I dream of shapeshifting. I long to be able to change how I look to suit my whims and to suit the person I am inside. I dream of not being trapped in this body that doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. My skin hurts in a way I can’t explain, if I look in the mirror it only hurts more, if I speak my ears bleed. I want to be free.

“To Seamus!” all the Irish diaspora who were drinking their heavy, dark Guinness stouts and green colored beers on Saint Patrick’s Day at The Blarney Stone Pub, located somewhere in the West 30s neighborhood within the canyons of New York City, loudly toasted. “To Seamus O’Malley and his sorry Saint Patrick's Day snake bitten arse!” another patron of the pub proclaimed and which elicited gales of laughter from the other Gaelic guzzlers packed wall-to-wall inside The Blarney Stone.

“To me sorry Saint Patrick's Day snake bitten arse!” O’Malley chimed in as he raised his pint of green lager toward the crowd.

“Seamus, tell us the tale again, lad. Tell us again how ye managed to get ye arse bit on Saint Patrick's Day in a manky Irish airport, nonetheless,” demanded the heavyset, handlebar mustachioed barkeep.

Drawing a long sip from a cool glass of beer held firmly in hand before recanting the now legendary saga that he’d retold time and time again on Saint Patrick's Day for the last dozen or so years since his arrival in America, O’Malley prepared himself for what had now become an annual ritual. America, which could hardly be called the New World any longer, was where he and his wife, Maggie, now called home. What began as a sip ended as a gulp as he drained the last of the bitter green draft from the vessel in which it had, mere moments before, been filled up to the brim. Clearing his throat and then pausing for several seconds in order to create a dramatic effect, Seamus O’Malley launched into the retelling.

“Well, lads and lasses, as ye all know, way back somewhere about the 4th or 5th-century, our country’s patron saint, Saint Patrick, came into, then passed out of this world. ’Tis believed he had been born in what was then known as Roman Britain and that while a teenager was kidnapped by Irish raiders as the moon looked down, high above in the sky like a watchful eye, and carried off as a slave to our beloved Emerald Isle. ‘Twas there he worked for six years or thereabout, as a shepherd, and ’twas during that time he found, or some say was found by, God. God told Patrick to run away to the coast, as a ship would be awaiting him and take the sheepish lad back home, and whereupon his return, in gratitude, he entered the priesthood.

“Now according to the Declaration, which others have said was written by none other than Saint Patrick himself, the young priest returned to Ireland so as to convert our pagan Paddy arses to Christianity. ’Twas there that he and his converted went head-to-head against the druids, driving them from power. Over the years the tale itself was converted into an Eire allegory of how he drove “the snakes” from our island, albeit the fact that a viper of any kind had never been known to actually inhabit that region of the world.”

“Get to the good part about how one bit your Hibernian arse, already!” some fellow drinker implored.

By this time the barkeep had set another pint of lager before O’Malley as he continued. “One of the first lines of employment I undertook, as I was wee a bit of a chancer in those days, and prior to arriving in this country, was working security at Dublin Airport in North County Dublin, near Swords which was slightly outside The Pale.” And in response to a mention of those locations murmurs of several ex-patriots could be heard roiling throughout the over-packed saloon in an affirmation of nostalgic recognition.

“Aye, I worked for a spell in one of the two terminals there. Anyway, what I’m about to tell ye all ended up being, as it were, me last day on that job, which coincidentally occurred on Saint Patrick's Day. I’d gotten a call through me walkie-talkie thingamabob to head down to the baggage sorting area office and investigate a mysterious situation. There, one of the baggage handlers, some Indonesian bloke, had already set a large canvas suitcase on a table, and the first thing I noticed is it appeared as if something was moving about and writhing within. So, I asked the handler what the bloody hell was that and was told that was what I was sent there to find out.

“Well, I don’t know what I expected, other than to do what I was told, so I put on me latex gloves then slowly unzipped it open. Now before I even had that suit bag all the way opens this large green snake’s head slithers out, takes an angry gander me way, and hisses at me like some noisy, broken radiator spitting out steam in the middle of winter. Now it was still early on in the day so I was as sober as a judge. But I imagined if I’d a’ had a few in me already and was fully fluthered I’d a’ stood me ground and stared him down. But that not being the case I turned about to get away as fast as I could from the viper. A’ fore I got more than a step away from it I felt a sharp pain in one of me buttocks at first, ‘twas the right one if yous need to know, and then something like some kinda heavy weight was thrashing about off me arse cheek. He’d a’ sunk his fangs into it, then was a’ holding on to it for dear life, and the bugger wasn’t about to let go.

“Me? I thought I was a’ dying so was a’ screaming at the top of me lungs for help when that baggage handler grabbed that cold-blooded creature by its head, squeezing the sides until it opened its jaws and let go of me rear. Still holding the beast’s head with one hand the handler grabbed its tail with his other, calmly walked it over to a recently emptied dumpster, and tossed the serpent into it, then said, ‘Don’t worry, mate, it’s just a lil ol’ green tree python. She not poisonous—they even make nice pets if you like that kind of company’. Crikey, little? —that constrictor was at least two meters long—it turns out the ‘he’ was a ‘she’ about to lay a clutch of her eggs and give birth to more little eejit monsters of her kind. What a holy show!

“So anyway, one of the DUB airport managers takes me in his car to the nearest hospital, telling me all along the drive to try not to get any of me blood on his upholstery, where they examine me gluteus maximus, clean the wound, bandage me up, and then give me some tetanus shots and a few aspirins for good measure. On the ride back to DUB the manager tells me as long as I sign some form absolving and indemnifying the airport and the entire city of Dublinfrom any responsibility, they’ll give me a very generous severance package and I needn’t return to work there ever again. Blimey, it ’twas over a year’s full pay and some other goodies, so how could I say no? The Devil be damned, I took that money to get Maggie and me over here to the USA.”

At that point, everyone in the pub raised their glasses as they chanted, “USA, USA, USA…”

Once things had quieted down again one of the barmaids working at The Blarney Stone, who he believed was named Siobhan, approached him to ask, “If ye don’t mind me asking, do ye know whatever happened to that poor mama snake?”

“Aye, lass, I do indeed. I heard that that baggage handler fished it from the dumpster at the end of his shift and took it home along with him.”

“Now why would he do that? Did he keep it as a pet, did he?”

“Pet? Well, no lass, I heard he cut off the head, cooked it up, and served it up along with some fava beans and a fine Chianti for a family dinner that night. Someone even told me once, though they may have been slagging me, that in some countries snake meat is a delicacy. But what do I know? I’m not some kinda fecking herpetologist, am I, darling?”

The barmaid stared back at him in wide-eyed horror as she backed slowly and silently away. O’Malley was pretty sure if she’d been a snake, like that green tree python, she’d a’ either sunk her fangs into his neck or constricted her body around his to squeeze the life out of him. But he really didn’t know for sure, now did he now? What Seamus did know was as sure as he’d be surely attending Sunday mass with his Maggie this weekend, is that for the remainder of that Saint Patrick's Day night, Siobhan the barmaid did not meet his gaze again and completely ignored Seamus O’Malley every time he tried in vain to catch her eye and order another round. So, boyo, what must a knackered, thirsty chap do in order to get ossified here in the New World on the tail end of the Feast of Saint Patrick, he wondered to himself?

My fantasy is born of a recurring dream.

I stand at the edge of a cliff—farther than the edge as my toes grasp at nothing.

My brother stands to my left, grinning in that infectious manner of his.

My best friend stands to my right, giggling and pointing out at the sun.

I stare out at that burning ball of red, chopped in half by the horizon’s line. I feel joy in the purest sense of it that there is. So pure and bursting that not even the smallest child with his first taste of candy can compare.

My brother takes my hand in his and holds it tight. “Come on, before it disappears!” My friend grabs my other hand and squeezes it. She takes a step forward and falls off the cliff. Linked by our hands, I’m pulled down after her and my brother after me. But still, we smile, joy soaring to its climax as we laugh and scream. It was almost… musical.

I feel it then, something grabbing me from behind. It stopped my fall. Their hands slipped from mine and they continued to fall. Their laughter never ceased, only grew quieter and quieter until my ears could no longer hear them. They never stopped falling, they only got smaller and smaller until I could no longer see them. Our symphony of music faded into the shadows and everything went still.

I raise my head and stare out at the burning sun.

Most things people fantasize about have two feet. However, mine have four. Four feet and so many beans. To be picked worthy enough to have those beans pressing against my legs and stomach would be amazing. So many beans pitter patting through the halls, making the softest sounds ever. Fur as soft as silk rubbing against legs and pushing against hands. A scream so long and loud it makes it impossible not to mimic. A purr so loud it sounds like a boat. All of these make up what I presume to be the only purrfect fantasy.

I fantasize about this synopsis landing me a book deal for my YA novel.

Evelyn Wells is a teenage wallflower from Cody, Wyoming. She’s not used to getting any kind of attention, but the development of her bust and hips are beginning to get her some.

The new school principal, Arthur Evans, isn’t the only newbie in town. The entire school is buzzing about the appearance of his twin children, Blaire and Dominic. Everyone has eyes for them, but Dominic only has eyes for Evelyn.

Dominic extends an invitation to Evelyn and her two best friends to attend Austin Ford’s party. At the party, the love birds get split up. Austin offers Evelyn help in finding Dominic, but rather than offer her support, he attacks her.

Mid-attack Evelyn’s boiling blood and fight-or-flight response triggers an otherworldly transformation. She morphs into a monstrous wolf, enabling her to fend off her aggressor.

The following days, Evelyn rummages through her late mother’s possessions to understand what’s happening to her. Clues lead her to Osprey Falls, where she meets a witch, Lanelle, who is an ally and a friend to the wolves.

Before she can learn too much, Lanelle gets a vision of danger headed for Evelyn and demands she run straight home. That’s when a tracker from The Forge captures Evelyn and ships her off to the lab. In and out of consciousness, Evelyn is brutally beaten to heal members of The Forge.

Shelby Adley, one of the cocktail waitresses from The Forge lounge, aids Evelyn’s escape. Evelyn learns that Shelby is an undercover wolf and a friend of her mother’s. Under the condition she walks away from the shapeshifting world, Evelyn learns all about The Forge and her mother’s hidden past.

Evelyn begins to get back into the swing of a normal life, when Shelby shows up to inform her that her mother, Nora, is in fact alive. The Forge had staged Nora’s death and had been keeping her prisoner. Shelby and Evelyn join forces and devise a plan that includes Lanelle and magic.

Lanelle summons wolves from the surrounding area with the reigning moonstone. Evelyn is shocked to see many familiar faces, including Blaire, Dominic’s sister. The wolves agree to unite and to break Nora free from the grasp of elitists from The Forge, where the girls learn Blaire and Dominic’s father is the mastermind behind the entire operation.

After the pack rescues Nora, they have to prepare themselves for their next battle. Arthur has fled Wyoming with the twins’ mother with intentions of using her for wolf research and treatments.

The injured wolves pull strings to find his location and travel to Helena, Montana. There, they meet a local pack full of colorful characters. The two packs unify to free the imprisoned wolves. Arthur puts a wrinkle in their plan by injecting Dominic with an unknown elixir that transforms him into a vampire.

Blaire pulls the trigger of an antique gun, killing her father. The pack stands behind Dominic, who needs to come to terms with the life changing events his father initiated. Evelyn and the other wolves welcome him into their family of supernaturals.