#30daysofwayward

Hello everyone! This is a 30 days art challenge dedicated to the Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye by the Tin Can Brothers. This is the prompt list and the rules (please read them carefully)! More info and the credits on the blog description.

Prompt List:

Rules:

Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye 30 Day Prompt

Day #1 “Podcast”: 

(I do not own any other characters or place names outside of Shelby St. Ranger, this is just for fun)

There’s a driveway about one mile long that cuts into a foothill that surrounds Connor Creek. At the end of the driveway, is a small cabin with a garden that is as simple and as boring as a garden can be. 

When I, Shelby St. Ranger, moved there it had been an overgrown mess of something that had once been someones complex and colorful paradise. I’d left it for a little while, but eventually it depressed me to walk by the dead plants so I bought some gloves and gardening tools and tore everything up. It took up a weekend, which was good, since there wasn’t a lot to do in Connor Creek. This in itself was supposed to be a good thing, so I could work on my novel. Although my characters would often be battling each other and drinking mead in great viking halls, my own life was simple and plodded along. I’d moved from the city once I could afford to, and it was fairly cheap to live in Connor Creek so it actually had been a smart choice in many ways. But I hadn’t expected to be so deeply, deeply bored. I’d discovered the walk to town was pleasant, as not many cars went on the main road, and it helped when I hit writing blocks or just pure FOMO (fear of missing out) that was unfounded as the town inched along as much as I did. This was especially needed at night.

The only place open after 5pm was the Dead Canary. Despite my boredom, I’ve always been an introvert, so I kept to myself. Unfortunately, everyone already knew who I was before I had even moved in. It only took two visits before the bartender would greet me with my usual order and give me a quick “How’s it goin’ Shelby?” It became a habit for me to sit in the least visible place in the corner of a booth and write down little ideas that would pop into my head.

One night, a man with the energy of a rabbit came in and spotted me. “You’re the new one in town, Shelby right?” 

“Yes?” I had pushed my notebook aside, a very detailed doodle of a hexagon that had eyeballs betraying the fact that I couldn’t think of anything to write at the time. 

“My name is Ryan Reynolds. I’m running for town council, I was wondering if you’d heard about the race?”

I nodded. “I’ve seen the posters.” 

“Good. Can I count on your vote?” 

“I’ll have to do research first, I can’t just vote for you because you introduced yourself to me.”

His eyebrows almost hit his hairline. “Fair. Fair, very fair. Just do your research...how do you plan to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Your research.” 

“I imagine on the internet?”

“It’s so spotty. And believe me, if you google my name, it can be very confusing.”

“Right.”

“So you’re better off asking me questions directly.”

“Can I do it some other time? I’m working.” I sipped on my beer. 

“Of course! Anytime. You know, there’s people coming to record a podcast about what’s going on here at Connor Creek.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you all about it, tomorrow night?”

“Sure.” He went back to the bar and his voice became white noise as I started back to my notebook and slowly the characters in my head came back to me and I wrote a few paragraphs. 

Unfortunately, I never had that second talk with Ryan Reynolds. 

I had struggled back and forth with myself if I should go into town that next night. I didn’t usually go two days in a row, but I’d already written 20 pages that day and felt like a drink was well deserved. However, the idea of talking about local town politics did not appeal to me. I thought if I went early, I’d probably miss him. Which was true, but not for the reasons I thought.

I was almost done with my beer, and had taken to drawing those S things I’d mastered in elementary school when I heard the door and the voice of Sheriff Madison. I peeked around the corner and saw two people with their backs to me. I didn’t recognize them, and realized I was acting like a nosey local, so I went back to my doodles. 

That was when I heard they were working on a podcast. Intrigued, I jotted down their names and the company they worked for. I’d have to wait until I was back home to try to connect to the internet to look them up. It would probably be a frustrating endeavor, but my interest was piqued for the first time outside my novel in the months I’d lived in Connor Creek. Why would anyone from the city cover the election in such a small town? There had to be more going on. Or maybe I was just creating something to get excited about. I sighed and tore the page, crumpled it up, and put it in my pocket. It was an old habit to put trash in my pocket, from years of don’t litter training pounded in my head. 

I tried to sneak out, but as soon as I got through the door, I heard someone scream.  I didn’t meet with Ryan again, because he was dead outside. I saw the podcast people come out and I watched as the town started to spill out around the scene. I walked home, feeling a bit numb. I had been avoiding him, and now he was dead. I don’t know why I felt guilty, but I did. 

On my way home, there was a crumpled paper white against the grass, dimly lit by the moon. Above the paper was a bush of white roses that made the paper stand out even more. I picked it up out of habit, but before I stuck it in my pocket I noticed print on it and opened it up. Ryan Reynolds’ face stared up at me from his campaign poster. I folded it and put it in my pocket. 

I logged online and started looking up information about the election, but as Ryan had suggested, it was impossible to find anything about him. And the town was hardly on the net. I’d have to go to the library, I decided, like it was the 90s again. I sighed and slumped back in my chair. Something in my pocket poked me and I took out the crumped piece of paper that said “Artemis and Paul” and “APN”. I typed the names into the search engine and drummed my thumbs as the search went through. It took a while to load them, but I started to listen to Artemis and Paul’s old podcasts, and found four hours had passed. I learned they were twins, and that Artemis was always digging into even the smallest stories for some meat, while Paul seemed happy with making puns and observations that always gave the stories a lively feel I enjoyed. 

Finally turning it off, I saw how late it was and almost got up from the computer when I thought more about Ryan Reynolds. I didn’t know much about the town and had become expert at avoiding hearing gossip, which was also easy as they were still weary of me - except for the Miner Mole owner Titus Makin. He’d been very welcoming, but he kind of reminded me of a snake. He mostly wanted to talk about city life since he knew that’s where I was from, but was very disappointed that I didn’t share his views that the town needed to grow more. I’d been at the bar (a mistake I stopped making soon after and started hiding in the shadows of the booths) when Titus had sat next to me and waxed on about progress. I said I moved to Connor Creek for a reason, and that reason was peace, quiet, and trees. That’s all I had wanted. Now that I thought about it, that was the night Desmond, the bartender, started to treat me like a regular. That suggested something that started to put other pieces into place. I looked up Miner Mole, and found some talk online about them changing the face of Connor Creek through the silver mines. The idea of the town changing rapidly didn’t appeal to me, as I’d left all of the behind for a reason, and I found a new appreciation for boredom at the worry that I would soon find myself in a bustling budding city. But what did this have to do with Ryan Reynolds' death? And why was there investigative podcasters here before he was even dead? 

Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye 30 Day Prompt

(This takes place around the second half of Episode 7)

Day #13 @30daysofwayward

(I do not own any other characters or place names outside of Shelby St. Ranger, this is just for fun)

 Sitting in the shadows, I realized there was not much I could do at this point. Staying and listening to the werewolves while they talked amongst themselves felt so much worse than listening to them talk to Artemis and Paul. Even though both should have equally bothered me, somehow hearing what they had to say when they were ready to share their story felt better than hearing what they had to say when they thought they were totally alone. That was, if they had failed to notice me. Which now that I thought about, seemed unlikely, if they had any wolf senses. I didn’t know quite how that worked, but I didn’t want to test that theory too hard. 

Feeling quite trapped, I developed a plan to free myself from the fear of being caught by making it seem like I had been somewhere else the entire time. I stuck my notebook away and quietly made my way to the bathroom. The door was already ajar, so I slipped quickly inside. Once there, I made sure to make it very clear I was in there. Water running, flushing a couple of times. I felt a bit of regret for the waste of water, as any Californian would, but I decided it was necessary to really hit home that I was in there, doing important bathroom things. I returned to my seat and tried to give off the air that I didn’t have any idea other people were in there; seeming surprised to see them with a nice exaggerated facial expression in Paul’s direction, though he didn’t really look at me. I made my way to the bar for another beer. I hadn’t heard anything, my face said, I was totally clueless to everything going on. I knew nothing about werewolves, my casual arm against the bar declared, and the people behind me were merely a small group of people enjoying a conversation I hadn’t heard one tiny shred of. No siree, I was an innocent little barfly. Don’t mind me. La de da de day. 

I went back to my seat, and I did not pull my notebook back out. Instead, I doodled with my pen on the napkin I had grabbed with my beer. A couple of those classic elementary school Ss, next to each other. My initials. I had always been so proud that my initials were cool shapes everyone was drawing. 

After a few minutes had passed and no reaction to my presence occurred, I decided my first real attempt at deception had worked. My great master plan to feel less trapped in the hole I had put myself in. I mean, if they had known I was there the whole time, they decided I wasn’t a threat, as they weren’t acting like I was one. So either way, I was fine, everything was fine. Except that Artemis was out there by herself and it was going to be dark sooner than later. 

I decided to put my beer in the corner with a coaster on top. Desmond wasn’t at the bar to let him know I had done so, but I had a feeling no one would take my spot. And it conveyed I was just running out for a moment. I took my bag with me.

I left without looking around or giving any indication about what I was doing. 

I was pretty sure I knew where Miner Mole was, so I didn’t need GPS this time. But I had a feeling going straight there would be bad. I decided to go a weird way, and cut through some trees, so I could sneak up and watch from the window and see how Artemis was doing before I started to throw myself into situations that didn’t concern me. I was an observer, I reminded myself. I was going to observe.

This was my plan anyway, 

Until I died.

I was right about to hit the road again from the little detour I’d made when my feet suddenly weren’t under me anymore and I raised my arms against the ground as it came up and everything went dark. And that’s when I was sure I was dead. 

It started as a tingle all over, and then a great pull inside of me as I felt I was falling even farther than the ground. And then there was a vastness of depth that stretched beyond me and everything around me melted into a sort of purple mush. I tried to reach out my hands, but I couldn’t see them in front of me even as I stretched and grasped at the air. The air. Breathing. I tried to breathe, but nothing happened. The panic that would normally turn my stomach and grip my chest merely floated away as a bright orange cloud. 

I tried to steady myself, or whatever I was, and concentrate. I tried to focus on where I had just been. Dead Canary, I thought to myself, Dead Canary, werewolves. 

I was back at the bar. But my body was sitting at the booth, and I was staring at myself.  Scribbling in my book as the werewolves spoke. I couldn’t hear them talking, but I knew from the words that spilled from my pen that they were. It was weird to see myself, like looking at a fun house mirror version of myself, but more subtle. My face was wrong, and I realized I was used to seeing it in the mirror. The bruises under my eyes added to the ridiculousness of my face being not-my-face. I couldn’t keep staring, it was making me feel ill in an entirely new way that had nothing to do with my stomach. I realized as I focused on Paul’s face at the other booth that I could go over to the other table. Artemis and Paul sat next to each other, across from Rita, Sybilus, and Helen. Sybilus was speaking earnestly, and I remembered his words about silver, and wondered if this was the part I was seeing. There had been other small things he had uttered that had a stutter in the center of them, but this was the string of words that he had said with conviction and, as Rita was about to mention, no stutter. I could really stare into all of the eyes around me, as if I was perched in the middle of the table and swiveling around like a lazy susan. I stopped at Paul’s face. I stared into his eyes.

I was staring into Paul’s eyes and when I turned I was staring into Prism’s living breathing face. I pulled back and saw that Prism was putting cards down. He must have been getting a reading. The first she laid down was death. Her mouth moved. I couldn’t hear anything, but Prism seemed to be reassuring Paul as he squirmed in his chair. Another card, death. She was uncomfortable now. Another card, another card - a wolf face started to show. Another, and another. 

Someone cast a shadow and they looked. I looked up and there was-

There was Ryan bleeding on the ground.

There was Barney. Faces swam around him. Panic was bright red in the room. 

I woke up on the forest floor.

Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye 30 Day Prompt

(This takes place around the second half of Episode 7)

Day #12 @30daysofwayward

(I do not own any other characters or place names outside of Shelby St. Ranger, this is just for fun)

I sat with my notebook open, doodling in the corner of a page as I contemplated my beer. Quinn came by and confirmed that there was a curfew, so my plan to stay at the Dead Canary made sense. I wanted to get more information about the town hall meeting, but he had some ideas for dinner and was all excited when I mentioned I didn’t care what it was; he could go all out. I was going slower on my beer as I zoned out staring at the ketchup and mustard bottle that stood up against the wall, bright and familiar while my mind was in such an unfamiliar place. It was nice to gaze on them as I pondered the existence of werewolves in a buzzed haze. It wasn’t even that late, and here I was, probably still concussed from my car accident and drinking away the disappointment that I might not figure out what was going on afterward. If only I knew more people in town, I would just be able to call them up and say “Let’s hang out, tell me about werewolves.” But Desmond had said that even if I was social, they wouldn’t trust me. This being a small town, and me being a city intruder. But I didn’t feel like a city intruder. I felt like a city escaper. And at least in this little corner within this little corner of the world, I felt welcomed and safe. 

As Desmond had predicted, people spilled into the Dead Canary not too long into my reverie. 

Peering carefully around as to not be seen, I recognized the person who gave me parking tickets my first week living in Connor Creek, whose name I was fairly certain was Helen. Rita, who I had guessed was a coroner considering I’d seen her the night Prism died, came in after her, and last was a man I had seen around, but hadn’t met. He was very well dressed and had an anachronistic air about him, like he’d been plucked out of a history book illustration. It was a strange mixture of people, as I was fairly certain I’d never seen them all together at once before. I let the shadows envelope me as they settled in another booth. I saw Helen go to the stairs to the rooms and wondered if she was going to talk to Artemis and Paul. They were, as far as I knew, the only ones up there. 

Because it was so odd to see them together, I started to write down their descriptions. I was about to put a big question mark for the man, when I heard Rita say “Now Sybilus” and I tried my best to spell it out instead. I wrote that Helen had gone to get Artemis and Paul, and that idea was confirmed shortly as they all came down. Artemis had the expression of someone who had smelled something funny and was about to find out what it was, while Paul looked both excited and afraid. I wondered what Helen had said to them to get them to come so quickly and with such an air of haste that they bustled by me without notice. They all sat down together. Quickly, I added their names and my thoughts of their expressions, which is why I can recall so readily now. 

What I expected them to talk about, I neglected to write down, so that is lost to time itself. What they actually talked about, left me stunned. 

“Off the record,” Helen’s voice, quiet but unmistakable, made its way to my ears, “the three of us are werewolves.” 

As the conversation went on, my suspicions that the werewolves were innocent were confirmed by their word, which I believed and so, apparently, did Artemis and Paul. At least these werewolves were innocent, I thought to myself, as they also confirmed that Paul was turning into a werewolf (or part werewolf?) and that meant a werewolf had attacked him. Which left who killed Prism to be less of a mystery than I was comfortable with. Were there more werewolves, working against the ones native to Connor Creek? Or just one rogue? Or was I totally off all together. All of these thoughts scribbled their way through my pen onto the page. 

Sybilus went on to mention something about silver that I had to hold in a squeal of delight in hearing. Finally, facts about silver and werewolves (or at least Connor Creek werewolves in particular): They depended on the silver deposits to keep them in control of their transformation, but too much would kill them. 

This made me more suspicious of Silas, Truman, and anyone else that was pro-silver mining. The fact that whoever was killing people was obviously framing the werewolves made it even more obvious that pro-silver mining equaled anti-werewolf. 

Artemis agreed with me, as she said my very thoughts out loud, giving me an eerie feeling of hearing my inside words on the outside simultaneously. She declared she was going to go question Silas, leaving Paul behind as he had a moment of independence that I noted was unusual from what I’d witnessed and heard about them always being together. I hadn’t written down much about what they’d said about his symptoms for his transformation to whatever mixture of werewolf and man he was becoming, but I do remember some of them were embarrassing to overhear which was the main reason I did not record them. It felt like overhearing a doctor’s visit. 

A thought struck me, as the conversation behind me took a halting awkward turn, that Artemis was going to confront Silas alone. I wondered if I could get up and follow her, or if that would make it obvious I had been listening. I decided to stay put for now, but the decision did not sit lightly within me. She was tough, certainly, but people were dying. 

Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye 30 Day Prompt

(This takes place around  Episode 5 )

Day #8 @30daysofwayward

(I do not own any other characters or place names outside of Shelby St. Ranger, this is just for fun)

The walk home felt longer than usual. I was still sore and every step reminded me that I was. When I hit the driveway I leaned on my mailbox and took a little break. I shook my head and wiggled my shoulders with a groan, and started to trek my way-too-freaking-long driveway.

 By the time I got home, I was desperately thirsty. I threw everything on the desk and lurched my way into the kitchen. I slammed a cup of water down my throat; leaning on the sink to keep me standing. It was the sweetest water I’d ever had and I took a shuddering breath with water dripping down my chin after I’d gulped it all down.

 I took a long, hot shower and when I got out I realized my keys were still in the door. Sans my car key. My car. I sighed and took the keys out and threw them onto my desk. 

I took more pain meds and drank two more glasses of water standing in just a towel. As I got dressed, I contemplated everything that had happened. The accident, the conversation with Desmond the night before, and even going to vote had all felt like a weird dream. But it wasn’t. 

I sat on my couch with a cup of coffee. The computer’s blank screen stared at me accusingly. I stuck my tongue out at it. I didn’t want to write. In fact, I wanted to go back down to the Dead Cannery. It was an urge I found alien, alarming, but I didn’t know how to fight it. My curiosity had grown so much that it was defying my usual patterns and pushing me to do what I usually only did when I had been secluded for days on end. I wanted to drink a beer, eat one of Quinn’s meals that left me orally confused, and, most importantly, find out more about what was going on. I didn’t know what Truman had done in the meeting she’d held. I didn’t know how the werewolf rumor was affecting the town. 

I had to know.

With my hair clean and brushed and in fresh clothes, even with the double black eyes, I felt better about being around people. I packed a small bag, with layers in case I walked back in the cold and an umbrella as dark clouds sat on the edges of the bright blue sky when I had poked my head out of the door to check the weather. Gone were the days where I’d look at the weather app on my phone. I also packed more pain killers as my headache was much like the clouds and sat on the edges of my temples, and my notebook with a couple of pens. I felt prepared for almost anything, except for what I actually found when I got there. 

The town was a curled fist of fear and anger. I noted the loudest and the angriest were the Irons family, who I knew only in passing, and I knew they worked for Miner Mole. There was someone who looked vaguely familiar yelling about a dinosaur egg, and new flyers up everywhere for a werewolf hunt. There were other faces that if I had been in other town I would’ve guessed were tourists, but I knew they were probably just people who never spent a lot of time in town and now found themselves shouting about werewolves with bulging eyeballs. It was all about the werewolves. 

Worst of all, I found out as his body was taken away, Odie Doty was dead. 

My mind raced as I sat in the shadows of my usual spot within the Dead Canary. I had my notebook open and I was furiously writing down everyone I had seen that wanted to kill the werewolves. 

Desmond brought me a beer. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“I know. I didn’t think I would be either.”

“Did you hear they’re going to take ore out of the silver mine?” “Was that what Truman had the vote on?”

He gave a somber nod and went back to the bar. 

I wrote that down, too. 

I then made a list of the names of the alleged victims of the werewolves.

Next to their names I wrote down what I knew about them:

Ryan Reynolds: Running for town council, against Miner Mole, wanted the town to stay the same.

Prism: ??? (I had only met her once,, but I had awkwardly declined a reading and had only seen her in passing after that)

Paul: Attempted murder - outsider, nosey, believes in werewolves.

Odie Doty: Mailman -

I held my pen over the paper. And then I wrote “Read everyone’s mail.” 

He must have read something. That was the only thing I could think of. Largely he came across as a harmless, positive guy. 

His body had been discovered during the day. And as far as I knew, he had died during the day. If werewolves could transform during the day, if werewolves weren’t bothered by silver- I hissed at my own thoughts. I was annoyed that this was all ifs and maybes. If werewolves really existed, was what we knew about them true as well? Or was I just basing it off of stereotypes? If I didn’t know what was real, how did I know if they were really being set up or not? All my evidence was flimsy and fueled by imagination and guilt. Yes, guilt. I had a lot of guilt swimming about in my belly with the beer that I was drinking way too fast. I pushed the glass a bit far so I’d have to reach across the table to grab it.

Quinn came back from a meeting at town hall and announced to the bar that he was no longer serving meat, in order to starve out any potential werewolves, but also that Barney Fletcher (it took me a moment to remember Barney and his egg, of course, the dinosaur egg guy) had died right in front of him. 

“It was horrible.” He said when I inquired further. “He was just bleeding everywhere and kept going on and on about his egg which, and I know eggs, was just a regular ol’ chicken egg. And then he even said “I could’ve told you did it just now” and then he died. It was ridiculous. And so sad.” He added the last part as an afterthought. 

“Are you too upset to cook me something? Whatever you feel like making?” I asked cautiously. 

“Too upset to cook? Who do you think I am. I’m working on some new meatless ideas, you know to starve out the werewolves, so I’ll get you something like that.” He paused and looked me over. “You’re not a werewolf right?” I was slightly taken aback, but then he smiled, and I smiled and laughed awkwardly. I went back to my table and wrote down what Quinn told me. I added Barney’s name to my list. And more question marks. Like Prism, I hardly knew Barney and the only connection he really had was his affection for the bizarre. He was an in your face kind of person and I tended to avoid him. Great, more guilt. I couldn’t just torture myself about avoiding people. When you avoid everyone, there are bound to be people you regret avoiding. Well, most people I avoided. I liked to interact with people in the Dead Canary because it felt safe and there tended to be very little happening, even when people got drunk they just kind of slouched into the wood grain and didn’t really do anything dramatic. Usually. 

I heard the bell ding and looked to see that it was Artemis and Paul. It looked like they were recording their podcast so I made sure to scoot further into the shadows. I looked at what I’d written down. I wondered if any of it would be useful, but I had a feeling they probably had more to tell me than I would to tell them. I didn’t want to talk to them though. Something about the microphone and the inquisitive and hyper energy of Paul, I just couldn’t find the energy to face that. I was a writer, I reminded myself, not a journalist. I didn’t seek out the story, I just made sure it was written down. I observed. That was my job. Unfortunately, I missed most of what they were saying in the midst of my inner struggle about socializing. Typical.

My food came just as they left. Quinn tilted his head to where they had been. “Those two, you know the town got mighty suspicious of them today and how as soon as they got here all this stuff started to happen.”

“So it must be the first time this kind of thing has happened then?”

“Well except for Aubrey and his father, no one else talks about werewolves. Before today that would be, well that would be silly.”

I tried to remember who Aubrey was. “But now it’s not silly?”

“No, because people are dying.”

“Was it the werewolves though?” “Who else could it be? Enjoy.”

Who else could it be was exactly what I was wondering as I stared at the bright green presumably edible contraption sitting on the plate before me.

Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye 30 Day Prompt

(This takes place around Episode 9)

Day #19 @30daysofwayward

(I do not own any other characters or place names outside of Shelby St. Ranger, this is just for fun)

TW: Violence/Descriptions of blood. 

I wriggled around in the bed that felt suddenly too cold and too hard, and then I wasn’t in bed anymore. I was lying in someone's yard. It was a quaint but perfectly painted white house with a picture perfect fence. However, outside of that was the start of a large wall made of river rocks. There were piles and piles of river rocks carefully stacked and waiting to be walled. 

I felt a pull and I was suddenly slammed into something that I later realized was my own body. 

I woke up on the ground, in the dark, outside. 

I realized I’d dreamed of going back to bed, and wondered if dreams had gotten tangled in whatever out-of-body experience I was repeating or if the whole thing had been a dream. But what was sticking out in my mind was Truman. The look in her eyes. 

As if invoked, I saw Truman walking by - not walking, marching, head forward, eyes glowing, white fur poking from her jacket. Everything settled into my mind. She was a werewolf. More importantly, she was a murderer. 

I started to run toward her, trying to take my necklace off again as I did so, but the tiny lock was impossible to open delicately while running. 

She saw me coming and screamed: “Another outsider!” and growling swiped at me, hitting my cheek and another swipe at my throat. She hit my collarbone and my necklace which made a sizzling sound as she screamed and ran toward the town hall. I felt the blood spilling down my collar as my legs failed me and I crawled to the base of a tree. 

I lay back against the bark, draped in shadow breathing hard. It wasn’t long before I saw four figures run by me. They didn’t see me in their haste, but I saw them. Artemis (I was relieved she was alive), Paul, Sheriff Madison, and-  my jaw dropped. Desmond was there, but there was something real hairy about his appearance. I could just make out the fur, not white like Truman’s, poking from his flannel shirt as they went by and the shine from his wolfed out eyes.

 I heard words as they sped by; Paul was saying that he could pretend to be loyal to Truman, since she’d turned him. That’s all I caught as they went by. That was enough. Paul had been scratched by Truman, and it had turned him after all. I had been scratched by Truman. 

If this wasn’t my business before, it was becoming my business, and it was entirely my own fault for wandering in the woods at night here in werewolf land. But it was too late to worry about that. 

I carefully removed the necklace from my now sticky throat, wrapped the chain around my fist again; confident now that it would do damage. I felt the slashes on my cheek and the scratch on my neck that would have certainly been a deadly blow if it hadn’t been for my necklace. The blood was already clotting, and it only stung a little. I guessed it was adrenaline, or werewolf magic? I didn’t know. Whatever it was, I was grateful for it. 

After a few more breaths, I slowly made my way to the town hall. I wasn’t sure if I could be any help, but I knew I could at least do what I was good at: watch. Which sounded less creepy in my head in the moment.

 Still hidden from them as I approached, I saw Paul tie something around Desmond’s wrists and push him inside. Artemis and Sheriff Madison followed shortly after, but more sneakily. 

By the time I got to the window, Artemis was holding a silver object over her head with Truman’s back to her. Something stopped her from hitting Truman, who suddenly noticed she was there and whirled to strike. I couldn’t hear what Desmond was saying, but it got Truman to turn around and launch herself at him.

I felt helpless as I watched Truman and Desmond growl and bat at each other. I saw Paul dimly glow purple as he tried to transform. My mind wanted to wander toward what the sticky wound on my face would mean for me later as it took in Paul’s attempts, but I pushed it away. I clutched the silver in my hand; I could still hold this. For now. 

How could I help? I grabbed my notebook out of my bag and wrote what I was seeing as detailed as I could: I mentioned the glowing eyes, the struggle and Madison pulling her gun-

Oh no. I stopped writing. I’d seen Madison shooting on my way to town before. I knew exactly how good a shot she was. I almost called out, but the shot rang out before my voice could. 

Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye 30 Day Prompt

(This takes place around Episode 6 )

Day #11 @30daysofwayward

(I do not own any other characters or place names outside of Shelby St. Ranger, this is just for fun)

I didn’t go straight back to the Dead Canary. I wanted to, after that much intrusion on someone I didn’t know very well. I wanted to go home, for that matter. But the Dead Canary was my closest escape hatch from being social. But instead, I decided to walk through town. I passed GPS and Wallis, assuring them that I both had found what I was looking for and knew where I was going. 

 I had to take a layer out of my bag and put it on as a chill started to cut into the air. I was grateful for my forward thinking this time. I would go from shop to shop, I decided. I would go and I would talk. I’d buy random things, and I’d gather information. If someone seemed rather chatty, I’d offer them a drink. I wasn’t questioning people, I was listening to people. Somehow this was a less intimidating prospect. Somehow it felt like a solid plan.

What I didn’t count on, was that most businesses were closed.

I passed the tiny market, closed; the tiny tourists shop, closed; and the butcher, closed. I hadn’t been to the butcher before, because I didn’t eat enough meat to justify it and also, something about a butcher kind of grossed me out. It definitely reminded me of where meat came from more than just picking up something at the market. Not something I was likely to admit readily, as it felt odd to be so divorced from where my food came from. Maybe I just shouldn’t eat meat, I thought, as I rounded the corner. I wondered if Quinn’s hypothesis about serving only vegetarian food would really actually point any werewolves out. If meat equaled werewolves, then was the owner of the butcher shop more likely to be one? 

This made me realize that I hadn’t even thought of making a list of suspect werewolves. Now that I thought about it, I’d rather make a list of suspect murderers anyway. That seemed more pressing than the werewolves. If they existed, if they’d been here for years, why try to seek them out? Unless I was somehow able to help them by finding them and talking to them, I didn’t see the point. I only wanted to know more about them to rule them out as killers; I wanted facts instead of all of the maybes and ifs I was carrying around in my notebook. But there was something deep within me that believed they were innocent. If they were real. Were they real? I was starting to really feel like they were. Regardless, the idea of them was becoming real in town, and that mattered more than if they really existed or not. 

Someone slinked by me and I got a whiff of what could only be described as musk. They backed up and their face brightened to a beaming smile. “I don’t know you. And I know everyone, and like I’ve tried to date everyone like I don’t care about gender or whatever and I am like totally feeling this layered look you have going. Do you like live here, are you a werewolf, are you interested in buying werewolf clothing?” The words came out like someone pulling scarves out of a magician. I shrank into myself as much as possible. They were wearing all black and a fuzzy black hat. I caught the word wolf on their clothing. After a break for air, they said: “I’m Donny. Who are you?”

“I’m Shelby.” 

“Are you single?”

I looked at the young face and made an assumption about the person before me. “I’m 32.” 

Their face fell. “Damn. Well if you know anyone that’s like around 17 that wants to date just like let me know and also let me know if you want new clothes because this is like all the rage right now.” And they walked off, simple as that. I thought about asking them more questions, but I did not want to engage their attention again. They did mention werewolves. But it didn’t feel like anything important. I figured I’d just write a quick note about it. 

I had trouble finding anyone out on the street outside of Donny, and most places were closed, so I went back to The Dead Canary; what little plan I had fallen apart by sheer lack of townsfolk out and about. Instead of buying someone else a beer to pick their brain, I bought myself a beer to console my failure. I sat back in my usual spot, and took my notebook out again. Desmond hadn’t asked me about my little adventure. He’d seemed to read my dejected attitude accurately and promptly had provided the beverage that I now stared at. 

I thought about what I’d heard Aubrey say. Why did he want werewolves to be real, but didn’t believe they were? That was explained easily enough, as his family was apparently steeped in werewolf lore, but had for so long been ignored. Had to be why he was so convinced it couldn’t be true. But if it was true, the vindication would run deep. 

I got an idea and asked Desmond if I could read the paper. He told me Henry had taken half with him to who knows where, but the other half, with the front page, was still around for me to read. I read the headline: Truman Sweeps Reynolds in Contested Town Counsel Race. I marveled at the typo, tempted to fix it with my pen, but ignoring the urge. The article talked about how many people had gone to vote, and as one of the 700 people I agreed that number sounded about right. The memory still felt odd in my head, like a fog had enveloped it. But I remembered there was too many people. 

There was another article asking where the river rocks had gone. I wondered if that meant anything, but pushed the thought away. I threw the newspaper aside. Nothing new. I couldn’t even read the whole article without the rest of the paper. 

“You may not want to walk home tonight.” Desmond said as I got another beer at the bar.

“Is there a curfew?”

“I haven’t heard of one yet, but everyone’s staying inside.”

“On account of werewolves?”

“On account of whatever is killing people.” 

“It hasn’t all been at night.”

“Even so.”

“Well, I can’t stay here again.”

“Why not?”

“Really?”

“Full rate this time.” 

I sighed. “That is only fair. Fine. Fine. But don’t get used to me being here all the time. I might as well drink myself silly and try not to worry about all of this nonsense.”

“You might want to stay relatively sober. I have a feeling you won’t be the only one in here tonight.”

I nodded. “You’re right. You’re brilliant, and you’re right.” 

  Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye 30 Day Prompt

(This takes place around Episode 6 )

Day #10 @30daysofwayward

(I do not own any other characters or place names outside of Shelby St. Ranger, this is just for fun)

 “You oughta ask GPS.” Desmond threw his towel over his shoulder.

“What?” I asked, wrapping my hand around the cold beer.

“Garmin Patrick Saget, GPS, he’s usually over with Wallis Gale. Surely you’ve seen them?” 

“Are they the two that sit over that way, with the hats?” I gestured. He nodded. “That’s not the way I usually go, but I have seen them sitting there an awful lot. GPS, and he knows where things are?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Technology these days.” Desmond frowned and I shrugged away the joke. I wondered if he understood the very pun he had told himself. I didn’t feel like explaining it to him. 

“Why do you want to go see Aubrey anyway?” 

I contemplated the harm in letting Desmond in on what I was searching for. In the pause that he saw me take a long sip of beer, I rolled around in my mind his likelihood of being a werewolf. Even if he was, I just couldn’t picture him being a bad person. So I swallowed the beer, and risked it. “I heard he knows about werewolves.”

“Ah.” He shook his head. “I don’t know about that.”

“No? His father then”

“His great-grandfather.” He corrected me. “We all know about that and the stories he used to tell.” 

“Right. But naturally his family listened to those stories?”

“Maybe. Still, don’t you think that’s taking this whole werewolf thing a little far?”

“You don’t believe it.”

He looked at me. “You do?”

I scratched my head. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. It’s like there’s two sides at war inside of me, the logical and the imagination. I know what I’ve seen, and I know what I’ve heard about. I could be mistaken, and they could be mistaken. But there’s too much empty space there for maybes. But even if they do exist, I am not convinced they’re guilty of murder.” 

“No?”

“No. Just because someone is holding a gun, doesn’t mean they’ve fired it. I don’t think judging a group of individuals before you even know for sure they exist, nevermind what their intentions are, is fair at all. People are scared of what they don’t understand. So of course there’s panic. I am more worried about the damage the panic will cause than the threat of the werewolves.” 

“Well said. You’re a writer, right?”

“Correct.”

“You’re used to making stuff up and having things go your way.”

I frowned. “I guess.”

“Just be careful. This is real life. You might be walking into something you don’t understand, however pure your intentions might be.”

I tilted my head. “Do you know something about this Desmond?”

He shook his head. “I know people. And you’re right, when they panic, they get down right mean. And these people, they don’t know you. You might as well be a stranger.” 

I flinched. “I’m not very good at socializing.”

“You’re new here. It wouldn’t matter if you were the life of the party, it wouldn't matter if you were the mayor’s best friend. They don’t know you.”

“They don’t know each other either.” “Pardon?”

“If they aren’t turning on each other already, they will soon. The idea of a werewolf is a person who turns into a wolf, unless - which is very likely - the movies are wrong and they just stay wolves all the time which...which opens a whole other possibility. But if they are people during the day, presumably, they’re people who have lived here for years.”

“How do you figure they’re not new people.” “Like me?”

“The siblings, Artemis and Paul. The podcasters.” He threw it out there with a small nod to what had once been a humorous moment between us, but it was like hearing an echo a week after speaking into a cave and didn’t hit me the same way.

“They aren’t the killers. They could be the werewolves. But from what I’ve pieced together, they couldn’t be the killers. Probably. And because of the lore that I’ve seen hints of, werewolves in Connor Creek is not a foreign concept. It’s far more likely that we’re dealing with locals.”

“You’ve got quite the brain.”

“Do I? I feel like I’m chasing my own tail sometimes. I just want to make sure no one innocent gets hurt.” I paused. “Noone else innocent, that is.” I grimaced. 

“You’re taking on a lot that isn’t yours.” He observed.

I drank another deep sip. This whole ordeal was making me drink a lot more. “All I’m doing is observing.” I said finally. “That’s all it is. Just writing down what I see and what I hear. If it helps, it helps. If it just fades away into the background and I go back to my book and just write about vikings beating each other up.” 

“That’s what you write about?”

“Yes. I’ve always liked humans in extreme situations. In high school I wrote horror stories about spiders coming out of ear canals and other fun things like that. I try not to give so many nightmares now.” 

He nodded. “Will you publish whatever it is you write here?”

“Publish it?” The thought hadn’t really occurred to me. “Desmond, if I write any of this down, it’s just to make sure the truth is found. I’m not trying to get a story out of this.”

“Try or not, you’re recording it.”

“I’ll burn it.” I promised. “Once everything is all over, it’s gone. I just need to keep track of everything.” 

“If you could prove werewolves existed, you’d just get rid of any evidence of that?”

“Of course.” I shook my head. “If they’re hurting people, that’s a whole other situation. But again, I don’t think they are. All I want is the town to go back to the quiet place it was before. This isn’t good for my book writing, honestly.” Desmond cleaned a glass and just the hint of a smile hit his face. 

I found GPS and Wallis eager to give me directions. “Aubrey? Sure!” Wallis’ chipper attitude propelled him toward GPS who whispered in his ear. “That way!” He said, describing Aubrey’s residence to me in detail so I’d know what to find. I thanked them both and GPS smiled at me from under his hat that took up most of his face. Although they’d been overly eager, I liked them better than other outgoing people I’d met recently. I didn’t feel as trespassed in my introversion, so to speak. 

Trespassing on other people’s introversion seemed to be my accidental next choice, though, as was obvious when I knocked on Aubrey’s door.

“Who is it?” He called through the door. 

“Aubrey Dockweiler?” I asked.

“Who wants to know?” He voice had a hint of shrillness like I hadn’t been the first person knocking on his door. 

Just the sound of it made me start with an apology. “I’m sorry, my name is Shelby. I’m fairly new to town.” “Yes, yes, I remember you. What do you want?”

“I just had some questions-

“No. There’s been enough for today.” I was not good at this. “Of course you have. I’m sorry. I hope you have a nice evening Aubrey.” I turned to leave when the door opened behind me and I turned.