monsters-under-the-willowtree - Tumblr blog

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

The Lost Little Shoe: Part Two

A bardic lamia (or... you could say... a snake charmer? Ba-dum-tssss) has escaped from prison after enchanting and kidnapping children from the villages surrounding your area. But all is not what it seems, and the forest holds enough secrets to hide even the darkest truths from the keenest of eyes.

Big thank you to @dierotenixe​ and @aime-801 who left so many nice comments on my stories today! It was just the boost I needed to get this story finished!

Female Lamia x Ungendered, Deaf Reader

3000 words

It’s a cool autumn morning when people begin running past you in earnest, your morning walk to work interrupted. You pause someone and begin signing, your charmed gloves placing words into a smokey sentence in front of you as you sign them.

What’s going on?

You watch their lips carefully. They’re ringing the town hall bell (so they say). A search party is being organized. The beasty has been spotted in the woods again. You thank them and they hurry on their way. You can’t help but wonder how these people can just leave their work for a whole day to go chase someone through the woods. Your work never ends. You enjoy it, but it’s nigh constant and the very idea of closing up shop makes you shudder. Think of how much further behind you would be than you already are, with the changing seasons, if you closed up for a whole day!

It’s with these thoughts running through your mind that you come to a screeching halt at the door to your shop and the huge CLOSED sign hung in the window. Your co-owner and co-operator, Geraltor, is walking away from the shop just down the road and you run to catch up with him. Tugging at his sleeve and putting yourself in front of him, you stamp your foot and frantically sign, expression wracked with clear confusion and frustration.

What gives!? Why is the shop closed? We have 16 orders waiting to be finished by the end of the week!

Geraltor holds up his massive, padded hands, clawed by his incomplete werewolf transformation, and stumbles through a signed reply. You have keys, you can open up shop if you want to. But I am going to help in the - he stumbles over his fingers, waving his hands as he signs “tree” with a frown and a shake of his head. You give him the sign for forest and he repeats it twice, trying to reinforce the memory of it.

The forest, yes, to help with the search.

We don’t have time for that! Let the old men and the hunters run around with nothing better to do! We have work!

Geraltor shakes his head. I have to help. What if this kid thief takes my little Anna?

You sigh and run your hand down your face. If I help you look for one day, will you stay late tomorrow to help me get these orders completed?

His tail starts to wag and he nods his head eagerly. Yes yes yes!

You sigh and groan loudly before waving him along, Geraltor taking the hint to lead the way. It’s hard to see the mouth of the party organizer when you join the posse forming in town square and, frankly, you don’t watch terribly closely anyways. You know you’ll be following the fluffy wolf man as he bounds through the woods anyways, you know the story of this snake lady bard and how she had snatched children before being apprehended by the local legend Missy, so there wasn’t much you figured you needed in addition to that. Wander the woods in the direction you were given. If you see a giant snake... do something. Send the fuzzball after her. That sounded agreeable enough, since you were going along as moral support more than anything anyways.

The search party breaks up and you follow Geraltor to the East, joined by maybe ten other people. As you enter the forest, though, they fan out. You stick close to your friend, jogging to keep up with him, as he follows his nose through the underbrush. Fully wolfish now, he wags his tail eagerly as he zig-zags from one bush to the next. He might have the best nose in this form, but unfortunately he does not have the best attention span like this. And this shortcoming becomes clear as he chases squirrels and mice through the leaves. You don’t mind, it’s pretty cute to see him bounding and yipping after little skittering things. What are the chances this lamia is even still in the area anyways? If it was you on the run, you’d get far, far away.

After about an hour of “searching” you come to a clearing. Geraltor is still full of boundless energy (which you know from experience will leave him with a huge hangover and absolutely no energy when he eventually changes back but that’s a problem for future Gerry to deal with). You, on the other hand, are sorely in need of a break. After tapping his back and waiting for him to sit so you can sign for him, he nods his head at your suggestion that he take his time exploring the meadow while you take a breather here under this nice tree. Gerry takes off bounding through the meadow, barking and yapping, and you can’t help but snort at him. The action tickles your nose, as does the copious amounts of pollen in the flowered field, and you sneeze almost immediately after. Aside from that, all seems still. The grass waves only gently in the breeze and the branches above your head sway only at the very tips, leaves wiggling cheerfully. It’s a nice day, and it’s nice to get off your feet. You’ve nearly rolled your ankle at least ten times trying to keep up with the fuzz ball. You’ll be glad to get back to the shop once Geraltor has his fill of the woods.

He’s gone for maybe 10 minutes before he returns, walking calmly through the grass in your direction. It’s a bit of a surprise, but he had been running. Perhaps he’s decided to take it easy for a minute after his jaunt through the meadow.

Have fun? You smile at him, waiting for a nod. But oddly enough... he just walks right past you. Not even looking at you. Furrowing your eyebrows, you follow and tap his back. The action doesn’t seem to catch his attention. If anything, it speeds him up just a little, picking up his swaying walk into a jaunty trot. He’s acting strange, but not dangerous. Maybe he found something and he’s excited to get back?

You chase after him, hopping over logs and pushing bushy branches aside. You try twice more to catch his attention but you’re being totally ignored. Not uncommon for you, as much as you hate it, but Gerry? He tries to make a conscious effort to look at you when you tap him, even if it’s just to hold up one finger to let you know he needs a second. Feeling hurt, you’re in a pretty sour mood when his prancing leads you to a campsite seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Reclining against a tree is a truly massive lamia, violin in her hands and coils as thick as tree trunks, covered in glossy brown and black scales, forming a huge circle around the camp. She moves the bow back and forth across the strings, watching you curiously. All you can do is blink, brain stalling over the fact that she’s HERE and YOU’RE here and GERRY and ... oh no. You don’t know much about music save for what your fingertips can tell you about it, though there was one time when a massive brass band was playing a concert and you stood so close you could feel the beat of the giant drum rattling your chest. But you know what an instrument is, and that they make ‘music,’ and that the snake lady’s music was enchanted.

Desperate to save your friend, you lunge for him and cover his ears, but it doesn’t seem to do any good. You look up the bard, heart hammering, and she tilts her head at you. Your eyes drop to her lips as she starts speaking, and you catch her lips forming the question, “How are you doing that?”

You cringe away, still terrified, but hesitantly reply with your hands, Are you going to kidnap my friend?

A look of understanding passes over her face as she reads the smokey words that blow away in the breeze after a moment. “You’re deaf.”

You nod, returning to the task of trying to pull Geraltor away from the bard. He’s equally as bulky now as he is while human, and he’s no small man normally, so the effort to try to pull him away is totally futile. In fact, Gerry seems insistent to move even closer to the lamia. You look at her again, noticing that her lips are moving in spite of the fact that you aren’t watching them.

What?

She sighs and tries again. “You don’t have to do that. He won’t move while I’m playing.”

Well stop playing then! What do you want with him anyways!?

“I can’t stop,” she answers with a shake of her head. “If I stop, he’ll run off and tell everyone where I am. He found me, and he started to run off. I had to do something before he had a whole mob with torches and pitchforks chasing me through the woods.”

And they should, after what you did to those kids! Your frown fiercely, signing with sharp, strong movements to show your anger.

She sighs again and looks down, her movements slowing and shortening. You don’t know enough about violins to know what that will do to the sound, but she looks sad. “I didn’t do anything.”

Maybe not yet, but that’s because you got caught. If you hadn’t gotten caught, you would have... I don’t know... run away with them or something!

“Just because that’s what everyone says, doesn’t mean it’s true,” she spits back, teeth bared. “Everyone always assumes the worst because of the snake part. Snakes are bad, snakes are evil, oh watch out it’s a snake lady! They wouldn’t even listen to me in prison! They would have just locked me up and thrown away the key!”

You don’t exactly believe her, but you aren’t a stranger to assumptions and poor treatment because of something you were born with. Ok... well... why did you take the kids then? You can’t tell me that’s not a bad thing to do.

“It’s complicated.”

You put your hands on your hips and raise your eyebrows at her before signing, I’m deaf. Not dumb.

She smirks and chuckles a little. “Well played. I wasn’t born here. I was taken from my family. The people I called my parents, even though we look like family, aren’t related to me at all. They tried to tell me I was adopted when I confronted them about it after a meeting with a traveling Oracle giving a lecture at my university. I followed the Oracle’s clues to my family and I learned the truth. I went back to thank him and he told me that there were others who needed to follow my same path back to their true homes. I went to great lengths to learn a special song that would draw those who were not where they were meant to be. I didn’t know...”

Tears spring to her eyes and she risks a hasty dash at them with her elbow, returning to playing before Geraltor can come out of his stupor. “I didn’t know there would be so many. I thought maybe one... maybe two. But they just kept coming. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know what to do. I know a lot of songs, I thought maybe if I played a summoning song I could find.... deer or maybe some wild horses and I could just... put some distance between us and here and then I could figure things out once the kids were out of danger. I just want to get them home. And then there was a trap and they took me in and the kids went back to their homes and I’m back to square one.”

You have to take a minute to process all of this. You know some of the families that had kids “stolen” that night. They all seemed so nice. So normal. Maybe the parents didn’t even know. Maybe they thought it was a normal adoption. But even if that was the case, this meant that someone was stealing children from their homes one way or another. And that had to stop. You look back up at the woman, full of new resolve.

Something has to be done, but I don’t think this is the right way to go about it. We need to talk to these families and figure out who they got their kids from, and then go there. I know you want these kids to go back to their original families, but stealing them back still makes you a kidnapper too.

She almost stops playing, but a glance at Gerry jerks her hands back into motion. “Can you help me? No one will believe me. I want to make this right, but I can’t do it alone.”

You make a face, not sure about the prospect of signing up for some wild child-snatcher hunt -again- but you could probably help her at least plead her case to authorities that could get this underway the right way.

I can help... some. We need to go to the authorities. Let them take care of this. There are detectives and licensed clairvoyants and things like that who have the authority to do this kind of thing. I can get you into town. Get you help. You can even sleep on my couch, you offer, looking at the meager campsite and the travel-worn excuse for a tent she was using, but this is so far outside my wheelhouse. I want to help you, and I will do what I can, but we need to do this the right way. Ok?

She frowns, but nods after a moment all the same. “Ok. I don’t think they’ll believe me, but it’s worth a shot. What do we do about him?”

She jerks her chin at Gerry and you huff. I can talk to him. Maybe hide just for a minute and I’ll get this all squared away. Then you can come out. Sound fair?

She nods her head, her massive brown and black tail slithering off to the side before disappearing into the dappled forest floor. The human part follows soon after, Geraltor moving to follow for a few steps before his swaying stops. You can only assume this means that she’s stopped playing, and you kneel in front of your friend. He shakes himself a few times and you check to make sure he’s ok.

Once he nods at you to tell you he’s just fine, you tell him the story. At first, he’s angry. You were too. But by the end of the story he understands too. You don’t really know what to do to tell the woman that it’s ok for her to come back, and with a twist to your gut you realize that you haven’t even asked her name yet. But Gerry takes care of that, leaning back with his lips pursed into a small “o.” You watch him for a second before the brush all around you begins to move.

Gerry pins his ears back against his head anxiously and you give them a little scratch absentmindedly as the bard slinks cautiously back into her campsite. You use the excuse of introducing Gerry to your new friend to learn her name. Stepping between them, but off to the side to allow for line-of-sight, you gesture towards the wolf.

You’ll have to excuse my friend, changing back and forth between forms takes a lot out of him so he’s going to stay in his wolf form. He can understand you though. His name is Geraltor, but everyone calls him Gerry. Turning back to Gerry, you gesture towards the lamia. He walks forward and sits on his haunches, extending one paw towards her. You watch her lips carefully as she shakes his paw.

“It’s nice to meet you Gerry, my name is Tess.”

They shake, and before you know it Gerry has led you back to town. You rub the back of your head as you walk into town, feeling very much like you have just bitten off far more than you can chew. You wave your hand down at Gerry to catch his eye, relieved when he immediately looks up at you. There was a small part of you that was worried he might ignore you again.

Are we doing the right thing? What if Tess is lying to us? I mean... you know bards. They can be really convincing.

Gerry shrugs, keeping an eye on you. His gaze feels a bit critical, and you scrunch up your face.

I’m not saying that I think she’s lying. She seemed honest. I’m just thinking. Trying to be smart about this.

Gerry jerks his head towards the building in front of you, tongue falling out of his mouth as he starts panting. The out-of-phase transformation was starting to wear on him. It was easier to sustain during the full moon but the little white moon overhead, hanging in the sky in spite of the sun’s presence, was barely one quarter full. You had a feeling he was going to be useless and full of complaints tomorrow.

I think I’ve got it from here. You go home, get something to eat, and go to bed. I don’t want any whining tomorrow about your big dumb head when this was your idea in the first place. And DRINK SOME WATER this time. I don’t know why you keep transforming while totally dehydrated, you dummy.

He gave a strong nod that almost accidentally whacked his nose against the cobblestone before he bounded away. Leaving you alone in front of the station. A set of double doors. And a whole mess of trouble you could feel coming like a huge, rolling thunderstorm.

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

First steps: an AI x Reader

AI x gender neutral reader. SFW. 

Summary: You are introduced to your new mechsuit AI.  Honestly just an excuse to introduce my AI character while providing some robo fluff content for y’all —

You heard the rumors about him before you even met him. 

Well, not about him specifically, but about all mechsuit AIs. You heard that they were rude. You heard that they were rowdy. You heard that they were fundamentally broken, the rejects, advanced enough to provide basic combat functions but never having passed the test to become one of the military’s autonomous units. They were the rejects, meant to originally pilot starships in the vast space beyond but now confined to a single armor unit a fraction of the size.

You were told his name before you entered the hanger. His name was the same letter-number combo as your suit assignment. The other recruits laughed and started making lewd puns with the names. You didn’t.

You were lead into the hanger and told by your commander to have some respect. The typical speech required by the AI rights act. Nobody listened. You maybe caught a word or two but you were so nervous you couldn’t focus.

The leader released you from your line to find your mechsuit. They lined the wall of the hanger, each one as identically silver as the next with a soft blue underglow, telling you that the AI system within each suit was online. Watching. Waiting.

You ignored the other recruits and jogged to find your suit. With luck, your suit was on the far end, away from the others. You read the engraving on the side of the suit. A-35. You could feel his presence watching you as you approached. 

You climbed up the ladder, onto the platform, and waited. You composed yourself before crawling into the mechsuit. 

You secured yourself like how you had been trained to do in the simulator, except this time the fitting felt… right. No smell, no sweat from countless other trainees, and everything fit around you like a glove. You linked up to the heads-up-display like normal, but surprised to find that your view had no obstructions; there was no status bar, no ammo count, no crosshair. Not yet.

That was when he first spoke. “Welcome, pilot.”

“Hello.” You replied. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

He sounded surprised. His voice seemed to soften.

“Now, back to the introduction.” He seemed to make a little noise, almost as if he were clearing his throat if he were human. “I am A-35, your suit AI. It is my duty to protect you at all costs.”

You felt the suit around you constrict ever so slightly. A reassuring, protective pressure. Already the suit felt so alive with his presence. You were starstruck.

“Anything to say to that?” He asked.

“Thank you.” You said. “Hopefully, I’ll be protecting you to.”

Now he was the one at a loss for words. After a pause, he said. “Well, the best way to protect the both of us is to listen to my advice when I give it. It’s my job to analyze the situation in the field and suggest the best course of action.”

“Sounds great. I’ll use all the help I can get.” You said. 

He made another strange little noise, a noise of surprise. But he said nothing, and a silence filled the air.

You began calibrations, turning the head of the suit left and right (in line with your own movements, of course). You caught glimpses of the other mechsuits. They were dead still.

That is, until one suit fell over and ejected its pilot a fair ways into the air, a loud error noise playing out into the rest of the hanger. It caused you to flinch. Your own mechsuit would have shuddered with you if A-35 had not stopped it. The ejected pilot let out a loud string of curses and started kicking the machine, spewing toxicity all over and you grimaced. 

“Would you like me to censor that idiot’s outburst for you?” A-35′s calm voice chimed in over everything else.

You nodded enthusiastically, and the audio adjusted. The frustrated pilot was nothing more than a soft murmur in the background. You relaxed again.

“You’re not going to eject me, are you?” You asked with a hint of a smile.

“Not unless you call me ‘second-rate computer whore’, as D-19 reports her pilot just called her.” As he replied, a small arrow on the heads up display underlined the engraved number on the suit that just ejected its pilot.

“What a horrible thing to say!” You agreed.

“Well, I must be grateful that at least you are subverting expectations.” A-35 said.

“Subverting your expectations?”

“Oh yes. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but I was told that all mechsuit pilots would treat us like, well, objects. That they wouldn’t consider us higher than a smart phone assistant. You’re providing a wonderful counter to those assumptions.” He replied 

Another mechsuit from the line stumbled awkwardly forwards. Each step it took was in a different direction, as if each of its limbs couldn’t agree as to where to go.

“What’s happening over there?” You asked.

A scanning circle appeared, following the errant movements. “It appears that E-94′s pilot is trying to overcome basic movement control protocols.”

“Commander told us we weren’t supposed to move until we were given permission.” You made the connection.

“Exactly. Oh dear, poor E-94…” A-35 replied with dismay.

The mobile mechsuit was quickly apprehended and returned to its spot in the hanger by the supervising security, and its pilot was escorted out, alongside the pilot who had been ejected prior. 

When the two left, you said, “let’s continue calibration.”

Calibration was something you had done dozens of times, but this time was different. Instead of the emptiness of the trainer, you could feel A-35 learning you, taking in how you moved inside the suit and adjusting the outside to match. The interior padding pressed against your body rippled with the sense of him, leaving your breathless. You were dismayed when it was all over, when you felt his close attention to your body fade and focus elsewhere. 

“Calibration complete.” His voice soothed you only slightly. “Now, would you like to ask permission to begin physical trials?”

Permission to move. “We can ask that already?”

“You’ve passed the personality sync, with flying colors I might add, and have finished calibration. There’s nothing else to delay for.” He answered.

“Contact commander.” You said. You tried not to shake with excitement.

“Sending request to commander now…”

It felt like an eternity, before in the corner of your heads up display appeared a small message system. There was a pinprick of green. Permission granted. 

You hesitated. “Ready?”

“Waiting on you, pilot.”

You swung your leg ahead of you and leaned forward. The mechsuit responded almost perfectly in line with your movements, the mass of hulking silver metal gliding through the air before making a resounding impact with the floor. You couldn’t contain your awe and paused, letting a giggle slip out.

“Are you going to stop there?” A-35 prodded cheekily.

On your heads up display, A-35 laid out your plotted path, a blue holographic line overlayed onto the hanger floor. You took another step forward. Your step hit the ground with such finality yet it was effortless to take the next one, and the next one. Before you knew it, you had crossed the hanger and were now in line with the hanger door, sealed tight in front of you.

You were breathing fast from the thrill. You looked around your heads up display, trying to find the place where his presence felt the strongest. You simply uttered, “we did it.”

“Well, one would hope that this isn’t the most dramatic thing we ever do together.” A-35 said.

“That’s not what I meant, you dork.” You replied.

He laughed. His laugh was quiet and was the most mechanical-sounding noise to have come from him yet. It sounded somewhat tinny, distorted, and frankly it was quite infectious, leaving you laughing as well.

The hanger door opened. Beyond it laid the basic training course. You looked behind you. None of the other recruits had moved yet. Some of them hadn’t even started basic calibration.

“Should we wait for them?” You asked.

“Do you want objective facts or my personal opinion?” A-35 replied calmly.

“Hit me with that opinion.”

His illusion of calm quickly broke. “If they can’t catch up, that’s their problem. Let’s go!”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

The Lost Little Shoe: Part One

Another silly little original fairytale that will lead to another xReader story, this one featuring a bard and a dog. 

1700 words

Long ago there was an amulet created by a brilliant witch named Ophantia. Clear as water, light as air, strong as stone, warm as fire. It was said that whomever wore the stone would be imbued with her wisdom. It was said that she had turned herself into the amulet when she was old and grey. It was said that in it were secrets untold. A lot of things were said, though there was no way to know which was the truth without first finding the amulet.

Magic wielding sorcerers, wizards, witches, and artificers sought out Ophantia’s Amulet, hoping that by becoming the new bearer it would make them both powerful and wise. Yontir the Sage eventually came to own it, and upon his passing, his most loyal companion was found leaving his home wearing it on her collar. Missy was brave and true by Yontir’s side while he lived, and it was said that none could pass her keen eye and enter her master’s home if they were not equally as brave and true as she. Though many tried, none could take Ophantia’s Amulet from Missy. Whether it was by her own cunning or by the grace of the stone, she could outwit even the most experienced ranger.

Eventually things settled down when it was clear that Missy would not let anyone take Ophantia’s Amulet and there were no more rangers, hunters, wizards, witches, or traveling parties that wanted to try. The people of the town grew accustomed to seeing Missy run errands for herself, exchanging coins from her master’s enchanted treasury for treats from the local bakery or checkups from the local veterinarian. It wasn’t until Missy began showing up on the front porches of the townsfolk with “lost and found” fliers under her paws and missing treasures in her mouth that her curious ways were considered more than an oddity.

Now, Missy was for hire. A law-abiding citizen that had to have the concepts of taxes and trespassing explained to her but aside from a few things of this nature she was as good as any mute member of town. First she was hired to find Lady Lovelace’s lost cat, and find she did. Then all three of Farmer Kennick’s lost sheep, and find them she did. Two goats, a cow, and then a weather-rotten treasure chest that had been stolen 10 years before from a town hall fundraiser.

So when Little Davey Quinn went missing, leaving no trace except a little lost shoe left on the front steps, it was no surprise that Missy was put on the case. They gave her the shoe to use to catch his scent, and Missy put it in a bag to carry while she searched. Mrs. Quinn put the bag on Missy to help her out, and then Missy was off. She sniffed the whole town over, searching under bushes and up trees and all around the duck pond. But there was no sign of Little Davey Quinn and his other shoe.

When they couldn’t be found any place in town, Missy started searching outside of town. Around and around in a bigger and bigger circle she looked until her nose took her to the edge of the forest. It was there that Missy finally caught a sniff of the missing little shoe. She followed the smell deeper and deeper into the forest, when she noticed something strange.

A teeny little sound, like very far away music, and a line of little mice swaying to and fro as they all traveled in a straight line towards the sound.

Missy stopped. Sat down. And watched. As the music grew further and further away, the mice on the trailing end of the line seemed to waver. And after wavering, they shook themselves free of the music’s power, eventually scattering once they came to themselves.

This was troublesome. So Missy lay herself down to think of what to do next. It was almost 30 minutes later, just about when Missy had determined the best way to tell everyone her plan and all the supplies she needed, the cost of it and how to put it into place, when a woman appeared from around a tree. A Lamia bard, dressed in layers and her hair tied up, carrying a violin. Seeing the violin, and fearful of its power, Missy bolted. In her haste, however, she dropped the bag that carried Little Davey Quinn’s shoe. And, seeing the dog and the bag, the woman hurried off into the woods in return.

This left the little shoe all alone, and all was quite still and peaceful until fat, fluffy, adorable mouse scurried by... and then scurried right back to inspect the little bag. It wasn’t tied, so Missy could stick her nose into it to recapture the smell left on it, and it was through this hole that the smart little mouse discovered the fine leather shoe. Mice are quite discerning, and seeing the craftsmanship of this shoe the mouse decided that it would make a fine addition to his burrow. He carried it in his teeth all the way back to his home, a long way for a mouse but not so long for a fox or a dog or a person. It was there that the mouse discovered his new bed would not fit into the doorway of his home, which left him with the decision to either abandon the lovely leather shoe, dig his doorway a little larger, or chew the shoe to bits so he could carry it in. Deciding after a moment that he would first dig his burrow larger and then perhaps chew the shoe to bits if that did not work, the mouse got to work.

This hard-at-work little fat mouse had his head in his burro, digging away, when a fox came upon him. Foxes have no need for shoes, but they do like little fat mice. So the fox picked up the shoe in his mouth and moved it out of the way so he could chomp on the little fat mouse. Lucky for the mouse, the fox’s noisy thump when the shoe hit the ground alerted the mouse to the danger at hand and he jumped into his burrow before the fox could get him.

The fox quite wanted the mouse. And the mouse quite wanted the shoe. So the two of them began a waiting game, and they might have waited for the other to move all the way until night when a rustling in the brush revealed a very grouchy badger, making her way through the forest. Now the mouse may have wanted the shoe, and the fox may have wanted the mouse, but neither of them wanted these things so much that they would argue with a grouchy badger over it. The mouse disappeared into his hole and the fox disappeared to find dinner somewhere else. And the grouchy old badger was left with the fine leather shoe.

Now badgers don’t care much for shoes either, but the do like taking things that belong to others. And if this fine leather shoe was to be left in the woods alone, then there was no reason the badger shouldn’t claim it. She sniffled and snuffled at the shoe, taking it into her mouth to see if polished leather was good to eat, when the most beautiful violin music began to drift through the trees.

Enchanted by the music, the grouchy old badger followed the sound with the lost little shoe in her mouth. Over log and under bush the badger trotted along, soon joined by a doe and her fawn. They followed the enchanting music as well, and these three were joined by more and more woodland creatures each stranger than the last. Three snakes and a whole pond of frogs, two doves and a bobcat soon joined the strange parade. Then a bear and a great white stag, a harpy, three young minotaur sisters, and a goblin joined the parade.

This led them to a flower-speckled meadow, and in the center was the bard playing her music. She stood on a stone to make herself taller, and from all sides of the meadow a wondrous amalgamation of creatures every shape and size all wandered forward, swaying to the music.

This army, amassed by the bard, gathered around her feet to enjoy the melodious concert being performed on this grey day in the forest. And among them, several small children from the towns surrounding the wood.

Among these creatures joining the concert audience was a little dog wearing a clear stone, who swayed her way through the crowd of creatures. Once she had made it nearly to the front row, she bowed down on her front legs, wagging her beautiful white fluffy tail in the air. She wagged and wagged, tongue lolling to one side and her eyes shining with joy.

ShhhhhhHHH-WH-CRACK

An arrow pierced the lamia’s violin and she screamed as it splintered in her hands. Missy jumped, placing herself between the children and the wild animals, as the enchantment wore off. Creatures of all shapes and sizes came to themselves in a wide open field, touching other dangerous creatures normally to be avoided at all costs, and a great panicked scramble began. Those with wings jumped into the air with a hideous screech and those closest to the edge of the wood bolted for cover with a bellow. Predators jumped with fangs bared and everyone else jumped and kicked and bit and scratched in a mighty scuffle.

Once the bloody cacophony started to settle, Missy began to bark loudly and men poured from all sides of the meadow. They captured the bard and took her away while others lifted the terrified, but otherwise unharmed, children up into their arms. Missy snuffled and snorted through the chaos left behind until she found the thing she was after. Then she trotted back home with the man carrying Little Davey Quinn, and when Mrs. Quinn found her little boy on her porch covered in mud, Missy carried two little leather shoes in her mouth.

Missy had found the lost little shoe.

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

The Blueberry Trees: Part Two

Ungendered Fae x Ungendered Reader

3000 words

Link to Part One

“And then...” your grandmother’s voice wavers, pausing for dramatic effect while your little brother sits wide-eyed on her knee, “... the mists arrived once again. Pouring from between the newly planted trees like a fog bank. Knot Knix unfurled it’s magic once again. Fruit trees spontaneously bloomed. Sprouts pushed through the ground. And a little fae child with eyes too bright and ears too long watched from up the hill, at the faerie ring, as a cheer rose from the farming families below. A smile tugged at their lips, and as the faerie disappeared into the trees, the blueberries trees waved in the wind, beginning to blossom once again as well.”

Your brother gasped and leaned against her shoulder. “So there’s more seeds!? The blueberry tree makes more seeds every year and we get to plant them to make the forest bigger!?”

You snorted. The fae would like that, wouldn’t they? No, you’d heard this story a hundred times and you, of all the people in your town, knew the truth. You alone could see through the glamour.

You knew the fairytale was a big fat lie.

“No. The fae came back when the trees sprouted new berries. The whole town gathered around,” you recalled with an exaggerated wave of your hands and a roll of your eyes, “to see what was going on. And up at the very top of the tallest blueberry tree sat the fae. He called down to the people below and told them that they were starting a new friendship between the farmers and the fae. Said the trees had been given new magic. A gift from Knot Knix, for those of us who had been so faithful to their word and had “righted the wrongs done to the wood and its people.” They don’t make magic tree seeds anymore.”

“Well what do they do now?”

Your grandmother gave you a withering glare and you kept your mouth shut. She kept glaring until you turned away, a silent submission to her matriarchal position in the family. Once it was clear that you weren’t going to try to convince the family again not to believe the story and the fae, she turned her chin back down to the grandchild on her lap and smiled sweetly at him again.

“Why, they make blueberries of course! The sweetest, most delicious blueberries in the world. We can sell them for quite a price, which is why every year we have the Blueberry Days carnival and people from all over the world are starting to take notice! Did you see all the beautiful, different kinds of people that came last year? Oh, it was all so magical!”

You pulled a face and left the room. This was one of the reasons you hadn’t done anything about this yet. Blueberry Days brought in a ton of revenue that was divided up among the towns surrounding Knot Knix, and you didn’t know if trying to undue this ... curse, if that was the right word for it... would be the ruin of your community. Sure the spring and summer mists still came and watered the crops, giving the families all around the woods enough food to live comfortably even on such depleted farms. But Blueberry Days was the reason roads had been paved, schools had been built, and a lot of towns were starting to really come into their own with shopping malls and movie theaters and restaurants they otherwise couldn’t have afforded to build.

Looking out the window of your bedroom you could see the fairy ring of trees and the tents that were being erected in the field surrounding them. The sight of them made your skin crawl, but you chose this bedroom out of the morbid need to keep an eye on them regardless. It had been this way since you were 10.

You’d been on an extended vacation with your out-of-town aunt and uncle that spring because your house was being renovated and your mother didn’t want you and your brother breathing in the dust. When you came back some months later... there were these trees. And everyone insisted you HAD to try some blueberries, even though there were no more left to eat. They all insisted that ... next year. Next year you had to try them. They were a gift from the fae and you just had to. Nothing could compare. Everything else tasted like ash in comparison. Which is why everyone also started to grow leaner that year. They just couldn’t stomach the taste of their own delicious food.

You had a whole year of looking at those trees and watching the community grow gaunt with hunger for the fae food so “generously” given and hearing the story repeated over and over. About the bad human men and they years of abuse they’d done to the forest. The desolation, the necessary sacrifice to make things right. The trees.

Those trees that finally bloomed and just holding the bright blue jewels in your hand had been like holding a poisonous snake. You had feigned an upset stomach and declined that year, and every year after you’d had to come up with some excuse as to why you couldn’t eat them. People came from farther and farther away to just taste even one. And they all walked away... different. Calmer. More serene. Insisting that these were the finest things anyone had ever tasted and that all other foods tasted like ash in comparison.

Now you were older, and now something had to be done. You couldn’t stand it any longer. People were getting really sick now just from malnutrition. They’d been smart enough to gather a lot of the berries and turn them into a juice that could be added to human food to make it more paletable, so things were getting a little better. But still the community was completely tethered to those horrible trees. And something had to be done.

You filled your backpack with everything you could think of needing and set off before dawn. Just as first light broke over the horizon, you stepped into the fairy ring of trees.

Nothing happened.

It took you a minute to remember that people stepped into this fairy ring all the time to harvest the blueberries every spring, so it would make sense that nothing would happen. But then… how were you supposed to find the fae? You looked up at the top of the trees and then smacked your forehead. The fairy child had come back to the top of the tallest tree. You were going to have to climb it.

One heavy sigh, and you hefted yourself up onto the lowest branch of the southern-most tree. It was the closest to the forest and happened to be the tallest, though you weren’t entirely sure if that was causation or coincidence. Then you stepped up onto the next lowest branch, and jumped to catch the third. Higher and higher you climbed, well into the mid-afternoon by the time the branches became too thin for you to climb any higher. Up here the berries truly glittered like sapphires and your stomach growled loudly to be so close to such pretty food and yet to be denied a taste. If the smell was half as good as the taste, you could believe the stories and the hunger and the gaunt faces of your family and friends. But it was the reminder of those same gaunt faces that pushed you just climb a teeny bit higher, you grip white-knuckled against the breeze-driven sway of the giant tree.

And out from behind another stepped a fae that couldn’t have been much older than you were. It was with some small satisfaction that this part of the story was at least true. The eyes were too bright, almost glowing from within. The teeth too sharp, predatory and dangerous within the disarmingly sweet smile. Ears long and tapered in a way that reminded you somewhat of a Caracal. Everything about them just off enough to be off-putting but not enough for someone who was in a hurry to notice a difference right away. But once you started noticing the differences, you couldn’t stop. Especially since, in spite of the fact that they looked to be about your same age, they had no trouble standing blithely on the teeny, thin branches that reached this high up.

They looked at you with amusement. A haughty sort of smirk that made you feel all at once like this was exactly the thing they had been waiting for this whole time. A thought that very much had you wishing that you hadn’t just stepped boldly into the center of a fairy ring and then climbed up to the very top of the tallest tree in said fairy ring while it swayed to and fro in the wind.

“Well hello. I was wondering when you would come. And now you’re here!”

You swallowed thickly and nodded, resisting the urge to slide your way all the way back down to the safety of the ground, splinters included. “Here I am.”

They tilted their head at you, grin turning coy as they folded their arms and popped one hip at you. “Not many are so brave and bold as you, climbing up so high to see me. But you seem determined. An excellent quality in a human. It might even make up for all the other things. Please, brave stranger, may I have your name?”

This much, you’d prepared for. Even in a town bewitched by fae, there was enough knowledge floating around to give you a springboard for talking to one. “You may not have it,” you answered, and told them a name that they could call you instead. “May I have the honor of knowing a name I may call you as well?”

The fae looked impressed in spite of themselves and turned up their nose to the side. “You may have the honor of calling me Fioré.”

So far this was going well, and you smiled in spite of the stress sweat starting to accumulate under your arms and in your palms. The last thing you needed at a height like this was sweaty, slippery hands. “It is an honor. I have brought you a gift, as a token of gratitude for the bounty the mists bring our farm every spring.”

This piqued their curiosity, and they danced on leaves a step or two closer to your tree. “Oh? Is this a gift that will replace the gift of first fruits your family has given each year for generations?”

“No, the gift of the first harvest from each season is a gift given by my parents, done in gratitude for the ability to feed their family and pay their property taxes. Now that I am old enough to appreciate this gift on my own, I have chosen to bring my own gift of gratitude, if you will accept it.”

The fae tip-toed closer still, in spite of the seeming impossibility of such a feat, neither agreeing nor disagreeing as you pulled your backpack off of your shoulder (carefully) and dug inside it. Out came a resin-cast four leaved clover on a simple hemp-braided necklace.

“I found this in our field, which is watered by the morning mists and has kept our livestock fed for generations. We believe the four-leaved clover brings good luck, and I would wish only the best of luck on whomever is responsible for the mist. Will you accept it?”

“I will accept it.” The fae snatched the necklace from you and placed it around their neck, admiring the way the sun made the polished resin shine.

“Dear fae, to whom I am so grateful, I have another gift, if you will accept it.”

“Oooh! What is it!?” They danced closer, nearly reaching the same branches you were carefully balanced on, eager to see the next present.

“This,” you answered, producing an enormous rainbow lollipop, “is my favorite carnival treat which I purchased with money earned helping my parents on our farm. A farm that we owe to the mists, and so as my own way of offering a gift of that harvest I would like to give you a gift of my own harvest... if you will accept it.”

Fioré didn’t even finish shouting their acceptance before the lollipop was snatched from your hands. They tore into it greedily, practically melting with joy as soon as the sugar touched their tongue.

“Wa’ ‘bou’,” they tried to ask, mouth full of sugar until they pulled the treat from their lips with a loud smack. “What about the gift of my blueberry trees, the gift of which the carnival celebrates each spring? The mists are a gift from all fae of Knot Knix but these trees are a gift from me and me alone. What gift of gratitude do you have for me for the majesty and wonder of these trees and their fruits?”

You started to sweat in earnest now. This was it. Crunch time. You’d sort of thought that it would take more gifts and flattery than this for them to ask about the trees but if this was your chance, you were going to take it. “I am sorry, Fioré, but I cannot give a gift in exchange for a gift I have not received.”

“Not...” their smile faltered and they reached up to pluck a berry from the tree, thrusting it into your face. “Here, eat it.”

“I will not eat it. I do not understand the nature of this gift. Will you please explain the gift?”

Fioré rolled their eyes and rambled off the story of the bad men and their terrible treatment of the woods, the destruction and their poor treatment of the fae child who happened to be Fioré themselves when they were younger. The trees, the seeds, the farmers, the forest.

At the end of the story you nodded your head. “I have heard the story many times. And yet I do not understand the gift of the blueberries. You say that the men who destroyed the forest were turned to rabbits. Their debt was paid with their lives. Then, the people around the forest gave the forest the gift of growth and healing at a high cost to themselves. This paid the debt humanity owed the injured forest. The gift given in return by the forest is the mist, a gift that is repaid with freely offered first fruits of every harvest.”

The fae looked fit to burst, but you pressed on. If this was going to be the way you died, at least it was done for your family.

“And then there is the gift of these blueberries, whose sweetness changes the taste of all other foods to ash. What sort of gift is given that brings sickness to the receiver? A gift given in bad faith, by a poor host.”

The trees shook with Fioré’s anger, but you couldn’t keep it in any longer. Years of begging and pleading, reasoning with your family that they needed to stop eating this poison, and years of being all but ostracized by even your own family members bubbled up in your chest. The hurt and the heartache and the hair-tearing frustration all culminated in one accusatory ginger jabbed in their face.

“You LIED! I was 10 when the trees appeared that spring. I had been sent away for the season and when I came back, the whole town was under your glamour. There were no “years of harm done to the forest.” There were no retributions that needed to be answered for, no wrongs to right! Only a gift given at great personal cost that has been answered with plague. And now you ask for payment for this plague!? This curse!? You LIED! And now you are a cheat and a fraud as well.”

Fioré went pale at the accusation, the forest beginning to shake and sway with its own fury. You had seen through the glamour, called them out on their scam, and now all of Knot Knix new it too.

“FINE! Fine! I’ll fix it! I’ll fix it!”

Fioré stretched out their arms, and the slender fingers at the end. Bending nearly in half with their eyes screwed shut the forest and the blueberry trees grew still. Slowly they drew themselves up to their full height and, with a loud snap of their fingers the edge of the forest retreated back to its original borders and the blueberries that had been ripening on the trees fell off in a blue bouncing waterfall that swept you out of the trees, the fairy ring, and down the hill in a mighty rush. You tumbled down the hill with a scream in a berry avalanche, coming to rest in a sticky heap at the bottom. Blinking up at the sky, stomach turning, Fioré came into view again with that cocksure smirk on their face once more.

“We’ll see each other again, little blueberry. You can be sure of that.”

Your grunted and worked to right yourself, but by the time you’d made it to an upright position Fioré had disappeared without a trace.

“Well I never!” The voice of your grandmother was slightly muffled from all the juice in your ears. “What did you do!?”

You looked over to see her hands on her hips, every ounce of her spitfire back now that the fae magic had been lifted.

And you laughed. Laughed long and loud and hard even as your grandmother started to curse at you. In fact, the swearing made you laugh harder. It was over now. It was finally over. You didn’t know what this would mean for the festival, for the blueberry trees, or for the farmers now that they’d magically had their lands suddenly returned to them. All you knew was that you had been right all along, things were going to get better...

And that blueberry tasted pretty darn good.

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

Myths, Creatures, and Folklore

Want to create a religion for your fictional world? Here are some references and resources!

General:

General Folklore

Various Folktales

Heroes

Weather Folklore

Trees in Mythology

Animals in Mythology

Birds in Mythology

Flowers in Mythology

Fruit in Mythology

Plants in Mythology

Folktales from Around the World

Africa:

Egyptian Mythology

African Mythology

More African Mythology

Egyptian Gods and Goddesses

The Gods of Africa

Even More African Mythology

West African Mythology

All About African Mythology

African Mythical Creatures

Gods and Goddesses

The Americas:

Aztec Mythology

Haitian Mythology

Inca Mythology

Maya Mythology

Native American Mythology

More Inca Mythology

More Native American Mythology

South American Mythical Creatures

North American Mythical Creatures

Aztec Gods and Goddesses

Asia:

Chinese Mythology

Hindu Mythology

Japanese Mythology

Korean Mythology

More Japanese Mythology

Chinese and Japanese Mythical Creatures

Indian Mythical Creatures

Chinese Gods and Goddesses

Hindu Gods and Goddesses

Korean Gods and Goddesses

Europe:

Basque Mythology

Celtic Mythology

Etruscan Mythology

Greek Mythology

Latvian Mythology

Norse Mythology

Roman Mythology

Arthurian Legends

Bestiary

Celtic Gods and Goddesses

Gods and Goddesses of the Celtic Lands

Finnish Mythology

Celtic Mythical Creatures

Gods and Goddesses

Middle East:

Islamic Mythology

Judaic Mythology

Mesopotamian Mythology

Persian Mythology

Middle Eastern Mythical Creatures

Oceania:

Aboriginal Mythology

Polynesian Mythology

More Polynesian Mythology

Mythology of the Polynesian Islands

Melanesian Mythology

Massive Polynesian Mythology Post

Maori Mythical Creatures

Hawaiian Gods and Goddesses

Hawaiian Goddesses

Gods and Goddesses

Creating a Fantasy Religion:

Creating Part 1

Creating Part 2

Creating Part 3

Creating Part 4

Fantasy Religion Design Guide

Using Religion in Fantasy

Religion in Fantasy

Creating Fantasy Worlds

Beliefs in Fantasy

Some superstitions:

Read More

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

The Blueberry Trees: Part One

A fairytale that will set the stage for several upcoming Reader stories. Part One is purely fairytale, Part Two will be a Reader x Fae story

1700 words

The cool mists of Knot Knix Forest rolled over the nearby farmer’s fields in waves every morning, carrying dew and life with them. Farmers blessed by the fae-woods’ breath, who respected the ancient ways and left gifts of the first harvest fruits from every season at the edge of the fairy rings, were said to grow three times as much food as those beyond the reach of the forest.

It was this prosperity and fertility that drew greedy eyes and crooked men to buy up all the land surrounding the fae woods, eager to cash in on this seemingly free bounty unheard of outside of Knot Knix. The fairy rings were dug up and the rivers straightened as these new masters of the plow furrowed the ground right up to the edge of the wood. This broke the ancient root systems of those heralds at the edge of the forest and trees began to die. They were clear-cut and hauled away, the farmlands expanded beyond their original borders to fill in the new, open ground left behind.

As trees died and fairy rings disappeared, so too dried up the life-bearing mists and the babbling brooks that flowed outwards from Knot Knix. There were no first fruits that year, nor the year after. Three years of the ground turning dry and desolate convinced these new masters that the ground had simply been used up. That newer, better ground was to be had in the woods. So, they began to chop. And hack. Mulch and chip and till and bulldoze with machines that belched smog into the cool, clean air. Down fell the mighty trees of Knot Knix as acres and acres of stumps were uprooted to make way for the expanding farms.

This insult did not go unnoticed by the true masters of the wood; The Fae. None of the insults had gone unnoticed. But the catastrophic loss of so many of their trees was the final straw. Every machine that dared roll towards what remained of the woods was cursed to break no matter how many mechanics came to fix them. Every worker who stepped foot beyond the old line where the forest once had ended went home so sick with fever that they could not rise from their bed for a week. And every seed that was sown, every bush and tree planted, every seedling pressed into that stolen ground withered and died before morning.

Finally, the crooked men who had purchased the farm came down from their office buildings to see what the trouble could be. And they were greeted by a youth with eyes too bright and teeth too sharp, ears too long and clothes too old. These men shouted for the youth to get out of the road so they could drive their shining cars to their worksite, but the youth would not budge.

“Return the land to whom it belongs,” they were warned. But the men did not listen, and they drove around the child.

“Who do they think they are?” The men asked themselves. “Don’t they know we paid a lot of money for this terrible investment?”

When they arrived at the broken machines and the half-completed work they were greeted by the same small youth. Seeing the child again, one of the men opened his lunch pail and handed the boy a small baggie of blueberries. He patted them on the head and told the child to run along back home.

“How can I go back home when you and your farm are hurting the land? Everybody is starving because of you!” The child stamped their foot, making the men groan and shoo the youth along.

“This is our land, we can do what we want with it. If you’re so hungry, stick those berries in the ground and grow some more. Now scat!”

The boy ripped open the bag, scattering blueberries on the ground, and snarled at the men with their sharp teeth. “You want me to feed the world with blueberries? Fine. I will feed the world with blueberries.”

The men scoffed and walked away to survey the damages, walking around the farm and then walking back to their shiny cars. Or, at least, the place where the shining cars had been.

In their place were massive trees, laden so heavily with blueberries that their branches brushed the ground. Shocked and amazed, they rushed forward and tasted the fruits. They were the sweetest and juiciest they had ever tasted. So much so that they immediately called their businesses and requested meetings with investors.

While they were on the phone, the businessmen kept eating. And once they started eating, they could not stop. They ate even as their teeth and ears grew longer. They ate even as their skin grew fuzzier. They ate even as their bodies became smaller. They ate and ate until they had eaten themselves into cottontail rabbits, and the sound of a car driving down the dusty road terrified them into running away into the woods where they were never seen again.

But that is not the end of the story. No. These scattered blueberries that had been grown into trees by fae magic stood tall against the barren backdrop and attracted the gaze of the local farmers. These were wise old men and women, leathery from sun and wind and hard work who knew better than to mess with the old fae woods. They came to these strange, unnatural trees, and were greeted by a youth with eyes too bright and teeth too sharp and they tipped their hats in respect to the fae child.

“Return the forest to whom it belongs,” the fae told them, standing in the center of this new faerie ring made by these unnatural trees. The farmers removed their hats entirely and tipped their heads forward, replying that their own farms had been taken from them too. Bought up by the men who had purchased the land around the forest. They did not own the land anymore, so it was up to the owners to give.

“They will bother you no longer. Your land is yours once again. What will you do with it?”

Shocked, but grateful, the farmers each pledged to plant trees to restore the destroyed forest, and then some. That the forest would be grander and mightier than it had been before, by their efforts.

This pleased the fae child, who plucked a handful of berries from the trees and offered them to the farmers.

“Take these, then. But do not eat them. Treat them as seeds, and plant them to restore the forest. They are full of magic, and will grow quickly. Come back when you run out and pick more. Plant every berry from these trees, and the bounty you knew before will be returned.”

And so they did. Every farmer received deeds to their original lands in the mail and all set to work picking berries from the trees, planting them to replenish the forest. They rented cranes and lifts to reach the berries at the top, paying lithe young boys and girls to scour the trees for anything that had been left behind. As baskets and bushels of berries were carried home, new hardwood trees sprouted where the seeds were planted. Seemingly overnight they would shoot from the ground, growing dozens of feet each week until they brushed the sky.

It was easy to replace the old woods. The ground where the old trees had once stood was dark and loamy, even after the abuse it had endured. These trees were planted quickly, even considering the immense scale of the Knot Knix. Berries were sent to farmers on all sides and all sides, for a hundred miles, worked together to replenish the forest. But when the trees were still covered with berries even after the old forest had been replaced, there came resistance. Some did not believe it was their responsibility to repay the old woods when they too had been wronged by the situation. Some simply could not afford another small harvest, they needed to plant their old land in full to have enough food and money to feed their families.

Heated debates and town hall meetings on all sides of Knot Knix broke out. But as summer wore on and the area affected by the desolation only grew, eventually the warning left by the fae won out over all. Through the winter months trees were planted all around the forest and friends and family dug through snow drifts to find the last of the berries left on the blueberry trees. These were all divided equally, and each farmer added more and more trees to their property in the hopes that the fae would keep their promise once the forest was restored.

Finally, a year and a day after the first seed was planted, the last seed was placed in the soft earth amid a grand festival. The ground trembled and shook just before the last tree sprang to life, unfurling into a giant ash tree before the eyes of all who had gathered for the event. And then… all was still. All was quiet.

And then… bird song. Birds that hadn’t been heard for years broke into song and cheering broke out throughout the festival. There were some sniffles among the cheers, as many of these families had lost so much in these recent years, but there was loss felt by all. And therefore, the hopeful joy at finally having planted the last seed was also felt by all.

The festivities continued, which was why it was almost missed when the mists arrived once again. Pouring from between the newly planted trees like a fog bank, Knot Knix unfurled it’s magic once again. Fruit trees spontaneously bloomed. Sprouts pushed through the ground. And a little fae child with eyes too bright and ears too long watched from up the hill, at the faerie ring, as a truly joyful, raucous cheer rose from the farming families below. A smile tugged at their lips, and as the faerie disappeared into the trees, the blueberry trees waved in the wind, beginning to blossom once again as well.

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

My God, They Were Roommates

A Story about New Places, New Faces, and a New Roommate that wasn’t originally in the advertisement but a welcome surprise nonetheless

Ungendered Ghost + Ungendered Reader 3000 words

Holiday wasn’t exactly the kind of town that you expected to end up in after college but it was better than where you’d come from. That much was certain. For one it didn’t have all the drama from where you’d come from. And for two it was gorgeous.

There was so much greenery, old and new growth just bursting from every seam. Charming old homes that might as well be estates and new town houses, ancient taverns with plaques boasting their history and cute modern boutiques all mixing nicely together to create this inviting and unique atmosphere that had drawn you in the moment you’d stepped out of your car.

Plus it was actually affordable here, in spite of the drive it would take to get literally anywhere.

And now here you were, putting away the last of your things as autumn leaves danced past your window. The last cardboard moving box finally stashed under your bed with the others. Technically this was just a studio apartment above an old antique shop but the owner of the shop hadn’t had so much luck with the business and had closed the doors a couple of years back. It was quiet and private and since you didn’t even have keys to get into the shop itself the inanimate housemates on the first and second floors didn’t bother you one bit.

It did have the downside of being lonely though. But you were sure that wasn’t going to be a problem forever. You just needed to meet some people in town, that was all. And in the meantime you could call your family and talk to them when the loneliness got to be unbearable. That was the plan, anyways, but with a whole town’s worth of new places and unpacking and turning the bare attic-type space into a homey spot arranged just how you wanted it to be there hadn’t been a whole lot of time for it just yet.

That and... some little strange occurrences had been happening too. Nothing terribly odd but just inexplicable enough to make you just a bit uneasy. Like this morning, you think as you look down at your thumb. The pad of it had a little smiley face drawn on it. And you had absolutely no memory of putting it there. Boxes had tipped over by themselves while you were unpacking. Two mornings in a row now you had woken up with a shoe balanced on your forehead. And strangest of all, there was a little toy ghost that you hadn’t remembered packing along with you that kept moving itself around your room every time you would leave the house and then return later.

This was the kicker that got you really thinking. In fact you were currently sitting on the edge of your bed looking at it with your chin in your hands. Was it possible that there was a ghost in this building? It hadn’t done anything mean or malicious or creepy yet. But the idea was still a little disturbing. Would you need to get a curtain or something if you needed to change? Would it obey a set of house rules like “no messing with the water while I’m showering” and “no creepy stuff that will give me nightmares?”

After an afternoon of deliberating you finally decided that waiting for it to come to you wasn’t going to be the best way to go about this. So instead.... you went shopping. Nothing extravagant, you didn’t really have a whole lot of funds to put towards much of anything at the moment. But a few things. And then it was time to go to work.

The first thing you did when you got home was tie some fishing line to your shoes and attach that to a shoe box up high on a shelf that you filled with feathers. The first little ghost toy got a second little toy friend to sit next to. And finally a little cheap video camera that you balanced on your dresser on the opposite wall in an effort to capture your prankster in the act.

And then you went to bed. It was difficult, but eventually you managed to drop off to sleep.

In the morning you awoke gently. It was Sunday and you had no alarm, one of your two blessed sleeping-in days. But as soon as you shifted even an inch there was the sensation of things tumbling onto you, things thudding dully against your bed and body, and you shrieked in surprise. Flailing wildly against your attacker, there was a bit more din and ruckus. When all finally came to a stop you stared, wide eyed and breathless, at the shoes, feathers, and shoe box that were now haphazardly resting on you, your bed, and the floor beside you. It took a moment for your brain to catch up with what had happened.

And then you started laughing.

The laughter only grew louder as you dared a glance over at the video camera and noticed the two toy ghosts beside it, arranged like they were holding it up where it stood, now pointing at you instead of at the door where you kept your shoes usually. So your ghost had figured out the prank and had pranked you right back. Classic. The feathers were going to be a pain to clean up but right now that annoyance was nothing more than a fleeting thought as you scurried over to the camera and flipped it over. It was still recording.

Flopping back on your bed you stopped the recording and then played it back, quickly realizing that just watching it straight through was going to take forever. So the laptop was pulled out, memory card inserted, and then the fun really started. Dragging the pointer across the progress bar you started fishing through the data until bam! Feathers everywhere! You rewind by a minute or two and then watch, nose practically pressed to the screen, to see how it happened.

At 2:47 AM all seems quiet. Nothing unusual. Except that, wait... you pause, rewind by 10 seconds, and look harder when you push play. There’s a movement. By the door. Not something you can truly see but just barely detectable nonetheless. And your shoes lift slowly into the air. The box above tips over and a shower of neon pink feathers rains down from above. They don’t exactly land on anything in particular but they do seem to almost bump against and then slide off of something invisible. The shoes drop and some gust of indoor wind sends a bunch of them flying into the air. The feathers fall gracefully to the ground.

And then... nothing. For minutes. You skip ahead carefully, squinting, until you catch a frame of your shoe floating above your bed. Scooting back through time you watch as feathers start lifting themselves back into the box. The camera moves a minute later, changing angles so that it is now pointing at you instead. And then your shoe is lifted, floating silently across the room. It’s balanced on your shoulder and then there is nothing again for a moment. The other shoe is brought over and balanced carefully on the first. Then the box of feathers floats over and is balanced on the side of your head. The ghost toys dance through the air, growing larger in the frame until they are right in front of it. Maybe a little too close, they’re rather blurry. But definitely there on purpose.

You can’t help but notice, while they hang there in the air, that one is very slowly rotating in place towards the other, who is looking directly at the camera. Then moving closer. And then leaning in. The hands on the little toy ghosts can’t move but the one who moves closer to the one staring into the camera tilts, the little hand sliding behind the first until the two ghosts are touching in a juvenile form of embrace. They float there in that position for maybe ten minutes, most of which you click through rapidly. Apparently your ghost wanted to send a message and didn’t want you to miss it. And it was so sweet you can’t even be the smallest bit upset that now you have pink feathers all over your bed.

Your ghost wanted to be friends.

It was such a crazy concept that you didn’t really know what to say or do for a while. Ghosts were real? How was that possible? How could you be friends with someone who was invisible? Could they talk? Were they watching you? How would you communicate? How would you know if they were there? How did they die? Why were they here?

Mustering up a bit of gumption you track down some paper and some pens and leave them out on your dresser with a little note on it.

Hello Ghost! I hope you aren’t upset that I’m living here. I’d like to be friends. Can we talk soon? I want to meet you!

You signed your name, put the box of feathers by it, and then headed for the shower. It seemed like they hadn’t really been doing much around the apartment unless you were out or asleep so you thought that maybe they were shy or were trying to be nice and not spook you too badly. Which was awfully considerate of them, you probably would have screamed if they had just popped out of the woodwork and offered their hand to you. But now that you’d had a little time to think about it you were actually pretty excited to meet a friendly ghost.

It was hard to take your time, anticipation was bubbling in your stomach like soda pop fizz, but you really wanted to make sure that the ghost had enough time to find the note, read it, and reply back. If they were even around. Maybe they were hanging out in the antique shop downstairs? Did they only come up at certain times of the night? You hadn’t really had enough time to learn their patterns yet. But you hoped. And eventually when you were nice and pruned you could finally check.

There was... no reply. And it stung a little. You did try not to be too disappointed. But... wait. The pages had definitely been disturbed. Some feathers weren’t in their box anymore. And... now that you got looking, your favorite pen was missing too. Well, you mused, maybe they just wanted some more time to work on their answer. Maybe writing was hard to do as a ghost? In any case, it looked like they had seen your note and were going to maybe reply back to you on their own time.

With that in mind you went about the rest of your day, still a little bit anxious but trying to be patient. It took ages to fall asleep that night. So long that it was early morning before your eyes finally started to droop. And that was when you heard a little scratch at the door. Just once. And even if your eyes popped open you stayed still, not totally sure that you actually had heard anything. But your suspicions were confirmed moments later when a piece of paper floated across the room. You gasped and immediately the paper dropped to the floor, along with a rattling ting that told you the ghost had been holding your pen too.

“Wait!” You sat up and jumped out of bed, holding your hands out in some vain attempt to feel for them in the dark. “Wait, don’t go. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t sleep. Are you still here?”

Nothing moved, no matter how long you waited there in the dark. With a sigh you shuffled over to the paper and picked it up, turning on a light so you could actually read it. Although once you got there you decided that maybe “read” was a strong word. It was a hand-drawn comic page. No words. But you studied it carefully anyways.

The first panel was a dark room. It took up the width of the page. Big and empty and heavily shadowed and with a dramatic angle to showcase the small bedsheet-type ghost sitting in the middle of it with a frown. Below it were three panels. Side by side views of the little ghost with an “o” mouth and wide eyes peeking around corners at the sight of a person carrying boxes.

Then the bottom panel, again using the full width of the page, showed the same room as above now filled with boxes and music and light and a person (one you had to guess was yourself) with the little sheet ghost grinning enormously.

It was adorable and even at the late hour it warmed your whole heart. You immediately pulled apart an old picture frame and put the page inside of it, snatching up the two little ghosts and putting the two of them next to each other beside it. Maybe the ghost was illiterate and couldn’t read? Couldn’t write? Or maybe they spoke a different language? Had they been an immigrant from another country and couldn’t read the language you were writing?

Whatever the case was, they were a lovely artist and you wanted to make sure they knew you had understood the message. So you grabbed another piece of paper and with what little artistic skill you had tried your best to answer back. Yours was a very basic four panel comic with stick people, the first showing a person standing alone. Then in the second one it showed the first person with a big grin and their hands in the air at the appearance of a simplified sheet ghost. The third showed the ghost and the person with word bubbles and little squiggles inside. And then the fourth was your very best attempt at drawing the ghost and the person hugging. You didn’t really know if ghosts could hug but it was the best way you could draw the hope that you could be friends with your new roommate.

You left this drawing nearby the first, looking around the room for any sign of your ethereal roommate for a few moments before deciding that maybe they weren’t around anymore. It would have been nice to finally see them or sit and chat with them, learn their name or find out if the two of you even spoke the same language. If not then the sooner the better, you had learned a few words here and there in a few other languages but if you were going to need to learn a whole new one well enough to be conversational then you kindof wanted to get started.

Exhaustion pulled you under quickly after that, a small blessing considering that you had to be up for work the next day. It was impossible to concentrate, and sleep was only one small factor in that problem, and the end of your working day could not come soon enough. The comic had given you an idea and even if you were definitely planning on more little pranks in the future you were glad that you hadn’t gone too crazy just yet. That show of restraint had given you a couple dollars left in your wallet to head back to the store and pick up some art supplies. Nothing fancy. Just some cheap acrylics and a pack of plastic bristle brushes. Next paycheck you might be able to afford an array of the small canvases they had for sale but with your last $5 not claimed by groceries or gasoline you purchased two small ones that would at least give your ghost friend something to do with their time while you were away at work.

“Hello?” It felt a little strange to call out to an empty studio as you came bustling in with your plastic bags and keys jangling noisily. But now that you had a ghost to consider it felt rude not to greet them, wherever they might be. “Ghost? Hello? I bought something for you!”

Settling everything on the small folding table you eventually arranged the art supplies in such a way, an old sheet as a tablecloth and toy ghosts supporting the package of paint brushes over their heads, that hopefully the ghost would catch your meaning.

“Listen, I don’t know if you can hear me or if you’re here or not but these are for you! I figured maybe you might like to try painting, since the little comic picture you drew yesterday was so cool. It’s not much but it probably beats wandering around this old place all alone all day. I don’t know if ghosts can paint but it’s worth a shot, you know? Uh…. Anyways… I guess I’ll just leave these here. You can take them somewhere else if you don’t want to paint in, like, the middle of the room or something. Just take the sheet with you so you can keep the floor clean, I suck at trying to get stains out of stuff so I won’t be much help if it gets into anything.”

You looked around again, hoping to see some sign that they were around. Nothing really jumped out at you but you could have sworn the curtains shifted just slightly. Or maybe that was just the air vents. “I have to go out again for a bit, I’m all out of food for the week, but I hope you like this stuff. I’ll see you later? Maybe? I mean I’d like to see you later but it’s cool if you want to stay invisible a while longer. I get being shy and all that. Anyways… uhm… later!”

And though it was still maybe too early to tell but the air just to your left felt abruptly cool as you gathered up the plastic bags and keys, cracking open the paints and brushes for them as an afterthought. How strong were ghosts really? Were there things that you could do to make life (or rather death) easier for them? These thoughts and a cold breeze followed after you as you scuttled back out the door again, still unsure if you were really doing the right thing but pleased enough with your efforts that the consequences of befriending a ghost felt worth the risk that maybe this would be the best thing to ever happen to you in your whole life.

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

.

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

I made a generator to find out about your supernatural partner because human partners are out of fashion now

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

The Forest Walk: Bonito Part 2

A continuation of your walk through Caticaw National Forest and the story of befriending Bonito the Peacock Avian, with a little bit of a surprise twist at the end hinting that maybe all is not as quiet as it seems in your little home town.

Part One found Here

Male Monster + Ungendered Reader 3000 words

It was late afternoon by the time you were able to make it back to the gate with all the tools you might need. Unfortunately, all of the snipping-type tools your father owned were so large you feared accidentally clipping Bonito and hurting him. Your grandpa had a pair that were a tad more delicate though, and you had resolved to try those first. If that wasn’t going to work you’d also brought along a saw that you might be able to use to get part way through the metal and then snip through the rest, but as with the big snips your father owned there was the risk of hurting the beautiful Avian in your struggle to get the lock off of his ankle.

“Bonito?” You call out for him as you haul the toolbox through the gate. “Bonito, it’s me! I’m back!”

There is no reply. You try again a little louder, not sure if maybe he simply hadn’t heard you. And yet there is still no reply. Bonito never had said exactly how close to the gate he was going to fly so it seems like the most reasonable next step is to haul the toolbox, a big old clunky thing that weighs as much if not more than the tools inside, further along the path. It was a bit of a pain; you’d been hoping not to have to haul the thing all over creation trying to find him again. But it would be well worth it if you could save his foot. Possibly his life.

You continue along the path, calling his name as you go. Finally, just before the lake, a familiar head pops up from the tall grasses surrounding the lake and Bonito hobbles his way towards the path. You meet him part way, stepping off the path and into the damp earth with an excited shout.

“Hey! I was starting to worry I wouldn’t find you. I brought a bunch of stuff, hopefully we’ll get the lock off before it gets dark, but I have a flashlight just in case.”

Bonito pokes his beak into the toolbox, shifting some things around curiously before squawking a bit indignantly and reeling back hard enough to nearly knock himself over.

“ITS COLD! Gah! Why is it cold!?”

“What?” You stick your hand into the toolbox (carefully) and find one of the jelly-like ice packs in the bottom. “Oh these? I thought it might help with the swelling.”

“But it’s FREEZING!” He emphasizes, as if that was all the explanation needed. You chuckle a little and pull out a second one.

“Yeah, I hate using them too, but they really help. And I’d feel a lot better about trying to saw this lock off if I had more room to work with. It’s going to be cold but I promise it will help.”

The look he gives you is dubious at best before eyeing the ice pack with as much distaste as your brother eyes spiders but eventually he sighs with such resignation an outsider might think he’d signed his own death warrant with that breath. “Fine. But I won’t like it.”

You help Bonito sit down so you can elevate and ice his ankle, the pathetic little warbling whines he makes just funny enough to keep you smiling through the whole ordeal. And then, a thought pops into your mind. “Hey Bonito, how about we take your mind off of this while your ankle cools down and we talk about stuff. Or maybe play a game?”

“What kind of game?”

“Uhm... well we could play ‘I Spy’ or there’s a few get-to-know-you games like 20 questions or two-truths-and-a-lie...”

“You... lie as part of a game?” His whole head cocks to the side, an instantaneous motion that makes his feathery crown bob crazily like an antenna.

“Yeah, it’s fun! You say three facts about yourself and then the other person tries to guess which one is a lie. I’ll start. Ok... how about... I’ve got an older brother, I’ve got a dog, and I’ve got a rock collection. Now you try to guess which one is the lie.”

Bonito looks skeptical, his head leaning forward just a little as he looks over your facial features carefully. “What happens if I guess incorrectly?”

“Oh, then I just tell you ‘nope’ and you try again. There isn’t really a ‘winner’ or a ‘loser’ in this game. It’s just a way to get to know people but making a little bit of a game out of it. It’s just for fun.”

Bonito still looks deeply suspicious and his head pulls back quite far. “I don’t think I want to play this game. Lying for fun is... not how we do things. Do all humans lie for fun?”

You can’t help but grimace, remembering how he’d mentioned the Fae and the fact that he and his family lived by their rules. “No no, and if we do we make sure everyone knows about it. Like how I told you it was a game? There wasn’t any... I dunno... ‘trickery’ or anything involved there. I wasn’t trying to be sneaky. Humans just like puzzles and games. Especially if nothing bad happens when you lose the game or can’t figure out the puzzle. Sort of a ... ‘no harm done’ deal. But that’s ok if you don’t want to play. We can do something else instead. I just wanted to help you think about something other than the cold.”

He glances down at his ankle, talons flexing. “I suppose it did help to not think about it. What was another game you said? I Spy? What do you spy?”

After a brief rundown of the rules Bonito is still a bit skeptical of the game but agrees to try it. You begin with “blue” and after a few guesses seems to warm up to the game significantly upon discovering that the ‘answer’ was the blue eyes on his tail feathers. He takes a turn with “brown” and eventually you guess the answer – the brown cattails nearby the lake. You go with “blue” again just to make sure he fully understands the rules (a good thing too) and after a bit of discussion he finally guesses his way into the answer, which was the sky. He takes one more round with “white” and is rather pleased when that one takes a very long time. But eventually you discover that he had been ‘spying’ the glitter of the sun on the water. And you commend him for his cleverness.

At this point though you figure it is about time to check on his ankle and are rather pleased to see that the swelling has gone down some. Not as much as perhaps you would have liked but Bonito was eager to shake off the ice packs and the sun wasn’t going to hold itself in the sky forever. Which leaves only two things left to do.

Much as it pains you to do anything to aggravate the injury you manage to sneak a little piece of cloth between the lock and his skin just to give him an added layer of protection. And then, already sweating with anxiety, you start to slowly saw through the lock. Both sides will need to be cut through and the force of concentration it requires to hold the lock and the saw in just the right way so as to avoid drawing blood makes conversation impossible. Thankfully Bonito is just as serious about keeping himself very still for you. And so the long minutes pass in silence.

Silence that is broken when you are nearly at the end and you have to shake your hands out before attempting the final pass throughs of the saw blade. “Whew. Ok. Almost there. I’m going to try really hard not to cut you now that I’m almost through, hopefully the cloth will help. But just in case, I want to apologize up front. I’ll do my best but I’m really sorry if I accidentally nick you.”

“It’s all right,” he answers with a bobbing nod and the flexing of his foot again. “I understand. Thank you for being careful.”

“You’re welcome. Ok... here we go.”

You lean in again and pick up the saw blade, running it more slowly through the groove you’ve made in the lock. It would help if you could change angles but his ankle is still pretty swollen, unfortunately, and if you change angles you’ll cut him for sure. So for now it’s just slow going. One swipe at a time. Until... your hand jerks a bit and you immediately let go of the blade, not daring risk any movement until you can make sure you didn’t slice his ankle.

Cautiously you try to twist the lock. And... success! The lock twists just a little, only millimeters, but it’s enough to prove that you made it through the metal. You give a victorious shout that Bonito answers with his own loud call, both of you celebrating for just a moment before getting immediately down to the business of cutting through the second post. You try your grandpa’s more delicate snips but unfortunately there still just isn’t enough room for them. So it’s back to the saw.

The second side takes just as long as the first, no surprise there, but the victory shout that follows when you finally can hold the two pieces of the lock in your hand is definitely much louder. In his excitement Bonito clambers to his feet, wings flapping up an impressive gust of wind in the process. And then he does the most adorable little hop-skip-shake-bow that unfurls his massive tail of feathers in a beautiful display that easily reaches ten feet into the air. It’s breathtaking. He joyfully spins in place, laughing even though the pain in his ankle hasn’t magically vanished in the instant he was set free. His hobbling makes his tail display shake and dance above him and if it weren’t for his lingering discomfort he probably would have continued to spin and dance for a while more.

But after one full spin he does have to put his tail feathers back in order behind him, somewhat begrudgingly accepting the ice packs again so his ankle will continue to feel progressively better before he has to fly back home to his roost. He hates the cold but tolerated the fact that it does help, turning his full face to you once his ankle is properly situated and packed in ice. You suspect that he is trying to give you a very serious stare but the silliness that accompanies the way his face just so happens to look when he is facing you fully makes it just a little bit hard to take him seriously.

“Thank you again. I owe you a great debt.”

You shake your head, having suspected this conversation would pop up eventually. “Nah. It was the right thing to do. I mean, what kind of crappy human would I be if I saw someone who was hurt and didn’t at least try to help? I’m just glad it’s off, that had to hurt a lot to try to walk on.”

“It did. And now I have a chance to live a full and healthy life. Because of your kindness.”

You side-eye Bonito and raise an eyebrow at him. “Seriously. It’s not a big deal. You really don’t owe me anything. I mean... I’d like it if this ended up being like a ... friendship-bonding moment or something. I’d like to be friends. But I don’t want you feeling like I’m asking for your friendship as like.... an exchange for helping you. Like ‘haha! I saved you and now you HAVE to be my friend!’ Nothing like that. I think you’re neat and I’m happy to help even if you don’t think I’m neat too. But if you do think I’m neat too then maybe we could be friends and like... go on walks together sometimes or something. You probably know a ton about the forest. It would be really cool to go on a nature hike with you once your ankle is feeling better and we could talk just... have fun being outside together.”

He doesn’t look convinced. And he doesn’t answer right away. He does turn his head to look at you with one of his side-placed eyes, the change in angle definitely helping him to look more serious and critical. Then, just when the silence is starting to get uncomfortable, he reaches his head backwards towards the base of his tail and plucks out one of his tail feathers, dropping it in your lap before you have time to protest.

“A small token of my appreciation, then. I will never forget your kindness. But if you truly don’t want anything in return then please accept this.”

You pick it up, grateful that he didn’t pull out one of the ten-footer feathers. That would have been a little difficult to hang up in your room. The colors are vibrant even in the low light of sunset, and the plumage is beautifully unmarred. You run the fluffy vane through your fingers reverently, amazed at how soft it is, and grin up at Bonito.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you. I have the perfect spot for it in my room where I’ll be able to see it all the time.”

“And...” he adds, looking out across the lake turned fiery orange and red in the setting sun, “I would like to be friends. Do you want to meet here by the lake in seven days? That will probably give my ankle time to heal. Especially if I go to see Harimaea. She’s the healer of the Faerie Court that lives here. Now that the lock is off, she can help.”

“Oh! Yeah! Definitely!” You were a little surprised, the offering of the feather had seemed a little bit like his way of politely declining the whole ‘friends’ thing. Apparently that assumption had been wrong, a very pleasant surprise. “Do you have a phone? So you can call me if you need more time to get feeling better?”

“I don’t.” He cocks his head at you and his eyes crinkle with silent laughter. “My talons don’t play nicely with the teeny little buttons and I don’t exactly have a good way to pay for service out here.”

You chuckle, “I guess not. But how do you call people then?”

“Who would I call? My family is all here.”

“So, none of your family has a phone?” The idea is a bit baffling and you can’t help but stare up at him. He shakes his head, effectively rendering you speechless for a few moments. “So... what’s going to happen to your family out here then? I mean the world is changing, technology is changing, basically everyone has phones these days. Your family isn’t going to just... live without having a phone forever, are they? What about electricity? Running water?”

Bonito rolled his eyes. “Running water isn’t a new invention. There are no power hookups in the middle of the forest, though, and I hear the reception is terrible even if I did have a phone. If it’s so important to you, I can find one of the park rangers and use theirs. I know how to use one, I just don’t own one myself.”

That was perhaps a bit more comforting but still so terribly jarring. You knew that there were plenty of Avians living in towns and big cities, along with all kinds of other monster-folk. So this revelation was a bit of a shock. Like discovering that your new neighbor was still living in a previous century. “Couldn’t you or some of the people in your family just... get jobs and then you would be able to pay for these things? I know job hunting sucks and the pay for entry level work is crap but it’s better than nothing, right?”

Bonito squinted down at you, his head rising and then looking away. “It’s complicated.” You purse your lips at him and he sighs, wiggling his toes. “Ask me again when we go on our walk. It’s getting late and the story is long. For now, I will say that our living situation is not entirely of our own choice.”

You hate being put on hold, but he does have a point. He’ll have to find his way home on his own in the dark as it is. And so will you if you don’t hurry. “Ok, I guess. So seven days then. What time do you want to meet?”

“Maybe sunrise? Are you awake that early in the day?”

You blink at him once, twice, three times before raising an eyebrow at him. “Do you not have clocks where you live?”

He groans and flutters his wings impatiently. “We do, I’m not some caveman. I know how to tell time. It’s just asinine. ‘8 o’clock’ is totally meaningless. Sunrise, Sunset. Mid-day. Twilight. Those actually have meaning. Not some stupid numbers on a circle. They mean totally different things throughout the year! How do you even survive using a number system when they change??”

You can’t help but laugh at how worked up he is over the idea of clocks, shaking your head and holding your sides. “Ok, ok. ‘Sunrise’ is fine. Oh boy. I cannot wait to find out how you feel about so many other things. This is going to be fun.” Your laughter subsides and you sniff just bit, rubbing the stitch in your side. “Ok, seriously though. You’ll be ok getting home? You don’t need any help getting there?”

Bonito shakes his head, turning around and unfurling his massive wings. “I will be fine. Thank you, again.”

You nod and wave, wishing him goodnight, before he takes off and you turn around as well. Toolbox clunking against your leg all the way home.

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

heres a TOTALLY BLANK image!! there is DEFINITELY NO REASON for u to click it!!!!!!!!! NOT AT ALL!!!!!!!!!!!

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

life’s too short to be embarrassed you read x reader fan fiction. live ur life and date as many imaginary boys as u want

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

The Forest Walk: Bonito Part 1

A story about finding maybe a little more than you bargained for while out bird watching in the forest near your home

Male Monster + Ungendered Reader 2000 Words

The metal chain-link gate clinked shut behind you, a cheerful sound that was reminiscent of after school sports and watching your friend’s baseball games. The early summer sun had just peeked over the treetops, bathing the world in yellow and lighting up the tender new growth of the forest in verdant green.

Caticaw National Forest was an enormous stretch of land known to be the ancestral home of many ancient creatures. There had been years of debate over whether or not it would be a National Forest or a Reservation but since this particular stretch was mostly home to solitary creatures or small family groups with no system of government on their own it was finally decided that having Forest Rangers and the National Forest Service helping out was the best solution for everyone. Humans and Paranormal alike. Technically this particular gate led into private land but the owner was the founder of the town and all were welcome to enjoy the natural beauty of the place as it bled into the government land behind it.

This private / public gate that led onto the private / public land was no ordinary gate either. It was absolutely covered in little locks. Much like the River Seine and other places around the world this gate had become a traditional place for lovers and best friends and family to come and place a symbol of their commitment to staying “locked” together. Your mother had placed a lock here with your name and your brother’s name engraved on it in the hopes that maybe a little superstitious luck would help you two stay close even with a seven-year gap between your ages. Who knows if it helped or not, you had a pretty good relationship even if there was a lot you didn’t really see eye to eye on. Even after so many years of it being here you couldn’t help but look for it every time you came to this simple latch gate.

And come here, you did. Rather frequently in fact. There were all kinds of neat plants and animals on the property but with so many of them being terribly skittish you had learned to take along a set of binoculars or else miss out on some pretty spectacular sights. One in particular had caught your eye the previous week. You could have sworn you had seen an albino deer but by the time you had fumbled the binoculars into place the white deer-shaped speck was nowhere to be found. So now you were back and eager to see if maybe the specter had been more than just a trick of the light.

A cool breeze ruffled your jacket but the day was already growing pleasantly warm. Soft dirt tracks lazily trailed their way through a grassy meadow where you accidentally spooked a family of pheasants, across a wooden bridge that carried itself over a mossy lake, and back into the dappled shade of the old forest. The soft crunch of undergrowth under your feet adds to the singing of the songbirds and the rustling green leaves create such a relaxing atmosphere that it’s hard not to stop and sit for a while. But you’re on a mission. And there will be time to stop and smell the wildflowers later.

One hour. Two. Three hours of walking and looking hasn’t been exactly in vain. You’ve seen and heard plenty of birds, played peek-a-boo with a weasel, and followed a little family of bunnies around. You’ve found multiple fantastic walking sticks and traded up several times. Patted a fat bullfrog on his little head. And even pocketed a cool rock. But no deer. Not even the usual kind, much less a white one. You’re about to call it a day when you see something through the trees.

Something B I G.

It’s hard to make out, even with the binoculars, but it’s earthy in color from what you can tell (not bear colored or any of the local big predators colors) so you leave the dirt trail and slink towards it as quietly as possible. The creature is on the move, meaning that it takes some time to catch up with it, but when you do your breath is stolen.

Beautiful green feathers with huge blue eyes cascading down its back into a regal train that just barely brushes the forest floor. Wings that look big and long enough even tucked against its side, to be mistaken for a surfboard. A long graceful neck that leads up to a petit head crowned in trembling little bobbles of feathers that dance with each step the Avian takes. His face is perhaps a little broader than a normal Peacock’s head would be, his jaw a little squarer, but he mostly looks like a very, very, VERY large bird. At least 5 foot 8, which might not sound as massive or intimidating as some other creatures but for a bird with razor sharp talons and a beak to match he was just as intimidating as he was stunningly gorgeous.

He had spotted you before you had spotted him and he eyed you keenly from one of his beady side-placed eyes. His body posture, the way his wings were held just a few inches out to his sides, indicated that he was prepared to fly if you posed any threat to him. Still, from this angle he looks nothing short of a prince. The way he carries himself has the most regal air to it you almost drop to one knee out of respect. And then, realizing that it probably wouldn’t hurt anything, you act on that impulse. Slowly, of course, you don’t want to spook him. Then, when your knee sinks into the undergrowth and he still hasn’t taken off, you find the wherewithal to speak.

“Hi... my gosh you’re so pretty.”

He preens under the compliment, reaching his long neck around to run his beak through a few of his feathers that he has deemed not quite perfectly placed. A quick inspection of the remainder of his feathers completed he resumes his regal airs and holds his beak high.

“Thank you.” His voice is a bit of a shock, you’ve never met an Avian before. Or any sort of talking bird before. It has a vibrating quality to it that reminds you so distinctly of listening to an older radio that you can’t help but glance around and see if maybe there is one nearby. You wouldn’t have expected a voice that reminds you of the TV robot character Bumblebee from someone so lovely and so clearly not robotic. But you clearly saw his beak move and since there doesn’t look (or sound) like there is a radio nearby you must assume that he really did speak to you. And so you tell him your name.

“I am Bonito,” he returns. This makes you grin and your chest hurt a little with the effort of keeping your giggles in. It’s a fitting name, but still a tad unexpected. 

“Bonito means ‘beautiful’ in Spanish. Is your family from Spain or Mexico?”

“My mother was a traveler before she settled down here with my father.” He stalks closer and now that you are close enough to really see him it is obvious that he walks with a terrible limp. You can help but gasp and ask if he’s hurt. The narrowing of his eyes is a bit unexpected but after a moment of looking you over he seems to decide that your question is genuine and he sighs, hobbling over to you so you can see his leg. There on his ankle is a lock just like the ones that are hanging on the gate you pass through to get here. It’s too small and by the way his delicate ankle is swollen around it, the foot beneath discoloring.

“When I was a child I had a friend that lived in the town nearby. We were kids, young and stupid. They told me about the gate and the locks and one day just before their family was moving away they brought one with them for us to lock on the gate together. A token of our friendship and a hope that one day we would see each other again. We joked a little about how small my legs and feet were compared to the chain link fence and just to tease they slipped it around my ankle. I did not realize that there was no key to it and clicked it in place so I could pretend it was a beautiful bracelet. It wasn’t until later that we realized my mistake. They wept bitterly and tried to convince their family to stay one more day so we could get it off. Their parents could not be swayed. And so they were taken away. It has not been a bother to me until recently. I am finally big enough to outgrow the lock and I am afraid that soon I will either lose my foot to my own stupidity or lose my life to something hungry and without my same limp.”

“That’s terrible.” Your heart aches and you reach out to carefully turn their ankle from one side to another so you can get a good look at it. “Why didn’t you come into town and ask someone to help?”

“It isn’t our territory,” he explains, even though that doesn’t make as much sense to you as it does to him. The confusion on your face makes him sigh again, this time with a wince as one of your fingers carefully moves the lock a little. “I am not one of the Fair Folk. But many of the Avian here live together with them. Their traditions have become our traditions. We follow their rules, not necessarily because we have to but because they are good to us and protect us and we’ve been in the same area for so long that it wouldn’t be right to break them. There’s too much iron in the lock for them to help and too many rules about just wandering into a human town to ask for help for me to get help from anyone.”

His voice croaks a little at that last sentence. Even if you don’t quite know how to read his emotions on his strange face it’s clear enough that he’s upset about the hopelessness of his situation for it to tug at your heartstrings.

“Can you fly?”

He shrugs with his wings. “I can but not forever and landing on one foot is a lot harder than you might think. I could break my only good leg if I do it wrong.”

You squint down at the lock and tighten your lips, thinking and determined. “Can you fly closer to the town? I can go get some tools and bring them back here. I suck at lock picking, but I can try it. And if that doesn’t work then I can try cutting through it... actually it would probably be faster to just go straight for cutting through it. I really don’t think I could pick it.”

For the first time Bonito looks at you dead on and you can’t help but laugh at how different his face looks. No longer regal or majestic, he looks more like the most confused, baffled, wide-eyed, ruffled bird you have ever seen. You of course apologize profusely for laughing. And even if it maybe doesn’t sound as genuine as you would have liked over the fact that you can’t stop giggling while giving the apology, he does accept it. He agrees to fly himself closer to the town nearby the fence and wait for you there. And you simply cannot get home fast enough, hands practically shaking while you and your father gather tools from your home and then drive to your grandfather’s home to borrow a few more so that you have the best chance possible of saving Bonito.

[monsters-under-the-willowtree]

Welcome!

I’m so glad you found me here! As you can see this is a new blog! I’m very excited about building a new Modern Fantasy monster haven here on Tunglr.hell and I would love feedback!

Some Monster Story Ideas I have that new friends can look forward to coming out in July:

Male Peacock Avian x Ungendered Second Person POV Reader : The Forest Walk

When you head back into the local nature preserve to try to find a white deer you thought you had seen the last time you were there, you stumble upon a beautiful Avian Monster and become fast friends

Female Unicorn x Ungendered Second Person POV Reader : The Daring Duo

Your sister recently lost her leg in an accident, leaving you without your favorite partner in crime. The Daring Duo is in need of a replacement memeber. So who does this horned princess think she is, trying to get into a stunt business like yours?

Ungendered Ghost x Ungendered Second Person POV Reader : My God They Were Roomates

Answering an advertisement looking for a roomate, you come to discover that there might be some perks to making friends with the dead. Especially when you’ve always been a bit of a prankster in need of a partner in crime. And your new roommate has been bored for 200 years straight.