Home of a Writer

I wait anxiously as I wait for my father to come back. My mom, a doctor at a hospital, was called away for the night shift tonight, so it’s just me, dad, and David, my older brother by two years. I pace the living room, glancing out of the window every now and then, nearly jumping out of my skin when someone touches my shoulder.

“Hey, what’s going on? Where’s dad?” Asks a sleepy voice behind me.

I whirl around, only to find David standing there, trying to wipe the sleep out of his eyes. Olive skinned, with spiky brown hair and dark hazel eyes, he’s pretty much a clone of my father.

“Don’t do that!” I snap, partly in relief. “Dad went off to the back acre. I heard wolves howling, and gunshots. We think there’s a poacher out there. Probably trying to earn some money from selling the fur or something.” I respond, looking back out the window.

“That’s . . . awful.” He says, between yawns. He plops down on the couch, draping one arm over his eyes to protect them from the light. “Maybe you should go back to bed, dad can update you when he gets home.” He suggests.

I shake my head vigorously. “No, I’m staying up until he gets home. I have to know what happened.” I insist, continuing my pacing.

“Well at least calm it down some, you’re going to wear a hole right through the floor.” He comments, his voice betraying faint hints of amusement.

I shoot him a glare. “It’s not funny, David. If something goes wrong-“ Just then the front door bursts open, and I jump so high I nearly knock my head on the ceiling fan. Dad strides in. He has his coat wrapped around something, and is cradling the makeshift bundle in one arm, the other clutching his rifle.

“Poacher.” Was all he’d say, before heading to his room to put away his rifle. I glance at the bundle curiously as he passes, shooting David a look of shock when it starts to wriggle around. “Dad, is that . . . ?”

His only answer is to toss the bundle to me. I catch it with a surprised yelp, trying not to jolt it around too much.

“Yes.” He says gruffly. “I found him trying to nurse from his mother, one of the wolves the poachers shot. There were three. The mother, an adult male, probably his father, and a juvenile female, probably his older sister from another litter. You’re the one with the most animal sense in this family. Find out how to help this poor pup, I need to make some calls and put the rifle away.” He disappears into his room, shutting the door behind him.

I glance over at the shut door, a bit concerned. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my dad so upset. The news of the wolves' deaths sends a jolt of pain through me. I have always loved wolves, and I would often sneak out at night to try and catch glimpses of them. I gently put the small bundle containing the wolf pup on the floor, unwrapping it gently. A black wolf pup tumbles out of the coat, raising itself up in a sitting position, looking around with bewildered eyes. I gasp. “He’s so pretty.” I say in awe. I put out my hand out for the young pup to sniff, chuckling when it begins to chew on my hand.

“Hmm, I wonder if dad will let us keep it.” David says, getting up to look at the wolf pup. Almost immediately, the wolf pup scrambles away from him, whimpering, ears down and tail tucked between its legs.

“David! You scared him!” I exclaim, approaching the wolf pup slowly and scooping him up. Quickly, he snuggles up into the crook of my neck, whimpering. I murmur comforting words, stroking his soft, fluffy fur slowly.

“How come you're the one that animal’s like?” Pouts David teasingly. “Also, what’s up with its eyes?” He adds, circling behind me to get a better look at the wolf pup. I feel a small pang of fear, was something wrong? Did he have an eye infection or other injury?

“What are you talking about?” I say, quickly holding the wolf pup out with one hand, using the other to keep its head still as I peer into its eyes, trying to spot an infection or other injury. Instead, I realize that it’s eyes are different colors. I freeze in shock. I didn’t know wolves could be affected with heterochromia, a condition where one eye is one color, and the other is a completely different color.

“Yeah, look, his eyes are different colors. See?” He remarks, sticking his hands inside of the pockets in his plaid pajama pants.

I sigh, and cradle the wolf pup in my arms. “Yeah, I see that, David.” I say wearily. I know too well what it’s like to be different, and the fact that this wolf pup is different makes me feel . . . Connected to it somehow. Protective, even. “Well, we need a name for him, don’t we? Have any ideas, David?”

“Tracker? Hunter? Coal?” He suggests, counting the names off on his fingers.

Types of Writing Requests I can do:

- X Reader’s

- Headcanons

- Writing prompts

- Short stories (Specify what you want it to be about and how long you want it to be)

- Character Pairings

Don’t know if this counts, but I am always brimming with character ideas, so If you would like a OC or character for a story and you don’t have any ideas, don’t hesitate to ask.

A/N: Here's the Prologue of a story I'm writing, hope y'all like it. I made sure to do research on different types of albinism, as I didn't want to portray anything wrong or accidentally offend anyone. :)

I lay awake in my bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. It’s pitch black in my room, but I can see well enough to make out the faint outlines of the furniture. My mind races as I take in the familiar lay out of my room, ruling out any possibility of sleep. You see, I was born with OCA1a, or, if we’re being technical, Oculocutaneous Albinism type one, sub-type 1. Long story short, that means my body can’t produce any melanin, the pigment that gives people their color, at all. Instead of looking normal like the rest of my family, I was born with pure white skin, snow-white hair, and very pale blue eyes. No melanin, no color.

I sigh softly, turning onto my side and dangling my arm over the side of the bed. Being the youngest of four, I’ve never lacked encouragement or reassurance, but being so different from other people is always hard.  My parent’s decision tonight was only going to make things harder. I replay the memory, my eidetic memory only making it more vivid. I can still see the soft, yet unyielding determination in their eyes as they tell me that, after being homeschooled my whole life, I will be attending my Sophomore year at Timberview High School in town. I protested, of course, and had tried my hardest to change their minds, but I knew that look and had soon stopped trying.

How can I make them understand what is surely in store for me there? All I can think of are the reactions I receive when I go into town with the rest of my family. I can still feel the stares when we walk through town, burning into my back like red-hot coals, still feel the sharp words and barbed comments digging into my skin, only to be re-lived later.

“Was she in an accident? Is that why she looks . . . strange?”

“Is . . . she adopted?”

“Why does she look so freakish?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to remember that it doesn’t matter what others think. My family loves me, God loves me. That’s enough . . . right? I chide myself after that thought comes to mind. After all, I’ve never done anything to prevent it, never stood up for or defended myself. Instead, I’ve always stayed quiet, allowing  someone else to handle it. Not that I don’t want to stand up for myself, in fact, I’d love to do that more than anything. However . . . the thought of turning to look someone in the eyes, which would probably be showing disdain or some form of disgust, and saying something absolutely terrifies me.

I look down at the floor sullenly. Maybe mom and dad were right. If this is my frame of mind when thinking about other people, maybe I should try to learn how to interact with others properly. Just then I hear something that sends chills down my spine. I can hear a wolf howling in the distance, probably somewhere in the back of our property. We live on the outskirts of town, in a log cabin, and our fifty acres of woods are only marked by a simple wooden fence. Still, wolves aren’t unheard of here, and several have been spotted on the back acres of our property. Something about the howl makes me uneasy. It sounds desperate, shrill, unlike any other I’ve heard.

Just then a gunshot shatters the otherwise silent night, silencing the howl before it can end. No . . . it couldn’t be. Was someone hunting the wolves? I shoot upright in my bed, eyes wide in horror, clutching my blanket. Several more gunshots ring out, and I leap from my bed.