Postmarked for Beasts: Part 1

A cozy fantasy for the animal lovers

It was just another Tuesday morning on Willow Way, a cobbled little lane where the air smelled faintly of ginger and spell residue. The postman, wrapped in his usual satchel and sun-faded cap, whistled quietly to himself as he strolled up to The Brewtal Truth, a squat building made of red brick and held together by creeping ivy. The postman scrunched his nose at the smell wafting from the shop, a familiar combination of mint, mushrooms, and moral ambiguity.

He handed off a wax paper wrapped parcel to Sam Salamance, the surly, bespectacled proprietor whose tattoo changed phrases when no one was looking. They exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather and the local raccoon politics, then the postman tipped his cap and stepped back out onto the cobbled lane.

As he walked, he rifled through his satchel for the next delivery and paused when his fingers brushed a familiar texture. One of the parcels was slightly creased and the label smudged—likely from shuffling or a letter mite’s mischief. He squinted. 548 W. That number belonged to the next shop over: Barnaby’s Beasts. The postman smiled. He’d loved that place as a child, had spent more than a few summer afternoons curled up beside the moonmice, their tiny star-speckled fur tickling his arms as they dreamed in tandem. He had even once been dared to pet a drizzlecat and survived with all his fingers.

He knocked once on the familiar pale green door then gently set the parcel on the welcome mat, the twine bow still snug. He paused a moment, half-expecting to hear the flutter of teacup drakes from inside. Then, satisfied, he turned and continued down the lane, whistling again as he strolled toward Fables, Fortunes, and Further, where Lucille Lightfeather would be waiting for her weekly bundle of sage and scandal.

The knock stirred Barnaby Bumblebrook from his nap. He had dozed off behind the register, still cradling the young dustbunny he’d been hand-feeding the night before. Blinking awake, he looked down at his palm and sighed. He must’ve sneezed in his sleep. Where once there’d been one dustbunny, there were now six, all blinking up at him expectantly. One happily chewing on the hem of his stained robe.

Grinning despite himself, Barnaby rose and shuffled over to the pen. He gently set the newcomers among their kin, who immediately began rolling about in the dust, somehow fluffing their already fluffy gray coats to even more impressive proportions.

As he turned back toward the front of the shop, Barnaby paused for a moment, letting his gaze drift. At this hour, the sun filtered through the leaded glass windows in warm slats, painting golden stripes across the floorboards and the backs of sleeping creatures. He heard the low, rhythmic glubs of the pond toads in their barrel, the wheezy chirps of a chorus snail waking from its mossy nap, the soft thump of a wing against a cage as a teacup drake adjusted in its sleep.

This was why he had built the shop in the first place.

Barnaby had always felt a certain pull toward magical creatures. Even as a boy, he’d spent more time whispering to stump spirits and leaving treats out for grumble grubs than playing with other children. He didn’t just care for beasts. He understood them. Their moods, their hunger, their warbled little cries for space or attention or a particular kind of moss. Some folks had green thumbs. Barnaby had a beast bonded heart.

So when he stumbled across the crooked old building at the corner of Willow Way forty-nine years ago, it didn’t matter that it was falling apart. It didn’t matter broken glass littered the floors like snowdrifts, or the walls had scorch marks and potion burn holes. Or that dust mites napped in the rafters. To Barnaby, a twenty-three year old wizard fresh out of university, it was humming. Waiting. A shell of a place that just needed someone to believe in it. So, armed with nothing but a broom, a cage of sniffling pixies, and a stubborn dream, he swept and cleaned and patched and painted until it finally resembled a shop.

Then one morning, he placed a hand painted OPEN sign in the window, stepped back, and smiled. This was just the beginning for him.

But it was not the opening he had hoped for.

The first week was a parade of flashy robes and loud voices. Wizards and witches with fat coin purses strutted around the shop. They tapped glass, poked snouts, muttered about rarity and resale value. One leaned in too close to the muskrat enclosure and grunted.

“Hey, what kind of musk do your muskrats produce?” He was a wide-set man who smelled of ale and wickedness. “I need one that gives off cedar. For a new brew I’m working on.”

Barnaby stiffened. The muskrat let out a nervous squeak, pressing its paws against the cage.

“Cedar? Well this one is cedar-forward, with a hint of judgment. But he’s unionized now, and they’ve got strong opinions about being boiled.”

The wizard scoffed. “You talk like it matters what the thing wants.”

Barnaby didn’t bother looking at the wizard. He reached into the enclosure instead, offering the muskrat a soft pat between the ears.

“Muskrats make wonderful companions,” he said, voice calm but laced with disdain. “They don’t demand much. Just a little food, a little patience, and a firm preference not to end up as soup.” He finally looked up, assessing the wizard. “You, on the other hand, are a bit harder to market.”

The wizard opened his mouth again, but Barnaby was already summoning the broom from behind the counter with a flick of his fingers. It zipped to his hand with a satisfying thwap.

“Right,” he said flatly, “Time to tidy up, don’t you think?

And with swift, practiced indignation, he began ushering the man backward. Each sweep less about tidying and more about banishment. The man sputtered as dust swirled up around him, robes flapping like startled birds.

“The nerve,” the wizard muttered as he stumbled over the threshold, swiping dust from his robes. “You’ll regret this, you grubhugger.”

“Only if you come back,” Barnaby called, already turning to tend the next enclosure.

He lasted three more days before doing the same to half a dozen others.

Then, one quiet morning, the bell above the door chimed softly, and a young witch stepped inside.

She was a timid thing, wrapped in layers of black lace and velvet, rings stacked on every finger, a star-shaped pendant swinging at her chest. Her eyes were full of shadows and wonder.

She wandered the aisles in silence, fingertips brushing the tops of cages, trailing faint sparks of magic in her wake. When she reached the void kitten enclosure, she stopped. A tiny gasp slipped out. A tiny sound full of awe and a flicker of fear.

Barnaby smiled and stepped toward her.

“Hello, miss,” he said kindly. “Interested in a void kitten?”

She fidgeted with her pendant, not meeting his eyes. “Aren’t they cursed?”

“Oh no,” Barnaby said, opening the cage. He lifted one of the kittens into his arms, cradling it gently as it nuzzled into his beard and purred. “That’s a common misunderstanding. They’re attuned to the veil, yes, but that doesn’t make them cursed. Just… sensitive to what lies beyond.”

The girl’s expression softened. Slowly, she reached out and scratched the kitten behind the ears. It leaned into her touch. A sudden shimmer of golden magic flared between them, threadlike and glowing.

Both of them startled.

Then Barnaby laughed softly, eyes crinkling. “Well. Looks like she’s chosen you.”

And in that moment, watching the golden threads glow and settle like sunlight in the girl’s palm, Barnaby felt it again, that quiet certainty. That he was exactly where he was meant to be. That first sale was the start of something better. That this strange little shop, with its teacup drakes and moonmice and opinionated muskrats, had found its rhythm. That he wasn’t alone in believing there was a better way.

And it was exactly what he had been doing for forty-nine years all his own. Over time, he saw less and less of those people who were only interested in beasts for components. In their place came families, curious students, and caretakers with soft hearts. Adoption after adoption, day after day, Barnaby had grown a deep and abiding peace in his soul. That is until recently.

Barnaby had a nagging question digging its claws into his mind. He felt it in the creak of his knees every time he bent over to clean the snickerfrog’s pen and the ache in his hands when he groomed the mothcats. He was getting old, and he worried about what would happen to the beasts and his shop after he was gone. Who would know that the moonmice liked lullabies in F-sharp? Who would trim the chimera’s horns without hurting her pride? Who would remember that the mimic in the broom closet only bites if you lie? Barnaby tried not to dwell on it for long. After all, the creatures needed to be fed, the pens needed to be cleaned, and someone had to keep the bogbats from stealing the drake eggs again. But at night, when he was finishing up work for the day, the floorboards groaning underfoot, the thought would creep slowly back into his mind. He didn’t fear death, not really. But he feared leaving them alone. Or worse yet, he feared their fate if an unsavory wizard laid claim to them all.

Barnaby shook the thought from his head. Pushing the half-moon spectacles up on his nose, he checked the clock above the door. A quarter past seven! He waved his hand and the sign in the window flipped over to OPEN. Then he walked to the front door to check on his Pipweed potted on either side of his front door. That’s when Barnaby noticed the brown package on his doormat. He looked at the box curiously. He couldn’t place the last time he put in for supplies, so he shrugged.

“Oh, Barnaby, you forgetful old toad,” he chuckled, stooping to pick up the package. “Those thoughtmoths must’ve gnawed on that memory last week when I fed them.”

Barnaby tucked the bundle under his arm and carried it behind the register, humming absently to himself. He set it on the counter, brushing away a stray fleck of owl feather, then began the gentle ritual of unwrapping. First the knot in the twine then the paper, which peeled back in neat folds, its underside faintly waxed and smelling faintly of ink and lavender. Someone had packed this with care.

Inside was a leather apron. Thick, sturdy, beautifully made. The dark brown leather had been polished to a soft sheen, and embossed on the front was a crest: a rising sun flanked by two owls, wings spread, their eyes wise and watchful.

Barnaby blinked.

“Well,” he murmured, running his fingers lightly across the crest, “this doesn’t look like anything I ordered.”

He turned the parcel over, frowning at the smudged address in the corner. All he could make out was a “548 W.” and a postal rune that had half-faded into a blur.

“‘W’ could stand for Witches Way… Wicked Avenue…” He rubbed his beard. “Or Waters Street, though that one’s mostly underwater these days.”

He scratched the back of his head. It certainly wasn’t meant for him. But Barnaby Bumblebrook was many things, and a wasteful man was not one of them.

“Puddlewump pens need cleaning,” he said at last, giving the apron a small shake. “Might as well make use of it.”

He slipped it over his head and reached around to tie the straps. As the knot tightened at his back, he felt a strange sensation. A sudden, hush-quiet stillness, like the pause between lightning and thunder, fell over the shop.

Then chimes. Faint and musical, drifting in from nowhere and everywhere all at once. A breeze stirred, cool and crisp, though not a single window was open. It tugged at Barnaby’s beard and rustled the parchleaf ivy hanging by the window.

He froze. The moonmice, mid-stretch in their hammocks, went perfectly still. The chorus snails, who had been tuning up for their morning wheeze, fell silent. Even the snickerfrogs paused mid-glub, as if the entire shop had inhaled at once and forgotten how to breathe.

Barnaby stood very still, hands resting lightly against the apron’s worn leather.

“…Well, that’s not ominous at all,” he whispered.

BANG!

“Merlin’s Beard!” Barnaby cried as he stumbled back in his chair. A plume of pink smoke exploded in front of him. The beasts around his shop squealed and squawked in unison at the commotion. Out of the cloud, a young witch appeared, draped head to toe in bright pink robes, a phoenix-feather boa coiled around her shoulders like a cotton candy serpent. Long, glittering pink fingernails sparkled as she gripped a short, stubby, white wand. She blinked at him with wide sparkling eyes.

“Oh!” she chirped, “Aren’t you just adorable!”

[TO BE CONTINUED]

Author’s Note: Hey everyone! I am absolutely in love with this story. I originally wrote in August of 2025 for another writing contest with a 1,500 word limit. And I knew then that wasn’t going to be enough space for this beauty. So I really hope you fall in love with this story too.

An Invitation to the readers and writers:

I am feeling particularly inspired with this story. So much so I would like to open this up for collaboration.

I invite anyone who would like to, to write a story about their own little shop, apartment, police station or whatever on Willow Way. Or, if someone wants to tackle it, write about the raccoon politics I mention at the beginning of this story!

There are only a few rules:

1) Don’t steal any of my characters. You can mention them and their shops in passing, but no more than that. I love Barnaby too much, and I’d get much too jealous if you steal him.

2) Your character’s initials have to be the same letters. Like how Barnaby Bumblebrook is BB or Sam Salamence is SS.

3) Please tag me if write a story and add a shop to Willow Way! I want to read it!

Other than that, have fun! It doesn’t have to be a cozy story like this, it can be any genre you want. Just as long as it takes place on the cobbled street of Willow Way.