#my writing (sywtw)

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Nothing, just Bill's fucked up relationship with his mother:

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Bill Howley is suffering the consequences of self-mutilation, as his amputated finger has become terribly infected and rumors begin to spread around the camp that he won't survive the fever. The musician, who brought him there in the first place, feels somewhat responsible. He'll discomfort himself to try and save the life of a man he barely knows, even while ubiquitous voices tell him this one might not be worth saving.

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This whump-heavy short-story takes place during the starting events of the full novel. It expands more on Bill's early days at the Railway Jacks' camp. This is mostly for fun as well as character development, but it's been at least a year in the making, so I hope it's enjoyed! Updates will be added to this post.

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[PART ONE]

Words: 3'323

Characters: Amos Etienne, Bill Howley, Pauline Brown, Bert Garrett

Themes: Sickness, Hurt/Comfort (Contains references to violence, cursing, opioid use)

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I really hope y’all don’t mind something that’s a little bit divergent from the norm, but I had pieces of this flashback scene come to me in a dream and when I got up, the scene went so naturally onto the page and I really love the foreshadowing and dialog here, plus the POV of a lesser-seen character. 

Here is a scene of a pregnant Flossie Howley, taking a bit of agency in a very important decision. This really helped develop her and her dynamic with her husband and was an enjoyable snippet to bash out in like a day. I don’t normally share little pieces like this, but I was really proud of it and wanted to share. 

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Characters: Flossie Howley, Simeon Howley

Words: 1′768 (Single scene) 

Setting: The Howley farm, Platton, roughly 1871. 

Content Warning: Description of pregnancy and stillbirth. (Hidden beneath the readmore)  

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A log collapsed to crumbling embers, sparking the entire firebox a lively orange that drew her eye up for just a moment before it returned to the calm, evening flicker and she to her needlework.

Flossie folded a tiny nightgown of white cotton over on her lap and fed her needle through the fabric, continuing a delicate feather-stitch along the cuff in a silky white thread. At her feet, a hefty old sewing box sat with a nearly completed full layette folded on top, each piece as lovingly assembled and embroidered as the last.

She heard her husband fumbling around in the kitchen, thinking himself quiet as the grave in there as he stomped about, still in his boots, long before he popped into the adjacent room with her, placing a cup and saucer of steaming, muddy-black tea on the side table by her, leaning around to kiss the side of her face and rub her upper arms with freezing-cold hands.

"Sorry, darlin'," he said. "The animals went down fine, but the damned dog wouldn't come down out the field for nothing. Had to chase it down myself."

"Hm. Stove's off?" she asked without looking up.

"Stove's off," he confirmed, going to his chair and sinking down with a wearied groan, as if breathing the long day out of his overworked bones. She smiled a little. He was still pleasant to look at with the day's grime on him, fair-eyed and caramel-haired, with the darling little cleft in his chin she used to giggle to her friends about when they were girls together.

He caught her peeking and the corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile back. He leaned in over the arm of the chair, peering at her work.

"Nearly done, I'd say, hm?"

"Mm. Nearly."

"I still say we have plenty baby's things already."

"He will have his own things." The needle punctured the cotton with a hard pop. "I know, I know. You've said it and I've heard it." Simeon sunk back into his chair, wiggling as if he could burrow himself even deeper into it.

She paused to take a sip from her tea, about strong enough to stain leather, just as she liked it, clearing her throat as she picked the needle up again.

"I've named him," she plainly told him.

"Pardon?"

"The baby; I've named him. And I won't hear nothing about it. You've named every one this far– this might be my only chance to name one."

"Very well; what is it?"

"You can know when he's born. It's been in my mind since I was a girl."

Simeon gave an amused chuckle. "Alright, well what– uh, what sort of name is it?"

She stopped her hand to look up at the fire and think a moment before the answer came to her.

"A strong one," she said. "Thriving."

"All good things." Simeon seemed to accede entirely, though he still had questions. "Does it feel strong? In your belly?"

She frowned down at her belly, her red chintz wrapper tied just above the healthy, round swell.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "It– doesn't feel like much of anything, one way or another."

Unfortunately true, with the way she'd treated her pregnant belly the past few months. It reminded her of years before, when she'd not lived on the farm for long, before the Fossers.

They were hungry, hungrier than she'd ever been before or since. They couldn't afford to properly feed the chickens; they'd already culled all the ones they could spare-- and once or twice an egg would be laid with half a shell, so thin that even if she tried her best to lift one with slow, gentle hands, it'd burst at her lightest touch, spilling over her fingers, and the hens would cackle and crow with excitement. Simeon told her it was normal; just an unfortunate result of a poor diet, but it wasn't any less frustrating at a time when each egg was precious.

She pulled her wrapper more snugly around her middle. She'd reached this size only twice before. One baby she'd lost around this many months along and, as always, she had the midwife show her the poor little thing. The younger ones were barely anything, lumps of flesh wrapped in cloth. This was different. This was almost a baby, almost, yet not quite. Its body far too small, its skin shiny and translucent, its face barely a face at all.

That's what would be living inside her now. Tiny, pink and infirm. It felt that if she touched this one too much through her skin, if she loved with too many hands, his shell might break apart, then his body beneath, leaving her holding nothing but pieces.

So, she let him be. Occasionally she'd feel him move and kick, reaching out to her, reminding her that he was still there, but she would seldom answer him. Simply let herself feel the relief it gave, and move on.

"And if it's a girl?"

Simeon's query brought her back into the room. She offered him a quick glance, then shook her head.

"It's a boy, they've all been boys."

"I'm just saying."

"When's the last time your family had anything but boys?"

Simeon paused. "O-four. My great aunt Hitty, but she had half a beard, herself, so..."

"Exactly. It's a boy." She allowed a hint of a chuckle as she bit off and fastened her thread, running her thumb over the detailing before starting on the opposite cuff. So tiny, hard to imagine a little wrist in there, though she'd seen it done once before. She rolled the two sides of the cotton together between her fingers, sampling the softness, then pierced it through.

In her peripheral, she could see Simeon watch her for a while, then give up, looking back to the fire with his hands tucked up behind his head. She let him rest long enough to complete the first inch or so of her cuff, then laid her final decision upon him.

"You'll be near," she told him. "When he's born."

"Pardon?"

"You won't go out for a drink, or a ride," she elaborated. "You can be down here, in the parlor, or out in the field, I don't care a fig. I'll have you near."

Simeon chuckled. It seemed to entertain him. "You've made your mind up about many a thing, haven't you, m'girl? Supposing the Fossers have me out of town? If the little man decides to be early?"

"Then you'd best come running back like hell's fire's at your heels." She lowered her work to her lap so she could look right at her husband. "You have to be here for him, Simeon. You have to be near so the devil himself sees you and says 'I can't never touch this child; I can't touch him because his daddy is Simeon Howley and he's much too tough to try.'"

Simeon laughed until he met her eye and saw the look inside it. Then, he settled himself, but kept a sweetness to his expression.

"If it brings you peace," he told her. "Here I'll be, Miss."

She smiled, and reached out her hand to him. Taking the gesture, he rose from his seat and went to her, kneeling down by the arm of her chair.

"You hear that?" he spoke down to her belly. "You see this?"

He raised his bent arm, flexing until the fabric of his shirt stretched tight over the muscle, completing the show with an exaggerated arch of his brow.

"I got you, little man."

Flossie threw her head back and laughed out happy and loud, and when she came back down she gave Simeon a playful ruffling of the dust-coated hair atop his head. Settling in close, he reached in and rubbed a hand lovingly over her belly, and she pulled open her wrapper from the chemise underneath, so he'd have an easier time of it.

Simeon's hands were different, heavy and dirt-stained as they were. It didn't bother her if he touched. His hands were safer, they could protect the little one in his shell far better than she ever could.

"That your head or your arse, then, son?" Simeon puzzled aloud as he felt, making her laugh again so her tummy shook against his palm. He grinned like a child, absently running his hand back and forth over the summit.

"Well," he went on. "--I can't wait to know your name, pal. But listen, you go easy on your mother, hm? Come right on out when you're ready and when you're standing on your own, I'll take you fishing, and riding. I'll teach you to shoot."

"Simeon... Psh."

"--and I'll put you on my shoulders on the hill, so you can see the whole town, like my Pa used to do with me. It's a pretty little place, you'll like it."

Flossie smiled sadly, rubbing her thumb under his chin, then holding it in her hand. How terribly she wanted to make all the things he spoke of happen for him. She almost did, a few times before. And she knew, in the bones of her, that this was probably her last chance. This man loved her; she trusted that wouldn't change, but could a tiny piece of him, however miniscule, not resent her if she failed one last time? If this was all they'd ever be?

They stayed this way a while, Flossie setting her needlework aside so they could enjoy each-other's closeness next to the fire. Then, always tired far before she ever was, Simeon rose back to his feet, kissed her and asked her to come soon to bed, then wished her goodnight and disappeared to the other room and up the old, creaking stairs.

Instead, Flossie sat alone until the fire burned itself out to embers which barely cast their glow past the fender, leaving her in near darkness, save for the moonlight through the far shutters.

And there, all alone, she sat up straight and, like her former self, reaching so carefully beneath the bellies of the hens, she placed a hand upon her stomach, almost too light to feel the touch herself.

"Do you see how much we're counting on you?" she whispered, her fingers gently pressing the firm flesh beneath linen. "You'll be strong, won't you?"

She drew in a nervous breath that fit snug in her chest, allowing herself to lay her palm flat, feel the change in depth, the obvious life that lay there, changing the very shape of her.

"Won't you, William?"

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Raided my wip for some random, whumpy dialog snippets for whumptober, in case I don't get around to anything special! (No particular order)

What's your favourite? Feel free to ask if you're curious about any scenes!

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Inspired to write a short Martha & Annie scene by this song that almost made me cry in the middle of class once. <3 

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Words: 1′498

Characters: Annie Hogarth, Martha Puck

Setting: Outside Foundling Creek, 1900-1901

Rating: PG? There’s some language. 

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Annie stopped at once on the edge of the dirt road, throwing the beaten-up Gladstone bag at her boots and rubbing her cheeks, fingers of her gloves rough on tender skin. Out ahead, the road rolled over a few short, grass hills before turning another corner, much like the one she’d just passed. 

Behind her, nothing could be seen of the town, save the narrow spire of the church on the hill, poking up through the colours of the treetops. She stared back at it for a moment, sniffed and dropped down, sitting atop the bag like an overstuffed cushion at the side of the road. 

She stayed there a moment, watching the dirt, only peering up for a moment when the sound of hooves and wheels came up the road at her right. But once she saw the single morgan horse round the corner, she dropped her head again, pulling the felt hood of her cloak down over her eyes. 

Hearing the two-wheeler halt up the road from her, she kept her head down, even as she heard the driver’s soft murmuring voice to the horse– and the crunch of feet dropping down onto dirt and gravel. A few steps, a pause. 

“Annie?” Martha’s voice was gentle as a cupped hand, but scornful as a mother’s. “Annie, what the hell are you doing?” 

Annie lifted up tired eyes.

Martha stood in the center of the road, dressed in that lovely autumnal suit that matched the skin of a baked apple, making her look warm, sweet, and comforting. It was as if everything she did, she did in calculation. Annie turned her head away. 

“What’s it look like?” 

“Well,” she said. “You are terrible at it. Plenty of people saw you leaving. You walked right past my brother with that big bag. Where did you get that?” 

“Your damned appraiser. It’s shite; handle’s broken clean off.” 

“So that’s it? You’re leaving? On foot, without a word?”

Annie stayed quiet. 

“Where will you go?” 

“Don’t know yet.” 

“There’s no plan, then?” Martha’s voice became taught. “You simply need to get away. From what? From me, Annie?” 

“It’s not about you,” Annie lied sternly enough to believe it, picking herself back up. She dared glance back to where Martha stood, but the dour sting in her eyes was too sharp for Annie to linger in. 

“How am I to believe that? Last night–” 

She cut off, her voice going fragile, curling into itself. 

“--You talked to me. You held me and it didn’t feel as though you were looking around for a way to escape. I thought I’d finally gotten through to you after trying and waiting, letting you come to me like a spooked horse!” 

“It’s not about last night!” This also hit her gut like a lie, like lead, but in truth she wasn’t sure. “I just have to go, Martha. I don’t fit here.” 

“Why not? You could stay and be a pet for the Fossers for a decade, what about my home is so inhospitable to you?” 

“What can I offer you lot?” Annie asked. “Can’t read or write, awful shot, none too bright, me needlework's shoddy, I ain't Scavenger material– I'd be screaming my bleedin' head off if a twig snapped out there… I–" 

"That doesn't mean a thing," Martha cut her off. "I want you here." 

"What about when you don't?" Annie finally, truly met her eye. "I can't just hope you're gonna think me pretty enough or interesting enough forever. What about when you tire of me? Or when you've squeezed all me secrets out? What if my teeth falls out? Or me hair, and the poorest bastard wouldn’t touch me? Hm?" 

"Why would..?" 

"Y'never know!" She walked a full spin, giving herself a moment to blot her eye on her sleeve before turning back around. 

Martha sighed. "Annie…" 

"Don't pout at me so," she grumbled back. "What if you become so cross with me? I bumble, ruin everything so badly that you hate me now? You can't ever look at me like a good thing ever again? What will I do?" 

"What if I do?" 

Annie shook her head. "Won't be the same. You got a place; you'll always have a place. You've plenty folks want you here, I just got you and what if, one day, you just don't?

Martha glared a moment, her lip fighting to stay steady. Then, at once, she put her arms up. 

"Fine," she said, stamping back to the carriage and for a quick, icy cold moment, Annie thought it was done, but then Martha ducked her head behind the dashboard and tugged loose a second bag from beneath the seat, bringing it back to shove into Annie's arms. 

"What's this?" Annie asked, weighing it in her arms. It was a pretty carpet bag of orange and red, and hefty to hold. 

"Your clothes, bit of food, a proper pistol. I noticed you'd abandoned half the gifts I gave to you, so I went and fetched them. Figured you needn’t insult me on your way out. Hm?"

"They wouldn't fit in…" 

"Hence the bag." Martha slapped a gloved hand atop of it. "You’re welcome. Merry travels, wish you well." 

Annie popped the snap as Martha turned her back again. The clothes lay crammed on top, sloppily packed last. 

At the very surface, the nightgown she'd very intentionally left. She pinched the collar Martha had embroidered between her fingers, feeling the bump of the sunflower's disk. 

Everything she did, she did in calculation.

"Martha!" she called, uncertain where in her body it came from. 

"You will take it. All of it. I don’t care if you lose it or you're robbed for it, you'll take it." 

"No, Martha." 

Annie followed a few steps after her, until Martha whipped around, stopping her dead. 

"What do you want from me?" she asked shrilly. "Do you want me to be terrible? To stop you? Tell you that– that I am the daughter of Sally Puck and I forbid you to go?" 

She pushed back her hat as the brim began to slip down over her face.

"Because I'll do it. I forbid you." Her voice cracked. "I very selfishly want you to stay. You're the only thing that has helped me bear this horrible sadness that's in my home, in my family… in me! I don't want you to go!" 

"But Martha, that's–" 

"No! I don't want you to go!" She stamped her foot like a child, pushing her hat back once more and fumbling with the pin which had shifted and stuck out at an odd angle. 

"God… damned hat!" She tore it painfully from her head, tossing it down for the wind to catch and sweep it into one of the low, roadside bushes. 

"Martha, your hat." Annie sucked her teeth and put the bag on the ground to chase after it. 

"Leave it," Martha called. 

Annie ignored her, gently freeing the hat from brambles and plucking a twig from the velvet. 

As she walked back, Martha had her arms around herself. A wide band of hair had ripped free in her outburst and now the breeze blew it across her pained frown. 

Annie returned to her, kindly tucking the loose strand behind her ear and placing the hat back atop her head as Martha grinned hold of her shoulders. 

"I don't want you to go," she croaked. 

Annie shook her head, meeting Martha's eyes, blue and heartbreaking and unfair to her. She took her face in her hands, so her thumbs could brush away the tears from her cheeks. 

"I don't want to go." 

"Don't go." 

"I won't." 

They kissed each other a few times over, through sobbing breaths as their voices stammered. 

"I'm sorry, Martha." 

"No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just– just come home with me? Please come home." 

"I will, I will." 

She held her face close to hers for as long as she seemed to need it, letting the atmosphere quiet to the hush of leaves blowing over long-grasses. A moment more, outliving the distant clang of the church bell, the impatient stomping of Tally on the gravel. All the while, Martha kept her eyes closed, the center of her brow nicked, when Annie urged her cheek into her cupped palm, she solemnly leaned into the touch, blowing a drawn-out breath. 

“Are you about ready?” Annie eventually asked. 

Martha kept her eyes closed. “Will you just try again another day?” 

She shook her head. “If I’m thinking of being stupid again, I’ll let you know, alright?” 

“You’d better.”

Annie laughed, and Martha let her eyes blink open with a tight-pressed smile. Annie pulled her head close to kiss it once more, then started in a backwards step to retrieve her bags, holding a finger up in thought. 

“Was– was I given a shoddy bag on purpose, you think?”

“Very likely. I am quite loved here.” 

Annie scoffed, shaking her head as she turned away. 

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Dinner & Diatribes (Yes, the Hozier Song) pt 1

The idea started from a basic conversation, but actually turned into what is basically an NSFW short story that I spent about a week straight working on. Parts of it I am probably going to actually include in the story, other parts are just for fun. 

Since I’m actually extremely nervous about posting something this NSFW, I’m going to post part one first and then hand over part 2 if it gets a good reaction. Here goes! 

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Summary: Bill Howley has to attend a dinner with the leader of one of the Fossers’ rival gangs in an attempt to win them over to his side against his father. For his own comfort, he has Amos accompany him, simply as ‘his friend and musician.’ However, the event turns miserable and the pair take to subtly tormenting each-other to keep things interesting. 

Words: 10′944

Characters: Bill Howley, Amos Etienne, Teresa Genoni, Clelia Genoni, Elias Sweet, Eli Sweet, Eliana Sweet, Various other minor characters. 

CW: Cursing, reference to violence, sexual reference, racist comments, homophobia, mild sexual activity... elder abuse? (Kinda joking?) 

Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Tbn0wrc4aAlaiJcz8lj922N6wfkvwwOVum-IMbFpGBY/edit?usp=sharing  

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Breaking my own heart

Breaking my own heart...

Breaking my own heart

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Another little preview that gives the 'whumperflies' 😊

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--

I'm having a great time 🙃

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Little sneak peek at what I'm working on 😊

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"Have you ever danced with a lady before?'

"Yes, in fact. I have."

"Uh-huh. Who, then?"

"My aunt-- and she said I was very charming company, so... Something to consider."

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Okay, here's one of my favourite, sappiest lines. It's gross. Thanks.

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The Martha/Bill parallel posts will not be stopped

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Bill Howley - Backstory

(Y'all I am having so much fun with this character. I'm a bit obsessed with this guy's sexy little descent into madness. Please let me infodump about it 😆)

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Words: 2'550

Content Warning: Homophobia, physical abuse, implied SA, gore, death, sexual themes. ______________________________________

Revered for his gang's fierce protection of their town and territory, Simeon Howley seemed to find greater struggle in the mundane, starting a family with his wife, Flossie. 

Though they wouldn't talk much about it outside the home, the couple had failed for years trying to have a child. Many pregnancies wouldn't take, a couple were stillborn and one boy lived only a year. 

Still, in one final attempt, one more boy survived to birth. William 'Bill' Howley, born in spring of 1872, was born healthy and strong, and everyone held their breath as he reached his first birthday, then his second, and so on. 

Unfortunately, this came with plenty of expectations. Simeon, once a humble farmer, now had a legacy to uphold, and he hoped his son would take care of the homestead, take care of Platton, when he was gone. 

Bill was incredibly clever from a young age, but also rather sensitive. It took years for him to get comfortable with the gruesome side of farm labor, and the gruesome side of being a Fosser was something else altogether. The first time the boy witnessed the Fosser's infamous method of execution, he ran crying to his mother's arms, embarrassing Simeon. 

Then, seemingly as a blessing, Alfie Kemp entered their lives. He was a boy, close in age to Bill, and had been rescued by a couple Fossers on a trip after his family had been killed in a red storm. Simeon decided to bring the boy home with him, to help around the farm and to hopefully give Bill a bit of well-needed companionship. 

Flossie was delighted. She took Alfie's face in her hand, asking Simeon "Don't you see it? Doesn't he remind you so much of the boy we lost all those years back?"

The new arrival seemed a blessing. He was a great help around the farm and didn't seem to have trouble adjusting. For years, Bill and Alfie were raised alongside each-other, but while they'd hoped a companion would liven Bill up, he only seemed to shrink further into his shell while Alfie flourished. 

Behind closed doors, the mistreatment started small. Alfie played rough; easy to get over. However, overtime it became worse. He began sticking the other boy with pins, pushing his head underwater at bath time and then laughing, or just plain hitting or pushing him over, unprompted. But when Bill would try to tell his mother or father, he was accused of overreacting and told to toughen up.

Even as it progressed to the sinister, with Alfie killing Bill's favourite hen just to be cruel, to shoving him down stairs or hitting him in the head with a shovel (both causing lasting injury), Simeon and Flossie seemed blinded by their affection for the boy, and believed Alfie when he called them accidents and convincingly  apologized. 

Unable to find any comfort at home, Bill turned to the one place he'd always felt safe. 

Each Sunday, when the family attended mass at the tiny town chapel, the preacher spoke words that made him feel better, all while he could sit alongside his mother, one arm around him and the other around Alfie, a warm barrier. And when he waited behind one morning to tell the old preacher that he felt the devil in his own home, the kind man told him that God would protect him and nothing could harm him as long as he was under his roof. 

And it proved true. Whenever he wasn't busy with his other responsibilities, he could hide in that old wooden church and feel safe, be it praying, studying or helping the old man take care of the place, he could go and forget what waited at home. 

As he grew, Bill shrank further into himself. He became something of a henchman to Alfie, following him around as he made the Fossers proud. He wasn't afraid of dirty work and seemed to relish in it. Simeon's ward was shaping up to be his replacement, while Bill was scolded for being 'a miserable, bitter young man'.

Bill was in his teenage years when he'd begun to notice feelings he wasn't allowed to have, feelings he confessed to the preacher and was comfortingly told to 'Pray on it; you'll be alright'. But that wasn't enough. Bill spent hours face-down on the wooden floor, sometimes praying so long he fell asleep there and had to be awoken the next morning.

Then, thinking he could get it out of his system, he ended up propositioning another boy by the name of Eli, one he'd heard rumors about. 

But it didn't leave. Bill started indulging in Eli again and again, for several months in secret. Until one unfortunate afternoon, when Alfie caught them at the back of the field. 

Though Bill tried to explain himself, Alfie only laughed and took off back towards the house. By the time Bill clothed himself and followed, it was clear from his parents' faces, Alfie had already told them. 

Outraged, Simeon shoved Bill against a wall to chew him out, despite Flossie begging him not to, and Bill broke down, swearing that he was disgusted with himself and would never do it again and begging forgiveness. 

And, feeling sorry, Simeon took his hands off his son, telling him that he 'Just didn't want you to suffer, as you will if you continue down this path.' 

That night, as Bill lay in bed facing the wall, Alfie came to his room and, snickering as if he were playing a prank, climbed on top of the other boy, grabbing and taunting him. 

"I'll never do it again," he mocked. "I swear it, father, I s-s-swear it!" 

This new kind of torment started then and would continue whenever Alfie seemed to think it funny, but by now Bill knew better than to try and tell someone. He had to try and fight Alfie off himself, and often failed, or had to deal with the consequences when he succeeded. 

The following morning, Bill tracked down Eli and lured him to the edge of town, where he'd beat him to a bleeding mess before leaving momentarily and returning with a shotgun, chasing the injured boy out of town and promising to kill him if he returned.

Many times, Bill thought he could kill Alfie and free himself, but even if he could stomach it, he'd never get away with it. 

So, he remained something of a goon as both boys became men, following Alfie and his companions around as they carried out more and more work for the Fossers, from simple things like checking in on townsfolk and scouting the territory border, to punishing trespassers and offenders, or raiding unprotected settlements. 

He even helped Alfie kidnap a prostitute named Annie, and her squealing friend Lottie, when Annie refused to go with Alfie and be 'rescued' from her profession. He did everything Alfie asked and took the abuse.

And when he himself caught Annie and her little red-haired friend locked in their own embrace down by the pond, he went and retrieved Alfie, bringing him down to the treeline to witness. 

Alfie found most things amusing, but this seemed to truly anger him– and days later, he would summon Bill to help him with 'something important' in the woods outside of town. 

Meeting him there, it was immediately clear what he was being summoned to do. 

Help move the stab-wound-ridden, lifeless body of poor Lottie Rickborn. 

He did as he was told, later tossing his blood-soaked jacket into the brush, as if his sleeves beneath weren't already stained, and as he stood at the edge of town, waiting for Alfie to re-emerge, he was approached by Annie, angrily asking him what was going on, to which he simply told her: 

'God sees all that you do'

At that, Alfie returned from the woods, doing nothing to hide the blood as he told her. 

'She's waiting for you, Missy. Go on.' 

Bill walked away once he heard the screaming. 

But Alfie didn't seem ready to leave those two alone just yet, and after a few more nights passed, he'd have Bill accompany him to Annie's room at Platton's inn. Standing by the window, she looked like she hadn't slept in days.

Alfie shut the door behind them and said he had a surprise for the both of them. Saying he knew how badly they wished to be 'cured' and that he could help them. 

'Because I love you like a brother,' he said as he pointed a pistol at Bill's head. 'I'm going to let you fuck my whore.' 

Though he clearly wasn't asking, Bill still tried to plead with him for a moment, before Annie finally said 'Let's just be done with it, then.' No fight in her voice. 

Once Alfie had gotten his entertainment, he let Bill leave with a muttered apology to Annie. From then on, they'd speak no more than a few words to each-other, when necessary, one time being when she asked if he'd seen Lottie die--and him responding with an honest 'No.' 

One summer, as wasn't uncommon, a traveling group of Railway Jacks came by to discuss possible trades and services, namely with Simeon and the rest of the Fossers. They set up camp in the woods near town, and as was typical of Bill, he brought dice and cards up to see if any might be willing to play, or even gamble, a favored pastime of his. 

Around one of the campfires was a young man playing a series of instruments, including some Bill had never seen before, and when he stopped to stare, the man smiled and beckoned with a tilt of his head, so Bill joined the small group there, convincing a few patrons to join in cards. 

When the man finished playing, he joined the game, placing daring bets and ultimately staying in the game longer than the rest. While the fire and crowd dwindled, the pair's competitive banter turned to conversation. 

His name was Amos, and he'd been a traveler long before becoming a Jack, and now was mostly meant to keep the gang entertained. He initially didn't believe Bill when he said he was Simeon Howley's son, but began to come around as Bill started to ramble. 

When Bill tried to stop Amos from ending the game and turning in, he invited Bill to come back the following night. 

So he did. For nearly a week he'd come listen to the Jack play, lose money in another game, win it back, lose it again, all the while talking more than Bill was used to. 

One of the nights, the air went thick and the sky threatened to turn. Instead of sending Bill rushing home, Amos offered to shelter in his tent for a while, so they moved their game there. However, right as Bill laid a winning card down, Amos tried to move in and kiss him, causing Bill to shove him away in a panic. 

"Are you mad?! Don't fucking touch me! Nobody touches me!"

He tried to leave, but Amos blocked his way, saying 'My mistake. It won't happen again, but don't go getting yourself killed for it.' 

So instead, Bill asked if they could just go back to playing and forget it happened– so that's what they did, staying up until the threat passed and Amos fell asleep, his cards still in his hand. 

Bill looked him over for a while. Then, becoming uncomfortable, he left for the chapel in the dark. 

He'd only just entered when he heard someone follow him in. Seeing who, his lip curled. 

"Get out of here, Alfred." 

"Your mother's wide awake worrying for you, William."  

Bill wasn't interested in games. Not in this place. He walked up to Alfie and shoved him. Demanding he get out, this holy place was not for him. 

Only amused by this, Alfie shoved past Bill and began knocking artwork off the walls, off of pedestals, pushing Bill over the edge. He tried to attack Alfie, who got him on the ground and, enraged, began beating him with a brass crucifix he pulled from the wall. 

Pinned and unable to fight off the more-savage-than-usual attack, Bill noticed movement under the door of the back room and cried out to the preacher for help, but the movement went still. 

Finally, Alfie became winded long enough for Bill to wedge himself under one of the pews, and Alfie gave up, tossing the weapon to the floor and leaving. 

Bleeding horribly on the cold floor, Bill crawled out of his hiding place and went to the door, calling again to the preacher. 

"You heard me," he slurred. "You heard me, why didn't you help me?" 

A feeble voice replied "My son, what could I have done?" 

Bill had lived with anger most of his life, but never like this. He pounded his torn hands on the door, screaming how he'd been lied to. 

Then, barricading the door with one of the fallen pedestals, he soaked the floor with lamp oil, lighting a match as the preacher begged and weakly rattled the blocked door.

Bill left the church, and the man inside, to burn, walking himself home, where he'd find his mother wide awake, sewing by the fire. When he entered, she went to him in a panic, asking what had happened. 

"I think you know," Bill answered, holding onto her. "I think you know everything he's done to me. Even the parts that make you feel sick. Don't you, Mother?" 

Flossie went quiet for a moment, then tearfully asked: 

"Bill, what would you have me do? I love you both with all my heart." 

At that, Bill scoffed, and smeared his own blood across her horrified face, leaving her there to weep.

He went to his room and retrieved a gun, giving plenty of thought to busting down Alfie's door and ending everything. No, not good enough. Then, he put the barrel to his own temple. 

Not good enough. 

Instead, he cleaned and patched himself up as best he could, collected a few things and went back to Amos's tent, waking him up by climbing over him, causing him to nearly holler at Bill's sudden change in appearance, but Bill silenced him with the kiss he'd refused, paying no mind to the blood in his mouth. 

"Your people are leaving, right?" He asked. "Get me out of here."

Amos didn't understand one bit, but Bill's appearance was enough explanation for now. He helped the other man disguise himself and come away with the rest of the caravan. 

It would be a couple of days before he'd dare ask Bill what his plan was, to which he answered, a little wild-eyed. 

"I'll be back," he said. "That town is my birthright. Those folk need protection. I can save them– and I have people to bury, but I need help." 

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SYWTW Masterlist

[[MASTERLIST UNDER CONSTRUCTION! SOME LINKS WON'T FUNCTION]]

Hello! I'm B (she/her), an author and fairly active single-wip writeblr working with themes such as character-driven horror, historical-fiction, whump, as well as various complicated romantic, platonic and familial relationships.

I'm providing a masterlist of the various tags on my blog (beneath the read more) for easy navigation. I always interact and am always looking for writer friends, so don't be afraid to reach out.

Character Tags

-Main Characters-

#◇ 'long way down to the bottom of the river' (sally)

#◇ 'losing grip of what i thought i knew' (martha)

#◇ 'are these vultures overhead?' (sylvester)

#◇ 'baby lion lost his teeth' (john-ira)

#◇ 'try a little topsy-turvy' (prudence)

#◇ 'delicate in every way but one' (annie)

#◇ 'i belong to here' (rosfridur)

#◇ 'i've taken a week to feel free' (bill)

#◇ 'melodies and trees hang by my side' (amos)

-Secondary Characters- (WIP)

#◇ 'every little hour that i spend' (orie)

#◇ 'for every wrong you did to me' (kate)

#◇ 'when does the reason become the blame?' (simeon)

#◇ 'cause she's just like the weather' (flossie)

#◇ 'help me hurt you' (alfie)

Ship Tags

#♡ 'wherever you go please take me' ⁻ (john x prudence)

#♡ 'dont you hear me howling babe' (sylvester x rosfridur)

#♡ 'moments before i hit the ground' (martha x annie)

#♡ 'star hopping lover' (bill x amos)

#♡ 'if the sun stops waking up over the fields ' (simeon x flossie)

Setting Tags (WIP)

#setting (sywtw)

#location ~ foundling creek

#location ~ the puck home

#location ~ platton

#location ~ the howley home

#location ~ the bawdy gal

Writeblr Tags

#my writing (sywtw)

#snippet (sywtw)

#soundtrack (sywtw)

#writeblr

#whump writeblr

#historical fiction writing

#writing resources

#♤ ooc answers

#♤ ic answers

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