Chapter 11 Stone #2
I step into the center, feeling every eye land heavy on my skin. The doctored clip plays in my memory, my face twisted into something I'm not, and I have to shove it down, swallow the fear that this will just give them more ammunition.
"Thank you for coming." My voice booms too loud in the small space, and I dial it back, aiming for something human-friendly without losing myself. "I'm Stone. I write bad poetry and cook decent food and I broke Lacy's awning the first day I got to this city."
A few chuckles. Not many.
"I've been thinking a lot about stories lately.
How they get told, who tells them, what gets cut out to make them fit a shape someone already decided on.
" I hold up one of the chapbooks, the clear cover catching light.
"This is my story. Not edited, not made scary or safe or convenient.
Just what it's like to be orc in a human place, to fall in love across a gap people keep insisting is too wide to bridge. "
I open to a poem I wrote the night after our first time together, when I could still feel her skin against mine and didn't have words big enough for the feeling. "This one's called 'Learning Gentle.'"
The words come halting at first, self-conscious about the clumsy rhymes and obvious sentiment. But I push through, reading about wanting to touch without breaking, about discovering tenderness isn't weakness, about how her laugh sounds like permission to belong.
When I finish, silence holds for a long beat.
Then Aunt Rene starts clapping, slow and deliberate, and others join until the sound fills the space with something close to approval.
"We have other readers tonight," I continue, emboldened. "Orc and human both, sharing food and stories because that's what people do when they're not being scared of each other."
Mara steps forward with her drum, settling it between her knees.
She taps out a rhythm, low and steady, then begins a traditional orc tale about the first bridge, the one built between mountain clans who'd warred for generations.
Her voice carries the sing-song cadence of the old language mixed with human words, a bridge itself.
People lean in, listening.
A human woman reads next, a teacher who talks about her orc students and how they've taught her patience, how their directness cuts through polite evasion in ways that help everyone learn better.
More follow. Stories and poems and one orc man who just talks about missing his homeland while building something new here, his voice cracking with honest emotion that needs no polish.
Between readers, people drift to the food tables.
I watch humans try the berry bread, their expressions shifting from cautious to surprised-pleased.
Conversations start, awkward at first but warming, orcs and humans finding common ground in complaints about city transit and the weird spring weather.
Lacy reads last, choosing not a poem but a passage from that pulp fantasy she loves, the part where the orc warrior and human scholar finally admit they're stronger together than apart.
Her voice steadies as she goes, and when she looks up, she finds me in the crowd, her smile private despite the audience.
By nine, the room's packed beyond fire code, people standing in corners and spilling into the bookstore proper. Someone starts buying chapbooks, then others, until the stack dwindles to nothing and I'm scribbling IOUs for print orders.
A journalist from the city paper approaches, the one who's been fair in past coverage. "Can I ask you a few questions?"
"Sure."
"The viral clip showed you as aggressive, potentially dangerous. How do you respond?"
I consider my words careful. "I respond by being here.
By showing what I actually am instead of letting a three-second edit define me.
I'm big, yeah, and orc, and sometimes I'm loud because that's how I was raised.
But I'm also someone who loves books and bad puns and a woman who took a chance on me when she didn't have to.
People can decide which story fits better. "
She scribbles notes, nods. "And the program? You think events like this can save it?"
"I think people fear what they don't know. So we're making ourselves known. Really known, not the edited version. Whether that saves anything, I guess we'll see."
More questions, more photos. Tess orchestrates with practiced ease, making sure the coverage captures the full scope: mixed crowds, genuine smiles, orcs and humans sharing space without catastrophe.
Near eleven, people start drifting toward exits, calling thanks and promises to return. The bookstore empties slow, leaving just the core crew and the pleasant debris of a successful gathering.
Lacy collapses into a chair, exhausted but glowing. "We sold out of chapbooks."
"And all the berry bread," Darius adds. "Mara's already got orders for catering."
Tess scrolls her phone. "Early social media looks good. Real good. People posting about the event, sharing photos, counteracting the clip with actual context."
I sink down beside Lacy, taking her hand. My heart's still racing, adrenaline and relief mixing into something almost euphoric. "Think it worked?"
"Won't know for sure until the council decides." She leans against my shoulder, her weight slight but grounding. "But yeah. I think it worked."
Aunt Rene clears her throat. "I'm heading out. But Stone? That poem about the awning? The one where you compared my niece to sunlight through dust?"
I cringe. "Yeah?"
"Terrible rhyme scheme. But sweet. You keep being sweet." She pats my arm, her hand tiny against my bicep. "Sweet's what breaks through when nothing else can."
After cleanup, after everyone leaves, Lacy and I stand in the bookstore, string lights still glowing soft overhead. The space smells like orc spices and human coffee, the blend strange and right.
"You did good tonight," she says.
"We did good."
She turns in my arms, her hands sliding up my chest to link behind my neck. "When this is over, when we've won or lost or whatever happens, I need you to know something."
"What?"
"This, us, tonight. It's already worth it. Whatever comes next, I don't regret any of it."
I kiss her then, slow and deep, tasting the promise in her words. Tomorrow brings council decisions and potential consequences, but right now there's just this: the woman I love, the story we're writing together, and the stubborn hope that truth triumphs over fear.
The bank balance on my phone makes my stomach clench. Three thousand dollars left from what I've saved over two years of careful living, half-paychecks stacked into safety. I read the number, then at the van rental estimate Darius pulled up, then back at the number.
"You're sure about this?" Darius leans against my kitchen counter, eating my leftovers without asking, as usual. "That's your emergency fund."
"This is an emergency." I tap through the rental booking, fingers too big for the form fields, backspacing and retyping. "One night got people talking. We need to keep talking, louder."
"The council votes in two weeks. You really think a food truck and some readings will change minds that decided?"
"Blair's donor hasn't decided. You said he showed up last night but left early. That means he's watching." I hit confirm before I can second-guess, watching my savings drop by eight hundred dollars for a week-long van rental. "We give him something to see."
Darius swallows, sets down the container. "You're betting everything on a maybe."
"I'm betting on us being worth knowing. That's not a maybe."
The van I pick up the next morning is ancient, white paneling rusted at the seams, the engine coughing like it's got opinions about the whole venture. But it runs, and the back holds equipment when I fold down the seats, and that's enough.
Mara commits her commercial kitchen for prep work.
I drain another thousand buying supplies: bulk flour, seasonal vegetables from the orc farming collective two hours north, spices shipped from the homeland at prices that make me wince.
Darius loans me his sound system, the good one he uses for enclave gatherings, refusing payment.
"You're family," he says when I try to insist. "Family doesn't charge."
I nearly hug him. Settle for a shoulder clasp that makes him grunt.
Five days. Five locations across the city, each one chosen strategic: the business district at lunch, the university quad mid-afternoon, the park near City Hall at dinner, the weekend farmer's market, the final night back at Lacy's bookstore for a closing celebration.
Lacy helps me map it out, her practical mind filling gaps my enthusiasm leaves. "You'll need permits for food service."
"Already filed. Tess knows someone who rushed the approval."
"And contingency plans if crowds get hostile?"
"Darius is recruiting volunteers for each location. Mixed groups, orc and human, so it's clear we're united." I spread ingredients across her kitchen table, prepping what I can in advance. "We'll have first aid, de-escalation training, and if it gets bad, we pack and leave. No heroes."
She watches me work, chopping vegetables with the easy rhythm of practice. "You've thought this through."
"I've thought about everything except what happens if I fail." The knife stills in my hand. "If this doesn't work, I'm out of money and ideas."
"Then we'll figure out new ideas." She covers my hand with hers, stilling the anxious energy. "But I don't think you'll fail. I've seen you win people over with bad poetry and breakfast. Actual good food? You're unstoppable."
I want to believe her. Pull her close instead, burying my face in her hair, breathing in the certainty she carries so much easier than I do.
Day one, the business district.