The Be-muse-d world is licensed CC-By-SA by Jared Spurbeck, aka Tachyon Feathertail. Read on to find out how you can write your own stories set in this world!

Stories set in this world

How to write a story set in this world

1. Read this document all the way through.
2. Write your own story inspired by it!
3. Include a note saying your story is licensed CC-By-SA, and crediting Feathertail for creating the Be-muse-d world. A link to this page would be handy!
4. OPTIONAL: If you don’t want people to use your fursona in their stories, include another note saying your fursona belongs to you and can’t be used without your permission.
5. OPTIONAL: If your story abides by Virmir’s PG Rating and does not contain age-regression, cross-gender TF, or graphic TF scenes, contact me so I can link people to it.

Got a story you’d like me to link to?

Your muse and you

Some people call it a muse. Others call it their creative side. Whatever it is, it’s a hidden depth to the character of creative artists and writers … those strange, often socially awkward creatures, who seem so ungainly on land but are in their element when they’re creating things. Has anyone who knows you “IRL” ever mentioned that you seem different online? Maybe it’s because you’re better able to channel your muse on the Internet!

Even to you, though, your muse may seem separate from your “real self.” Sometimes you may even argue with it. It’s not really a separate being, but since it’s rooted in your subconscious it might seem that way. That’s because this part of you processes the things that you see and hear without your realizing it, and turns them into creative ideas that seem to come out of nowhere. It’s the reason why writers are often surprised by their muses, and why their characters seem to think for themselves.

That’s not to say that there’s no spiritual component to inspiration. I personally pray for guidance before writing anything, and I like to think that it’s helped. This story concept is about personifying your subconscious mind, though, not about talking to or channeling real supernatural beings. (That’s for a different story.)

Different author, different muse

Everyone’s muse is different. Yours may be your fursona, or it may be a separate being. See, your fursona can be whatever you like; your ideal self, your “inner self,” or just a roleplaying character. Your muse, on the other hand, is your subconscious mind. It’s you when you’re in a state of creative flow.

Writers aren’t the only people who have muses. Digital painters, clay sculptors, fursuit makers and programmers all have their own, as do other creatives. Do you ever find that you lose track of time, and some creative thing you’re working on just comes easily to you? Even if only for a few minutes. That’s when your muse is being channeled. That’s when you are your muse.

Not everyone’s “muse” is an anthropomorphic animal. People who aren’t into that kind of thing might see their muses as eccentric-but-human friends, or even as actual muses from classical Greek mythology. If you’re the kind who’s inexplicably drawn to pictures and stories about “funny animals,” though, you’ll probably see your muse as one. And it’ll probably fit right in with your other characters.

Creative block: Enemy or friend?

You’d think writer’s block (and other forms of creative blockage) would be a muse’s worst enemy. In reality, though, it’s a message from your muse. You’re trying to create something that it doesn’t like, and it’s not going to cooperate. You can try scattershot brainstorming, writing any old thing that comes to mind and seeing what happens; you may have to, if you’re on a deadline. But if you want to get rid of the block, you need to get back in touch with your muse.

Question the premises you started with. Question your motives, even. Are you doing this project because you enjoy it, or because you want money or fame? You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to your muse. And even if you enjoy the process, you may have gotten hung up on your own expectations, or tried to shoehorn something in when it shouldn’t be there. Spend some time pacing, or knitting, or doing whatever repetitive activity you have that helps you think. That way your conscious mind can be occupied, while your muse gets to work on the problem.

This advice is probably nothing new to you. If you’re writing a story about becoming your muse, though, writer’s block is one of the biggest things that might keep this becoming from happening. Throw in some added pressure, like readers’ expectations or an empty bank account, and watch what happens. If you’re lucky, you may gain an insight into the reasons why you create to begin with.

And now for the fun part

Stories set in this world (or based on this premise, really) aren’t just about introspection. They’re also a chance to throw all of your characters from every story you’ve written together, and see what happens.

Even characters who wouldn’t usually talk to each other can, for this. The rebels can play foosball with the emperor. Your most annoyingly happy character can try to cheer up your inner angst! You can make up characters for this if you like, or if you’re writing about a fictional writer. But since you’re creating them out of nowhere, they’ll tend towards being stereotypes. It’s best if you use characters that you’ve already written for, assuming that you have permission to do so. They might even take the chance to say or do things that they otherwise couldn’t.

The part where you overcome your creative block doesn’t have to involve a Fantasia-style musical sequence, like it did in the story that I wrote for Traxer. It could be anything you want it to be, from a scene where you live out the story (or picture) yourself to just a scene of your fursona-muse, quietly, happily writing. Likewise, it doesn’t have to be at the climax of your story that this happens. You might have no trouble becoming your muse, and the conflict could come from some other source.

Your turn

If you write a story that meets Become Your Fursona standards for family-friendliness, and decide to set it in this world, let us know by using the form near the top! And if you have any questions, feel free to leave them as comments.

The clock over the fireplace ticked, nearly drowning out the TV in the corner.

tick-tick-tick-tick-TOCK-tick-TOCK …

The female newscaster was standing in front of a bookstore. “But it’s now been two months since he’s sequestered himself away in that cabin, and there’s still no word from him or his publisher.“

TOCK-tick-TOCK …

A man in a suitcoat, in an office lined with books. The caption read MR. HOLMS’ AGENT. “I haven’t heard from him either! But I’m dying to read his new book, just as much as you are.“

tick-tick-tick …

A man in a winter coat, standing just next to the bookstore. “I was in line for The Rewair’s Orb, and I’ll be in line for the next one. They just need to say the word.” He grinned.

“What do you think’s taking him so long?” said the voice behind the microphone.

“I dunno. I guess his muse just hasn’t struck yet!“

TOCK.

TOCK.

TOCK.

The Great Author looked up with a start, from the pile of papers that he’d been buried in on his desk. His bleary-eyed gaze flicked back and forth, from the windows that looked out on the forest to the rough-hewn wooden inside.

They fixated on the clock.

He got up, sending papers flying everywhere. Then he jumped over his desk and stepped around the wicker furniture in the small living room, before grabbing the clock and sliding open the glass door to step outside.

* * *

SPLASH!

The Author’s muse raised one paw to shield himself. He was a short, stocky anthropomorphic raccoon, in a blue vest and a jaunty red cap. And he did not look happy about getting splashed.

He looked back behind himself, down the pier towards the shoreline, but the Author was already walking back to the house. The Author’s muse hmphed, adjusted his cap, and got back to fishing.

The water rippled from where the clock had been thrown in. But besides that, the lake waters were still. Evergreen trees reached shadows out to almost where he was, and the sun shone down on him, making the fur on the back of his neck warm even though his toes and fingers were cold. He opened the bait box and got out a sandwich, then started munching it, kicking his legs and showering crumbs next to his line.

His raccoon ears perked, as he heard the door slide open and closed back at the cabin. Then again a minute later, and footsteps crashed through the brush, shoshed through the sand, then clomp clomp clomped down the pier.

The muse pretended he didn’t hear anything.

The footsteps stopped a few feet behind him, and he found himself tensing up, waiting for another splash. But instead there was a sound like someone was unscrewing the lid from a jar, then pulling the cover off the inside. Something was set down beside him, and he tried to ignore it but a smell twitched his muzzle.

He sniffed at the air, then looked down beside him to see a glass jar filled with dark brown spread. “What is that?”

“Some kinda snazzy new peanut butter.” The voice came from behind him. “It’s made out of chocolate and hazelnuts.”

“Really, now.” The muse set down his sandwich, then dug a clawful of spread out of the jar and licked it clean. It wasn’t bad, and was very sweet.

“There’s more in the cabin,” the Author said.

“I’ll bet there is.” His muse began reeling in his line.

Behind him, the Author smiled.

The muse detached the fuzzy-shaped thing with eyes from the end of his line, and set it back in the bait box. Then he crammed the hook into the jar, and swung his line out into the lake, jar and all. It splashed, and his legs got all wet.

The Author’s face fell. “Geo, why must you be so unreasonable?”

“I’m not the one who’s being unreasonable, Mister Holms.” He turned around to scowl at the man, who looked younger than he sounded and was wearing a old sweater. “You’re the one who dragged me along on book tours, and signings, and interviews. You made me stretch out that story into a three-volume masterpiece, and now here you are back for more. Well, maybe I’m done for this year.” He turned back to his fishing. “Or this decade. Either way.”

“I thought you liked writing … “

“I liked writing when it was fun.”

“It doesn’t have to be fun when you’re getting paid for it!” the Author shouted.

“Talk to the tail.” His ring-tail swished. “The rest of me ain’t listening.”

After a minute, the footsteps clomped back towards the house. Geo picked up his sandwich and took another bite, but it had been splashed with lakewater. He spat it out, and tossed the sandwich away. Ducks couldn’t eat peanut butter, he knew, but they’d all flown south for the year.

He wondered what a sandwich with that chocolate spread would taste like.

Geo was almost ready to go back to the house, when the door slid open again. He turned around to see the Author carrying a large duffel bag with him.

Geo’s ears flattened as he turned back to his fishing, listening to heavy clomps up the pier again. The duffel bag unzipped, and something big that smelled of oil and metal was pulled out. There were clicks and latches and bolts pulled back into place.

A last switch was thrown, and Geo’s raccoon ears perked as the Author spoke. “Alright, no more mister nice-guy. Come inside and help me, or face heat-seeking missiles!”

Geo tugged on his fishing line, and the pier rumbled and started to shake. The bait box rattled and nearly fell off, and the Author struggled to keep his footing. Then there was a SPLASH that washed over the pier, and Geo held his cap onto his head and gritted his teeth into the spray as an enormous black metal shape came to surface. It stretched across the horizon.

“Oh look,” he said. “I’ve caught a nuclear submarine. Now what should I do with it?”

The Author stared, as a hatch opened out in the lake and a confused-looking man peeked outside.

* * *

The Author slid the glass door shut behind him. The air smelled like cooked butter, and on the TV a loud ad was playing. He walked over and turned it off.

Out in the kitchen, a thing like a short, humanoid wolf wearing goggles floated up from behind the counter, as the microwave popped popcorn. “How’d it go?” he asked.

“If a guy in a fur hat comes calling in Russian, tell him we gave at the office.” The Author slumped down into the chair at his desk, sending a couple more papers flying.

The wolf-thing floated towards him, paddling in midair with his hindpaws. “Blender and I came up with something that might help,” he said.

“You and-” He looked up. The other was carrying a blender under one arm, its cord trailing just above the floor. “Oh, right. What is it, Zippy?”

Zippy set down the blender and picked up a big gun-looking thing, with a barrel half a foot wide and a bunch of lights and dials and gauges on it. “It’s the Inspiration Machine!”

“I thought that was your Annihilation Machine.”

“It was. I changed it. See, you just set it from ‘frappé’ to ‘blend’ … ” He swung the machine in the Author’s direction, and the Author dove under his desk, kicking his chair aside with a clatter.

“Don’t worry,” Zippy said, “you don’t use it on yourself!”

The Author peeked out from underneath.

“You use it on the thing you want to be inspired by. Like, say you want to recapture the excitement of your old novels. You just aim it at them, and- May I?”

The Author winced. “Knock yourself out.”

“Okay!” Zippy’s face lit up. “Just aim it at them and pull the trigger, like so!”

The BLAM sent the Author reeling and clutching his ears, and the shock wave sent half of his papers flying. Zippy was sent flying backwards and hit the refrigerator, and the punch bowl fell off the top of it and knocked him unconscious. It rattled to a stop on the floor as the Author stood up and took stock of things.

There was a huge burn mark on the front of his hardback copy of The Rewair’s Orb. He sighed.

Picking it up, he checked it over and stopped at the ad copy on the back. “Riveting! Spellbinding! George Holms’ Dementor-like creatures will capture your heart, if they don’t steal your emotions first. Evocative of Harry Potter and Twilight-” The Author groaned, and made a mental note to hunt the reviewer down with a spork. “-but able to stand on its own two (or four) feet, The Rewair’s Orb is in a class all its own.“

But was it, really? he wondered. The Author thumbed through his work, ignoring the scorchmark inside. Most Authors hated their older work, but The Rewair’s Orb had been written just a couple of years ago. He still liked it okay. More than that, he thought it was genuinely a decent book.

But in a class all its own? He’d have to think about that one. He knew it was good, of course. But it wasn’t substantially better than the stories he’d been writing online for years. In fact, he could think of one of two of those that he liked better than it. And the only reason its sequels had got written was because it had become a bestseller … a fact that seemed to have nothing to do with how good it actually was.

The Author turned pages absent-mindedly. Why am I trying to make myself write even more of this? he wondered. This story is over.

He shut the book, and set it on top of the old Thinkpad on his desk. His gaze lingered on the computer, and he remembered staying up all night reading fanfiction based on his work. Some of it had been scary, but some of it had made him think Why aren’t these people writing the next book? They know where it’s going better than I do. More than that, they’re enjoying themselves. I just want to get the wretched thing finished.

The Author mused on that for a moment before picking up the phone, as the microwave dinged and the smell of burnt popcorn seeped out of it.

* * *

A man in a suitcoat, in a room lined with books. He sat at his desk, leafing through a stapled-together manuscript. The bored look on his face changed to one of disgust when he saw the $100 bill in between the papers. He threw it all back on the slush pile, and woke his computer from sleep mode to send out another rejection notice.

The phone rang, and he reached over to hit the transfer button. Then he saw who was calling, and put it on speaker. “George!” he said, in a let’s-do-lunch kind of voice. “Good to hear from you! How’re things going out there on Lake Superior? Getting chilly this time of year, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah, uh, listen … ” George said, in a lost-my-train-of-thought-when-I-opened-my-mouth kind of voice. “Is there somebody else who could do this book? ‘Cause I,” he coughed. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

“Of course you’re cut out for it,” his agent explained. “Just look at the Rewair trilogy! You’re the only one who can do it.”

“Uh, no,” George said, “I’m not.”

His agent gave the phone a patronizing look. “Oh, really,” he said. “So who else is going to write the next Rewair book? Please, do tell.”

George coughed again. “Well, um, there’s this person called … uh … ” He mumbled something.

“Speak up!” his agent said.

” … LatinoFurry87,” George finished.

His agent blinked. “Huh?”

“That’s what he’s called on the Internet,” George went on, in a rush. “He wrote this story based on The Rewair’s Orb-”

“He’s not authorized to do that,” his agent broke in.

“Well, somebody ought to have told him that, ’cause he wrote it anyway.” George sounded exasperated.

“Tell him what ‘copyright law’ means,” his agent said, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his chair. “I think he could learn a lot.”

“Will you just let me finish?” George huffed.

His agent said nothing.

“He wrote this epic fanfiction based on my stories, and it continued the Rewairs’ tale better than I could have. I was done with it at the end of the first book, Malcomb, you know that. And it was like pulling hens’ teeth trying to stretch it out into a trilogy.”

“Or laying golden eggs,” Malcomb mused, looking up at the crystal-and-glass awards on his bookcases.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Carry on.”

“This boy — I think he’s a boy — is talented. He’s at least as good of a writer as I am, probably better. And my readers deserve better, or at least better than two-month hiatuses.” He spat out that last past. “Your job is to find the best talent. Find this boy, and sign him up.”

His agent tsk’ed, and shook his head. “No can do, George.”

A sigh. “Yeah, I expected as much. So go ahead. Tell me why we can’t do this.”

“Because they want a book with your name on it.” His agent stabbed a finger at the phone, leaning forward all of a sudden. “Why else do you think you get top billing over the name of your own freaking books?”

“So give him a pen name, or something!”

“Signing somebody else to ghostwrite for you would be like replacing Coldplay with lip-synchers. It’s just not done.” He folded one leg over the other as he sat back again.

“Well, what do you want me to do, Malcomb? Fill two hundred pages with drivel off the top of my head, and leave the other two hundred blank? Because that’s what the fourth Rewair book’s going to be like if I write it.”

Malcomb shrugged. “An Author’s gotta do what an Author’s gotta do. Just put something on paper. We’ll clean it up in editing.”

“Good Gates, man, do you realize what you’re saying? Whatever happened to ‘George, you’re the greatest,’ or ‘George, this is one of a kind?’ Does quality count for nothing? Does craftsmanship? What sets our published fiction apart from his fanfiction?“

“The fact that you’re getting paid for it, and what he’s doing is illegal.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“That’s what it’s been like as long as there’s been a market, George. I hate to break it to you, but it’s true.” His agent took off his suitcoat, suddenly hot in the enclosed room.

The voice on the phone was quiet. “Somehow, this was more fun before I was being paid to write garbage.”

“It doesn’t have to be fun when you’re getting paid for it.”

The Author hung up.

* * *

The evening was quiet as the Author went back down to the dock, the submarine having disappeared back into the depths of his imagination. No crickets were chirping; the waves were gentle and faint. There was only him and his muse … or in other words, he was alone with himself.

He stood there watching the raccoon fish for some time. So content … so unconcerned. So uninterested in anything that wasn’t fun.

The Author knew what was going on in his muse’s head as well as he did any other of his characters. And he knew what Geo was going to answer before he said “There’s nothing I can do to persuade you to help me, is there.”

Or did he? His muse surprised him with “Actually, there is.”

“Oh?”

Geo clicked a button on a remote in his bait box, and a hundred-foot neon billboard lit up out on the lake. It read “WRITE SOMETHING FUN.”

The Author sighed. “We’ve been through this already.”

“Yep, we have.” Geo clicked the sign back off. “And you still won’t see reason,” they both said at the same time.

The Author looked out at the lakewaters, still and silent and dark. “I guess I’ll have to write it myself, then,” he said. “And the next, and the next, and … ” A lump formed in his throat. He looked down at his muse, and realized that it would be for the last time.

“Remember what it used to be like?” he asked his muse. “The snark, the wit, the fantasy … ” And for a moment he was Geo, sitting there on the dock kicking his furry feet in the air, listening to this strange human state the obvious.

The Author shook his head, and brought himself back to reality. Things didn’t work that way in real life. If you were lucky enough to get famous IRL, you rode it as far as you could. Because you didn’t know when it would give out, and you’d be back to writing fanfics because no one would publish your work.

He looked down at the dock. Geo was gone.

The Author sighed, and began the long, slow walk back to his cabin.

* * *

He threw out the burnt popcorn, and microwaved some leftover spaghetti for dinner. After that he sat in the living room, polishing off the rest of the ice cream with a spoon while watching TV.

The Author stayed up too late watching it. In between he surfed the web on his laptop. He didn’t visit his online journal or microblog, or anything remotely related to his work. Just RSS feeds and webcomics, and leaving comments anonymously.

Finally he got ready for bed, still leaving all the lights in the cabin on. He left the downstairs light on as he climbed into bed, and left the door open enough to see. But after ten minutes of tossing and turning, he knew he couldn’t sleep since it got in his eyes. So he slid out of bed, feet probing the cold hardwood floor for his slippers, leaving the covers still made to keep from losing their warmth.

The air was as chill as outdoors, except right by the space heater. He hurried like he was taking the trash out in winter, sliding up to the door with arms tightly folded and pushing it shut. Then he hurried back, and sat down on the bed and kicked off his slippers. First the one, then- wait, where did it go?

Something wrapped around his leg.

He tried to grab onto the covers but was pulled right off of his bed, kicking and flailing and clawing at the smooth hardwood as it dragged him underneath. A moment of struggle at the edge, and then he was brought face-to-face with …

A penguin.

“Heh-wo,” it said, or something much like it, and waved a flipper at him.

“Hi, Fluff,” he said, still gasping for breath. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

The penguin shrugged.

“M-may I … ” The Author gestured at the space outside.

Fluff said nothing, so the Author crawled back out on bare hands and feet. Then he jumped back into bed, and shivered for a moment before calling out to him. “What was that all about, Fluff?”

“Squaawk!“

The Author covered his ears for a moment. “Er, I didn’t quite catch that … “

Fluff exclaimed a long chastisement at him, in the language of penguins that goes from melodic trills to harsh squawking. An exact translation would be as long as this whole story, but the gist of it was “Are you out of your mind!?“

“Fluff … “

“Squaa-awk!“

“Fluff, listen!”

“Squawk!“

“Fluff!” The Author leaned on one elbow, and talked over the side of the bed as cold air seeped in to where he was. “Look, I know this is bad. Alright? I know what I’m giving up! But it’s not like I have a choice in the matter.”

“Hmph.”

“Do you see this place, Fluff?” The Author gestured around. “Cabins don’t just build themselves.”

“Squawk.”

“Build, buy, same difference. Not to mention, a couple of years ago I couldn’t have taken two months off if my life depended on it. Now I can just say ‘The book isn’t done yet!’ and no one can stop me from doing this. Who else is going to give them what they want?”

The penguin trilled something else, which basically meant “You know the answer to that.“

The Author slumped back, deflated. “Fluff … “

No answer.

“Fine,” the Author said. “Let’s say I give up my rights to the book, so now anyone can write what they want based on it. And Latinofurry or someone else writes something amazing, and has fun with it, and makes a whole lot of money like he or she richly deserves. Everyone reads it, and everyone’s happy. But where does that leave me, Fluff? Because this isn’t about lakefront property, or having a car and an iPhone, it’s … “

A questioning trill. Go on.

He sighed. “It’s about living the life that I want.”

The room was quiet after that. Almost ten minutes passed.

“Fluff?”

“Squawk?”

“What do you think I should do?”

Fluff coughed. “A-hem-hem-hem. Fish,” he said.

The Author groaned, disgusted. “No, Fluff, it’s not time for fish.”

“Fish,” Fluff insisted.

“Fluff, it’s the middle of the night! Can’t you wait until-”

“FISH!” he shouted.

The cabin creaked in the cold air. And the Author suddenly got a clue.

He got out of bed and looked out the window, shivering like mad as he did so. There at the end of the dock was his muse, fishing away again by moonlight.

The Author scurried towards the door. “Where did I put my boots … “

* * *

The Author peered out the ground floor windows towards the dock, as he was pulling his coat and boots on. His muse was still there, a shadow sitting at the edge of the dock. But as he hurried outside into the cold, hugging himself and moving quickly and wishing that he’d worn long underwear, he saw that the dock was abandoned.

“Geo?” The Author stopped at the end of the dock and called out to him. “Geo!”

There was no reply.

He ran out to the end of the dock. The moon shone on the still waters, which stretched out as far as he could see. But there was no anthropomorphic raccoon, no bait box, no fishing rod and line or nuclear submarine. There wasn’t even a hat.

The Author stood there for a long moment, gloved hands in his pockets, feeling very alone and dejected. Finally he sat down at the edge of the dock, and sighed a white cloud of steam. The motion sensor lights clicked off behind him, and he didn’t even turn to look.

“Missed my only chance … ” He leaned up against one of the pylons, and imagined a life of boredom and mediocrity. It’d seemed so compelling a moment ago. Now it felt like a death sentence.

“Maybe he’ll come visit if I work on a side project,” he mutterred.

“Like what?”

The Author turned around with a start, looking every which way, but he didn’t see anything. Then he realized where the voice had come from.

He was about four feet tall now, covered in black-and-gray fur. His feet and hands were bare, and he was covered in fur from his muzzle to the tip of his ringed tail. He reached up and pulled a red cap off of his pointy ears, and as he ran his claws and pawpads over the rough cloth half of him was in awe. The other half could only grin and say “Finally!”

He turned around and jumped into the air, waving his hat and calling out towards the cabin. A moment later the lights came on inside; then the motion-detector lights over the driveway turned on, as Fluff, Zippy, Blender and dozens more characters from his stories came crowding outside.

He threw in his line and reeled in his catch, and just as they all reached the pier the submarine surfaced, its long profile a silhouette in the dark. Dozens of hatches opened on top, with whirring noises and outlines of light. Then fireworks shot out into the night sky, and the crowd cheered.

Fluff directed the orchestra, as they played Geo’s favorite soundtrack. Zippy and Blender made juice drinks and smoothies, and served them to people from tables all strung with lights. Men in fur hats got out on the deck of the submarine, and set up beach chairs and watched the fireworks with binoculars. And Geo jumped up and down madly, controlling the fireworks by waving a baton in the air. They looped in circles, spun around in sync, dashed across the lake surface sending ripples out in their wake and exploded right above everyone, showering sparkles onto the crowd.

It was frantic. It was exhausting. And it was the most fun that he’d had all year.

* * *

Two hours later, teeth chattering in the cold, the Author stopped pacing back and forth on the dock. He looked over the story he’d typed on his phone, finger-scrolling on the glass.

It wasn’t long, but it was beautiful. And it had nothing to do with Rewair.

The motion-detector light came on as he walked back to the cabin and opened the door, savoring (slightly) warm air on his face. He closed it, inside, and set his phone down next to his computer, before writing a note on the paper beside it.

There were things that he needed to do, tomorrow. And people he needed to contact.

* * *

“What? Yes, I’m sure. I spoke with him just yesterday evening.” Malcomb grabbed another bite of his chocolate croissant, then spoke into the phone with his mouth full.

“No, there’s no end in sight … ” He swallowed. “But George knows what he has to do, and I’m confident that we’ll see some progress being made soon!”

A woman in an understated suitcoat poked her head in the door, and gestured frantically at the TV in the corner. What? Malcomb mouthed at her. But she wasn’t listening. When he stayed put, she finally walked over and turned it on, then set it to the right channel.

“ … has chosen a Creative Commons ‘Attribution / Share-Alike’ license,” the female voiceover said, as it showed people in bookstores and then a closeup of a copy of The Rewair’s Orb. “This will allow anyone who wants to to write and even publish stories set in his world, so long as they credit him for the original and use the same license for their own stories.“

Malcomb’s jaw dropped.

“He has already spoken with a different publisher-” Malcomb threw the phone’s handset at the wall, and his secretary jumped. “-and they are now conducting a search for authors, to find the fan who can write the next ‘official’ Rewair book. Mr. Holms also announced a forthcoming collection of unrelated short stories, to be called-“

The Author’s former agent got up and turned off the TV, then stood at the window looking out with his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t move or say anything else.

His secretary quietly picked up the handset, ignoring the pleas that came out of it, and hung it up on his desk. Then she walked out, closing the door behind her.

* * *

“¡Enriqué! Ven aquí! Estoy hablando con usted!“

“Sí, madre … ” A brown-skinned boy in a white t-shirt and jeans got up from the old family computer, and stepped around the piles of blankets and sheets on the floor to go out to the trailer’s front porch. He clasped his hands behind his back, listening patiently to her chastisement, then promised to take care of things for her before stepping back inside, as her attention turned to one of his younger siblings.

His cousin was still on the couch. She was watching an English-language morning news show. Enriqué tuned the words out, trying to concentrate on the scene that he’d just been writing. But then as he was sitting back down at the computer, he looked over his shoulder and saw on the TV a picture of a hardcover copy of The Rewair’s Orb … the same book he’d gotten two years ago for Navidad. The book that had changed his life.

He heard the words they were saying, but it took him a moment to understand them, and even longer for them to sink in. When they did, he found that he wanted to cry.

Instead, he pumped one clawed fist in the air, tears streaming down his slender draconic muzzle. Then he stretched his crimson wings, before hunching back down in front of the PC and writing the last of the scene he’d been working on. The end of a chapter … and the start of a new story.

Many thanks to my penguin-obsessed brother for the RP sessions that provided the inspiration for Fluff’s behavior.