Through this cycle of fantasy stories, I’m exercising in tandem my two main passions in life: building systems and creating narratives. Every upcoming scenario, which turns into a short story, requires me to program new systems into my Living Narrative Engine, which is a browser-based platform for playing through immersive sims, RPGs and the likes. Long gone are the scenarios that solely required me to figure out how to move an actor from a location to another, or to pick up an item, or to read a book. Programming the systems so I could play through the chicken coop ambush involved about five days of constant work on the codebase. I’ve forgotten all that was necessary to add, but off the top of my head:
A completely new system for non-deterministic actions. Previously, all actions succeeded, given that the code has a very robust system for action discoverability: unless the context for the action is right, no actor can execute them to begin with. I needed a way for an actor to see “I can hit this bird, but my chances are 55%. I may not want to do this.” Once you have non-deterministic actions in a scenario, it becomes unpredictable, with the actors constantly having to maneuver a changing state, which reveals their character more.
I implemented numerous non-deterministic actions:
Striking targets with blunt weapons, swinging at targets with slashing weapons, thrusting piercing weapons at targets. None of those ended up taking part of this scenario, because the actors considered that keeping the birds alive was a priority, as Aldous intended.
Warding-related non-deterministic actions: drawing salt boundaries around corrupted targets (which Aldous said originally he was going to do, but the situation turned chaotic way too fast), and extracting spiritual corruption through an anchor, which Aldous did twice in the short.
Beak attacks, only available to entities whose body graphs have beak parts (so not only chickens, but griffins, krakens, etc.). This got plenty of use.
Throwing items at targets. Bertram relied on this one in a fury. I got clever with the code; the damage caused by a thrown weapon, when the damage type is not specified, is logarithmically determined by the item’s weight. So a pipe produces 1 unit of blunt damage, and throwing Vespera’s instrument case at birds (which I did plenty during testing) would cause significant damage. Fun fact: throwing an item could have produced a fumble (96-100 result on a 1-100 throw), and that would have hit a bystander. Humorous when throwing a pipe, not so much an axe.
Restraining targets, as well as the chance for restrained targets to free themselves. Both of these got plenty of use.
A corrupting gaze. It was attempted thrice, if I remember correctly, once by the main vector of corruption and the other by that creepy one with the crooked neck. If it had succeeded, it would have corrupted the human target, and Aldous would have had to extract it out of them as well. That could have been interesting, but I doubt it would have happened in the middle of chickens flying all over.
Implementing actions that cause damage meant that I needed to implement two new systems: health and damage. Both would rely on the extensive anatomy system, which produces anatomy graphs out of recipes. What I mean about that is that we have recipes for roosters, hens, cat-girls, men, women. You specify in the recipe if you want strong legs, long hair, firm ass cheeks, and you end up with a literal graph of connected body parts. Noses, hands, vaginas exist as their own entities in this system. They can individually suffer damage. I could have gone insane with this, as Dwarf Fortress does, simulating even individual finger segments and non-vital internal organs. I may do something similar some day if I don’t have anything better to do.
Health system: individual body parts have their own health levels. They can suffer different tiers of damage. They can bleed, be fractured, poisoned, burned, etc. At an overall health level of 10%, actors enter a dying state. Suffering critical damage on a vital organ can kill creatures outright. During testing there were situations in which a head was destroyed, but the brain was still functioning well enough, so no death.
Damage system: weapons declare their own damage types and the status effects that could be applied. Vespera’s theatrical rapier can pierce but also slash, with specific amounts of damage. Rill’s practice stick only does low blunt damage, but can fracture.
Having a proper health and damage system, their initial versions anyway, revealed something troubling: simple non-armored combat with slashing weapons can slice off limbs and random body parts with realistic ease. Whenever I get to scenes involving more serious stakes than a bunch of chickens, stories are going to be terrifyingly unpredictable. Oh, and when body parts are dismembered, a corresponding body part entity gets spawned at the location. That means that any actor can pick up a detached limb and throw it at someone.
Why go through all this trouble, other than the fact that I enjoy doing it and that it distracts me from the ocean of despair that surrounds me and that I can only ignore when I’m absorbed in a passion of mine? Well, over the many years of producing stories, what ended up boring me was that I went into a scene knowing all that was going to happen. Of course, I didn’t know the specifics of every paragraph, and most of the joy went into the execution of those sentences. But often I found myself looking up at the sequences of scenes to come, and it was like erecting a building that you already knew how it was going to end up looking. You start to wonder why even bother, when you can see it clearly in your mind.
And I’m not talking about that “plotter vs. pantser” dichotomy. Pantsing means you don’t know where you’re going, and all pantser stories, as far as I recall, devolve into messes that can’t be tied down neatly by the end. And of course they’re not going to go back and revise them to the necessary extent of making something coherent out of them. As much as I respect Cormac McCarthy, one of his best if not the best written novel of his, Suttree, is that kind of mess, which turns the whole thing into an episodic affair. An extremely vivid one that left many compelling, some harrowing, images in my brain, but still.
I needed the structure, with chance for deviation, but I also needed to be constantly surprised by the execution of a scene. I wanted to go into it with a plan, only for the plan to fail to survive the contact with the enemy. That’s where my Living Narrative Engine comes in. Now, when I experience a scene, I don’t know what the conversations are going to entail. I didn’t even come up with Aldous myself: Copperplate brought him up in the first scene when making up the details of the chicken contract. It was like that whole “Lalo didn’t send you” from Breaking Bad, which ended up producing a whole series. From that mention of Aldous, after an iterative process of making the guy interesting for myself, he ended up becoming a potter-exorcist I can respect.
I went into that chicken coop not knowing anything about what was going to happen other than the plan the characters themselves had. Would they overpower the chickens and extract the corruption out of them methodically with little resistance? Would any of the extraction attempts succeed? Would any actor fly into a rage, wield their weapons and start chopping off chicken limbs while Aldous complained? Would any of the characters suffer a nasty wound like, let’s say, a beak to the eye? I didn’t know, and that made the process of producing this scene thrilling.
Also, Vespera constantly failing at everything she tried, including two rare fumbles that sent her to the straw, was pure chance. It made for a more compelling scene from her POV; at one point I considered making Aldous the POV, as he had very intriguing internal processes.
Well, the scene wasn’t all thrilling. You see, after the natural ending when that feathered bastard pecked Vespera’s ass, the scene originally extended for damn near three-fourths of the original length. People constantly losing chickens, the rooster pecking at anyone in sight, Melissa getting frustrated with others failing to hold down the chickens, Rill doing her best to re-capture the chickens that kept wrenching free from her hold. Aldous even failed bad at two extractions and had to pick up the vessel again. It was a battle of attrition, which realistically would have been in real life. I ended up quitting, because I got the point: after a long, grueling, undignified struggle, the chickens are saved, the entity is contained in the vessel, and the actors exit back to the warm morning with their heads down, not willing to speak for a good while about what they endured.
Did the scene work? I’m not sure. It turned out chaotic, with its biggest flaw maybe the repetition of attempting to catch chickens only for them to evade capture. There were more instances of this in the original draft, which I cut out. I could say that the scene was meant to feel chaotic and frustrating, and while that’s true, that’s also the excuse of those that say “You thought my story was bad? Ah, but it was meant to be bad, so I succeeded!” Through producing that scene, editing it, and rereading it, I did get the feeling of being there in that chaotic situation, trying to realistically accomplish a difficult task when the targets of the task didn’t want it completed, so if any reader has felt like that, I guess that’s a success.
I have no idea what anyone reading this short story must have felt or thought about it, but it’s there now, and I’ll soon move out to envision the next scenario.
Anyway, here are some portraits for the characters involved:
Plank walls stained deep brown, low ceiling beamed with simple timbers, two stubby roost bars mounted like a ladder on the left wall. Centered at the back sits a narrow shelf unit divided into three nesting cubbies. The floor’s covered in flattened straw and wood shavings, uneven underfoot, with two shallow bowls set directly on it. Morning light struggles through the wire-mesh opening. Corners stay shadowed; wood grain shows deep and dark. Burnt clay coats my throat with every breath.
We’re all inside now—Bertram, Aldous, “Threadscar” Melissa, Rill, and me, crowded into this glorified chicken prison. Five birds occupy the gloom: a black pullet with a crooked neck making tiny ceramic clicks from her beak, dust clinging to her pinfeathers like kiln sweepings. A copper-backed rooster with an impressive tail immediately positions himself between us and the other chickens, broad chest out like he’s got a chance. A buff hen with a startlingly pale face pecks the same exact spot in the litter, obsessive and drooping. A tiny slate-blue bantam circles the back corner.
And at the center: the speckled hen. Large, holding unnaturally still, staring straight ahead despite five humans invading her space.
The coop door scrapes shut, but the latch doesn’t catch. A finger-width gap of light. Bertram glances back at it, then scans the interior, jaw tight.
“This chicken coop of yours is way gloomier than it has any right to be,” he says.
Aldous moves closer, containment vessel cradled like glass.
“The gloom’s not aesthetic, Bertram. It’s symptomatic. The burnt-clay smell, the dim light, the way the roosting bars look wrong even though nothing’s physically changed—that’s all bleed-through from what’s anchored in the flock. Vespera, we’re starting with the speckled hen. I need you to position her exactly one handspan from the vessel’s opening when I give the word.”
The black pullet recenters its crooked neck with a sharp twitch. Click, click, click from the beak.
Melissa shifts beside me, moving into position without crowding my space. Support stance—sparring distance. Close enough to intervene.
The buff hen moves slowly across the litter, drooping like she’s sick, letting out soft clucks with a dry rasp underneath.
I move toward the speckled hen, keeping my movements fluid and deliberate. That clean focus I get before violence kicks in—except this time it’s aggressive chicken handling for occult pottery.
“I’ll hold her steady when you’re ready, Aldous,” I say, closing the distance smoothly. “Just tell me when to position her.”
The speckled hen holds that unnatural stillness, staring ahead while a milky film slides across her eyes—a second lid, slow and wrong.
Then, she jerks sideways, whole body yanked like an invisible wire pulled her. Her head swivels with mechanical precision, scanning. Seeking a target.
The hen’s eyes lock onto Melissa, and I catch the detail I missed before: concentric rings in the iris, like growth rings in cut wood. The gaze holds. Something passes between the hen and the veteran. Pressure drop before a storm.
Melissa doesn’t flinch. Her jaw sets, eyes narrowing, and whatever spiritual rot the hen’s pushing at her hits resistance. The veteran stands her ground.
The copper-backed rooster explodes into motion. Plants himself beside the speckled hen. His beak opens. Burnt clay rolls out on his breath—I taste it.
Then he lunges at Rill. The rooster jumps, surprisingly high for something that size, and drives his beak straight into Rill’s torso. Right over her heart. The impact lands wet and precise.
Rill staggers back. Her face registers the pain in a tight grimace, but her eyes stay locked on the rooster. Combat-ready despite the blood starting to seep through her linen tunic.
The black pullet’s making excited clicks now, rapid-fire ceramic taps that echo off the coop walls.
The slate-blue bantam explodes from the back corner, tiny legs churning through litter. She launches herself at Melissa, but the veteran sidesteps clean. The bantam’s beak snaps shut on empty air.
The buff hen, who’s been pecking obsessively at the same spot this whole time, suddenly lifts her head. Looks around like she’s just waking up. Then something clicks behind those pale eyes and she snaps alert.
She charges Bertram. The buff hen lunges with more speed than her drooping posture suggested possible, beak aimed at his face. Bertram throws his hands up, stumbling back—the hen overshoots, loses her balance completely, and hits the ground in a tumble of dusty feathers.
Bertram’s got his pipe out now, pulled from under his apron, gripped like a club.
“This was an ambush!” He edges closer to the fallen bird, keeping the pipe raised. “I guess the saying is true—no plan survives contact with the enemy!”
He drops down, gets his hands on the buff hen before she can right herself, and pins her. She thrashes but he’s got weight and leverage.
Aldous moves immediately. Not rushed—methodical. He crosses to Bertram and the restrained hen with the containment vessel still cradled carefully, his eyes already assessing angles and positioning.
“Bertram, keep holding her. I’m going to help her upright, and then we’re doing the extraction immediately while you’ve got her restrained. This is the best chance we’ll get.”
He sets the vessel down carefully, then gets his hands under the buff hen’s body. They wrestle the buff hen upright, Bertram maintaining his grip while Aldous adjusts her position with almost ritualistic precision.
Melissa lunges forward, going for the copper-backed rooster—the biggest active threat now that Bertram has the buff restrained. But the coop erupts into chaos of wings and movement. The speckled hen jerks sideways exactly as Melissa commits, the rooster pivots, and suddenly they’ve traded positions in that split-second scramble.
Melissa’s hands close around the speckled hen. She pins the wings tight against the bird’s body with both hands, adjusting her grip with practiced efficiency.
“Got her instead.” Melissa’s voice cuts through the noise, steady. “Aldous, proceed with your extraction. I’ll hold this one.”
The speckled hen thrashes, and that wrongness radiating from her intensifies. I can feel it like heat off sun-baked stone.
The rooster’s loose. He’s already drawn blood. Melissa’s got the primary anchor, Bertram’s locked down the buff—I need to handle this copper-backed bastard.
I move toward him, smooth and deliberate. I go in like I would in a clinch—hands sure, wings pinned, no room for him to spin. Mrow, let’s see if restraining a possessed chicken gives me the same edge as actual combat.
The rooster sees me coming. His head snaps toward me, tailfeathers flaring, and he sidesteps with surprising speed. I adjust my angle, reach for him, but he evades. Clean pivot, low to the ground, and he’s out of range before my hands close on feathers.
Rill, blood seeping through her tunic where the rooster pierced her, lunges forward. She’s going for him with both hands extended, trying to pin his wings the way Melissa demonstrated with the speckled hen.
The copper-backed rooster twists away from her too, wings beating hard. Rill’s hands grasp at empty air, and the rooster plants himself three feet back, chest out, guarding the space between us and Melissa’s captive.
The speckled hen’s thrashing intensifies. Melissa’s got solid grip, wings pinned tight, but the hen twists with unnatural strength, and the veteran’s hands slip just enough. The hen wrenches free, tumbling to the litter in an explosion of dust and burnt-clay stench.
The copper-backed rooster sees it. His head snaps toward the escaped hen, and then he’s airborne, launching himself straight at Melissa with focused rage. He drives his beak into her torso, right over the ribs. The impact makes a dull thud against her leather cuirass. Melissa doesn’t even flinch.
Movement from the shadows. The slate-blue bantam rushes out, tiny and fast, making a beeline for Bertram. She launches herself at him, beak aimed for exposed skin, but Bertram shifts his weight without losing his grip on the buff hen. The bantam’s strike goes wide, her beak snapping shut on empty air.
The buff hen thrashes harder, clucking with that raspy edge, losing feathers as she strains against Bertram’s hold. He pins her tighter. She can’t break free.
The tanner keeps his eyes narrowed, head angled to the side like he’s expecting another strike.
“Aldous,” he says, steady despite the bantam circling for another pass, “I would appreciate if you extracted whatever you need to extract out of this one, my friend.”
Aldous positions the vessel one handspan from the buff hen’s head. Hands steady despite the burnt-clay choke.
“Bertram, she’s going to thrash when the extraction engages. Don’t let go, don’t adjust your grip. The gradient forms along geometric lines and any movement breaks the pattern.” His eyes sweep the coop without moving his head. “Eyes away from the opening. I’m starting now.”
He shifts the vessel’s opening closer to the hen’s face. The buff hen starts shuddering immediately—not normal thrashing but something deeper, tremors running through her entire body. A prolonged screech escapes her throat, high and wrong.
The struggle lasts seconds but feels stretched. The hen convulses, Bertram holds firm, Aldous keeps the vessel positioned with mathematical precision—and then it’s done. The buff hen goes limp in Bertram’s grip, the wrongness bleeding out of her. Whatever corruption was anchored in that bird, it’s in the vessel now.
Melissa crosses the distance to the speckled hen in three strides. She gets her hands around the bird before she can scramble away—pins the wings against the body with both hands.
The hen thrashes, making garbled sounds that don’t belong in any chicken’s throat, but the Melissa’s grip holds.
The copper-backed rooster is still the biggest threat. I’m free to handle him.
I lunge forward, hands extended to grab him before he can attack anyone else. The rooster pivots. I reach for him, but my boot catches something in the litter, uneven wood shavings or straw, and my ankle rolls. I’m going down fast, hands grasping at empty air as the ground rushes up.
I hit the floor hard. Dust and burnt clay smell explode around me. The impact knocks the breath halfway out of my lungs.
The rooster, three feet away, broad chest puffed and tailfeathers flared, clucks territorial. His head swivels, sizing up opponents.
To my right, Rill lunges forward, going for the rooster with both hands extended. She’s trying to pin his wings against his body the way Melissa showed us. The rooster twists away from her. He’s out of range before her hands close on feathers. Rill doesn’t hesitate. She goes after him again.
The rooster launches himself at her. He flies straight for her chest—same heart region where her tunic’s already bloodstained. His beak drives into her flesh with unnatural accuracy, piercing through the linen again. I hear the wet impact even from the ground.
Rill staggers but doesn’t go down. Her jaw sets tight against the pain.
The kink-necked black pullet is suddenly right there, five feet from my face. Her crooked neck cants hard to the left, and she locks eyes with me.
Click, click, click. Sharp ceramic sounds from her beak, rapid-fire and wrong.
Pressure blooms behind my eyes—cold, invasive. I brace, and it slides off like rain on stone. The pullet backs away, clicks slowing.
From the back corner—the slate-blue bantam rushes out. She launches herself at Aldous, beak aimed for exposed skin. Aldous sidesteps without looking at her directly. The bantam lands in the dust.
The buff hen shakes her head in Bertram’s grip, confused, trying weakly to free herself. The extraction pulled the wrongness out, left her just a regular chicken trying to escape a human’s hold. Bertram struggles to scramble to his feet.
“Everyone still alive?” He glances around the coop. “What feathered demon are we handling next?”
He spots me on the ground, and his eyebrows go up. He rushes over, reaches down, grabs me by the front of my shirt even though that hand is still holding his pipe. The buff hen squawks indignantly under his arm.
“Floor ain’t made of catnip as far as I know, miss. Get up.”
He hauls me to my feet with more force than finesse. I find my balance, dust and wood shavings clinging to my clothes.
Aldous crosses to Melissa and the speckled hen, vessel cradled carefully, eyes already calculating angles.
He positions the containment vessel exactly one handspan from the hen’s head, where those growth-ring eyes show whatever corruption runs deepest. His hands stay steady despite the chaos still churning around us.
“Melissa, hold her firm—this is the primary vector.” His voice cuts through the burnt-clay stench without rising in volume. “The extraction will fight harder than the buff hen’s did. Don’t adjust your grip no matter how she thrashes. Eyes away. I’m extracting now.”
The speckled hen’s body goes rigid in Melissa’s grip. Then she screeches—garbled, wrong, a sound that would require vocal cords no chicken should possess. The screech scrapes against the inside of my skull like metal on glass.
Her body spasms. Not the panicked thrashing of a restrained bird—something stronger than her frame should allow. Wings strain with unnatural force. The veteran’s grip holds, tension cording through her scarred forearms.
The struggle stretches. The hen convulses, that screech rising and falling in waves that make my teeth ache. Aldous keeps the vessel positioned steady as a fixture.
Then it’s done. The wrongness bleeds out of the hen like heat dissipating into cold air. She goes limp in Melissa’s grip. Just a bird now. The burnt-clay smell doesn’t fade but the pressure it carried, that invasive spiritual rot, collapses. Melissa releases her; the hen settles onto the straw-covered floor, docile.
Melissa straightens, turns toward the copper-backed rooster who’s still loose and aggressive, chest puffed and tailfeathers flared.
I lunge for him again, movements sharp and controlled, aiming to pin his wings before he can strike. But the rooster jumps, and I’m grasping at empty air as he lands three feet away. My hands close on nothing.
The speckled hen, clean now, picks her way through the scattered bodies and debris. She avoids Rill, sidesteps Aldous’ boots, and heads straight for the coop’s entrance.
The copper-backed rooster’s head swivels, tracking movement across the coop. His eyes settle on me. That barrel chest puffs wider, hackles flaring rust-red in the dim light, and I can see the exact moment he chooses his target.
He charges. Talons churning through litter, wings half-spread for balance. I sidestep. He adjusts mid-charge, but I pivot. His beak snaps on empty air. Momentum carries him past me in a flurry of copper feathers and burnt-clay stench.
The kink-necked black pullet locks eyes with Melissa. Click, click, click. That spiritual pressure builds again. Melissa’s jaw sets, eyes narrowing. The pressure shatters. The pullet backs away.
The slate-blue bantam explodes from the shadows. Tiny legs pump through the litter as she launches herself at Bertram with surprising height. Her beak drives straight into his head—I hear the impact piercing skin.
Bertram’s hands fly to his skull, still gripping that pipe. He swings it up reflexively and cracks himself in the temple with his own weapon.
“Agh! You feathered cunt!” He releases the buff hen—she drops from under his arm, flapping indignantly to the floor—and presses both hands to his bleeding scalp. “I felt the vibration right through my gray matter!”
The buff hen shakes herself, confused and free, then waddles away.
Aldous moves. That same methodical precision he showed during the extractions, but faster now—crossing the distance to the copper-backed rooster. Not waiting for someone else to handle it.
“Hold still,” he says, reaching for the rooster with both hands angled to pin wings tight against body. “I’m not giving anyone an excuse to kill you when extraction is still possible!”
The rooster twists, wings snapping, and Aldous’ hands close on empty air. The bird plants himself three feet back, chest out, eyeing Aldous with focused aggression.
“Third time’s the charm, you feathered bastard,” I say, closing the distance fast. “Hold still so Aldous can fix you!”
I lunge at the rooster. He sidesteps—my boot catches the litter and I’m down again, dust and burnt clay exploding around me.
Rill’s shifting her attention away from the rooster. Her eyes lock onto the kink-necked black pullet instead, the one who tried to corrupt both me and Melissa with that ceramic-click gaze. She’s done chasing the copper-backed demon.
She lunges at the black pullet with both hands angled to pin its wings tight against its twisted body. The pullet’s neck cants hard to the left, beak opening for another click—but Rill’s already got her. Hands close around the bird, wings pressed flush to her sides before she can cast that corrupting gaze again.
Near the coop entrance, the large speckled hen settles into a corner. She watches the chaos with what looks like concern, head tilting like she can’t figure out why everyone’s so worked up.
The copper-backed rooster jumps, hits the wall with both talons, rebounds off the planks with surprising force, then swoops down on Aldous. Wings spread wide for the dive, beak aimed straight for his chest. The rooster pecks hard—I hear the impact against Aldous’ quilted jerkin, the dull thud of beak hitting padded fabric. The jerkin holds.
The black pullet in Rill’s grip thrashes harder, neck twitching violently, beak clicking against Rill’s hands. She’s trying to free herself with unnatural strength for something that size.
The pullet wrenches free from Rill’s hold, tumbling to the litter in an explosion of dust and that burnt-clay stench. Her crooked neck recenters with a sharp twitch—click, click—and she backs away fast, putting distance between herself and Rill’s hands.
The slate-blue bantam rushes out again from the shadows, tiny legs churning. She launches herself at Aldous, who’s still recovering from the rooster’s chest strike. The bantam’s beak drives into his exposed left arm with surgical precision. I hear the wet sound of piercing flesh.
Aldous grimaces but doesn’t cry out. Blood wells up where the bantam’s beak punctured skin.
The white-faced buff hen spots the coop door. It’s cracked open, light from the yard spilling through the gap. She clucks indignantly, ruffles her pale feathers, then waddles straight for freedom. Pushes through the opening and disappears into Aldous’ yard, leaving the coop behind.
Bertram’s got one hand pressed to his bleeding head where the bantam struck earlier. His eyes sweep the coop floor, searching. Then he spots the slate-blue bantam circling near Aldous’ feet, and his expression tightens.
He lifts his pipe-hand, the carved wood gripped tight despite the blood running down his temple.
“You accursed bunch of misbehaving poultry!”
He throws the pipe hard. It hits the slate-blue bantam square in her torso, enough force to send her tumbling through the litter. She rolls once, then scrambles upright, shaking herself with a chirp.
Aldous is approaching me, quick but controlled despite the blood sliding down his arm. He extends a hand down.
“Up—now. Rooster’s still active. I need your hands functional, not eating straw.”
I grab his hand and he hauls me to my feet. Pulled up again. Mortifying.
Melissa’s already moving, eyes locked on the kink-necked black pullet who’s been circling and clicking since she broke free from Rill’s grip. The veteran’s hands are angled low to pin the pullet’s glossy-black wings tight against her twisted body before she can cast another corrupting gaze.
She’s got her; the pullet thrashes, clicks muffled. But Melissa holds firm.
We’re bleeding for every inch, and I’m still dead weight. Rill’s chest wound seeps through her tunic. Bertram’s holding his head. Aldous’ arm drips.
The rooster’s still loose, barrel chest puffed and guarding his position like he owns this coop. And maybe he does.
The slate-blue bantam is tiny, wounded from Bertram’s thrown pipe. Better odds than the rooster. Smaller target, less dangerous, already hurting. I need to actually succeed at something.
The burnt clay smell coating my nostrils, the straw compressed under my boots, the chaos of wings and bodies and blood. This is what I’m good at. Violence with purpose. The bantam. Pin her tiny wings.
Mrow, fourth time’s the charm.
I move toward the slate-blue bantam, hands angled to grab her before she can dart back into the shadows or attack someone else.
The bantam sees me coming. She jumps—tiny legs pump hard—and twists mid-air. My hands close on empty air where she was a split-second ago. She lands three feet away, shakes her wounded body, and circles toward the shadows.
Movement beside me—Rill lunges at the bantam with both hands extended, going for the same target I just whiffed on. Her chest wound’s still bleeding but her eyes are locked on that tiny slate-blue body with focused determination.
The bantam jumps again. Rill’s hands grasp at feathers. She’s got contact, fingers closing around one wing, but the bantam thrashes hard and Rill’s footing shifts wrong in the litter. She’s going down, hands losing grip as her knees hit the straw-covered floor. The bantam wrenches free and darts away in a blur of slate-blue feathers.
Near the coop entrance, the large speckled hen takes a final look at the chaos. Then she turns and waddles straight through the cracked door, following the white-faced buff hen out into the yard. Two regular chickens escaping the violence.
I’m tracking the bantam’s movement as she circles back toward the shadows, when something massive and copper-backed fills my peripheral vision.
The rooster lunges at me. Lower. He drives his beak straight into my right ass cheek.
Pain explodes sharp and piercing. I feel the beak punch through fabric, through skin, driving deep enough to make everything clench involuntarily.
“Fuck!”
The rooster pulls back, beak dripping, and plants himself three feet away. Chest puffed.
My ass is on fire.
THE END
Check out this video I generated about this short. I hadn’t laughed that hard in a good while.
We reach 12 Kiln Lane after mid-morning. The house sits alone at the path’s end—low, old, thatch sagging. Stone lifts pale plaster, patched and hairline-cracked. No ornament. Just a heavy door set deep, dark-paned windows, terracotta jars crowding the step. The place is sealed—simple, sturdy, watchful.
A man kneels before it, hunched over a pottery jar, drawing careful marks on the clay. Must be Aldous. Slim, pale under clay dust. Short dirty-blonde hair, sleep-hollowed hazel eyes. Stained work clothes, reinforced knees, scarred hands rougher than the jar. The smell of kiln smoke and wet clay drifts over even from here.
Bertram steps forward, pipe in hand.
“Aldous, my good man! I’m glad to say that I can finally lift your spirits about the chicken problem.” He gestures at me. “You see, this exotic out-of-towner, Vespera’s the name, decided to take on your request to deal with your misbehaving poultry. I also got our local warrior Threadscar to help. Oh, and there’s this stray teenager we picked up along the way. So fret not, Aldous, about your poultry situation! This posse of killers will make short work of it all. Then we could all head to town and drink ourselves stupid in celebration.”
The moment Bertram says posse of killers and make short work, something tightens in Aldous’ expression. Worry.
He stands, brushes clay dust off his trousers with deliberate care.
“Bertram, I appreciate you bringing help. Truly. But this isn’t a culling. It’s an extraction.” He gestures toward the back of the property. “The infected birds are quarantined in the coop. Locked. It stays that way until we have a plan that doesn’t start with knives. Come to the yard—I’ll show you the setup and explain what needs to happen.”
He turns and walks toward the yard without waiting for acknowledgment. Melissa follows immediately. She moves like she trusts her own eyes. Bertram ambles after them, curious but unhurried.
I’m still standing at the front of the house like I missed the cue.
“Right behind you, Aldous,” I call, following with easy, prowling steps. “Let’s see what’s got you so spooked about your poultry, meow. I’m very interested in hearing about this ‘extraction’ you have in mind.”
The yard opens up behind the house—a wide stretch of grass marked with geometric patterns in thick salt lines. Twelve chickens peck and cluck like nothing’s wrong. On the far edge sits the coop: simple wooden frame, wire mesh opening into darkness that smells sharp and acrid. Burnt clay.
I catch movement—Rill, hurrying to catch up. She doesn’t want to be left behind.
Bertram wanders in, pipe still in hand, surveying the setup with mild curiosity. Aldous doesn’t acknowledge him. He walks straight toward me instead—close, closer than conversational distance—and drops his voice low.
“You took the contract, so you get the explanation first.” He gestures toward the wire mesh coop. “Those five birds in there are infected with something that came from buried ceramic. Not folklore. Not temperament. An actual entity that’s anchored biologically now. I have a containment vessel that can trap it if we extract properly, but the process will provoke violent resistance from the host. I need someone who can restrain a flailing chicken without panicking, without improvising cruelty, and without deciding that killing is ‘simpler.'” His hand moves to the leather thong around his neck. “The key to that coop stays around my neck until I’m standing there with the vessel, the geometry is stable, and everyone understands this is a procedure with rules. Can you work under those terms?”
He isn’t testing my strength. He’s testing my restraint.
My eyes—one ice-blue, one amber, both steady—meet his.
“I can work under those terms. Restraint. No shortcuts. You keep the key.” I flick an ear; the silver hoops catch light. “I’ve held plenty of things that didn’t want to be held, Aldous. Show me the geometry. Explain the procedure. I’ll follow your lead on this—it’s your vessel, your birds, your entity. I’m here to make sure it goes into the container instead of into someone’s throat.”
Melissa edges in to listen; Rill hovers behind her, intent.
Bertram wanders over to where Aldous and I stand. A few free-roaming chickens trail after him, pecking casually at his boots.
“Aldous.” His eyes narrow as he rubs his forehead slowly. He tilts his pipe to drop ash onto the grass, then slides it behind his apron. His gaze moves to the precise geometric patterns drawn in salt. “All these years I’ve known you, I’ve supported you on your artistic projects, but… this is a bit too much, don’t you think?”
The chickens keep pecking. One investigates Bertram’s heel with stubborn curiosity.
“That request at the Registry said…” Bertram continues. “How did you word it again? That the chickens were possessed by the spirit of your mother-in-law? I’ve never even known you to be married, but besides, you also said you wanted the chickens gone.” He gestures toward the coop. “What the hell is this now about birds getting infected with something that came from buried ceramic? What’s this ‘entity’ you speak of that lives in pottery? Are you sure you haven’t gone off the deep end, my friend?”
Aldous turns from me to face Bertram directly. His voice stays measured.
“The posting said ‘mother-in-law’ because I needed help fast without advertising a ward breach at the Registry where anyone could overhear. You know how gossip travels in Mudbrook.” He gestures toward the coop. “As for ‘gone’—smell that? Burnt clay. From chickens. That’s not normal, Bertram. You work with organic materials daily; you know what decay smells like versus what corruption smells like. This is the latter. I didn’t invent the geometric patterns for decoration—they’re containment boundaries that have kept twelve birds safe out here while five infected ones stay locked inside.” His eyes meet Bertram’s. “You’ve known me long enough to know I don’t do things without reason. I’m asking for procedural help, not validation. Vespera’s agreed to the terms. If you’re here to assist, I’ll explain the full extraction process. If you’re here to diagnose my mental state, you can wait by the fence.”
Bertram shifts his weight.
“You sound quite convinced, I admit, but… I mean, you misrepresented your request to Copperplate at the Registry. If he catches wind of this, he’ll spend a whole afternoon with his quill to the books.”
I let them have it. Bertram’s doubt. Aldous’ control. If the potter’s delusional, he’s functionally delusional.
Bertram nods, but his eyes stay worried.
“Sure, I know you to be a master craftsman at your particular trade. I value all the pots you sold me. They’re sturdy, and those drawings you make on them are quite nice.” He pauses. “It’s just… you’ve never been the same since the kiln explosion. Even you should be able to admit that.”
Bertram glances toward Melissa and Rill. “Anyway, you think there’s some ‘entity’ thing inside your chickens, then sure, let’s deal with it. So… you want the muscle here to help you contain your possessed chickens in that vessel? I mean, I guess you could squeeze a chicken into it if you pressed hard enough, but it will hardly take five. And they wouldn’t survive either.”
Aldous pulls the containment vessel from his satchel—glazed ceramic, intricate patterns catching the morning light. He holds it out toward the tanner.
“The vessel isn’t for the chickens, Bertram. It’s for what’s inside them.” His voice stays calm, precise. “Look at the glaze composition—cobalt oxide with salt-fired stoneware, fired at cone ten for structural integrity. The geometry etched into the surface creates a spiritual anchor. When we perform the extraction properly, the entity transfers from the biological host into the ceramic matrix.”
Aldous extends the vessel closer. “The chickens survive. The threat gets contained. That’s the difference between my work and what you’re imagining. This is craft, not butchery. Feel the weight of it if you don’t believe me.”
Bertram takes it. His hands turn it over slowly, examining the glaze patterns, the etched geometry, testing the weight.
“I’ve never known a better potter than you, Aldous. I recognize great craftsmanship. But when I spend hours making saddles, belts, boots… I don’t expect them to catch ‘entities.’ Whatever an ‘entity’ may mean in this occasion.”
He passes the vessel to me. Cool ceramic settles into my feline hands—heavier than expected, dense with that structural integrity Aldous mentioned. Bertram holds Aldous’ gaze through the potter’s glasses.
“You posted the request, and your chickens are in trouble. You’re in charge here. If you believe we should sing a chant or something while holding your chickens, I’m nobody to argue.”
Aldous doesn’t rise to it. He turns his full attention to me instead, steps closer so he’s addressing me directly rather than the whole group.
“Look at the etching along the rim—that’s the anchor geometry. When we extract, the entity will resist leaving the biological host. The patterns create a spiritual gradient, a pressure differential that pulls it toward the ceramic matrix instead of dispersing or jumping to another living thing.”
He points to specific glaze marks without touching the vessel.
“The extraction happens in stages. First, we isolate the primary vector—the large speckled hen. I’ll position the vessel near her head while you restrain her wings and body. The geometry does the heavy work, but she’ll thrash violently when it starts. Your job is to keep her contained without breaking bones or letting her escape the salt boundary I’ll draw around us. Once the entity transfers into the vessel, I seal it immediately. The other four birds should stabilize once the primary anchor is severed.”
His hazel eyes meet mine—ice-blue and amber both steady.
“Questions before we go to the coop?” the potter adds.
I turn the vessel in my hands, studying the etched geometry along the rim. I trace the glaze beside the etching, careful not to cross it.
“Where exactly do my hands go on her so I’m not blocking the anchor when she thrashes?” I meet Aldous’ eyes. “The other four—are they linked to her, or just infected? And timing—do you start the extraction the moment I have her secured, or should I watch for a signal?”
Behind me, Melissa stands positioned where she can hear clearly. Observing the procedural briefing. Calculating failure points and emergency responses without interrupting. The teenage girl is closer to Melissa than to us, absorbing every word with quiet intensity.
Aldous doesn’t pause. He pulls the leather thong over his head—key catching morning light—and moves toward the coop door.
“Proximity matters. The vessel needs to be within a handspan of her head for the gradient to engage properly. Your hands go on her wings first, folded tight against her body, then secure her legs so she can’t kick or claw when the thrashing starts. I position the vessel near her beak, angled so the anchor geometry faces her directly.”
He fits the key into the padlock.
“The networked effect—it’s more like removing the source infection. The speckled hen is the primary anchor. The other four birds are secondary hosts, tethered to her. Once we sever the primary connection, the entity loses its strongest foothold and the symptoms should resolve in the others within hours.”
Click. The lock opens.
Behind me, Bertram’s voice drops low, directed at Melissa.
“I’m guessing you’ve dealt with weirdness before. Gods know what you’ve had to kill through your mercenary work.” Brief pause. “But doesn’t this feel… This feels off to you too, right?”
Aldous lifts the padlock free. The burnt-clay smell punches out.
“Timing: I start the extraction the moment you have her secured and I’ve drawn the salt boundary around us.” He looks at me. “No signal to watch for—you’ll know when it starts because she’ll fight like she’s being burned alive. Keep her contained. Don’t let go. Don’t break the salt line. The geometry does the rest.”
“Feels off, yeah.” Melissa’s response comes flat. “But Aldous just opened the door. I’m going in.”
She moves past and steps through the coop entrance into darkness.
Three people. A middle-aged man, probably a local, looks like a tanner from the stains on his hands. Some kind of feline woman, exotic, dangerous-looking in a way that makes my spine straighten. And Melissa. “Threadscar” Melissa. Right here.
The tanner watches me approach. I can feel his eyes tracking me, probably taking in the sweat, the stick, the way my grip tightens when I get within speaking distance of Melissa.
“Who’s this kid?” he says. “I don’t recall seeing her in town. A girl friend of yours, Threadscar?”
The words hang there. Girl friend. Like I’m here for tea and gossip.
Melissa’s voice comes flat.
“She’s the girl from the north road. Watches me train. Not a friend. She follows.”
The words hit clean. Not harsh, just… factual. She isn’t telling me to leave, but she isn’t claiming me either. She follows. Like I’m a stray that keeps showing up at her door.
Movement to my left. The feline approaches with casual grace, tail swishing behind her. Her eyes are different colors, and they flick between me and Melissa like she’s cataloging something.
“Well well, meow. A girl who follows a warrior. What’s your name, kitten? And what’s with the stick?”
Great. Now I’m being patronized by someone who looks like she walked out of a story I couldn’t afford to hear the end of. But the question’s direct enough, so I answer it the same way.
“Rill. My name’s Rill. The stick’s a broom handle—wrapped so I don’t splinter my hands to hell. It’s what I’ve got, so it’s what I use.”
The tanner taps ash off his pipe, amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“Do you make a habit of sweeping the outskirts of town with a headless broom handle?” His gaze shifts to Melissa. “You have a curious admirer, Threadscar.”
Threadscar. The name clicks into place.
She doesn’t step in. Doesn’t tell them I’m wasting time. Just stands there, expression flat, like she’s watching something unfold that she hasn’t decided matters yet.
The feline woman moves closer. Her hand reaches out before I can decide whether to pull back, and she pats me on the head—light, almost playful. A gesture you’d give a stray that showed up on your doorstep.
“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” she says. “Most kids your age would’ve stayed home with a broom that still had bristles.” Her mismatched eyes study me. “Mrow, so what are you hoping to learn from our friend here? How to turn household objects into weapons, or something more… mmh… specific?”
I want to shove her hand off. Want to snarl. But that would prove I’m exactly what she thinks I am—a kid who can’t take a light touch without losing my shit. So I don’t.
She asked what I’m hoping to learn. That’s real. That’s a question with weight.
“Something specific. I’ve been copying from a distance for six months—watching Melissa train, trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing wrong. But I don’t know the basics. Stance, guard, footwork, the stuff you need before anything else makes sense. I want someone to teach me that. Not wave me off or tell me I’m too young or that I should go home and help my family. I want real instruction.” I lift the wrapped broom handle slightly. “The kind that turns this into something that works.”
The tanner exhales slowly, shaking his head.
“Can’t help but admire your determination, kid, but that stick looks like it’d break the moment you whacked a wolf’s head.” He glances at Threadscar, who’s been silent, just watching. “Local guard’ll give you training. Threadscar’s not the sociable type.”
Like I’m here begging for scraps.
The feline moves before I can respond. She slings an arm casually around Melissa’s shoulders, pulling her close with the kind of ease that says they know each other—or at least that the feline woman doesn’t give a damn if they don’t. Her tail curls lazily behind her.
“Months of watching from a distance with a headless broom, mrow?” Her mismatched eyes lock onto me, studying. “That’s not importuning, Bertram—that’s commitment. Most people give up after a week when nobody hands them what they want. You’ve been grinding alone for half a year.” She tilts her head, and I feel like she’s reading lines I didn’t know I’d written. “So here’s my question, kitten—what made you start? What happened six months ago that made you pick up that stick and decide you needed to learn how to hurt things?”
I meet the feline woman’s eyes.
“Six months ago, I saw her.” I nod toward Melissa without looking away from the exotic animal-person. “I was on a supply run to Mudbrook—dawn, cold, nobody around—and I saw her training by herself. No audience. No performance. No wasted motion. And she had scars—real ones, the kind that say ‘I have done things and survived them.’ I looked at her and I thought: that’s what freedom looks like. Not hoping someone notices you. Not waiting for permission. Just capability so undeniable that the world has to make room.”
I pause. Breathe. Don’t flinch.
“I went home that day and realized I didn’t have that. I was just… tasks. Endless tasks. Fifth priority for food, first priority for ‘Rill, do this.’ I could see my whole future: marry local, help run the waystation, disappear into the wallpaper. So I wrapped a broom handle in cloth because I didn’t have anything else, and I started showing up where she trains. Copying. Guessing. Probably doing it all wrong. But at least I was doing something. At least I wasn’t standing still.”
Bertram puffs on his pipe, something like appreciation in the slow exhale.
“Your folks run the waystation from the north road?” His voice comes careful. “You may be ditching a stable life for the opportunity to die bloody and broken in a ditch somewhere. That’s assuming nobody stole your dignity first. This world is more cruel than you’d think at your age… and it takes from you whatever it pleases, whenever it pleases.”
Melissa’s been still this whole time—watching, flat expression, giving nothing. But now she moves—shrugs off the feline woman’s arm and pulls me close against her side. Solid and real. My pulse kicks up.
Something flickers across that exotic woman’s face, too fast to catch. Then she steps back, tail swishing as she creates space.
“Mmh. I think you two have something to discuss without me hanging off your shoulder, meow.” Her mismatched eyes flick between us. “I’ll be right here. Watching. Learning. You know. Bard things.”
I step out from under Melissa’s arm and drop to my knees.
Hard ground. The broom handle rests across my thighs. Back straight, gaze level.
Bertram’s pipe lowers slowly.
“This kid seems to be made of stern stuff,” he says. His gaze shifts to Threadscar. “Too bad about her slim frame and the broom handle—but if you’d consider a disciple at any point, you could do much worse than this dedicated admirer.” He pauses. “That said, we all think we can take anything with the right attitude… until you get a mace to the face.”
Melissa’s expression stays flat. The silence stretches—that feline woman watching, the millrace rushing steady.
I stand. Not backing off—just refusing to stay collapsed at her feet like I’ve already given up on being her equal someday. I knelt to show respect. I stand to show I mean to become something worth teaching.
That silence—it’s doing something. Either making a decision or unmaking one.
Bertram’s eyebrows pull together. His gaze shifts from the feline woman to Melissa, to me, then back.
“Has… anything been resolved? I feel like something important has passed over my head.”
The feline woman’s eyes flick to him, then settle back on Melissa and me. Her tail curls lazily.
“Mmh, Bertram…” A slight smirk touches her mouth. “I think something important just happened. But whether it’s been resolved?” She glances at Melissa. “Not my story to tell.”
Standing here empty-handed feels incomplete. I extend the wrapped broom handle toward Melissa, holding it out with both hands.
“This is what I’ve had,” I say. “Six months of guessing with this thing. If you’re willing to teach me—actually teach me—then I want to start with real fundamentals. Not copying advanced forms I don’t understand. Not pretending I know what I’m doing. Just… the basics. Stance. Guard. Footwork. The stuff that makes everything else possible.”
I keep the broom handle extended. Voice steady. No begging.
“Take it. Look at it. See what I’ve been trying to learn from. And if you think I’m worth teaching, then show me how to do it right.”
Bertram lights his pipe, the flame briefly illuminating his face.
“This kid’s got heart,” he says around the stem, “but a poor sense of timing.” He exhales smoke. “We weren’t in the vicinity just for a stroll. Our fluffy cat-folk bard here—” He nods toward the feline woman. “—had taken a request to deal with some demonic poultry, and Threadscar, as our local veteran, had decided to act as backup. I’m just along for the ride.”
Demonic poultry.
Melissa takes the wrapped broom handle from my hands. Her grip shifts it through small, controlled motions—testing weight distribution, checking the balance point, examining how the cloth sits, whether the wrapping will hold or slip under pressure. Like she’s reading something I didn’t know I’d written.
“Six months with this.” Melissa’s voice comes flat. “The wrapping’s competent. You understood the problem—splinters, grip failure—and solved it functionally. Weight’s forward-heavy. That’s the handle design, not your mistake. Balance point’s here.”
She taps a spot roughly two-thirds down the shaft.
“You’ve been training with a weapon that fights you on every swing. That builds bad habits fast, but it also means you’re strong enough to compensate without knowing you’re doing it.”
She flexes the handle slightly, testing for structural integrity.
“It’ll snap if you block anything metal with commitment. You know that already or you wouldn’t be here asking for real instruction.”
First time anyone’s acknowledged it as real. My throat tightens. I don’t let it show.
Melissa turns the wrapped handle over one more time, flexes it slightly, then stops. Her gaze shifts from the broom handle to me, flat and assessing. Then she extends her longsword toward me, hilt-first, blade angled safely to the side.
“Here.” Her voice stays flat. “Hold this. Feel the difference. Weight, balance, how it sits in your hand. That’s what you’ve been trying to learn with a stick that fights you.”
I stare at the hilt. Battle-scarred leather wrapping, crossguard showing wear at the edges, the kind of weapon that’s seen actual use. She’s handing it to me.
“If you’re serious about real instruction,” Melissa continues, “you need to understand what you’re aiming for.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “Don’t swing it. Don’t test it. Just hold it and tell me what you notice.”
I take the longsword. Both hands wrap around the hilt. The weight settles—balanced. Centered. My hands are shaking.
I look up to meet Melissa’s flat gaze.
“It doesn’t fight me. The balance is clean. Centered. The broom handle pulls forward every swing—I have to compensate just to keep it under control. This?” I flex my grip slightly. “This feels like it’s waiting for instruction instead of dragging me around. The weight’s real, but distributed so I can use it instead of wrestle it.”
Bertram’s voice comes out more serious than usual.
“The tool of a trade few are prepared for, kid.” He taps his pipe, gaze steady on the longsword. “You’re holding in your hand metal that’s drunk the blood of many.”
Melissa extends her hand. I give the longsword back hilt-first, controlled, the way she handed it to me. She takes it with the same efficiency, then reaches for the wrapped broom handle still resting against her side.
“You’ve felt the difference now.” She extends the broom handle toward me, matter-of-fact. “This is yours.”
I take it. My work. Six months wrapped in cloth.
“You want real instruction. Stance, guard, footwork. Fine. But I don’t teach in a vacuum.” Her gaze shifts briefly to Bertram, then back to me. “We’ve got a job. Possessed chickens, north road. Vespera’s contract. I’m backup.”
A pause. She continues.
“Come along. Watch. See how movement works when stakes are real. You stay back. Don’t interfere. You observe—but this time you see the whole picture, not just me alone in a field. After the job, if you still want formal training, we’ll start with basics. That’s the offer. Decide if you’re coming.”
The feline woman—Vespera—adjusts the case slung across her back, tail swishing decisively. She starts walking without waiting for an answer.
“Well then. Melissa made her offer, Rill’s got her decision to make, and we’ve got possessed poultry waiting for us at 12 Kiln Lane. Meow, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d rather not keep a vengeful mother-in-law’s malevolent chicken waiting too long.” She throws a look back over her shoulder, mismatched eyes sharp. “Coming, or are we going to stand around the millrace discussing pedagogical philosophy until the damn birds organize a coup?”
I step out of the Municipal Aid Registry—converted barn, old hay, bureaucratic optimism—into bright morning sun. Pleasant warmth for Mudbrook-on-the-Bend. My instrument case rides familiar weight against my back, dual blades settled at my hips.
Two people are approaching down the street. I recognize Bertram from earlier, and beside him—
Mrow. Interesting.
The woman beside him looks carved from scar tissue and sword practice. Longsword at her back, carried with enough casual competence to be part of her body. Threadscar, if Bertram’s earlier mention was accurate.
“Hey, what did I tell you,” Bertram says, addressing his companion but pitching it loud enough for me to hear. “A cat folk in the flesh. Isn’t she the darnest thing. Look at those whiskers.” He gestures in my direction like I’m a particularly fascinating market oddity. “Anyway, she’s got herself a mess with Aldous’ devilish chickens.”
My tail swishes once. Performing has its uses.
Threadscar’s gaze tracks over me—methodical, not curious. Weapons, instrument case, stance. Reading me like a contract with fine print. No wasted movement, no hurry. Just measuring.
When she finally speaks, her voice is controlled.
“You’re the one who took the chicken job.”
They have closed the distance now. Combat scars catch the light on her skin, small tells in how she holds herself. Someone who’s survived things that kill most people.
I smooth my whiskers briefly. Should I feel annoyed? I didn’t ask for help. But mostly I’m interested. That kind of survival leaves stories, and I collect those. Tactically speaking, if the “possessed poultry” turns out to be something wearing feathers ironically, having someone competent with a blade isn’t the worst idea.
And if things do get interesting, if there’s actual danger instead of just aggressive birds—
I shut down that thread before it can finish. Professional courtesy first.
“Mrow, that’s me. Vespera Nightwhisper, at your service.” I gesture vaguely toward the Registry behind me. “Seventeen birds, one allegedly possessed by a vengeful mother-in-law. Could be demonic poultry, could be grief and roosters. Either way, should be…” My heterochromatic eyes—amber and ice-blue—fix on her with genuine curiosity. “Educational.”
I tilt my head slightly, ears swiveling forward. “Bertram mentioned you. ‘Threadscar,’ right? He thought I might need backup.” Whiskers twitch. “What do you think? Do I look like I need saving from poultry, or are you just bored enough to see where this goes?”
Bertram produces a pipe from somewhere under his apron, tamping tobacco with practiced fingers. He lights it with a match, the narrow end settling at the corner of his mouth as smoke curls up. His eyes move between us like he’s watching theater.
“A way with words on this one, huh? That’s a bard for you, I guess.”
My attention is on Threadscar, because she’s the one who matters here.
She meets my mismatched eyes without blinking. No flinch, no fascination. Her voice comes out flat, professional.
“You don’t look like you need saving. You look like you haven’t worked this region before and don’t know what ‘possessed’ means out here yet. Could be theater. Could be something that bites back harder than you’re expecting.”
Her gaze flicks to my weapons—brief, cataloging—then back to my face. Filing information. Like she’s building a dossier in real-time.
“I’m not bored,” Threadscar adds. “I’m between contracts and Bertram thought the job might be more than one person should handle alone. If you want backup, I’ll assess the situation and act accordingly. If you don’t, I’ll find other work. Your call.”
Your call. No posturing, no pretense of saving the exotic newcomer. Just capability offered without strings. I respect that. More than respect it—I like it. This is someone who thinks in terms of practical outcomes, not spectacle. Someone who’s survived by being useful, not by being loud.
I pull the posted notice from my belt pouch and extend it toward her.
“Here. Read it yourself and decide if it’s worth your time.” My heterochromatic eyes fix on her, genuine curiosity sharpening the usual performance. “Bertram’s not wrong. I don’t know this region yet, and ‘possessed’ is vague enough to mean anything from grief-hallucinations to something that shouldn’t have a beak. If you’re between contracts and this sounds interesting, I’ll take the backup. If it sounds like a waste of your time, no hard feelings.” My whiskers twitch. “But either way, mrow, I’d rather know what I’m walking into before I knock on Aldous’ door.”
She takes it. Reads it like she’s checking for loopholes. Her eyes track across the text with the kind of precision that says she’s survived by catching the details other people miss. No commentary, no reaction visible on her face. Just information intake.
Bertram puffs his pipe, watching us. Taking his time. Then he gestures with the pipe stem, adding to his earlier introduction.
“To contribute to this meeting of warriors,” he says, voice carrying that folksy charm he wears like armor, “let me add some information that may or may not improve the quality of your trade: I know Aldous to be an honest tradesman. He’s been talking uneasily about those chickens for a good while now. Weeks, really.”
Bertram pauses, letting smoke curl. “He mentions that one of them looks… like he knows what he’s looking at. And he’s corrupted some of his other chickens too. Corrupted—that’s the word Aldous used.”
Mrow. That word lands differently than “possessed.” Corrupted implies spread. Deliberate influence. Not just one problem bird, but infection. Behavior changing, patterns shifting. That’s either the most elaborate case of anthropomorphization I’ve ever encountered, or there’s something at Kiln Lane that’s wearing chickens like masks and teaching the others to do the same.
My tail swishes once. Not performance—genuine unease, threaded with that dangerous curiosity that gets people like me into trouble.
Bertram continues.
“Could be, though, that Aldous really hated his mother-in-law and she happened to have some hen-like qualities. Never had a mother-in-law myself. Anna was orphaned young.”
Threadscar is still reading, unmoved by Bertram’s commentary. Filing it somewhere, probably, but not letting it interrupt her process. She doesn’t get pulled off-task by color or charm. Data first, texture later.
Bertram shifts his attention to me, lowering his pipe for a moment.
“I’m curious, miss cat. Do you waltz into battle with that instrument case at your back? That’s the tool of your trade, isn’t it?” His eyes crinkle with genuine interest. “Aren’t you worried that some counterattack may destroy your means to get money off taverns? I have a hard time picturing you putting down the case and shoving it back before you wield those sharp weapons of yours.”
Threadscar finishes reading, then hands the notice back to me. Her eyes find mine, holding my mismatched gaze without hesitation.
“I’ll go with you. If it’s just chickens, we’ll handle it fast and split the pay. If it’s something else, you’ll want someone who’s cleared pastoral weird before. We leave now, assess the site, execute the contract, done.”
The instrument case rides heavy on my back. Fair question. Most people don’t think past the weapons—they see the blades and assume that’s the whole story. But the lute-viol isn’t just a tool. It’s the only thing I actually care about without complication, without performance, without—
No. I’m not explaining that vulnerability to a tanner I met twenty minutes ago, no matter how earnest his pipe-smoke charm is.
Whiskers twitch. I offer him a slight smile.
“You’re not wrong to worry, Bertram. But I’ve been carrying her into fights for years now, and she’s survived everything I have.” I tap the leather with one clawed finger—the reinforcement shows in the thickness, the way the case holds its shape even when I move. Custom work, expensive, worth it. “The case is reinforced. Not just decorative. And honestly? Leaving her behind would be worse. I don’t perform well when I’m wondering if someone’s rifling through my things.” My tail swishes once. “This way, she stays with me. Always.”
I turn my mismatched eyes to Threadscar. She made her decision clean and professional. Just read the posting, assessed, committed. I want to see how she works when things get complicated.
“Right. You’re in. Good.” I nod toward the path that leads toward the old millrace. “We leave now, assess the site at 12 Kiln Lane, and see what ‘demonic poultry’ actually looks like before we decide how to handle it.” I glance back at Bertram. “Thanks for the backup—and the context about Aldous. ‘Corrupted chickens’ is delightfully vague. Let’s go see what that means, mrow.”
Bertram taps ashes off his pipe, eyebrows lifting.
“‘Bertram, thanks for the backup,’ as in stay behind while we head off to battle?” He says it lightly, but there’s genuine curiosity underneath. “I’m asking in case you wouldn’t mind an old tanner witnessing something intriguing in this lovely morning. If things get nasty, maybe I could knock some poultry unconscious with a well-aimed throw of my pipe.”
Threadscar’s expression doesn’t shift, but she takes a breath before she speaks. Running the calculation: civilian, noncombatant, knows Aldous personally, decent accuracy with small objects maybe. Liability in real combat. Potential asset for client context.
When she answers, her voice is controlled but final.
“You can come if you stay behind us, don’t touch anything that moves, and leave the moment I tell you to. No argument, no delay.” She looks at him flatly, then glances at the pipe in his hand. “If something goes wrong, you’re not my priority—keeping the threat contained is.”
She shifts her gaze back to me. Mission focus. “We move now. North road, Kiln Lane.”
My tail swishes once without permission. Right. Follow her lead. She knows the region. I don’t. Let her set the pace, watch how she navigates, learn the terrain through her rhythm.
But something else threads through my thoughts, something dangerous I need to strangle before it takes root. If this job turns into actual danger—if there’s something at 12 Kiln Lane with teeth where beaks shouldn’t have them—I’ll get to see how Threadscar works under pressure. Whether she freezes or gets clearer when the violence starts. Everyone tells a story when the stakes climb. I want hers.
I adjust the strap of my instrument case across my back, settling the familiar weight, then glance at Bertram. He’s still watching us, pipe smoke curling upward, expecting… something. Dismissal? Another round of banter?
My whiskers twitch. Quick smile.
“Thanks for the backup and the context. We’ll handle it.”
I turn toward Threadscar, fall into step beside her. My tail swishes with anticipation I’m not entirely proud of. “Let’s see what’s waiting for us, mrow.”
Behind us, Bertram’s voice carries confusion.
“I’m… receiving conflicting information.” A pause. The sound of him adjusting his grip on the pipe. “But that’s okay, I’ll follow from a safe distance. Maybe I could get Aldous to blabber something important about these demonic chickens of his.”
THE END
Some of the “short stories” of this fantasy cycle will read more like simple scenes. I’m okay with that. I’m gearing toward making them self-contained. You could check out any in whatever order you prefer, then seek possible other shorts leading to them, or from them. That fits how I’ve felt when rereading my Re:Zero fanfiction from years ago.
This new short isn’t a one-off. Over the years, as I thought back on what writing of mine brought me the most genuine joy during its production, the answer was troubling: likely the most fun I’ve ever had writing fiction was during that wild time I wrote my two-novels-long fanfiction of Re:Zero, the Japanese series of light novels slash anime. Even though I was mostly constrained by the existing characters and general plot of the original narrative, I felt creatively freer than ever before or since.
When I tried to understand why, I think it had to do with the same reason I’ve mostly only been engaged by manga in these last ten years of my life. The combination of colorful, larger-than-life characters engaged in creative endeavors, characters don’t behave with each other in the constantly cynical, conflicting manner than most Western fiction does it, was intoxicating for me. I wanted that feeling of returning to a story, whether to read or write it, merely to hang out with that ensemble of characters again. To see how they interact with each other in peculiar ways. I experience that again whenever I reread the chapters of that fanfiction (for example, part 52 and part 55).
Somehow, writing those stories always allowed me to be as funny, silly and ridiculous as I felt like it, and the story would accommodate it. There were some genuinely poignant moments too, like a sequence when the protagonist fucks up when trying to kill himself to trigger his “return by death” ability, only to end up with the lower half of his body missing, and all the people in his life either disappointed in him or despairing by his constant attempts to keep killing himself. Recently, someone from Serbia read through most of the latter half of my fanfiction, so thanks for that. Knowing that someone out there, someone whose stupid face I will never have to see, deliberately sought my writing, that warms my black, rotting heart.
Anyway, at this point of my life, so burdened by everything mentally that often I don’t know how I can keep going, I don’t feel like I can commit to any creative project long-term, but I want to do this: a cycle of short stories that each push the boundary of the same fantasy world further. It will involve possibly repeating characters that are peculiar, larger than life, and play off well against each other. Sometimes, a short story may lead into another, either immediately after the previous one or some time down the line. Maybe I will want to develop another aspect of that world. Maybe some short story will see me gathering main characters from previous stories for a collaborative endeavor. My goal is to write something joyful and silly in the way I prefer it, that will make me want to write more of it or reread the existing parts if only to hang out with those characters again. So I’m doing the whole Re:Zero thing again, but with original characters and in a likely plotless manner, at least when it comes to grand, overarching plots, which never were quite my cup of tea anyway, whether some dead witch poured her saliva in it or not.
To produce this short I’m doing the post-mortem about, I relied on the Living Narrative Engine, my mature Javascript app that allows me to play through fictional scenarios. Every time I come up with a scenario, I’m partly prompted by the desire to add a new system to the app. Over time, I’ve developed systems to move from place to place, to interact with other characters, to pick up objects, to read readable objects, to consume the contents of consumable objects, etc. Although I don’t want to commit to much, I must say that the next short story is going to follow Vespera Nightwhisper’s efforts against demonic poultry, which will involve me finally implementing proper weapon-wielding (in a way that requires grabbing with one or more hands, and prevents illogical actions when your appendages are occupied), weapon attacks depending on the type of weapon, and possibly also skill-based successes (so that the characters don’t insta-hit poultry, or get insta-hit by them). I don’t know how the story is going to play out, but that’s part of the fun.
In recent posts, I wrote that I was developing a complex GOAP system (Goal-Oriented Action Planning) to involve autonomous, non-LLM intelligences in my scenarios. I’m on my way there, but I realized that I need a much wider array of actions to be implemented in order for GOAP to fully make sense, so I’m parking that for now. Also, I’m mostly focusing on what the scenarios actually require; when I saw myself introducing hunger mechanics even though no scenario would use them for now, that was the point I realized that I had to step back and focus on what actually brought me joy. And I need a lot of it.
This morning, the moment I finished editing this new short story titled “The Municipal Aid Registry,” my brain was already buzzing with ideas for the next one. That’s the proper state of affairs.
Anyway, as usual, I hope you enjoyed this new short story about a bunch of weird fantasy people. If not, go fuck yourself.
The rural streets of Mudbrook-on-the-Bend are mostly deserted at this hour—folks either at work or gathered at the Municipal Aid Registry, I’d been told. The air sits pleasantly warm on my fur, though the sun beats bright enough to make me squint. Small town. Tightly packed houses along a blue-green canal. Aging timber frames, steep tiled roofs. The kind of place where someone like me probably looks like she wandered out of a fairy tale.
There. An older man standing near the main path, pipe smoke curling up from weathered hands. I clock him immediately: tradesman’s apron, genuine smile-lines, the relaxed posture of someone who belongs exactly where he’s standing. No performance.
“Oh. Morning, ma’am.” His voice carries that easy rural cadence. “Nice weather we’re having, ain’t it? Never seen you around these parts. I hope that our quaint little town won’t disappoint a member of the cat folk too much.”
That slight wonder in his tone—he’s probably never met one of us before. My whiskers twitch. Part of me immediately starts calculating angles. He knows everyone here. All the local gossip, who’s hiring, what’s dangerous. I could purr, play up the cute factor, harvest whatever stories he’s got tucked away in that weathered brain. Easy material. But gods, I just got here and I’m already doing it. Already cataloging vulnerabilities, mapping the performance.
I close the distance between us, letting myself catch the full scent of him: leather oils, curing agents, pipe tobacco.
“Morning to you too, meow.” I let my whiskers twitch with genuine amusement. “And don’t worry—I’ve played worse venues than ‘quaint.'” Something about his unpretentious energy makes it easy to drop the armor, just a fraction. “There’s something charming about a place that still smells like honest work instead of… performance. You’re a tanner, yeah? I can smell the curing agents from here.”
He takes a couple of steps back without thinking—not fear, just automatic adjustment to proximity. Most people either lean in with curiosity about the exotic cat-girl, or retreat because they’re threatened. This is different. Unconscious. Natural boundary-setting. The smile on his face stays honest.
“I’m a simple tanner, alright, miss.” He gestures down at his hands. “Probably could tell too by the stains in my skin that never quite go away. Name’s Bertram. Seems like I’ve spent a lifetime crafting saddles, belts, boots and the likes with these two hands of mine. A good life, not complaining.”
He takes a long drag of his pipe, exhales slowly. His gaze shifts to my back, my hips.
“As for you, my goodness… That instrument case slung across your back and those… peculiar weapons at your hip. You must have had quite the adventures. Well, if you’re looking for work or to perform, look no further than our humble gathering spot, the Municipal Aid Registry. Posted a request myself for reciprocal services.”
Reciprocal services. The phrase catches in my mind like a claw on silk. What does that even mean in a place like this? Barter system? Trade work? Could be dangerous, could be hauling leather, could be absolutely anything. But he’s local, established, comfortable. If I’m going to find real work here—the kind that strips away performance and leaves only survival—I need someone who knows where the bodies are buried. Metaphorically. Or literally, mrow, depending on what kind of town this actually is beneath the quaint surface.
I need to test this again. Feel out his boundaries properly.
“Reciprocal services, mmh?” I let my curiosity show in the forward tilt of my whiskers. “That sounds intriguing. What kind of work are we talking about? Something dangerous, or just the usual hauling and heavy lifting?” I step closer, closing the distance he created. “I’m always interested in… collaborative arrangements. Especially with someone who knows the area.”
His wide, simple smile doesn’t change, but I catch a small frown creasing his brow as he registers how close I’ve gotten.
“Oh, my request? Just the usual thing, keep it posted there at the Municipal Aid Registry’s bulletin board when I can spare the fee. You see, my Anna…” Something softens in his voice. “Ah, what a dear she was. My great love. Thirty years we had together until the winter fevers took her. I’m grateful for that time, but I’m not looking to replace her. I appreciate my quiet too much these days, and I’m not getting any younger.”
He takes another drag of his pipe, perfectly comfortable.
“So, the posting. I request a handjob, and offer one in return. Fair exchange, no romantic complications. You see, a good handjob is like good craftsmanship. You need to understand what you’re working with, adjust to feedback, take pride in the result.”
Oh gods. He’s… he’s talking about actual handjobs. Not hauling work or tanning work or some tradesman metaphor I misunderstood. Reciprocal handjobs. Posted at the Municipal Aid Registry like it’s… carpentry services.
Mrow… this is… I mean, I’ve played a lot of towns, seen a lot of arrangements, but posting for mutual masturbation services at the town bulletin board with the same casual energy as requesting roof repair? The complete lack of shame in his delivery—”a good handjob is like good craftsmanship”—he genuinely believes that. He’s explaining his sexual barter system the way he’d explain leather-working techniques.
I keep my expression neutral, let my whiskers stay still. Don’t react. Don’t give away whatever the hell I’m feeling right now, because I’m genuinely not sure. Surprise? Amusement? Professional curiosity about small-town sexual economics? This is material, definitely material, but I need a second to process.
Bertram takes my silence in stride, another casual drag of his pipe as he looks into my eyes with that same untroubled calm.
“Hmmm… Maybe this is a human matter. Don’t know if cat folk engage in handjobs. I’ve lived in Mudbrook all my life. People know me, knew my Anna. They know my work is good and I’m honest in my dealings.”
He gestures with his pipe-hand toward the street.
“That said, a traveling bard like yourself will maybe want to check out the other work. Us locals can get fed easily on our produce, so we can do with reciprocal handjobs, but you have to… carry provisions and such for the trip, right? Anyway.” He points at a building that looks like a converted grain barn, larger than the surrounding structures. “There’s Mudbrook’s Municipal Aid Registry. Copperplate’s in charge. Good fellow. Been here before any of us showed up. Just be patient with him, he operates at… his speed.”
He’s genuinely waiting for my response. And the thing is… mrow… I’m not actually offended or shocked. I’ve done stranger things for worse reasons. But this is information. This tells me something about Mudbrook that I didn’t expect—there’s a whole sexual economy here that operates with the same casual pragmatism as trading eggs for flour. That’s information I file away.
“Are you alright, miss? Cat-folk’s faces aren’t that easy to read, not for a Mudbrook leatherworker anyway.” He tilts his head slightly. “You have quite the peculiar eyes, I must say. One ice-blue, the other amber. Is that something that happens to your kind?”
He’s asking about my heterochromia because my face isn’t giving him the information he wants. Fair enough. Cat faces are harder to read for humans.
I let my tail swish slowly, thoughtfully.
“I’m fine, don’t worry. Just thinking, mrow.” My whiskers relax a fraction, showing him I’m not offended or disturbed. “And yeah, the eyes—heterochromia’s not super common among cat folk, but it happens. My mother had it too, though hers were both shades of green. Mine decided to be dramatic about it. As for your arrangement—refreshingly pragmatic, but I need provisions more than handjobs at the moment, mrow.” My whiskers twitch. “Does everyone in Mudbrook operate on this kind of system, or just certain folks?”
Bertram steps back to let a young man pass, planks of wood balanced on his shoulder. The kid nods at the older leatherworker without breaking stride. Bertram nods back, takes another drag of his pipe, taps the ashes out against his boot.
“System… can be called that, I guess. Folk used to offer deals over ale, but then they’d forget the finer points and there’d be fights.” He grimaces. “Good old Copperplate fixes all that. The man… or whatever it is… keeps records like it’s his religion. Keeps us grounded and sane.” His voice softens. “Ever since my Anna died, I’ve gotten plenty of answers thanks to those proper proceedings. Mudbrook-on-the-Bend is a simple town. Fair dealings. Well-crafted tools and materials. Straightforward, honest people. That’s how we like it.”
I should move. The Registry’s where the real work is—dangerous contracts that pay in coin, not sexual services. Combat work. That’s what I came here for.
“I appreciate the explanation. Thanks for the local orientation, Bertram. If I survive whatever job I pick up, maybe I’ll come back and you can tell me more about Anna over a drink. She sounds like she was worth those thirty years.”
The converted grain warehouse sits open-sided toward a patch of grass and trees, timber construction weathered but solid. The bulletin board dominates one wall—crowded chaos of notices, some full sheets, others torn scraps, layered and pinned unevenly like sedimentary history. A service counter suggests this used to be a loading bay. Mixed crowd of locals scattered around tables with tankards. Civic business conducted in warehouse setting. The air smells of old wood, spilled ale, and something else—ink and parchment, sharply chemical.
That’s coming from the tortoise-person behind the counter. Copperplate. Has to be. Short and stocky, ancient-looking, dark-olive scaled limbs extending from a bronze domed shell. Cream plastron visible at the chest. Charcoal-gray hooked beak, amber round eyes behind reading spectacles. He’s wearing formal sleeve cuffs and a fitted waistcoat that somehow dignify the whole turtle-in-a-warehouse aesthetic. The smell of ink and old parchment emanates from him like a profession made manifest.
He’s currently handing a posted notice to a woman who… mrow. She’s built like violence made flesh. Muscular, heavily scarred, the kind of body that tells stories about surviving things that should have killed her. She takes the notice from Copperplate’s clawed hand with careful precision, stares at it for a moment. Her expression goes distant. Then she turns and heads for the streets without a word.
The board’s chaos hits me immediately—a cluster of stained parchment and competing desperation layered over each other like archaeological evidence of small-town needs. An alibi notice at eye level, hastily scrawled with crossed-out attempts: WANTED: Someone to tell my wife I’ve been working late (I’ve actually been at the pub). 2 copper. Convincing liars only. A man rewrote this multiple times before posting. Performance stacked on performance. I move on.
Behind me, someone enters—pipe tobacco, leather oils, curing agents. Bertram. He heads to the tables where locals are gathered with their tankards.
I let my attention drift back to the board. Let me check the birthday musician notice next, see if there’s actual danger on offer or if Mudbrook only provides low-stakes human misery.
“Good morning, Mr. Copperplate.” Bertram’s voice carries from the counter, that same easy rural cadence. “Hope you haven’t been getting any trouble other than the usual. By chance, do you know if anyone has taken interest in my request? I’ve been building up some pressure lately, with this saddle commission for the merchant’s daughter and all.”
The birthday musician notice sits just below the alibi request. I scan the text:
MUSICIAN NEEDED: Play at my daughter’s birthday. She’s 7. You will be required to perform “The Happy Donkey Song” seventeen times minimum. 3 copper, earplugs not provided.
Behind me, the tortoise-person’s voice emerges—slow, deliberate, each word separated by noticeable pauses like he’s processing language at a different speed than mammals.
“One moment… Bertram. I must… complete… the current… notation… before responding… to your inquiry.”
Bertram’s voice carries easily.
“Take all the time you need, old friend. Have you noticed, by the way, our newcomer? A cat folk, no less, in our little Mudbrook. Must be a musician unless she’s carrying loot in that instrument case of hers.”
I’m hyper-aware of the weight of attention from the tables—multiple sets of eyes tracking the exotic cat-woman. I’m the circus that wandered into town.
Seventeen times. Minimum. The words sit on the notice like a threat. I read it again, making sure I’m not hallucinating from road exhaustion. A seven-year-old who’s learned to weaponize repetition. Old enough to understand cause and effect, young enough to have zero mercy. And the parent who posted this knows exactly what they’re asking for. They wrote “minimum.” They know their child. They’re desperate enough to pay a stranger three copper to endure what they can’t face themselves.
“Oh, if Anna, poor Anna would have been here today.” Bertram’s voice softens with memory. “She often talked about seeing some exotic folks. Couldn’t go anywhere, of course, on account of her weaving… And all my leather work. And I don’t think she ever heard music played live, did she? Hmm, maybe that one time a young merchant came by with a flute… Or was it drums?”
I hear him drink, the hollow sound of a tankard being emptied.
My attention drifts back to the notice. Seventeen repetitions would strip away every bit of performance, every shred of artifice. By repetition twelve I’d be completely raw—just muscle memory and survival instinct, the song reduced to pure acoustic reflex. That’s the kind of clarity I chase, just… from a different angle than combat. Not violence-clarity, but repetition-clarity. Mrow… but three copper. That’s insulting compensation for that level of psychological endurance.
“Mr. Copperplate, do you still remember what I asked?” His voice carries confusion now. “Wait, what did I ask again? Was it something about Anna? I swear all the leather dyes are seeping into my brain. I come across a fellow Mudbrooker along the street and they greet me nice and I can’t tell if a handjob was involved.”
The weight of attention presses against my fur like humidity. I don’t need to turn around to know exactly what’s happening at those tables—the locals, mainly men from the scent signatures, chatting with that animated energy that comes from having something exotic to admire. I catch fragments of conversation, none of it subtle:
“—never seen a tail that fluffy—”
“—the way she moves, gods—”
“—bet she’s got claws under that—”
I’m the entertainment of the week. Maybe the month. Provincial setting, limited exposure to non-humans, and here I am in my road-worn leathers with weapons at my hip and an instrument case across my back.
I keep my focus on the bulletin board, let them stare. My tail does its own thing—slow, thoughtful movements that have nothing to do with their entertainment and everything to do with processing what I’m reading. The birthday musician notice still sits there with its seventeen-repetition threat. The alibi service with its suburban deception. Neither offering real danger. Neither stripping me down to anything honest. But there are other notices layered across this board like archaeological strata.
A water-stained notice near the bottom, tear-marked: URGENT: Recover my dignity from the bottom of the well. Also maybe a bucket. Dignity preferred but bucket acceptable. I blink. Move on.
“Hey…” Bertram’s voice cuts across the converted grain barn. “Damn, I don’t know your name. Cat folk. With those weapons at your waist, the chickens request may be more up your alley. Or my request about reciprocal services. That’s been up for a good while. I always respond in kind, on a leatherworker’s honor.”
Mrow. He’s being helpful. The scratch of Copperplate’s quill continues behind me. Future historians will read about Bertram publicly recommending his reciprocal handjob services to the exotic cat-folk stranger, rendered in perfect archival notation.
Bertram’s voice carries again, this time directed at Copperplate:
“I guess there’s much to record with a newcomer in town, ain’t there? My goodness, you’re going to run out of ink this morning.”
Movement catches my peripheral vision. Bertram’s stepping away from the counter, boots scuffing across the warehouse floor. He circles around a couple of tables—the ones with the men who’ve been cataloging my existence like I’m the most interesting thing to happen to Mudbrook since the last time someone fell into a well—and heads for the bulletin board. Not toward me exactly, but toward his own posting. The reciprocal services one.
He stops with his hands on his hips, looking up at his notice. I’m standing close enough that I catch his muttered words.
“Hmmm…” He’s reading his own posting, lips moving slightly. “‘Hygiene acceptable, all digits functional’… Could have worded that better, maybe. It’s just these damn dyes, the stains are so hard to get out.”
He examines his nails, holding his hands up to catch the warehouse light.
“And these dark crescents, don’t even know how I could begin to scrub them out unless I cut my nails.”
I’m stalling. The chickens notice is still there. Bertram’s reciprocal services posting sits higher up where he can review his own nail-hygiene marketing. I should just pick one and move on. Let me see what passes for possessed poultry in Mudbrook-on-the-Bend.
HELP WANTED: My chickens are possessed by the vengeful spirit of my dead mother-in-law. Or they’re just mean chickens. Either way, I need them gone. 1 silver, or take the chickens.
One silver or take the chickens. That’s… actually decent pay for livestock removal, possessed or otherwise.
“That’s more up the alley of a proper adventurer like you, miss cat,” Bertram says. “I know the guy, he makes most of the local pottery, and also has quite a collection of chickens. Demonic hen, I’ve heard him repeat. Veritably devilish.”
The scratching finally stops. Copperplate lifts his claw, ink still wet, and fixes his amber eyes on Bertram through his spectacles.
“Bertram. To answer… your original inquiry… no one has… registered interest… in your reciprocal… services posting. The record shows… no approaches.”
Bertram looks back at Copperplate across the converted grain barn, his expression cycling through confusion—like he’s forgotten they were even having a conversation—then recognition, then something brighter for just a moment. Finally, it sours into disappointment.
“Oh, damn it. Nobody?” His voice carries genuine hurt beneath the frustration. “It seems that after the novelty wears off, Mudbrookers don’t want to be repeat customers. Fair transactions and mutual benefit aren’t what they used to be, are they? Maybe it’s the tannery staining, and that smell of newly-worked leather.”
I watch as Copperplate’s claw hovers over the ledger for a long moment. Then it descends, scratching across parchment with religious devotion.
I let my attention drift back to the bulletin board. The chickens notice sits there with its straightforward desperation. Could be genuine combat danger. Could be difficult livestock removal with homicidal poultry.
“Demonic mother-in-law spirit sounds more promising than seventeen performances of ‘The Happy Donkey Song,’ mrow.”
“I don’t think you’re getting any more juice out of the request, miss cat. What you see is what you got.” Bertram pauses. “If you’re gearing up to take that chicken contract, we could find our local veteran. She’s one tough broad, that one. Scarred from head to toe it seems. Always carrying around that longsword of hers. I reckon you two together could handle chicken demons.”
The woman I saw earlier. The one who took a notice from Copperplate with that focused intensity, then left without a word. Heavily scarred, built like violence made flesh. That tracks with “local veteran” perfectly.
Partnering up. I came here to strip away performance, to find that crystalline clarity that only comes when survival is the only option. Adding another person complicates that. Means witnessing. Means someone else’s assessment of how I handle danger, what that reveals about me.
Stop procrastinating. Take the fucking notice. Commit to something instead of endlessly circling like my tail’s chasing itself. If the chickens turn out to be genuinely possessed or magically corrupted, I get the violence-induced composition clarity I’m chasing. If they’re just mean livestock, well—at least I’ll have moved forward instead of standing here being entertainment for gawking locals.
“You’re right, Bertram. I’m overthinking this, mrow.” My claws grip the edge of the parchment. “Let me just take the chicken notice and we can figure out if we’re dealing with actual demons or just aggressive poultry.”
The notice pulls free from its pin with satisfying resistance. I hold the parchment, feeling the weight of commitment settle across my shoulders like the instrument case.
Bertram’s already moving, boots scuffing across the warehouse floor as he follows me toward the counter. His voice carries that encouraging energy people get when they’ve successfully convinced someone to stop overthinking.
“Good, good. If I see Threadscar around, I should tell her you’re gunning to take care of our local chicken problem once and for all. Two fierce women in a poultry battlefield sounds better than one.”
I close the distance to the counter. The tortoise-person’s amber eyes track my approach through those reading spectacles, though his claw never stops moving across the ledger. Up close, the scent of ink and old parchment emanates from him much stronger.
“Mr. Copperplate, I’d like to register this contract.” I set the notice on the counter between us. “The chickens. Need the address and any additional details you have on file about the situation.”
The scratching stops. Copperplate’s clawed hand lifts the chickens notice with a glacial deliberation that suggests he’s moving through a denser medium than air. He holds it at reading distance behind those silver spectacles.
“I will now… review the documentation. This ensures… archival accuracy.” His claw descends to the ledger. “Before proceeding… I require the contractor’s… full name… for the permanent record.”
Oh. Right. I haven’t actually introduced myself. Just walked in, grabbed a notice, and demanded registration like I assumed bureaucratic telepathy was part of the service. Mrow.
“Vespera Nightwhisper.”
Copperplate’s amber eyes lift to meet mine through those spectacles.
“The record… will reflect… your registration.”
His claw descends. More scratching. This is going to take a while.
Behind me, I catch movement—Bertram heading toward the converted grain barn’s exit. His voice carries over his shoulder.
“Alright, I’ll look for Threadscar. That old warrior is always up for some action, and gods know we don’t get much of it here. Of any kind, these days.”
His boots scuff across the threshold and he’s gone, pipe-tobacco scent fading as he hits the streets of Mudbrook-on-the-Bend.
Bertram will find that veteran, which means I’m committed to whatever violence or embarrassment this job offers. Can’t back out now without looking like a coward who fled from poultry.
Finally, Copperplate’s claw lifts from the ledger. His amber eyes fix on me.
“I have verified… the notice contents. This contract was filed… by Aldous the potter. His workshop… is located at… twelve Kiln Lane… eastern district… near the old millrace.” He pauses. “The supplementary… documentation… indicates seventeen chickens… on the property. The specific… problematic hen… is described as ‘the large speckled one… with the malevolent stare.'”
His eyes blink—a full five seconds, like his eyelids operate on their own timeline.
“Payment is one silver… upon resolution… or you may claim… the chickens… as compensation. Both options… are legally binding. Do you… accept these terms?”
“I accept the terms, mrow.” My tail swishes once. “Twelve Kiln Lane. I’ll handle the demonic poultry situation.”
THE END
I generated the following video about this story. Some genuinely hilarious images.
Yesterday, when I went out for groceries, I tried to change it up a bit, heading to a different neighborhood than usual so I could feel more alive than merely repeating the usual routines. Really cold November morning, about 4ºC. It seeped through my jeans, making me wish I had worn some leg warmers. For someone who recently wants to return to bed the moment he climbs out of it, I wished I could go back home and not leave again until spring. The experience of navigating through that supermarket, of listening to the people in it (customers, employees), felt surreal, as if I were exploring a snapshot from another era. I felt detached, simultaneously feeling invisible yet suspecting that others realized I didn’t belong, not just in the supermarket but in this world.
I had known that losing my beloved cat would hurt like a motherfucker, but I hadn’t realized that she was my emotional link to reality. In my teens, I was sure that I wouldn’t survive until adulthood. My first paying job ended with me having a panic attack, ditching the bus to work and instead intending to jump from somewhere high enough. I hadn’t planned anything from beyond that point, as I believed I wouldn’t be around anymore, so I hadn’t considered that my job would call the available phone numbers. That led to my parents finding me in the local library after I chickened out from killing myself. I retain very little in terms of memories from those moments, but I recall that sinking feeling of realizing that I was going to stick around for consequences even though I didn’t want to be here anymore.
Throughout these last twenty years, having endured many periods of suicidal ideation, what kept me moored was the notion that I didn’t want my cats to miss me. I couldn’t care to that extent about my parents or my siblings (I had to go back and add “or my siblings” there, as I had suddenly remembered they exist). Now, as a forty year old, about twenty years older than I thought I would live, I find myself out of a job, with no interested in rejoining society, with an inability to care for human beings mainly due to my high-functioning autism and a generous dose of bad experiences, and a sense of detachment that I thought I had left behind in my teens. Even regular sounds seem strange now. Forming sentences feels awkward and unnatural. I recall that while I was browsing in that supermarket, I wondered if something was physically wrong with my brain, as I had trouble registering what was going on around me and even understanding what I was looking at.
Obviously I’m going through a crisis, which has found me ill-suited to navigate it. The only comfortable moments I’ve had recently had been evading myself in my usual daydreams involving a certain blonde American who died in 1972, but I also enjoyed watching Vince Gilligan’s new show Pluribus, somewhat against myself, as I don’t find the concept that interesting. I feel that I can’t do anything about the crisis itself or what’s going on in my brain other than distract myself to the best of my abilities until I settle into a new angle of repose. I’ve gone through many such fundamental changes. I’m not remotely the same person who wrote my novel My Own Desert Places, I’m not the same person who wrote We’re Fucked, neither the one who mourned for his long-dead girlfriend in Motocross Legend, Love of My Life. I don’t know where those people went. Ultimately I can only do whatever my mercurial subconscious tasks me with doing, as I don’t get any emotional rewards out of doing anything else.
I suspect there’s plenty more to be said, but I intend to distract myself with my programming project. This afternoon I’ll try to leave the apartment for a while, solely to retain the sense that I’m still alive. One foot after the other.
An hour ago I received a call from the Occupational Health doctor I visited last week. I had talked to her about the fact that working in IT had sent me thrice to the ER, two for arrhythmia and the last one for a supposed hemiplegic migraine that felt like a stroke, so I only intended to accept programming roles. This morning, on the phone, she told me she had spoken with my former employer at the hospital where I have worked on-and-off for the last seven years, and he told her that programming has been externalized, but that he would talk to HR for future job offers to see if my role in an IT contract could be constrained.
After she explained this to me, I remained silent for a few seconds, trying to understand what that would even mean. I told her that working in IT is either solving user’s problems on the phone or in person, with week-long additional phone duties, and all the while having to tolerate IT technicians for whom silence and basic respect for other people’s peace of mind seems to be a personal offense. The only possible duty of the IT job that wouldn’t screw with my brain and heart would be network rack stuff, but that’s 5-10% of the job. The Occupational Health doctor told me that she would call me tomorrow so I could make a decision: either accept a six-month trial period for supposedly duty-constrained roles, all vague as hell, and that for all I know could revert to the normal state of affairs the very first day, or else get removed from the job listings, which means that I would have sacrificed my source of income.
All I could think about that was “Please leave me the fuck alone.” My whole body weighs down as if demanding me to lie somewhere. Shortly after waking up this morning, having trouble leaving the bed, I was fantasizing about how nice it would be to jump off a fucking bridge. And I have to make a decision about whether to keep a paycheck that involves threats to my brain and heart, or restart my career at forty.
I feel unmoored. Detached from this world and from the reality of it all. Terrified of returning to any sort of responsibility. I’ve had to drag myself out of the apartment because I know that otherwise I’ll just spend hours wanting to lie down in bed. I’m even resenting having to tend to my remaining cat, who is on permanent medication for kidney failure and keeps making these “akh-akh” sounds that the vet said are common with his condition. My cat is also feeling the sudden loss of the other cat, who died four or five days ago; whenever he isn’t sleeping, he follows me around, sits at my feet, or hides under the covers, as if fearing an invisible predator that will make him disappear too. And he’s right to fear it: he’s eighteen, and that invisible predator will make him disappear soon enough. Like it eventually makes everyone else disappear.
I want to be left the fuck alone. For the entire world to forget I exist. Not have to be bound by anything. To lie in bed and daydream for days at a time, if I even have to be alive at all. Right now, in this mental state, anything other than ASMR is too grating to my senses, as if they had been scrubbed raw. I briefly considered talking to some professional about this whole stuff, but then I remembered that I had seen about five therapists from age 17 to about 31, and it did fuck all other than waste my time and money.
These last two days I have gotten decent sleep (about five and a half hours, or six), compared to the previous five days, in which I was lucky if I got two hours a night. I woke up spontaneously, and the first thought in my mind was my beloved cat who recently died. I see her face turned toward me from the bed, her eyes narrowed with affection. A couple of days ago I had an auditory hallucination in which I heard her distinctive meow coming from the spot of the bed where she liked to sit down. I walked over and hugged the empty space, in case something of her was still there.
Whenever I think about my cat, tears rush to my eyes. Even as I try to distract myself, I deal with random crying spells. This cat was my constant during my whole adult life. No matter what, I could always count on her kind, gentle, and loving nature. And now I will never see her again. On one side, I want to jot down, set in stone somehow, all the memories that remain of her. On the other side, I should forget them, as remembering isn’t going to bring her back, and I need to move forward.
Yesterday I wanted to drag myself out of the apartment, but I couldn’t muster the drive to do so. I tried to lift weights instead, but after the second set, I ran out of energy. I feel like I’m filled with lead. It’s not just my beloved cat dying, although that’s sitting on top of it all; I’ve been unemployed since September but I’ve done nothing to find a new job, as I know the routine will just hurt me. The world outside these walls feels utterly wrong and hostile. My only way to interact with it involves the temporary oblivion that my guitar provides, but I can’t bring myself to play now. I wonder if I felt like this back in my twenties during those periods in which I didn’t leave the house for what seemed like weeks. I have retained very few memories of that decade and the person I used to be.
I feel like I’m missing something important I should say, but I don’t know what. I’m encased in misery, and all I can do is sit tight and get used to the dark.
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 
You must be logged in to post a comment.