novelsandknittingneedles

[novelsandknittingneedles]

Primorye (Russian Far East). Bear cubs.

#cute

[novelsandknittingneedles]

Sketches of ornaments painted Vladimir Cathedral, 1885, Viktor Vasnetsov

https://www.wikiart.org/en/viktor-vasnetsov/sketches-of-ornaments-painted-vladimir-cathedral-1893-1

#wow #art

[novelsandknittingneedles]

[novelsandknittingneedles]

Nicolette Clara Iles 

#photography #wow

[novelsandknittingneedles]

i kind of, sort of, tried to make a snow capall. instead, i have this creature. i hereby apologize to all equine creatures on earth and otherwise.

@thescorpioracesfestival

#thescorpioracesfestival #thescorpioracesfestival: novelsandknittingneedles #tsrf2018 #the scorpio races #the scorpio races festival #the scorpio races festival: creative challenges #failed attempt at a creative challenge

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 12: reflect

URL: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

rider: olive callahan 

Mornings by the docks chill Olive to her core and make her fingers blush pink. Her breath makes clouds of fog in the air. December swept into Thisby like a gust of wind, with falling snow and freezing temperatures. Beside her, her father and sister are sitting on a bench, watching the ships entering the small stretch of sea in front of them. A gargantuan ferry is perched by the wooden dock, ready to take away the tourists. Olive feels a rush of excitement, as she remembers, not just tourists are leaving this time. 

The ticket she had found had been the cheapest available, to a small city that Olive had never even heard of. As long as it was on the mainland, as far as she thought, there were already more prospects than on the island. The rest of the money would go towards lodging. Her first goal would be to find employment, and then she could find a home of her own. The night before had been a haze of packing, shoving paper after paper into the bag, before finally buttoning it shut and standing back in the doorframe. The walls of her room, formerly hosting her dreams about the mainland, now were blank. The sight felt unusually satisfying, and to Olive, everything felt as if it was buzzing with excitement.

Bea was playing with one of the clasps on her coat. She had been distant, ever since Olive had returned home announcing her departure and bearing a ticket. When she had seen the slip of paper, her face had fallen and she had went still.

Later that night, in a hushed tone so as not to wake Bea, her father had asked her, “Is this really what you want?” Wordlessly, Olive had nodded. Her father looked resigned, but he gently embraced her on his way out of the room.

She watches as the boat is emptied from the cargo it was carrying. The men haul large boxes labeled with black, blockish letters

The day before, she had said goodbye to James. She had seen him in Skarmouth, and stopped him on the street. He was wearing dust-covered clothes, and Olive guessed that he had been riding. For some people, the races never ended.

His smile seemed strained as he said, “Congratulations. Third place. That’s great.”

“Thank you. I didn’t see you after the races. What happened?”

“The accident. Triton got spooked and almost stopped completely. I lost too much time.”

His tone is dry, and Olive can tell that on the tip of his tongue are the words what if.

“That’s awful. I was too far away to see it happen.”

“It’s probably better that way. Even some of the strongest men could barely keep down their breakfast.” He chuckles, but the sound isn’t like his usual laugh; it sounds bitter.

The truth of the matter wasn’t lost on her; she knew that, had Asher not died, she never would have come close to winning the races.

“I’m so glad the races are over. Tomorrow, I’m going to the mainland.” Olive is careful with her words. What if he gets annoyed with me because he didn’t win? She worries to herself and carefully studies his gaze.

“Whoa. So soon. What will you do there?” He looks incredulous, just as many other people in Thisby would. They cannot seem to fathom the possibility of stepping off of the island.

“Hopefully, I’ll find a job and then live there. Once I’m there, I might try to earn enough money to bring my family over,” Olive pauses, “I just can’t see a future for myself here.”

“Oh. Will you be coming back?” He isn’t looking directly in her eyes, but somewhere past her head.

Olive shifts uncomfortably, and then says, “I don’t think so. Sorry.”

“Well, then. I have to go, my mam wants me back by six. Good luck, I suppose.”

A pregnant silence hangs between them for a moment, before they each exchange nods and turn away. All of the possibilities that that quiet had held have dissipated, and Olive has a dreary feeling in her that she won’t see him again.

Loud horns sound from the ferry, a call from the mainland. Already, people were lined up to board, and some were already on the ship. Olive shoulders her bag and stands, turning to her family. Their bearings are hesitant, and Bea’s brow is crinkled in a pout.

She searched in her head for something to say; she was coming up blank The moment was so significant, that anything else she thought of was inconsequential in comparison. “I’ll come back to visit. I promise.”

Her nodded slowly, “You’ve been waiting for this for years. You were like a capall, taken away from the sea. I can’t begrudge you for leaving. I will miss you, though.”

Those words lifted a weight off of her shoulders and made her chest feel lighter. The guilt flew away like a seabird.

“I’ll take good care of Bea. I promise,” he added.

Olive stilled, “What about your health?” Her tone was wary.

“I’m fine, really. I’ll write if anything goes wrong. For now, it’s just old age.”

Those words did little to set her at ease, but she was too excited to argue. “Fine. I’ll send money if you need it.” She turned her gaze to her sister, “Bea? You’re going to be okay without me?”

“Not really, but I’ll manage.”   At those words, Olive swooped down and embraced her sister. Her head was a flurry of what-ifs and worries, but she pushed them away and straightened back up.

“I suppose it’s time to go. See you soon. I’ll write.”

Her father called out a loud “goodbye” as Bea waved madly.

In the time that she had been saying her farewells, the line of people waiting to board had thinned, and she quickly walked past, onto the boat. The air was salty and sticky, clinging to her like wet cloth, and the gulls circling on the beach were as loud as thunder. As she stepped onto the deck of the boat, she felt her heart in her chest, squeezed tight between a fist for so many months, loosen and her lungs open to let her finally breathe.

#tsrf2018 #thescorpioracesfestival #the scorpio races #the scorpio races festival #thescorpioracesfestival: novelsandknittingneedles

[novelsandknittingneedles]

a small scorpio races playlist

#tsrf2018 #thescorpioracesfestival: novelsandknittingneedles #thescorpioracesfestival #the scorpio races festival: creative challenges #the scorpio races festival #the scorpio races

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 11: race day

rider: olive callahan

url: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival​

Olive stands before the mirror on the morning of the race. Her fingers are slowly and intricately braiding her dark hair. The monotony of the twisting movement is comforting and lulls her into a sort of stupor. In between deep breaths, she whispers to herself. Whatever happens, it will be fine and Thisby is a place of the past. Once she reaches the tips of her hair and ties a band around it, she rests her arms at her sides and stares into the mirror. Looking back at herself, she notices the freckles on her now weathered skin, the results of those days in the sun on the beach. Her eyes are tired and dull, and her skin is dry and rough. Olive sighs and runs her fingers over her face, before smoothing her clothing, a sweater and brown trousers, and turning away, towards the picture-covered wall. She takes a close look at the images. Tall, grey, foggy London, with its intricate buildings and monuments. Verdant, beautiful Edinburgh, with castles and trees. Vibrant, festive Dublin, full of garish painted walls and signs. In that moment, she made up her mind; she was going to see the world, or she was going to die trying. Thisby was just a stop along the way to her future.

Olive enters the dimly lit kitchen and turns on the kettle, grabbing an earthenware mug with her other hand. She sits down to a cup of tea, and lets the steam hit her face before taking a sip. The warmth calms her nerves slightly, but not nearly enough. The sun is barely up, and Olive can hear her father’s light snoring in the other room. The races won’t begin for hours, but the time is important in order for her to steel herself. She absentmindedly dangles a hand over the cup, feeling the hot air turn to condensation on her hand. Outside, the wind is blustery and threatening.

All of her qualms about the races have given way to fears about her father, and she just feels tired and drained, like a piece of fabric or a tree, battered by the ocean wind.

Behind her, she hears a door creaking and the sound of her father’s slow, heavy footsteps on the wood. She twists to face him. “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

“I slept as well as I always do, What are you doing awake so early?” He moves to the cupboard and removes a mug, without taking his eyes off of her.

“I couldn’t sleep. Today was just far too important.” Olive can feel a little bit of giddiness creeping into her words. Don’t. You don’t like riding. Remember? She thinks.

“I know exactly how you feel. When I raced, I barely slept a wink the night before. Are you excited?”

“I suppose. I’ve been waiting for this for a month.”

Her father chuckles, “Don’t ever wish away time. Everything comes before you even have a chance to look around and realize.”

His voice has a note of sadness, a feeling of loss.

“I won’t. Will you be watching?”

“Of course! My daughter is participating in the Scorpio Races! Who do you think I am?” he jokes.

“I wasn’t sure,” Olive pauses, “When did Mum say she would visit next?”

Her father thought for a second. “I can’t quite remember. When was the last time she came home? Last spring?”

“It was a over a year ago. September.”

He looks surprised and wistful at once, as he responds, “Well, we can do fine without her. You, me, and Bea. We’re a family of our own.” He sipped from his mug, “You know, you look so much like her. Your mother, I mean.”

Olive frowns, picturing her mother. She had always been so focused on everything she had done and wanted that she barely even considered her daughters and husband. Olive now felt disheartened being compared to her, as if her father was subtly insinuating that she, too, was careless like that.

“We should go down to the beach.” Olive abruptly pushed back her chair and gathers her bag.

On the beach, the white autumn sun casts bright streams of light onto the sea and the sand. It is deceptive; there is no warmth present. Many of the riders are already on the beach, buzzing with anticipation of the races. They all wear their rough leather and their dark-colored sweaters, and they blend in with each other. Olive had tried to do so as well, so that she could be mistaken for the others. It worked save for a pale blue ribbon knotted around her wrist, a good luck charm courtesy of Bea. Soon, the remaining riders filter onto the beach, dragging their capaill behind them. Olive glances to her side, at Morrigan’s pale grey head. The capall’s eyes are dark and alert. She puts a hand beside Mor’s ear and leans to whisper, “Thank you. It’s almost over.” Her voice is soft and quavers a bit. The days toiling on the beach had led up to this. She is almost done, but the thought of leaving behind Morrigan, and even James, her newfound friend, made her feel surprisingly disappointed.

The calls to the riders, to mount their capaill echoed, a death knell in the autumn air.

Olive slowly climbs onto Morrigan’s back, and held on tightly to the creature. The capaill racing to the sound of the clamorous gull cries, and the noise and movement on the beach agitated the sand, creating clouds of dirt and silt.

At the front, she can barely make out a piebald blur. He is faster than all of the others, and reached the front within seconds.

Nearer to her, Olive can catch a glimpse of a red-brown capall, belonging to the other rider that James had warned about. The rider is tall and burly, intimidating to Olive. His capall has muscles rippling under taut auburn skin. Olive breathes deeply, whispering little prayers to herself under her breath.

The  fear of death is enough to make even the most cynical believers.

She glances to her sides, trying to recognize any other riders. They all look the same, with grim determination, but she manages to spot a stoic James further in front. Seeing him like that, with his expression devoid of emotion was unsettling, and made Olive think of masks.

Within the mess of riders, Olive surges forward, taking care to think of all of the advice she had given, all of the hours riding on the beach.

She focuses her eyes on a point in front of her, unflinching, not looking at the throng on either side of her. The edge of the beach is gradually into view as, right in front of her, a group of riders erupt into yells.

“He fell!”

Olive’s blood turns to ice, and her body becomes rigid. She keeps her eyes level and refuses to glance down at whoever it was that fell.

Don’t look. It’s almost over, she repeats. Don’t look.

In front of her, as she gains speed, the group of riders in front of her thins, until all she can see are the piebald and another black mare.

Morrigan rocks back and forth as her legs make strides forward and forward. The dark cliffs draw nearer. In Olive’s ears, there is a cacophony of yells and of cries and of hooves landing blows onto the ground. She is near the front, and she tightens her grip on Morrigan. The capaill gains speed, and Olive angles her head up, feeling the wind on her face and stirring the strays hairs near her face, and then she sees the end of the race.

Above, the onlookers are yelling and cheering. The sound shakes her out of her dazed stupor, and she tugs at Morrigan, prompting her to stop. Olive tentatively climbs off and sends a glance up at the people. Their faces are pale ovals and she cannot make out any particular person.

There are only two other riders near her. Third place. It may not have been the best, but it was enough.

Her blood roars in her ears and her legs quiver a bit, standing on the hard ground.

Disoriented, she watches the rest of the riders finish and dismount. Some of them look visibly disappointed at not winning, but most just seem gratified to have finished.

Olive pushes through the crowd and walks along the beach, to the place where the rider fell.

She feels a pain in the pit of her stomach as she sees the hunched people around the body. Without approaching them, she can already tell who they were. She had spent hours at their house as a child. Asher’s mother was wailing over the crumpled, marionette body of her son, and his father stood, a lonely figure against the backdrop of the sea. Olive stands, watching them, too shocked to even move. She turns away, and slowly makes her way back to the commotion on the beach.

#the scorpio races #the scorpio races festival #the scorpio races festival: creative challenges #thescorpioracesfestival #thescorpioracesfestival: novelsandknittingneedles #tsrf2018

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 10: weakness

rider: olive callahan 

url: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

“I wasn’t sure that you would come!” James is grinning and waving as Olive clambers down the rocks onto the beach, carefully and slowly leading Morrigan. Beside him, is a huge capall, with menacing teeth lined up like dominoes, that make Olive feel uneasy. Still, his smile is pleasant, and it catches, like a disease.

“Of course I came. I told you I would, didn’t I?” Olive walks closer to him, a cautious hand lingering on Morrigan’s side.

“People don’t always do what they say they will. Anyway, you’re a bit late and I was beginning to doubt that you would grace me with your presence.” His voice was a low but gentle brogue, similar to the way Olive’s father would speak. It made her feel more at home on the cold, barren beach.

“Who do you think are the people to beat in this year’s races?” She restrains herself from adding other than you.

“You know the man with the big capall with the reddish hair? I’m not quite sure of his name, but he’s quite the beast during training. I would watch out for him. Also, the older man with the piebald. That mare could rip even the most savage capall into pieces.”

Olive nods, thinking of the two men. The first, the younger one, had been among Asher’s group of friends. He and his capall had always been at the front. He went so fast that he and his capall were just a red-brown blur on the beach. The other, with the piebald, was a loner. He seemed to keep to himself, and while he was never the fastest, it was no secret that piebalds were wild creatures, capable of killing even the most careful rider.

“What about William, with the black capall?” Olive questions, “I remember him from school. He always talked of how he would be the fastest in the races and how he would win year after year. So far, it looks like that may come true.”

James laughs, “Oh, him? He’s nothing. It’s all a display of strength. Wait until the races. You’ll see. He speaks far too highly of himself.”

Olive wrinkled her brow and looked at him confused. “Why’s that?” She knew William and had seen him riding. He might not have been as fast as the man on the red horse, but he was still quite fast nonetheless.

“I’ve watched boys like him before. They give everything they have in the practices and then are left in the dust once the races come. Many of them have been holding back, only going at half of the speed of what they could go at. It’s a good tactic. Make sure that no one expects anything from you, and then once the races come, show them. Will, though, was going at the fastest speed he possibly could; it was clear. On the day of the races, that won’t be enough.”

Olive makes an oh sound, but James is already preparing Triton for riding. She acknowledges that and does the same with Morrigan, busying herself with the capall. As he climbs onto the creature’s back, she does as well. His graceful, smooth movements are even more evident beside her clumsy movements. Still, she reminds herself, you’re far better than you were.

On the capall, with his hands by Triton’s neck, James grins. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I can be.” Her legs are tight around Morrigan’s flank and she hopes that it isn’t causing any discomfort to the capall.

The two capaill rode side by side, two streaks of grey and brown. James was leaning far forward, his body close to the side of his capall. His eyes are determined, glinting and small, squinting in the wind. While rides, Olive notes that it was hard to tell where the creature ended and the human began. She tried to keep up but he just got further and further ahead.

Is he trying to go that fast to scare me?

A flare of distrust rises in her, but she shook it off, chastising herself.

It’s fine. She insists forcefully, he’s just being nice. Don’t be so nervous.

Olive returns her focus to the riding, taking steady breaths and leaning forward in an attempt to emulate James’ bearing. Morrigan is fast, but she is far behind Triton. Olive’s face feels hot as she thought of losing. She lowered her head and whispered into the capall’s grey ear, please, run. For me. She tentatively puts a gentle hand near the capall’s head, hope and fear surging within her at once. Her body is rigid and the wind pushed against her. She closes her eyes, inhaling and exhaling. Then, her eyes are open, and she is surveying the beach, ignoring the streams of wind hitting her face. With every second, Morrigan’s legs move faster, until James is mere feet away. They continue, a small distance from eachother until the rocky cliffs at the edge of the beach rise into view. On the grey-black crags, a number of sea birds have taken up residence, building nests among the stones and winding shrubs. Their loud cries echo all the way out to the sea.

Has Thisby always been this beautiful?

Olive comes to a halt beside James and slides off of the capall. His hair and clothes are windblown but he is smiling widely and breathing heavily.

“That was amazing. How did you get Morrigan to go that fast?” Behind his eyes, there is a surprised look that makes Olive feel proud.

“We came to an agreement. That’s all.”

#thescorpioracesfestival #thescorpioracesfestival: novelsandknittingneedles #the scorpio races #tsrf2018

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 9: obstacles

rider: olive callahan 

url: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

Olive sat at the kitchen table, holding a warm mug in her hand. Outside the window, the sky was dark and the wind was pulling at the trees. The weather looks as if it will be harsh, and Olive dreads the walk down to the beach for training.

“Are you awake?” Her father walks down the small hallway, leaning against the doorframe to steady himself. He has dark circles beneath his eyes and looks pale. The sight of him like that stings and makes her feel utterly hopeless, like being adrift at sea.

“Yeah,” she nods, “I’m just getting ready for training.”

“I remember when I did that, getting up at the crack of dawn and climbing down onto the beach dragging a capall behind me. What I wouldn’t give to be able to do that again.”

Olive smiles a bit at his reminiscing, “How did Morrigan act around you?”

“She was absolutely brilliant,” he responds. “I almost couldn’t believe that she was a capall and not a real horse. How is she treating you?”

“She,” Olive pauses to think, “is good, but can be a bit flighty. I’ve grown to like her.”

His face brightens and he nods. “That’s great. I had hoped that you would love her like I do.”

“It took me some time, but I think I do,” Olive says.

He looks out the window, “It looks like you should be leaving soon.”

“Yeah,” Olive gulps down some tea, “I need to leave now.”  

She stands up, pushes in the chair, and grabs her bag hanging from the coat rack. Inside, she shoves a rope and a package of bandages, in case of any scrapes. Waving to her father, she walks out of the house.

The chilly fall air is bracing and pulls and whips around her clothing and hair. The gravel path is damp from the dew and the grass and trees nearby are withered and yellowing, their color stolen by the seasons.

Olive walks briskly, her bag swinging at her side. At the bottom of the hill, she passes the tree that she and her sisters would always play in as small children. The sight of the gnarled wood and rough bark reminds her of Jane. The thought is persistent, and refuses to go away, like a stain. Jane loved the fall. She would hide near the cliffs and spy on the racers, and would run around and dance during the festival. Her eyes were at their brightest, and her smile made her narrow face vibrant. Her loss felt to Olive like the way people described phantom limb syndrome. Something was missing, and she felt it and it hurt.

Once she reaches the edge of the cliffs, the wind feels more intense and it pushed against her whole body. As she walks, she ties back her hair and straightens her clothing. On the beach, she stands out. The women in the racces are few; this year, there are no more than four. She sometimes feels stares boring into her back and can feel eyes prickling at her skin. Still, unlike some of the women in previous years, she is lucky; her father’s identity and involvement with the races gives her some degree of immunity.

Already, there are men on the beach. Olive can hear them before she even turns the corner. She surveys the beach, spotting Asher with his new friends. He seems happy, but she can’t help but feel a bit like he abandoned her. She sighs and turns her attention to Morrigan. She runs her hand gently along the capall’s grey neck and she whispers, “Soon, everything will be well.”

Olive repeats those words in a feeble attempt to make herself believe it. Morrigan doesn’t respond or make any movements. A strong gust of wind chill’s Olive’s blood and she pulls her coat tighter around herself.

Why do the races have to be in November, she wonders. Out of all of the months, why November? Why  not June? Do they want us to catch our deaths?

Behind her, she hears sand and rock crunching.

“It’s really cold today, isn’t it?” James is standing there, hands in his pockets, his hair disheveled in the wind.

Olive nods, “Yeah. And the wind is awful, too.”

“Are you excited for the races? They’re only in a few days.” From his expression, Olive can tell that he clearly is.

“Not really. I’m just worried.” She responds honestly.

He laughs. “I understand that. I am excited though, against my better judgement. This is the last real day of training. Actually, if you want, I’m going to go and train tomorrow when the beaches is empty. You could come with Morrigan.” His eyebrows are drawn together and he looks almost nervous.

Olive hates training, but the thought of actually leaving the house and meeting someone makes her feel warm. “I would love to. That will be great.” His face relaxes and the corners of his mouth spread apart widely.

“That’s great. I can’t wait.” He walks backwards waving, and then turns toward his capall.

Olive watches his back retreating. Her mouth twitches into a smile and her heart pounds in her ears. She turns her head towards Morrigan, who is eyeing her almost knowingly. She looks at her for a moment before bursting out laughing, drawing in shallow breaths.

#tsrf2018 #thescorpioracesfestival #thescorpioracesfestival: novelsandknittingneedles #the scorpio races

[novelsandknittingneedles]

Do you ever just… crave the forest? Like you feel like you NEED to be in a forest. The crisp cold air with just a sweater on, looking at the red and orange foliage in the autumn. In the winter the frigid and empty branches. The summer all the green. The spring the smell of rain and the mud. God I love the forest.

[novelsandknittingneedles]

Scorpio Races book reflection post

@thescorpioracesfestival

I am writing this just after having closed the cover of my slightly beaten copy of the Scorpio Races, having completed reading the book for the second time. This time, I was astonished by how much I had completely forgotten about -- it had only been two years since I first read it - and enjoyed it even more. The details were more clear, and some parts that I had missed became my favorites this time around (The Scorpio Festival, St. Columba’s, Malvern’s tea, among others).

Where to even begin?

I think that my favorite part of the book is those chapters in the middle, with the festival and the rider’s parade. Maggie Stiefvater spent her time their slowly and fascinatingly revealing the old traditions of a group of people. Practices that have been in place for years are vividly described and the writing makes it easy to come up with a whole picture of the scene. I love those chapters.

Another aspect that I definitely appreciated more this time was the dynamic between Puck and those in charge of the races. Repeatedly, she is told that she cannot ride, but she does not listen. Instead, she takes Dove and she wins. That plot is very encouraging, but also I was struck by another part of it. In my mind, Puck was the leader of a new Thisby, but was being held back by the old, traditional Thisby.

Despite the obstacles, she overcomes everything and is able to prove herself and take her place among the riders.

Something else became more clear to me was the extreme character development. This was much more evident to me this time because I had already “met” the characters once. In the beginning of the book, Puck is very nervous and does not know what she is doing, but finds that the stables are where she belongs and ends up gaining confidence on the way. Sean is initially very aloof, standoffish, and brusque, but he softens a bit and starts to be more of himself, and allow himself to have friends and to care about things other than racing.

Whenever I have recommended the Scorpio Races to someone, I have been at loss about what to say in order to describe it. Yes, it’s about carnivorous horses, but it’s far more complex than that, which I struggle to convey. Even after reading it again, I don’t know how I would describe it to someone. It’s just a special book, that doesn’t really fit any categories and I think that it should just stay that way.

#thescorpioracesfestival #thescorpioracesfestival: novelsandknittingneedles #reflection post #books

[novelsandknittingneedles]

sir Gawain and the Green Knight for my Monthly monster drawing ♥ I think I am going to use this one as Christmas postcard :3

#i love this story!

[novelsandknittingneedles]

Melisande (1895-1898) - Marianne Stokes

#wow #art

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 8:

Rider: Olive Callahan 

URL: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

Lying on her back, Olive watches the light peeking through the window and reaching the ceiling. Her arms are splayed out on each side of her and she takes deep breaths in and out.

She refuses to look at the photographs on the wall, given to her by her mother. Reminders of what she had to lose in the races.

I have to leave Thisby. What if I never get off this island?

The money from the races would let her travel. Escape. That is, of course, if she won.

What about dad? And Bea?

She had barely even considered her family in her plans. Now, Dad’s sickness was binding her to Thisby.  Bea didn’t want her to leave. She had been hinting at that for weeks.

Olive releases a big breath and rolls over onto her side, closing her eyes and burying her face into her pillow.

In Skarmouth, Olive’s eyes linger for a little bit too long on the tourists. Some are newly arrived from the ferries but others have been on Thisby for a week or two already. Some of them speak foreign languages, but the majority are from the mainland. Her chest feels tight as she thinks of all of those places.

Glasgow, London, she lists. Edinburgh, Cardiff, Oxford.

Those words had become a mantra for her, reminding her that she had to leave. When she had envisioned her triumphant escape from Thisby, she never felt that guilty or ashamed. She never abandoned her struggling family, or ended up missing the island.

Why is this so hard?

She walks away from the docks and walked up the hill into the center of the town. The sun was young in the sky, and few tourists were yet out and about. Instead it was all of the locals, born and raised on Thisby, live and die on Thisby.

Passing by the butcher’s, her eyes land on a short, middle aged man wearing a turtleneck sweater and a huge brown coat. He was plodding across the road. Collin Green, a close friend of Olive’s father.

He seemed to notice her too, and he began walking her direction. He raised his arm in a sort of salute.

“Hello, Mr. Green. How are you?” She raised her hand, mirroring his movement.

“I’m well. Alberta’s a bit under the weather, but soon she’ll be right as rain. How are the races?”

Of  course, she thought, everyone knows about the races. “Very well. I’ve been training a lot.”

He nodded enthusiastically, “What’s your capall’s name?”

“Her name is Morrigan.”

He brightens even more. “Goddess of war, fate, and death. Your father’s, too. That’s a good omen,  I can tell with these sorts of things.”

Mr. Green had always been ludicrously superstitious. When eating, he would be militant with his salt, avoiding spills at all costs. Sometimes, he would point out the color of the sky and list the possible meanings.

“That’s good. I certainly hope so, at least.”

“You know, your father must be so proud. I know him, and I know that he must be so happy.”

“Yeah,” she responds, “I think he is. He’s seemed to always want someone to carry on his legacy.”

“And after Jane! You know, Alberta didn’t even think that he would let you compete after that! That was absolutely horrific.”

Those words stung bitterly. She bit back any harsh comments and kept her smile glued onto her face. “We all miss her dearly, but we have had to move on, I suppose. I think that my participation in the races has given him something else to distract him from her.” Olive was making things up through her teeth, trying to end the conversation as soon as possible.

“Family is nice. My Alberta and I never had any children, but sometimes we wish we could have.”

His voice trails off and grows wistful. “Now, it’s a bit too late. But, it’s fine. I don’t even think of what I would have been like as a father. I’m a wanderer. It could never work. Family just seems to tie you down, doesn’t it? You can’t be a free spirit and a family man, both.”

Olive nods, his words striking a chord, but she feels the desperate urge to prove him wrong about his second statement. After the races, she would leave and she would both be free and be close to her family, wouldn’t she?

“It’s been nice talking with you,” He finishes, “Best of luck in the races.”

“Thank you. I really hope that it goes well.”

#thescorpioracesfestival #thescorpioracesfestival: novelsandknittingneedles #tsrf2018

[novelsandknittingneedles]

One of commissioned OCs, but I just fell in love.Due to many symbolic connotations with ravens, drew her as Veshnitsa-Soroka (Magpie-foreteller) — shapeshifting witch from slavic folklore. 

#so pretty!! #crows #shape shifter #art

[novelsandknittingneedles]

origins challenge: the library of thisby

URL: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

The library in Thisby is far older than any of the island’s inhabitants. The shelves house leatherbound words with spines that crack and pages that drift loose; they hide loose, yellowing pages, sometimes barely legible. The colors on the spines are faded and muted. They contain secrets in archaic languages, and old physician’s diagrams. They hold myths and legends and poems and stories. If there was once a librarian, they must not have been very organized; the books follow their own rules, their own system.Tucked away in a little one-room building just outside of Skarmouth, no one owns the stone hut, but sometimes, when people go in alone, they swear that can hear a soft turning of pages and they can spy a faint light off behind the mahogany shelves.

#origins #the scorpio races #the scorpio races festival #thescorpioracesfestival #thescorpioracesfestival: novelsandknittingneedles