#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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Orie Wallace - Backstory

CW: Contains graphic descriptions of gore and death which could be potentially upsetting.

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The youngest of two sons born to a farming family of no affiliation, Orville 'Orie' Wallace as a boy was described as being quiet and clever but not without vinegar.

Having no extended family nearby, and fortunate soil for growing much of the year, the family seldom needed outside interaction, and bothered none.

Unfortunately, in spite of this, one night when Orie was barely a teenager, the wrong people would happen upon the homestead and attempt to rob them of what little they owned.

Outnumbered, Orie's father and brother were killed trying to defend all that they had-- and his mother for going at the intruders upon seeing what they'd done.

Orie, the only one to hide, was the only one to survive.

Growing up, the boys' mother and father had told them what to do and where to go should anything happen to the both of them.

Their father had an older half-brother. A good man who'd gone north to seek his fortune back before Orie had even been born. In a hollow in their bedpost, they'd hidden directions, a letter and enough physical money to get both boys up north to their uncle. Being that it was only him now, Orie bought his own passage and hid the rest in his hat for when he arrived.

In the over-a-decade since he'd gone, Jamie Wallace had become a beloved resident of the tiny town of Foundling Creek, an appraiser for the ruling Scavengers gang, lead by a Mr. Step Orlov. He researched and studied their finds, making sure they sold what ought to be sold and kept what ought to be kept.

He was older than Orie expected and had no wife or children of his own. His little home and workshop was cluttered in a way that suggested he spent his every waking hour on his work. However, once Orie arrived, with the face of his father and a bleak explanation, he gladly made room in his space for the boy.

Orie would spend the few final years of his childhood in Foundling Creek, apprenticing for his uncle and even bonding with a couple of the youths of the town, though always keeping the social circle rather small.

Not long into adulthood, he married one of these few friends, a local girl named May Harris. She was quiet and sweet, but never afraid to return his sarcasm and not one to put up with his gloom. The young couple moved into a house on an adjacent street from the shop, with Orie still working for his uncle to provide for the both of them.

The day Sally Puck arrived in Foundling Creek, May Wallace was one of the few to have reported seeing her, a frightened young woman, muddied from head-to-toe, emerging from the far fields crying and babbling nonsense. Many were fearful of her, but the Orlovs themselves insisted on sheltering her in their own home, up in the woods a ways.

Immediately after, Step Orlov, his son Lee and Sally all disappeared, the Orlov's housekeeper claiming the home had been abandoned. The town had to adapt, Jamie Wallace himself passively taking on Step's role in his stead, though the Scavengers would suffer for it.

And so, when the strange young woman reappeared nearly a year later, now living in the Orlov's old house with the housekeeper, the Orlov men still gone, umors of murder came fast, with Orie being one of the first to defend the stranger.

"If she did kill those men, may I have the honor of being among the first to go and thank her?" he asked. "Let's be honest with ourselves; nobody liked the damned Orlovs."

He even went on to support her joining the Scavengers the following year. Filling his busy uncle's shoes at the workshop, he saw how much help the gang needed since the loss of the Orlovs, despite being unable to miss them.

At home, the Wallace's had more to be concerned with. After nearly a half-decade of quiet married life, May Wallace became pregnant, something which excited the entire town nearly as much as the couple themselves.

Though they'd been preparing for the possibility of a child for a few years now, Orie still took it upon himself to put in extra time at the shop, trying to earn a bit more pay and resources to help in the coming months. (Despite his uncle's offer to simply help the young couple with his own savings, Orie wanted to work for it.)

Then, one night, as he kept himself working long after Jamie had gone up to bed and the shop had gone dark save for the singular lamp Orie worked under, he'd find himself too comforted in his work, too busy to notice an uncomfortable shift in the air, a telltale scent.

It wasn't until he could hear distant voices outside, rhythmic yet unintelligible, that he clued in to what was wrong.

Cracking open the window he'd see the moon a crimson sliver, the night sky turned to plum and the voices through the trees became clearer. Members of the Twelfth, out on parade, calling, singing and coaxing the unhearing out of hiding.

Orie woke his uncle in a panic, saying that he'd stayed later than he thought and now May was home all on her own with a bleeding sky overhead. After trying futilely to calm his nephew, tell him that they'd both be safer staying where they were, he grabbed his gun and agreed to run home with Orie to get to May.

It was only a short run, and the two men made it without drawing any unwanted attention, but when they got in, they found the house unlocked and empty.

Hopefully assuming May had caught the storm early, and gone to a friend's house so as to not be alone, Jamie and Orie would have to wait until morning to find out.

But when day broke, and townspeople unbarred their doors and went about their day, no one seemed to know where May was.  Members of the Scavengers and a few other townsfolk arranged a search party, scanning the surrounding area for the missing woman, but only found evidence of the Twelfth's little late-night excursion.

For three days they searched for her, though hope had diminished before the first day had passed. Finally, local farmer Joseph Poole let the Scavengers know that he had found poor May in the woods behind his property.

Her body had been tangled up in the shrubbery, completely pulled apart at the center, flesh and bowels draped upon twigs-- her unborn child plucked from her stomach and placed in her posed arms.

Upon being told by the Scavengers, Orie attempted to go and see her, but was held back by his uncle and Jimmy Boorman, saving him from the horrible sight.

May and the baby were buried side-by-side behind the town church. Unable to bear being alone in the house that had always been theirs, Orie moved back into the shop with Jamie, throwing himself even more into his work.

Locals tried to keep reaching out to the new widow, and he'd usually play along, but would retreat back into himself immediately after, and none could blame him.

Carrying on, only really seen for business or events, Orie was one day bringing a large bag of items in to the factory (Scavenger hq) and sitting inside waiting for the time of his meeting when a little, yellow-haired girl, no older than three, crept around the corner and stood there staring from a few feet away.

So, going into his bag, he took out a little tin train engine, pushing it across the floor to her. Taking it, her face lit up and she immediately began running it back and forth across the 2nd floor railing, getting Orie to laugh for the first time in a while.

When the girl's mother came to retrieve her, it was none other than Sally Puck. He'd heard that she'd taken in a foundling from the river a while back, but had only seen glimpses of her. Sally was apologetic, but he told her the little one had made his day.

From then on, whenever he'd visit, he'd often track down Sally somewhere in the building, giving her a toy or a book from the shop, simply saying "For your girl."

Another couple of years went by quietly, thought the town had begun to feel the effects of the Scavengers running out of resources, having Jamie Wallace taking up his second job on the field, leaving Orie to work overtime at the shop most nights.

This, unfortunately, would only get harder. One winter afternoon, a wagon full of Scavengers were expected to return after journeying to new territory.

They returned on time, alright, but in a panic, having stumbled upon a wretch mistaken for a horse. Suley, a young member of thirteen, had been thrown from the wagon and needed to be carried to the doctors, but there was worse.

Jamie Wallace was dead. They'd brought his body back to destroy it, and upon seeing it, gored in the back of the wagon, Orie merely kicked the back wheel and walked away.

Stopping him, Sally reached out asking what he needed to help at the time, to which he coldly responded 'I need to get to work, clearly.'

From there, Orie wasted no time on mourning. He took over full control of the shop, becoming the sole appraiser for the Scavengers. Friends tried for a few months to reach out, but he wouldn’t budge from his unfeeling acceptance, so everyone moved on.

As Sally Puck began to slowly take on a leadership role in the Scavengers with her out-of-the-box ideas for the gang's direction, Orie was one of her most constant supporters, and when she took the great risk of attempting to establish a business relationship with the nearby city of Opportunity, she chose Orie as one of a select few to accompany her, trusting his knowledge of physical money and trade.

Within a few years, Foundling Creek would rise to much greater power. Trading with a small city brought them a plethora of new resources, allowing them to take new territory, make new allies (as well as enemies) and better arm the Scavengers themselves.

The woman who'd appeared out of nowhere, met first with suspicion and even murder accusations, had now become a leader and even a hero to the citizens of Foundling Creek, and there was no one she trusted to do his job like she trusted Orie.

They'd become dear friends, Orie being one of few who were welcome to come around Sally's homestead uninvited and would sometimes be teased for his quick willingness to do any favour for Sally or for her three children.

Though it was difficult to break through his gloomy demeanor, he seemed to get genuine joy from Sally's kids, who absolutely adored bothering him.

He was someone Martha could always go to for help picking apart any of her large thoughts and curiosities, he allowed a young Sylvester to go out behind the shop and smash damaged or otherwise useless finds against the wall to destress (explaining that he'd done it himself a few times)-- and he had a notable bond with John Ira, who looked up to Orie and over the years asked him for help with things such as how to cut his own hair, how to shave, how to dress well, et cetera, and scared a similar, sarcastic sense of humor with Orie.

Sally even went to him a couple of times, asking him to teach her boys about 'men's things' (something he was very unhappy about having to attempt.)

By the time they were grown, they could all say Orie had been an important part of their growing up-- something the man, who'd never gotten to have children of his own, couldn't deny being touched by.

Over the decades, Orie has only become more valuable in his job. Still living alone in the shop, he often needs to be beckoned out of hiding by those who care about him, but most of the town consider him essential, even if a bit of a famous grump.

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Another little preview that gives the 'whumperflies' 😊

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I'll be honest this is one of my favourite lines I've written so far.

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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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Eva Anker - Backstory

(CW: Contains mentions of consensual incest, death and child abuse/neglect. I have attempted to write the character's story in an unbiased way to better understand her, but I do not wish to romanticize or justify these actions in any way.)

By the time Eva was a young woman, her mother had died-- and Eva, herself, had become a recluse. She spent most of her hours in the parlor, playing the piano, which kept her tremors under control and quieted her mind.

°°°

Having been born with a mild movement disorder, Eva and her mentally ill mother were both subject to years of medical abuse at the hands of Eva's own father, a renowned pharmacist.

While her younger brother and sister, born without any noticeable afflictions, had become socialites, hosting regular parties abd events, Eva would not attend. Or, if forced, would be a dark and miserable presence in the room which none would bother with.

Very shortly after their mother's death and days before Eva's twenty-first birthday, the children’s father would introduce them to Frederik Gorecki, a young man close in age to Eva.

Though pretty-faced and mild mannered, Frederik was awkward and couldn't socialize successfully with the younger Anker children, who already had a bitter suspicion about him from the moment they saw his features.

He insisted, instead, on sitting in on Eva while she practiced her hours of piano. He revealed to Eva that, much like her, he wasn't one for dancing, as his poor coordination made him a target in his youth. So, Eva suggested they practice together, shuffling awkwardly about the parlor where Eva genuinely smiles for the first time in ages.

During Eva's following birthday celebration, Willem Anker Sr. would make an announcement which would solidify many suspicions. Frederik was his illegitimate son and would be recognized as an Anker henceforth.

Though few were surprised; the boy looked like an Anker, Eva felt tricked. The two had bonded in the days he'd been their guest and he never thought to tell her.

Still, she couldn’t keep up the silent treatment for long. As Frederik returned each day to listen to her play, she slowly began opening up and befriending him again.

However, never truly having any strong familial bond in her life, Eva perverted and displaced the boundaries of this. Slowly, her behavior towards her half-brother became more and more romantic and physical-- and Frederik, weak-willed and himself desperate for some sort of bond within this new family, did not resist.

Months went by like this, with nobody caring enough to suspect a thing, until Eva's belly began to grow. When this was pointed out to Eva's father, she was violently accosted until she confessed the truth, at which point she was shut away in her room.

Taking pity on her, Eva's sister, Alice, revealed to her a plot their father and brother had to get Frederik sent away by framing him for stealing from the family business... and that they'd been trying to feed Eva abortifacients in her meals.

Defiant, Eva broke herself out of her confinement and foiled her family's plot by going out and publicly declaring that she proudly carried Frederik Anker's child, a proclamation which would have the brother and sister duo both exiled from Opportunity with a wagon and a pistol, as was tradition. The Anker family reputation was left in shambles.

Not wanting to risk being known, the pair traveled as far west as they could suffer, eventually settling in a tiny town where the locals were kind enough to help them settle in, under the misconception that they were a young married couple in need of shelter. Frederik was given a job at the local mill and they were set up with a shack some of the local men helped fix up.

Though they struggled to adjust to their new station, they did alright for themselves. And, one late November night, Eva gave birth to a seemingly-healthy son, named Sylvester, from Frederik's fondness for Latin.

Eva, immediately uncomfortable with motherhood, left much of the baby's care to both Frederik and some of the local women who offered their help. And it was them who would come to point out when the baby was late to hit certain milestones, but the young couple ignored it.

Life went on like this until the months before their son was to turn one year old. Tragedy came as Frederik and a handful of other men from the mill all came down with cholera.

Within days, Frederik was blue-skinned and deathly ill. He barricaded himself away in one of the tiny rooms of the cabin, refusing to let Eva in 'in case [she] should then infect the boy', who was still breastfed.

Eva was furious. She wanted to be with Frederik, not locked out with a crying baby whose safety seemed to be Frederik's only concern.

Without any care, Frederik died a few days later, locked in that same room.

Eva's anger was virulent. She had given up her entire life to be with this man who swore to take care of her. How dare he leave her now? Refuse care for the sake of some feeble child?

Once the townspeople came to help her bury Frederik and clean the room where he spent his last days, Eva once again became the shutaway she'd been before. She took a small job at one of the shops to keep fed and warm, but all her other hours were spent shut away with her son, weeping or sitting in a dispassionate state.

While she made sure all her child's needs were met, he was fed and clothed, she couldn’t bring herself to care for him. Ignoring when he cried or once even putting him outside in the cold for several minutes until her guilt got the best of her and she brought him back in.

This, of course, would only get harder. Once Sylvester was roughly two years of age, it quickly became apparent there was something wrong with him. Much like Eva, he was slow to learn to walk and do most things for himself, but his hands had begun to shake far worse than hers ever had. He struggled to pick up a toy, put food in his own mouth, or even gesture.

Over the years, this only became more apparent, and though Eva couldn't help her disdain for the imperfect child she'd been left with, she managed to get better at faking it. She began to go out a little more, and her son appeared fed, clean and clothed despite needing help with all of the above.

However, her heart remained ever unavailable. The boy, frustrated by his own body, was prone to frequent meltdowns which Eva would simply ignore. This led to him turning his anger either on himself, or outward on objects, animals or even other children. And she would not comfort him if he were sad or hurt, only refueling the cycle of frustration, meltdowns, violence.

This would be the first six years of Sylvester Anker's life. And Eva, unable to recognize the part she played, looked at this infirm child with a prevalence for outbursts and a failure to bond, and decided she was being punished for her immoral behaviors.

She finally felt disgusted by what she'd done, but could not be rid of the reminder that slept in her bed, that relied on her to survive.

A year or so prior, when a woman at the shop had told her of a river back east, where people gave their children and babies, unlikely to survive this harsh world, to the spirit of a woman who'd care for their souls, Eva thought the idea absurd and cruel, and put it from her mind.

Until the day a letter came.

Two Railway Jacks, paid handsomely for their dedication, had tracked Eva down to bring her a letter all the way from Opportunity, from her sister.

Their father had died-- and their brother's heart had warmed to the idea of accepting Eva back home. But there was a single condition; she had to come alone.

Eva spent only a few days thinking it over. Frederik was gone, but the child, the proof remained. Were he able-bodied she could try to hand him off, but what work could he do? And even still, who would be willing to put in the extra care the poor thing required?

As she watched the little one play his own adapted games in the corner of their little shack, she knew she'd only be leaving him to suffer, but that she'd like her mind like her mother before her, if she stayed.

So the following dawn, without warning, she rented a horse for the old wagon she'd arrived in, filled it up with what belongings she had, took her son and left.

Sylvester was confused, yet excited by the journey, coming out from his withdrawn state to point out sights he'd never seen before. Eva even let the boy pick out candies and other treats the few times they'd stop for supplies or to rest.

And in the final place they stopped, Eva would pick up another small purchase from the town doctor. A basic bottle of sedative.

By the time they made it to the outskirts of Foundling Creek, the air had begun to stink of old blood and Eva knew she had little time. Sylvester had always needed to trust Eva with what he ate and drank, so he gave no complaint when she had him drink the sedative.

Then, she took him by the hand and led him up the river, to where the water began to rush fast between the trees that grew denser the further you went, to where you'd begun to see the occasional baby shoe, toy or basket embedded in the bank... where the Washerwoman hid away.

Eva had hoped he'd be weakened or sleeping by the time they arrived, but Sylvester was visibly fearful of the fast-moving water. And as the sky began to blotch with red and the air hummed, Eva could hesitate no longer.

Still wanting to spare him the pain and terror, she grabbed the boy and attempted to drown him in the river with her own hands, but he gave a great struggle and his screaming and pleading drew the attention of a young, armed woman

The sight being rather obvious, the stranger threw down her gun and begged Eva to give her the child, rather than harm him.

Unfortunately, the cries had drawn not only the attentions of the stranger, but had brought the Washerwoman up from her crevice-- and her bellowing and the shadow of her form downriver were the most terrible thing Eva had ever known.

She looked at the boy in her grasp, looked at the woman and said simply:

"He will follow me."

Before tossing him into the rapids..

The last thing she'd see before tearing off into the woods, was the poor woman leaping into the water after Sylvester, and Eva figured them both dead.

When she returned to Opportunity, it was as promised. Alice had since married and Eva was taken into her new home. When asked about the child she bore, she simply said "He wasn't well. He did not survive."

Unfortunately, she'd soon know that people are not quick to forget. Eva found herself looked at with disgust wherever she went, and knew she'd have no chance of ever marrying, especially once a rumor spread that she'd attempted to murder her own inbred child, who was now being raised by an infamous outerfolk woman, further soiling her reputation.

In the years since, Eva has been earning what little income she could, playing piano for the city's arts academy, but she mostly lives off the mercy of her younger sister.

Still residing in her home, Eva is as she always was, a shutaway, forever bitter to those around her and maddeningly paranoid that the only child she ever bore will one day come for her.

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Angst - “I had to clean up your mess. Again.” John and Sly?

I was really eager to do this one, as I've been in a angsty, violent mood and this has been sitting for months in my inbox. Lol.

It's first-drafty, but I like it. Hope you do, too.

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Words: 1'345

Characters: Sylvester, John-Ira, Some random lady idk.

Setting: Opportunity, 1900

Rating: T? Cw: Violence mention, death mention, cussing.

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Sylvester pulled his arms about himself in the alleyway, narrow enough that the sagging pipe from the opposite wall dripped down on the toe of his outstretched boot, ice cold even through the dark leather, but he just watched it through bleary vision, his left eye still stinging and pouring over.

As fast-paced footsteps approached from the alley’s back end, Sylvester dropped and turned his head away, already knowing what would come.

“Again.” John’s voice was a low, agitated hiss as he appeared, standing with one hand up on the lowest platform of the fire escape which congested the space, all Sylvester could see from the edge of his vision.

“Again, I must clean up your goddamn mess, Sly? Again?”

Sylvester looked back up. As John stood over him, he looked more focused on wiping blood from his upper lip, which already coated the back of his hand and stained the cuff of his sleeve beneath his coat.

“I’m sorry.”

“Fucking sorry.” John scoffed, futilely shaking his hand out at his side. “Well, that’s perfect, then.”

“Why do they have to laugh?” Sylvester tugged his fingers back through his hair, feeling his jaw shake through his thumbs. “—I already know. They don’t have to laugh at me. Why do they--?”

“No, no,” John staggered forward, taking Sylvester by the shoulders of his coat and yanking him up to his feet. “Get the hell up. We don’t have time for this.”

Sylvester stood willingly, meeting his brother’s eye with a glassy stare.

“I can laugh at myself just fine.” He tittered with a tilt of his head. “I—I…”

“You can’t do this shit, Sylvester.” John gave his coat collar a hard shake. ��Not here. Not in this city. I am your younger brother, why am I always the one dealing with the cataclysm that is you?”

“I’m sorry!” Sylvester growled, and John responded by shoving him against the wall.

“You understand that we are borrowing time, you ass?” he asked. "Our mother made a deal two decades ago and we have to honor it in her absence. All it will take is one big man with a big name to decide we aren’t welcome here anymore and that’s it… And if they see this?" 

He paused, baring his bottom teeth. “—I promised Prudence I’d never stop coming back. We lose our deal with Opportunity, I’ll get myself killed trying to keep that promise. Tim Appeldoorn already swore he’d see me hung if I’m caught outside the western district. Do you know where the western district is, Sylvester? Look down, because it’s not here.” 

Sylvester turned his eyes down for a moment, then curled his lip. 

"Fuck him," he said. "Fuck all these people.

"I couldn't agree more, but that's not how this works." 

John let Sylvester go, swiping again at the blood that would not cease to run down his chin, as well as gathering in his throat. 

"Sly, I've been a no-good thief since I was eleven years old. You think my fingers don't itch like hell around these people who have more today than our people will have in their lifetimes? Still, I am on my best goddamned behavior the entire time I'm here…" 

He gestured vaguely to the street. "Martha? Martha's so subtle, I often forget we even brought her with us. Everyone is able to keep their heads down and do their jobs but you, Sylvester." 

"You’re not looked at like I am, here!" Sylvester snapped, his head trembling atop his neck as he spoke. "They look at me and they know. They know my blood and how it's soiled. They see how my body fails me and they know why!" 

He held his hands out from his chest, seeing how John glanced down at them and quickly away, jaw shifting uncomfortably.

"I can see it!" Sylvester went on. "When they look at me, I can see how much they know and it's degrading." 

"So stay home, Sly." John's voice was flat and unsympathetic. "You were the one who begged to join the scavengers. I understand you wanted to… prove yourself, prove that you could do it, but you so clearly fucking can't." 

Sylvester winced, turning his head down. 

"I… I can do this, John. I can. I'm sorry, I just…" 

He paused to rub at the freshly torn skin on his cheek which had quit burning and begun to itch, until John quickly yanked that hand away.

"Don't rub at it, idiot. What are you doing?" 

Sylvester grunted. "The bitch nearly took my eye out." 

"Well… We ought to get out of here, man. I paid the fellow off– not before he gave me a good wallop, mind you, but he won't talk." 

"And the woman?" Sylvester sniffed as he looked back over.

"You…" John stared back, eyes flicking back and forth across Sylvester’s. 

"You killed her, Sly. She's dead." 

Sylvester gave an incredulous laugh. "No, I didn't." 

He waited a moment, watching John press his lips with a subtle shake of his head. 

"I… I didn't do that." 

"Let's go, man." 

John reached for Sylvester’s arm, only to have it shoved away. 

"I didn't do that, John! I just scared her a little, that's all." 

"You crushed her windpipe, Sly. The man is gonna– gonna tell the police he found her like that, but she… You know." 

"I…" Sylvester glanced over at the wall, watching that same pipe dripping a slow, gradual hole into the worn-out pavement beneath it. He stared until his vision glazed over. 

"I just scared her a little, I swear, I–" 

"Hey." John put a hand back on his arm. "Come on, Sly. We gotta go." 

Sylvester looked back, taking a moment to refocus his eyes on his brother's face, even as everything trembled. 

"I never meant to…" His voice cracked. 

John sighed, pulling Sylvester in and hugging him tightly enough to somewhat steady his quivering. 

"I…" All the bitterness had gone from Sylvester’s voice, replaced, instead, with something fragile.

"There is so much that is wrong with me, brother," he said. 

"I know," John nodded against his shoulder. "But I love you the same." 

He patted his back with a firm, flat palm, then leaned away. 

"Let’s go home, alright?" 

Sylvester nodded, following John as he inched them out towards the street. However, the moment they stepped into the streetlight, his arm shot back, blocking Sylvester from going further. 

Sylvester craned his neck over his brother’s shoulder, catching the shadow and half the skirts of a woman standing frozen on the walkway. 

"Heavens." The woman spoke, her voice incredibly hesitant. "Are you alright, sir? Your nose–" 

John glanced about the empty street around them. 

"Just fine," he said. "Beautiful evening, isn't it? Might I suggest you try walking that way? I'd wager the moon shines even more brightly over there." 

A short pause came, followed by an uncertain "Indeed." 

She cleared her throat, then stepped from the lamplight, headed back the opposite direction as John waved her off, turning on his heels the second her shadow slipped from view. 

"Not that way," he said, eyes traveling in a zig-zag up the walls. He then gestured with a tilt of his head towards the fire escape. 

"Up. Go, these roofs connect." 

He squeezed past Sylvester and already had two feet up the steps of the ladder when Sylvester finally spoke up again. 

"I thought you weren't supposed to set foot in this part of the city?" He asked. "How do you know..?" 

John cast his gaze up to the lip of the rooftop, edged out in moonlight. Then, looking back to his brother, he clicked his tongue. 

"My feet never touch the ground," he answered. "Come on." 

With a grunt, John skipped a couple of rungs, hoisting himself up onto the first grated platform. 

Sylvester scoffed, but followed suit, climbing a couple of rungs and taking his brother's outstretched hand to help hoist him up the rest of the way. 

"Your best behavior, hm?" He muttered when they both got their footing. 

"Shut your goddamned mouth, Sylvester."