#BIG boi double bridle...

[ahedderick]

Horse energy

   Yesterday afternoon I asked Katy if she wanted to tack up Hero and ride double up the new trail (she hasn’t seen it yet). We went up to the barn, groomed him quickly and tossed on the bridle and the bareback pad. She hopped lightly on and I dragged myself up. Hero start out across the little field, but the closer he got to the creek and the steep slope beyond it, the more nervous I got.

   See, a horse’s “energy” is very easy to sense. It can range from “Blah, I don’t wanna do this” to “Ok, sure, we can do this” all the way up to “AND ROHAN WILL ANSWER!”

   Hero, I felt, was having a Rohan kinda day. I didn’t think that riding double, bareback, on a frisky horse was good for my long-term health goals. I hopped down, narrowly avoiding landing on top of Nutmeg, and decided to walk. She let me cross the stream and head uphill in front of them. When I was halfway up the little slope, I heard her yelp in surprise. I looked back to see her (atop Hero) chugging up the hill briskly. Her eyes were completely round. Hero had looked at the stream, which is about one big step wide and ankle deep, and decided the wet hoofie was Bad Actually. So he jumped. People do jump horses all the time, I am aware, but usually they do it on purpose. Not just because the horse suddenly decided to become airborn. And certainly not bareback.

   I was so glad I’d decided to disembark. All was well, even Nutmeg had fewer complaints than usual. She got to check out the new sections of trail and Hero got a little excitement in his day. The dogs are ALWAYS up for another run in the woods. And next time I ride this way, I’ll know to grab mane when we get to the creek.

   Boy, the snow is just dumping down. Hero and Nutmeg are on the barn, today.

[adam-the-horse]

Don't dare me on saddle pads 😏

Again, how many horses do I have? 😅

[tetsvya]

❛ happy birthday, tobio. ❜

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  kageyama has never been one to make a big deal out of his birthday, and why would we, when he’d rather much spend his time making gingerbread houses with you?

➼ pairing! kageyama tobio x reader

➼ word count! 1.5k

➼ warnings! none, like two curse words

➼ type! fluff

➼ author’s note! long time no see lol, but hopefully i’ll have more time to post now that the semester is over. anyways, here’s a little holiday/birthday inspired fic for kags! also, this might be a little ooc? idk, i just rlly wanted to write for lovesick kags <3 enjoy!

"This makes no sense" Kageyama can't help but grumble to himself as he glares down at the paper he has clutched in between his hands. He's been hunched over the table for nearly two minutes now, trying to understand what he was being told to do. The premade gingerbread house kit sits on the table a few inches away from him, ready to be constructed.

"Maybe you should turn it the right way" A voice chirps from behind him, arms coming out from around him to turn the paper in his hands so it's no longer upside down. Kageyama's eyebrows shoot up momentarily, and his cheeks warm as your giggle fills his ears. Your lips brush softly against his cheek, placing a fleeting kiss to his reddening skin before you drop into the seat beside him. Kageyama, far too bridled with embarrassment now, doesn't even attempt to read the page anymore, choosing to actively ignore your stare. You can't help but laugh softly, resting your chin on your palm as you hold your other hand out.

"Let me see" You hum, fingers wiggling as to coax him to do so and Kageyama is more than happy to oblige. He hands you the paper, and you set it down on the table in front of you, soothing it down at you peer down at it. Kageyama rests his hand against the back of your chair, leaning into you as he glances at the paper from over your shoulder, using it as an excuse for him to be closer to you. You don't mind, however, your boyfriend's warmth always a welcoming feeling. Your eyes run over the words printed onto the paper for a minute or two, before you're nodding to yourself and pushing it aside.

"Alright," You start, straightening out as you turn in your chair so you're facing Kageyama, nose nearly bumping against his, "I say we just wing it."

Kageyama's lips quirk up at your words, "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"It's just a gingerbread house" You shrug, turning away from him once more to reach out for the slabs of gingerbread sitting on the table, "How hard could it be?"

Very hard, actually.

"How much longer?" Kageyama asks, hands beginning to cramp from having to hold all the separate pieces of the gingerbread house together in order for the frosting to dry properly. The house is already covered in frosting from the many failed attempts of getting it to stand, and honestly, if it weren't for Kageyama's competitive spirit, you probably would have given up by now.

"I don't know" Kageyama shoots you a pointed look at your words, and now that you think about it, maybe the two of you should have used the instructions. Shrugging, you glance down at your phone, noting that about an hour or so has passed since the two of you had started. Reaching out, you pull the instructions closer to you and let your eyes run over the paper. Finally finding what you were looking for, your eyes shoot up in disbelief.

Three hours? You were supposed to let the frosting dry for three hours? Absolutely not, you thought. Who even has the time for that? Well, you and Kageyama certainly do but you'd much rather finish this godforsaken gingerbread house and migrate to the couch for a movie and some cuddles. Turning your attention back to Kageyama, you send him a nod. The boy is quick to let go of the house, flexing his fingers a little as he leans back in his chair, stretching. You scooch in closer to him, lowering your head so your face is level with the gingerbread house in order to get a closer look at it.  Kageyama watches with an amused smile as you closely inspect the gingerbread house, eyes narrowed in concentration. It seems to be holding, and with a timid finger, you give it a gentle nudge. The house remains firm, and when you turn to look at your boyfriend, the both of you share triumphant smiles.

"Okay, decorating time!"

Not even ten minutes later, there's sprinkles and an array of other candies scattered out across the table, and your and Kageyama's gingerbread house is finally finished. Truthfully, it's not the best. It's leaning to the side a little, and there's some sloppy icing job here and there (thanks to Kageyama). But still, it's your's and Kageyama's, and you love it, especially the little you and little Kageyama your boyfriend had crafted onto the side of the house with icing. They honestly look more like two glob monsters than you and Kageyama, but the sweetness of the idea had you pressing a kiss to Kageyama's cheek when he had shown you (he, of course, blushed when you had done so).

After snapping a few pictures of the gingerbread house, and sending some of them to Sugawara along with a cute selfie you had forced Kageyama to take with you, you set your phone aside, turning to Kageyama. Your eyes are quick to spot a little glob of icing smeared across his cheek, and you can't help but smile as you nudge your head at it, "You have some icing on your cheek."

Kageyama's eyebrows shoot up before he's reaching his hand up, somehow finding the exact spot and swiping his finger against it. He glances down at it before bringing his finger to his mouth, licking the frosting off. His reaction is immediate.

"This icing tastes like shit" Kageyama points out bluntly, nose scrunching up in distaste. Laughter spills past your lips as he does so, catching sight of the smudge of icing he has left on his lips.

"Let me have a taste."

"Okay" He drawls out critically, shaking his head as he swipes the bag from off the table. He's sporting a sour look as he turns to you, "I really don't know why you want to, it's gros—"

Kageyama doesn't have the chance to finish his sentence as your lips are quickly pressed against his in a soft kiss. His eyes widen as his cheeks warm once more, something he realizes happens far more than he liked to admit when he was around you, before he eventually melts into your embrace. His eyes flutter shut as he reaches out, cradling your face in his hands as your own hand cups his cheek, pressing your other palm against his chest. Kageyama's skin was warm to the touch, and you can't help but smile against his lips as he begins to gently rub his thumb back and forth against your cheek. Your skin was soft against his, and Kageyama finds himself leaning further into your touch, savoring every essence of your presence. You pull away a few moments later, rather reluctantly might I add, smiling to yourself as Kageyama subconsciously chases your lips, eyes fluttering open so you're met with a deep blue.

It's your turn to caress his cheek with your thumb as you reach out with your free hand, brushing your fingers through his soft hair before letting your hand rest atop his locks. Kageyama's eyes never waver from your own, an intense gaze in them as he stares at you. You smile softly, gently pressing your forehead against his as your eyes flutter close once more. Kageyama feels his heart flutter at the sight of you. You were so pretty. So, so pretty. He blinks at you when your eyes open once more, that feeling he only ever got with you festering in his stomach as you stare up at him with those pretty eyes of yours. You smile once more and the words you utter come out as a mere whisper, "Happy birthday, Tobio."

"Thank you" He manages to whisper back, entranced with your being as he lets his eyes wander over every inch of your face. Kageyama finds himself thinking to a time before, when the two of you had first begun to date. He always finds himself mentally cringing at the remembrance of how awkward he had been then: his fumbled words, deep blushes, 'accidental' brush of his fingers against yours. But, as you had once said, it really did make moments like this all the sweeter. To see how far the two of you have come, how comfortable you make Kageyama feel. And as he continues to stare down at you, holding you, he can't help but think he's the luckiest person in the world. Who would ever need an extravagant party if they had you? You were worth far more than anything in this world, he can't help but think.

You're drawing back suddenly, giggles slipping past your lips as you swipe your tongue against your lips. Your laughter doubles after doing so, and despite having no idea why you're laughing like a maniac, a smile graces Kageyama's lips at the sight. His eyes never waver as he watches you attempt to collect yourself, shaking your head as you manage to speak through your giggles, "You were right. The frosting did taste like shit."

Kageyama finds himself shaking his head as well, laughing himself as he reaches out for you. Yeah, you really were the best thing he could ever have, he thinks to himself as he pulls you against his chest, planting a kiss to the crown of your head, "Told you, idiot."

[whywishesarehorses]

Inside the Famous—and Deadly—Omak Stampede

This article was written by Allison Williams, published in the August 2017 issue of Seattle Met, and reformatted here for your enjoyment.

This one is text heavy and long, so it is hidden under a read more.

Thursday

Eighteen horses form an imperfect line on a hot August night, their 18 jockeys clad in jeans. Here on a sandy bluff in the small town of Omak, four hours east of Seattle and several worlds away, riders and spectators alike move with nervous energy, anxious for the race to start. One jockey wears a helmet topped with a pink mohawk, another with a GoPro camera. One horse, sponsored by a local marijuana dispensary, sports painted pot leaves on its rump. Wispy white eagle feathers hang from others, emblems of the Native American heritage the men share.

A summer carnival glows below, neon outlines of rides called the Orbiter and the Fireball, metal towers that came into town on tractor trailers. Farther into the Okanogan Highlands, a casino twinkles alone on Indian Reservation land. It’s August 11, 2016, and even an hour past sunset the air holds onto most of the heat from the 90-degree day.

A “whoooop!” erupts from the gathered crowd as the animals sidestep and bob their heads behind the chalk starting line. His race number bright across his chest, 18-year-old Scott Abrahamson eyes the sandy dirt in front of the line, groomed like a golf course sand trap. His long bubblegum-pink sleeves mean he’s easy to spot even in the shadows where floodlights don’t reach, and his helmet blinks with battery-operated toy devil horns. He’s surrounded by both champions—Loren Marchand with seven titles, Tyler Peasley with three—and nervous high schoolers in their first race.

At the crack of a gun, the horses charge. Their riders lean forward as hooves pound the sandy flat, at least for the first hundred feet. The crowd cheers as soon as the pistol sounds, cries and hoots blossoming into the dark.

Then 18 horses go off a cliff.

The riders shift in their saddles as their mounts fly down an incline steeper than a ski jump. The best jockeys, the veterans, barely lean back coming off the hill, reins clasped in the left hand and riding crops in the right. Others grasp a bar they’ve rigged on the back of their saddles they call the “oh shit handle.”

The spectators’ cries reach full pitch when the pack is halfway to the waterway at the base of the hill, a thick ribbon of black that flows left to right. The horses plunge into the inky Okanogan River en masse, hooves hitting the shallow bottom, and all but one charge across to the opposite bank. The stadium on the far side is lit up like a Friday-night football game, floodlights bright atop red, white, and blue bleachers, and Scott and his hot-pink sleeves emerge first in the dirt oval, just 45 seconds into the race. As they cross the finish line, Peasley is right on his tail.

Fifteen horses follow, minus the one that tumbled in the river. A crew attends to the downed horse from the deck of a small drift boat; while the stadium roars, a veterinarian surveys the animal and notes that it’s already gone, likely drowned.

Back atop the hill, Colville tribal elders watch through binoculars before one spots something in the sandy dirt, an eagle feather dislodged by the chaos. They circle the downed quill, addressing the spirit it represents, the eagle that travels in both worlds, before one of the elders lifts the feather to return it to its owner.

This is the World Famous Suicide Race.

There will be four races total during Omak Stampede, always the second weekend in August. Each race awards five points to the first-place finisher, four to the second, and so on; the overall winner clinches the King of the Hill title on Sunday, and $40,000 in prize money is distributed. It’s the highlight of this Central Washington town’s year, a tradition that draws thousands of spectators—and animal-rights protesters.

Omak straddles the border of the Colville Reservation, home of almost every racer, horse owner, and trainer. The contest is a rite of passage, they say, a proving ground for men—and even a few women—coming of age more than a century after actual horseback warfare. Beyond the turgid flow of the Okanogan River through town, the reservation sprawls over 1.4 million acres of highlands, brittle with brown grass in late summer. There the Native American communities are plagued by poverty and unemployment.

If the Suicide Race was a small-town Friday-night football game, teenaged Scott Abrahamson would be its star quarterback. He’s an ace student, focused and polite, with technical internships and honor rolls to his name, but this weekend he’s a jockey with a King of the Hill title to defend. All eyes are on him.

Friday

He gets sick before every big race. “Everything hits me and my body,” Scott says. “I can barely walk.” His cousin calls it good luck; Scotty puking means they’re going to do well.

In the hours before Friday’s race, the second of four, Scott’s prepping in the triangular Owners and Jockey’s paddock in the middle of the fairgrounds. By 5pm, Omak veterinarian Jai Tuttle holds court at one end of the dusty enclosure, near standing fans that muster a little manufactured breeze. As they wait to parade their horses for Doc Tuttle, owners angle water hoses over the animals’ backs.

Everyone older than Scott calls him Scotty. This year’s printed program, in the roster of winners dating back to 1935, calls him that. After he won in 2015, he became small-town famous, no longer just the good kid who excelled at basketball and wrestling. People holler, “Go Scotty” at him all weekend.

His father was famous too. That’s what happens when you win the Suicide Race; Leroy Abrahamson took the title in 2002, but was best known for his prowess in the Indian Relay, a more widespread style of racing where one jockey hops from horse to horse. Leroy, Scott has heard, would flit from one mount to the next with only a single foot brushing the ground.

Scott doesn’t remember his first time in a saddle but assumes it was before he could walk, though he largely gave it up in elementary school, when his parents split. His father was the horse guy; his mother was all about school. So he became a standout student in Coulee Dam, a reservation town in the shadow of the 50-story hydroelectric giant. When his father died in 2009, he was drawn back to horses.

“I’m sorta doing all this for him,” Scott says, hesitant. His mother wasn’t wild about the racing, but he didn’t falter at school, scoring an engineering internship with the Bureau of Reclamation. Slight and muscular, his five-foot-nine stature is too tall for a throughbred jockey but about average for this race. His hair is short and straight, spiking around his head like a halo, and he likes to hide his eyes behind sunglasses.

The summer he was 16, after his sophomore year of high school, Scott entered his first Suicide Race. Atop a small gelding named Kinky, he fell as they crested the top of the hill on the Thursday race, flipping over the horse’s shoulder. On Friday the pair wrecked in the water.

“I flipped over and everybody ran me over,” he says. “Everyone says it happens so fast, but when I was in it, it was like slow motion.” Finally, on Saturday, they made it through the entire race, galloping past the finish line in the stadium. Then Sunday the pair wrecked again.

A new horse was in order. His trainer, George Marchand, is a giant within the Suicide Race world and holder of three titles. He’d lost his own father at 14 and rode against Leroy Abrahamson 15 years ago, so he guided Scott, this time to a nighttime ride on a quarter horse–thoroughbred mix named Eagle Boy. The butterscotch-colored gelding was only about five years younger than the rider.

“It was pitch black and dusty,” remembers Scott. The hills of the reservation are dotted with brush and ponderosa pine, but he could make out little from his saddle. They were on top of a hill, he knew that, and that George had taken off.

He gave Eagle Boy his head as they sped over the uneven terrain. “We were jumping trees and dodging trees,” recalls Scott, but they moved as a unit. “I was like dang—he trusts me.” Matching horse to rider is alchemy.

In 2015, in his second year racing and only 17 years old, Scott on Eagle Boy tied for first overall with six-time victor Loren Marchand, George’s nephew. With a wide grin stretched across his face, the rising high school senior played rock-paper-scissors with his cochamp for a King of the Hill prize bridle.

The name World Famous Suicide Race might be a bit of hyperbole, but the race is nothing if not infamous. It emerged in scrappy Omak where a Great Depression population boom—all the way to 2,500 souls—launched an annual rodeo in 1933. As publicity chairman, furniture store owner Claire Pentz proposed a dramatic steeplechase to draw spectators, inspired by mountain races across the reservation at Keller, where riders charged a dry channel in the Sanpoil River. He knew how to sell it: He gave his 1935 creation a catchy name.

The World Famous Suicide Race ran every summer, the marquee event at the four-day Omak Stampede rodeo. Dynasties were born when the inaugural race’s third-place finisher, Alex Dick, won regularly through 1965. There have been seven Marchand riders over the years, six Abrahamsons, nearly a dozen named Pakootas. The unofficial motto, one that appears on winners’ belt buckles, is “Wimps Need Not Apply.”

The 210-foot hill, most say, is a 62-degree slope. Or it’s 54.7 degrees, as measured by a race official in 1993. Others say it’s more like 30. Regardless, it’s terrifying. From the top, the hill feels as steep as a hard ski run; a black diamond, but not a double black. Scrambling up on foot, you might use your hands.

The stampede and race remain intertwined, but in 1999 the Colville Tribes boycotted to protest a change to their camping space on the fairgrounds. The Stampede lost attendance and revenue, and the following year a deal was struck: The tribes got more control over the race organization, and the encampment got its park space.

Family ties bind many of the owners, trainers, and jockeys, and while a few aren’t Native American at all, they’re the exception. This is the biggest sporting event in the region, the Super Bowl of north-central Washington. “This is the only time we get to play cowboys and Indians,” jokes one organizer, Ernie Williams.

Doc Tuttle is fairly new to the race gig, but between her ease with fidgety horses and no-nonsense demeanor, the veterinarian exudes authority. One by one she clears the horses for Friday’s race, directing owners to walk each thousand-pound animal in a figure eight as her eyes stay trained on forelegs and haunches, scrutinizing for swollen tendons or joints.

No one can pretend the Suicide Race isn’t controversial. As early as 1939, the protests started; Humane Society president Glen McLeod succeeded in canceling a mountain race in nearby Hunters, then traveled to Omak and Keller hoping to do the same. “Why, even the riders call it a ‘suicide race,’ ” McLeod told The Seattle Daily Times before a similar trip in 1941.

Animal rights groups started keeping a tally of dead horses in 1983, with one count now at 22. “The reality is that the race is viewed as part of the Omak Stampede rodeo, and rodeos are protected under state law,” says Seattle Humane Society spokesman Dan Paul, but points out that rapid shifts in public sentiment swiftly made SeaWorld orca shows and circus elephant acts extinct.

People for Ethical Treatment of Animals has run letter-writing campaigns. In 1993, the Northwest’s PAWS, or Progressive Animal Welfare Society, tried a more robust tactic, filing a lawsuit that alleged organizers harm horses for profit, but a Superior Court judge threw out the case. In 1996, a PAWS member sued the Okanogan County Sheriff’s Office and the rodeo for roughing him up when he videotaped a horse being euthanized; the suit settled for $64,500.

For the organizers, the response is simple: The race is merely an extension of their horse-infused culture. Every rider points out that they ride similar hills during wild-horse roundups and cattle work.

Horses have to pass three checks before they’re allowed entry into the race: the vet examination, a swim test, and what’s called a hill test, where horses must round the top of Suicide Hill without hesitation.

Tuttle isn’t from the reservation; she isn’t originally from Omak. But even as an outsider, the one who has to put horses down if they’re hurt, she doesn’t think it’s inhumane.

“These guys use horses that love it,” she says; the horses are bred to it and run steep hills regularly on the remote corners of the reservation. She rarely has to disqualify a horse because owners who spot lameness usually scratch. “It does hold a real special place in the Native culture. It does.” And that horse Thursday night that likely drowned? She considers it. “He was doing what he loved and he had a quick and honorable death.”

Friday night’s race is classic and clean; no bad wrecks. As always, the riders reach the starting line by crossing the river on the Highway 97 bridge, closed to traffic. Hooves clomp on the asphalt as the parade passes a road sign that reads, “Tribal Code Laws Apply.” There are no rules to apply in the Suicide Race once the gun is fired; riders can whip each other, pull each other’s reins. No helmets required. No wimps.

The results echo the previous night: Scott Abrahamson and Eagle Boy come in first, Tyler Peasley on Spade in second. When Scott wins, he raises his right hand above his head, palm out, fingers outstretched. His father’s gesture.

Scott was only four when Leroy won the Suicide Race. “Everyone said he was one of the greats,” he says. “It’s kinda hard to fill his shoes.” Instead he fills his horns. He wears Leroy’s blinking red devil headpiece, the kind of bauble most 18-year-olds would don at a Halloween party.

Scott’s idols were the riders who won in the late 2000s, including the 30-year-old three-time champion who came in second to him during this weekend’s first two races. As a kid he’d run down hills playing at Suicide Race, imaginary whip flying, yelling, “I’m Tyler Peasley!” After his 2015 win, Scott noticed something: “The kids run around saying they’re me.”

It’s after 10pm when the racehorses have completed their cooldown laps and have been loaded into trailers for the ride home. Scott accompanies George Marchand to Omak Lake, 15 miles out of town, to let Eagle Boy soak before bed.

Saturday

Saturday night’s Suicide Race is the biggest. The 7,700-seat arena is packed, and lines form at every fun house and stomach-destroying ride in the carnival outside. Booths hawk curly fries, cotton candy, and foot-longs, though the longest lines are reliably at a taco truck.

But that’s not the whole Omak Stampede. On the east side of the arena, a mirror festival, maybe even larger: the Indian Encampment. Rows of teepees surround a round pavilion for dancing and drum performances, with RVs and tents beyond that. Spectators bring their own camp chairs to supplement the few bleachers. Booths sell jewelry, T-shirts, and dream catchers, and while some of the food is the same—nothing is as universal as curly fries—more signs are handwritten, and many vend Indian tacos and huckleberry lemonade.

Before the rodeo begins, the arena’s industrial speakers blast pop country songs over every acre. The festivities begin with a series of anthems and processions, recognizing the neighboring nations of Canada and the Colville Tribes. During the ride-in, dozens of rodeo queens from around the West shoot into the center oval on horseback, one by one, decked in every shade of sparkle.

The announcer introduces each event, then banters with the rodeo clown when things get slow or a bull rider needs a moment to limp off the dirt. The Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association produces the classic rodeo events, ones with more white riders than Native: bull riding, steer wrestling, team roping, barrel racing. Specialty acts bridge the competitive sports: trick riders and one blonde woman who does a kind of partner dance with an unbridled palomino horse to the blaring sounds of a country song called “Free.” It ends with the horse placing its blond head in her lap.

The Suicide Race is the final blockbuster event. Spectators wade up to their knees into the Okanogan River just upstream of the race crossing, bare feet on slimy rocks. Signs still note that video recording is prohibited, but they’re roundly ignored in the age of cell phones.

Despite the shocking name, the only rider death since anyone’s kept close records was one who drowned on his way to the starting line—though there are plenty of close calls. In 2002, the year Leroy Abrahamson took home the title, racer Naomie Peasley took a tumble so bad she fractured her skull. She recovered, but not before flatlining twice in the medic helicopter.

In its anti–Suicide Race materials, PAWS airs a common criticism of the race: its authenticity. “Organizers currently contend that the Suicide Race has roots in Native American tradition but, in fact, an Anglo conceived the race as a publicity stunt,” reads its statement. Detractors hang on that detail, its origins with furniture salesman Claire Pentz.

To riders and trainers, though, Pentz is irrelevant, and they point to the deep roots of horse culture. For Scott, the point of the race is clear: “Showing that a young man is becoming a warrior, becoming a man.”

The race, the encampment—it’s the tribes’ biggest invitation into their world. “There’s more that people don’t see behind these walls, about Indian life...sweat lodges, medicine,” adds Aaron Carden, a retired racer who now teaches Native language on the reservation. Of the borders around that world, he says, “It’s not our fence to keep people out. It’s the fence white men built to keep us out of the area they took.”

The race wasn’t the only thing “created” by a white man; the very invention of a Colville Tribes unit is recent. Long before that, before statehood, before Manifest Destiny, before Lewis and Clark white-privileged their way across the American West, the Okanogan Highlands tribes lived nomadic lives, picking berries and drawing salmon from the massive Columbia River. And racing horses.

First came the incorporation of Washington Territory, then a series of executive orders begun by president Ulysses S. Grant that roped several tribes into three million acres between the Methow Valley and the Columbia River. Others were elbowed into the reservation, linking bands that once stretched from the dusty plains of Washington to the mountains of British Columbia. One chief invited a famous Indian leader, Chief Joseph, and his Nez Perce followers in 1885. With his band, the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation—a patchwork assembly that had no single language or traditional commonality—reached their current 12-tribe size.

Over 125 years the tribes faced what so many other American Indians did—children forced into boarding schools, languages squashed. The federal government forced a cheap buyback of 1.5 million acres, lands still lamented as the lost “North Half.” The Grand Coulee Dam, erected in 1942, blocked spawning salmon with its 550-foot concrete walls; Colville tribal members mourned the loss of Kettle Falls, a historic fishing spot, with a Ceremony of Tears before it was submerged by the dam’s backup.

In the 1960s, the tribes toyed with termination, dissolving the reservation altogether and splitting the lands among its 5,000 members. Reservations had been terminated by the government before, but the Colvilles were the only ones to dare seriously consider it themselves, an unprecedented move of self-governance. Congressional hearings were held but the measure never passed, so the Colville Reservation endured.

The Suicide Race is a separate world from suicide itself, a public health crisis for the Colvilles. Whether spurred by pervasive poverty—reservation unemployment topped 50 percent in 2010—or rampant substance abuse, the suicide rate ballooned to 20 times the national average in 2006. “After that we were in a panic on what we need to do and could do,” says tribal staffer Olivia Wynecoop. Tribal leadership declared a state of emergency, and Wynecoop helped secure grants for education and designating “natural helpers” to be on call for suicide emergencies.

Scott positions Eagle Boy at the western end of the starting line for the Saturday-night race. This isn’t like the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby; horses pace and turn, and the antsy palomino next to him does a sideways prance before the starter pistol goes off. Scott is angry, though later he says he can’t remember why. Trash talk and psych-outs are regular along the starting line, older jockeys trying to ruffle the young ones still gathering their courage.

But three years and one win into the Suicide Race, Scott can ignore the chatter. He and Eagle Boy are still until the gun sounds, then fast to the crest of the hill. Aaron Carden still remembers the feeling 25 years after his first win: “You’re actually flying in the sky. Nobody can take that away from you.”

There’s a commotion, a cloud of dust to Scott’s left, but he’s well in front of the pack as they hit the water. Two strides into the dark water, Eagle Boy stumbles, flinging Scott into the river. His blinking red devil horns disappear under the white churn created by horses on either side. They’re both okay but don’t log a finish.

What Scott couldn’t see was what happened on the top of the hill, to the very first rider off the break. Tyler Peasley, whom Scott idolized as a kid, and who’d placed at Scott’s heels the past two nights, darted off the top of the hill like a raptor after its prey. Peasley’s a little taller than Scott, broader shouldered, and he rides to win. His mount, Spade, got so much air he tucked his back legs underneath him and simply sailed for the first 30 feet of the downward slope.

They were serene in that moment, flying, until Spade’s hooves finally hit the tilted ground again; Peasley pitched over Spade’s front left shoulder before the horse executed a tight somersault. The jockey disappeared under the hooves of the horses behind him and the crowd made a collective, guttural gasp. Peasley’s body didn’t come to a stop until he reached the bottom of the hill.

Sunday

The final race is also the only daytime race of the weekend; for the first time since the trials and runoff races held before the stampede, they’ll be rushing the hill in full daylight.

The mood in the O&J paddock is subdued, but word is going around that Peasley is stable at a nearby hospital. News will later spread that his injuries included a broken pelvis, hip, and ribs, and the racing community fundraises to support his care and gas money for his family to visit him.

Remarkably, Tyler’s horse, Spade, is unhurt from the tumble, ready to race again. His owner lights a bundle of sage and says a few words over the horse before a new jockey takes the saddle.

For the final time in 2016, Scott follows the parade to the top of Suicide Hill. His jeans have a gaping hole in the knee—real wear from hard riding, not a fashion statement—and his wraparound sunglasses are ’80s big. No devil horns for the daytime race, but, as ever, his name is the one most shouted by the crowds: “Come on Scotty,” over and over.

With 10 points already earned, Scott only needs to place to secure the title. Owner and trainer Marchand tells him not to go all out, and when the gun fires, he doesn’t. He holds back his whip, lets Eagle Boy run the race without extra urging. It’s the smart move, the calculated move, no doubt informed by the disastrous night before. But Scott comes to regret holding back.

Not because it doesn’t work. Scott and Eagle Boy place second, netting four more points and easily clinching his first solo all-around title. But for Scott, the kind of driven athlete who hates to give a single inch, playing it safe feels wrong. Now with two titles to his name, only three years in, he says he’ll ride “until I get broken down and can’t do it no more.”

Three days later, Scott will depart his Coulee Dam home and drive five hours to start his freshman year at Washington State University. As an engineering student he will pull a 3.8 GPA his first semester and a 3.9 the second; he’s lined up two years of scholarships so far and hopes he’ll be able to extend to the full undergrad four.

Scott won’t brag about his Suicide win at college, but he’ll drive home every fall weekend for Indian Relay races, another sport that mixes horsemanship with a touch of anarchy. Around the reservation, he doesn’t have to brag about being King of the Hill; everyone already knows. “He’s the Steph Curry of the Suicide Race,” one tribal member says. “Loren and Tyler are the Lebrons.”

The second weekend of August 2017 is already on everyone’s calendar. Scott will be back on Eagle Boy, who he now half owns with George Marchand—a 49 percent share. He now has a streak to defend. By early June, high winter snows have melted to fill the Okanogan River, and ecologists are warning of water flows two or three times normal. Scott guesses that, with the river this high, it’ll be too deep for the horses to simply wade across during the Suicide Race; they’ll have to swim for the first time since, he believes, 2002. The year his father won it all.

But on Sunday night in August 2016, after the King of the Hill awards and the pictures, he’s just a high school kid again. He wanders the Indian Encampment with friends, waits in line for fry bread.

Under the pavilion, dancers spin and step, decked in elaborate feathered headdresses and beaded robes. Some have numbers pinned to their costumes, like marathon runners, to compete. In a drum tent, the songs are a steady thrum of chants and cries, indecipherable to the visitors who stand awkwardly outside the rows of seated tribal members who are at once both audience and participant.

Picture this: a quiet mountain lake, bordered by rocky hills dotted with ponderosa pine. In daytime Omak Lake is seven miles of brilliant turquoise, but now, at night, it’s a black mirror. Two men drive a horse trailer to its shore, unloading an unsaddled Eagle Boy.

It’s one of George Marchand’s secrets to success; the lake minerals soothe the bumps and scrapes along the horse’s legs. In the midst of the annual Perseid meteor shower, the uncloudy Okanogan skies are perfect for spotting streaks of celestial light, but the men don’t look up as they dissect the day’s race.

Scott holds Eagle Boy’s halter from a dock while the horse wades into the water, breaking the lake’s calm. The water hasn’t yet cooled from baking under another 90-plus degree day, and the hills that round the lake keep the night air still. They’ve survived another madcap contest together, earned another W. They’re back on the reservation, back home. In the silence the only sound is the lapping of the lake water against a horse.

[wouldpollyapprove]

Headcanon: Going Into Labor At Home

Summary: Going into Labor at home and Alfie won’t leave your side.

Alfie Solomons x Reader

Warnings: language, pregnancy, labor

A/n: I love these headcanons! I have done them for Arthur, Finn, John, Michael, and Tommy. I haven’t linked them here yet because that’s effort, but you can find them on my masterlist. I will be doing one for Isaiah and Bonnie as well. If there’s anyone else you guys want me to do them for, let me know.

Masterlist 

A lot of people saw your husband and thought of him as an aggressive bear. You didn’t blame them, he was a big man with a big attitude and generally didn’t give a fuck about anything. And he could be quiet dangerous.

But he was teddy bear. Loving, cuddly, and warm.

Even more so after you discovered you were pregnant. 

He would take time off you to be with you, no matter what you were doing. And when he was working, he always wanted you near, whether you be reading a book in the corner of his office or sitting in his lap while he went over paper work. 

The two of you had never really discussed starting a family. You both wanted children but never pushed it. It would happen when it happened.

It was one of those days when you decided to stay home and Alfie couldn’t help but stay with you. He just wanted to make sure you were alright as you were near due.

You were lounging in the parlor, reading the newspaper that had been delivered that morning. There was nothing interesting going on as usual. You could hear Alfie from his home office yell at Ollie about something. 

The shouts were irritating, you stayed home to have a little peace, so you threw the newspaper on the coffee table and went to go see what was wrong this time.

Last time Alfie got so worked up was because of something that had to do with the Shelbys. But that was his own fault for getting involved with them.

Leaning against the door frame, you waited for his to hang up the phone. He did, grumbling about something under his breath before he looked up to meet your eyes. “I didn’t bother ya, did I?”

You shook your head as he stood from his desk and made his way to you. “No, just wanted to see what was wrong,” you smiled up at him as he embraced you.

“Nothin’s wrong, love,” he whispered in your ear, his beard tickling your neck. He pulled away a moment later, hands going to rest one your bump.

It wasn’t too big, not like other women’s you’d seen who were as far along as you. Your midwife told you not to worry about it, it had nothing to do with the baby. All women carried differently and there was nothing wrong with you for showing so little.

“How are you feeling?” He lifted his gaze to meet your eyes. 

You shrugged, “Alright. It’s been a very mellow morning.” Alfie hummed, running his thumb along the fabric of your clothes. “I’ll let you know the moment something changes.”

Throughout your pregnancy, you had to constantly assure your husband that you were doing fine. It was annoying because nothing ever changed, but he had turned into a mother hen. You did everything in your power to keep him happy so he wouldn’t freak out too much.

“Ya better,” he warned playfully, a small smile danced on his lips. 

You couldn’t help but smile back as you watched his body relax.

That was all for nothing when you doubled over in pain not even a moment later, a sharp pain hitting your right side.

You held onto your husband as the pain washed over you, using his sturdy shoulders to support you. 

“What’s wrong?” Alfie asked, voice laced with worry. “Do I need to call the midwife?” All you could do was nod. Muttering sweet nothings, he guided you over to the phone on his desk. He helped you into his chair and rang your midwife. 

When the call was over, Alfie picked you up bridle style, much to your protests, telling him you could walk. He would hear none of it and carried you up stairs to your shared room.

Twenty minutes later, your husband ushered the midwife up stairs, sitting by your side as she did a quick exam. With a smile, she glanced up at the two of you. “I believe you’ll have your baby with in the hour, Mrs Solomons.” Already tired, with sweat collecting on your forehead, you gave her a weak smile before she looked up at your husband. “This is woman’s work, Mr. Solomons. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

He was about to protest, when you let out a tired laugh. Running your hand up and down his thigh, you shook your head. “He won’t leave... even at gun point,” you told her. “Just give him something to do, otherwise he’ll just be a bother.”

The midwife chuckled, happy that a husband cared enough to be by his wife’s side. “Alright, will you get me a bowl of hot water and towel, Mr. Solomons?”

Your husband didn’t have to be asked twice, wanting to do whatever he could to help. He didn’t like that there was little he could do, so he would grasp at anything that would help you.

He was back up stairs minutes later, a bowel of hot water and towels in his hands. The midwife, quickly took them, placing them where she needed them.

Alfie’s next job was to just be by your side and encourage you when you needed it.

He was holding your hand, wiping the sweat from your forehead in between pushes. During pushes, he would encourage you, tell you how strong you were, and that soon you’d have a child in your arms.

As soon as the baby was born, loud cries filling the rooms, you fell against the bed frame. The midwife wrapped the baby in a blanket, “It’s a boy,” she beamed and handed him over to you.

You took him in your arms, instantly in love with him. 

“He’s precious,” Alfie muttered, kissing your hair. He moved the blanket away from his son’s face with one finger, running the other over his head of hair. 

“He’s beautiful. My beautiful baby boy,” you cooed.

As the midwife started cleaning up, she couldn’t help but smile at the happy family in front of her. “Have you picked a name yet?”

Alfie raised a brow at you. “I was thinking Henry,” you smiled. 

*~~*~~*

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[gunsmoke-snakeoil]

At the Rivers Edge- Pt 2

Arthur X Female!Reader

Part 1 | Part 3

Arthur comes into camp with a familiar dark air about him that leaves you hurting in his stead. Being one of the few who know him well enough to read his body language, you do everything to keep his mind off of the one and only Mary Linton

I want to say a huge huge thank you to @lauramb7 and all of those who encouraged me to continue this story! I honestly had no idea people would be this interested in my ideas and honestly it makes me get all choked up! I got very ambitious, and can’t possibly fit the rest of this in a second part. So there will be one more after this! I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did writing it! Stay safe and healthy! ~K

It had been a few months since your conversation at the river with Arthur. And since then, things had changed drastically. You moved twice, slowly seeping so far east it made your stomach burn. You had lost some people along the way, giving the camp dark clouds and a heavy weight weighing against your sore heart. The new camp, you hated. It was too hot, muggy, and swampy. The only upside was the large house with vines climbing up its chipped white walls.

You were not the only one who hated this new spot. Arthur didn’t even have to say it. You just knew by one hunting trip the two of you took. He had taken a step on what he had thought was solid ground, and ended up sinking nearly a foot and a half deep in dark thick muck. He groaned, his blue eyes firing in frustration as he wildly tugged his legs trying to pry them free from the jaws of the swamps. It took you the better half of an hour to finally tug him free, of course your laughter seizing your muscles making it nearly impossible to grow the strength. You yourself had slipped when you gave one hard tug, sending you sliding towards him on your ass. You cussed something ugly forcing him into a fit of laughter as you picked yourself up. Eventually he had opt to leave his boots that were suctioned off his feet and stuck there for an eternity.

The worst part in your opinion was the stench of the muck clinging to his pants, feet and your bottom. You’d hoped you’d get use to it, but every time he moved or you sat you got the strongest whiff making your stomach curdle.

When the sun had finally sunk and the moon came out, the swamp grew foggy and dark with shadows creeping around almost every tree. Every sound made you jump, especially the loud hissing from the alligators. You had made the grave mistake admitting your fear of someone or something coming out and grabbing you. Arthur laughed when you jerked at a swamp bird screeching in the distance. And when you had finally found the stillness to sleep, he had found a branch and some leaves and brushed them against your shoulder and arms. You screamed so loud, you were sure the entirety of Saint Denis heard your cry. You had never ripped something so quickly from someones hand, the willingness to sleep finally left you completely as you playfully beat him with the sticks. “I ought to shoot you dead Arthur Morgan!” You yelled, as he doubled back from laughter, grabbing your wrists to stop you.

After the sleepless night, you both vowed to never hunt in the swamps again, and you’d both take a three day trip out west where you knew you thrived.

Last night’s celebration hung heavy over your head as you blinked the slumber from your eyes. The alcohol you consumed left your skull with a dull throb, the sun stinging your eyes. You groaned, wishing to shoot the sun out of the sky. You were glad, you admitted; glad that Jack was back and safe with his mama and papa. That boy was a light in this dark camp, making everything you do, worth it. You prayed that he’d remain that sweet positive boy even when the clouds seemed to only darken.

You were pacing camp when Pearson called you over to his food wagon. It was too hot, too hot and muggy to walk the ten feet towards him. The air was so thick you were afraid of inhaling to deeply and choking.  You wished desperately to find the coolest spring in Lemoyne with no reptiles in sight to dive head first in. You slunk towards him leaning back on his work table. He shuffled in his deer hide bag and pulled out a folded paper tore and yellowing at the edges.

You took it, feeling the dry paper beneath your calloused fingertips. “Could you go pick these up at the store? They are already ordered they just need to be picked up.“  Flipping the page open your eyes looked over the list and nodded. "And can you stop by the post office? It should be on the way.” You slipped the paper into you satchel, while looking up at him, his shining bald head glistening in the early morning sunrise.

“Sure thing Mr. Pearson. Consider it done.” You hummed pushing off the table.

“Excellent! The wagon is over there… I haven’t set up the horses yet—” you dismissed his thought with a smile.

“I got it, don’t worry.” He returned your smile with a sheepish one as you turned and started towards the horses. You were met with many morning greetings from everyone as you crossed the bridge. You tossed the list and satchel up on the seat of the wagon. Inhaling deeply, you wiped your sweaty palms on your pants, searching for the two work horses. Big Blue, a Raven black Shire stood grazing by Arthur who put his saddle on his horse. You smiled, watching the gentle praises he gave his stallion, while straightening the seat to fit on the animal’s back. You moved passed him towards Blue, getting his halter.

“Mornin’ (Y/N).” Arthur greeted, tightening the strap at his horses abdomen. He rose his head to meet your eyes as you yawned and waved.

“Mornin’” you grinned swallowing a second yawn that wished to bubble after. Your gentle hands greeted Blue, and his nose pressed to your chin. “Mornin’ Blue.” You breathed, running a hand through his braided mane. He whinnied as you began to put on the halter.

“Taking the wagon out?” Arthur asked as you gently tightened a strap on Blue’s headgear. 

“Pearson has a nice long list for me.” You grinned, clicking your tongue and leading the large horse towards the wagon. You lined him up before taking the Halter off and replacing it with a Bridle. Blue sneezed in your face as you fastened the bit in his mouth. You groaned loudly wiping your face on your shoulder. Arthur laughed while lugging over the harnesses for the horses. “Hate when that happens.” You groaned wiping your face again as Arthur began strapping Blue into his harness and attach him to the wagon.

“At least your mouth wasn’t open.”

“Oh no, it was.” You then walked over to Dixie who was grazing on the opposite side of where Blue was. Arthur groaned and praised Blue for his witty instinctual act. You did the same as you did with Blue, using the halter to guide the large brown Shire to the wagon. You made sure to spit your tongue out at Arthur while putting the Bridle on Dixie. Arthur chuckled, giving you a nudge while fastening the harness on Dixie.

With the two of you working, the wagon was set up in no time. Arthur stood back, hands on his gun belt admiring the webbing of leather straps. “The errand girl. I like that look on you.” He teased as you gave the horses a quick pat.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” You rolled your eyes while climbing up the wagon and plopping on the creaky wooden seat. Arthur gave Dixie a pat before walking over with the reigns. He leaned forward on the step presenting them to you.

“Would be interesting seeing you in a dress.” He smirked as you took the leather from him and placed them in your lap.

“It’d be a cold day in hell Morgan. Hey,” you stepped your steel plated boot on the foot guard while bending down to get a good look at him. “maybe you oughta take Micah on your next hunting trip. Heard the pair of you are two peas in a pod.”

That smirk faltered enough to make you giggle. He groaned and took a step back from the wagon. “get outta here you crazy woman.” He motioned you towards the opening in the trees. The smile grew wider as you snapped the reigns prompting Blue and Dixie forward. You gave him a gentle wave as you started down the path. He couldn’t even try to mask the smile he had, watching as you turned down the lane and disappear behind the trees.

Navigating through Saint Denis proved to be more challenging then you would’ve liked. You had already struggled moving through on horseback now you had a long and wide wagon. The city was bustling, people crossing without looking and the roads filled with carriages and other modes of transportation. The buildings made you feel cramped, the pillars of dark smoke made the air smell. You felt like a bird plucked from the wild and shoved into a dark, small cage. Once you made it to the road lining the Lannahechee River, you felt more comfortable. The road was wider, and less people traveled across.

You pulled the wagon to the side of the road when it neared the post office and hopped off. When you approached the window you lightly rapped your fingertips on the wooden sill as the man made his way to your side. “Any mail for Tacticus Kilgore?” His brows knotted in a strange type of confusion as he sifted through cabinets.

“Why yes there is.” He tugged a soft white envelope from the many in the cabinet. He flipped it over and walked it to you presenting the name. “Is this right?” He asked. You took the soft paper, seeing the familiar sloppy cursive writing. Your heart burned as you flipped it over to peer at the red wax seal.

“Yeah, that’s right. Thank you.” You half grinned turning to take it back to the wagon. You pulled yourself up and took the reigns in one hand. Again you peered at the handwriting on the envelope. You knew it as Mary’s. Wrongfully you had peered at her writing before when Arthur had been out. It was long ago now but the writing surely hadn’t changed. Part of you wanted to tear it in five hundred pieces and watch it blow away in the wind. But the other knew Arthur still respected and cared for her. You carefully slid the letter into you satchel and moved down the road to the grocer.

You hardly remember the rest of the trip. Partly because of the letter, and the other was knowing that Arthur was undoubtedly going to get hurt again. You wondered if he listened to you and took your words to heart, or maybe it went into one ear and out the other. Either way, the feeling of setting that pretty white envelope on his desk sent a tight jolt to your limbs. A lump grew heavy in your throat imagining him finding it and reading closely to the paper. You bit your lip hard, forcing your gaze away from the handwriting. Then you saw her picture. Placed high up, the frame was worn yet the woman captured inside was young and beautiful. You picked it up, running fingertips against the pane. You wanted to smack her, yell at her, enough enough! What else could she possibly take, didn’t she have enough? You were beginning to make yourself tear up.

You sat her picture back quickly blinking away the tears. You decided the rest of the day would be best spent alone trying to keep yourself from combustion.

The next morning Javier had been talking to you about a fishing spot he discovered. You half listened, watching as Arthur walked to the horses. You noticed he changed shirts and had put on a clean vest. Sipping your coffee, you nodded at Javier and smiled pretending the best you could that you were fully listening. Arthur climbed onto his horse glancing back at the camp, meeting your gaze for a moment. You gave him a small wave, your fingers shaking just a tad as he tipped his hat and disappeared down the lane.

Javier invited you on a fishing trip to the spot he had mentioned. You nodded in response, giving him a smile. “Sounds good to me.”

You couldn’t concentrate, not for a single moment. You mindlessly baited your hook, using the crickets that Javier had offered you. You pricked your finger accidentally, yielding a sharp hiss in response. You wiped the small bead of blood on your jeans before casting the line into the small pond.

“It’s nice to get out.” Javier smiled as he casted his own bobber into the fishing hole.

“I agree,” you smiled reeling the line in just a tad so it had enough tension to feel a bite.  “This is a really nice spot. And gator free."  Javier shifted in his spot humming in agreement.

"I thought so too. Bass are pretty big here.” Your line jerked, and you tugged right back before pulling hard and reeling. “First cast and already a fish, Arthur was right, you’re one hell of a fisherman.”

You rolled your eyes as you pulled the fish in and grabbed it by it’s bottom lip. “Arthur says that because he has seen me catch at least a dozen trees and bushes.” You tugged the hook from it’s mouth and held it up.

“Well from where I’m standing, you are doing far better then I am.” Javier flicked the tip of his pole making the bobber dance.

“Give it time, one of us will be up in a tree trying to untangle my line from some branches.” You smiled letting the large mouth back into the water. The fish suspended for a moment, it’s gills puffing out and closing. In a blink of an eye, it disappeared into the depths flashing the sparkle of it’s scales. You rinsed your fingers in the water and smiled at the memory; remembering Arthur holding a branch down while your 21 year old self tried to free your river lure. You blamed him while laughing at your awful cast, the thin line tangled through out the many leaves and caught in the bark. So much for competing for the farthest cast. He always brought it up when ever you went fishing. Standing, you fumbled through the bait bag, pulling another cricket to stab onto the hook.

You wished, as you grabbed the line near the reel with your finger, that Arthur was here. You drew back the pole and let the line go as you swung forward sending the hook and bobber to the center of the pond. The bobber danced in the ripples for a moment before settling down again. You looked to the tree canopy. You wished he wasn’t where he was. You wished you could drop your pole in the water and take off on Zeus to find him. You wanted to pull him away from Mary and treat him just as he deserved to be treated. You wanted to show her just how much he meant to you. You wanted to kiss him right in front of her, tell him how much you love him and that you wouldn’t want anyone else in this world. You wanted him to give her up.

But you knew he was out there, somewhere getting hurt all over again. And nothing you did could stop it.

“(Y/N)?” Javier called, catching your attention. Your gaze shot to him, watching as he reeled in his bobber. “you feeling okay today? You have been acting a little funny.”

“Well maybe that’s just who I am,” you shrugged with a smirk watching the afternoon sun glisten on the rippling water. Javier baited his hook and tossed it out again, giving you a less then satisfied look. “I just have a lot on my mind, that’s all.” You sighed giving your bobber a little tug, letting it dance for a moment.

“I see.” Javier looked away from you. “Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m here for you.”

You smiled feeling gratitude at his gesture. As much as you’d love to unload all your feelings, you refrained, knowing you would put Arthur out there as well. “Thanks Javier.”

Upon your request, the two of you decided to stay out until late afternoon. Javier happily took your mind off of Arthur and Mary, offering you crazy bar stories and tales of his past. You left the fishing hole with a dozen bass for that evening’s dinner. Pearson was excited for the change of pace, and you had helped him fillet them. As he cooked, you snuck seasonings into the stew making Jack giggle when you made faces. When the stew was completed, you watched as everyone took servings. The ladies thanked Pearson and winked at you as they passed. You saw just about every face except for Arthur’s.

For a moment you thought he was still out. But that thought was chopped  the moment you noticed his horse hitched beside yours. You sighed deeply, scooping some of the food into a bowl. Carefully you carried it into the house and climbed the stairs. Faint light bled from his room, confirming his location. You approached the door that was open just a crack. With a single knuckle you knocked, the sound was faint and you prayed that he heard you. You felt oddly shaky when he hummed a response. You opened the door with your foot and stepped in. He sat on his bed, his journal rested in his lap. “Hey,” you stepped in further and showed him the stew. “Didn’t see you get any, and wanted to make sure you ate.”

He grinned and dropped the journal to the side by his satchel. “Well that’s mighty kind of you Miss (Y/N),” you carefully deposited the bowl in his hands. He motioned you to sit on the chair by the desk while He blew on the hot food before fishing it into his mouth.“That’s different.” He hummed.

“Yeah, it’s fish.” You sat down. “Believe it or not Javier and I caught them today. Despite your prior beliefs, I’m pretty damn good.”

Arthur smirked and began digging in the stew. “I don’t see any tree leaves or branches in here.. what the hell did you contribute?”

“You are such an ass. I actually caught half of them, you can ask Javier.” You giggled, while looking around at his room. Arthur was different. You couldn’t tell how, but that air he got when he saw Mary wasn’t with him. His eyes were happy, glistening and that smile from before was on his lips. Maybe he didn’t see her? You glanced around at the desk, the letter you sat there was gone.

Before you could get any deeper, Arthur drew your attention back to him, “there’s no way in hell Pearson did this on his own.”

“Oh hell no, I helped.” You shook your head. “It would’ve probably come to life and eat us if he did that on his own.”

Arthur nearly choked on his food at your comment making you laugh.  You spent the rest of the evening talking about your trip with Javier, and Arthur was quick to jump to the many days you went with him. After a while, you decided to turn in. He thanked you again for giving him company. You took his bowl and spoon and bid each other a good night.

As you turned to leave, you noticed the picture of Mary that had sat at his bedside for years had been laid face down.

[mamavalcalaw]

Welcome To the Wasteland chapter 01

The big head rested on a lump of old wood that once was a fallen tree. Valory was positioned to be not readily visible, her thick hide mottled to the environment to break up her outline. Half lounging, but more reclined on a rise, almost a large hill, she could keep a look out easily here

Her person was just down the slope working on butchering the wild dear Valory had taken down. Working without looking up and scanning every few minutes, having the rare luxury of knowing she was safe even out in the wasteland wilds.

It was a lot of trust that was placed in Valory's hands, and something that she would never dream of or consider not taking very seriously. So she laid there and watched for humans, of any variety, or some poor desperate predator that would risk crossing the scent line.

There were some nervous bleeting sounds from the doe's living calves. Valory's companion had used some rope around the base of their double necks and tied them to their own large pack animals. Creatures native to their mountain range, not here. Insisting with that soft heart of hers that they keep them as they were going to be setting up a base camp in the area.

The woman paused butchering, standing up to look around at the semi frosted area. The trees had been thinning out steadily the last few days of traveling. More scrubby underbrush just starting to get some new spring leaves. Patches of exposed grey rocks in the last couple days were also showing up with power lines.

The young woman took a break to stretch and look over at the other big creatures.

Taking the place of draft horses, were three relatively massive near horses. One bull and two cows that were sometimes seeming as wide as tall, being very close to the time they would give birth.

The bull, affectionately named Buck for reasons was lifting his head to rip off the bark of the nearest tree. He had a double set of paddle like antlers, the main pair not unlike the classic antlers of moose. Just curved a little more and seemingly thicker. The rear set cresting back and then up to protect the moose's neck and make a headbut that much more painful.

He had two long packs along his sides, made of thick oiled leather and deceptively held more that it would seem. Not really the heaviest equipment but definitely the truly valuable stuff such as parts for the water purifier.

The two cows were nosing at the orphaned dear calves, quite interested in them, they had smaller thicker antlers that curved back and the points up. The older of the two had a thick leather bridle, braided reins and a clear saddle resting on her back along with smaller pack bags. While the younger cow had only packs with two small animal cages near her rump with sleeping fuzzy bundles. Though in a pinch she could carry a rider or two as well (it just would not be that comfortable).

These slightly mutated moose were as valuable as horses in far back times. If not more so, definitely better than cars being able to climb mountains. Not just valuable to Lana but Valory too. They could walk or trot all day for the long stretches, able to eat most every kind of flora, including wood to some degree if nothing else was available. Once the group had settled for a time, the cows could plow larger fields in a day, and the manure was just as valuable for that. So much good bacteria and such as well as the leftovers for fertilizing what was plowed.

And… well, Buck had already proven he could take on a 'wild' Deathclaw on his own. Making good use of his own sheer tonnage, so to say, and his sets of horns.

Lana resisted reaching up to rub her face, using the very edge of her glove to get the itch on her cheek. She regarded the carcass and the tarp that it was lying on. The discarded bits she was not sure if they were tumors or something else cut out and tossed aside.. Trying to save all the meat she could, Valory had made short work of the intestines as a snack earlier and skinning would be done once at a propper camp.

The woman sighed, hearing movement as she started to wrap the carcass up. Lana looked up as the Deathclaw started down the hill. "Ready?"

"Yess..." Valory dipped her head rather than nod, it was easier and also let her bump the flat of her head against the smaller human. "Finishing the butcher-ing later?"

Lana nodded, resisting the urge to wipe her hands, "I think I got the questionable bits all out, you had a snack with the innerads. It should be good to wrap up and finish later after we get to the place you found last night."

Hazel eyes scanned around, landing on the fawn that were tied to the moose cows. She smiled despite herself, Lana was fond of the deer-like creatures out here, they reminded her of the elk back home, and of course alike to the moose. Just with much smaller cute noses. "The girls should be able to produce milk for them… depending on how things go, we might be able to bring some home with us on the return trip if the deer bond to Luna and Grace."

The big deathclaw tilted her horn head, thinking about it but shrugged, "If they can keep up? Lots of work to keep a… big-big herd?"

"Bigger," Lana reflexively offered the right word as she chucked the questionable bits from the kill into the woods, then started to wrap the doe carcass up in the tarp.

"Bigger herd is harder to guard." Valory huffed, and once the new large bundle was wrapped she reached down. Careful and very mindful of her killing claws, Valory lifted the doe up. Three strides had her by the younger of the two female moose, and setting it over Luna's back.

"I think we can do it. They might be able to be trained." Lana said, following and reaching out to rub a small head and nose of the deer like baby. She should find someone and ask about local names. The fawn were frozen stiff, rightly afraid of Valory. But they might get desensitized to her over time. Her three moose for sure were, having grown up in the same complex both Lana and Valory had. Coexisting and making a new culture.

Though to them it was just normal.

Making sure the fawn were well secured as well as the carcass, Lana whistled for Buck's attention. The big bull huffed as he headed over, massive head lowering for a nose rub. "Good boy, I'm going to ride with you so not to get in the way of the kids."

Lana grinned, giving the command from the ground to get Buck into a bow like motion. Much easier to climb up him then trying to make a jump to get a saddle over six feet in the air.

"This way." Valory purred, the sound felt as much as heard as she motioned to the south east. Despite her mixed feelings about the fawn… it did make Valory happy to see her small pack sister happy. She started down the rest of the hill, leading the way.

The moose were already turning to follow even before Lana was fully settled in the saddle. Buck hesitated to let the cows and babies pass, taking up the rear guard. Lana was fussing, getting her riding gloves on instead of the butchering ones. Making sure her bow was in easy reach, and the quiver was attached to the saddle. Doing a quick count of the shafts and making a face. Lana needed to make more soon, maybe there was something she could use at this new place. Otherwise it was a few good days of hunting through the old trees or hoping for in an older hunting store.

Lana looked down, reaching to run her fingers through the thick, dark brown fur, it was a little more tan on Buck's neck and one should, where most was near black fur. She felt the bull rumble and did his version of a nicker, a low gutteral sound that helped calm the woman down.

It was hard going so far from home. Setting up a home base for a new area was not something new, but it was the first time Lana did not have her uncle here. Yes there was the sure protection with Her Pack sister, but Valory could not do everything.

There was still a lot of hard work to do, that involved smaller hands and time. Hard work that was worth it, being able to sleep well, have clean if not some hot water, lights and power for things. It was faster with two people and… and…

And comfortable with more family around. Her uncle was more experienced in the wastelands, where Lana was just used to the wildlands of the rockies, and the planes that were down south.

Lana yawned, squeaking a bit in surprise. The last two months of travel were starting to take a toll. Enough that once they secured this place Valory found, Lana was considering very much to just sleep for a few days.

Maybe find a way to get a warm, if not hot bath…

A snort had the woman's attention snapping back, hazel eyes scanning the brush and landscape where Buck was suddenly staring. Big ears tilted at the same spot.

Lana frowned, giving a soft whistle before nudging Buck to where his attention was. The bull huffed softer, lowering his head and tilting it so his antlers were going into his 'battle position.' It did not necessarily mean that what he picked up was a direct threat, but it was definitely something to check.

A semi distant gunshot had the woman crouching lower on the saddle and the moose's shoulder blades. Stream lining as she kicked her legs with an urging clicking sound. "Go Buck, someone might need help Val!"

The bull snorted and before launching into a lope. Buck was virtually a living tank in his own right so the underbrush did not hold up all that well- The moose however was able to see the trouble first. Head down, shifting his path and ran head first into the roughly dressed humans.

Or rather antlers first.

Three clusters of people, one was in the middle with a struggling brahmin. Two men that crouched behind things pulled off the brahmin, one scarred man in green fatigue and armor leaning over to cut the rope the other man on the ground was clutching. The other two groups were on either side, four or five on each side walking closer and yelling even as the two headed creature ran off in the gunfire.

Buck recognized the scents on a whole, bitter alcohol, old blood from several humans not belonging to the ones that wore it. Gunpowder and rusty metal. Buck swung his head, great paddles sweeping through the cluster of bad-humans. Shifting his weight the animal kicked out with a hind leg, off to a side to drive a hoove into the soft middle of one of the bad humans.

There was a soft tich sound of an arrow before he sank his hindquarters and launched into a jump out of this first group. Trusting his person to hold on as he got them out of the direct line of chaos. He was not afraid of weapons fire, not even from on his back as Lana shot her pistol.

Charging in like a strange battle demon, Buck was also out of the way and shaking his head to knock off the body stuck to his antlers. Hardly silent as the haunting cry of his kind bellowed out.

Confusion and panic was abound, giving Lana valuable moments to see the second group of raiders floundering on the other side of the roadway. See the dark form running in a hunch. See the injured brahmin limping away without its former berdenand a third cluster, lots of dead- Ambushed traders? Travelers?

There was at least one person still shooting, still alive, popping up and firing a rifle as Buck was wielding around on this side of the road.

There was a not so muffled, "Bloody fuck!" from the man crouched between the goods that had been knocked off the pack-animal. Furniture?

"Hold your fire!" Lana yelled at the man as Valory was looming over the second group of raiders.

Having held her silence other than loping, she pointedly timed it to roar when right behind the aggressors. Valory using the ingrained fear of her species to her advantage. She was not happy to always having to resort to it, but Valory swiped through the two humans closest. Thick muscles coiling to pounce on the third, the exposed chest making it easier to drive a killing claw into the heart.

Valory turned sharply around, using her longer tail to swipe where the other two humans were. Her tail connected with one of the humans, hearing more than feeling a crunch. Focusing on the one crawling away, reaching out to grab while glancing at the road and across it to where her pack sister was.

It seemed between Buck and a few careful shots the other four raiders were taken care of. Valory looked back to the survivor, aware of his rifle aimed at her and just grinned, "Stop that."

The rifle wavered.

[Continued on Ao3] [Continued on ff.net]

[kermab]

The Morgulon - Chapter 1

It was going to be a perfect night for hunting werewolves. The setting sun was turning the winter-sky a gorgeous orange, and the full moon was already rising. Storm Moon, that was its name, according to Greg’s almanac, but there was no storm in sight. Just a few cloudy wisps, no more than the smoke from a candle, riding on the slight breeze.

Greg glanced at the moon again, shivered and rubbed his hands together, stomped his feet. The ground was hard, and the bare trees were glittering with frost. At least there was no snow, so the horses would be able to run free.

Or was that a bad thing? The werewolves would be running just as easily.

“Nervous?”

Greg jumped when his older brother Andrew was suddenly standing beside him, but managed to turn it into a shrug. “Nah,” he said.

“Good,” Andrew said. “Remember your job?”

Greg shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I’ve seen you do it a million times.”

“No you haven’t,” Andrew said calmly. “Cause I’ve never been on a hunt this big myself. And even on the smaller ones, you’ve only seen the beginning and the end result. You’ve never been there in the middle of the action.”

“That’s hardly my fault, is it?”

Andrew didn’t take the bait, though.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he grumbled after a second or two. “I ride in with the other beaters, I make a lot of noise, we drive the monsters down the hill into the killing zone.”

“What else?”

“I make sure I don’t fall behind, I make sure I don’t ride ahead, I keep the distance to the other beaters even, I make sure I don’t lose sight of them. I never ever leave my place within the line. I take good care of your horse, or you’ll roast me alive.”

“You betcha,” Andrew said, with an easy grin at Greg’s sullen tone of voice. “You take good care of Dolly, and she’ll keep your green ass safe in there.”

He waved vaguely with his good hand towards the forest. As if on cue, a single, echoing howl rose from amongst the trees, even though it was still another hour until sunset.

Greg couldn’t help but wonder if the monsters knew what was coming for them. He kept that thought to himself though; Andrew would just laugh at him.

Gravel crunched behind them, and Greg turned around to watch his oldest brother, David, come stomping up the hill.

“Gregory!” he barked. “What the hell are you waiting for? We still have to go over your gear!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg muttered. He was perfectly able to prepare his gear on his own, but he followed David back towards the camp of the werewolf-hunters.

Andrew came along, fiddling with his jacket. His right arm was broken, and the sling made it impossible to get it through the sleeves, so the jacket kept sliding off Andrew’s shoulders. Greg stared down at the dark brown skin of his own right hand. He felt a little bad about it,   but secretly he was glad about Andrew’s injury. This was his chance, finally!

His chance to prove himself, to prove that he could do the job, that he wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was seventeen, for Mithras’s sake!

His father and his last brother were sitting at their campfire. Nathan was the youngest of Greg’s brothers at twenty-two, but even he had been on the job for over six years. David had only been fourteen when he had gone out to his first hunt all on his own. But they all seemed convinced that Greg didn’t have what it took to hunt werewolves with them.

So he let David fuss over him as he put on his boots and batwings – long leggings made of hard leather, that went over his breeches to protect his legs against the underbrush of the forest. His jacket was made from equally strong leather, not meant, as David kept repeating, to repel a werewolf’s teeth. “They get you, you’re dead.”

“I know, I know,” Greg sighed.

David didn’t seem to hear him.

The last layer of clothes was a sort of cape made from a huge white sheet that should tear rather than catch on anything. The idea was that the white colour would make Greg more visible to the shooters of the hunting party, and hopefully confuse a werewolf about the actual shape of his body underneath the cape, so that if he did get bitten, all the werewolf would get was a mouthful of wool.

Greg just hoped that he wouldn’t set himself on fire, once it was time to light his torch. Although that would certainly make him highly visible, and the fire probably would scare away any monsters too.

Lastly, David handed him his torches and a whistle, and also a double-crossbow and a small quiver with some additional silver-tipped bolts.

“I’ve already checked it over,” David explained. “Just in case you need it. If you want some advice? Make sure you don’t need this.”

He paused, and for a second Greg thought David would call him out for rolling his eyes at him, but instead his oldest brother continued:

“It’s not that I think you can’t shoot; I know you can; I taught you. But it’s too dark underneath the trees. If you can see it well enough to shoot it, the monster is already way too close. As soon as the action starts, Dolly is your best chance.”

“I know!” Greg repeated, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “Why are you all so worried? It’s not like we’re hunting the Morgulon! I’ve watched you all do this for years, and I’m much older than the rest of you were when you started! All I got to do is ride with the other beaters and make a lot of noise. It’s not that hard!”

David just heaved a sigh and ran a hand through the tight curls of his hair. Just as Greg thought his brother would simply ignore what he had said, David grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around, towards the edge of the camp where the other beaters were saddling their horses.

“When was the last time you have seen us work with so many beaters?” David asked.

And before Greg could say anything, he added: “When was the last time we went after six, six werewolves in one night?”

“I don’t know,” Greg admitted.

“Eight years ago,” David said curtly. “And we lost a half dozen people that night. It was a mess. And this looks like it’s going to be an even bigger mess, Morgulon or not. We wouldn’t even be here, if the Church hadn’t ordered Dad in to ‘fix this’. All it takes is for one werewolf to slip through the line, and half the beaters are dead. We’d all prefer it if you weren’t one of them.

Now, let’s go get Dolly saddled.”

Greg followed his brother a little dazed to where the horses were tied to pegs in the ground.

Andrew was, of course, waiting for them. Somehow, he had managed to get the bridle over the mare’s head, even with just one good arm. All Greg had to do was fasten the buckles and get the saddle on her back. Andrew watched his every move as he tightened the saddle strap while patting Dolly’s nose in an absentminded way.

As much as it irked him, Greg could at least understand Andrew’s worry. Dolly was an exceptionally fine mare, a little over fourteen hands high, with the thick, dark chestnut coloured coat and all over built of a mountain pony, the strength of a draught horse, but all the fire, agility, and speed of a thoroughbred. Andrew had hand-raised her from filly and trained her for years. Greg could only hope that he would one day find a horse half as good.

And if he ever did, he would most certainly give it a better name than Dolly.

find more on https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/34542/the-morgulon! 

[lilhemmo]

i’ll risk it

send me two au’s from this list + a ship/character

a/n: not sure how i feel about this? but feel free to request more! 

You’ve been a teacher at Riverdale Elementary for six years now.

It was easy, once you heard about the Southside school system shutting down, you knew you had to help. You were working at Ronnie’s, living off your dead parent’s trust fund money while you went out to find yourself, or something like that. But, it all changed the day that news spread aired.

You volunteer, you serve, you teach, you do a little bit of everything. You tutor for the math club, you help with the chess team, and you even help coach the girls’ softball team.

And every time, when the Winter Solstice Dance rolls around, you’re first in line to volunteer as chaperone.

It’s adorable to see children ten and under dress up in poufy ball gowns and tiny tuxedos complete with a bow tie. You don’t mind service fruit punch and peanut butter sandwiches cut into snowmen because you get to watch little girls giggle and little boys blush.

Also, Sweet Pea is always on the chaperone list too.

You’ve spoken to him sparingly, when he comes to the school to volunteer or when you bump into one another in the hallways. He’s recently become more involved, and you’re wondering if it has to do with the seven year-old boy he’s escorting to the restroom.

Toni Topaz teaches second grade and she swears that Sweet Pea is single. Betty Cooper, an office administrator and part-time English teacher tells you in passing that he’s got a thing for you. Even Vice Principal Lodge swears that Sweet Pea lingers in the halls when he’s picking up who you presume to be his child, waiting to see if you’ll emerge from your classroom.

It’s not your fault that you haven’t approached him yet. He’s tall and muscular, and a little scary with the snake tattoo spread across his neck. On the other hand, he’s really handsome and you’ve never heard him raise his voice or cop an attitude with his kid when they’re late to the pick-up line or forget something in their classroom and he has to park the car and wait for him to come back.

Again, kind of scary, but in a handsome way, and unapproachable to the max. It’s not your fault you don’t speak to him; nobody does.

And then it feels like the universe is laughing at you when a certain tall, muscular, handsome-in-a-scary-way man bumps into you at the punch bowl.

Apologies flow from both of your lips and you straighten your dress before looking him in the eyes, “I am so sorry. I wasn’t even paying attention.”

“Well,” he chuckles, trying to right himself and keep the blush off his cheeks, “I don’t think most of the other guests here tonight would have bulldozed you over. I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met?”

You shake your head and offer him your hand, “No, uh, we haven’t. I teach kindergarten, it looks like your boy is a bit older than that.”

You exchange names and then he does a double-take, “I-I’m sorry. My boy?”

“Yes, your son,” you supply, gesturing to the short, dark-haired seven year-old across the dance floor. He’s currently trying to convince an eight year-old that he doesn’t have two left feet. “He’s cute. I’ve seen him in the halls a couple of times, and only heard the best reports from his teachers. You’ve raised him really well.”

Sweet Pea’s face goes bright red and you’re afraid you’ve overstepped. You bumble through a few apologies, reaching out to press your fingertips to his forearms. “I’m so sorry. Again. It’s not my place to talk about your son like that.”

“No, it’s fine.” Sweet Pea covers your palm with his own, sending a bolt of lightning through your bones. “It’s just, that, well – he’s not my kid. He’s my nephew.”

You’re speechless now, only because more apologizing seems like it would be nothing short of annoying. You roll your lips and try to come up with something to say, but end up empty-handed. You shake your head and try your best to look him in the eye, craning your neck skyward.

“My fault for assuming,” you nod.

Sweet Pea manages a smile, retracting his hand after realizing he was still touching you. “It’s okay. Fogarty is in the military, so he’s gone for long periods of time. His wife died in childbirth, so I take shifts of helping the kid get where he needs to go, and giving him a place to sleep.”

The universe is howling in laughter at you right now.

You lick your lips, “That’s rather noble of you, I think. I’m sorry to hear about his mother.”

He smiles, crossing his arms over his chest. When he speaks, it sounds smoother than before, like honey rolling off his tongue, “We’re Serpents, we band together when things go south. We’re a family.”

“Sounds exactly like something he would need in a time like this,” you supply, noting the way that his eyes track your every movement. “We really appreciate your help chaperoning. The PTO board can’t ever get enough volunteers, and most teachers would rather be anywhere else other than spending more time at school.”

Sweet Pea reaches out and touches your shoulder with his hand, opening his mouth to speak, but interrupted by a tiny pair of hands yanking on his jeans.

He raises a brow and looks down at the boy you thought thirty minutes ago was his own flesh and blood, “Hey, Charlie. What’s up?”

“I’m ready to go home,” he whispers, trying his best not to let you hear.

You chuckle and take a step away so he feels more comfortable talking to Sweet Pea without you overhearing. Sweet Pea ruffles Charlie’s hair and nods, “Sure, kiddo. We can go whenever you’re ready.”

He stands to his full height once more and you’re overwhelmed by his stature. You look up at him, admiring his height and muscle. Sweet Pea catches you staring and a smirk graces his full lips, forcing a pink blush onto your cheeks. He reaches out and circles your wrist with a gentle touch, “I’ll see you next time?”

“Next time,” you echo, forcing the words from between your teeth.

Charlie tugs on his arm one more time, and you swear you don’t watch him every second until he walks out the gymnasium doors.

--

Betty and Toni show up at your doorstep the first night of Spring Break, and you swear you want to punch both of them in the face.

“How do you guys even have any energy?” you whine as they toss you around your bedroom, throwing clothes at you that you didn’t even think you had. You catch a sparkly shirt and throw it on, knowing that you’ll either do it willingly, or they’ll force it onto you.

“Listen, ever since the Southside has been shut down, the Wyrm has been operating secretly – only the true Southsiders know that it’s up and running. We’re going to go out!” Toni bites her lip as she takes in your appearance.

“And what if I see parents there?” you ask, raising a brow.

Betty smirks, “Well, just means that you saw them too.”

And just like that, they’ve got you tossed in the back of Toni’s truck and on the way to The Wyrm.

It’s been ages since you’ve been to the Wyrm. Life just got too hectic and you became too busy with school planning and grading to even have a social life.

It smells the same as always when you three crack the wood doors open – like cheap beer and disappointment.

Betty claims a pool table while Toni grabs your first drink order of the night. It’s easy, falling into step like this with your girl friends. Honestly, you’ve missed having a life.

You’re definitely not tipsy enough when a group of three guys approaches the table, all wearing smirks and mischievous expressions.

Toni laughs, “Oh, Jones, what’s the big deal?”

“Fogarty, Pea, and I just wanted a quick game, is all.” The one you recognize as Jughead Jones saunters around the table to take a spot beside Betty. You blink, trying to remember where you’ve heard the name Fogarty before.

A hand presses to your shoulder and you look up to meet the hazel eyes of none other than Sweet Pea.

“Wow, hey,” you muster, a grin tugging on the corners of your mouth. You set you drink down on a coaster and pull him in for a hug, praying that it’s not too weird and that he’ll just go along with it. He does, wrapping one arm around your shoulders and squeezing you tight enough to make your heart skip a beat.

“We’ll team up,” the only one left, Fogarty, says as he bridles up next to Toni. She rolls her eyes but sends him a wink, “You picked the winning team, Fangs. Let’s get another round of drinks before we crush the competition.”

The pair walk towards the bar, engulfed in conversation, effectively leaving you practically alone with Sweet Pea, given that Betty and Jughead are knee deep in staring into one another’s eyes.

“So,” he starts, leaning against the pool table. His plaid shirt hands off his shoulders nicely, tight around his biceps and wide around the collar, exposing his collarbones. “I guess now is the time to tell you that I’m the reigning champ of pool, and if you screw this up for me, I will never live it down.”

You roll your eyes and swallow the thick lump in your throat, trying your hardest to appear cool despite the utter fear that has settled into your bones, “Well, then I should let you know that I’m practically a beast with a pool stick, so you have nothing to worry about.”

He bites his lip before looking you in the eye, a smirk playing on his mouth. He grabs the chalk and brushes it against the tip of the pool stick, dark eyes never leaving your face.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he answers in a deep voice, tossing you the chalk as he racks the pool balls.

Jughead throws the first game and Fangs throws the second, leaving you and Sweet Pea in first place two games in a row. Toni has been practically wasted for at least an hour, and Betty has been making bedroom eyes at Jughead since the third round of shots arrived.

“Ride home?” Sweet Pea offers, watching as Fangs exits with Toni, and Jughead stalks away with his arm around Betty’s waist.

You nod, chuckling, “Yeah, I guess so. My ride ditched me.”

“Yeah, Topaz isn’t always the best at paying attention,” Sweet Pea laughs. He helps you clean up your nearby table, stacking dishes and putting away the pool table equipment. You shrug, “I don’t mind. Usually I just Uber home.”

Sweet Pea guides you with his hand on your lower back, effectively pouring metaphoric hot lava down your spine. You force yourself to hold in a shiver due to nerves alone as he holds the door open for you and walks you to his motorcycle. It’s a short walk, and yet it feels like you’ve been running a marathon with the way your heart is beating and your breath is leaving your lungs.

As if the universe is still laughing at you, when Sweet Pea revs his motorcycle, you squeak and tighten your arms around his waist. He laughs, and you can’t bear to look at him so you just bury your helmet-covered head in between his shoulder blades and don’t move until the motorcycle has stopped in front of your house.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he speaks up as he juts his heel into the kickstand.

You shake your head, pulling the helmet off and cradling it in your hands, “No, it’s fine. My head is in the clouds, it feels like. I haven’t been up this late in so long, it’s pathetic.”

“I get what you mean,” he answers, stepping off the motorcycle. Sweet Pea reaches out and helps you down with his hands on your waist. “I’ve had Charlie the past couple of weeks, Fangs just got back from a couple weeks away, and the kid is having a hard time the older he gets with his dad being gone.”

You step closer on reflex, with his hands on your waist, “I couldn’t imagine…that must be so hard.”

“No kidding,” Sweet Pea chuckles. He reaches up with one hand to rub the back of his neck and you’re not sure if it’s the remaining buzz talking to you, or the night air that settles like a balm on your skin, but you reach up and tuck a stray curl behind his ear.

The moment your fingerprint presses against his skin, his irises connect with yours and a quiet falls over the two of you.

Before you can retract your palm from his face, Sweet Pea circles his fingers around your wrist to hold you still. His gaze is intense and his touch is hot; you’re not sure where this is going or if you even want to get there. All you do know is that his skin is soft and his lips look really full and your heart is running rampant in your chest.

Sweet Pea takes your hesitation to mean that you don’t want him to advance, and so he steps back and starts apologizing for being too forward. Before you can think too far into it, you push yourself up on your toes and press a quick kiss to his lips.

As you settle back down to the soles of your shoes in the gravel of the front yard, you feel a certain weight of fear settle in your stomach. You barely have time to breathe before you’re swept up into his arms and cradled against his body as he walks towards your front door. You tuck your head into the crook of his neck and hold on tightly to his shoulders as he walks up the steps and fumbles through the bag on your hip for your keys.

Sweet Pea sets you down on the nearest countertop, his hips never straying far from your own. He hooks his hands around your thighs as he looks up at you, trying to figure you out as you bite your lip and stare down at him.

“How long?” he asks simply, breaking the silence.

You cock your head to the side and he repeats the question, but now you’ve pulled yourself far enough out of your haze that you can process his question.

“Seven months, I think,” you answer. “I noticed you probably three years ago, but wasn’t sure until the start of this school year when I saw you at Orientation.”

He smirks and dips his head to your collarbone, eyelashes fluttering against the sensitive skin of your neck. Your breath hitches and you instinctively clutch your knees tighter around his waist.

Sweet Pea’s voice is gentle as it echoes against the shell of your ear, “I think mine has been close to two years. Saw you with Topaz and knew that you were good people if she was hanging around you.”

You can’t hide the surprise in your voice when you confirm that he said two years by echoing the words back to him. He chuckles and tilts his head back so he can look you in the eyes, “Pathetic, I know.”

“No, what’s pathetic is that for the past three years, I’ve wanted you to ask me to dance.”

He pulls away to tug you down from the counter, “Well, I finally have the guts to ask you.”

Somehow he manages to get the perfect song playing on his phone as he gathers you up in his arms, one palm on your waist and the other threaded through your own fingers. He sways with you, your bodies pressed to one another as the song progresses.

“Doubt this would have been appropriate at a children’s dance,” you murmur, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to become enamored with the warmth of his body.

Sweet Pea nudges his nose against your temple, forcing you to look him in the eyes. He cranes his neck and you feel the start of a breath against your lips, but you push yourself upward and meet him halfway in a surge. You wrap your arms around his neck and your teeth bump as your kiss hastens.

He chuckles against your lips, “Yeah, technically boys have cooties.”

“I’ll risk it,” you whisper, slotting your mouth to his before he can interrupt you again.

-

a/n: let me know what you think!

[cowboysandcannolis]

Dust (Micah Bell X Reader)

(This one is based on my own horse. My beautiful paint gelding whom I love more than anything. He is playful, a hopeless show off and spooky. He is more person than horse, to me anyway. He loves kisses and just spending time with his head on my shoulder, tickling my face with his lip. He certainly isn’t the fastest or the bravest horse but he’s mine ❤️ If you like this work I will do the same premise with Kieran!)

“Ya got a new horse, YN?” Kieran was beaming as he made his way over to you, as you ponied your new horse behind you. Thankfully Taima had put up with the newbie the whole way back to camp from the stable, even though tried to nip at her and start trouble more than once. Kieran’s green eyes lit up in a way you had never seen before as he gently stroked the muzzle of your new horse.

Your old horse, Babe, a sturdy sorrel mare had made her last stand on a stage coach robbing gone wrong. She was no frills and very patient with you. Your heart ached for her.

This new horse was something else, by looks and personality. He was taller and longer backed than your old horse, his color was a jaw dropping pattern of deep sorrel and pure white. His face and legs were entirely white as the snow, making it look like a bucket of red paint was tossed over him.

Not only was he a stand out physically, you could tell from just the ride home that he had enough energy for two horses, throwing the occasional buck here and there when Tamia outpaced him on the ride back. Perhaps you should have gave him a test ride before you purchased him, though it was too late now.

“Yeah, he’s something else to look at, aint he?” You hummed, tossing Kieran the reigns as you swung down off Taima, starting to unsaddle her.

“What the hell is that thing?!” Micah scoffed as he strode towards the big beast that Kieran was holding on to. His face was scrunched in an all too obvious look of disapproval.

Your significant other, when Babe had died, was absolutely certain that he would be the one to buy you a new horse. Mostly to show off how he provided for you but also because he wanted the say in what you were riding on. Something that wouldn’t throw you when the bullets started flying and was fast enough to cover some ground. No old nags and no over eager youngsters. A foxtrotter like Baylock, no doubt.

“My new horse, you like him?” You drawled, smirking as you undid Taima’s bridle, hiding your amused expression from Micah. You had beat Micah to the chase on purpose, only telling Charles that you were going out to get your new steed today. You had spent years with Babe and had a special connection, because you had been the one to pick her out (with Arthur’s supervision). No way in hell you were letting Micah pick your new horse.

“Mm, he’s something else all right.” His voice dripping in sarcasm as he snatched the reigns away from Kieran, who shrank away, unfortunately he was more afraid of Micah than excited about his new friend. A sour look from the blonde was enough to have him headed in the total opposite direction.

“So, you want every lawman in the state to be able to spot you from a mile away, huh? He’s gaudy.” Micah complained, moving to the other side of the horse, his pattern even more flashy on that side, causing him to groan dramatically.

“Y/N, really?”

“Yes, really.” You sassed back, joining him to gently stroke the new horse’s face.

“He’s the horse that I want...” You grinned in a almost devilish manner.

“Micah, didn’t you say something the other day about how I can have anything I want?” You moved closer to him, so that your chest was pressing against his, batting your eyes as you looked up into his blue ones. You continued on, pitching your voice in a sickly sweet manner and curling your hand around his bicep. “And didn’t you say you would move hell or high water so that I could-“

“Yeah yeah!” Micah finally snapped at you, rolling his eyes and grudgingly wrapping his strong arm around your waist. You went up on your tip toes to kiss him, his face still fixed in a frown that you could feel against your lips.

“Now, stop that sour look and let’s ride-“ You exclaimed happily, you already had your foot in the stirrup of your saddle, about to swing up onto the new horse. Micah grabbed you by the belt, preventing you from doing so.

“No, I’m riding him first.” His voice firmer than usual, causing you to relent and climb back down. Micah was more protective of you than he would let on, especially to the other men in camp. He wanted to keep his masculine complex in tact whilst keeping you in once piece.

“Go grab Baylock and we’ll see how he does, deal?”

“Deal.”

Baylock just adored you, probably more-so than his owner did, as you spent many many hours petting and feeding him. He started out loathing you, just as he did with everyone but you eventually won the stallion over. He gave you absolutely no trouble as you adjusted the stirrup length and mounted him.

Meanwhile your new horse had almost managed to nip Micah on the ass as he mounted up, Micah was only saved by his own vigilance, climbing into the saddle faster than the horse could bite him.

“Did you see that?!” He shouted to you as you rolled your eyes about as far back into your skull as they could go.

“He nearly bit me!”

“Well, to quote you when Baylock bit me the first time that I met him, ‘good boy!’”

With that you clucked to Baylock, kicking up dust as you rode out of camp. Baylock loped along easily, in no way rushed and Micah still hadn’t cleared the tree line yet.

Turns out the horse that you had bought that seemed so feisty, was slow as all hell. He loped along as slow and collected as a child’s rocking horse as he made his way up the path, no matter how Micah spurred him on and cussed at him.

You laughed aloud, slowing Baylock to a trot and easily keeping up beside him.

“Well, Micah, seems you finally met your perfect match.” You teased.

“Shut it! He’s just being difficult, I’ll get him to-!”

Before you or Baylock knew what had happened Micah was on the ground in a cloud of dust and the new horse was nearly out of sight already. A hunter had fired a gun in the field to your right, bringing down a good sized buck and Micah Bell along with it.

It took about an hour to find that damn horse and Micah complained and threatened the entire time as you rode double on Baylock. How his back hurt, how he would shoot that animal once he saw it. But he didn’t, because you had given him that look that could make any anger drain from his body.

So you arrived back to camp, ponying the paint once again, Micah covered in fine red dirt.

“We’re bringing this thing back to the stable in the morning, right?”

“No. I like him, I’m keeping him.”

“Of course you are.”

Needless to say Micah would be thrown off that horse many more times in the future, as he never got over his fear of gunshots and Micah never gave up, and you loved them both anyway.

[hoodoo12]

Violations and Consequences (2/6)

A rescue. Violence. Death. Minor mention of deities and what may or may not be appropriate for Orcs.

Part 1

Mature.

“Worthless swine!” a thick voice hissed.

Before either of you could react, a heavy warhammer made solid contact with the man’s temple, crushing it with a dull wet sound. The blow was so hard his body followed as his head lolled, flopping him to his side. Tangled as you were in his limbs, you were thrown sideways too.

“And you, filth--”

But before the insult and threat was completed, the bandit you’d lacerated scrambled to his feet and crashed away through the undergrowth.

Instead of chasing the bandit, your savior took you upper arm and you were hauled to your feet.

“Volesh!” you cried in a gasp.

Being thinner than her brother didn’t make her less solid or intimidating. Grar’s sister stood like a rock, holding you steady as your knees threatened to give out. With one hand you found a grip in the chestplate of the armor she wore. The other still gripped your knife, and she held your wrist to keep it away from her. The tall female Orc watched where the bandit had run off for a moment with a scowl on her face, then turned her attention to you.

“Are you injured?”

“N-no,” you replied, sniffling a little. Now that you were safe, your tears returned unbidden.

The Orc ignored your weak human emotion, and kept an arm around you.

“Ghath!” she called.

Silently, her son appeared at your side. The boy was barely double digits and his tusks were just starting to show but he was as tall as a grown human and muscular. Although nowhere near the bulk he’d gain when he was an adult, he’d match many human men in strength already.

“Mother?” he asked quietly.

“Collect the goats while I attend to your aunt.”

You were sure he would much rather chase down the man who attacked you, but he didn’t complain. Immediately he went off to fetch the livestock.

Volesh took your shoulders and looked you over. “You are sure you are uninjured, sister? You are covered in blood.”

“It isn’t mine. I cut him. With this.” You opened your hand to show her your knife.

Her dark eyes widened and a small smile formed around her tusks.

“That’s good,” she praised, but didn’t explain the cryptic response. She told you to wipe the blade clean on the ground and return it to its sheath around your neck.

You complied even as you insisted your weren’t hurt; she demanded to check you over. You hadn’t realized your skirt had been torn, and your undergarment was ruined beyond repair. The Orc found blood in your hair from a wound on the back of your head, where you’d hit the ground. You were bruised in various places: your upper arm, your shoulder, and a few that were darkening on your inner thighs where the men’s grip had been too tight. You barely felt them, but Volesh wisely told you from experience that you would be stiff and sore tomorrow.

You assured her that you had willow bark and other medicinal plants to ease the discomfort.

“You and your alchemy,” she replied, with a shake of her head.

You wouldn’t think to call yourself an alchemist, but she told you her brother should consider supplying you with an alchemy lab, so you could truly create potions. That was neither here nor there at the moment, however. You asked how she and Ghath came by you.

“We knew Grar was traveling. I have finished some of the items you’d requested from the forge, so we thought it was a good time to visit.”

“It was good timing!”

Volesh told you that she’d planned on coming alone, but Ghath wanted to see his Blood-Kin, adding that the boy was fond of you. You knew that, even if he was sometimes shy around you. As if talking about him summoned him, your nephew returned, driving your small herd of goats in front of him.

He carried one kid.

“This one has died,” he said quietly.

It was the kid that had approached the bandit, and had been shoved away. He must have used enough angry force to break its neck. You sighed and ran your hand over its side, sadly. The brown and white kid was the first to have been born from your tiny herd.

It was upsetting, but there was nothing to be done.

“He was a wether,” you said. “He was going to be sold or butchered anyway. It just would have been when he was older. We can take him back to the cabin and have an evening meal.”

Ghath offered to carry him for the trek back to your cabin. You nodded. For a moment you considered continuing on to the pasture where the shepherd would be waiting for you, but you were starting to feel the beginnings of aches and pains. The goats would have to forage near the cabin today.

As the three of you--plus the goats, who didn’t seem put out they weren’t headed to the pasture--trekked back to your cabin, you asked how they’d found you.

“We heard your scream. Your trail was easy to follow; Ghath saw the faint deer trail and goat spoor, so we ran to you.”

“You’re becoming an excellent tracker,” you commended your nephew. “You’ll surpass Grar’s skills soon, I bet.”

The Orc boy blushed and pushed his hand through his hair to keep it off his face; he wasn’t yet old enough to wear it braided like an adult. He mumbled something about wanting to be a hunter like his uncle. His mother didn’t reply, but you’d learned to read subtle Orcish expressions and she wasn’t entirely pleased with that life goal.

Instead of continuing to talk about it, you changed the subject, asking how they managed to arrive at the cabin so efficiently. The Stronghold that was their home was several days hard travel.

“We have horses!” Ghath exclaimed.

That surprised you. Orcs didn’t typically keep horses because the standard equine was hardy but too small for them to ride comfortably.

“I was shoeing for a stablemaster and they had two coldbloods that were too large for men to ride,” Volesh explained more completely. “They’d been trained for cavalry, but an oversized horse isn’t ideal. Too big a target. He offered them to me at no cost, just to get him out of his stable, so I earned my coins and two beasts as well!”

With that explanation Ghath launched into telling you how saddles made for men weren’t fit for Orcs--although, he admitted, he could use them just fine for now--and he and his mother had to learn to ride, and how his father was both pleased and dismayed at horses in the Stronghold--

Volesh shushed him. You knew it was for sharing personal information about a Chieftain, even if he wasn’t within earshot. It was understandable why horses would be both a blessing and a curse: they could help with travel or breaking grounds for crops, but their upkeep wasn’t quite as easy as other livestock. You supposed the Chieftain also weighed Orcish traditions versus modern sensibility; he seemed to be a little more progressive than other Clans may think appropriate.

Even after being shushed Ghath had continued on about how he’d learned to make leather halters and bridles and he was in the process of creating a harness. His next big project was a saddle large enough for an adult Orc that was still appropriate for the horse--

Volesh gave him a light slap on the back of his head as he rambled on. The boy took it for the affectionate tap it was and grinned for a moment before finally stopping his chatter. You were closer to home now, the cabin just visible through the trees, and he hurried ahead of the two of you.

You would have picked up the pace too, but the aches you hadn’t felt initially were finally catching  up. Your sister-in-law stayed by your side, and in the few minutes of privacy you had you heard her thoughts that the boy didn’t have the fortitude to become Chieftain, that he had a temperament more like his uncle’s and maybe he would end up living outside the Stronghold too.

You heard the uncharacteristic worry in her voice, and reminded her that Grar did well for himself. And with her teaching Ghath forging plus what seemed like a natural affinity towards horses, your nephew could find work as a smith anywhere in the Holds. Good blacksmiths were always in demand.

She sighed and reluctantly agreed.

Finally back at the clearing with your cabin, the goats wandered to the stream to drink. Ghath introduced you to the horses. They were incredibly tall, much more than the typical stocky breeds, with thick necks and legs like tree trunks, but they were gentle. The boy picked up their large feet and brushed back the feathering that covered the lower part of their legs to show you the shoes he’d helped hammer out and nail to their hooves.

He also showed you the rivets he’d put in their halters, and told you how they’d arrived dusty and with patches of their winter coats that he’d brushed out until they were sleek, and he’d untangled their tails and shaved their manes and how he’d been measuring to get the proper sizes for the harnesses--

Ghath may have continued for a long time if Volesh didn’t remind him that you needed to clean up from the attack in the woods. Sheepishly, her son apologized. You hadn’t minded; it was nice to hear his enthusiasm even if it was boyish, but she was right.

With an increasing limp, you took a clean dress from the cabin and slowly made your way downhill a bit further to the pool Grar had created with a dam. The goats were further downstream. You stripped out of your apron and found it wasn’t easy to pull your dress off over your head; your muscles were tightening and made it painful to stretch. Still, you forced your way out of the fabric and stepped carefully into the pool.

For a moment the water swirled a brownish red before the color was carried downstream. You hadn’t realized how sweaty and dirty you’d gotten, nor how blood had caked into your hair as you watched the dirt float away. The bruises made themselves more known as you dipped yourself lower.

Gingerly you washed yourself of the grime with the soap and rags that had been squirreled away in a cache of rocks nearby. It seemed odd to be bathing midmorning.

Unbidden, the events of the morning flashed through your mind’s eye and suddenly you were crying. You were so reckless to not be paying attention to your surroundings; you were so careless to leave your dagger home after all the times Grar had told you not to! You were lucky be only mildly injured! Through your sobs you praised the Nine Divines for watching over you and promised a tribute to Stendarr, the God of Mercy and Luck, especially.

Calming gradually, you splashed water on your face. A tiny bubble of anger popped in you, and you finished your prayers with a word of thanks to Malacath. He wasn’t your god, but guided your husband and his people, so it was only appropriate to acknowledge him as well. If Volesh and Ghath hadn’t felt compelled to visit, you wouldn’t be here at this very moment.

Finally, having dawdled enough and worn yourself out with crying and anger, you exited the pool. You dried yourself with your apron--you knew it would be useful today!--and pulled the fresh dress over your head. The other’s skirt was too torn and bloody to salvage much except for rags. Gathering it into a bundle, you made your way back to the clearing.

In your cabin, you quickly swallowed the herbs and a tincture that would help with the soreness that was growing inevitably stronger, then you went back outside.

Your Blood-kin had skinned and cleaned the kid. Because you weren’t sure what Grar may want to do with the hide, you told them to leave it hanging. Volesh brought out and showed you the new spit she’d created at her forge. This wasn’t the first way you intended to use it, but she and her son built a fire in the outside pit and set the wrought iron spit over it. You helped by having bowls of salt and pepper available and mashing garlic and rosemary to form a paste to flavor the meat.

Once the fire had been banked down to coals, the meat was seasoned. Even though the sun beat down overhead Ghath sat by the fire, tending it. You and Volesh nestled potatoes and root vegetables into the cooler coals to bake. You still had to strain the milk you’d collected this morning and you’d wanted to harvest the early peas from the garden, but all of the sudden you were too exhausted to stand,

Volesh told you to go to bed. You tried to argue; it was lazy to take to bed in the early afternoon!

The Orc scowled at your stubbornness and reminded you that you’d been attacked several hours earlier. Would you allow anyone seeking your help, after going through what you did this very morning, to continue to work? Or would you tell them that rest was needed, for the body to heal?

You scowled back at her because her words were true. Your nephew laughed and remarked that if your skin wasn’t so pale you’d make a good Orc with an expression like that.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the observation, adding that you’d learned from the best, which made even his mother chuckle.

Finally, though, you couldn’t argue and went into the cabin to lay down. Volesh followed, and with your instruction created a poultice of daisies and tallow. As often as she made a withering comment about your ‘alchemy’, she knew the benefit of it. She helped spread the paste on your bruises and bound them with clean strips of cloth, then left the cabin, leaving  you alone.

  tbc . . .

[awakeningofthedeath]

Awakening of the Death: Chapter #30

A day and a half passed on as the Swift and Armor train cars that contained the two rouge assassins in one of the empty cattle cars. Jack and Hellen spent most of the travel time in nothing but the sound of the tracks clanking and the feel of their beating hearts. Hellen loved to have Jack close to her. She never minded every scar and flaw that he felt upon her. She wanted to be nothing but close to him without interruptions; yet the mile markers indicated to them that they would be approaching Kansas City as soon as the sun set.

As the miles gotten closer to the stockyards stations, Jack and Hellen had to put on their clothes and hide behind the giant hay pile in case of any rail inspectors, which had happened before in several stations along the way. None of the inspectors were harmed or killed whilst the couple hid. The only bloodshed the had one time was when a train hopper tried to load in the car and saw the naked couple. Jack only had to push the hobo off to where the man fell too close to the rail and the sound of cracking bones and a dying man’s screams made both Jack and Hellen shiver to the core. They both kept quiet holding each other until they saw the sight Hellen had not seen in years. The observatory buildings of the Kansas City stockyards were of a mass that Jack had never seen, with the rich smell of livestock and smokes from the factories around the city area across the river.

When the train ceased to a halt, Hellen and Jack took several seconds to grip their sacks before darting towards the exit, and barely got off intone before the men would see them before lowering the loading ramp. Seeing their breaths in the chilled air, Jack followed Hellen through a labyrinth of wooden panels and fences, the smell of cattle laced thick in the air, a scent Jack found it surprisingly strong. His only experience with cattle was during his stay in India, where the cattle were worshiped, decorated, and respected. These cattle, to which Jack passed by as he and Hellen traveled towards the observatory docks, were larger and more muscular than any he’d seen. Some of them had horns as thick and as long as Jack’s arms stretched out. Hellen climbed upon one of the beams to the deck, with Jack following behind. The wood creaked as they snuck across.

“This place has gotten bigger since I was last here.” Hellen commented on the expanse viewpoint of pens where cattle cried out to one another

“So if this were the cattle area, the horses can’t be too far.” Hellen made a turn to where other panels were set.

“Kansas City here is the biggest in the horse and mule market, My pa used to come here to buy horses to train them, only to sell them again for more than what he paid for. I went with him a few times. First time I was possibly 5 to 8 when I snuck away for a bit and road an ass bare assed. Surprised my pa never gained a grey hair with all the hell I’d given him.”

Jack chuckled, which surprised Hellen.

“Seems to me you tried to be Lady Godiva.”

“Never heard of her.”

“She was a noblewoman from long ago who stood for what was right against her husband’s poor decision making on taxes by riding in the streets naked upon her horse. Legend even said that a man named Thomas watched her ride and was struck blind or dead.”

Hellen gave a cheerful laugh. “Oh I like her! She’d be good company. Maybe perhaps, I could be your lady bare upon a horse when away from the bull’s viewpoint.” Jack gave a signature smirk, thinking the beautiful image of Hellen on a horse’s back. 

The couple found the horse and mule area where the equines munched upon what hay remained in each of the pens. Some of them contained a maximum of four to five in each pen. Jack watched as Hellen observed each pen looking upon the animals. He could hear Hellen’s frustration as she failed to find a stead that would possibly carry both of them. Whilst she searched, Jack’s eyes wondered to the pens behind him, where there in a large pen with only by it’s self was a beautiful buckskin mare with a white sock on it’s left hind contrasting against the other three blackened legs. It’s eyes meet Jack’s as she walked towards his position. 

“Seems to me I have competition Jackass.” Hellen’s chuckled as Jack turned to face her.

“I don’t suppose this one could work.”

Hellen slipped between the fence gaps as she examined the mare. She lifted her hooves, checked her teeth, and examined her back. “This one is well conditioned. Probably one of the handler’s horses. Still, we’re going to need a saddle and the gear. I’m going to check the tack area. I’ll be back.” And Hellen pecked a kiss on Jack’s lips as she went towards the building again. Seeing that Jack was alone with the horse, he leaned on the fence, his mind thinking about the recent few months he and Hellen had been together, and asking himself, why is he here? Why didn’t she come home sooner? 

Minutes later, Hellen came back carrying a saddle with a bridle with a snaffle bit on top of the saddle’s horn. An old red blanket was held from underneath the saddle as well. Jack managed to grab the woolen horse blanket as it slipped in between when Hellen hoisted the saddle upon a railing to keep in shape. She slipped back into the pen and grabbed first the blanket and the bridal. Wraping the mare’s neck with one of the split rings, Hellen kept her in control as she gently pushed the head down to have her thumb into the corner of it’s mouth, where the horse’s mouth opened and Hellen snuck the snaffle into the mouth and positioned the bridal. Testing the horse’s ability to ground tie, to which was successful, Hellen took the woolen blanket, folded it around to a half as big as the saddle and positioned it onto the horse’s wither’s in the correct position. She then grabbed the saddle and placed it upon the blanketed back. Hellen first handled the front chinch before the rear, and to finally finish bu adjusting the breast collar. Hellen then took each of the strips, measured them by comparison to her arm, and fixed them to the correct length. Hellen patted the mare’s neck, she led her to the gate. Jack opened the gate allowing them to walk through. The sound of the horse’s shoes echoed on the brick pathway. 

Hellen grabbed the horse’s mane and hoisted herself into the saddle. “I suppose you’d never rode a horse before.” Hellen asked.

“Only when I needed to. A few times while I was in India. Knew how to drive a carriage though.” Jack answered, feeling slightly embarrassed. 

“Get on the fence, I’ll side pass this horse to you so you can rise double. Thank the heavens above she’s a strong looking mustang. Big for her average height.” Hellen used her legs and slight in and out of the pressure on the reins to have the mare’s legs cross over each other as Jack climbed the fence. As Jackcarefully packed himself behind Hellen, he wrapped his arms around her waist, making her sink into his chest. 

“Better not tempt me Jackass, or we both will fall off this...”

“Oy! Jesse! Marcus is dead! And the tack storage was opened! Check the horse pens!” 

The sound of a man’s shouting echoed into the darkness. Lanterns were lite, and moving towards the area.

“Hold on tight Jack. Not sure how fast this gal can go with the two of us, but we have no choice.”

Hellen soured the mare into a short trot transitioning into a gallop. The sound of hooves on brick echoed in a familiar pattern Jack knew in London at times when Jacob would drive. The difference being feeling the moment of this valiant’s beasts mussels as she left those behind the dust. Then suddenly, without warning, he felt Hellen leaning forward with him following as the mare jumped over a broken part of a vacant pen. Hellen steamed past other workers, with Jack kicking some of them whop tried climbing onto the beast. When they escaped the area, Hellen ran the horse for a good distance for a mile, until they stopped at the base of the Missouri River. 

The River looked so peaceful and still, that it never seemed to have a current. Hellen later explained to Jack that the Missouri was actually more deadly when entering in, known for the under toes and deadly looking driftwoods. As Hellen guided the horse towards the docks of a farrier rafts, Hellen pointed towards the upper part of the river. “Collin told me a story once of how he and my pa almost got a rich templar on a mission on a steamboat called the Arabia back in ‘56. Unfortunately, the Templar escaped due to a stuck of bad luck on his part when the boat struck a tree stump floating in the river, Sad that the only victim in that was a mule. That and loads of cargo meant for many towns. Might be a kings fortune.”

When Hellen halted the mare, Jack slipped off, feeling rather tender in the thighs, but managed to stand upright. He turned and held the horse for Hellen as she dismounted. They walked to the assumed farrier, an older gentleman with a grizzled beard and blue eyes the color of ice. “What can I do for you kind folks?” He asked in a southern accent.

Hellen pulled out some silver dollars and handed it over to the man. “We need to cross to the Missouri side as soon as possible!”

The man looked at the money then back to the couple. “Funny for the woman to talk matters of sales instead of your man here.”

Before Jack could say anything, Hellen slightly tabbed his boot with her own, signaling him to keep quiet. “He can’t speak sir. His tongue was cut off during the war with the red skins.” 

“Is that so?” The man asked, looking at Jack with a questioning look. “What she say is true boy?” Jack nodded. “Did you lose it before or after this lovely bride of your allowed her horse out of the barn?”

 Jack gave a glare and gave him a hard punch, causing the man to tumble into the banks of the river. He stood back up, blood and water dripping. Hellen held Jack back with her hand, giving a secret wink. “Now darling, you know the man is possibly a loose canon on the tongue. Oh!” Hellen gave a gasp. “Jack I’m so sorry, that was uncalled for! Forgive me?” Jack smiled, and gave her a gentle kiss. This kiss was the softest Hellen experience, not that it was for the facade, but genuine in tenderness. When they parted, the man was pressing a handkerchief on a blood spot on his cheekbone. 

“I begin your pardon ma’am, and to you sir. Your very blessed to have a gal to speak for you.”

Jack responded with a nod.

“So yes. I can get you two and your Hoss to the other side. I can tell you two must of just took the train in order to buy a horse.”

“Yes we did. And I must say, she’s worth a steal.” 

Jack smiled at the joke Hellen made secretly for their situation.

The couple lead the mare to the large raft big enough for a covered wagon and a team, and the man guided them through the currents. Hellen left a little uneasy in the stomach as they made the passes, but ignored the small discomfort as they grew closer to the Missouri shores. 

Home.

For the first time in over thirteen years. She was back in her home state

[trickormemes]

Fantastic Mr. Fox starter sentences

176 starters feel free to change gender pronouns ‘read-more’ added for length content warning: alcohol mention, violence

“What’d the doctor say?”

“Should we take the shortcut or the scenic route?”

“Should we go through the hole under the horse fence or climb the rail over the bridle path?”

“What’s wrong? You’re acting all skittish.”

“By the way, you look unbelievably beautiful tonight. You’re practically glowing. Maybe it’s the light.”

“No, get away from there.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“If we’re still alive tomorrow morning, I want you to find another line of work.”

“Does anybody ever actually read my column? Do your friends talk about it?”

“I’m sick.”

“You’re not sick.”

“I have a temperature.”

“You don’t have a temperature.”

“I don’t wanna go.”

“Hurry up. You’re gonna be late.”

“I love the way you handled that.”

“I don’t wanna live in a hole anymore. It makes me feel poor.”

“We are poor, but we’re happy.”

“What are you wearing? Why a cape with the pants tucked into your socks?”

“Eh. I guess he’s just… different.”

“May I ask what you do for a living, _____?”

“In summation, I think you just gotta not do it, man. That’s all.”

“I understand what you’re saying, and your comments are valuable, but I’m gonna ignore your advice.”

“Are you cussing with me?”

“Don’t try to be a superman here.”

“Do you think I’m an athlete?”

“Well, you know, I think I’m an athlete, and sometimes I feel like you guys don’t see me that way.”

“What’s the subtext here?”

“How long is _____ supposed to stay with us?”

“Double pneumonia isn’t really that big of a deal, is it?”

“Who am I, _____?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but it sounds illegal.”

“Here, put this bandit hat on.”

“There’s a lot of attitudes going on around here. Don’t let me get one.”

“Oh, you gonna pout about it? ‘Cause I’ve had it up to here with the sad houseguest routine.”

“I used to do this professionally, and I was very successful at it. I had to get out of it for personal reasons, but I’ve decided to do one last big job on the sly.”

“This is actually kind of a big deal, so don’t just say “Okay!””

“Never look a beagle directly in the eye.”

“Beagle’s aren’t so tough.”

“Listen, I’m not gonna justify this. You just pay attention and stop interrupting me.”

“Are you listening to me? I look into your eyes, and I can’t tell if you’re getting anything that I’m saying.”

“Why is your cousin such a wet sandwich?”

“Are you a bully? You’re starting to sound like a bully.”

“That’s… You just destroyed the whole experiment.”

“You’re supposed to be my lap partner.”

“You’re disloyal.”

“What the cuss? Where did this giant fence come from?”

“Well, I just hope it doesn’t mean thunder, ‘cause I have a phobia of that.”

“The master plan is working again.”

“Why don’t we run that way? There’s no obstacles.”

“That’s so grisly. There’s blood and everything.”

“Alright, what’s the master escape plan?”

“Am I getting better, _____?”

“Well, you sure as cuss aren’t getting any worse.”

“No, you don’t wanna have to compare yourself to that.”

“I think I have some of the same raw, natural talent, don’t you?”

“You’re improving. Let’s put it like that.”

“Where’d you come from?”

“You’re gonna get me in a lot of trouble!”

“Where the cuss does that kid get off?”

“You think he’s gonna tell on us?”

“Before we go any further, from now on, can you give me some kind of a signal once in a while, just so I know any of this is getting through to you?”

“Ah, good, you made it. Anybody see you?”

“I must say, I’m pleased to be invited, but I’m not sure I should be doing this, _____.”

“I don’t like to be dishonest with people.”

“Well, just keep your mouth shut, and there won’t be a problem.”

“We’re not taking a vote!”

“Apple juice? We didn’t come here for apple juice. This is some of the strongest, finest alcoholic cider money can buy. Or that can even be stolen.”

“You’ve aged badly, _____.”

“You’re getting a little long in the tooth yourself, partner.”

“That was close, _____. Be careful.”

“Oh, so good of you to come. Lovely to see you.”

“I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“Perhaps we ought to kill him.”

“Well, that seems rather awful.”

“Oh, I didn’t see you sitting in the dark over there.”

“I don’t wanna be put in the middle of this.”

“Why is he wearing that bandit hat?”

“If what I think is happening, is happening, it better not be.”

“Nice job covering for me.”

“You have got twenty-nine minutes to come up with a proper apology.”

“It’s because you think I’m not good at anything! Well, maybe you’re right. Thanks.”

“You don’t listen to anybody.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why are you yelling at me?”

“I think it’s time for me to give us a pep-talk and explain some things.”

“May I have a word with you, privately?”

“I’m gonna lose my temper now.”

“Why? Why did you lie to me?”

“I’m trying to tell you the truth about myself.”

“I don’t care about the truth about yourself. This story is too predictable.”

“In the end, we all die. Unless you change.”

“If I had a crystal ball, I’d predict a fairly grisly outcome to this situation.”

“This is gonna be a total cluster cuss for everybody.”

“I don’t think I can last another couple of hours before I get completely dehydrated and starve to death.”

“You scared the cuss out of us!”

“I just wanna see a little sunshine.”

“We don’t like you, and we hate your dad.”

“Now, grab some of that mud, chew it in your mouth, and swallow it.”

“I can fight my own fights.”

“This is getting a little too personal.”

“_____…. I know what it’s like to feel… different.”

“I’m not different… Am I?”

“But there’s something kind of fantastic about that, isn’t there?”

“I prefer to be an athlete.”

“I hit it slap in the middle. Do you get how incredible this is?”

“What are you singing, _____?”

“That’s just weak songwriting. You wrote a bad song, _____!”

“We took everything!”

“Well, they could be anywhere by now.”

“We should’ve stayed out of it.”

“I’m still not getting a signal. Is anybody getting any reception?”

“I can imagine how painful, even just emotionally, that must be for you.”

“Well, you know, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Oh, but, _____, how humiliating…”

“Can we drop it?”

“Hey! They say you’re a natural. True or false?”

“Listen. I just had a brainstorm for something fantastic I’ve got to do, but I can’t do it alone.”

“I don’t feel safe.”

“We look good.”

“Ever tasted one of _____’s famous nutmeg-ginger apple snaps?”

“Now I’ve already had too much to drink, and I’m feeling sentimental, but I’m gonna say something anyway.”

“Oh, my gosh, that was crazy! I can’t believe what just happened in there!”

“It’s my fault.”

“You still think we beat ‘em, _____?”

“I shouldn’t have lied to your face.”

“I enjoyed it, but I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Oh, why’d you have to get us into it, _____?”

“I think I have this thing where I need everybody to think I’m the greatest.”

“And if they aren’t completely knocked-out and dazzled and kind of intimidated by me, then I don’t feel good about myself.”

“I promise you if I had all this to do over again, I’d have never let you down.”

“It was always more fun when we did it together anyway.”

“I love you, _____.”

“I love you too. But I shouldn’t have married you.”

“You’re stepping on my lines.”

“It’s not your fault, it’s mine.”

“Well, I guess we should, uh, split into a certain number of groups and… start doing something. Right?”

“Stop, man! Come on, stop!”

“Look at you, girl! You’re still as fine looking as a crème brûlée.”

“Am I being flirted with by a psychotic rat?”

“Would you have told me if I didn’t kill you first?”

“All these wasted years. What were you looking for, _____?”

“He redeemed himself.”

“Redemption? Sure. But in the end, he’s just another dead rat in the garbage pail behind a Chinese restaurant.”

“He went bananas.”

“Stop yelling!”

“I wanna go with you too. I wanna fight.”

“Listen, you’re _____. You’re an unbelievably nice guy. You’re job is really just to be available, I think.”

“I don’t trust this guy.”

“Is that all you’ve got, _____?”

“_____’s on fire!”

“I’m gonna find him, and I’m gonna bring him back.”

“A titanium card? How the cuss did you qualify for this?”

“What’s that white stuff around his mouth?”

“I think he eats soap.”

“He’s rabid. With rabies.”

“Hey. I can fit through there.”

“Psst. It’s me. I’m rescuing you.”

“I’ve got mixed feelings about that.”

“I feel like there’s a tenderness in your eyes, isn’t there?”

“You’re a good boy. A bit lonely, maybe, but terribly sweet.”

“Why, you’re just a sweetie.”

“I’m grumpy. I spit. I wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I’m just… different, apparently.”

“Actually, we should just go. Where did I park?”

“I weigh less than a slice of bread.”

“_____, that was pure wild animal craziness.”

“Don’t. Turn. Around.”

“Where’d you come from? What are you doing here?”

“I have a phobia of wolves.”

“What a beautiful creature.”

“Well, what are we looking at?”

“It’s just his tonsils, they’re a little swollen.”

“This better be worth it.”

“I think I see a little sliver of light.”

“You’re a terrible actor, _____.”

“Okay, I get it. Is that your trademark?”

[yamithediaperdork]

Playdate part two: Toshiro’s morning.

Toshiro's morning. Toshiro whimpered softly in his sleep, tossing and turning in his my little pony nightie that did nothing to cover up his pink diapered butt. Said diaper was bloated with the former captains fudge and as he suckled on his favorite purple pacifier the smell was making his nose twitch and causing his whining. The smell was making him have the dream, the dream he hated to have but so far had it at least twice a week. He'd always been into diapers, starting from the times when he'd steal some of momo's diapers to wear himself and even as a Captain he'd sometimes wear his diapers under his uniform, sure that no one would notice. In fact while addressing his entire squad on what would turn out to be his last day as a captain he was wearing his blue teddy bear print diaper which was thicker then the ones he'd worn before, but having not been caught the past dozen times he'd done this had caused the big baby to get bold. Too bold as it turned out since Rangiku had not only noticed the extra bulk that day, but had been onto him for awhile. Deciding that it was time for the big baby to be outed (Just like in all the stories she snuck into and found on his computer) she'd spiked his morning tea and insisted the staff meeting with the whole squad go on,even as he felt himself on the verge of loading his pants. The rest of the squad seemed to pick up on his discomfort and a few were whispering about the added bulk around his hips, as he squirmed and tried to get though the meeting.as fast as possible, and he might of made it too if Rangiku hadn't stepped in before he could close the meeting. "I have one final announcement I need to make before we close out." she said with a sweet smile on her face even as Toshiro had given her a pleading look, letting out tiny muffled toots into his teddy bear diaper that some of the squad were starting to notice. Standing behind the poor captain now she put her hands on his shoulders, and it was like all his power was draining from him and his legs started to shake. "I plan to ask to have Captain Toshiro removed from the squad and nominate myself to replace him." She said and gasps of disbelief were heard. "Before you question this, I think it's fair to let you all know what I've known for awhile." She added, and then turned the weakened captain around, looking him in the eyes and winking. in that instant Toshiro knew that his cover was blown, and he went to beg her off, but as she'd later tell him many, many times, Mommy knows best. Griping he waistband of his pants she tugged them down as she finished talking. "Our dear Captain is nothing but a DIAPER POOPING BABY!" She said with delight. with his pants hitting the floor and the gasps of shock turning into laughter, Poor baby Toshiro couldn't hold it anymore and with his diaper butt on display so everyone could watch, he loaded the seat of his huggies whimpering and crying, and hugging Rangiku's waist as she patted his head. Toshiro woke up with a jolt from the dream and whimpered.. at least the dream always ended there and never went to the follow up of having to explain himself in front of the other captains and vice captains. Rangiku had been kind enough to take him in though the price of her looking after the big baby was she liked to make him a red faced sissy. Somehow (thought he never figured out how) the combination of messing himself and being fired had left him super weak so he needed a mommy to look after him, so he accepted the dresses as much as he had to, though she was still nice and let him (mostly) be a diaper BOY out in public. She'd also gone though his stuff and scolded him when seeing all the stories he'd had saved and promised to help him live out all of his naughty little fantasies, to the best of her ability and he'd loved and hated every second of it but had to admit it could of been a lot worse if he'd been left like this without his loving mommy to look after him. Still, waking up in his loaded huggies and smelling like a sewer was hard to get used to and he let his pacifier fall out of his mouth as he grabbed his pony stuffie and got up on his knees. "M-Mommy! I'm a stinky sissy!" He called out for the baby monitor, blushing as he hated having to call himself that, but if he wanted her to rush in that was what he had to say. For being such a loving and caring mommy most of the time, Mommy was kinda a BITCH the rest. Rangiku smirked as she was just waking up herself to the sound of her ex captain and now permanent little baby bitch calling out for her. the little dork never had figured out she'd used her own special kido spell to make him a weakling, nor that she'd actually been slowly making him more and more bold with wearing his diapies to work. the end payoff had been short lived as she hadn't proven to have the right attuide to run a squad herself so she'd bowed out gracefully and just spent her time making the cutie pie ex captain enjoy/hate his new baby life. getting dressed in a simple t-shirt and sweats she braced herself for the one single biggest downside of having Toshiro as her darling little sissy: the smell. Walking into the nursery she wrinkled her nose then held it, waving a hand. "Whew! for someone who looks so adorable and cute, you smell like a pile of dirty diapers left to ripen in the sun!" she teased as Toshiro huffed and pouted, his bottom lip sticking out. "S'not like I has a choice!" the little sissy whined. "All I'm saying is maybe you wouldn't be so SHORT if you stopped making such BIG messes." She added playfully and the little sissy was in full on huffy princess mode, arms crossed and cheeks red, and glaring. "OK OK, Mommies sorry, come on, who's ready for a diapie change?" she asked and leaned over the crib railing, holding her arms out. Instantly Toshiro moved into her grip and was hauled out by the arm pits, though kept as arm's length as she carried him over the changing table. 'Maybe I need to get a nanny to handle this part' she thought dryly before opening his his diaper. 'oh gawd!..yeah..i needa do something..or start giving him least breast milk.' After his diaper change and getting his nightie off, Toshiro was carried in Rangiku's arms bridle style out to his high chair and strapped in, a large white bib declaring himself mommies little stinker tied around his neck. She handed him a ba-ba of titty milk which like a good little sissy he held onto with both hands as he drank from it, eyes closing and savoring the taste. when he opened his eyes he groaned a little as she was pulling up a chair beside him, having one of the jar of baby food she loved to feed him now and then in her hands. "hey, whats wrong? don't you wanna bond with mommy more and get fed some nummy num nums?" she asked with a smile. "...what..what flavor?" he asked, dreading the answer and holding a hand over his eyes, scared to look, making her laugh. "I picked out Banna's and apples for you this morning..however if you'd rather have the prune flavored.." Rangiku chuckled. "no no no no I want nanna's and appies!" Toshiro cried out fast, wetting his diaper a little. "Well ok. since you want it sooo much." she chuckled and got a big spoon full and moved the spoon towards his mouth. "Here comes the airplane, open widdde!" she coo'ed. Toshiro did just that but -somehow- she still managed to smudge some of the baby food on his cheek and bib by the time the jar was done. After the baby was fed and cleaned up a little, Rangiku had him in her arms, his head over a shoulder resting on a hand towel as she patted his back. "Oh, did Mommy tell you about the double treat your getting today?' she asked, smirking as she knew she hadn't. "No.." Toshiro said with a hint of worry in his voice. "welll Mommy went and found about big baby, just like you, for you to go and have a widdle play date with! And I'm even gonna let you go as a baby boy!" she gushed. "Real-URRRP-Ly?" Toshiro asked, excited though blushing as he belched mid word. "Yup yup, so if your done belching like a frat boy at his first beer bash, let's go get you dressed!" Rangiku giggled. this was gonna be so much fun. for her at least, and hopefully at least a little bit of fun for her widdle stinker.

[writingguide003-blog]

Fresh voices: 50 writers you should read now

New Post has been published on https://writingguideto.com/must-see/fresh-voices-50-writers-you-should-read-now/

Fresh voices: 50 writers you should read now

Which debut novel should you reach for this spring? Heres our guide to the most exciting voices in fiction, politics, SF, graphic novels and more

Fiction

Ruthlessly beady eye Sally Rooney. Photograph: Richard Saker for the Observer

Sally Rooney Irish writer was just 26 when her debut Conversations With Friends took the publishing world by storm last year. Its a barbed, witty page-turner about being young and fragile in the new Ireland, set in a perilously privileged milieu of performance poetry and small magazines. Narrator Frances is out of her depth, negotiating love, sex, friendship and ambition while trying to maintain a brittle sense of self. Rooney has a ruthlessly beady eye and an effortless comic style. Her second novel, a love story across the class divide called Normal People, will be published in September.

Guy Gunaratne Gunaratne worked as a video journalist reporting on post-conflict zones before writing his blazing polyphonic debut In Our Mad and Furious City, out next month. Set over 48 hours in a north London estate, where the killing of a soldier-boy by a homegrown bredda and the torching of a mosque spark a riot, it reveals London as a conflict zone for its five narrators. These include a would-be grime artist and a teenager resisting Islamic radicalisation, as well as older immigrants from Belfast and the West Indies.

David Chariandy The Canadian writers masterly second novel, Brother, was published in the UK this month. It interrogates family, community and masculinity as it tells the story of Michael and Francis, the sons of a Trinidadian single mother, coming of age in the 1980s in a poor immigrant neighbourhood. We were the children of the help, without futures. In understated, classically beautiful prose it moves towards disaster with the terrible inevitability of a Greek tragedy.

Jessie Greengrass Greengrass published her unusual and wide-ranging short story collection An Account of the Decline of the Great Auk, According to One Who Saw It last year; this February she followed it with her first novel Sight , now longlisted for the Womens prize for fiction. Her narrator is agonising over whether to commit to parenthood, looking back on the trauma of her own mothers death and remembering childhood holidays with her analyst grandmother. There are echoes of WG Sebald and Rachel Cusk in this thoughtful, digressive style that swirls together the historical and the personal, but Greengrasss questing intellect and elegant prose are all her own.

Eley Williams Small presses are making a big noise at the moment, and thats down to such brilliant books as Attrib. and Other Stories, which took the Republic of Consciousness Prize for Small Presses this month. Williams had been publishing her playful stories in magazines for years, and its no surprise to learn that her PhD was on dictionaries: her stories focus on words and meanings, riddling away at the gaps between thought and speech, sound and silence, lovers and strangers. They

Politics and ideas

Holding up a mirror to contemporary Britain Reni Eddo-Lodge.

Mark OConnell OConnells captivating book about transhumanism and solving the problem of death, To Be a Machine, which saw him navigate some of the stranger byways of Silicon Valley, was shortlisted for the Baillie Gifford prize, the Royal Society science book prize and recently the Wellcome prize. Having taken on immortality, the Dublin-based writer is set to tackle the end of the world, in what promises to be a companionable and quick-witted exploration of apocalyptic anxieties.

William Davies One of the most interesting commentators on political ideas, Davies teaches political economy and sociology at Goldsmiths, University of London, and is the author of two books, The Happiness Industryand The Limits of Neoliberalism. He is as lively discussing Brexit and the culture of the Home Office as he is the current crisis in capitalism. His next study, due later this year, will be Nervous States: How Feeling Took Over the World.

Suzy Hansen The author of the elegant and persuasive Notes on a Foreign Country: An American Abroad in a Post-American World, Hansen is based in Istanbul, where she moved from the US following 9/11. Hisham Matar hailed her debut as remarkably revealing a deeply honest and brave portrait of an individual sensibility reckoning with her countrys violent role in the world.

Reni Eddo-Lodge Eddo-Lodges debut book Why Im No Longer Talking to White People About Race, published last year, has recently won the Jhalak prize it was praised by the judges as a clarion call for action, which not only holds up a mirror to contemporary Britain but also serves as a warning. Marlon James called it essential.

James Bridle Bridle is an increasingly talked-about artist and writer who considers the relationship between technology, culture and consciousness. Among the subjects of his art are drones and self-driving cars. His ambitious debut book, New Dark Age, which argues that the digital era is radically shifting the boundaries of human experience, is out in July.

Poetry

A fresh take on urban life Kayo Chingonyi. Photograph: Roberto Ricciuti/Getty Images

Kayo Chingonyi Kumukanda, Zambian-born Chingonyis much feted debut, presented a fresh take on contemporary urban life shot through with an appreciation of traditional modes of living and storytelling. He reflects on identity and race, culture and masculinity with a thoughtfulness and lyrical elegance that conveys anger as well as a tender melancholy.

Ocean Vuong Night Sky With Exit Wounds picked up a rare double when it was awarded the TS Eliot prize and the Forward best first collection award. Vietnamese-American Vuongs work nods to both New York-school poets such as Frank OHara close observations of street life, frankness about sex and the historical myth-making of Homer. The Eliot judges hailed the definitive arrival of a significant voice.

Richard Osmond Osmonds job as a wild-food forager makes it unsurprising that his debut collection, Useful Verses, should be such a treasure trove of information. But what gives his poems energy is not just that they exhibit a deft authority on plants and poisons, remedies and roadkill, but that they are equally attuned to human and digital environments. The result is a work that reveals much about the world, both ancient and modern.

Tara Bergin This Irish poets 2015 collection, This Is Yarrow, is a wryly unpredictable set of poems that challenges our familiarity with the world around us. Last years equally intense and funny The Tragic Death of Eleanor Marx explores the life and eventual suicide of Karl Marxs daughter, the first translator of Madame Bovary. A rare originality of voice and vision.

Hannah Sullivan The long poems that make up Sullivans debut, Three Poems, are wise and witty, and spaciously unfold an account of a young womans love, disappointment and resilience in New York City, with Heraclitean philosophical musings and autobiographical reflections on birth and bereavement.

Memoir and biography

Compelling topicality and novelty Maggie Nelson. Photograph: Dan Tuffs for the Observer

Paul Ferris Football memoirs rarely produce great literature but Ferriss The Boy on the Shed is a glistering exception, which sets a short career with Newcastle United against the background of a Catholic childhood in a Protestant stronghold of Northern Ireland. Hes witty, emotional and painfully self-revealing. If, as Alan Shearer intimates in the foreword, a second book is on the way, he may turn out to be the new Frank McCourt.

Edmund Gordon How do you tell the life story of a woman who was, by her own admission, a born fabulist? Debut biographer Gordon disentangles myth from truth in The Making of Angela Carter, an elegant and well-judged life of the author.

Kapka Kassabova The Bulgarian-born writer takes a journey through the mysterious region where her home country, Greece and Turkey meet. Borderis a hybrid work that mixes memoir with travelogue as she putters across the land in an old Renault, recording the oral histories of the people she meets and crunching them with what she knows of the deeper past in an attempt to exorcise her own ghosts.

Patricia Lockwood Already beloved for her silly, often filthy verse, Lockwood burst into the almost mainstream with her memoir Priestdaddy, centring on her father: a Catholic priest with five children and a penchant for guns, prog rock and cream liqueur. While her poetry is brilliantly bizarre, Priestdaddy revealed a dazzling new voice that flourishes in a longer form.

Maggie Nelson The compelling topicality and novelty of her subject matter earns Nelson her place.The Argonauts is an uncategorisable book, that animates queer theory through the no-holds-barred story of her own love match with a trans man. Here are pregnancy, birth and family-making as you have never seen them before.

Graphic novels

The Arab of the Future Volume 2: A Childhood in the Middle East, 1984-1985 by Riad Sattouf. Photograph: Two Roads

Kirsten Radtke Imagine Wanting Only This begins with the death of Radtkes uncle Dan from a hereditary heart condition that could kill her and moves through her young life, taking in love, backpacking, loneliness and visits to ruin after ruin. Her memoir is stuffed with fascinating anecdotes and great drawings that show everything from bus-borne squabbles to tight herds of sheep and abandoned cities. It ends in New York, where the 30-year-old illustrator and editor now lives, and this intelligent and passionate work makes you wonder where shell go next.

Hamish Steele Steele works as an animator as well as a comic book artist, and humour and energy bubble through his work. His debut, Pantheon, a savage take on Egyptian myth, was self-published after a Kickstarter campaign before being picked up by NoBrow. His new book, DeadEndia: The Watchers Test, revolves around three amusement park workers and a genuinely haunted house.

Nick Drnaso The Illinois native picked up an LA Times book prize for his excellent 2016 debut,Beverly, a series of sad and lyrical interconnected stories. It sets dysfunctional young Americans against an eerie backdrop of highways, motels and couches, lust and despair pushing up against the clean lines and pastel colours of his artwork. Drnasos latest, Sabrina, follows a US airmans investigation of a missing woman.

Emil Ferris My Favourite Thing Is Monstersemerged to wild applause last year. A brick of a book with something to treasure on every page, it takes the form of the journal of Karen Reyes, a 10-year-old obsessed with drawing, monsters and the fate of a woman who dies in her apartment block. Karen fills the diary with vibrant beasts and the details of her detective work. Ferris makes her humans and monsters leap off the page, and Book 2 (due in August) should be another cracker.

Riad Sattouf Sattouf spent a decade writing for Charlie Hebdo, but only came to the attention of English-speaking readers in 2015, thanks to The Arab of the Future, which follows his childhood as he moves between France (where his mother was born), Syria (where his father was born) and Libya. The whims of Sattoufs increasingly authoritarian father drive volumes one and two, which mix darkness, dry humour and sharp observation. Volume 3 is out in August.

Crime and thrillers

Books that are sharply observed and crackling with energy Joe Ide.

Jane Harper Winner of the Crime Writers Association Gold Dagger, Harpers bestselling first novel, The Dry, is both a riveting detective story and a powerful portrait of a small Australian town in the drought-stricken middle of nowhere, riven by poverty and alcoholism. Her second book, Force of Nature, which features the same investigator and concerns an elemental battle for survival in the unforgiving Australian wilderness, lives up to the promise of her stunning debut.

Joseph Knox Sirens, Knoxs debut, is a pungent slice of urban noir featuring disgraced Manchester detective Aidan Waits. Having blotted his copybook by stealing drugs from the evidence room, Waits is forced to go undercover and finds himself deep in a world of ruthless drug barons and corrupt politicians. The start of what promises to be a classic series as proved by the equally vivid and uncompromising follow-up, The Smiling Man.

Joe Ide Set in Long Beach, California, Ides novel, IQ, is the start of a projected series featuring Isaiah Quintabe, a modern day African American incarnation of Sherlock Holmes. We learn his back story derailed in high school when his brother was killed, and turning to crime before realising his true calling as he finds out who is trying to murder a famous rapper. A second outing, Righteous, was published in February; both books are sharply observed and crackling with energy.

Sabri Louatah A bestseller in the authors native France, Savages: The Wedding is the first novel in the Saint-Etienne Quartet. Its the eve of the presidential election, and it looks as if Idder Chaouch is about to become the first Algerian premier. To some, the French Obama holds the promise of a post-racial society based on liberty, equality and fraternity, but not everyone agrees. Exhilarating, sharp-edged, and complex, this is a compelling hybrid of family saga and socio-political thriller.

CJ Tudor In The Chalk Man, 12-year-old narrator Eddie Adams enjoys communicating with his friends using a secret code of chalk figures until a series of anonymous drawings leads to the discovery of a dismembered girl in the woods. Fast-forward 30 years and Eddie receives a visit from an old friend and a drawing of a noosed stick-man arrives in the post. This assured debut is very much in the Stephen King vein creepy with plenty of menace.

Children and young adult

Grisly, child-empowering edge Little Red by Bethan Woollvin.

Bethan Woollvin Little Red, a feminist retelling of Little Red Riding Hood with a grisly, child-empowering edge, won Woollvin the Macmillan Illustration prize in 2014. Her second picture book, a prince-free Rapunzel, features the same mixture of stark black and white and a single colour. Her words share this lack of obfuscatory prettiness, a deadpan, terse narrative voice complementing her sharp illustrative style. Look out for her forthcoming Hansel and Gretel.

Joseph Coelho Overheard in a Tower Block, Coelhos newest poetry collection, was longlisted for the 2018 Carnegie Medal. Arguing parents become electrical forces or duelling knights; the bin-chute mouth of a block is fed the stuff of its residents lives. Rich with metaphor and secret meaning, his poetry is deeply welcoming, and his sensibility is both mythic and urban; his freed Prometheus, unearthed from eons of eagle droppings, hears the god-whisper of a city, the electric thrum of buildings, the digital hiss of a new world.

David Solomons The Scottish screenwriter represents the best in contemporary comic writing for children splendidly zany, full of irresistible trivia,but never scrimping on the emotional undertow that ensures longevity and heart. His first book for children, My Brother Is a Superhero, is subtitled I could have been one too, except I needed a wee; the story of comic geek Luke and his older brother Zack, unfairly given superpowers by a visiting alien, it won the Waterstones prize for childrens fiction in 2016, and its two sequels have since been flying off the shelves.

Lucy Strange The Secret of Nightingale Wood, Stranges debut novel for age 8-12, is set just after the first world war, and features Henry, a determined heroine grieving her brothers death, protecting her younger sister Piglet, and contending with sinister doctors who conspire to commit her mother to an asylum. Strange elegantly blends a sense of period with compelling emotion and excitement. Her new novel, Our Castle by the Sea, is due in November.

Tomi Adeyemi The Nigerian American authors debut, Children of Blood and Bone, has generated considerable excitement, with film rights already sold. The first in a trilogy, this ambitious book is told from three perspectives; central is that of Zlie Adebola, who takes on the monarchy in a bid to restore magic to the world of Orisha.

Literature in translation

Brilliant evocations Maylis de Karangel.

Maylis de Kerangal Winning last years Wellcome prize for Mend the Living, her brilliant evocation of a day in the life of a heart as it is rushed from one body to another, should raise the French authors profile, but as yet only two of her novels have made it into English. In both she makes character subservient to scenario, whether dealing with coronary transplant staff or workers on a six-lane suspension bridge in a fictional US town.

Samanta Schweblin Argentinian Schweblins brilliant and terrifying debut, Fever Dream, unfolds like a hallucination. A sick woman is confronted with a revenant child in a dialogue that combines the superstitions of a rural society with fears about agricultural abuse by big business, in a novel that was shortlisted for last years Man Booker International prize.

Olga Tokarczuk This time last year, the Polish novelist was the biggest star youd never heard of, but Flights put her on the map. This dazzling novel of fragments makes a passionate plea for connectedness through stories that somersault through time and space. Her back catalogue is now being published, with the Blakean Drive Your Plough Over the Bones of the Dead due this year, followed by her historical epic, The Books of Jacob, one of the biggest literary bestsellers in Polish history.

Andrs Barba After surviving the car accident that killed her parents, a wounded and traumatised seven-year-old girl is sent to an orphanage with her only surviving friend, a doll apparently brought to life by her distress. In Such Small Hands, Barba plays with the conventions of the ghost story to create a powerful fable of the malice and the erotic power play of children too young to put their fears into words.

Ahmed Saadawi Absurdist morality fable meets horror fantasy in Frankenstein in Baghdad, as a victim of sectarian violence is brought back to life in the aftermath of the US invasion of Iraq. Saadawi unspools an apparently endless causal chain of folly, corruption and tribalism.

Science and nature

Witty and elegant Cordelia Fine. Photograph: David Levene for the Guardian

Eugenia Cheng The mathematician remembers the day her mother first told her about graphs she felt as if her brain was contorting, and its a feeling she still gets when doing research. Its one her readers can share. Beyond Infinity begins with an energetic exposition of endlessness, before exploring the mathematical territory the concept opens up with the help of iPods, snorkelling and Winnie-the-Pooh. The Art of Logic is due in September.

David George Haskell On a cold January hike in 2004, Haskell, a biologist, found himself confronted with a choice. He could carry on writing scientific papers, following his enthusiasm for poetry and meditation on the side, or he could bring these interests together. The result was The Forest Unseen, a lyrical account of the year he spent returning to that very spot. His 2017 book The Songs of Trees explores the interconnectedness of nature through portraits of 12 individual trees.

Lindsey Fitzharris Fitzharriss hugely entertaining debut Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/us

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Cheltenham Festival Day One

So 12 months have passed and here we are again, we lived through the ridiculous flat season and we’re facing Brexit but like every year all worries and cares get put on the shelf for four days as we indulge ourselves in jump racing’s showcase that is the Festival.

Things I can promise you from reading this blog you stick with it for four days you will see winners, unfortunately you will also experience losers but we will have fun along the way.

Well let’s crack on for those that haven’t read my blog before then shame on you but how it usually goes is we cover the feature races mostly the Grade 1s and then at the very bottom I will do my selections for the other races and also in there will be my NAP so let’s start at the best opening race of any festival -

Supreme Novices Hurdle

Two miles of blistering pace as stars of the future put their unbeaten records on the line.....well in most years that’s been the case but this years Supreme seems lacking that star quality.

Top three in the market, Al Dancer winner of the Grade 3 betfair hurdle..... which let’s not forget is a handicap. And then Angels Breath which was all the rage until getting beaten in a Grade 2 at Kempton and finally Klassical Dream who as much has done nothing wrong hardly strikes you as super star quality.

We also have Fakir D’oudairies or however it’s spelt, won very well at Cheltenham but although he gets the 4 year olds allowance, 4 year olds have a shocking record in the race with one 4 year old in the last 45 years winning which was Hors La Loi, in fact even 5 year olds have struggled in recent years with the last 3 winners being six.

That nicely points me to my first tip of the day in the shape of Aramon, seemingly Willie Mullins second string but as we have learnt from years gone by nothing that Willie Mullins sends over is ever classed as second string. And this six year old has already bagged a Grade one by 10 lengths and was a head short of doubling up when beaten by Klassical Dream giving him a 1lb. At 16s it’s a huge value bet to get the Festival off to a flyer.

Arkle Novices Chase

Second big race of the day and again we have a rather weak looking field especially with Le Richebourg coming out injured and Defi Du Seuil heading to he JLT.

We’re left heading the market with Glen Forza and Lalor has been on the drift out to 6s from 4s.

Glen Forza was impressive in another Arkle fancy and last years Supreme second Kalashnikov. But he himself hasn’t taken to fences like a duck to water and sits around 8/1 for this. He is consistent if not spectacular and does finish in the places, so in theory Glen Forza should be ahead of him again and hence sits top of the market.

Lalor would of been the confident selection, has the class in the bag and the form around Cheltenham but the soft ground is a huge negative and we saw that with the latest third place at Sandown, so on that basis can’t be the selection.

We’re left with two Hadline and Duc Des Genievres both who I think are better over more like 2m2f which is ideal for Cheltenham gets them up the hill. So I feel these two will be fighting out the finish and I’ll take a tentative nod towards Duc Des Genievres to make it a quick fire double for Willie Mullins.

Champion Hurdle

Time for the main event and it is one cracking main event, we have a two time champion looking to join a unique few who have three Champion hurdles, a multiple grade 1 winning mare who has finally taken her chance in this race, and a new girl on the block with so much unknown potential.

Before we feature the three main characters just to touch on some at bigger prices, Espoir D’Allen a fantastic novice then went a little missing but seems to be back all guns blazing reeling off three Grade 3s this is a bigger step up but has some place claims if one of the stars fail to shine.

Sharjah and Verdana Blue are good ground specialists and will hate this soft going so steer clear of them.

Brain Power bounced back to some form in the International but was soundly beat at this scene in 2017 and can’t see anything to say he will improve further.

Melon could in theory return to the form that took him to run Buveur close last year now that the ground has softened but that’s a big if and I’d have no confidence in what he’s shown so far.

So let’s start Apples Jade, currently favourite and I think that’s bonkers, she has won one of three attempts round Cheltenham yes she was in season last year and has an excuse but even her win in the mares novice the previous year wasn’t spectacular, she has been impressive this season in beating the boys winning the Irish Champion Hurdle by 16 lengths but the second place horse is a three miler in Supasundae and then in behind you have the likes of Melon who is out of form so that run I don’t think is a glamorous as it looks also different ball game on softer going. Last time she ran on a soft 2m she was beaten in the Fighting Fifth by Irving in 2016, if she wanted 2m she would of run in this before and the owners reluctance to run her in previous years makes me doubt that she really can beat 2m Champions.

From one mare to another Laurina who has slaughtered every horse she has faced whilst never getting out of first gear, she has one all her races by an average of over 10 lengths and hasn’t once been seen off the bridle having smashed the mares novice field last year by 19lengths she truly could be anything and I have a feeling she could be very special. However she has to be Champion Hurdle special today if she’s to win and I think she will run very close but I think experience will let her down and she needs to mature.

So for me it’s three Champion hurdles for the super horse that is Buveur D’air, he will enter this history books and join the likes of Istabraq and See You Then. And at currently 11/4 it’s a massive price.

Other Races:

2:50 Ultima Chase - Magic Of Light

4:10 Mares Hurdle - Bennie Des Dieux & Stormy Ireland for the forecast

4:50 Close Brothers - Roaring Bull

5:30 National Hunt Cup - Atlanta Breeze (each way)