Renee Carter Hall's Blog, page 3

My other blog…

Now that it finally has some more content available on it, I wanted to take a moment here to mention my new blog Three From Waynesboro. It’s meant to be something of a digital memoir/scrapbook of what happened back in eighth grade when two friends and I sold a story to Steven Spielberg that became the Tiny Toon Adventures episode “Buster and Babs Go Hawaiian.” (The 25th anniversary of that episode’s airing is coming up this November, so I figured the timing was never going to be better.)

Of course, not everyone who’s following what I’m doing now is going to be interested in what I was doing when I was 13 (and vice versa), so I won’t be crossposting here. If you want to keep up with new posts to 3FW, you can follow by email (using the Follow button in the site’s right sidebar), follow the Twitter notification account, or there’s also an RSS feed if you’re into that.

I’ve been a bit slow at getting posts up there because of being busy with other things, but I’m planning on 2-3 posts a month for April and May, and then about 3-5 a month beginning in June, when my official duties to the Furry Writers’ Guild will be discharged and I’ll have a little more time for personal projects like this. :)

Good company: Three anthologies

I’ve been lax about posting anthology acceptances/publications lately, but I wanted to call attention to three recent ones in particular that have been published within the furry fandom — not just because they feature my work, but also because I love their concepts.

An Anthropomorphic Century features stories from 1909 (“Tobermory” by Saki) to 2008 (my story “The Wishing Tree”), all involving anthro characters. It’s not often you get the chance to share a table of contents with authors like Philip K. Dick and Peter S. Beagle, so it was fun to have my lighthearted trickster-raccoon story added to the range of styles and voices.

Civilized Beasts is, as far as I’m aware, the first all-poetry anthology from furry, and I’m hoping that “2015 Edition” subtitle means more will follow in the series. This charity anthology benefits the Wildlife Conservation Society, and it includes my poems “Pulse,” “Why I am Sometimes Jealous of the Cat,” “Panthera tigris,” “Hermit Crab,” and “Canis,” plus poems from twenty (!) other poets, all celebrating the diversity, beauty, and wisdom of the creatures with whom we share the planet.

The most recent of the three, Cats and More Cats, is… well, just what it says. Cats of all kinds, domestic and wild, starring in stories from a variety of authors. Again, it’s an honor to have my story “The Emerald Mage” included in the same pages as work from Andre Norton, Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, and especially Clare Bell (whose book Ratha’s Creature made a big impression on me when I read it somewhere around age 10 or 11). Mary E. Lowd’s “Magtwilla and the Mouse” is also a poignant read.

So if you’re tired of reading about humans all the time (and really, we are tiresome sometimes, particularly in election years), give these a try. There’s so much variety in each of these anthologies, you’re bound to find something to enjoy.

In honor of the day…

It seems every country has its bizarre nonsensical traditions, but we here in America don’t get to point and laugh, not only because that’s rude, but because we take meteorological reporting from a large rodent hauled out of a hole by some guy in a top hat.

In honor of the utter weirdness of that, here’s a take on what it would be like to be the groundhog in an anthropomorphic world. (If the poem looks familiar, it’s because I posted it here before a few years ago, and it’s also appeared in the now-defunct magazine Allasso, but I figured my newer followers may have missed it, and it’s timely. So here you go.)

 

February 1: Groundhog Goes to the FoodMart

Mrs. Fox, pushing her cart

in her best Sunday dress, string of pearls

at her red throat, reminds him

of the tenderness of spring chickens,

gives him a smile, white and sharp.

The Rabbit family crowds the cereal aisle.

As he chooses a plain cylinder of oatmeal,

Mother Rabbit says hello, steers the small talk

toward the petunias she’s planning

to brighten up the burrow,

the rows of cabbages and carrots

Father’s mapping out for the field.

The kits tug on Groundhog’s overalls, eyes bright,

whispering to him, one more snow,

one more afternoon of sledding, one more fort,

one more snowbunny with mittens for ears.

Sleepy-eyed Bear shuffles in, only nods

when anyone speaks, gets in line

with a quart of milk and a canned ham.

His bleary gaze meets Groundhog’s,

and he adds a can of coffee, economy size.

Groundhog waits in line, stares at the tabloids

while the chattering squirrel cracks gum

and rings up the shoppers ahead.

He feels their eyes on him, all watching as if

he could melt the gray slush outside with a glance,

could give them warmth and new life on a whim.

Even in this harsh fluorescent light,

he will not look at his feet.

 

Guest post: “Setting Effective Writing Goals” by Renee Carter Hall

For any writers among my blog readers, here’s another guest blog post written for the Furry Writers’ Guild, appropriate for a new year…

Furry Writers' Guild

Setting Effective Writing Goals

by Renee Carter Hall

For many of us, a new year brings a feeling of a fresh start — a blank slate ready for new habits, new goals, and new accomplishments to celebrate. But after the novelty wears off and all the responsibilities, obligations, and distractions of day-to-day life rush back in, it’s easy for writing to get pushed back to the bottom of the to-do list. Here are a few tips to help you set goals that won’t set you up for disappointment.

1. Consider what you really want. That may sound obvious, but it’s easy to accept other people’s ideas of goals instead of your own. Do you want to write the first draft of a novel to challenge yourself, or because everyone else in your writing group is working on a novel instead of short stories? Consider, also, whether you want to set…

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I have decided.

This is my theme song for 2016.

(No, I don’t know why either. It just is. Maybe we’ll find out.)

 

The closing of the year

Yep, time for the usual end-of-the-year wrap-up post. This will probably be long, so fair warning…

All in all, not a bad year, if not as great as I was hoping for. Our financial picture improved after the bankruptcy was finalized in January, which was definitely not a fun process but one that removed a huge amount of stress for both of us. Our faithful 2005 Subaru Impreza brought my husband home from work one last time in May, after 381,000 miles, and was replaced with a 2015 Subaru Impreza. I had to get used to new work schedules both for him and myself that felt like they cut my free time dramatically (even though that was mostly an illusion), and for the first time carved out both a writing space and a writing time. I’ve gotten out of my usual habits through the holidays thanks to a pinched nerve that’s been hassling me since just after Thanksgiving, but I’m looking forward to getting back into a routine in 2016.

The biggest event of 2015 for me was, of course, RainFurrest, something I’d been planning for since the previous October. It’s kind of amusing to look back now through my 2015 planner and see all the lists I had going at various times, what to get, what to pack, what needed to be done before we left. It was an adventure, in all senses of the word, implying excitement, pleasure, anxiety, discomfort, and growth. Sometimes I do wish I could go back and get a do-over — prepare a little bit better for the panels, maybe, since I felt somewhat out of my element in many of them, or schedule a day before or after to see a bit of the city.

I admit that for too much of the con I felt kind of off-kilter — there were places I had to be when I would have rather been alone, and times I was alone when I would have rather been with people, and everything went by too fast and there were usually too many people around at once and I didn’t have as much time to chat one-on-one (or in small groups) as I would have liked. But I did have some good conversations and met a lot of great people and put a lot of faces to online usernames, so it wasn’t all rushing around, thankfully. The concert by Amadhia and friends at the guest of honor dinner was a highlight, and through the whole con, all the staff we encountered did a great job keeping everything together and making the experience as pleasant as possible for the GoHs and the attendees.

I feel a little sad at the thought that I apparently was a guest of honor at the last RF to be held in Seattle, now that the con has moved to Spokane, and I’m still angry both at the (relatively) few troublemakers who ruined the con’s relationship with the hotel/city and at the ways the fandom’s demographics/culture seem to have changed over the years, to the point where congoers seem more interested in partying than anything else and completely uninterested in how their behavior impacts others. (And even though I know the questions were from well-meaning people, I admit I got tired of hearing, after I got back, “So you were at RF? Was it as bad as everybody said?” Um, no, not from where I was. For me it was — as I expect it was for most of the attendees — a normal con, not a riot or an orgy or anything else people might have been imagining based on what went by on social media. Then again, keep in mind that I go to bed early by con standards, so maybe I just missed all the fun…)

On a personal level, I was looking for the experience of RF to answer some questions for me about how involved I want to be with furry going forward, and what my priorities are, and so forth, but in the end I was left with more questions than answers, and I think this next year is going to be spent sorting those things out.

I did at least learn that the dealer’s room isn’t the place for me — while I don’t mind signing books or doing readings, I don’t like handselling from behind a table, and I felt uncomfortable the whole time I was there but guilty whenever I had to be away. Still, I would never have learned that if I hadn’t tried. (Another part of what made the experience awkward was that, of the three boxes of books I shipped ahead to sell at the dealer’s table, only one showed up — the others apparently having been stolen after they were delivered — so I only had a handful of the stock I’d expected to have. But at least I sold what did show up.) At any rate, though, I’m also glad I had the table because it gave Jess E. Owen a place to sell her awesome books, and she does like handselling. :D

And I was also reminded that I hate the hassle and general degradation of flying… and yet ever since the trip I’ve felt restless and longing to go somewhere again. (Any furcons within driving distance want a writing GoH? Just asking…)

Looking back on the year from a creative perspective, I’m actually surprised that I don’t feel more disappointed. I had originally planned on a novel that didn’t get finished in time for RF (and is badly in need of a detailed outline before I start work on it again), and while that bothered me at the time, it doesn’t now. (2016 is going to be the year I avoid deadlines like the plague. I have one prior commitment with a deadline, and as far as I’m concerned, everything else is just going to take as long as it takes. Write first, sell later, and trust that doors will open when ready.)

It was definitely a reprint year for me, both ones I sent out and ones that were solicited, and I didn’t finish as many new stories as I expected, but what I did write, I was proud of. “The Lady’s Service” in A Menagerie of Heroes allowed me to finally write the “missing chapter” of By Sword and Star that I’d always wanted to go back to — the story of the rabbit Breckon’s training with the squirrel-clan of the Drays — and now that it’s complete, I feel a nice sense of closure with the world of Asteria. And even though it sometimes felt like I was writing them at a breakneck pace, I also enjoyed writing the new stories in Huntress, especially “Where the Rivers Meet.” Those mornings spent at my writing desk, writing “Rivers” in my desk journal with my Waterman Rhapsody fountain pen, with the Ultima Thule podcast playing in my headphones, are some of my favorite writing-related memories from this past year.

Another favorite memory, of course, is from the Cóyotl Awards ceremony at RF, where “Huntress” won Best Novella for 2014. (My first award ceremony, and first — possibly nonsensical — acceptance speech. Seriously, I’m not entirely sure what I said. I suppose I should have prepared something, but that felt presumptuous, and then it would have sounded like prepared remarks, and… gah, see why these things are stressful for me?) I was hoping, of course, that it might win, because I still think it’s the best long-form fiction I’ve written to date, and it’s always nice to have something recognized when you wrote it without thought of impressing other people and just wrote whatever the heck you really wanted to write — but it was also against some strong competition, so I was never allowing myself to feel sure until the announcement. (It’s still so cool that the Cóyotl statuettes are little stuffed animals. That utterly delights me.) Though it wasn’t my first Cóyotl, it was the first I was actually there in person to accept, and felt the least like a fluke or a result of low voter participation — whether or not that’s true. :)

So despite not writing all that much this year, compared to others (other years and other writers, that is), I’m still left surprisingly satisfied, with two books on the shelf that weren’t there before — Huntress and the print version of Wishing Season — and several anthologies reprinting my stories and poems. On the marketing side, I started up my mailing list this year and finally took a new author photo, both of which please me. As for the stuff that didn’t get done… well, something else I started doing this year was reading the blog The Fluent Self, and along the way, some of Havi’s phrases have become part of my personal mental vocabulary. In other words — All Timing is Right Timing.

Which brings me, more or less, to 2016. It’s been harder than expected figuring out my goals for the year, mainly because some of them wind up being frankly contradictory. I want to focus more on novellas and novels, to get more experience with longer fiction. And yet I’m also still determined to earn SFWA membership, and the easiest route for me to do that is through short story publications. I want to spend less time envying others’ successes or feeling frustrated by things that don’t work out for me, which in my experience tends to involve unplugging more from social media — the idea of a retreat, whether at home or elsewhere, or just as a mindset, is very appealing to me right now — and yet I also want to build more community for myself, especially outside of furry and in the larger science fiction/fantasy writing community, mainly online through Codex, where I haven’t been participating nearly as much as I’d like to be. So figuring out where these goals intersect, or which ones take priority, is something of a challenge I’ll be working through in the coming months, I expect. (And I’m still president of the FWG until June, so that commitment needs to be factored in as well. Plus, y’know, full-time day job.)

At any rate, the novel that didn’t get finished in 2015 is a top priority for 2016, and November 2016 will mark a certain 25th anniversary that I’d like to commemorate. I’m also planning to overhaul my website so it’s mobile-friendly, probably by transferring things here to WordPress, but I’m still deciding on all the ins and outs of that. If just those things have all been completed by this time next year, I’ll be more than happy with the accomplishment.

Oh — and yeah, I’d like to post more here too. XD

See you next year…

 

Win a Wishing Season prize pack!

My holiday short story collection Wishing Season, released as an ebook last year, is now available in paperback from Amazon — and to celebrate, I’m having a giveaway. I love settling in on a winter evening with a cup of hot chocolate and a good book, so the winner will receive:

A signed paperback copy of Wishing Season
A 16 oz. holiday stoneware mug
Three packets of specialty hot cocoa mix

Wishing Season features seven of my holiday-themed short stories, including “The First Winter,” which recently appeared as part of this special bear-themed episode of Podcastle. Wishing Season is also the only place to read my story “Santa’s Summer Vacation” — it was written just for this collection.

To enter:

You must be signed up for my mailing list (sign up here if you’re not already subscribed).
Send an email to reneecarterhall at gmail.com with the subject line “Wishing Season giveaway.”

The fine print: Open to US residents only. Only current mailing list subscribers are eligible to win. Giveaway ends at 8 AM Eastern on Monday, December 21. Winner will be notified by email.

Good luck!

 

Two Halloween treats…

Just in time for Halloween, my funny/sweet ghost story “The Spirit of Pinetop Inn” is now up at Podcastle, as part of a ghost-themed episode with stories from two other authors:

http://podcastle.org/2015/10/20/podcastle-386-flash-fiction-extravaganza-ghostly-interludes/

You can listen to or download the podcast there, and of course they’re also on iTunes.

I was hoping to have something new to share here for Halloween, but since RainFurrest I’ve been busy with work, life, the FWG, and trying to get Wishing Season prepped to launch a print edition before Black Friday. So instead, here’s something many of my non-furry readers probably haven’t encountered yet: my short story “Hellhound,” which first appeared in the Rabbit Valley anthology Trick or Treat.

Rating this PG for mature themes but no explicit content.

 

Hellhound
by Renee Carter Hall

 

The cage was small, but being confined was nothing new for him.

The dog in pen #4 at the Braddock County Animal Shelter couldn’t remember why or under what circumstances he’d been caged before, only that the sense of restriction, of obedient waiting, was intensely familiar. With it came the sense—the certainty—that sooner or later, someone would come for him, and things would be all right.

He ached all over. There was food and water in metal bowls, but he didn’t want it. Mostly he slept, head on paws, dreaming of things he forgot the moment he woke.

The people here were not the same kind of people he was used to seeing, that was certain. These people were pale and fat, and their faces were open and trusting. If he hadn’t been able to imagine them twisted in agony, eyes dark with pain and suspicion, ribs casting shadows on sunken bellies, he would not have thought that these were people at all.

He knew that he, too, had changed somehow. His body felt softer, weaker than it had before. Somewhere—he was certain of it—he had been muscle and sinew and fangs, not the silly, tongue-lolling creature he seemed to be now.

He didn’t understand why this change had happened. But this was not where he belonged.

“Hey, Troy,” the voice came. “See if the one in four’s eaten anything.”

A moment later, footsteps scuffed on the concrete as the man came to his cage. Calling him a man was being too generous, though. He had a man’s height but a boy’s face, especially in the eyes.

He looked weak.

“Hasn’t touched it,” Troy reported back, sounding bored. That was wrong, too. There should have been fear in his voice, or at least despair—not this casual indifference.

 My master would snap you in two, he thought suddenly, and the thought confused him even more.

 Master…

Yes, he had one, but it felt so long ago and even more distant than the scattered fragments of his dreams. Even so, longing rose in him. He wanted to claw at the bars, at the floor, at the air, bite and scrape and dig, to get out, to get back to him.

 Master, he thought dully, staring at nothing, why won’t you come?

 

*   *   *

 

“I’m looking for something big,” Laura said as the teenager led her down the shelter’s row of cages. It sounded like a stupid thing to say, like one of those people who turned pets into status symbols or accessories, as if she might also choose its color to complement her living room.

But as silly as it sounded, it was what she wanted. Right now she needed all the confidence she could get, and as cute as the little terriers and toys were, she wanted something at the end of the leash with more of a solid don’t-mess-with-me attitude.

 And maybe then, she thought, I can learn more of that myself. She was tired of seeing fear in the mirror, tired of catching that scared-rabbit look in her eyes.

Still, she reminded herself, she’d had good reason to look that way. The fear in her life had a body and a name, a name she’d carried as part of her own until the papers finally came through two weeks ago. She’d told herself she wouldn’t live in fear, not anymore, but it still hung about her, clinging. She’d always wanted a dog, but he’d never liked animals—and really, that should have been her first clue—but now, as new and terrifying and wonderful as it was, she was doing something she wanted at last.

She hated places like this. It was clean enough, but nothing could hide the musty smell of concrete wet with disinfectant, or the scent of too many dogs in one large, tunnel-like room. And although she decided it was melodramatic to think that the place smelled, as well, of hopelessness and a kind of mute despair, she couldn’t deny that it felt true.

She passed a grey-muzzled golden retriever that made her heart ache; an animal that age would probably never make it out. The next cage held a gangly puppy with a good bit of border collie in its lineage, followed by a red hound whose deep, tolling bark thrummed in her chest. She paused before that last one—it looked solid but not overly threatening—then decided to survey all the cages before she looked at any of them more closely.

She saw him in the last cage.

He had been lying with his chin on his paws, staring at nothing, and when she passed, his eyes flicked to hers. Only an instant, but enough.

Such unusual eyes…

It wasn’t their size or color—he had the same soulful brown eyes as any other dog in the shelter—but a quality she couldn’t quite define. Intelligence, but more emotional. Longing, but not melancholy. He was waiting. Maybe he was waiting for her.

“Could I see this one?” she asked.

The teenager winced. “Um… Well, you can, but that one’s been here three days and won’t eat. We were gonna take him over to the vet this afternoon. We’ve got a lab mix you might like…”

Before, she would have politely gone to look at the lab. This time, she stopped, as her therapist had taught her, and asked herself what she truly wanted to do. “I’d really like to see this one.”

He looked at the dog, then back at her, shrugged slightly, and unlocked the cage.

The dog looked like he’d been put together by someone with only a vague patchwork idea of what a dog should be. He was tall and lean and almost gangly, big but not thick. His scruffy coat was mostly black with splatters of white, and the fur stuck up in odd places. One ear pricked up; the other flopped down. His long tail was feathered, though the rest of his coat was medium length at best. He left the cage cautiously, not edging out or cringing—he wasn’t afraid of her—but as if he were checking her out, testing her presence as much as she was testing his.

He sniffed her hand and let her pet him. She scratched behind his ears, and his tail swept in a slow arc, then faster, and his mouth came open in a dog’s smile. The air relaxed between them, and Laura smiled back.

“This one.”

*   *   *

 

She named him Chance. They went for long walks in the crisp autumn air, and he learned to chase squirrels and romp through piles of leaves, both because it felt good and because it made her laugh. This kind of laughter, with no darkness behind it, was new to him, and he reveled in it as much as in the leaves and the chase. He learned the sweetness of belly rubs and the glory of bacon, and in time, even his dreams of his old life faded. Something deep within him that had been clenched forever now relaxed. He was Chance, and he was Laura’s dog, and that was enough.

He loved the park. It was a whole blissful cacophony of scent all laid out just for him, and she never hurried him, no matter how long it took to investigate a certain tree or bench or patch of grass. This time he had his nose deep beneath some leaves—someone had dropped a hot dog here not long ago, though he wasn’t sure any of it was still there—when he felt the leash tighten. He looked up.

Laura had gone suddenly tense, like when he saw a squirrel, only this was like wanting to run instead of wanting to chase. Her lips had tightened into a thin line, and he felt her shaking.

She closed her eyes a moment, breathed in, breathed out. “It’s not him,” she said, though Chance wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or just to herself. “It’s not him. It’s just somebody that looked like him for a second. That’s all.”

She jerked on the leash, and they went to a nearby bench so she could sit down. He leaned against her and whined softly. The sour scent of her fear was sending wisps of memory back into his mind—a stench of rotting meat, a sharp tang beneath the heat of fire—and he tried to push them away.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?”

A jogger had stopped in front of them. Laura looked up. “Oh—I’m fine. Thank you. Just a little lightheaded for a second.”

“Are you sure? You’re pretty pale—”

“I’m fine,” she repeated firmly.

Chance tensed and stood, placing himself between her and the stranger. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but whatever it was, this man was making it worse, so he needed to go away. He growled softly.

The jogger backed off. “Okay. No problem.”

They sat there a minute after he’d left. Then Laura got up, knelt down on the ground, and hugged him. “Good boy.” She took a long, shaky breath, stood up, and smiled. The leash was loose again, and he relaxed too. “Come on, Chance. Let’s go home.”

 

*   *   *

 

Home was a townhouse in a quiet neighborhood, front lawns strewn with bicycles and toys, cars parked along the street. There were two bedrooms upstairs, though the second one was mostly empty except for a few boxes she hadn’t unpacked yet. The front and back doors each had three locks, and Laura checked them all twice every night.

Tonight, she checked them three times, and laughed when she saw Chance watching her. “I know, I know. I’m getting paranoid.”

Chance wasn’t sure what the word meant, but he felt the same restlessness she did. Something in the house felt wrong—not dangerous, necessarily, just off somehow. It was like a window had been left open and a cold draft was blowing inside. Laura went upstairs to bed, but the odd feeling was strongest downstairs, so Chance stayed. He followed it to the kitchen and sniffed around the cabinets, searching.

“Sweet puppy,” a mocking voice said from behind him, a voice like shards of glass ground under stone. “Good doggie.”

Chance turned, lips back in a snarl. The imp crouched on the kitchen counter like a gargoyle, its lidless eyes gleaming, its long claws curled around the edge of the formica.

“The Master sent me with a message,” the imp said. “He sent me to tell you he doesn’t want you back, not ever. He sent me to tell you that you are worth less to him than the worms in your gut.” The imp grinned, showing off a mouthful of yellow needle-thin teeth.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but it does. It’s no small thing to please the Master. And no small thing to displease him.”

The imp leapt from the counter and scuttled over to him, pushing its rotten-apple face into Chance’s. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“I remember enough.”

The imp keened a high, harsh, gleeful laugh. “You don’t! You don’t remember! You think you can be this sack of fur and flesh. You think you can stay here.” It chortled again, then lifted Chance’s floppy ear with a claw and brought its mouth close.

The word the imp whispered was almost more of a sensation than a sound. It crept into Chance like a shadow falling slowly over him, and the memories that came with the incantation stole into his mind like a slow-seeping venom.

He remembered, at last, what he was. He remembered the fang and sinew that built his true, twisted form. He remembered fire, remembered the sweetness of pain and the intoxication of power.

“You always were stupid,” the imp said. “I don’t know why the Master kept you so long.”

“I tore flesh,” Chance said dully. “I cracked bones between my teeth. I drank blood and salt tears. And I…” The realization twisted his throat, his stomach, his heart. “I enjoyed it.”

“All true!” The imp grinned. “All true—until now.”

“I can’t go back.”

“Not now. Not ever.”

Chance shook himself. “I don’t want to, anyway. I’d rather stay here. It’s…” He couldn’t find the right words to describe it. “Go away,” he said at last. “You’ve given me the message, now go away!” He snarled and lunged at the imp, who leapt back up to the counter.

“Very good,” the imp said. “Very, very good. You do remember now. And you can’t forget again, you know. No matter how much you try to be this meat-thing’s silly pet. One day you’ll do what you’re meant to do. You’ll tear her flesh and crack her bones and drink her blood. Oh, yes, you will. It’s what the Master made you to do, and you will.”

The imp crawled down into the shadows, its body darkening, dissolving into murk, then nothingness. Chance sniffed the spot and pawed at it as if to dig, but even the imp’s scent was gone.

A soft rustling came from the living room. Chance jerked to attention and ran to check it out, but it was only Laura, sitting in the chair by the window. The room was dark, and the light from the streetlamp edged her cheek in blue. As quietly as he could, Chance went in and lay down by her feet.

“Can’t sleep, huh? Me neither.” She sighed softly. “I still keep looking out there, looking for him. Afraid I might see him.”

She leaned forward and scratched lightly behind his ears. His tail swept over the floor in a hushed rhythm.

“I miss him,” she said finally. “God, how stupid is that? Everything he did—every horrible, cruel thing he did—and I miss him.”

It was a feeling like being lost, he knew. Not knowing where you were or even where you were supposed to be. Anything familiar would be comforting, even if it were cruel.

“I miss who I thought he was, I guess.”

The chair was small, but Chance managed to clamber up into it, draping himself awkwardly over her lap.

She laughed shakily. “You’re not exactly a lap dog, you know.” But she didn’t tell him to get down, and she sat with her arms around him until she fell asleep.

Chance stayed awake, watching out the window just in case. He didn’t know if the man she talked about could appear out of shadows—he thought only imps could do that—but he watched anyway. He thought about what the imp had said. He thought about how good it felt when Laura scratched behind his ears, how it seemed to make both of them feel better to be together. He hadn’t known that sharing fear with someone else could ease it. He supposed that was why the Master had so often kept people alone.

 

*   *   *

 

As the days passed, he tried to forget what the imp had said. He was a dog now, Laura’s dog, and he would never hurt her, could never hurt her. And that was that—until the night of the storm.

The wind came first, rattling the last leaves on the trees. Chance felt the strangeness in the air. Something was coming, but he had no idea what. Then came a blue-white spike of light and a sound like the sky tearing open. Like the Master’s work. Chance yelped and ran.

He barely fit underneath the bed. In the back of his mind, he remembered Laura. She’d been cooking dinner in the kitchen—and he’d left her. What if the Master were there now and he’d left her all alone? Then the thunder crashed again, and all thought was gone.

“Poor Chance.” Laura’s voice from the bedroom. “It’s okay, silly boy. It’s just a storm.”

She reached a hand toward him. The thunder cracked again, and Chance struck out blind, terrified. The sound, the feeling of it in his chest—the way it felt like the word the imp had spoken—and his teeth snapped, then sank into flesh.

Laura jerked away, her breath hissing in, and then cursed softly through her teeth.

 No. No, no, no.

Chance heard a low whine and realized it came from him. And then he heard the imp’s voice again. He couldn’t tell if it came from the shadows under the bed or from his own mind, but just like the thunder, just like the memories, he could not block it out.

 You’ll taste her blood.

Metallic on his tongue, and yet almost sweet—

 You’ll crack her bones.

He was strong enough to do it; he knew he was—

 You’ll tear her flesh.

No. He wouldn’t hurt her.

 Just did.

Not again. Not ever.

 You belong to the Master. Always. He does not give up what is his.

He belonged to Laura.

 Just wait. You’ll do his bidding again.

Never.

 If he wants a meat-thing, you’ll give it to him. Just wait. Wait until the night when the space between worlds is thin. Then you’ll see.

The voice grew fainter, tickling like a fly in his mind.

 You’ll see.

Chance retreated further under the bed, up against the wall, shivering until his teeth rattled. The storm above him passed, but the one inside him raged all night.

 

*   *   *

 

Laura poured candy into one big bowl and popcorn into another. The candy went on a little table by the front door; the popcorn she brought over to the couch. Usually she “dropped” a few pieces or even tossed a couple for Chance to catch, but tonight she bounced two off his nose without any reaction. His attention was outside: the door, the wind, the coming twilight. The streetlights hadn’t come on yet, but he could feel shadows growing just the same.

“You’re edgy tonight. Hope there’s not a storm coming. I always hated it when it rained on Halloween, and then you were all dressed up and had to carry a stupid umbrella around.”

He remembered the night of the other storm. When he’d finally emerged from under the bed, cringing, ears low, waiting for anger, waiting for pain, she’d just hugged him and rumpled his ears. “It’s okay, boy. You were just scared.”

Her forgiveness, so simple and sweet, had warmed him like sunlight. She was right. He’d been scared, and it was an accident. Nothing more.

But now the clouds were gathering again, and something else came with them.

The night when the space between worlds is thin…

This was it. He could feel the boundaries thinning, softening, like cobwebs to be pulled aside. Something from his old world was taking advantage of that, pushing into the new, and he had to be ready for whatever it was. He ate the popcorn because he didn’t want to worry Laura, didn’t want her picking up on his fear. She felt safe, and he wanted her to stay that way.

The doorbell rang, and she handed out candy. Chance went with her every time, hanging back a bit, but still alert. Some of the children’s costumes reminded him of the imp, but he sensed no darkness among them. Laura had tied an orange bandanna around his neck, patterned with jack-o’-lanterns and candy corn, and some of the kids wanted to pet him. He let them, and smiled so they weren’t afraid. Still, he watched, and waited.

The batches of trick-or-treaters thinned out. Laura turned on a black-and-white Dracula movie and settled down on the couch.

The doorbell rang again. Chance jerked awake, not knowing he’d been asleep. Laura was already off the couch, taking the last pieces of candy out of the bowl. Chance rushed to the door.

She gave miniature Snickers to the neighbor’s two girls—one a princess, the other dressed in surgical scrubs—and said hi to their older sister, who was taking them around.

When the girls left the front step, he was there.

Laura’s voice was tight, though it didn’t waver. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Just wanted to talk.”

That wasn’t true, and Chance knew it. Laura couldn’t see it; maybe no one else could. But Chance saw the shadows pooled at the man’s feet, saw the tendrils of darkness twining around him like black vines. This was not just the man Laura had known. It was the Master, using this man’s shape to hurt them both.

Chance growled.

“Oh, hey, you got a dog. Hi, puppy.”

Laura tried to close the door, but he was stronger, and then he was inside. Fear rolled off Laura like smoke, and Chase snarled, showing his teeth. Thanks to the imp’s word, he knew what he was. He could crack bones; he could tear flesh. And he would, to keep her safe.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I’ll do whatever I damn well please.”

A glint of metal at the man’s hand. The blade of a knife.

Chance lunged.

At first the man tried to shake him off. For a moment, he did, but Chance leapt again, clamping his jaws tight on whatever he could reach. He heard a frantic thumping behind him—Laura running upstairs.

“Stupid mutt.” But below the man’s voice was the dark whisper of the Master’s.

A slicing pain at Chance’s belly almost made him let go. With the flash of pain, the anger in him became rage, blossoming like a dark flower inside him. Chance felt his old strength again, his own power roaring in his blood. The man was working under the Master’s bidding, but his form and strength were still human. A lunge at the throat was all it would take. This man had hurt Laura, after all, and now he would be hurt. He would know agony like nothing a pale, soft human could imagine.

The space between worlds was gone now. He was no silly dog, no animal, no pet. He was a hound of hell, the Master’s own, and he would drink this man’s blood and crack red marrow from his bones.

His fangs touched the man’s throat.

“Chance!”

Just a strangled cry from the top of the stairs. Just a voice he had known once, long ago, from the days of bacon and belly rubs and walks in the park. It should have meant nothing, but it shuddered through his body like thunder.

He remembered the imp’s words.

 If he wants a meat-thing, you’ll give it to him.

Just as he was about to, now.

Just as his Master wanted.

And just as the imp’s word had unlocked his memories of what he was, now hearing his name from Laura spooled out a new memory. He had been exiled; he knew that. But he had not remembered, until now, what he had been exiled for. It had been only a moment’s hesitation between one of the Master’s commands and his execution of it, but that had been enough. In that moment, he had looked into his victim’s eyes, and something had happened. The Master had had to give his command twice, and that was fire and fury and the end of it all. Because even a moment of mercy was too much. Even a moment of it was dangerous.

The memory burned through him. He knew, now, what he was, and what he could be. He knew, now, he could choose. And he chose to be Laura’s dog, and nothing else. He chose mercy, even for this man who had hurt her. And as he did, he felt the fang and sinew fall away, leaving only the scruffy coat, the floppy ear.

Chance loosened his jaw, and felt the knife go deep.

Blue lights flashed at the edges of his vision. The man was gone. The shadows were gone. Laura was saying something, but she was too far away to hear. She was safe, though, so that was enough. Then a red wave washed over everything, and he knew nothing more.

 

*   *   *

 

He woke to white. A cage. Two bowls. Strange smells. And then a face he knew.

“Hey, buddy.” Laura, smiling. “Ready to go home?”

His belly hurt. He didn’t know why. They’d put a stupid thing around his neck so he couldn’t turn his head, and he turned around and around trying to tear it off, and that frustrated him to the point of growling, and Laura laughed. But that was okay. She was here, and there was the car, and they were going home. Maybe there would be bacon when they got there. Bacon was for good dogs. And though there was a lot he couldn’t remember, he knew what was important. His name was Chance. He was Laura’s dog. And he was a good dog.

 

 

(c) 2013 Renee Carter Hall. May not be reprinted, reposted, or redistributed without the author’s written permission. If you’d like to share this story, please share a link to this post.

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Huntress giveaways – two chances to win!

If you haven’t gotten your copy of Huntress yet, I’m doing two giveaways of signed paperbacks!

The first giveaway is being done through Goodreads, so you’ll need to be signed up for a free account there to enter:

https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/157770

It’s open until Sunday, October 25.

The second giveaway will be held on Friday, October 30. All you have to do to enter that one is be subscribed to my mailing list. All subscribers as of 6 PM Eastern time Friday, October 30 will be automatically entered, and a winner will be selected at random.

If you’re not already signed up for my mailing list, you can sign up here:

http://eepurl.com/bo9GQX

(Fine print: The Goodreads giveaway is open to residents of the US and Canada. The mailing list giveaway is open to everybody. If whoever wins the mailing list giveaway doesn’t want the prize for whatever reason, I’ll choose a new winner at random. For the Goodreads giveaway, you’re not required to write a review of the book if you win, but they do strongly encourage it. For the mailing list giveaway… well, reviews are always appreciated, but again, no obligation.)

Good luck!

Huntress news and Rainfurrest schedule

First off, Huntress is now available for pre-order in all formats — ebook and print! The ebook will be released on September 20, and the print version is scheduled for release at Rainfurrest, with online orders to ship October 16. You can find all the ordering links and more here at my website. (Remember, the ebook’s pre-order price of $2.99 will go up after it’s officially released, so pre-order now for the best price!)

Second — Rainfurrest is now just 9 days away! I’ll be attending as the Writer Guest of Honor this year, which is awesome but means a pretty full schedule. If you’re headed to the convention, read on to see where I’ll be.

Here are the panels and events I’ll definitely be attending (subject to schedule changes, of course — you can always see the official online schedule here):

Thursday, September 24

6 PM – 7 PM – Opening Ceremonies

8 PM – 9 PM – Writing Competition (as writer GoH, I’m one of the judges this year)

9 PM – 10 PM – Furry Writers’ Guild Meet and Greet (I’d better be there, since I’m president and all)

10 PM – 11 PM – Cóyotl Awards ceremony

(Since “Huntress” is nominated for Best Novella at the Cóyotl Awards, I may be at the hotel bar after the ceremony, either celebrating or drowning my sorrows. We’ll see.)

Friday, September 25

9 AM – 10 AM – One Destination, Many Paths: Traditional and Self-Publishing

11 AM – 12 PM – I Cast Thee Out! Dealing with Rejection and Critique

1 PM – 2 PM – Everyone Needs a Thief and a Cleric: Tropes and Cliches in Fantasy

2 PM – 3 PM – Writing Competition

4 PM – 5 PM – Guest of Honor Reading and Q&A (Come hear me read stuff! I’m not sure what yet!)

6 PM – 8 PM – Guest of Honor Dinner and Concert

Saturday, September 26

11 AM – 1 PM – Flash Fiction Competition (Come watch me write a story from audience suggestions! In, like an hour or something! It’ll be fun! I hope!)

5 PM – 6 PM – Writing Competition

8 PM – 10 PM – Rainfurrest Anthology Book Launch (includes the launch for A Menagerie of Heroes, with my story “The Lady’s Service,” set in the world of By Sword and Star)

Sunday, September 27

4 PM – 5 PM – The Beastiarium: Writing Fantastical Creature Anatomy

5:30 PM – 6:30  PM – Closing Ceremonies

I’ll also have a table in the Dealers Den (#17), where I’ll have some copies of By Sword and Star and a few other books for sale. I’ll try to be at the table as much as I can, though it’s looking like Thursday and Sunday might be the best days to catch up with me there. (And I’m also planning to be at the ice cream social on Sunday afternoon, because hey, ice cream.)

Hope to see you there!