Morgan Chalut's Blog

I've almost always had magnetic poetry in my home. Not in my apartment, but growing up, and now in my own house, but I rarely mess with it. I get the rare bout of inspiration when I see a word here or there, or see someone else has created something, and I want to participate.

I made this one last night, and I'm proud of it enough to share:

Mask glory too poison and dread for grave panic Do away with every forbidden blaze seen as torment to the smiling prisoner; Seiged in a broken crypt – free and forlorn – fearing laugh's rotten conflict

Honestly, the limitation of pulling from provided words seems to help me create these. Maybe I'll find myself with more inspiration in hand and a magnetic board as my medium.

We judge ourselves really harshly. I'd be genuinely curious to know who doesn't believe this of themselves - I've been actively working on showing myself grace for the last few years, and it's helped me be compassionate toward others, but it makes me realize just how cruel I've been inside my own head.

I already posted before about calling something 'Boris', and I try to continue ascribing to that mentality. Something is more than nothing. You can't edit a blank page. Perfection is the enemy of good enough. Assume everyone you meet is doing their best, and everyon's best looks different.

It's hard. I'm impressed when I meet people who exhude calm and patience and generally seem to not let things bother them. I know that sometimes, that's come from hard, hard work. It's a skill like any other - some people can do carpentry, some can fix machines, some can stay calm in traffic.

I've gone through some of the older scenes I've written through the years and it's been interesting to see where my mind was. A few of them I didn't even recognize as mine and tried to figure out which friend wrote and sent it to me before some sentence jogs a memory of it being mine. The writing isn't bad, and I can tell I've improved. That feels good. Unlike many, I like editing - I get to clean up a scene to make it closer to the reality I've built for it, find the best words, clean up the sentence structure so that the reader doesn't get confused. I like it.

Writing is what you make of it. There is no 'right'. There's just 'done'.

Word of the Day: Appurtenance: A complementary, but not necessary, accessory. https://www.wordgenius.com/words/appu...

I watched the older women with awe. It would be years before I came into my full figure, though I had all but reached my final height. My knees and elbows seemed to lead the rest of me through any space and I still tripped over any flat surface that dared make my path. The women around me were comfortable in their forms. They had bloomed after the frantic blossoming of middle-youth and the budded adolescence I now inhabited like the most awkward of stilt-walking giraffes.

Everyone I saw had deeply etched laugh-lines and boasted wrinkles. They were soft and loose, enjoying the comfort they had finally built in a body that took a lifetime to get to know. Graceful and confident, each knew what they liked and felt no requirement to perform or showcase - they only dressed in a way they found comfortable, in colors that brought them joy and with whatever fun appurtenance they thought they or others would best enjoy.

"Placing bets, darling?" a woman said as she settled at my table.

I blushed deeply. "You're all so lovely," I told her.

The woman grunted in agreement. "It takes a lifetime to learn how to live and I think most of us have it in hand now. Or nearly."

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Seventy-six," she preened. "And you're not nineteen yet, I'd bet."

"Not by three months," I agreed.

"What do you love?"

"Music. Climbing mountains. Poetry. Braiding rope."

"Those are good starts. Taste anything this world has to offer you, lovey. You never know what might refresh your soul if you only feed it the local fodder." She stood. "And don't forget to love thoroughly and often with whomever fevers your nethers!" She cackled and stomped away to another table. I had no doubt they were telling the bawdiest tales, judging by the tone of laughter -- and they way they looked at me with my ears steaming worse than any hot spring.

This feels deeper than it is and I'm sure I'll talk in circles as I let the words out.

That said. 

It's been bouncing around my mind recently - probably due to the sudden influx of darker-themed media consumed in a short period of time - that humans only make up an incredibly small percentage of the creatures with whom we (poorly) co-habitate on this planet. But the only time that we call something inhuman or inhumane is when we're referencing another of our species engaging in some sort of deplorable action. Or inaction.

Dogs can't be inhumane. Octopuses and corvids can't be inhumane (though I hold strongly to the belief that they are at least as sentient as we are).

We expect, demand?, a certain level of humanity, which can vary socially or culturally or generationally (etc.) within certain parameters. Anything that falls outside of that is inhuman. Some things come very close, like spanking children - it's been determined that this does nothing positive and only results in trauma. But is it inhumane to spank children?

Well.

Cannibalism is still practiced in parts of the world, and there are many people still living who had to engage in cannibalism to survive horrific situations. I have little doubt that I would be willing to cannibalize another person - within certain parameters. The circumstances matter, of course. Anyone who has no need to resort to eating another human falls outside of those parameters, so casting those aside, is it inhumane to engage in cannibalism?

Well.

I recently watched the five-episode show Chernobyl on HBO.

I imagine you can see where I'm going with this. And yes, I know certain liberties were taken for the sake of consumable media.

When we finished the last episode, I was generous enough to give myself space to grieve, and advocate for myself when I needed more time to sit with my feelings. I really am proud of myself for that, because there was a time not-very-long-ago when I would not have, and instead would have carried a much heavier emotional toll for much longer for the sake of people who hold no resentment in my need of time.

Greed is not inhuman. Selfishness is not inhuman. Arrogance is not inhuman. Pride is not inhuman. Stupidity is not inhuman. Haste is not inhuman. Curiosity is not inhuman. Lying is not inhuman.

So many things happened then, and have happened since (some of them arguably worse), that are perfectly human responses, reactions, but their combination was the root and cause horrors very much now conceivable. 

So many lives lost in the most terrifying of ways. Why? Was there a reason? I'm sure it felt very real, very important, at the time. It's incredibly unlikely that any of the people guilty of causing the nightmare of Chernobyl's explosion were trying to cause a catastrophic meltdown.

And yet.

I always find it interesting to ask people what they believe to be anathama. The answers sometimes surprise me, and when there is time for follow up and specifics, my questions and their own answers can surprise them. 

I think it's a thought experiment worth considering. Even though it's unlikely that you know how you'll respond in the moment, what is humanity to you? What is inhumane? What is anathama? And what is heroic? We know it when we see it, but maybe we'd be better off identifying it before arrival.

... starting letters of my posts together spell 'llama'.

It's the little things.

I could have gone to bed, I'll have you know. 100% an option for me, but I'd asked for my computer to be woken up, so it seemed the least I could do to write another of these micro fictions.

I also wanted to share a bit of the process of creation for magic systems. I have zero plan. I generally like to have consequences for magic use, and I always consider the punishment system that would need to be in place to keep magic users contained, how effective they might be, etc.

Beyond that, wherever the spark blooms, my friends.

For example: speaking with a couple of friends the other day and my buddy Ken tells me he's had an idea for years of some kind of 'street magic' that would take you from one street to another with the same name. I pondered on that for a moment and he, Brittney, and I threw around some ideas. That would be super cool! Brittney took it to gravestones, I took it to secret underground systems that no one knows about, and it ultimately resulted in my most recent acquisition of a book on the history of street names.

Go figure.

It'll be up next when I finish my current read, but if you're as curious as I am, look up The Address Book by Deirdre Mask.

Today's Word of the Day:

Velleity: A wish or inclination not strong enough to lead to action. https://www.wordgenius.com/words/vell...

Incredible. Everyday. Everyday I woke up and stared stared at the pile of clothes in the laundry basket. Something inside me wanted them done - of course I wanted them done - but I acknowledged my velleity and went about the rest of my day. It wasn't executive dysfunction or laziness; I washed the dishes and swept my floor. I took out the trash and brought in the mail, but the laundry...

What was the big deal about clothes? I wore them, I washed them, I... let them sit.

"Why are clothes so important?"

A sound surprised me - I'd spoken aloud to what I thought was an empty room, but I could have sworn someone cleared their throat behind me. I glanced around, froze in place and listened. Nothing. Nothing?

There it was again.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hello..."

My eyes finally focused on the back of the chair where before I was sure there had been nothing, but now stood a diminutive man. He was dressed similarly to me in jeans and a t-shirt but also had a bowler hat and half-cape draped over his shoulders.

We stared at each other for a while before I groped blindly for the back of the unoccupied chair and all but fell into it.

"Is this is? Is this how I know I've lost it?"

The tiny man scuffed his tiny shoes and glared at me. "You asked about the clothes."

"What?"

"The clothes. You asked about them."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

He seemed to want me of an answer and so I nodded and gulped. He rolled his eyes and said, "You asked why they were so important."

"Oh. Right."

"I've come to tell you."

"Oh. Good."

He glowered for a moment and then said, "My people are unseen. We can make ourselves seen, or sometimes fall into your visible spectrum on accident but rarely. The world in which we interact is much the same as yours," he gestured to the back of the chair on which he stood, "but with noticible differences. 

"One main difference is that which we consider to be of the utmost importance. Do you understand what I mean?"

I swallowed hard again and tried to wrap my mind around what he was saying. "Like- ah... religion?"

He nodded slowly. "Something like that, certainly. Look around you. Everything you wear, everywhere you sit, early everything that you touch and see and take so thoroughly for granted - textiles. Fabrics. These are the ruling forces of the world. They are so pervasive that you do not even see them."

I looked down and then around the space and started to realize how much fabric surrounded me. "Huh."

"You ask why clothes are so important, and yet you cannot care for them? Because sometimes they are already in use."

I turned my attention back to him.

"Excuse me?"

"Much of the usable land is taken by your people. And while we primarily occupy a spectrum difficult for your people to see, that does not stop the world from changing around us. I was chosen to step outside the flow of time for my people in order to explain: you cannot touch the laundry. Do not touch the laundry. We do not want you to touch the laundry."

I stared. He was so incredibly intense and firm in his statements. "W- why?"

"I refuse to give so much of my time to explain the minute details, but understand there is far more to my story than I can tell. I will, however, explain this much: when you find yourself unable to perform a task involving these materials of which you are so unaware, there is a reason. A reason that is of vital importance to my people, and which has no bearing on you whatsoever. Our lives move at vastly different paces, understand. A moment for you could be a lifetime for my people. Civilizations come and go in the time it takes for you to spend a single day.

"Besides the rare few of us able to purposefully make ourselves seen, there are some who can sway the minds of the larger race in order that we may thrive for a time before inevitable destruction befalls us again. We are by nature a nomadic people, but sometimes," his eyes grew distant, "sometimes we want to settle, to rest, to nurture and grow. And we cannot do that if you sort and fold and put away your laundry."

"So- so," I squeezed my eyes shut. My head hurt. "So I have to- I should leave it there forever?"

"No! Ugh. Just-," he rubbed his cheek with the palm of his hand. It looked like his head hurt, too. "Just stop fighting your instincts. If you find yourself unable to put away the laundry, then- then don't. And when you can, then fine. Our workings are done and we've vacated the establishments. All right?"

I blinked rapidly. "Um. All right." I looked down and then back at him. "What about the dishes?"

He threw up a hand in disgust. "Who gives a boiled piss about the dishes?"

I blinked and he was gone. "Oh, okay. Um, noted. Dishes don't matter."

A sound turned my head to the counter beside me. A tiny being, about the size of the laundry-person, but piscine in appearance with gills and webbed hands and very long feet. "Where do you get off on calling out the dishes like that?" it snarled in an accent I could only describe as nearly cockney.

"Oh no..."

"Aye, fella, you'd best be thinkin' 'oh no'!"

I haven't made time to work much on my main stories, but I'm proud of myself for knocking out some of these Words of the Day. I hope you enjoy them as much as I have been!
Word of the day: Apricate: To bask in the sun, or to expose to the sun https://www.wordgenius.com/words/apri...


Winter is necessary. I know that; everyone knows that. It is a time of renewal, of preservation. Winter is for rest and prophsey. Winter sees all of our clothes mended, our crafts improved, our stories told. But it watches with patience deeper than any snowdrift, listens to our bellies grumble when the food runs low, and stands ready to steal our warmth, our breath, our lives.
I know that winter is not my enemy. I was born late autumn, after all, and winter is my kin. But though it is my opposite, spring's first warm rays seem to sink into the core of me and chase away winter's wariness. I could do chores - as an autumn in spring, I have few magical expectations - but decide to spend my day in aprication. At least until someone is determined enough to find me.



This one was fun and unexpectedly perfect for the story that my friend Abby and I have been developing! The magic system is season-based and complex in the best of ways. We were brainstorming on it a few weeks ago, and I got to pull our our notes for this snippet of idea.
It feels good!

 Discipline, discipline... bah! Working on it, but I'm not going to crack down on myself, since writing is something I love to do and I refuse to make it a chore. That said, I do thrive with routine, so now's as good a time as any to do another Word of the Day micro-fiction in lieu of anything deeper.

Today's word:

Palinode: A poem in which the poet retracts a view or sentiment expressed in a former poem. https://www.wordgenius.com/words/pali...

As much as I enjoyed visiting the court for a celebration, I could only find admiration in me for the non-living things that cluttered every room with a painstaking sense of décor. One could almost taste the near-palpable cloud of mingled panic and practiced calm that the servants exuded in their nightly changing of paintings, sculptures, furniture, rugs, and the like.

No less did the people express the well-practiced and professional air of flippant distaste, gossiping and scorning anything that might encourage their sycophants and nemeses toward the belief that they possessed more than they did in wealth, status, or ability.

I loathed them. But the clothing was nice to look at.

While I knew most of the people, I cared little for their petty placations and greasy flattery. Any instant I was within reach of their gobbling gaze they sucked me into conversation about this border, that marriage, and all the while I allowed them to talk over and around me while I examined the neat beading and embroidery and tight seams of their clothing, the weavings of their hair styles, and the perfect layers of their boots and tiny shoes.

My siblings managed and soothed everything around me, and I was thoroughly grateful. It was rare that I was inclined to speak - I had recited a moving palinode of forty lines two seasons previously - but when I was invited to our capital home to enjoy the festivities, I grew more silent that ever I was on our country estates.

The life of a prince was not a simple one.

 Sometimes, often, I don't have any ideas. That's fine. But I want to work on building my discipline instead of relying on the much more elusive motivation.

I signed up for a word of the day email a while ago and, while those can be hit-or-miss, this one's been pretty good. Plenty of words I don't know, which I dutifully save into a folder.

...

That's really where the plan ended but now I shall endeavor to pick one of these at random and use it in a micro-fiction or such. I'm super concise, so it'll be easy... harumph.

Today's word: 

Realia: Objects and material from everyday life, especially when used as teaching aids.  (https://www.wordgenius.com/words/real...)

It is difficult for anyone to come to a new place. A new job, a new school, a new neighborhood; everything is different, but with the kind of familiarity that resonates much too close to that which you once had. Like a musical you adore to hear, but sung by the wrong voice. 

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat on the bus -- the Monitor had told me that everyone wore shoes all of the time. I believed her, as I'd seen no bare feet since my arrival, but my toes chafed and none of the clothes fit me right, though they were purchased for me alone. Maybe that was why; I'd never worn anything someone else hadn't first broken in.

Some of the other students eyed me quizically but, as yet, none had approached. I was glad. It would suit me to have a guide of some kind, but a deep-seeded petulence wanted to succeed on my own, as I had for so long. This world was new to me, but I had conquored the old one, and I would do the same here.

A bag at my side held all the tools I would require today and I reminded myself not to grip it too tightly. It was unlikely here that any of my things would be taken, after all. The Monitor had spread everything on the table last night and explained the use of each thing before shoving the mess of realia into my bag. I didn't recognize half of what she showed me, and the things she took for granted were the ones I most wanted to know about. But I wouldn't ask.

When the bus stopped, the students around me started to exit. I waited for a gap in the bodies and joined the flow of people. It was rare for anyone to move faster or slower than the group, though the pace was infuriating to me -- I was never one to dawdle, but I wouldn't not start my day by standing out from the crowd.

Signage indicated the office, where I had been told to go. I received a schedule and map -- finally, something I understood -- and found the room where I would begin my newest education. I strode confidently toward a desk near the wall but the instructor caught my arm.

I stared at his hand until he removed it, but he only draped a thick forearm across my shoulders instead. My jaw ached from gritting my teeth, but I held still.

"Everyone," he announced. His tone was light and dismissive, but the students quieted nonetheless. "Everyone, this is our newest student. They're the first Visitor to our school and I want to make sure you all know, in case they need help with anything. Let's give them a round of applause in welcome!"

The noise was immediate and much too similar to sounds of danger. I eyed the door and windows, but the sound died down and I was encouraged to continue to a desk. I doubted I would be able to take revenge, but I would soon learn how these people could be best humiliated. And then all my people would know.

 It's crazy to me that it's only been nine months since I made a blog post.

I know -- only nine months? Yes. Only. A lot has happened this year, most of which I had to address at a 'spoon' deficit due to my mental and physical well-being operating in a less-than-optimal range.

And all that is behind us now! New year, new me! Right?

HahahahahahahHAHAHAHAHAaaaahahahahahahaaaaaha. No.

No, that's not how any of that works.

However, I do feel much more capable of starting up my blog again. I've learned more about myself and nailed down a bit more in the realm of my goals, so I'm hopeful that I can get to be more consistent here again. And if I can't, the bad doesn't erase the good. I wrote this one. I have every intention of writing another one. And that is, in the words of my mom, Boris*.

I also haven't been doing much writing because I'm working on high-fantasy world development, which I love, but doesn't give me a whole lot to write about story-wise until I have more foundation than I do.

But that's the point of the blog.

And yes, Marie and Abby, I am still editing On Whose Head the Crown now that The Unwoven Tapestry trilogy is completed and published. (Did everyone know I published a trilogy? Honestly, I can't believe it sometimes.)

This new world is coming along but has me working on three new races of beings plus a new human culture and those are the worst because there are so many options for humans and how do I narrow down their thing? 

Never fear, I've been listening to a ton of non-fiction this year and have some fun ideas that I'm excited about. I also have a magic system that might or might not fit (like it wants to, but I'm not sure how to make these ideas coexist in the same space without it getting suuuuuper convoluted, but we'll figure it out) and my friend Emily got to talk to me about geology, which was her college major, so you KNOW that was a good day for us both.

Add to all that the fact that it's not like I told you absolutely everything in The Unwoven Tapestry, so I can do any number of short scenes and small stories with those characters in case you (like me) didn't get enough. I shall endeavor to put spoiler warnings on anything to do with that story until this time next year, but also: read, review, rant. You know I want to hear it. <3

Onward to victory!

*Boris Godunov from that opera written in the mid-1800s, everyone knows it, right? Right. Godunov sounds like good enough. So when something was good enough, my mom would call it Boris. Yep. She created her own rhyming slang that the cockneys would be proud of. And now you know.

For those who have read (or are going to read) my Unwoven Tapestry trilogy, Dell is a character you will meet and this is a short scene about him:
CW: violence, abuse

Dell flinched and cursed himself for it. His cousin, Rose, smirked and stalked away, throwing her braid over a shoulder, though not before delivering the two bruising punches that would ache in his shoulder for hours. She had a cruel streak and always had, but in two days he would leave her behind in favor of his placement with the newest class of Retrievers.

She’d laughed at him upon learning of his application, and louder when he was accepted. He remembered her mocking words, “You’re a glutton for failure, Dilly. They accept all sorts of charity cases, ready to fail when the numbers need to look impressive.”

She was lying. He reminded himself of this whenever his confidence faltered. Anyroad, no one knew him in that crowd, and he could make of himself whatever he wanted. His frame was lean, even at nineteen, but he knew the good food and training would help fill him out. He’d never be tall, but Retrievers didn’t need to look imposing to do their duties.

His uncle had been quick to point out that Retrieving was nearly as dangerous as the guard, but more demanding, and all he had to look forward to was life in the saddle, pay he could never spend, and death, if a disfiguring wound didn’t take him first.

Dell looked across the goat pen to the leaning shack in which he’d spent most of his life and considered it a fair trade. The guard didn’t allow the freedom that Retrieving did, and he’d have to work his way through the ranks – Retrieving offered him more than that, and if he did fail, he could always enlist after. Anything to keep him away from this place.

When his Talent had manifested, his aunt had kept him home to teach, but her wasting sickness didn’t allow for much teaching. He’d tried to get a letter of retrieval from a villager, but his cousin had made sure to spread every imaginable rumor about him – no one wanted their home represented by someone like him after that, apparently. He didn’t even know half of what she’d said about him, but the nasty looks from elders and children alike made him certain he didn’t want to know.

Still, he was confident in his ability to learn what he needed, and the Order was the perfect place to find a tutor if he had to – as a trainee, he wouldn’t even have to pay. Which was good, since he had not a ha’penny to his name.

His uncle bellowed something indiscernible. Dell kicked a stone and made his slow way toward the house. He listened numbly to the berating, lost in his own thoughts, and got to work mucking out the old donkey’s pen after a cuff to the ear told him his uncle had finished yelling.

He stayed busy and, when the chores were done, he stepped outside and smiled to see how dark it was. One day was ended and he had only to survive the next before he could join the wagons heading for Thairnsdale, leaving this place behind forever.

“What are you smiling at, Dilly?”

Dell’s face fell as his cousin came out of the shadows. She picked at her knuckles, bloody and torn, probably from the teeth of some poor creature from the village. Rose was built like her father: broad and tall. She’d gained both early, and used them to terrorize whomever she could. A year younger than Dell, he’d known only a few short years without her. A part of him wondered vaguely if his stunted height was from her constant torments.

“Excited to run away?” she asked.

He clenched his fists and then immediately released them. The last thing he wanted was for her to have an excuse to attack him. Not that she needed one, but he didn’t want to start his training with a black eye or broken nose.

“Just enjoying the evening.”

“You smell like shit. Too bad their applications don’t request a used shirt, so they’d know what they were getting into.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Your poor roommate.”

Dell scowled and turned away.

She laughed. “You’d think someone who could read minds wouldn’t be such a coward.”

“You’d think someone with your face would know not to insult others.” Dell closed his eyes. He’d known it was coming – he could feel the anger building these last few weeks, knew it was only a matter of time before he couldn’t hold it back, and she would take advantage.

Rose came up behind him and pushed his shoulder in an almost-neighborly fashion. He turned to face her. She was comely enough, but he knew she didn’t like comments on her appearance, good or bad. There was no reason to run – she was faster than he was. He’d taken plenty of beatings tired and had decided years ago that it wasn’t worth the wasted energy.

She leaned close. “The problem with getting kicked off a horse, or run over by a wagon, or tripping down a cliff is the time it takes for bones to mend. I imagine you can go on your trip next year. If everything heals correctly.”

“I am a Retriever Trainee,” Dell said flatly. “Damaging me is damaging Order property, and you’ll be held accountable.”

She put her hands on her hips and scoffed. “How would they know, Dilly?”

“You think they won’t follow up on me? They accepted my application – they want me in their program. They’ll come see me, and I’ll tell them.”

“Not with a broken jaw,” she pointed out.

“You’ll have to kill me,” Dell said. He’d never been so sure of anything in his life, and Rose seemed to sense it in his words, because she backed away a pace.

“I’ll report you.”

“For what?” he asked incredulously.

“For anything. My word over yours.”

He shook his head. “That isn’t how it works anymore, Rose. The Order isn’t the village – the Order is twenty times the size of the village and they check for truth before just taking someone's word on a rumor. If they accept the accusation, we’ll face testimony in court, and they’ll have a Mentalist verify the truth. You can’t do anything to me anymore.” He felt a light sensation when he said the words. He hadn’t believed them until now, but he was free of her.

“You know, I really can’t resist a challenge,” she said, reaching for him.

Dell dodged but she got a grip on him and knocked his wind out with her knee. She wrenched his head back and several hairs parted from his scalp. She grabbed his throat with her free hand and examined him like a particularly fascinating insect.

“Arm or leg?” she mused.

He opened his mouth, but she hammered the base of her palm into his jaw, and his teeth clacked together painfully. She wrenched his head around to trap his neck within her arm, and delivered three vicious elbows into his shoulder muscles. He yelled and fought, but she only laughed and kicked his leg out from under him.

Rose knelt on his back and took his wrist in hand. He kicked and twisted, but she held him in place with what seemed like little effort.

“See, Dilly,” she said, “I don’t think you will report me. Because you’re just too soft. You want to be free of this place and, if anyone comes for me, I will make sure the trial you’re so sure of is drawn out for as long as possible. I’ll make sure it lasts. For a very. Long. Time.”

His finger snapped at the knuckle, and he screamed in rage. She took hold of the next finger but stopped. Dell was barely breathing now, concentrating to see what she saw – it had taken him only a moment to unleash his magic and enter her mind, but she knew he was there now.

Only a little pressure from him and Rose released his hand to bang excruciatingly into the dirt. He dug deeper. Rose stood and Dell rolled away and to his feet in a panting rush. She was pressing at her eye, which he’d blinded – temporarily for now.

“Rose,” Dell said. She looked at him. “Don’t ever touch me again. Don’t ever think of me again. When I leave here, I want you to forget I ever existed.”

“You wait, Dilly,” she spat. “I’ll have my moment, and yo—”

Dell flexed his magic and Rose vomited up her last meal. When she stopped retching, he returned her vision, but built the pressure the best way he knew. She whimpered as her nerves came aflame, or they seemed to. Dell’s aunt hadn’t managed to teach him much, but she did know how to hurt people.

“I could leave you like this,” he told Rose. “I could make you blind, make you vomit every bite you eat, build pressure in your chest until breathing was an agony.” He let his magic fade completely. “But I don’t, because I’m better than you. I’m better.”

She stared rage and promise at him, but didn’t answer.

“I’m better, Rose. Don’t ever forget that.”

He started to walk for the village – his meager belongings weren’t worth staying for, and he could meet the wagons on the road. It was a nice night, after all.

 For those who have read (or are going to read) my Unwoven Tapestry trilogy, Brett is a character you will meet and this is a short scene about him:

Brett sat and waited with a façade of outward calm. The Head of the Retrievers was due at any moment for their meeting and she intimidated the hell out of him. He appreciated her vast experience for the Retriever training, but her constant presence was all but a promise that he would face disfigurement and maiming. Even were it not as severe as her own, what was he willing to endure? Only four months in the grueling program, and he had been questioning his decision to enlist.

Vale entered without grace. He winced as the door banged open and shut, and came to his feet as she limped around the desk to collapse into her chair.

She stared up at him.

He hesitated and then slowly lowered himself back into the seat.

“Military stands, salutes,” she wheezed at him in a voice more gravel and nails than human speech. “We Retrieve. All else…” she flapped her only hand with dismissal. He could tell it was painful for her to speak.

She looked at him for longer than most considered polite. It didn’t make him uncomfortable – his family was blunt and many considered them rude in similar ways, but differences of culture did that.

“You have siblings,” Vale stated.

He was surprised at her choice of subject, but nodded. She motioned for him to elaborate.

“I have several brothers and sisters – some are married with children. A large family by any standard, really – aunts, uncles, cousins. We all live nearby and everyone pitches in with the farming and building and whatever else needs doing.”

“They all communicate easily and well?”

Brett blinked as realization came to him. He knew what this meeting was about, now. His hackles rose, but he answered calmly, “Yes, we all communicate easily and well.” He said the words with his mouth, but also his hands in the signed language that had been his first method of communication. He was the odd one out in the expanse of relatives because he was the only one who was not Deaf.

Uniquely, he’d been sent to the village school as soon as he was old enough to enroll. His uncle was an excellent teacher in every subject, but Brett’s parents wanted to make sure he learned to use his hearing and speak. When he came home in the evenings, he shared what he’d learned in his native family language, and his uncle would help him with any struggles, but he had to speak.

It had taken several years for him to stop hating the effort it took, how different he sounded from the other children, but he appreciated the decision now. No one ever guessed he wasn’t a native speaker unless they, too, were from a Deaf background. Too, his family never sent their Talented children to the Order – he was the first to do that, to have access to the books and tutors and socialization that made his head spin. He’d spent all of his money on books to expand the family collection and wrote home twice a week with all the things he learned, answering the return letters as quickly as he could to share in the family jokes and happenings, always returning for holidays. He missed out on so much already, he wasn’t willing to stay away for longer than he had to.

Accommodations for Deaf, or even mute, children wasn’t a reality in the Order, though he aimed to make it one. That’s what he thought this meeting would be about. He’d spoken recently with the Dean and, while the man had appeared receptive, they always did at first.

His decision to be a Retriever had been a difficult one – the family had discussed and debated it for months with and around him, but that was one of the many ways they showed love and made sure they were all included.

Vale watched his hand movements with interest. “Keep that up.” She cleared her throat roughly and grated, “Is this something you can teach?”

He signed and spoke together, “If the student is receptive, sure. It would take years to become fluent, however.” Vale’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but she didn’t interrupt him. “Hand Language is as complicated as any spoken language. We have poetry and jokes and sayings. And it does change, faster than a spoken language – as there is no written form to it, consistency is hard to maintain.”

“Everyone speaks it? All the deaf?”

“All of the Deaf people in our country who are given access, yes. I cannot speak to other countries, but I imagine they have their own. And those who have hearing parents don’t usually get the access they need soon enough, if at all.”

Vale sat back in her chair. “I need a curriculum.” She cleared her throat again, harshly, and took a swallow of water. “I want every Retriever in your year to have basic communication ability.”

He grimaced. “That won’t be ea-”

“Not the full language. Just enough. It’s useful.”

Brett thought about his few months of training and put his brothers and sisters and cousins in the roles of his classmates. Quiet communication if they had to hide, conversations while the children they Retrieved were sleeping but they wouldn’t have to leave them vulnerable, check ins during watch, private decisions on tactics…

Since he was old enough to know how, his had been the role of ambassador. Barter in the market, communication with authorities, advocating for nearly every one of his people in some form or fashion over the years – it wasn’t a role he wanted, but he’d never had the choice. And even if he had, would he have turned away from the need?

He leaned forward, still signing and speaking together, “If I do this for the Retrievers, I want it for the whole school. When my little niece broke her ankle, she had to wait hoursfor help, even though it happened in the town square. Because the Healers and nurses couldn’t communicate with her, and had to write with my sister. If that had happened here?”

Brett shook his head. “How many of my family are Talented, do you think?”

Vale’s eyes narrowed. He could tell she hadn’t considered it. “Almost all of us,” he told her. “But I was the first to come to the Order for training, because I was the first to be able to hear.”

“Villery told me,” she rasped. “But you can’t make everyone learn this.”

“No, I know that,” he agreed. “But I need enough to be fluent, in time, that my nieces and nephews can attend if they want to, when they’re ready. One person? Two or three who can communicate with anyone Deaf who comes? That’s too much to ask?”

Vale smirked at him. “I like your style. I’ll get it done. But you can’t teach – you have training.”

“My uncle is an excellent teacher. He’ll help.”

“I expect it was loud when you first came – your home was so quiet,” Vale mused.

Brett laughed at her. “People always forget that when you can’t hear how loud you are, you get pretty loud. I didn’t know farting was impolite until school,” he said ruefully. “No one else bothered to be discreet, so why would I? My family loves music, but it has to be loud enough to shake the walls and feel through your feet. Banging on tables and walls and stomping the floorboards is a polite way to get someone’s attention. What’s the problem with slamming around pots and pans if you know you won’t bother anyone?” He laughed again at her expression. “I didn’t sleep for the first month here because it was too quiet, but I could doze off in the dining room at full lunch with no issue.”

“I can tell,” Vale coughed, “we have a lot to learn from one another.”

Brett shook the proffered hand. “I look forward to it.”