct it slowly changes in the process, not because the magic controls them, but because it amplifies something already inside them.
So now I’m wondering:
• Is incomplete knowledge safer or more dangerous than forbidden knowledge?
• Is the real danger in the information itself, or in the kind of person determined to complete it?
• And what’s more unsettling in fantasy:
magic that controls people, or magic that reveals who they already are?
I feel like my fight scenes are very plain and I was wondering if I could get recommendations on fantasy novels that do fight scenes really well to add to my reading list, also happy to add any video essays/writing advice books to my lists too, I really enjoy Hello Future Me and his advice for writing.
I haven't read a lot of fantasy, the main ones being the Deltora quest franchise, which as much as I love it is very entry level, especially when it comes to the fights, and I'm finally working my way through the Lord of the Rings franchise. Most other fantasy books I've read have been light novels for anime I like.
Any suggestions welcome!
Chapter 4 Caelum
Caelum opened his eyes abruptly by the sound of a lady. His hand maid Maira was standing at the foot of the bed. She had the build of a 30 year old but has looked 30 for as long as he has reigned king.
Maria: “My lord… my lord… my apologies for waking you…”
Leaning in forward with a respectful bow
Maria: “Please forgive me, The council has summoned you for an urgent meeting.”
Caelum groaned, rolling onto his back annoyed.
“Good God would you shut up. Your voice is so annoying. I had a wonderful dream”, changing his expression now adding a sharp bite, “with YOU NOT IN IT!.”
Maria: “My apologies my lord I only meant…”
Caelum: “you only meant to wake me up. You ruined my dream. I was walking on the beach. I wanted to go swimming and…”
Slight pause.
“I want to go swimming, the council, they can wait. Go fetch me breakfast and be quiet women, I swear you people only exist to annoy me.”
Maria bowed shakily and retreated,
Maria: “Of course my lord” closing the heavy door behind her.
Caelum laid in his bed, eyes closed, imagining his castle on top of a mountain towering just above the city and in his thoughts using his hand to scoop just under the base of the castle wrapping his fingers around the walls, grasping it and lowering it down gently.
as he lowered his hand he was simultaneously slowly flattening the mountain's landscape.
As the castle moved downwards in his imagination, the castle he was in was also shaking and moving with loud abrupt scratching noises and it echoed and rumbled in every room within the castle.
Portraits, cabinets, dishes falling all around but Caelum continued laying in his bed and focused on his imagination. As he continued to pull down the castle. He was alternating the terrain and the region surrounding the mountains base
ripping trees out of the ground, animals running in fear of what seemed like unexplained shifts all over the land. Caleum could feel servants and guards bracing themselves to walls, anything to anchor themselves to prevent toppling over. Caelum laying in his bed could feel himself getting tossed around left and right on his mattress. Farmers below had their crops completely washed over by the altered landscape. dirt and debris avalanching below burying some poor peasants. tearing and ripping down some buildings in the city along the ocean.
Outside of Caelum's imagination he could taste dust and hear loud noises from his body but continued moving the castle carefully downwards little by little.
Slowly the castle made its way down until it reached the shore's coast line. Caelum had purposely guided it in a way to be away from the city so he didn't have to be in sight of the poor and dirty peasants. In Caelum’s imagination he withdrew his hand from below the castle and scooped some sand from the outer deeper ocean floor closer to the coast to make it shallower for a longer distance.
Caelum’s eyes snapped open.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The room was a mess.
An armoire had tipped on its front side , books and decor scattered the bedroom floor.
Dust was all over settling itself on every surface.
Quickly he got dressed by slipping out of his sleeping clothes to his swimming attire in his walk in closet.
He shoved the main door to his room open and stepped into the hall.
Servants rushed back and forth, some carrying broken pieces of furniture, others trying to straighten what couldn’t be fixed. A pair of guards struggled to lift a fallen section of decorative stone that landed on a soldier flattening his body, grunting under the weight.
Caelum walked through the chaos like it wasn’t even there.
A servant nearly collided with him, catching herself at the last second, as the king darted past unbothered by the situation, she was immediately bowing her head in respect.
Weaving through the wreckage without effort dodging obstacles and brushing past people.
A voice cut through the noise.
The man:“Sir…!”
Caelum stopped.
Slowly, he turned.
Valerius Lysander stood a few steps back, posture straight despite the state of everything around him. Dust clung to his armor.
Even now, he looked composed,
Disciplined, and Careful.
Valerius: “Pardon my interruption,”
bowing his head just enough to show respect, but not weakness.
Valerius:“But the council has made a request.”
Caelum stared at him.
Blank.
Caelum:“…Well?” he said flatly. “Out with it.”
Valerius looked at Caelum with a stern look.
Valerius: “There has been an army reported from the west,”
“They are making their way towards…”
Caelum:“Then fight them.”
The interruption was immediate and sharp.
Caelum had already started turning away to continue on his path.
Valerius didn’t move.
Valerius:“I am rallying the men,” he continued, voice steady. “However… the council was hoping you might intervene...”
“it would be a shame if their travels were halted under some misfortune,”
Valerius paused
“Along their journey.”
Valerius remained still.
Valerius: “If I may, sir,” he said carefully, “this could be resolved in moments with your help.”
Caelum: “I'll consider it.”
As Caelum took a step he was stopped by Valerius's words.
Valerius: “going swimming are you?”
Caelum didn't turn but nodded
Valerius: “Why don't you build a ramp of sand in the water that goes up a story or two, jump off, and climb back up?”
A slight pause
“It's more fun.”
Another pause
“Anyways, don't let me rob you of any more of your fun… West of Mul Eac Castle please remember.” pointing and tapping at his temple
Caelum continued running through the castle without a care in the world, bursting out onto the sand.
A group of soldiers nearby were escorting villagers away from the premises, shouting orders as they moved them along.
When his feet hit the wet sand, he stopped.
The cold water washed over his toes.
Closing his eyes.
He imagined himself staring at the same coast line and there he stood. Seeing himself with his eyes closed.
He could also see guards patrolling in the distance.
Waves rolled in, steady and cold, rushing against the shore.
He focused on his imagination and he could feel the sand on the ocean floor.
Slowly, he moved it.
The seabed began to rise.
A slope formed beneath the surface, climbing higher and higher starting at the shoreline and stretching outward about two stories high.
The water ahead was deep beyond the ramp more than deep enough to safely jump without getting hurt.
The sun pressed against his skin. The wind moved around him.
He inhaled and then exhaled… smiling afterwards.
Caelum's eyes still closed, lowering himself onto the sand.
The ground beneath him shifted subtly. The grains responded to him, pulling together, lifting, carrying him upward along the slope without effort.
He opened his eyes at the top and rose to his feet.
Taking a few steps back, he paused only for a moment then broke into a run and leapt.
For a brief second, there was nothing beneath him but air but then soon a crash as caelum landed and the water swallowed him whole.
momentum slowed and he started rising to the resurface.
A quiet exhale as he breathed out and in fresh air again.
The water was cold but not unpleasant.
As caelum floated on his back he closed his eyes as he could feel and see the ocean floor but just like always he could only see so far above the seabed before being swallowed into the darkness.
Unlike above the ground, what he could perceive here was weaker.
So faint it was almost nothing at all.
If something wasn’t directly touching the seabed, Caelum couldn’t sense it.
At the surface, he could read the world through vibrations, subtle shifts, and movement carried through the soil.
But beneath the water, those vibrations were quickly halted by the ocean almost instantly.
Caelum eventually saw himself come in contact with the ramp on the cliff side by the natural movement of the ocean
In his imagination he merge his body into the sand partially
Focusing,
He made each grain obey him shifting, lifting and, carrying his form slowly up to the ramps top most surface.
But instead of letting himself fully return from the depth of his imagination,
Caelum lingered there.
Valerius’ words resurfaced in his mind,
Soldiers are West of the castle, Moving toward Mul Eac.
Curious, his awareness expanded outward.
In his imagination, he turned west of the city and began to search,
scanning the area
And then he saw it
There was an army
Riders moving in formation across the land.
horses pounding against the earth as they advanced eastward.
Swords remained sheathed at their sides, while crossbows and bows were strapped across their backs.
For so long the soldiers said nothing
At some point
A few soldiers dismounted, stretching, taking the chance to relieve themselves.
Soldier 1: “God damnit, we've been riding for what seems like forever. My ass is getting a rash”
Soldier 2: “Oh, shut up and walk then, I don't want to hear it.”
Soldier 3: “Im just ready to kill that king
He’s been sitting in that throne and is getting his ass wiped by the gods.
Literally every other kingdom within the east region has plummeted to the ground.
But oh no” shaking his head" Not the boy king.”
One soldier spat into the dirt.
Soldier 2: No, that castle just goes up and down with the gods being very cautious of their little favorite.”
Soldier 1: “Ehy, if i get a hold of him i’ll sink the little rat to the bottom of the ocean…. Men remember these words.”
Soldier 3: “Maybe if we kill him the gods can start favoriting me.” he laughed
Soldier 2: “Now what would the gods want with the likes of you?”
Soldier 3: “Haha, maybe they want something pretty to look at hahaha.”
Soldier 2: “what? Haha Your ugly face, I doubt it” he snorted “your face looks like my ass hahaha.”
The two men laughed and snorted
A moment later another soldier spoke
Soldier 4: “Yeah, fuck the gods and thier favorite little boy king”
“aye” said a crowd of men yelled.
Caelum had enough snooping around spying on their conversations
Caelum pulled the army into the soil, locking each soldier chest deep in place unable to move.
The soldiers erupted into screams and yells across the field.
It was way too loud that
The noise scattered the subtle vibrations Caelum relied on, making it harder to perceive the army forces.
Men shouted over one another, praying to gods old and new, begging for protection for their loved ones.
Some managed to release their hands from the soil, clawing desperately at the dirt, trying to pull themselves free but it didn’t last long
The ground shifted again.
The soil climbed higher, tightening around their freed arms.
Now Caelum wasn't angry
The council asked for a favor and that's it.
The soldiers were pleading for Mercy from the god that struck them down and Caelum knew it would do nothing and soon he decided it was time to clear his head from the loud screams from the army.
Caelum with his powers he pulled
The army with a downward force fully submerging the entire fleet.
They were dragged deeper and deeper under the surface. The dirt and rock tearing the flesh from skin and ripping armor clean off. With the loss of armor also came with the loss of limbs separating from their owners.
At this point though the men felt no pain and were fully unconscious because of the stress and pain of their current critical state.
Eventually the army was so deep he could no longer feel them.
Caelum tried looking past the base of his vision but could not sense anything.
Before Caelum woke up he mumbled
“I am the god of Death.”
Caelum opened his eyes from his vision on top of his built ramp
He took a few steps and then ran jumping
continuing to either jump off into the water or splashing and swimming nearby…
Rulon slammed his drink onto the bar.
He was clearly drunk, his words dragging and slipping over each other.
Rulon: “I dug for hours… days… months…”
“I tried, gods, I tried.”
He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.
“God knows I hate digging and I always have.”
Rulon leaned toward the man beside him, eyes unfocused.
Rulon:“I dug my whole farm. I went deep too… about as deep as any man can in six months.”
“From the moment I woke up… to the moment I slept…”
“I dug.”
The man didn't say a word but looked at Rulon and kept drinking his beer.
Rulon:“About seven months ago…” he muttered, staring down into his cup,
“I was heading into town.
“Just had some fresh milk for the market.”
“I left my wife… and I left my daughter behind.”
Rulon: “Told them to hold the fort down as I went to the market.
Just a normal day doing farm chores that I couldn't do because I went into town.”
Rulon:“It was actually a nice day.
The weather was beautiful. Sold all my milk. Everything was going great.
Then the ground shifted.”
Bartender: “So the ground shifted for me today too and I lost my whole stock of tequila but the boy has blessed me with my lost rum.” Slamming his belly and chuckling. “All is good haha.”
Unbothered Rulon kept going
Rulon: “I didn't think much of it.
Some livestock would get caught in the landscape but cows were easy enough to come by.”
Tears in his eyes Rulon took a swallow of his drink
“I”, he tried to get out “I told them to get inside the house… the barn…”
Eyes irritated and watery
Rulon: “There were shovels and pick axes to dig themselves out.
Rulon gripped his cup tighter and tighter
trying to hold back his tears
Rulon: “Fuck that boy king” he yelled
People in the bar got uncomfortable
Drunkie 1: “Shhh…shhhh”
Drunkie 2: “Oh shut up will you” he yelled
Drunkie 3: “there could be spies” another yelped, glancing around the room then pointing a finger at the front door “get him out!”
Bartender: “QUITE” putting his hands in the air and the room slowly settled “Farmer, I'm going to give you one warning and that's it…”
Drunkie 3: “There could be soldiers listening,” the guy repeated.
Bartender: “Shut it, There is not” he roared. “There will be no king slander in my establishment… Do I make a my-SELF CLEAR!”
Rulon didn't say a word but continued to grip his drink tight.
Bartender: “Did I?” he repeated
Rulon: “........Clear as… rain.” he said
“It's just been hard on me” as rulon said into the void.
“I mean for a man to spend months digging and searching for his family just for it all to be washed away in a moment hurts the soul.”
“All that hard work, completely undone, while my wife and daughter are trapped and scared buried under the world's crust.”
Drunkie 10: “Alright, we are leaving” one guy said and a bunch of drunkers got up from their seats with a loud scratch of the stools as it was pushed back then grabbing their mugs “And we're taking these drinks to go. You can have the mugs back tomorrow.”
Then they started clumsily stumbling to the door.
As the last few we're leaving one turned around
Drunkie 15: “Sorry we just don't want to be in the backwash of any misfortune if it were to come our way.”
Bartender: “go take a piss and come back with a refreshed mind.”
Rulon didn’t hear a word of it.
He stayed slumped over his drink, staring into nothing.
His own thoughts were eating him alive.
Rulon: I shouldn’t have had them do chores too far from the house.
It’s my fault.
If only the king wasn’t such a little cunt.
If wish I could knock that little fucker out
If only I didn’t need to sleep… I could have dug more finding them.
You can’t fix this.
But you need to fix this.
It’s your fault.
So what if the king had spies listening
The king needs to know what he did. He needs to know he's making my life a living hell.
Like how he just crushed an old beaten up soul like mine into dust.
It's not my fault
It's his fault…
…
IT IS HIS FAULT
Rulon: “You know…” he muttered, voice rough. “There was a time where everything was normal.”
“It wasn’t perfect… but it was perfect enough.”
“We went hungry some nights. Some days we worked ourselves like slaves for weeks.”
He shook his head slowly. “But at least it was ours. At least we had each other.”
His fingers tightened around the cup again.
“At least we didn’t live in fear.”
The bartender looked up from cleaning a mug and stared strictly at Rulon.
Rulon downed the rest of his drink and now with a hand around the mug looking down he asked for more.
Rulon:“Another.” he said quietly
The bartender didn’t move.
Bartender: “I think you’ve had enough.”
Rulon: “Another.”
The bartender and Rulon went silent,
The rest of the bar, still chatting away in their own conversations.
Rulon: “another”
The bartender reached for a bottle on the shelf and filled Rulon's cup.
Rulon: “This city used to be called the city of Mullaca
“Then one day he showed up. A boy.
Not an army, just one boy at our gates.
He seemed normal enough. The guards told him to piss off.”
Drunkie in the bar: “I know the story ya drunk bastard shut up.”
Rulon ignored him like he didn't hear him
Rulon: Then he showed us his true self as he ripped armies into the ground.
The previous king was sent underground conquering this kingdom with just one person. One boy.
He walks around like a god”
“If that boy is a god then I hate gods.”
Bartender: “alright, get the fuck out.”
As the bartender started coming out from behind the bar counter.
The floor burst and wood and dirt shot up exploding all over the room.
A Pillar of dirt rose and latched onto Rulon's leg
Quickly pulling him into the soil.
Everything was dark and the soil he was being dragged through shaved off his skin like sandpaper. Tearing back his eyelids and eating away his eye ball's.
Caelum was pulling him left and right running into rocks in the soil.
He could have made it so the soil was gentle moving carefully out of the way or made it instantly kill him.
Instead he was dragged through the underground portion of the city and castle moving extremely fast.
Rulon couldn't see anything but he could feel himself emerge out of the soil and back into the soil.
Repetitively over and over again like caelum was playing with him like he was a dolphin in water
Rulon just knew his skin had completely degloved at this point.
Rulon was shot high out of the dirt and landed snapping his arm backwards with a crack before the dirt pulled him in again
Eventually Rulon no longer felt pain or any nerves and everything finally stopped.
Trake
Trake stepped on the wood crate and lifted himself over the ledge of the brick wall.
Barks were echoing in the narrow alley as two boys teased the dog, keeping its meal of a dead frog just out of its reach. “Shut that fucking dog up.” A drunk shuffled out of an abandoned room and yelled through missing teeth, rags for cloths draped over his boney frame. One boot. The other foot was a mix of blackened skin accented with purple and red blotches that crawled up his leg. He yelled in the wrong direction, corrected, but the boys were already running away, laughing. The drunk turned and met Trake’s eyes as he turned to go back into his hole. He missed his target and walked into the wall, swore at it like it assaulted him, readjusted and disappeared into the dark.
Trake carried on, stepping through puddles on the cobblestone, around a makeshift table and chairs, towards the brothel. A woman was sitting on a stone step, “Got any food? Help me out eh.” Trake kept walking. She cursed at him with a quietly with a shaking voice. He avoided meeting her eyes. It was easier that way. He didn’t have food anyway, and when he had it, he wouldn’t give it to her anyway. Avoid the eyes and she remained a ghost.
Ahead, two men were arguing over a cart, one of them with a hand resting on the wheel and the other with a hand on the other man's collar. Neither sounded like they expected to win A third man was watching from a doorway with his arms folded, waiting to see how it resolved, smoke drifting upward from his pipe.
Trake reached the brothel wall and looked up trying to decide if the climb was worth the effort. It probably wasn’t, but the rooftop offered a good vantage point. The stone was slick with runoff and grease. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday and was beginning to feel the familiar shake in his limbs. It had to be addressed. The life of a street boy was mostly trying not to die, which you had to eat to do.
Fuck it he thought. He watched the man in the doorway turn back into his room and he began to climb.
Something smeared against his palm as he began, cold and wet. He didn’t stop to look. Some things were better left unexamined, especially the stains of a brothel wall. He worked his way up, fingers curling into slick divots in the stone, boots following. He moved slowly, testing each hold before committing his weight.
An open window exhaled a blend of old sweat, fish, and heavy floral oils—the reek of a gutter trying to pass itself off as a palace. It sank into his lungs like smoke from an oil lamp, catching in his throat and lingering. He heard a man yelling at a girl. She yelled back, high pitched and loud. His cock wasn’t working apparently. A slap rang out soon after, followed by a chorus of insults, fuck yous, you’re a fat bastard, and finally, it’s not my fault your mouth smells of the latrine you bitch.
Never make a fat man feel bad about himself Trake thought. Like bloated corpses in summer, touch them wrong and something ugly always spills out.
Trake’s foot slipped.
Not a fall. Just a sudden tug of gravity at his spine. He froze, his limbs flexing into a knot of shaking muscle. His fingers bent, clawing into the stone until the tips went white as he hung there. He was lucky he didn’t fall. But then you don’t survive this long on the street without a little luck.
In this gutter, a slip could mean a scrape. A scrape could fester. A festering wound was a slow, rotting walk to the communal pyre. In the filth-choked arteries of the city there was nothing to justify the struggle, no honor to be won, even so, he did it. There was no time for the theater. No time for dinner with friends at the market, no time for lessons at school. The only lessons that mattered were learned from the mistakes that didn’t kill you. Trake kept climbing. Kept moving. Kept surviving. Not because he was brave but because there was nothing else to do, and besides, a slip would be quick. Starving is slow.
His hand reached the top and he slid over the edge onto the roof and rested on all four limbs. The two boys from earlier were running below, the smack of their feet on the stone disappearing into the alley. “Find yer own damn food you witch,” one of them yelled. The other laughed.
Trake set his feet in two voids left empty from broken clay tiles and looked over the market as he caught his breathe.
I fucking hate the market.
It sat in the city square leaking bodies into the space like a drain until the air was thick enough to chew. The noises blended into a singular offensive thrum.
Trake watched the commotion below. Pilgrims with blistered feet pressed against prostitutes. Men selling relics argued with men selling forgiveness. Preachers shouting over miracle-seekers, all of them selling lies.
One of the prostitutes, dressed in ragged lace drifted toward a merchant. He might have pushed her away if he’d been sure she wouldn’t soil his silks. The man shrank back as if she carried the plague, which she probably did. It was free Afterall. Amongst the few things available to rich or poor.
His vantage offered a view of the entire market. More importantly, he could see the guards. He tracked their repetitive loops through the crowd. On a good day, you got the lazy bastards. On a bad day, the evil ones. Today, three patrols circled the crowd, each one frowning as they walked.
Am embellished laugh rang out from a balcony. A group of wealthy pricks ate on a balcony like it was a performance. A bite here. A taste there. Spiced meat sizzling. Citrus split open. Wine spilling over cups that never seemed to empty. He couldn’t tell if it made him more hungry or if it made him want to retch what little bile he had left. In the end it made his stomach growl.
There was a bread stand tucked into a corner, far enough from the guards’ paths to be ignored. It would have to do. A man in simple wools was smiling as he calmly spoke to the vendor, out of place in the chaos. He would be a distraction at least.
For a moment he just sat there regretting the climb. He had to go down. Should have though about that before. He could let the hunger win, fall asleep on the roof and not be found until the smell got bad enough. He pushed to the ledge anyway.
His limbs shook as he climbed down, his ragged breath battling the fatigue. He gathered himself once more and peered out from the alley, sitting on his heels as damp cobblestones soaked through the thin leather of his boots. The cold worked its way in, as it always did.
He needed new boots.
Not easy to come by. You had to be first to the body and they had to fit. He could steal a pair from another boy but that meant a knife in the back, which was always a possibility anyway. He could enlist. They gave you boots in the army. They also put you somewhere people were trying to kill you, which was the same problem he had now except bigger blades.
Trake looked down at his feet. He would probably just keep these a little longer.
It could get sorted after he ate.
Shuffling on the cobble behind him brought two hollow-eyed boys out of the gloom to join him, survivors by accident, mostly.
They clung to the shadow of the alley.
“Alright, Trake,” the short one said, his voice breaking. A large scar ran down the side of his head. Proof he’d been lucky more than once.
The tall one gave a sharp nod and sniffed, whipping snot across his face with his hand. He looked like most kids Trake knew, skinny, with bulging dead eyes that looked too big for his bony face. His pants were too short and his shirt too big, both likely taken from a corpse or thrown away in some gutter. A satchel of sorts was draped over his shoulder. Its was embellished with lace around the edges and had a little bow on the clasp that looked like it may have been bright red at some point. It didn’t match the filth. He kept a hand around the strap as he stood.
“What’re you doing here?” the tall one asked.
Trake looked from they boys faces to their feet. Their boots were too small. That annoyed him for some reason. He turned back toward the market and watched a holy man howl a prayer over another man, who would surely be miraculously healed at any moment.
“Came for the atmosphere,” he muttered, letting the sarcasm hang in the air.
They just stared, the jab sailing clean over their heads. The tall one wiped more snot across his face and adjusted his satchel.
Trake sighed. “What do you think I’m here for? Fuck off before you bring the attention of the guards.”
The tall boy shifted his weight, bulging eyes focused on nothing. The short one looked confused.
“You seen Rell?” the short one asked. There was an inflection of hope attached to the question.
Trake didn’t answer right away. There was a rhythm to these things. A grim ceremony. He knew where Rell was. He knew what had happened to him. Rell wasn’t living in the royal palace sharing gossip with the nobility.
In this city, when a boy vanished, one of two things happened.
They were dead, like Rell, or taken.
Taken meant sold to a rich bastard who’d eaten, drank, and fucked his way through life until only the things he wasn’t meant to touch excited him.
There was no point lying.
“Guards,” Trake said. The word landed with the finality of a coffin lid.
“Gone then… eh,” the small one whispered, still staring at nothing. Reciting the words as if they weren’t his own. He lowered his head and itched at the back of his neck.
“Ya,” Trake kept his eyes towards the market, “He’s fucking gone.”
One of the boys shifted, his foot shuffling on the cold stone. Trake just ignored them until they folded back into the shadows. Better to say the truth and move on in his experience. They were just words anyway. Rell was gone and now they knew. He almost felt bad.
Trake stood and worked a cramp out of his cold foot, looking back to where the boys were. No point giving the poor bastards hope. It would just weigh them down and they had enough to worry about. He looked at his boots again. He had once hoped for a good pair. A week later his friend died and he took his.
The little dog ran to the edge of the alley and stopped, panting from the day’s activities, briefly starred out into the market and ran back into the darkness, soft clicks of his paws disappearing with him. Little prick had enough energy. Trake wondered if he was too picky. Easy enough to find a frog after all.
He could smell the bread though and it smelled better than a frog. Never smelled a frog though. He could be wrong. He looked back to the bread stand.
Trake waited until the time was right and then drifted into the flow of the crowd, just another shadow in a city of ghosts. The bread stand passed on his left. He didn't break his stride. His hand dipped, a practiced, invisible motion as he pushed it into his sleeve. A sudden, warm weight pressed into his arm, the heat of the crust lingered on his fingers.
“Hey—”
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
Trake twisted, shrugged, and rolled out of it in one smooth motion, already moving before the shout finished forming, ducking fast, shouldered through a pair of arguing men, and ran.
Legs burned as he ran through a fog of his own breath. The market dragged at him, a shifting mass of bodies, livestock, and carts closing in. An elbow slammed into his ribs. A shoulder checked him sideways. Someone’s fingers caught his sleeve and tore cloth before he ripped free, but the bread was still there.
A woman holding a child stepped aside, her head following him as he passed by.
A narrow gap opened ahead between leaning tenements. Trake pivoted, veering into the dark where the air was even colder, and ran.
A sharp turn rushed to meet him. His boots skidding, finding balance by some miracle of instinct, turning another corner only to find the alley ended with a bone-jarring thud.
He looked around at a brick wall, the only sound his heavy breaths. Trash. Piss-soaked corners. Grease that was smeared into the stones. Could have been blood. Hard to tell. Two pigeons landed on the stones edge above him, exchanging coos and they shuffled from side to side.
A dead end. Trake was stuck in a steaming pile of shit with no way out. Smelled like shit, too. His mother always said you could find poetry in any situation if you looked. She died from the drink, though. Hard to find the poetry in that.
Trake turned, back to the wall, and simply waited. A strange sort of calm settled over him, the hollow peace of a man who knows when he’s fucked. A drip of water landed on his neck, sending a chill down his spine. He wiped it away, looking up to see where it came from, followed another drips path and adjusted to avoid it.
Two guards arrived. The heavy, rhythmic crunch of their boots on the stone like the ticking of a clock. They weren’t in a rush. Trake couldn’t go anywhere anyway.
“Well, well, well,” one of them said. “How the hell did you find yourself here?”
“Lost, are you, boy?” the skinny one said, red-faced and grinning a yellow set of half missing teeth. This one liked the drink. His boots were the right size though.
“A street boy,” the first one said. “Lost. In the streets no less.” He spread his arms wide, turning from side to side, almost looking offended. “Ironic, idn’t it?”
An ugly bastard with a flat nose, broken from too many punches to the head. He folded his arms and grinned. More teeth but the same yellow.
“Ain’t how you use that word,” the skinny one said flatly
The flat nose one took a step sideways put his hand on his hip, glaring at the skinny one with a furled brow, “it is.”
“It aint.” The skinny one said louder this time.
Flat nose threw his hand up, “what the right way then?”
“Like when you need somthin and then it appears ain’ it?
Flat nose grunted and looked off into the distance, contemplating the explanation. He began nodding his head slowly. “Ain’t that what happened?” he said softly to himself.
The skinny one watched him, slowly shaking his head, “Nah. This is different. This is where he lives but he don’t know where he is goin.”
Trake took a bit of his bread as the two contemplated a word. The pigeons fluttered away above, moving to a higher perch. The bread was still warm. Fresh.
“Shut the fuck up and grab him you idiots!” the yell reverberated the walls. A fat man with a well-trimmed beard and a clean uniform strolled into the alley. The other two flinched and stood straighter.
“Don’t hurt him though,” he said. “Ya get more coin without bruises.” He looked Trake over. Slow. Like he was deciding where to cut.
“Right,” the ugly one said.
Something bounced off the fat one’s back. A ricochet of grime landed on the side of his face. He didn’t react at first, his eyes staying on Trake. Eventually he wiped it off slowly and looked at his finger with a scowl.
Behind the guards stood the two street boys from earlier, hurling trash, trying to distract the guards. It didn’t work. They tried though. It made him wish he’d said something pretty about Rell. Could have lied and told them he’d been taken in by a nice family.
The other two guards did their best not to laugh. The fat one feinted he was going to chase them and they scurried off.
A thin smile crept at Trake’s lips.
The fat guard’s smile vanished as he looked at Trake. The bloated corpse tore off his helmet and hurled it, missing Trake’s face at the last second. The helmet slammed into the wall beside him with a vicious crack, iron shrieking against stone. It bounced once, clattered, and came to rest. The sound ran down the alley and died.
The guards frowned at one another, each waiting for someone else to explain it.
After a beat, the skinny one shifted his weight. “Thought we was avoiding bruises,”
“Piss off and grab him.” The big one said as he rubbed more grime from his cheek.
Tap.
Tap.
Behind the guards stood a man in simple clothes, a staff resting lightly in his hands.
The three guards turned in unison.
“If you’ve got coin, you can have him. Otherwise, fuck off,” the fat one said.
The man smiled, not wide, not fake. Just pleasant. He rested his hands atop the staff and tapped his foot softly.
Tap.
Tap.
“No,” the man said. “I don’t think I will. The boy will be coming with me.”
Trake blinked, a dull pulse of dread thumping in his ears.
The fat guard nodded at the skinny one. “Go on, then,” he said. He turned back to Trake, confident.
The man met the guard halfway. He struck once. The sound was like a wet towel falling off a wash table. The guard collapsed, hands clawing at his throat, body folding in on itself.
He leaned back on his staff. The smile returned.
The other two guards rushed in.
His staff lashed out and hammered the ugly guard on the side of the head, wood on bone, dropping him instantly. A kick followed, landing square on the fat guard’s throat. He staggered backwards, swayed back and forth, into the wall, bounced off, continued staggering like a fish out of water.
Trake had seen dead bodies. He’d watched people die. He watched people die in fights. Usually, they ended in a scream
This was more like a whisper.
“Come along,” he said.
The fat guard was still fighting the inevitable, staggering, hoping.
Hope was a heavy bastard.
An argument rang out from an abandoned room above them. Ragged voices fueled by the drink, screaming accusations of a missing jug of spirits. Fucks and disappointment preceded the acceptance that one of them did indeed remember drinking the last of their supply. An apology and words of affection followed. The love of the drink always came first in Trake’s experience.
The pigeons fluttered above, having enough of the commotion. Trake watched the man follow them behind a building, looking down after to meet Trake’s eyes.
He man signalled for Trake to follow. They walked out of the alley, the man smiling, indifferent. Almost bored.
Trake didn’t run. He followed. He looked at the alley behind him, and it reminded him there was nowhere to run anyway. Besides, he was hungry and, in the streets, when you found something to protect you, you used it until it was useless.
He looked ahead to the man. He had just killed three men with as little effort Trake put into waking up. He wouldn’t get away anyway.
Trake ripped of a soggy piece of bread and threw it over his shoulder. Clicks on the stone brough his attention to the little dog running away.
Trake heard the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground. The fat bastard had finally given in.
Chapter 1 Cole's Beginning
Cole pushed open the front door of The Last Pine and stepped inside.
The familiar blend of fried grease and beer wrapped the inside of the interior.
The jukebox in the corner had been out of service for years.
The bar hummed with a new country song that Cole had never heard of before.
The staff occasionally played their own music when the bar was slow.
The place wasn’t too busy for a Friday night. A couple of older men sat in a booth near the window, talking low slurring their words over a couple of beers.
Across the room, Four guys coles age playing pool, the sharp crack of balls cutting through the music every few seconds.
Cole J. Wyatt had on a heavy-duty, dark brown field jacket with thick seams and flap pockets practical for cold mornings and long hours outdoors. Underneath, a dark green button-up shirt and rinsed timber brown work pants with a belt buckle tightened around his waist.
all clothes are slightly worn but well-kept.
He was 43
Cole walked over to a stool next to a long time drinking pal.
“A whiskey, no ice” said to the bartender
“you got it” as Tiffany started pouring whiskey into a glass.
Paul spoke “How's it, Grizz?”
Paul, a 50 year old man with a receding hair line.
He was dressed In a Dark Orange work shirt.
“Good, I answered a newspaper reading to take care of some coyotes killing some farmers' livestock up north of town, probably some chickens or some goats.”
Tiffany slid a whiskey cup to Cole
“Some coyotes? Who you going with?” Paul said
“No one, I got an idea to trap em using some bait.”
“Psst you're going to get yourself killed.
You know what i would do? Id shoot them one by one the moment i saw them and before you could even raise your rifle.” Paul laughed
“Paul, the only shot you’ve hit in the last five years is that whiskey right in front of you.
I'd bet you” cole chuckled, “couldn't even piss in the toilet 2 feet in front of you without missing.” Cole snorted
Paul pointed at Grizz
“I don't miss i just aim different”
“Ha, nobody knows what you're aiming for, you hit more dirt than a coal miner.”
They both laughed and clinked glasses
“Anyways, let me tell you what I almost caught yesterday.
I was out fishing when I decided to not buy any bait at the little gas station down by hoovers creek.
They were charging $50 for a bag of fishing bait and can you believe it (“50 Dollars!”) for an ounce of bait. You know, those little bait bags?
I told the cashier this is unbelievable and they offered them to me for $5 and I said no they shouldn't be that price to begin with.”
Cole shook his head with a laugh.
“Anyways screw it and I tried a new fishing spot on the other side of the creek and I tossed the line out and I couldn't believe my eyes.
The biggest fucking fish you ever seen leaped out of the water and i mean he really leaped out and bit the hook before it even hit the water.
Man, oh man, it tugged so hard that he sent me into the water like a cartoon and I had to cut the line.
Cole smirked “yeah, i bet that happened”
“Sure did, swear to god” Paul said,
“so uh, Mind some company hunting them coyotes?”
“No,” Cole laughed, “the most helpful you could be is I use you as bait.” Cole let out another chuckle, “and maybe you can holler when they're biting you so i can shut the trap door.” Cole continued chuckling.
Cole downed the rest of his drink giving the shot glass a light slam on the counter.
“Well it's about time I go” Cole said
Oh, come on you only had one drink” Paul said “I haven't even got to tell you the story about the lady and her locked car”
Cole got up from his seat and pushed the stool in “oh, but you have Old man…”
“Her window was rolled down the whole time and she's been stuck for over an hour.” Cole chuckled
“Ok well, what about the parking story? You haven't heard that one.”
Cole starts walking away towards the front door saying “The guy parked too close so you got your buddy to park too close boxing him in” Cole replied
“yeah he couldn't get in he was so mad” Paul chuckled…
“haha-yeah heard it, see you Paul”
Cole walked out of the bar to his truck and it smelled like wet asphalt…
The sky was grey and cloudy with a light wind.
When he got to his truck he looked into the bed.
In there were the wood working supplies he bought from Wood Work Depot.
some 2 by 4’, a box of screws, chain link fence and an electronic door.
He exhaled, opened the driver's door and got into his truck.
Cole just wanted a buzz from the bar… a little something for his drive home.
As he left the parking lot and made it back on the highway his truck cut into, disappearing into the evergreen trees making his way back home.
He turned on the radio and was listening to 105.7 Muddy Boots Cole's favorite radio station.
They started off playing Tracking Dirt and other country songs followed.
When Cole got home the clock in the truck read 6:30 but he knew it was actually 5:30
Cole backed up the truck to the garage door.
He got out of his truck and lowered the tail gate and immediately went inside to raise the door
and Cole got to work unloading the supplies.
Cole wanted to work inside the garage so he could stay out of the wind and rain.
He started off creating the base floor and was now working on the supports
His 15 year old son came in to check up on him
.
“Whatcha building pa” Thomas said
“A Trap,” Cole said, screwing in the base with the drill.
“A Trap for what?” Thomas asked
“Trapping some coyotes, in this chicken coop…, hand me that board would you?” Cole said as Thomas went to fetch him a board.
Cole grabbed his tape measure and handed Thomas a pencil.
“Thanks, now mark me 5 foot even…
A slight pause with a scrunched face.
“nah make it 5 ft 7/16s… gotta make it harder for ya.”
“1,2,3,4… ugh…1,2” Thomas counted
Cole grinned with a laugh “what's half of 16?”
“Uh… 8” Thomas answered
“Ok, now all you got to do is take away a 16th” Cole said
Thomas lowered the pencil and marked the wood at 5ft 7/16s.
Cole leaned over
“There you go” Cole grinned
“Now mark it at 5 ft even,” Cole chuckled
Thomas remarked at 5 foot
“So uh, you want to come with…
A slight pause
could use a hand loading and unloading the trap out of the truck?”
Thomas looked at his dad
“Yeah, sure thing Pa” Thomas said
“Awesoms, We'll have to get up real early before they're wandering around looking for food.”
An hour had passed as Cole and his son continued building their trap screwing in boards and making light father son conversations.
The trap consisted of 2x4s as the frame and floor, a chain linked fence for the walls
The mechanical door was left off to make it easier to stage the raw meat inside.
Cole and Thomas lifted the trap into the truck just barely fitting in the bed leaving the tail end fully extended.
Then ratchet strapped it tight giving it a shake and slapping saying
“yup, it aint going no where”
“Alright, if you’re going with me we should head to bed.”
Thomas nodded and together they made their way inside.
Opening the door and entering,
Claire Wyatt was sitting in the chair by the woodstove, the room was quiet except for the soft crackle of burning wood.
She had a book in her lap, but her eyes lifted as they came in.
“You two get it all loaded up?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Cole said, rubbing his hands together as he stepped inside. “It’s in the truck.”
Thomas kicked off his shoes near the door and went into his room.
Cole sat down on the front door bench and removed his boots.
He opened the fridge and grabbed his leftover steak with mashed potatoes and green beans. Taking it to the dining table, he ate.
For a moment, it was quiet, wood still popping in the stove, pages turning, silverware lightly tapping against a plate.
Cole broke the silence,
“Taking the boy with me,” as he said in between bites. “Just need some help unloading and loading the trap.”
“It would be some good father and son bonding,” Claire said.
“Yup, it would” cole said nodding
After Cole finished his plate, he walked into the bathroom, removed his clothes, and took a shower before heading to bed.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
His smart watch went off on the bed stand went off. .
Cole rolled out of bed, pulled on his clothes, and stepped into the hallway.
The house was still quiet and pitch black until Cole flipped on the light
In the kitchen, he started a pot of pumpkin spice coffee and let it brew.
While it ran, he walked down the hall and knocked on Thomas’s door.
No answer.
He knocked again.
Nothing
Then again but a little louder this time.
Still nothing
Cracking the door, Cole whispered, “Thomas?”
Thomas rolled over, tangled in his bedsheets. “Yeah?” he said quietly.
“It’s time to get up if you still want to go with me.”
“Alright, yeah…,” rubbing his eyes and yawning, “give me a minute.”
Cole walked back to the kitchen and started packing lunch.
A turkey sandwich
An apple
Carrots
Grapes
Yogurt
A spoon
And
An ice pack
All in a lunch box, closing it up, then repeated the same thing for Thomas’s lunch.
Next Cole reached back in the fridge and grabbed a large leftover container with raw chicken in it and placed it in a plastic grocery bag in the cabinet below.
Reaching into the cabinet above the coffee machine he grabbed his travel mug and poured coffee with milk in it.
He put everything by the front door putting on his jacket.
His son came from around the corner yawning.
“Good morning” cole said
“Yeah…” Thomas nodded “good morning”
Cole opened the door, and the cold air rushed in.
Stepping out onto the porch it was dark like you would expect in that early morning.
Thomas pulled the door shut behind him.
Nothing but wind wrestling through the trees.
They didn’t say anything as they walked to the truck and tossed their lunch box behind the seats.
Climbing in,
Cole started the engine. It coughed once, then settled into a steady rumble.
The road out of town was quiet. No other cars, just the pavement and stands of trees lining both sides.
Thomas leaned his head against the window.
Cole made a quick stop at a gas station to fill up the tank.
Back on the road, Cole took a sip of his coffee.
“So how's school going?”
“Alright.”
“uh…Getting all your homework done”
“Yeah, I just got a couple of geometry and history homework this weekend.”
“When I was your age I'd procrastinate…
doing it all at the last second.”
Taking another sip of coffee
“But ya know when i cracked the books open it was crunch time and I studied hard.”
Thomas shaking his head “Nah, id rather just get it done so you don't have to stress about it all weekend.”
A few minutes later, Cole pulled up to a gate and put the truck in park. He stepped out into the cold to open the gate. No chain or anything, it was just latched.
“Thomas!” he called.
Thomas cracked the door open. “What, Pa?”
“Drive it through and I’ll close the gate.”
Thomas slid over into the driver’s seat and put the truck in drive, easing it forward past the gate.
Cole swung it shut behind him, then walked up and climbed into the passenger side instead of the driver’s.
“You drive,” he said, settling in. “Just remember everything I taught you.”
Thomas nodded
“Just keep driving straight along the path” Cole added, pointing ahead.
“I’ll tell you where to go.”
Stepping on the gas pedal slightly “So How do you know they'll be here?"
“The coyotes learned this is an easy source of food.” Cole said
“But instead when they get here there will be even easier food and they'll go for that.” Cole took a sip of his coffee
“theyll enter the trap one by one.” cole said
“Conveniently the food will be spaced out”
Because I don't want them fighting over one pile.” Cole said
“Then when they're all in we will close the door” cole lowered his hand to his other hand “bam”
“We will either call a wildlife rescue or shoot them one by one for meat.” Cole said
“Cole raised a finger, pointing as he guided Thomas where to park.
“Pull in right there.”
The truck rolled off the path and into a grassy clearing just inside a farm boundary. An open field stretched out ahead, with a forest line not far beyond it.
Cole watched as his son put it in park
Cole got out and headed to the bed to remove the ratchet strap, while Thomas undid the other one and rolled it up in a neat fashion
“Alright, put them away where they go so we know where to find them. Grab the screws and mechanical door, chicken please, they're behind my seat.” Cole Said
Thomas grabbed the screws, mechanical door and chicken from the back seat while
Cole put the battery in the drill behind the other seat.
Carefully Cole lifted the back of the trap and wiggled it out enough so Thomas could hold the right side as Cole shifted to the left side.
“Ok Thomas, we're picking it up and setting it down. Right off of the truck. Watch your fingers.”
It was as easy as that and the trap was on the ground.
Thomas Scattered the raw chicken meat on the perimeter of the trap and he installed the door putting a screw in each hole eyelet.
Getting back in the truck letting Thomas drive they drove 200 feet or so away with a clear view of the trap “You ready to eat your lunch” cole said
“Do you know what time it is?
You mean breakfast?” Thomas and Cole laughed.
“Yeah”, he chuckled, reaching back for their lunch boxes“ I guess you're right boss” tossing Thomas’s on the center console.
“Leave the headlights on so we can see them enter.” Cole said
Thomas flicked the lights on
Cole unzipped the lunch pill and pulled out his sandwich and cracked open a beer.
“Don't tell your mom” raising his beer up. “but if you want a beer you can have one.”
Thomas shook his head and dug into his lunch.
“It's 6:45 so we'll need to be quiet so we don't scare them. The sun rises soon and that's when they'll be looking for food.”
Taking a sip of his beer
“Coyotes are opportunist animals,” he added. “They don’t always stick to a strict eating schedule, but I reckon around sunrise they would be scavenging for food.”
Cole and Thomas sat in silence and waited till the sun peaked just over the horizon
Soon a pack of coyotes came hunting for food out of the tree line.
Cole and his son watched as they trotted their way to the wrong chicken Coop.
Thomas gave Cole a look like this wasn't going to plan and looked back at the coyotes.
They kept going to the wrong chicken coop.
Then one of them started sniffing the air.
The rest of them one by one stopped and started sniffing the air.
As they followed the scent they were slowly drifting off course into Cole's trap.
The sun kept creeping over the horizon steadily rising.
Once they reached the trap they sniffed and examined the outside parameter.
They were weary of the structure but the raw chicken was tempting them more and more.
We both watched from a distance as one brave coyote stepped inside and approached one of the chicken piles, hesitating as it looked around before finally eating.
The rest saw nothing bad had happened and went in and started to feed.
Cole pressed the button and the trap door slammed shut.
“Dad, we did it.” Thomas praised
“That's how it's done” cole said proudly
Four coyotes biting the walls trying to get out.
“Hold up” thomas said pointed at the tree line
There was a coyote retreating into the trees.
Cole got out of his truck rushing to grab his rifle. “Stay here, I'll be right back.”
“Alright, be careful.” Thomas shouted
Cole sprint towards the tree line.
The sun had fully risen past the horizon.
“Where did you go, bud.” Cole said, studying the ground for tracks.
The brush was thick and trees were dense.
As a hunter this was like second nature.
Birds like the Swainson’s thrush called in the background, along with other northwest birds singing through the woods.
The ground crunched as he walked.
Other tracks Cole saw were deer and squirrels but what really stood out was the black bear cubs.
As Cole continued following the tracks he was about a thousand feet or so past the tree line.
There he was staring right at Cole with those beady little eyes. Cole raised his rifle, took aim and shot.
The bullet struck the coyote's heart and down he went.
“Right on!” Cole whispered to himself.
Cole walked over to the carcass and hoisted the poor guy over his shoulder and started walking back to the truck.
Cole felt like he had been walking for longer than he had been tracking.
“What?” Cole said, raising his arms.
“I’ve walked over two thousand feet easily. I should’ve been out of the woods by now.”
Cole dropped the carcass on the ground and sat on a big fallen tree and rested for a bit.
Ok so i walked into the forest
I tracked him for about around a thousand feet going north-east, shot the little shit, and then turned around and went South-west for probably two thousand feet.
Something's not adding up Cole thought to himself.
Cole looked back at where he dropped the carcass and It was no longer there.
“...What?” Cole said, exhaling, dropping his arms and head at the same time.
“What the fuck is going on?” Cole yelled
Hi, this got removed from r/fantasy, and hopefully I can post in here instead, as it pertains to the YA Fantasy novel I have written.
I just want to gauge the overall thoughts and consensus here and understand it more myself, as I do not read as much as many people here do. I think from a publishing standpoint these days that adult fantasy and romantasy, if we group it separately for this purpose, appear to be far more popular and marketable right now and YA has fallen behind a little. At least most of all in the epic and/or high fantasy side of things.
I find it nearly impossible to find comparable books to the one I am working on, where high fantasy and epic adventures are taken, and yes of course there are some out there that I have been recommended, but "some" is a stretch. Even if the Eragons and Pratchetts and Cradle series are out there these days, they aren't doing as hot and aren't selling as much. They are few in between outside of what Pratchett delivers and the romantasy stuff that's being churned out, at least compared to the many adult works. This is my experience, and I'd like to know if it is true, and if it isn't please please PLEASE show me my mistake and titles and works that depict the old YA works that used to be flying off the shelves. Thanks!