Author: Nicole Luttrell

I'm a speculative fiction writer. That means I write about dragons, ghosts and spaceships. Sometimes I write about the ghosts of dragons on spaceships.

I’m a Christian Witch. Here’s how it impacts my writing

Writers have a weird job. We sit down and make up things that never happened, then write them down on paper to entertain people. We might try to tell some truths about things along the way, but mostly we’re playing pretend on the page.

That’s a weird thing to do, when you think about it. Which is maybe why everyone wants to psychoanalyze writers. Especially horror writers, I’ve noticed. It’s almost like people think you’re weird if you make up stories about people getting brutally ripped apart by otherworldly creatures or psychos in masks.

What’s wrong with people?

However, it’s true that a writer’s life and beliefs will inevitably influence their writing. Of course it will. No matter what you do, your personality bleeds through on the page. What you love, what you hate. What you hope for and what you’re afraid of.

Now, I’m not saying that Paul Tremblay has murdered anyone. No more than I’ve ever battled a demon while trapped by an ice storm. But I am saying that my personal beliefs do make their way onto the page. Sometimes it’s on purpose, but sometimes it’s not.

Let’s discuss.

If you don’t already know, I am a Christian. But not in a red hat, everyone’s going to burn in hell except me, way. I’m a bit more classic Christian. Feed the poor, care for the sick, love your neighbor, and flip over tables if need be.

I’m also a witch. Yes, you can do both. No, it’s not common, but it happens.

I’ve been fascinated by witchcraft since I was a kid. Charmed, The Craft, Practical Magic. I especially loved Willow from Buffy. I loved that she gained all this amazing power just from studying! Willow wasn’t born into witchcraft. This isn’t a legacy or a superpower for her. She chose it, studied like hell, and became as powerful as the Slayer.

So it’s no wonder that, once I finally started exploring witchcraft, I wanted my characters to explore it as well. I even included some actual spells I actually wrote in Quiet Apocalypse. In this way, I grounded the story in a bit of reality.

Yes, I actually do mean realistic. Because as a witch, I do believe in ghosts. But I also believe that ghosts aren’t the only thing that can get into your home and mess your life up.

However, I don’t usually believe in the chain rattling, blood coming from the walls, apparition sort of ghosts. No, the spirits I’ve encountered are a bit darker. A bit more clever.

My witchcraft experiences have encouraged me to write more about that sort of haunting. It’s less dramatic, but feels more real. At least, to those of us unfortunate enough to experience it.

Finally, both witchcraft and Christianity have made me see my writing as a sacred thing. A gift that I can use to make the world a better place. Or, at least make my life better.

Writing can be shadow work. I used it that way in Quiet Apocalypse. Writing can be a manifestation. Writing can illicit emotions or make people see the world in a different way.

Writing can change the world. At the very least, it can brighten someone’s life. I don’t ever take that for granted.

Witchcraft and magic have touched all of my writing. Woven is largely about the difference between religion and faith, and standing out in a world that wants to force you to fit in. Quiet Apocalypse is about the darker sides of magic fighting the light. And the thing is, this isn’t something I plan or don’t plan. It happens in the rough draft, and I decide to go with it.

That, I think, is the real moral of today’s story. Let the things that move you into your writing. Let the things that shape you into your writing. I could have written this exact same post about living in a Western PA steel town. Or growing up in a single-parent, single-child household. Or being a horror fan. All of these things shape who I am. So, of course, they shape the art I make.

Who you are should shape the art you make. And the good news is that this isn’t something you have to learn. Just let it come out.

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what I do here, please consider liking and sharing this post and leaving a comment. You can also support me financially on Ko-fi.

Spooky season is coming, and it’s time for some creepy reads. Check out my horror novel Quiet Apocalypse, about a witch trapped in her apartment during a dark winter storm with a demon devoted to ending the world.

Or check out my horror short, The Man In The Woods. A man tries desperately to protect his granddaughter from the mysterious man in the woods. But his fear only grows when a new housing complex is built too close to the woods.

0

Why The Dead Husband Cookbook Works

I will do my best to avoid food puns in this post. But I might not be able to help it. Sometimes they’re just too tasty.

See, we’re starting already.

Released on the fifth of this month, The Dead Husband Cookbook is the latest novel from Danielle Valentine. If you’re just joining us, she’s written three novels so far that I’ve absolutely devoured.

Wow, two so far.

The Dead Husband Cookbook is about two women. One, Thea, an editor who’s hanging onto her career by a thread. She committed the ultimate sin of, gasp, revealing an author she was working for to be a predator. But she’s given a chance to redeem herself when a celebrity chef, Maria Capello, asks for her specifically to edit her brand new memoir. The memoir, which might, after years of speculation, put to rest the rumors of how her husband died.

So let’s break it down, like a good recipe. Let’s talk about what went into The Dead Husband Cookbook and why it works.

I loved the recipes

Through the book, we’re treated to some of Maria’s recipes. Now, I’m not as deeply into cooking as I am some other things, but I do enjoy it. I like a simple recipe full of things I can recognize and easily get at Walmart. I like making a recipe with the tools already in my kitchen.

I have managed to not buy an immersion blender for thirty-nine years, and I’d like to keep it that way.

All of these recipes are like that. Well, maybe not the one for duck. I’ve never seen duck at a grocery store here in Western PA. But then, I’ve never looked for one.

I got the e-book version of this book, just to make sure I can hang onto the recipes and try them. This made me feel immersed in the story. I, like Thea, will try my hand at making Maria Capello’s meatballs. Mine probably won’t taste the same either.

But it’s these little details that make reading a book not a passive experience. You get to become part of the story in a small way. That’s fun.

This feels like a book within a book

I am always a sucker for stories with additional documents in them. Journal entries, a VHS someone found tucked behind the guest room dresser, old medical records. And in this case, a manuscript that Thea is editing. As a reader, it breaks up the flow of the story in a good way. We feel like we have as well found something illicit. Something we’re not supposed to read or see, but now we’ve got our hands on it.

As a writer, this is also fun. It’s a way to experiment with different writing styles and formats. Even with different voices, as the pov of found content is different from our main characters. This leaves you open to all sorts of fun experimentation. And if the writer’s having fun, the reader will too. And Valentine was having fun when she was writing Maria.

Maria is creepy as hell, but not for the normal reasons

I loved the character, Maria. As someone who’s spent way too much time in medical waiting rooms, I’m familiar with the celebrity chefs she’s based on. The Pioneer Woman, Martha Stewart, The Barefoot Contessa, Rachel Ray. They all give off this air of near perfection. Like Maria, they appear smiling, joyful, endlessly energetic and endlessly working to feed others. I am a rabid feminist and I still sort of want to be that. I want to be the woman who saunters into a gorgeous, well-lit kitchen and throws together a fabulous meal without getting a single stain on my expensive blouse.

But I think we all know that these women are performing. They’re acting. And under that character, they’re real people. People with a whole range of human emotions and access to many sharp knives.

Maria isn’t scary in the way the killers from Never Flinch or Mexican Gothic are. She’s more like President Snow. She has the power, the money, and the know-how to destroy anyone she wants. She also has the will to do so. And she’ll sleep well that night.

Thea is very relatable

Unlike Maria, Thea is a relatable character. She’s struggling in a very Millennial way, trying to care for her family and her mother. She doesn’t know how to talk about what she needs to other people. She doesn’t know how to stand up to anyone at the start of the book.

But she’ll stand up for other people.

I also loved how much of a mom Thea is. Early in the book, she notes that Maria’s granddaughter has impeccable table manners. She’s not impressed, she’s concerned. That kid sat at the table and ate with a fork without spilling or interrupting seven times with incomprehensible questions? Nope, doesn’t pass the vibe check.

I also loved her constant irritation at having no internet connection. Look, I can’t do my work without the internet either. I have three tabs open just to write this post. She’s not irritated because she can’t scroll through Instagram before bed. She needs to be in communication with the people who depend on her and do research, damn it! Let the woman access Zoom.

The tension is thick

I was nervous as soon as Thea stepped into Maria’s house. It felt like she was stepping into a killing bottle. A well-appointed one, an expensive one, but a killing bottle nonetheless.

It started when they took her phone. Then her keys. Then she couldn’t get out through the Wi-Fi.

I don’t think we realize sometimes how accustomed we’ve come to being able to communicate with others. We can casually chat with people all over the world. I haven’t seen my best friend face-to-face since December. We talk all day long.

As soon as Thea arrives, though, she can’t contact anyone. Not just anyone. She can’t communicate with her boss, who is looking for an excuse to fire her. She can’t communicate with her team, who are waiting to make crucial publishing decisions on a short deadline. She can’t communicate with her husband and daughter.

Setting aside the horror part of this horror story, that is an anxious situation. Not being able to reach people who might need us, who usually do need us, is stressful.

As always, horror works best when it’s grounded in reality. Most of us will not be trapped in a killer chef’s house. All of us have felt stressed out because someone might need us, and can’t reach us. So when that layer of physical danger is layered over this emotion that we are familiar with, it feels so much more real.

I adored The Dead Husband Cookbook. Aside from everything else, it was a grown-up horror. It was a scary story that felt real to adult experiences. It relied on real fears and anger that real adults feel. All in all, it’s another hit from an author who hasn’t missed yet.

So now I want to hear from you. Did you read The Dead Husband Cookbook? Let us know what you think in the comments. And if there’s a book you want me to pick apart to see why it works, let me know that as well.

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what I do here, please consider liking and sharing this post and leaving a comment. You can also support me financially on Ko-fi.

Spooky season is coming, and it’s time for some creepy reads. Check out my horror novel Quiet Apocalypse, about a witch trapped in her apartment during a dark winter storm with a demon devoted to ending the world.

Or check out my horror short, The Man In The Woods. A man tries desperately to protect his granddaughter from the mysterious man in the woods. But his fear only grows when a new housing complex is built too close to the woods.

0

Why I read so many books at a time

If you follow me on Goodreads, and you should, you might notice two things. One, I am seven books behind on my reading goal for the year. And two, I am currently reading (checks notes) four books.

Four different books.

This is not uncommon for me. I’m usually in the middle of at least two books at a time. Part of this is because of my Gemini nature. I am often in wildly different moods throughout the day, and some of those moods call for different reading experiences. Sometimes I’m just being fickle and can’t settle on one story. Sometimes I pick up a second book because the primary one isn’t doing it for me, but I’m not ready to admit that yet. And yes, sometimes it’s because a shiny new release comes out and my TBR just cannot compete.

All that being said, I have good reasons to read several books at a time as well. And, as some of these reasons might apply to you too, I thought I’d share them with you today. So if you’ve ever been made to feel guilty for having too many bookmarks in too many books, keep reading.

Some books I only want to read a little of each day

One of the four books I’m reading right now is Power of The Psalms by Anna Riva. It’s a lovely book that includes all 150 Biblical Psalms, and some magic to work with each one. Every morning, I read a single psalm to start my day. I don’t want to read more than that, as I’d like to think about this psalm throughout the day.

You might have any number of books you do this with. Spiritual devotionals, poetry books. Anything that you don’t want to consume huge chunks of at a time.

Some books come with activities

I enjoy reading witchcraft books. I also enjoy reading writing books. Sometimes I get lucky and find books that talk about both, like The Magical Writing Grimoire, Poetry as Spellcasting or Inspiring Creativity.

Books like this often have exercises. Meditations, writing prompts and rituals. And books like this don’t do much good if you don’t do the exercises. And I don’t know about you, but I often read in places where I can’t write. Much less light a candle and start mixing herbs. Sometimes I’m just too tired to do a writing exercise.

Now, I could just keep reading from there. But I know myself better than that. I will for sure not come back and do that exercise, no matter how sure I am that I will.

I won’t.

But if I mark the page and come back to the book after I do the ritual, then I’m good. This might mean that I put a book down for a few hours. Or until I have a quiet moment to write or light a candle. Or, if we’re talking about a witchcraft book, I might have to wait for a specific moon cycle. While I’m waiting, I might well have time to read. So, I’ll need to switch to another book.

Some books I read with others

Right now, I’m reading Out of This Furnace with the darling husband. It’s a fun activity, reading a book with someone else.

There are many reasons you might do this. Maybe you’re reading to a child, or a disabled loved one like me. Maybe you’re reading a book in tandem with a friend, and you don’t want to get too far ahead of them. Reading might not seem like a social activity. But it can be. And if you’re read voraciously (or try to), you might need a backup book you aren’t sharing with anyone else.

Some books I read specifically to review

Now, I don’t work as a professional critic anymore. At least, not right now. But when I did, I was often reading a book specifically to review it. Even now, I have a list of books I want to read so that I can talk about them on here.

When you make books a part of your job, sometimes you’ve got to read books you might not want to. Sometimes it’s an ARC. Sometimes it’s a contractual thing. Sometimes a book just pissed you off so badly that you need to tell the world.

Even if you’re reading a book to review and it’s good, and most of them are good, it’s work to review a book. You aren’t just reading. You’ve got to take notes and consider things like theme and cultural significance. I wrote a whole two-part post about what it takes to review things instead of just reading or watching them. And yes, it’s fun work. But it’s work.

Some books are too emotional to binge

There are some books that just throw you. Some books trigger you when you frankly don’t expect to be triggered. This has happened to me several times.

Sometimes it’s okay. I can handle a little emotional damage. But depending on the sort of damage, and the theme of said damage, and where I am emotionally, sometimes I’m just not able to keep reading.

And that’s okay. If a topic is too heavy, you can put it down and come back to it later. Or, maybe you know the story you’re reading is triggering you, and you’re having a bad day. It’s perfectly fine to say that this is too much, and you’ll come back to the story another time. Maybe it’ll be tomorrow. Maybe a week from now. Maybe a year. But it’s okay to tuck that rough story back in your TBR pile for another time.

Some books I read just for pleasure

This is the biggest thing I want you to take away from this post. Reading is fun. And yes, we might often find ourselves reading books for other reasons than pleasure. I didn’t even get into students who have to read assigned books, or people guilted into reading a book by their best friend.

But it’s okay to read something just because you like it. Hell, given the state of the world, a good book might be exactly what you need to save your sanity on any given day.

A book is not a meal. You don’t have to finish your vegetables before you have dessert.

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what I do here, please consider liking and sharing this post and leaving a comment. You can also support me financially on Ko-fi.

Spooky season is coming, and it’s time for some creepy reads. Check out my horror novel Quiet Apocalypse, about a witch trapped in her apartment during a dark winter storm with a demon devoted to ending the world.

Or check out my horror short, The Man In The Woods. A man tries desperately to protect his granddaughter from the mysterious man in the woods. But his fear only grows when a new housing complex is built too close to the woods.

5

Why The Bewitching Works

Released on July 15th, The Bewitching is the latest book from Sylvia Moreno-Garcia. If you don’t know who that is, where have you been?

It’s the story of three women battling dark entities and evil workings. A story that spans decades and miles to tie Mexican witchcraft with New England witchcraft. It’s about blood, greed, and power.

In this book, we meet Alba, a restless young woman who wants to escape her family’s farm with her dashing uncle. We also meet her great-granddaughter, Minerva, a college student suffering from burnout while working on her thesis. Finally, and my personal favorite, we meet Beatrice Tremblay, a young writer in love with her college roommate who mysteriously vanishes one cold, dark winter night.

I loved every second of it. So let’s take the story apart and talk about why The Bewitching works.

Every time I talk about Moreno-Garcia, I have to talk about her settings. When reading one of her stories, you can feel the places her characters live in. In Alba’s parts, we walk on a family-run Mexican farm, plucking chickens and sewing patches on rowdy children’s clothes. When we’re with Beatrice, we can feel the constrained and manicured lives of female college students during the Great Depression. Minerva’s parts feel like a campus town in the summer. All but abandoned.

We see this and feel this because each character feels these things. It’s in the small bits of internal monologue. An itchy collar on a dress. Meeting your dance date in the lobby of your dorm. The trees rustling, the sunlight turned green coming through their leaves.

It’s the smallest details, told matter-of-factly, that make this possible. The characters talk about what they’re experiencing with their senses as though we must know what that feels like. And we do.

A major theme in Moreno-Garcia’s books is romance. Love stories. In Bewitching, the theme is more about lost love. More than that, losing the opportunity for love. The almost romance that will never be. That sort of thing.

This is something I think most of us have felt. The unrequited crush. The relationship was just never timed right. Or the love that was taken from us by the tragedy of one sort or another.

This makes the pain of the characters relatable. And it’s something I don’t think we see enough of in fiction.

There are plenty of meet-cutes. (Bleh). Plenty of slow burn, will they won’t they sort of stories. Even plenty of loves taken too soon. But they got to the love part first.

Losing someone who was never really yours is a different sort of pain. It’s strange, still trying to shift through feelings that were never fully grown. Strange to explain to people why you feel how you feel. Because it’s not the loss of a life or a loved one. It’s the loss of what could have been, and now never will. This is something that is explored in heartbreaking detail in this book.

Finally, I have to talk about the witchcraft in The Bewitching. Because, just in case you didn’t know, I’m a practitioner. There’s a lit spell candle on my desk as I write this.

Much like in Silver Nitrate, another book by the same author, the witchcraft in this book makes sense. I loved the practitioners in Alba’s village, selling protections and trinkets. It feels real. I loved Ginny’s automatic writing being used to contact her mother. I loved the cryptic warnings and tarot cards. And I especially loved the explicit explanation of intent in this book. Because I can tell you from experience, intent is the most important thing in witchcraft. No spell works without it. But I have worked magic with nothing but my intent and words on a page. Candles, crystals and herbs are all well and good. Iron and bowls of blessed water are lovely. But nothing matters more than intent.

I’ve mentioned before that Sylvia Moreno-Garcia is either a practitioner or did all the right research. Either way, the witchcraft in The Bewitching gets this witch’s seal of approval.

If you haven’t read The Bewitching yet, go do it. If you have read it and loved it as much as I did, you have great taste. I recommend reading Lucy Undying by Kiersten White, Mexican Gothic by Sylvia Moreno-Garcia, The Hacienda by Isabel Canas, or Quiet Apocalypse by me. Each one has a witchy or historical vibe that will certainly keep you up at night.

Now I want to hear from you. Did you read The Bewitching? If so, what did you think of it? Let us know in the comments. And if there’s a book or movie you want me to pick apart to see why it works, let me know that as well.

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what I do here, please consider liking and sharing this post and leaving a comment. You can also support me financially on Ko-fi.

Spooky season is coming, and it’s time for some creepy reads. Check out my horror novel Quiet Apocalypse, about a witch trapped in her apartment during a dark winter storm with a demon devoted to ending the world.

Or check out my horror short, The Man In The Woods. A man tries desperately to protect his granddaughter from the mysterious man in the woods. But his fear only grows when a new housing complex is built too close to the woods.

0

Some things are supposed to take time

I love a cup of coffee.

Yes, I am a cliche. I’m a writer and a Millennial woman. Of course my veins are full of espresso instead of red blood cells.

I make it each morning in a French press, one of the slowest and low-tech ways to possibly make coffee. I start with Cafe Bustelo grounds and a pinch of salt. (Listen to me. I said a pinch!) Then I put in a bit of cinnamon. I boil water in a kettle I’ve had for years, dressing and feeding the pets while I wait for it to sing. Then I pour the water into the press and give it four minutes to steep. The whole process takes an average of fifteen minutes.

It is the best coffee I’ve ever had. And it’s not the only thing I make that takes time. I make eight-hour roasts and garlic confit. While I have quite a strong relationship with my microwave, my favorite things take time.

Writing takes time. Writing books takes time. Sometimes, far more time than we, as writers, want it to. Publish or perish seems to be the name of the game, especially in the indie writing world. I feel like I’ve always got to have something new coming out. There’s a never-ending pressure.

Oh my God, it is such horrific pressure. When you make your passion your career, it’s a special kind of hell. One completely of our own making. Because it’s not just about creating anymore. It’s not just about writing anymore. It’s about building a backlog. About building a career.

This pressure has been killing me this year. Squeezing me until I can’t breathe, but I sure can be wracked with sobs. I published my latest novel in May of last year. And, I’m sorry to say, I will probably not be publishing anything until at least 2027.

That might be a miracle.

I’ve been writing. Not as much as I want to. But I’ve written two rough drafts for the final book in the Station 86 series.

I’ve written two rough drafts and thrown them out. Because they were just, just terrible.

Some things are supposed to take time.

Right now, I’m writing the third draft of a dark fantasy book. One that I hope to get an agent for, so I haven’t talked much about it. I have worked on this book for years now, in between drafts of Station 86 and AA. It is a passion project. I love it. I hope that someday soon you’ll get a chance to love it as well.

No one is waiting for this story. Well, the universe might be waiting for it. But I don’t have a handful of fans waiting for it. I do have a handful of fans waiting for the last Station 86 book.

I hope.

So when I work on the Station 86 book, the stress is there. The pressure is there. Time is ticking away, and every day means Station 86 fans might forget, give up, or simply move on.

This is the fear that’s been nipping at my heels. While I frankly have enough fear keeping me up at night. But for my sake, and the sake of my writing, I am trying to let go of this fear. It doesn’t serve me.

Writing takes time. Good writing takes time. And sometimes it takes walking away and taking a break to come back with the passion and creativity a project deserves.

I told you that to tell you this. If you’re a fan of Station 86, stick with me. This series is so very important to me, and I’m going to keep working on it until I give it the ending it deserves.

If you’re a writer who feels like you’re not moving fast enough, take heart. Good writing takes the time it takes. You’re not early or late.

And fans will wait. I know it’s hard to believe. To listen to faith over fear. But consider how long you’ve waited for the next book in a beloved series. Tamora Pierce published Tempest and Slaughter in 2018. The sequel is maybe coming out this year, but we don’t have a concrete release date yet. That hasn’t stopped me from checking monthly for updates.

I have a list of authors I check on upcoming releases for each month. That list includes Grady Hedrix, Stephen King, Danielle Valentine, Sylvia Moreno Garcia, Kirsten White, Paul Trembley,Tamora Pierce, Natalie Goldberg and Marcus Kliewer.

Some of those authors publish books yearly. Some don’t. I still check because their work is important to me. So if I’m willing to check for their work, why wouldn’t I think others might check for mine?

Why wouldn’t someone check for yours?

Like a good cup of coffee or a soul-nourishing roast, stories take time. Let yourself have the time you need. No matter how much time that is.

And yes, I promise that the last Station 86 book is coming.

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what we do here, you can support us by liking and sharing this post. You can also support us financially on Ko-fi.

Spooky season is coming, and Quiet Apocalypse is the cold, dark treat you need right now. Check it out here.

0

When is the best time to make plans?

It’s the end of July. August creeps up to us with soft feet, barely making a sound as Summer clings on. Fall starts to ever so slowly make herself known.

This time of year brings out the poet in me.

August brings with it back the back-to-school season. This is often a time used for making plans and goals by people whose lives revolve around a school schedule.

For someone like me, who only knows if school is in or out if the yellow buses are making their rounds, this isn’t a time of year I start doing a lot of planning or goal setting. I set goals at the start of the year, breaking them down and modifying them by quarter.

Then sometimes something happens that makes me throw the whole damn plan out and start over. More on that soon.

There are many schools of thought as to when the best time for goal setting is. And as someone who really, really likes her planners, I love this. I love just about any excuse to sit down at my desk with my calendar and bullet journal, and dream on paper about what I can accomplish in a given period. It’s magical. There is my dream, my goal out in front of me. Now let me lay myself mile markers. Let me prepare so that I can bring this dream to life.

So today, I thought it would be fun to take a look at some of the most popular times to set goals and make plans. Let’s look at the pros and cons of each. And we’ll end with what I think is the very best time for goal setting.

New Years

Let’s get the obvious one out of the way first. New Year’s Day, New Year’s Resolutions.

I love this one, personally. Generally, December 26th every year is spent in the pages of my brand new planner, making goals and plans for the year to come.

There’s a lot of social momentum in this. Many of us are surrounded by people who are also making goals for the year. And it’s inspiring to have everyone on this same page, the first blank page in a book of 365.

But there’s a downside to this. First off, most people who set New Year’s Resolutions don’t keep them. So if you’re following that crowd, it might well lead you right back where you were. And you don’t like it there. That’s why you were trying to leave it.

There’s also a lot of pressure at this time of year to make goals. Which isn’t always a good thing. It’s also not a great time of the year for things like seasonal depression. Or, I don’t know, taking up running if you live somewhere where it’s still snowing.

So if you love planning in January like I do, awesome! If not, it’s okay to hit snooze on the whole thing.

Spring

Funny story, the new year used to be thought of as a Spring activity. Which makes a lot of sense to me. The weather’s starting to warm up, lots of cute things are having cute babies. And my seasonal depression has started to melt into Original Flavor depression.

Spring can be a great time for goal setting. Not everyone is doing it, so you don’t feel all of that social pressure. And if your goals include things that require you to go outside of your house, that’s a much more pleasant experience.

Of course, if your goal is to spend more time writing or learning a new skill, Spring might be a fucking awful time for that. After all, what’s more miserable than trying to sit at your computer while the birds are chirping and the iced coffees are calling. So plan your planning accordingly.

The start of a new school year

If you’re a teacher, a student, or have a student living in your house, this is a great time of year to make goals. Your routine just got a lot more structured. Or, at least, the structure changed. You’ve got different responsibilities, and often a lot more of them.

Even if you don’t have anyone schoolbound in your life, the start of a new school year can be a fun time to plan. All the good stationery is out in the stores. And there’s a sense of something starting. Something changing.

Back to school is also really busy. And for some people, this might well be the worst time to start making goals. It’s awfully hard to find some quiet time to make plans when you’re figuring out schedules, making carpool agreements, and being guilted into volunteering for school activities. It might be better to have plans and goals in place before the madness starts, not while you’re already getting used to packing lunches and coordinating football practice again.

Quarterly

There’s an argument to be made that making plans for a whole year at a time is maybe not the best way to handle things. And the older I get, the more this makes sense to me. Things change. Things we don’t see coming just come right on anyway without our consent.

For instance, I didn’t know in January that I was going to be caring for a husband recovering from a stroke and moving my house.

Making plans for three months can be easier. While the unexpected might still knock you on your ass, it won’t mess up your year-long plans. Because you didn’t have any.

Quarterly goals are also smaller than yearly goals. At least they’d better be. And this can feel far more attainable. It’s much less intimidating to break down goals. Consider writing a book.

After all, that’s what we’re originally here to talk about.

Writing a book is a massive, intimidating goal. Most of us can’t write a book in a year. Especially when we have so many other obligations. So it’s easy to look at that massive goal, that massive task, and feel overwhelmed.

Kind of like looking at a house that needs packing and feeling overwhelmed.

But if we break down everything into what can be done in three months, that feels more manageable. I can’t write a book in three months. But I can write a rough draft. Or I can commit to writing every week for a certain amount of time.

Anything is easier if we break it down.

There’s only one real downside to this goal-setting method. You might find yourself forgetting the bigger picture. Seeing the trees and not the forest.

In short, you might start to think small.

Thinking small for a while is great. Especially if it helps you get started. But we shouldn’t be thinking small long-term. There are too many big, beautiful things that we can do. And we should give ourselves the space to do them.

Right now

This is the best time to make a goal. Today, right now. As soon as you’re done reading this.

Sit down and write down one big amazing thing you want to do. Now, write down the steps you need to do that thing. Then, start doing it.

It’s just that easy and just that hard.

You want to write a book? Make a plan, and start brainstorming today. You want to start your own company? Great! Make a plan today. You want to get healthy, adopt a dog, buy a house. Figure out what you have to do, step by step, and start doing it.

We all have things we want to do with our lives. And we don’t have to wait for the start of a year, a quarter, a month, or a new school year to start making our goals real. We can start right now, on a random Friday or Tuesday. Right now is perfect. Go get started.

So now it’s your turn. When do you do your best goal setting? Let us know in the comments.

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what we do here, you can support us by liking and sharing this post. You can also support us financially on Ko-fi.

Falling From Grace is going wide! Click here to see all the places to get it.

0

Falling From Grace, Chapter Three

A few days later Grace woke alone in her bed with a feeling that she was late for something. There was a pressure, a certainty that she had a crucial, important thing to do, and that it must be done at once. She got out of bed in a flash, and pulled her clothes on. It took only moments to tug a tan dress over her shift and lace it up, but it seemed an eternity. Brushing out her hair and setting it in a bun to keep it out of her face took years. She brewed a cup of tea, and then sat down with a scrap of paper and a rough piece of charcoal to consider what she needed to do. What could weigh on her so desperately that she felt in such a rush?

She wrote down everything she could think of, everything that might need done. Clean the house, weed the garden, do the washing. It was a small enough list, but it seemed to press on her. With another quick sip of her tea, she headed to the river to collect a bucket of water and get started.

She was on her knees in the fireplace, scrubbing the soot away with a wire brush and heavy soap when she heard a gentle knock on her door. Grace winced as she got up, and opened the door to find Nikita standing there.

“Oh, you look a mess,” Nikita said. “What have you got soot all over you for?”

“I was scrubbing out the fireplace, what do you think?” Grace asked.

Nikita looked around the room, which had all been thoroughly scoured in the last few hours. “I was worried when I did not see you in the square. May and June said they had not seen you since supper last night.”

“I just needed to get some cleaning done before I came down,” Grace said. She ducked her wash rag into the water and started wiping away the soap. “It was such a mess, disgusting. What would Victor have thought if he had come home to that?”

Nikita shrugged. “Well, it looks fine now. Will you come back with me?”

“Suppose I should. The quiet cannot be good for me.”

“It is not good for me, either. I wonder, could I come and sleep here until the men get back? I would feel better if I was not alone at night.”

So she was not to have any peace, even in the evening.

“That would be fine,” Grace said. She used a dry cloth to wipe down her face and hands, then the front of her dress. “Come on, I guess.”

Nikita nodded, and all but pulled Grace to the square. June and May were there, busy with their needles. “There you are. What, were you sleeping in?” June asked.

“Oh, shut up,” Grace said. She had her own sewing to do, working over scraps from some old clothes for a blanket. She pulled her things out of her bag, taking a seat next to May. “Is Morgan off hunting again?”

“Yes,” June snorted. “For all the good it will do him.”

“He caught that nice pheasant the first day,” Grace said. “What happened to him?”

“Dunno, but Olga’s little boy has brought more game out of those woods than Morgan,” May sighed. “It is a shame, too. I would love to have some meat tonight.”

“He had better get himself together, in case Da-,” June began. She pursed her lips together and didn’t say anything more. Not as though she needed to.

May glance up from her work, as though to comfort her sister. But her face darkened. “What is she doing here?” she asked.

Grace followed her gaze and saw Yeva, creeping towards the collection of women. Traditionally, women and daughters of men who died didn’t come near the gathering in the square. It was a kindness, to keep away. To not remind women of the men lost before.

“She looks lost,” May said. “Should we invite her to sit with us?”

“I will leave if you do,” Grace said flatly.

“Be kind. She lost all of her family,” May said. “You know what that is like.”

Grace thought of Yulia, running from her house with Grace’s ma’s book. She thought of the silence, days later, when Grace had hammered on the door to beg for her book back. Yulia had forever acted as though the book had never belonged to Grace, as though her ma and grandma’s writing wasn’t on every page. “Aye, I do. And I earned a spot at someone else’s table, looking after you. She can find a way to be useful, or look after herself. A handout will just make her weak.”

“Grace, look,” Nikita said.

Outside of the circle of women and children stalked a thin man with thinner hair. He leered at the women, giving Grace a filthy smile when she looked his way.

“Yurick,” Grace muttered. “Can Timur not keep him under control?”

“He does this every mission, everyone knows he is too weak to be sent out himself,” June said.

“Worthless old fool,” Grace said.

“It is sick, what he is doing,” May hissed. “Sneaking about trying to get a woman alone while her man is gone. This is exactly why Morgan should have stayed here instead of going out to hunt.”

The day passed slowly. Once the sewing was done the girls weeded the garden and dug up some potatoes for supper. They went to the river and trapped a few fish, tiny things. Grace baked some bread, from her share of the flour that the men had gotten during their last raid. Nikita had some carrots. The food was cooking when Morgan returned, carrying a few dead squirrels by their tails.

“Well,” he grinned, holding up the animals. “Had better luck today.”

“Oh yes,” June crooned, looking over the animals. “That will be such a meal for five people.”

“You know what you are?” Morgan snapped, gesturing wildly with the dead squirrels still in his hand. “You are a thankless khu’i. I do not see you out there, trying to find anything to kill in those woods.”

“Um, excuse me, Grace?”

Yeva was standing near their cook fire. To Grace’s fury, she was holding her ma’s book in her hands.

“What do you want?” Grace asked.

“I, well I wondered if I could ask you a question. Lada gets these headaches, and she said my grandma used to make her a tea for them. Something stronger than willow bark, she said. But I cannot find the recipe anywhere. Do you have any idea what it might be, or where I might find it?”

“Why would you think I would tell you anything?” Grace asked. “You have the book, look it up yourself.”

“This book is too complicated for me. I mean, the medicine recipes are all intermixed with these strange symbols and I cannot make any sense of it. Besides, I am no healer. I only ever learned about midwifery,” Yeva said. “Grandma said you used to apprentice under her, I just thought-.”

“Your grandma was a dirty liar,” Grace said. “Now get away from here, you are not wanted. Go on, go home.”

“I need help. What is anyone going to do in this village if we have a healer who does not know what she is doing?” Yeva asked.

“I guess we will have to sort it out, since that is the situation we are in,” May replied.

Yeva turned away, her shoulders drooping. Grace felt her conscious pinch, but just for a moment. She wanted to snatch the book away from the girl, but what good would it do? She was no healer either.

***

Everyone dithered around the fires after supper. The women were hesitant to go home to empty beds. The children, unaccustomed to the mysteries and magic of the night, were just happy to be sitting around a fire and listening to stories from their mas and sisters. Thus it was late when the women started heading for their homes. Some carried little ones on their hips, others led sleepy ones too big to be carried anymore.

Grace, Nikita, Morgan and the girls left in a group. They were moving a little slow, acting a little silly. Morgan had a bottle of vodka, and they’d been passing the spirit around.

“Those wee little squirrels,” June laughed. “I suppose they were better than nothing with some potatoes, but they were so tiny!”

“A small animal is harder to catch than a bigger one,” Morgan said, shaking his finger at his sister.

“Then you should have spared yourself the trouble, and gotten bigger ones,” May chuckled.

“Oh, stop fussing at your brother,” Grace said. “He is trying, that is important. You keep right on hunting, Morgan, and you will get better someday.”

“The woods are half hunted out. That is what Boris says,” Nikita said.

“Da never fails to bring something home,” June responded, mulish.

“I am going to bed,” Morgan snapped and headed for the door. His hands were glowing blue. It wasn’t the shield magic of his uncle, or the destructive force his da had. It was just light. But on a dark night like that one, light was enough.

Morgan and the girls headed for their house, while Grace led Nikita to hers. “I will set a cot out in front of the fire for you,” Grace said. She shut the door, and secured it with the solid brace Victor had put in before he left. She tried not to think, before he left for good. It was just left, and he would be back. He had to come back.

Grace turned from the door, and nearly tripped over Nikita. She was frozen in place, staring at a shadow in the corner of the room.

Yurick emerged from the shadow, calmly. “It is about time you girls got home,” he said. He breathed deep, as though casting for their scents like a hunting hound. “I have been anxious, waiting for you.”

“You have no reason to be here, Yurick. Get gone,” Grace said, pushing Nikita behind her.

“Ah, but I do have a reason to be here,” Yurick said. He walked slowly towards them. “Nothing gets me harder than a woman with child.”

“Nikita, go,” Grace said, shoving the other woman toward the door. Nikita pulled the brace free, and ran. Yurick was at the door in a moment, slamming it shut behind her and trapping Grace in with him. He hit her, sending her sprawling on the ground next to the table.

“Are you so eager for a man?” he chortled, as Grace shook her head, trying to clear it. “Alright, then. I can have little Nikita later and you now.”

He fell on Grace, pulling up her skirts. Grace grabbed for the closest thing to her, a stool at the table. She hit Yurick hard in the side of the head, and shoved him off of her.

“You bitch!” he yelled, but Grace didn’t waste time. She brought the stool down on his head again, and again.

“Stop, stop it!” he cried. “I will leave, I will!”

“To do what, rape some other woman?” Grace snarled, and hit him again.

Just then the door slammed open. Morgan came in with a sword in his hand, June just behind him.

“Oh, Land and Sky,” Morgan snorted, looking at the puddle of Yurick on the floor. “You worthless old man, what did you think you were going to do?”

Grace stopped hitting him, allowing Morgan to grab the sobbing man by the back of his shirt. “Get out of here. I catch you sniffing around my aunt again and I will run your hide through.”

Morgan shoved him out of the house, laughing when Yurick stumbled and fell.

“Grace, are you alright?” June asked.

“He did not get what he wanted,” Grace said, setting the stool down with shaking hands. “I might have banged my head on the floor when he hit me, that is all.”

“Grace!” May called, running to the front door. “Grace, Nikita is going into labor!”

“What?” June gasped.

“She just collapsed on the floor as soon as Morgan and June ran out, and water started pouring out of her. What do we do?”

“There is no experienced midwife,” June said numbly. “What can we do for her?”

The three of them looked to Grace, as though she would have some sort of an answer. She had to have one.

“Damn it, someone go and fetch Yeva,” Grace said finally.

“She is a girl,” May said.

“She is an apprentice midwife, which is more than any of us,” Grace replied. “Go May. June, start boiling water. Let us get the new ma in a bed. Morgan come on.”

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what we do here, you can support us by liking and sharing this post. You can also support us financially on Ko-fi.

Falling From Grace is going wide! Click here to see all the places to get it.

0

Falling From Grace, Chapter Two

Grace leaned against the door frame between the bedroom and main room, watching Victor pack clothes into a bag. “Calvin thinks we will not be gone longer than a week, but I do not know,” he said, adding a leather pouch of dried meat to his bag. “I hate to give you a time because I do not want you to worry if we are later than that. Did you make that flat bread I asked for?”

“It is on the ledge above the fireplace,” Grace said, not bothering to stir herself to fetch it for him.

“Thank you,” he said, striding across the room to get it. “I got that new bar put on the door, but it is not going to do you any good if you do not use it. I cannot imagine anyone would fuss with you, but you never know.”

“I will be in the square with the other women most of the time, anyway,” Grace replied.

“But you will come back here at night,” Victor said.

“Do not go,” Grace replied.

She didn’t know what she expected him to do with this, but laughter wasn’t really a surprise. “Do not go? Calvin and I finally get Timur to give us some real work, and you are telling me not to go. Woman, have you lost your mind entirely?”

“This is death, what he is sending you to do. Marching into the Septan palace, dressed like a Calistar soldier? You will not survive, not a man going with you will.”

“That is foolishness,” Victor said. He stood, and clenched his fist. A blue shield of light manifested. They’d yet to find anything that could penetrate it. “I will come home, and so will Calvin. So will all of us going.”

“And what if you do not? What are the girls and Morgan and I going to do then, eh?” Grace whispered.

Victor was across the room in two strides. He swept her up into his arms, and his mouth found hers. “Darling, I have to do this. I did not become a Brother to raid food storage barns, and I will not do it anymore. Timur has given me a chance here to prove-.”

“Timur has given you nothing,” Grace hissed. “He has given himself a way to be free of you, Calvin, and every other young man who would defy him. He does not expect you to come back.”

“Perhaps not,” Victor said. “But I will.”

“Vicky, are you not ready yet?” Calvin called from outside.

“I am coming, hold on!” Victor replied. He released Grace reluctantly and grabbed his bag from the table. Grace followed him outside.

Calvin had already hitched his wagon. “Are you done crying over your woman yet?” he asked.

“Do not be jealous, just because I have one,” Victor laughed, tossing his bag into the wagon. “Where is Boris?”

“Saying goodbye to Nikita, still. We will pick him up on the way out of town,” Calvin said.

Grace decided to try Calvin next. She stood beside his seat on the wagon. “Calvin, think about this. What is the point of starting a war between Septa and Calistar? The aristocrats will just send poor sons to go fight for them.”

“But that is part of the plan,” Calvin laughed. “Do not worry your head, Grace. Look after the girls and Morgan, and we will be back soon.”

But Grace grabbed hold of the horse’s reigns. “What if none of you come home? What about Boris, leaving Nikita here with his babe?”

“Boris will come home,” Calvin said. “And so will I, and so will Victor. Do not be afraid, Sister. And let go of my horse, please.”

Grace released the reigns but didn’t move away. She felt shaken to her core, as Victor grabbed her up into a hug. “Stop fussing, woman,” he laughed, swinging her around. “This is a great mission.”

“And nothing is going to stand before this,” Calvin said. He clenched his hand, and a ball of light appeared. Unlike Victor’s, his light was no shield. It was a ball of energy that nothing could stand against.

“But what if Timur is sending you into a trap?” Grace cried.

At this, Calvin leaned down from the wagon seat to whisper in her ear. “That is the thing, though. He is, and we know it. When we return victorious, we will have a very, very different conversation with him about where our country is headed. And I do not think he will enjoy it.”

May, June, and Morgan crowded around the wagon, and Calvin sat up straight in his seat. June, the middle of Calvin’s children, had an ever messy braid down her back. Her brown dress was stained at the bottom with mud and at the knees with soot.

“Take care of each other, and stay out of trouble. We will be back in a week,” Calvin said.

“Do not tell them that,” Victor said, swinging into the seat next to Calvin.

“One week!” Calvin bellowed and clicked at the horse to send him on his way.

“Goodbye Da, be careful!” June called, waving at him. Grace joined the others in their farewells, feeling brittle. She watched as they rode to the other end of the village, stopping along the way to pick up Boris and a number of other men.

“Come on,” Grace said. “We might as well head to the square.”

June and May nodded, but Morgan said, “I am going to go hunting. The sun is barely up, I should be able to get some good meat for supper.”

“Oh really?” May snorted. “You are going to go hunting? And why would you waste the whole day like that, eh?”

“You ought to stay and help us weed the garden,” June said.

Morgan scoffed. “What do you need four people to weed the garden for? I will go and get us some meat. Grace, will you make a pie if I bring you a bird? Your crust is better than theirs.”

“I would need the goat milked,” Grace replied dully. “And I might need to churn butter, as well. Go and get your game if you can. Be careful.”

Morgan was gone in a moment to collect his traps and head into the woods.

“Might as well get the goat milked, then,” Grace said.

“You are not going to be the one this time, are you?” June asked.

“The one what?” Grace asked.

June sighed. “The one woman who cannot help but mope until the men get back. They always ruin the whole experience for the rest of us.”

Grace shook her head. She grabbed her bucket and went into the small enclosure next to the house where her goat resided. She was napping in the sun, but came fast enough when she heard Grace come in. Normally she would have been milked earlier, but Victor hadn’t had the time before he left.

“Are you going to stand there and complain at me the whole time I do this?” Grace asked, settling into her stool to milk the creature.

“Maybe. Why are you so upset, anyway? You have never been this way before.” June grabbed some hay from the pile next to the enclosure and started making a pile of it.

“You all seem to think that these men are invincible just because of a little magic,” Grace muttered.

A single scream rang out just as she was finishing with the goat. Grace only just managed to not spill any of the milk before running from the paddock. June was just a moment behind her.

“That is Yulia’s house,” June cried. The front door was wide open, and they could hear Yeva shouting for help inside.

Grace stopped on the threshold. Yeva was kneeling next to her grandmother’s chair. A cup of tea had fallen and shattered on the floor. Yulia was slumped in her chair, not breathing.

“I, I do not know what happened,” Yeva sobbed. “I just came in to check on her, and she was like this.”

“Was there something off in her tea?” June asked.

“I do not know. She might have stirred something in by mistake, look at her damned work table!” Yeva cried. She gestured to a table near the window, laden with herb bouquets and bowls. Always a thin wisp of a girl, Yeva seemed even smaller now in her fright.

“What am I to do, I am all alone now,” Yeva sobbed.

Grace considered the girl. She couldn’t remember saying more than a handful of words to her since she’d been born. She’d said enough to Yulia, screaming for her book back, for help, for anything the old woman might have been able to do for her.

“I was alone younger than you,” Grace said. “You will be fine.”

Yeva turned a tear stained face towards her, her eyes wide. “How?” she asked.

“That is not my concern. When Morgan gets back we will help bury your grandma. That is more than she bothered to do for me.”

Grace went back to her chores, leaving the girl no room to say anything more.

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what we do here, you can support us by liking and sharing this post. You can also support us financially on Ko-fi.

Falling From Grace is going wide! Click here to see all the places to get it.

0

Falling From Grace, Prologue and Chapter One

Prologue

Thirteen years ago

The night was black, the wind slicing cold. At a little house near the woods where creatures crept, scratched and howled, a girl sat in front of the door. She was barefoot, wrapped in a quilt, shivering. But she had to get out of the house for as long as she could stand the cold. The darkness and smell inside were too much for her.

Ma was coughing again, and sobbing. The sobs were so loud that Grace could hear them over the wind. A moment later they were stifled, and Grace could hear Yulia, the village’s other healer, talking. The wind was too harsh for her to hear her words.

Until she called for Grace.

Grace swirled around and pulled the door open. The wind caught it and tried to drag it out of her hands. She had to use all of her strength to close it.

“Come and help me,” Yulia cried. Grace’s ma was jerking in the bed, her body twisting and convulsing. Her Da, lying next to her was still during this fit, ghastly still.

“Come here!” Yulia called again. Grace ran to the bed. The two of them turned Ma to the side, as flecks of spittle flew from the woman’s mouth.

Finally, she was still. Her chest rose and fell, and her breath was labored. But at least the terrible seizing was finished.

“Good, good girl,” Yulia said. “Do not be running outside again. Get yourself to bed.”

“But, but Da,” Grace whispered.

“There is no helping him now. I will move him out of your ma’s bed, but you are not strong enough to help with that. Now off to bed with you.”

Grace retreated to her bed, and fell on it. Her da was dead. What would she and her ma do without him? She settled into her blankets, and tried to do as she’d been told. But she just couldn’t close her eyes.

Eventually she dozed, as Yulia stoked the fire.

Grace was never sure how long she slept, when she was woken someone walking past the foot of her bed.

She sat up, startled. It was Yulia, but she had her cloak on. And she was holding Grace’s ma’s book. The book of medicines and herb lore that had been her own ma’s legacy. It was black and leather bound. When it was closed, her ma tied it with a red ribbon. This now was missing.

“What are you doing, Mistress Yulia?” Grace asked.

“Rochelle next door is having her baby. I must go attend to her,” Yulia said, and turned to go with the book.

“Wait, but what about Ma?” she asked, struggling to get out of bed. “Yulia, what about my ma?”

But Yulia was gone already.

And a single glance towards the big bed showed Grace that there was nothing more she could have done for her ma anyway. Both of her parents lay still, their chests not rising.

And just like that, Grace was all alone. She thought at first that surely Yulia would return to help her, to tell her what to do. But she didn’t.

The fire was low, its warmth and light fading fast. Grace hurried to the wood pile next to the fireplace, and began feeding it logs. There weren’t many, and Grace prayed the few remaining would last her until dawn. With her parents now only husks that had been people, the thought of darkness was too much. She tried to think of good memories of her parents. There were many to choose from. But right then, she could only be aware of the ghastly lumps tucked into their bed. Grace huddled close to the fire and waited for Yulia to come back with her ma’s book.

She was still there, alone, when the sun came up.

The next day men came to take away her parents. One of them was Calvin, Rochelle’s man. He was also the da of May, June and Morgan, three little ones that Rochelle had occasionally asked Grace to help with in exchange for a few eggs or vegetables from her garden. He looked haggard, but was the only man to spare her any attention. “Little girl, are you hungry?” he asked.

“I, I do not know,” she whispered.

He gave her a gentle smile. “Maybe you can come and help with the children while Rochelle heals? We do not have much to spare, but I will see that you have something for your help.”

“Thank you,” Grace said softly. “Did she have her baby?”

Calvin’s face darkened. “I am afraid it was still born. The Sky did not smile on this village last night.”

A boy came in to the house a few moments later, Calvin’s little brother Victor. He was only a year older than Grace. “Calvin, Rochelle is missing. I cannot find her. Morgan is crying for her, I do not know where she could have gone.”

“Ah, damnation,” Calvin muttered. “Victor, do you know Grace? Maybe she can help you look after the little ones while I go and find that fool woman.”

Victor looked over Grace, her hair a mess and her dress stained. “Please, if you do not mind,” he said. “I do not know what to do with babies.”

“I can help, yes,” Grace said. “I will be happy to help you, Victor.”

Part One

The Septa Mission

Chapter One

The women of the village had a tradition when the men were off on a raid. They would collect together, anyone whose man was involved, and spend almost all day at the center square. The village had no inn, for who would want to stay there? They had no tavern, because no one had the extra coin to get drinks. There was a meeting hall for the Brotherhood, but the women weren’t allowed in there. So they collected in what they called the square, but was really just a clearing in front of the meeting hall. They set up tables, and brought out chairs. They’d do their washing communally, and share what little supper they could as well. Those with children would bring them, and the women would lend a hand in caring for them.

They collected together because it was easier to work with so many other hands. They collected together also because it was loud. And it was good that it was loud. Grace had never spoken to the other women about the matter, but she was sure they all would agree. When they were surrounded by other women and children, making noise, it was easier to forget that sometimes men didn’t come back from missions.

While that wasn’t likely this time, it was always possible. It was a simple enough raiding mission, taking food collected for the greedy aristocrats to redistribute to those who had actually worked for it. But one could never depend on even a simple mission going to plan.

Grace, now a woman grown, sat in a circle of chairs with a basket of sewing. Her thick, light hair was pulled into a tight knot to keep it from her face. May, now also a woman grown, sat next to her with a larger pile of simple dresses, tunics and breeches, muttering. She had her da’s ice blue eyes, and his height.

“Can you speak up?” Grace asked. “I do not know how you expect anyone to hear you.”

“What is the point if anyone does hear me?” May replied. “June certainly does not care that she has left me with all of the mending. She is off pretending that she will catch some fresh meat for supper. As though she could.”

“Do not fuss at her,” said Nikita, sitting on Grace’s other side. Her belly was swelled with her first child, and she was crocheting a blanket. “At least she took all the bigger boys out to the woods. They might not bring anything back, but at least it got them out of here for a while.”

“Sure. It got them running in the woods, shouting and scaring away all the game for the next moon, so the men will not be able to get fresh meat when they return,” May replied.

“Speaking of,” Grace said, as a sound caught her attention. She stood, still holding a shirt in her hand. The other women began to hear it as well. The grind of wheels on the road, the sound of horses. The men had returned.

Women and children stopped what they were doing, eager to greet them. Timur, the leader of the Brotherhood, came from inside the meeting hall. He was an old man with gray hair, but he still walked steadily enough.

“Ah,” he said, seeing the men. “My brothers, you have returned.”

Timur’s sons led the way, driving a wagon full of barrels and sacks. They were calling out to the women and their da, and couldn’t have been in higher spirits. Many of the men were the same, hurrying to set down their burdens and grab up their women and little ones.

Grace watched for Victor, Morgan and Calvin. She knew she shouldn’t have worried. They were three of only a handful of mages in the village, and their magic was powerful. But that didn’t mean something couldn’t happen.

But they were there, walking at the back of the crowd. Victor and Calvin were easy enough to see. Victor’s reddish blond hair was in a tangle around his face. His broad shoulders were slumped. Calvin, taller and broader than his brother, was looking at the ground rather than at the crowd. His son Morgan was thin, and appeared thinner still when compared to the other two. His fine blond hair was pulled back neatly, as it ever was. They came to May and Grace, but there was a dullness in their greetings.

“Gracey,” Victor sighed, and grabbed her up into his arms. He hugged her tight, and she returned the embrace. “I have missed you, my girl.”

“Victor, what is it?” she asked, pulling away.

Calvin released May, letting Morgan hug his big sister. He gave Grace a dark look. “Where are Yulia and Yeva?”

Grace tensed. “They are likely in this crowd somewhere.” As though she would know where that thieving old woman and her granddaughter were.

“Now is not the time for old angers. We lost Vlas,” Calvin said.

“Oh, oh no,” May gasped. Vlas, Yulia’s son and Yeva’s da, had been a good friend of Calvin’s.

“A guard for the aristocrats took him out as we were leaving the stock house. We must tell them,” Victor said.

May looked quickly at Calvin. “Da, do not say anything stupid to Timur.”

“Do not be telling your Da what to do, girl,” Calvin said, but it was muted. “The fool sent us on this raid knowing damn well the guards would be thick. He should hear this.”

“Yes, but maybe not with screaming in front of the whole village,” Victor said.

Calvin sighed. “I suppose there is some sense in that. Where is June?”

“Out hunting with the bigger boys,” Grace said.

“Foolish girl should be here, not distracting the boys in their hunt,” Calvin muttered. “Alright, Vicky, let us go and find Yulia and Yeva.”

Grace let May trail after them. She would have no comfort for Yulia. No sense being there when she found out she’d lost her son.

Timer was with his sons in front of the meeting hall. He cast his hand over the wagon, full of foodstuffs and goods. “Look at all you have brought us!” he called, striding into the middle of the crowd. “These goods will go to villages in need, instead of the bloated coffers of the aristocrats. And that is something well worth celebrating, do you not all think?”

The village cheered, at least most of them did. Yulia and Yeva were listening to Victor and Calvin. Grace saw Yulia stagger, and lean heavily on her granddaughter. Yeva, all of fifteen years old, didn’t look as though she could bear the weight. May helped the older woman to a seat, where she broke down into sobs.

Timur didn’t seem to notice. “I want to thank each and every man who brought this bounty back to us. Together, we brothers will do what the aristocrats will not. We will feed our people. We will clothe them. We will bring our country back from the brink of darkness. And someday, no more children will starve.”

“I wish he would shut up,” Morgan said, eyeing his da. Grace had to agree. Calvin was still standing over the sobbing Yulia, but his eyes were on Timur. His raging eyes. His hands were starting to glow blue, he was losing control of his magic.

“Brothers, we have fought a long and hard battle against the aristocrats. We have been ground down. Look at this, look at what they had kept in their store houses, stolen right out of the hands of the people. They leave us to starve, but we say no more! We will defeat them!”

Calvin turned, as though he would march up to Timur and tell him just what he thought. But May put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

She didn’t think to stop Victor, though.

“When?” Victor called.

The crowd hushed, and turned to see who had spoken. Timur, still all grins, said, “What was that, Brother Victor?”

“I asked you when would we stop the aristocrats. Because these little raids are not doing anything.”

“I would not call this mountain of goods a little raid,” Timur said.

“I sure as hell would,” Victor replied. “Especially when you consider what we lost to get it. Or did you not even notice that we came back here a man short?”

Grace darted through the crowds to get to Victor, to shut him up. But it was far too late for that.

“Stand back, young wolf,” Timur said. “Your passion is admirable, but you are aiming it at the wrong man.”

“You think so?” Calvin called. Apparently May wasn’t able to keep him silent any longer. “All we do, all we have ever done is raid! We are the Brotherhood of the Broken Chain, and we act like a pack of thieves! Why are we not attacking the aristocrats? King Kurtis is old and mad, surely he could not stand against us.”

“I will not send men to die attacking the capital, Calvin,” Timur said. “Not even your magic light balls are going to take that castle down.”

“Maybe they would, if you were not too much of a coward to let me go find out,” Calvin snapped.

The entire village froze. They looked from Timur to Calvin, with Victor standing at his back. They waited.

“What did you just say to me?” Timur asked.
“We all know you heard me,” Calvin snapped. “So how long will you treat us like a thieving crew, eh?”
Timur’s eyes narrowed. He looked like he was trying to work out a puzzle. Grace waited. She felt like a deer who knows a hunter has her in his sights.
“You, you young men might have a point,” Timur said. He nodded, looking them over. “Yes, I think you just might. I am older, of course. I have spent my life making sure our people were fed and safe. But maybe that is not enough anymore.”

Timur walked calmly up to Calvin, and put a hand on his shoulder. “You have such fire, such promise, young wolf. How about we see how far you can take that?”

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what we do here, you can support us by liking and sharing this post. You can also support us financially on Ko-fi.

Falling From Grace is going wide! Click here to see all the places to get it.

0

The story remains

Please indulge me in a moment of nostalgia today. It’s a very special anniversary.

Eleven years ago today, I started writing Woven. After years of feeling stuck in my writing. Years of starting projects but never finishing. Years of shrugging and saying I was a writer, but never really writing. I took expensive bread from a coffee shop that isn’t there anymore to a park that still is. I fed the birds and prayed for a book idea that wouldn’t die before its first real breath.

A spell is just a prayer with extra steps. I believe this was the most successful spell I’ve ever cast.

Eleven years have passed. I have moved homes three times. (And am getting ready to move again, God help me.) The walls and roof that surround me have changed. The desk at which I sit, sipping copious cups of coffee and tea, has changed. I’ve written at a desk older than me, painted over countless times. I’ve written at coffee shops, laundromats, doctor’s offices, libraries and day jobs. I’ve written at a desk my husband made for me by hand. It’s actually the first piece of furniture I’ve ever owned that wasn’t second-hand, and that’s where I’m still writing right now.

The story has remained.

I’ve changed jobs then job titles. I’ve changed my last name.

My family has changed. It shrank, but then swelled again. I lost people I never thought I’d lose. Never thought I could survive losing.

I’ve found new people. A new family, a new place in the world to need others and be needed in.

The story has remained.

I’ve written other stories. Some published, some not. Some tucked away for ‘someday’. Every one of them owes their existence to Woven. Because if it wasn’t for the story about a boy who weaves visions and a girl who spins light, I never would have had the courage or knowledge to write anything else.

I stepped out of my twenties and into my thirties. Soon, I’ll move into my forties. My hair has started to show silver. My back hurts in fun new places.

And yet, this story remains.

I became a horror critic. Then the site folded. Woven was bought by a publisher and then dropped. I republished it. Then I published it wide, a thing I wouldn’t have been able to do if the publisher hadn’t dropped us.

The story, through it all, remains.

We’ve lived through a pandemic and at least two recessions. At least some of us have. We’ve seen wars start and start. And start. We’ve seen three presidents. Well, two presidents and one threat to our country.

The story, though, remains.

And at this point, I feel like I’m ending a long journey. With Falling From Grace going wide this Friday, I’ve done almost everything I can do with it until I can afford to make it an audiobook. (I’m working on it.) Unless I write another book in the same world, the story of Woven is at its inevitable end.

Except, of course, that there are new readers in the world every day. New people looking for new stories. And I don’t think that’s likely to change anytime soon.

So this story will remain. I’ll write others. I’ll share others. And we’ll all keep right on changing.

I am so glad you’re here to share the journey with me.

Falling From Grace is going wide on Friday!

0

A WordPress.com Website.

Up ↑