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achronicleofblasphemy · 3 months

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🎶More! More! More! How do you like it? How do you like it?🎶

Here is the last one for now. I'll be putting another up over the next couple weeks.

Chapter 2: Evie finds herself incapable of connecting with anyone at her new school. After willfully getting expelled from three elite private schools over the past two years, she finds her hope of finding some like-minded people dashed. It appears that all people want is just to be a part of the world she is trying to escape. That is, until a saddening circumstance offers her the opportunity to step out of herself and help someone else.

A Chronicle

Of Blasphemy -

Chapter 2.

Evie’s Memory - Age 12.

“Before we begin, who can tell me the major differences between a talisman and an enchantment?” Mr. Parvin asked the class.

Evie waited for any one to raise their hand. She was astounded that they were even discussing this in sixth grade. The private schools she had previously attended managed to integrate the basic principles of channeling and activating into their learning plans since her first year of school. Mr. Parvin knew what her father did for a living and left his sweeping gaze on her slightly longer than the rest.

Evie didn’t want the class to know anything about how wealthy her family was, or that her father curated rare talisman to sell to an elite list of private clientele. They would eventually. After enough classmates showed off their new enchanted gadgetry and asked why she had none of it. One of them would put the pieces together. They’d find out she was rich. They’d notice she used a talisman. They’d view her as something special. Ideal. She knew better though.

A small mousy looking girl with thick bushy hair raised her hand.

“Bailey to the rescue once again! For the edification of all of us Bailey, please tell us the major differences between a Talisman and an enchantment.” Mr. Parvin requested.

“A Talisman is traditionally an artifact that has been affected by, or involved in, an event or act of great magical power or historical importance. The part about historical importance is weird. Like, all great magical events needed to have some great push of arcane force to even be considered “great”, you know? But the weird thing is some artifacts have started oscillating centuries after showing no signs of being able to channel anything. It’s super rare, and no one’s really sure why? Some scientists say it’s like a matter of a society, or religion, or culture, or just like a large group of people or something, changing how they view their history. It's super dumb. Like you can’t say something like “faith gave this magic.”.”

“Faith is an interesting way of putting it.” Mr. Parvin commented. He leaned up against his desk facing the class.

“Ya, but I can’t like, believe my pencil can channel a shielding spell and it’ll do it.” Bailey retorted sarcastically. The class laughed, including Evie.

“No! If you alone could believe hard enough to do something like that, we’d be living in a very different world wouldn’t we? The truly insane would be ushering their madness into our reality. It’s not just belief or an act of will. Which leads us to the third and least common of all types of Talisman. Or did you forget Bailey?” Mr. Parvin teased.

“No! I just hadn’t gotten to it yet!” Bailey exclaimed urgently. “The third, and yes it has been documented periodically throughout history, but the third and rarest and weakest form of a Talisman is one of significant personal importance to an individual. It can only be used by them and is totally worthless to anyone else.”

“I wouldn’t say worthless. Baroness Madeleine Du Kompf’s bejeweled and golden scepter is far from worthless. But I understand what you’re saying. Excellent Bailey, as usual.” Mr. Parvin said. He once again scanned the class and this time rested his eyes on Evie. “Evaunsheil, you’ve been quiet your first week, can you tell us anything about enchantments? Evaunsheil? Did I say that right?”

Evie felt a phantom of unease cover her entire body. She looked down at her desk blankly.

“Its fine, it’s a made-up name anyway. I prefer Evie.” She muttered.

“All names have to start somewhere.” Mr. Parvin shrugged. “Evie it is.” He waited for her to give any indication of a willingness to participate. There was a brief pause and Evie let out a long sigh before beginning.

“Enchantments are objects imbued with magical capabilities. These are almost wholly utilized for utilitarian purposes and can only be used in accordance with the enchantment or enchantments imbued. While a Talisman allows for an individual to channel arcane energies, an enchantment is activated via simple incantation or a minor channeling of arcane force on the user's end to power the object. The most common forms of enchantment include markets such as communication, transportation, data entry and analyzation, various household items such as sanitation, cooking. . .”

“Alright!” Mr. Parvin interrupted gleefully. “Very well said. Maybe a little too academic for some of the class but I’m impressed. Well done.”

Bailey shot her arm up.

“Yes Bailey.” Mr. Parvin acknowledged.

“Constructs are also enchantments. Portals, energy grids. . .” She began

“Thank you, Bailey, and yes to a certain extent, but that is heading closer into things like rune smithing, points of power and the need for powerful magical shielding against dangerous amounts of arcane force. Today we are discussing simple items that we use in our daily lives to enhance our quality of life. Excellent, both of you." Mr. Parvin said.

Evie had felt a rush of engagement when Bailey mentioned Constructs. Mr. Parvin was right to correct her, but she hated having to sit there and listen to the silence of an uninterested class while the teacher talked about things she already knew.

Mr. Parvin walked over to the white board and waved his finger in front of it to write out “Talisman” and “Enchantment” with a black line separating the two.

“Ok. Who here uses an enchantment?” He asked the class. Everyone shot their hands up, including Evie. Mr. Parvin turned back to the white board and wrote “everyone”, and then turned back to the class.

“Who here uses a Talisman?” he asked. No one raised their hand.

“I probably couldn’t even use a Talisman. My mom has a lot of elvish on her side so I’m like super sensitive to that stuff.” A girl prattled on to her friend. Evie ate alone as she had the past three days since starting at Ward 3 – Kearns Secondary. The girl and boy next to her were in her class and never once had they uttered a word in there. Out here they wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

“Oh my god I know. Could you imagine having to carry like a big wooden staff or something? I could never.” The boy mindlessly contributed.

“Mine would be a crown.” The girl stated miming out the placement of her contradiction upon the top of her head.

“Ya, totally.” The boy agreed unsarcastically.

It had been a glorious victory for Evie to be enrolled in public school. She had worked tirelessly to be expelled from every private school her father threw at her:

Andover School of Math and Science: Mild arson in the Gym. Fucking fascists.

Rosemary Mann Academy of Arts and Letters: Slashed all the teacher’s tires in the parking lot. Damn hippies.

Fishburne Service Academy: Blackmailed the teacher to flunk her out of school. Those fuckers didn’t give up easy.

She was deeply proud of her accomplishments, but now being here she was gravely disappointed. She had hoped she might find some comradery in her fascination with Places of Power, Constructs, and the building blocks of engineering. She only found the same ignorant conversations about “magical sensitivity” and elvish heritage. These two kids didn’t even know the extent of it. The students at Andover, even Rosemary Mann, would eat them alive. The lie they so willingly believed was just another part of her family’s, and other families like hers, generational predation. It wasn’t even a good one. It was easily contested, proven to be inaccurate, and just required a modicum of dignity to overcome. It appeared to her, now most of all, that people just wanted any excuse to feel superior.

“I’m actually related to Baroness Du Kompf.” Said the girl.

“No way! That’s crazy.” The boy responded.

Evie actually knew the Du Kompfs. Or rather, had met several members of the extensive family at the stuck-up galas her parents forced her to go to.

“Excuse me, sorry, but did you say you’re related to the Du Kompfs?” Evie asked, feigning excitement to grab their attention. The girl suddenly looked uncomfortable when she realized someone besides the two of them were listening to the conversation.

“I mean, ya, but like distantly you know? She’s like my great, great, great, great aunt. Or something.” She replied with a sharp antagonized tone. The boy next to her nodded in agreement. Evie didn’t believe her, but the girl obviously wanted to be a part of the world she came from, and she was more than happy to oblige her in this life lesson.

“I went to Andover with Ari Du Kompf!” Evie exclaimed excitedly. This was true, and she liked Ari. They were friends in kindergarten and first grade. Until her father embezzled a large sum of money and they had to relocate back home to the Caspian Republic.

“You went to Andover? Why are you here?” the boy asked skeptically. Evie didn’t appreciate the newfound discernment. He’d been so willing to accept the nonsense spouted by his harebrained friend, why was her own life so unbelievable?

“I didn’t enjoy the education they offered. I wanted somewhere that focused on things like Engineering, Constructs, Points of Power and all that.” Evie replied truthfully.

The two of them looked at her as if she’d just told them she ate from the trash.

“Isn’t Andover a math and science school?” the boy asked her incredulously.

“Right, but it's more in line with corporate markets, political sciences, asset management, and stuff like that. The only time they ever really get close to something like engineering is when discussing demographic economics, and its glanced over as something other people do.” She explained. It was lost on them.

“Wait, so are your parents like rich?” The girl asked her. She recognized the hungry look of envious admiration. She despised it.

“Oh yaaaa. But wait, so, do you know Ari?” Evie replied, trying her best to match their asinine cadence. The girl nodded her head enthusiastically. Her eyes offered no spark of recognition but swallowed her whole with a covetous yearning.

“I was so sorry to hear about the accident.” Evie lied.

“Uh, oh with Ari?! I know, it’s awful.” The girl replied instantly, leaning in past her friend to get closer to Evie.

“And that poor horse, and Romero!”

“Oh my god, I know.”

“That fire went on way too long, didn’t it?”

“Riiight?”

“Dongwagler’s up in smoke, and just like, poof! No more pistachio ice cream.”

“So fucked.”

“Westminster will never be the same. I don’t even think it's worth going this season.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh my god how could you even?” the boy agreed. Evie couldn’t believe it. Nothing would stop them from trying to envelop themselves in the same bullshit that her world had convinced everyone else was true.

“Dongwagler’s? Really?” She sneered. The two of them took a moment. Upon realizing they’d been duped they sneered back at her and called her weird. They blocked her off but made sure to speak loud enough so they could hear them laughing at her.

She wasn’t hungry anymore and everyone else was boring. She gathered her unfinished lunch and went for a walk.

She had spent a fair amount of time wandering the halls alone since arriving at Ward 3 - Kearns Secondary. The VCT flooring was polished daily but covered in scratches that created random pockets of curved light that hurt her eyes. Some of the Azure colored lockers were new, but Evie suspected the school had been forced to replace them. Even the school colors, Azure and Maize, were uncreative and the use of blue and gold, in some variation of the shade, was used by at least three other schools in the area. The surrounding grounds were almost exclusively for sports and there was no area to wander and clear your head. It was a far step from the meticulously maintained and manicured schools she had attended before. She missed the way Andover smelled. The design of it allowed for fresh air to flow through, carrying the smell of lilacs and freesias from the grounds. Everything here either smelled aged, used, or somehow a too sterile version of nothing.

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Shut up!”

Evie heard yelling and then a series of “Ows!” and “Stops!” from down the hall. She hurried down to the bathroom she could hear them from. When she entered she saw two kids hanging back in the center of the room, one with a backpack and the other nursing a bloody nose. A third kid standing by the far wall and wearing a fitted ball cap, twisted the arm of someone she recognized from class.

The bullied kid’s clothes were oversized, and a sharp scent of stale sweat emanated from them. Their long hair was greasy, and they needed to be wearing deodorant but weren’t. Their shoes looked a little too large as well. Evie could see the sole and heel were separating as their bent knees clenched with the rest of their body with the pain being inflicted on them.

“Where is it bitch?!” the kid wearing the fitted ball cap demanded, as they twisted the other kid’s arm. The kid squealed in pain and the bully slapped the back of their head saying, “Stop whining!”

“Haha! Bro! He needs to hold up his pants cause their so fucking big! Buy some pants that fit dumbass!” The kid with the backpack ridiculed.

Evie had seen enough. She channeled a high-powered soldering spell into her right pointer finger using the bracelet talisman her father had given her. She didn’t know any form of self defense, but she’d secretly learned some DIY mechanic and construction spells in a book she’d secretly ordered. She stepped up behind the kid with the backpack and swiped her finger against their right backpack strap. The kid jumped away feeling the heat of it.

“What the fuck!?” they cried out.

Evie held out the white-hot point of heat in front of her. She’d never held the spell for this long. She was trying to focus on shielding her flesh from the heat and looking as intimidating as possible. The kid with the fitted cap let go of the poor kid’s arm and they scurried off into the corner on the far right of the room near the stalls.

“My dads are cops!” the kid with the fitted cap threatened. Their wide eyes remained fixated on the ball of white heat at the tip of Evie’s finger.

Evie gave the threat no mind. She could feel her finger getting warmer and needed to focus. She stepped closer to the kid with the backpack, and they moved closer to the far wall. They bumped into the kid with the fitted cap, and she waved her finger at them. They continued their retreat and the kid with the bloody nose ran out of the bathroom. Evie could hear their hurried footsteps echoing down the hall. The kid with the fitted cap looked as though they were going to make a run for it too, but they were the one Evie wanted. She rushed at them and corralled them in the far-left corner near the sinks. The poor kid remained at the opposite end nursing their arm and looking on with paralyzed anxiety.

“Stop! Stop!” The fitted cap kid yelled.

Evie tried to ignore the burning ache she was feeling on the tip of her finger. The muscles in her forearm were tensing up. Her body wasn’t used to channeling magic for this long. She stepped closer to them ignoring the growing discomfort.

“What do you want?!” The kid with the backpack cried out. Evie stopped and an evil grin cracked across her face.

“Oh, I’m getting what I want.” She replied maliciously.

“Help! Help!” the boy with the fitted cap cried out.

The sound of running footsteps came rushing down the hall. Evie dispelled the soldering spell and rushed back to where the injured kid was standing. They stepped away from Evie, cautious of her. A rather large teacher with a corny floral dress came barging into the bathroom. Evie recognized her as Ms. Farwell, an art teacher. The kid with the bloody nose trailed behind her. She scanned the room from the two kids at one end near the sinks, to Evie and the poor kid at the otherside near the stalls. She stared at the poor kid a moment and her face took on a doleful saddened expression. She sighed a resigned sigh and eyed the two kids near the sink with unhidden disdain.

“Are you alright Cyrano?” She asked the kid holding their wounded arm.

Evie was used to being in the principal’s office. If anything, being sent there had been the primary drive of her educational experience over the past two years. Ms. Farwell had contacted the school security with the sending amulet that also acted as her teacher’s lanyard. Security had teleported there in an instant and took the two injured students to the nurse’s office. Evie hadn’t mentioned her burned finger.

Her and the two uninjured kids were questioned individually. Evie didn’t like lying but was far too familiar with how school “incidents” worked to want to tell the truth. The whole truth anyway. She told them what she saw when she walked in. That part was true. She then weaved a story about her pleading with the bullies and them laughing and tormenting poor helpless Cyrano even more. “Out of spite!” She told them. She said she had been the one who cried for help not Liam, and once they heard Ms. Farwell’s footsteps the bullies retreated to the other side of the room. She wasn’t sure if they’d bought it, she’d been a little too flamboyant in her description of things.

This principal’s office was shabby. The lighting here was awful. It was dark, drab, and the only personal touches consisted of a few much younger pictures of them after their top surgery had healed. She sat in a chair, next to Cyrano, that needed new padding. She was nervous. She was always nervous in the principal’s office, but it was more due to the looming feeling of knowing her father was coming.

Before this school, she had never been afraid of the impotent power of the administration. The worst they could do was exactly what she wanted. This time was different. A deal was a deal, she’d attend this school and cause no trouble whatsoever, or her father would call in all his favors and she’d go back to Andover. “And finish school. Period.” She couldn’t get expelled from here. She’d worked so hard to distance herself from the predatory, self-absorbed, and completely fake world her parents wanted for her. Even though the school wasn’t in any way what she had hoped for, she wouldn’t give her father the satisfaction of winning.

A moaning gurgle of hunger came from Cyrano’s belly. It was somewhat concerning in its volume.

“Are you alright?” Evie asked him.

“I’m fine.” Cyrano meekly replied. He kept his eyes to the ground and the arm the nurse had healed rested limply over his belly. His eyes were listless and gray bags hung beneath them. He didn’t seem to be focusing on anything. Then it struck her, had he had anything to eat at lunch? She grabbed her 3 tier tiffin lunch box with an elegant floral design hand painted on it. Today Chef had made her daal and jasmine rice with naan.

“Are you hungry? I barely touched it. It's good though.” She opened the daal tin and the creamy spiced smell of the lentil dish wafted through the office. Cyrano’s eyes widened and their stomach growled lustfully. Without waiting for a response Evie placed all three tins next to each other on the principal’s desk. She handed Cyrano her dirty spoon and Cyrano began devouring the food with a distressing urgency.

Before Cyrano finished Principal Hezkeia came in. He carried two large files and sniffed the air as he walked to his desk. Upon hearing him enter the room Cyrano stopped eating and leaned back into his chair fondling the spoon. Principal Hezkeia sat behind his desk and saw the beautifully designed tiffin tins lining the edge. He stared at them, and then eyed Cyrano who stared at his lap, rolling the handle of the spoon in their hand.

“Uhh. . .” Principal Hezkeia muttered.

“Sorry.” Cyrano apologized before Principal Hezkeia could gather his thoughts. Principal Hezkeia gave a small sigh and stared at Cyrano with the same sad look Ms. Farwell had given him.

“No, please eat Cyrano.” He said and placed the two large folders on his desk. Cyrano leaned over and grabbed the larger tin with the daal and sat back in his chair slowly eating small spoonfuls with an embarrassed look aimed at the ground.

Principal Hezkeia rapped his fingers on his desk and let out another sigh, this time of deep seeded frustration. He brought his gaze to Evie, who was very familiar with the energy of an adult about to give her what for. Principal Hezkeia looked back at the tins and nodded to whatever conclusion he had come to in his head.

“Thank you for sharing your lunch, Evaunsheil.” He said and then opened a file. It was half an inch thick and as he flipped through it, Evie noticed the watermark of Fishburne Service Academy on one of the pages. Her nerves were on edge. She was going to be expelled. After all the destruction she had caused no school was going to put up with her. The only place that would even pretend to want her as a student was the one her father would build a whole new wing for. Bribery was the only way.

“Forgive me Principal Hezkeia, but before we begin, I’ve noticed some of the lockers have been replaced and others haven’t?” Evie asked rhetorically.

Principal Hezkeia looked up from his folder and looked at Evie not knowing where this was going.

“I’d be more than happy to speak with my father to see if he might be willing to help quicken the pace of replacing the older ones.” She offered with the most amicable tone she could muster.

Principal Hezkeia cracked a knowing half grin.

“If I feel the need to ask him when he gets here I will. Thank you for the offer though Evaunsheil.” He coolly replied.

Fuuuuuccccckkkkkkk!!! Evie screamed in her brain.

“Thank you.” Cyrano shyly thanked Evie. He gently rested the empty tin back on the desk. Evie resigned back into her chair and gave a good long look at the kid sitting next to her.

“You can finish the rest if you want. The rice is cooked with coconut milk.” She offered. Cyrano looked up at Principal Hezkeia.

“Go ahead bud. My office can take it. Haha.” Principal Hezkeia laughed.

Evie watched a light of pleasure glimmer in his eyes. He embarrassedly took the tin, took a bite, and smiled. Watching the transformation take place gave Evie a shelter to escape her fraying nerves.

“So, do you know why I asked both of you here together?” Principal Hezkeia asked. Cyrano paused his joyful eating and both kids shook their heads.

“Evaunsheil . . .” Principal Hezkeia began.

“Evie, please Principal Hezkeia, call me Evie.” Evie corrected politely.

Principal Hezkeia nodded in agreement.

“Evie, you have a past of. . . disorderly conduct, and have gone through three schools in the past two years. Highly regarded institutions that may not need to put up with. . . more temperamental students.” He paused to ensure Evie was giving him her undivided attention.

She nodded In acknowledgement.

“We are not as unfamiliar with that kind of behavior. However, considering you are a new student I am willing to give you the benefit of a doubt. This time.” Principal Hezkeia let the warning sink in.

Evie looked down and acknowledged the warning with a more robust series of nods.

“Thank you Principal Hezkeia.” Evie replied earnestly.

He turned his gaze to Cyrano and took a deep breath in.

“The reason I asked Evie to join us, Cyrano, is because Durrin is claiming you used a force spell to break his nose. Now. . .” He paused, finding the words, “You know how familiar I am with your history with Liam, Durrin, and Miguel. But we can't have students breaking other students' noses.” He paused again to let the words sink in.

Cyrano nodded.

“Now, while Mr. Valin was healing your arm you told him it was an accident, and we are aware of that, but you also said you used a talisman?” Principal Hezkeia asked not hiding his puzzlement.

Evie's head shot back in surprise and she turned to Cyrano. Cyrano put the rice back on the desk. He fiddled with his stained oversized shirt. She hadn’t noticed before but he had a tattered white one over another shirt. Its collar was frayed, and parts of it were a shade of yellow from sweat stains. There was a burn mark down near the bottom and a couple black grease stains in the center. Cyrano nodded in agreement to Principal Hezkeia’s question. Both he and Evie looked at each other uncertain of the validity of what Cyrano claimed.

“Evie’s father is an expert in Talisman. Isn’t that right?” Principal Hezkeia asked Evie. She nodded back in agreement.

“This one’s mine.” She said to Cyrano, showing him her thin silver bracelet with elvish runes exquisitely carved in. Cyrano didn’t pay the bracelet much mind. Instead he looked at her with a sense of awe.

“So Evie here can help us. . . better understand what your talisman is.” Principal Hezkeia suggested.

“Sure, I don’t mind.” Evie agreed. She cocked her head towards Cyrano who was now looking gloomily into his lap while he played with his shirt.

“So Cyrano, would you be willing to show us the talisman you found?” Principal Hezkeia asked. Cyrano furrowed his brow and brought his chin to his chest. His long unwashed hair covered his face but Evie could see glistening tears falling onto his shirt.

“Hey bud, it's ok. No one here is mad at you.” Principal Hezkeia consoled. Cyrano clenched his fists and shook his head. Evie thought he looked like a toddler trying to keep it together. She found it entirely off putting, but she needed this. If she could prove to principal Hezkeia that she was an asset it would be a way into his good graces.

“How bout this, my mom taught me an old elvish spell that allows us to link and see what the other is feeling. It only works with talismans because they’re attuned to us. I just need to touch your hand and we can see if that works?” Evie suggested. Principal Hezkeia silently agreed. Cyrano shook his head.

“No! You can’t read my mind!” Cyrano cried.

“No, no, no! I’m not gonna read your mind. Just surface level feelings. I won’t know why you’re feeling them, just what they are.” Evie clarified. Cyrano thought about it.

“Ok.” He acquiesced. Evie reached out her hand, palm up, for Cyrano to touch. He hesitated for a moment, catching his breath and wiping away his tears. He dried his hand and rested it on top of Evie’s. Evie recited the chant in her mind. Once. Twice. Three times. Suddenly a suffocating wave of heartbreak crashed in her mind. She immediately pulled her hand back. The feeling lingered in her like a cat kneading its claws before laying its burdening weight atop her mind. She was tearing up. She sniffled and wiped away the tears hanging in her eyes.

“It's real.” She confirmed through stuttering breath.

Principal Hezkeia stared at both of them speechless.

“Sorry.” Cyrano apologized to Evie.

“No! No! You’re fine. Well, obviously you’re not fine! I mean, shit. Sorry!” She floundered, trying to apologize to both Cyrano for her rude comment and Principal Hezkeia for swearing. Principal Hezkeia didn’t give any indication of caring about the swearing as he sat there in deep contemplation. He cleared his throat.

“Bud, I need to know what it is and where you got it.” He insisted.

“No. I can’t. I promised.” Cyrano pleaded.

“I promise I won’t get mad, but please I need to know how you got a hold of a talisman.” Principal Hezkeia pressed.

“He told me not to tell.” Cyrano’s eyes bulged and panic stopped his breath. Evie could tell he wanted to take back what it was he shouldn’t have said. She looked to principal Hezkeai for context but he had the same panicked expression.

“Him? Cyrano, did you see your dad?” He asked almost whispering as if saying it too loudly would make it real.

“No! No! I didn’t say that! I didn’t say that!” Cyrano yelled. His face was turning red with anger and he threw himself into the back of his seat with his arms folded tightly around him. He was simultaneously fuming and weeping. He pulled his legs up into his shirt and against his chest then covered the rest of himself with it like a tent. Evie could hear him trying not to cry inside.

“Evie, could you wait outside for a moment please?” Principal Hezkeai requested. Evie looked at the dirty ball of tremoring sorrow sitting next to her.

“I don’t think he should be alone.” She found herself saying.

“He won’t be alone, I’ll be here. Please go wait outside.” Principal Hezkeai sternly repeated.

“No, ya, of course, but. . . I’d like to help, if I can.” Evie offered. Principal Hezkeai let out a deep frustrated sigh. Evie met his gaze to show she was not going to budge willingly. In the friendliest way possible of course.

“I appreciate you trying to help, I do. But this is a conversation I need to have with Cyrano in private. You cannot be here, and I need to do my job. You need to leave.” Principal Hezkeai firmly but gently told Evie.

It felt as if he had gently rested his powerful hand on her shoulder, to show the authoritative weight he commanded. It was clear she had no choice. She got up, and for a moment, she wanted to rest her hand on Cyranos curved back. But she didn’t know him and he was trying to fight against some great weight she was foreign to.

“I’ll be right outside.” She told him and headed towards the door.

She heard the rustling of hair and fabric. As she looked back and closed the door she saw Cyrano watching back at her.

Evie came out into the office lobby and saw a pretty blond woman talking with the secretary Mx. Whitfield. They talked in urgent hushed tones and stopped the moment they heard her come out. She looked at them suspiciously and took a seat on one of the blue plastic chairs that lined the walls across from Mx. Whitfield’s desk. They watched her sit down and the pretty blond woman came and sat next to her.

“Are you ok sweety?” She asked Evie. Evie didn’t understand why she was asking her that.

“Ya, kind of.” Evie replied.

“Kind of? Ya, I’m sure. We some yelling in there.” The blond woman said. She seemed sincere, but Evie didn’t like eavesdroppers.

“Who are you?” She asked warily.

“Sorry! I’m Ms. Madison. I help Cyrano when he’s having a rough day.” She reached her hand out to shake Evie’s. Evie took it and eased up on her suspicions.

“Evie. You help Cyrano?”

“When he needs it. We usually just go for a walk around campus until he can calm down or to just get away. How are you? It sounded like a lot was going on in there.”

Evie thought about it for a moment.

“Who’s Cyrano’s dad?”

Ms. Madison leaned back from her engaged position. She was much better at hiding her distress than the other adults, but Evie could still pick up on the alarms firing off in her brain.

“He saw his dad?” Ms. Madison asked.

Evie nodded in response. Ms. Madison turned her head to Mx. Whitfield and they exchanged an unspoken line of seething anger underneath their calm and professional demeanors. Ms. Madison turned back to Evie with a fake smile barely covering her distress. Before she could open her mouth the sound of heavy boots announced the arrival of a police officer walking into the room.

“Excuse me, but we asked you and Liam to wait in 5b.” Mx. Whitfield told the officer. The officer looked around the room and didn’t immediately respond to Mx. Whitfield’s comment.

“Mr. Falstead.” Mx Whitfield called with a raised voice.

“Liam said he saw Cyrano talking with his father out by the football bleachers. I need to question him about the interaction.” Mr. Falstead stated while staring at Principal Hezkeai’s door. Ms. Madison leapt from her seat and stood between him and the path to the principal’s office.

“Hi, I’m Ms. Madison, I’m Cyrano’s caregiver here at school. Is Cyrano under arrest?” She asked Officer Falstead. Evie leapt from her seat.

“What?! That’s not right! Liam hurt him! He didn’t do anything!” She yelled at Officer Falstead. Mx. Whitfield and Ms. Madison were taken aback by her willingness to confront him. Both couldn’t help a small smile of admiration. Officer Falstead looked down at her and didn’t pay her much mind.

“He’s not under arrest but I do need to question him about the potential whereabouts of his father.” Officer Falstead replied to Ms. Madison.

“Ok, well he’s a minor, and you can’t question him until one of his foster parents gets here.” Ms. Madison reminded him. Officer Falstead finally gave her his attention. He was a very large man, at least six feet. He had a barrel chest and his rolled-up sleeves showed his powerful muscular forearms. The sound of his thick leather boot tapping against the VCP flooring was the only sound anyone made for several seconds.

“It’s been several hours since the incident. They have shown zero willingness to come forward with the truth. If they don’t willingly cooperate with me as law enforcement, I’ll be forced to detain them.” Officer Falstead claimed while staring Ms. Madison dead in the eyes with a flat emotionless face. Ms. Madison and Mx. Whitfield looked like they were going to slap him.

Before anyone could react, Evie saw her dad step between her and Officer Falstead. The simmering hatred growing inside of her for the policeman had distracted her from anything else. Upon seeing him she instinctively sat in her seat with her hands folded in her lap.

“My daughter will not be answering any questions without our lawyer present.” Evie’s father stated a mere eight inches from Officer Falstead’s face. Officer Falstead took several steps back and stared at Evie’s father deeply confused. Then he realized who she was and who he was speaking with and his face contorted to unmasked rage.

“That’s your daughter?” Officer Falstead asked with simmering anger.

“She is.” Evie’s father replied coolly.

“Your daughter attacked my son!” Officer Falstead exclaimed.

“Allegedly. The belief of a beat officer and the word of his boy isn't evidence of anything.” Evie's father retorted calmly. Officer Falstead scoffed at his arrogance.

“Ya? And who are you?” Officer Falstead demanded to know.

“Sir Lysanthir Silduin, and I bought your costume so you may play “protect and serve” for a living.” Sr. Silduin said authoritatively.

Officer Falstead obviously recognized the name and Evie’s eyes burned into him with venomous joy. She usually hated the way her father inflated his own importance. He was college friends with the governor, was a regular fixture at the mayor’s campaign fundraisers, and knew the sheriff personally, but he’d only donated twelve thousand at a charity gala for the police force last year. Far from purchasing every cop in the city's uniform. This time however, watching him in his lithe stately posture with his thin flat white hair, staring down an armed and imposing man, gave her the tingling of a daughter’s love. Ms. Madison and Mx. Withfield could see the fearless, if not entitled, resemblance.

“My apologies Mr. Silduin. . .” Officer Falstead began.

“Sir.” Sir Silduin corrected him. He raised his eyebrows as if to say “Try again.”

“Apologies, Sir Silduin. . .” Officer Falstead began again before Sir Siduin interrupted him again.

“And what is your rank, Mx. . .?” Sir Silduin asked.

“Mr., please, uh, officer, sir.” Officer Falstead answered.

“Officer Sir? Hmm, a bit redundant, isn’t it?” Sir Silduin jested to Evie.

“No Sir, Officer Falstead, and my apologies for the mistake. Your daughter is not the one I need to question, but her friend. His father has multiple warrants out for his arrest and has come into contact with his son today. I have been receiving some resistance from the school administration about questioning him about the possible whereabouts of his father.” Officer Falstead clarified in one swift breath.

“Take a breath Falstead.” Sir Silduin muttered. He turned to his daughter with the same cold disappointment he gave her every time he had to come down to the principal’s office.

The principal's door opened, and Cyrano walked out to see a room full of people staring at him. Including Liam's father. The obvious panic washed over him, and, in a heartbeat, Ms. Madison was by his side. Sir Silduin looked at Cyrano, coldly assessing his raggedy presentation. Evie knew what he thought of him, nothing. He turned back to Officer Falstead.

“I'll leave you to your work Officer. Come Evaunsheil.” He commanded.

“Oh, she isn't being sent home.” Mx. Whitfield spoke up.

Sir Silduin turned on a point to them. He stared at Mx. Whitfield awaiting a greater explanation.

“Um, principal Hezkeia, would you like to clarify?” Mx. Whitfield asked, obviously intimated.

Principal Hezkeia walked right up to Sir Silduin and put out his hand. Sir Silduin took and nodded politely.

“Principal Hezkeia. Pleasure to meet you Sir Silduin. Your daughter is in no trouble. In fact, she's been quite helpful. We called you because firstly, because it's normal procedure to call the parents after an incident such as this, and secondly young Cyrano here has somehow gotten a hold of a Talisman. We're not sure how, but Evie here has confirmed for us the authenticity of it.”

“Evie has, really?” Sir Silduin replied, saying “Evie” as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. He looked down to his daughter skeptically and then returned his gaze to principal Hezkeia, allowing him to continue.

“Yes. As I've said, she's been very helpful. And, I know you're a very busy man, and I'm not wanting to impose upon you. . .”

“Forgive me Principal Hezkeia, but I believe you are about to ask me to provide my expertise to your current predicament free of charge because my daughter attends your school?” Sir Silduin inquired with a threatening air.

Principal Hezkeia swallowed his words.

“No sir. Not at all.” He backtracked.

“Now if this student is in possession of stolen property that his father asked him to hide for him, I will need you to confirm the validity of it Sir Siduin.” Officer Falstead said, seemingly finding his footing again.

Evie’s father turned to him with unfazed arrogance.

“My dad didn’t steal anything!” Cyrano yelled.

“Covering for him will only serve to put you in a detention center young man.” Officer Falstead threatened sharply.

“That’s enough Drue!” Principal Hezkeia scolded.

Ms. Madison began ushering Cyrano back into the principal’s office and Officer Falstead got on his shoulder radio to call in “potential accessory in harboring a fugitive and theft”. Principal Hezkeia marched up to him and the two of them began talking over each other right next to Sir Silduin. He turned to Evie with unmasked disgust at what he was witnessing.

“Is this what you want?” He asked her.

Evie watched Ms. Madison close the door to the principal’s office. This wasn’t what Evie wanted. This place was far from her hope of being closer to a world she deemed real. It lagged behind the trail of lies the wealthy discarded behind them like breadcrumbs to a cage. When it wasn’t repeating the same ignorance she was trying to escape, chaos triumphed over all good intentions. Especially today. What could have been solved with patience and care was threatened by blind power stalking the hopeless. Everything was boiling over and no one could stop it. Just like all the other places she’d been, she’d be better off without it. It would be easy to discard. She didn’t need to hold on to it. It was just more willingness to cling on to the lies that kept everyone in line. But Cyrano’s pain was real. She’d felt it.

“Yes.” She answered. She looked up to her father with unwavering determination.

“I’ll see you at home Evaunsheil.” Her father replied and left.

She waited for him to turn the corner and then went to Principal Hezkeia’s door. Officer Falstead was talking to dispatch over his radio as Principal Hezkeia yelled at him about conflict of interest. She drowned them out and knocked on the door. Ms. Madison opened it cautiously and let her in. She walked up to the same chair she’d been in before and sat next to Cyrano, and smiled at him.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” She said truthfully.

Cyrano smiled back.

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purplecowbell · 1 year

Text

Out of Serial

What happened to the modern serial? Sorry, you probably just said “TV,” or “Comics,” so let me rephrase. What happened to the modern, independent author writing serials?

For anyone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about, back in ye olden days before the internet, authors could publish books or works by the chapter (getting money for each one) to make ends meet, as opposed to writing the entire book and not having any money during that time. Many classics we have now are because of serialized publications: Charles Dickens’s writing, Sherlock Holmes, and H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine springs to mind. Hell, the original Dracula was best published as a serialized work with it being a story pieced together by the letters, news articles, and diary entries. And it wasn’t just published in the 19th century, Tom Wolfe published The Bonfire of the Vanities as a serial in the Rolling Stone magazine in 1987. So with the historical precedent, is this a format of publication that still functions with the internet? And if so or (even if not), how and why?

Previously on “Serial Publishing”

First let’s go over the history of the medium that we’re looking for. When I refer to serial writing, I’m not talking about novels released as part of a series of books, but individual books released by the chapter. To summarize very generally, there are two types of serial publications: individual and periodicals.

Individual serials are books published by the chapter on their own, one at a time. Some authors (like Charles Dickens) sell the final publication with a cover so that one could bind the chapters together, making it one book. The major benefit of the format is that it gets the authors money sooner so they don’t have to do their work without financial support. It also comes with the potential side benefit of maintaining long term engagement and fan-community with regular releases; it’s very much like TV shows in this respect.

Periodical serials, on the other hand, are published as a part of a series of publications that include a variety of other work. For example, The War of the Worlds was published one chapter after the other across multiple prints of Pearson’s Magazine which included other publications of serials, essays, or short stories. The major benefit of this format is that it specifically allows for the story to be discovered. Readers specifically subscribed to the periodical for short stories will stumble upon the first chapter of a novel that fits their taste, and readers who know that their favorite author published their novel in a periodical will buy the magazine and also read other writing that fits their taste.

So when looking for modern serials, we have to look for a format that either is more economical for both writers and readers, or it gives authors a platform for being discovered and helping other writers being discovered.

And Now For the Current Episode of “Serial Publishing”

Let’s tackle the obvious possibility: modern periodicals. There are still magazines, journals, and now websites that publish writers’ work today; in fact, all of them had to adapt to the internet specifically in order to survive. So with the old platforms and methods still around but now digital, we should be able to still publish and read serial fiction through them, right? Unfortunately, that’s not really the case.

Ever since the radio, periodical subscriptions and other methods of traditionally publishing short stories (and serials) have dropped steadily in reader support. The problem isn’t just that shorter writing support has dropped (that’s a different part of the ballpark that needs to be covered), but that periodicals are not accepting serial publications, at least not explicitly. In fact it’s more likely that they explicitly disallow serial submissions. But that distinction calls to mind a question: If traditional publishers are specifically refusing serial publications, then shouldn’t that mean there are newer markets that call for serials?

Kindle-Vella, Realm, and More of The Same

In the modern day, there are a decent number of new publications that work through apps or websites for serial publications only: Kindle-Vella, Radish, and Realm (previously known as Serial Box) come to mind with varying degrees of popularity.

Let’s focus on Kindle-Vella. It’s a serial publication platform on Amazon, the largest ebook publisher in the world, so it’s logically the best shot for the format. Also it’s the only avenue that you don’t need to download a separate app for, removing a hurdle to entry. I would argue these websites’ and apps’ format is theoretically the best digital adaption of periodical serializations. Instead of having to pay a separate subscription for each service, you pay for a currency within the service to access the work you want and you may have some leftover ones to read others (a similar model in other digital-only serial publishers). They also have the policy that the first three chapters are for free. This theoretically gives the benefit of both cutting down on the need for too many subscriptions while still ensuring a space for discovery. What’s not to love about the market? Well, it’s not all rainbows and sunshine.

With what market analytics are available, the number of readers and writing made so far are not promising. Many reviews of the most popular still on-going works are 3 stars. The reviews have complaints about the story dragging on to milk money from the readers. It’s hard to say myself without reading each story to analyze it, but I did notice a point of merit to the reviews in that multiple of the top stories had more than 70 chapters and weren’t finished. Most novels don’t even reach half of that chapter amount. The problem of length is exacerbated by the fact that once the story is finished, you can’t buy the book completely at once. Readersstill have to buy each chapter, and don’t even have the benefit of the backlogs of other chapters, which people have also complained about.

It seems potentially viable but without any serious oversight, editorial board, or even professional standards, the structure of the platform encourages milking the system which readers get sick of. It doesn’t even benefit from its connection to Kindle without automatically publishing completed stories on Kindle proper and giving more readers an introduction to Vella. Alright, what if we examine a platform where people are more used to regularly subscribing?

For 3 Easy Payments of $9.99

Let’s look at places where people actually enjoy how to pay for serial writing. Patreon is a good potential subscription platform. It has the benefit of being more widely recognized, and when you subscribe you gain access to all the backlogs of published chapters if they’re still up. This circumvents the two problems readers have with the previous example, so is it a valid avenue for writers? Perhaps, but it can’t be solely relied on. For one thing, it’s not only writers that use it. Out of around $25 million dollars made in monthly earnings and 220 thousand creators across all of Patreon, only about $1 million dollars is made in monthly earnings to the around 13 thousand writers specifically on Patreon. The number one writer on Patreon as of the writing of this article is ranked as the number 230th creator on the entire platform. This says to me that while the platform is well known, not as many people associate using it to support writers. Another wrinkle is that the writing category on Patreon categorizes authors who are being supported while writing full novels, parody article writers, and nonfiction writers like journalists all in one group. But those are minor problems compared to the final issue. Overall there’s little discovery on the platform itself; there isn’t even a search by category beyond the “featured” creators in each.

Well what about Substack? It’s a subscription platform similar to Patreon but with a search engine and built specifically for writers. Unfortunately, even if it is built for writers, the focus seems to be on nonfiction, or newsletters, instead of stories and literature. No fiction writer is anywhere near the top in terms of popularity. Both in terms of subscription and reader traffic. But speaking of subscription statistics, out of those that do read on Substack, only 5–10% actually pay.

So while Substack might be best with better awareness, most people do not look to Substack for places to read or in most cases pay. And while Patreon has more recognition from people, it doesn’t even allow people to look for writing if they wanted to. The question is, where do people want to look for or read fictitious work?

Don’t Forget to Like, Comment, and Subscribe

Before we can look for where to publish, we need to know what are the qualities to look for in a publishing platform? Honestly, in today’s market it has to be a platform with no costs involved. With how few people are willing to spend money to have the opportunity to explore, authors need to choose the platform that promises the most traffic and readers. The best modern model for serial fiction readership and community is fanfiction. Archive of Our Own (AO3) is one of the most popular sites that hosts works that are published by the chapter. It hosts millions of stories and even more readers and views per story. It has been extolled many times in how comprehensive the tagging system is, how well the filter and organization systems work with the search engine. So to find a good platform for discovery would be one that is considered similar in some way to AO3, but built specifically for original fiction. When looking at website capabilities, traffic size, and community culture, there isn’t a good one size fits all solution. Despite Wattpad being another fanfiction archive that can also host original fiction, its discovery capabilities aren’t great. Fictionpress is considered to have a slightly worse search function than AO3, but pretty good overall. Unfortunately it doesn’t have consistent or even large view traffic. Royal Road has a large reader base and good discovery capabilities; however the community is focused specifically on science fiction and fantasy stories. In the end, what should authors do?

The answer is sadly to figure it out themselves. Each hopeful serial author has to decide which platform to dedicate their time to based on their needs and desired audience and probably publish on multiple sites at once. Some authors right now, like the one rebooting Dracula in Dracula Daily, have decided to host their writing on their own blog or website while advertising it on social media platforms. Many publish their work on every website with a reader base they think they can appeal to. It looks like the modern serial authors can’t put their chapters in bookstores and chains that everyone will browse, but put it on as many stalls in the farmer’s market as possible.

The Series Finale of “Serial Publishing”

Overall I would say that traditional, or even official, serialized publication is dead. Or at the very least in the process of a dramatic evolution that only looks like it’s dying. Until said hypothetical evolution is done, there are few secure paths left. The only available avenues are self publishing, posting them for free (either in its entirety or only a portion) on the web to allow for discovery, and incentivizing support. People can do this with promises of more writing, earlier chapter access, or appealing to the samaritan instinct.

In the modern day with the wide availability of free fiction, some people have to be convinced to pay for fiction not because they need to for immediate access, but they should support their favorite authors for long term supply.

#writing #publishing #publishing advice #serial fiction #online publishing #serial writing #writeblr #I love the serial publishing format #but right now #readership or business models need to drastically change

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