Character Description -Once to Love, Once to Hate

Hello! Courtesy of another Pinterest writing prompt (because really, where else am I going to see one), here's the gist for this one: Write a character's description twice, once to hate them, and once to love them.

Giovanna knelt beside the river and drew her sword, placing it upon a large slab of rock that jutted over the water. Her hair, dyed ink-black to disguise the natural red, tumbled over her shoulder. The image of her youngest sister Jubilee flashed in her mind. Standing side by side  now, they would for once look like real sisters. Giovanna shook her head to clear it. Cupping her hand, she poured water of the rock and then carefully, methodically, drew the length of the sword across the stone. The rough surface beneath the blade sent vibrations up the metal, making her fingers tingle in a familiar way. The Captain of the Guard had been the first to place a sword in her hands at the tender age of seven, when her other sisters were playing with dolls or learning embroidery. The Captain had shown her everything about using a sword, and keeping it war-ready, including how to sharpen it on a whetstone. Perhaps the Captain knew the princess would lead armies one day. But neither of them could have presumed she would be leading them against her own family.
Giovanna turned the blade over to tend to the other side. In mere moments her fate had been snatched away from her, ruined by a spoiled brat who never thought about anyone but herself, never considered the consequences of her own actions. Giovanna winced at the memory of the wave from Styx hitting her face, burning her flesh like acid. Her hand moved to her cheek, as if to make sure the repaired skin had not melted away. She would not let her inexperienced, ill-advised little sister be the downfall of the treaty with the god of the Underworld and of the uprising so carefully executed.
Jubilee would not ruin what Giovanna had slaved for. The seventh daughter, perfect little Jubilee, had to die.

The thunder in the sky could not equal the clash of swords in the castle walls. And no storm nor hurricane nor earthquake could match the brute force of brother fighting brother, mortal versus god, soldier versus citizen.
Surrounded on every side, Giovanna drew upon every ounce of strength she had left, knowing it was not enough and yet some force insider her driving her onward. Her gift, her power, the raw element of fire that bent to her will, was gone from her. Without it, even with sword in hand, her hands were cold and shaking. A man near her threw a spear at an opponent's back. Giovanna deflected it, unsure who was her foe or ally anymore. A man without armor crumbled under the shock of Marcus' whip laced around his neck. Without a thought, Giovanna crept up behind Marcus. His defeat was less than a breath. Rain continued to pour, swords continued to clash, and then above it all, the distinctive crack of a different whip severed the air. Giovanna spun around, looking for the familiar figure attached to that whip.
There. By the stables. Lucy stood over someone, her weapon of choice coiled like a snake at her side. Giovanna stumbled toward her and then froze when she saw who Lucy was towering over.
Jubilee.
Her fist tightened around the hilt of the sword, her cold fingers finding strength in the familiar shape in her palm.
Lucy flicked her wrist and her whip curled to life. "You were never meant to live anyway." She raise her arm. The whip came like a lash through the air.
Giovanna threw her shoulder into Lucy's back and caught the whip's tail around her sword. Jubilee rolled to the side and grabbed a pitchfork that had fallen over. Brandishing the pitchfork, Jubilee turned first to Giovanna, then to Lucy, who had quickly found her footing again. Jubilee's soft blue eyes burned with indecision.
"Traitor!" Lucy seethed. She tried to yank her whip away, but Giovanna turned her shoulder into the movement and disarmed the woman.
"I know who I'm fighting for now," said Giovanna, with a quick glance toward Jubilee.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Something You Miss

Hi guys. You guessed it: today's writing challenge is about something that you miss. Now, when I hear this, it makes me reflect on certain memories with sadness, and because I feel like a lot of my posts have been melodramatic lately, I want this one to be something happy and uplifting. So I am altering the challenge to "Something you miss and how you plan to fix it."
Number 1. I knew in high school that I wanted to be a writer, and so during those four years, I wrote my butt off, spending hours in front of the computer, not watching YouTube but actually writing. I remember the joy I got from that. While my activity hasn't really increased or decreased since high school, I would love to get back to writing with the intensity I had just a few years ago. At one point I had a notebook which I literally took with me everywhere and was writing in all the time. Maybe a new notebook is something I should invest in. Thus far I've been using old composition notebooks or mini notepads, but it's not the same. So I guess I need to get myself a notebook and also work on getting the story info in my head down on paper.
Number 2. I've been dancing since I was five-years-old, and when I decided to take a break from my studio, I was at first relieved. It had gotten to the point where I wasn't that thrilled to go to dance; it felt like a chore. Getting out of my studio was nice at first, but the love I still had for dance, despite taking a break, was still there. When going to the gym, I would spend the majority of my time doing ballet stretches or claiming one of the racquet ball courts to practice turns and going down the floor. This past semester has been awesome because I was finally able to take a dance class at my college, and I loved it! I know now that dancing isn't something I can really go without. It's a part of me, and even if it's in an informal location, like the gym, I need to make time for it.
Number 3. A clean room. How can my room go from Pine-Sol clean to where's my carpet in less than two days? I used to be so good at keeping my room clean. Now I seriously considering rearranging my entire room just so I'll have the chance to put everything away eventually. Right now I've shoved all of the clutter to the center of my room so I can sort it out and deal with it tomorrow. But there are a disturbing amount of spider webs on my walls, and as cool as I find spiders, my room is not an Arachnid halfway house. Sorry, Charlotte.
Number 4. You know what I really miss? Picking up a good book because I know I will be engrossed in it. There are books I would reread in a heartbeat; I've reread some of the Harry Potter books multiple times, and there was a phase in my life where I was devoted to all things Twilight. I'm over that now. I would willingly go back and read something like Wizard's First Rule or The Screwtape Letters again, but I kind of want something different. Don't you just hate it when you read a book you thought was going to be good, and then it's just... just? I hate that. I stopped reading the Lorien Legacies series because it got pretty meh. I'm considering starting the Outlander books, or maybe Inkheart. Are there any good standalone books? It doesn't have to be a series.

-Grace

Journal Entry #13

Hey! Sorry I didn't post anything last week. It was a bit hectic with work and getting everything ready for school, but I'm back. Just an update, actually, is I've submitted my last little excerpt, The Lewis and Tolkien Library, in a contest on Inkitt. I fully expect no one will read my story, but why not? If you feel so inclined, I would really appreciate if you could drop by and read my story and vote for it. Or, if you don't want to do that, the story is also here on my blog. Scroll in the archive until you find The Lewis and Tolkien Library.
Here's the link to the contest: http://www.inkitt.com/wanderlust
And I definitely encourage you to read some of the other stories on this website. They are simply wonderful!

-Grace

The Lewis and Tolkien Library

Jason ran a hand along the shelf, touching each book binding fondly. He liked this world, this... Del Terra. And though Lord Ivan and Lady Larissa were not especially welcoming, Isha had shown him the beauty of her world, the one which to him literally been one page-turn away.
But now it was time to go home. Jason had seen to the end of Isha's story, or at least her family's story. The kingdom out of harm's way, the elves pacified, the insurrectionists imprisoned, and the villagers working together the best they could to mend their broken and tattered city.
"I thought you'd be here."
Jason turned, unsurprised to see Isha in the doorway. For a moment he thought she looked sick, but then realized she did not give off the golden hue he'd become so accustomed to. Isha, gentle, glittering Isha, could bend light to her will and quite unconsciously her body was usually surrounded by a halo that glowed against her cocoa-colored skin.
She swayed in, seeming to float across the floor. "Are you leaving?" she whispered.
Jason nodded.
"Back to your world?"
"I'm not allowed to stay. It could disrupt the... continuum," he offered, though that last part didn't sound right. He really couldn't stay in this world, not even to continue the story. Jason sighed. His hand itched to grasp hers, but at the last moment drew it up to his chest, as if wanting to rip the words from his chest and lay them bare before her. "If I don't go back," he said, "I'll never be able to know what's supposed to happen. I can't come back until I know that, or just my presence could alter everything."
"Will you return?" Isha asked suddenly. "After you... oh, how did you say it? When you know what happens? Will you come back then?"
Before he could stop himself, he said, "I can try."
Isha's lips spread into a breathtaking smile. She looked like she wanted to embrace him, but such were not the customs in Del Terra. To Jason this world was medieval in many forms, with bits of Greek mythology thrown in to keep it interesting. Whoever had written it into existence obviously had a thing for griffins, dragons, that three-headed dog that guarded the Underworld, and really... big... castles.
"I hope you can find me in the next..." Isha hesitated.
"Story," Jason finished for her. For someone living in a medieval world with its medieval thought-process, she took the news of being a fictional character surprisingly well.
"Well then... how do you go back?"
"Somewhere in this room is a door for me. Your book, er, uh, this place's book, it should be open on the other side. That's how I get out. The book will literally open a door for me, and I'll just... disappear."
Jason.
The voice came from everywhere, like wisps of smoke billowing from the shelves.
It's time.
"It's time," he said aloud. He took a step but Isha grabbed his arm. He tried to smile, to reassure her if he could. "Don't worry. I'll be back soon. I promise." Quickly he swooped in and kissed her forehead, then turned to where a doorless entryway had materialized upon the stone walls. Jason followed it's path, somehow lit although he wondered if Isha had anything to do with that.
His hands grazed either wall and he marveled at the texture. They were rough this time, unsanded like the materials that made up the castle. Much like when he'd first arrived, this tunnel changed with every new book. He'd walked through doors of wood and steel and water and dust, but this one... this stone... yes, he was sure he would return to this hall again.
The end of the tunnel appeared just as if it had been there the whole time. He could see the room on the other side. His grandparent's library, where all his books had eventually lead him again.
But then something happened. The doorway began to melt away, becoming smaller, though it wasn't warped like with wax. It was severe, like a burnt page. And then he smelled it. Something was burning. Jason hurried toward the other room, and then he saw it. The book, the one he was in, just outside the doorway. It was on fire. And as the pages were burning away, so was the doorway. So was the story.
The story was being destroyed.

(PS: The picture is called 7b by 25kartinok on DeviantArt http://25kartinok.deviantart.com/art/7b-426570544 )

Journal Entry #7

I'll bet you thought I wasn't going to post this week. Hah! Negatory. I said I would post two to three times a week, and it is still within the week.
I appreciate Sandy and Mark for commenting on my posts. Thank you guys! I love reading people's comments.
This post is actually a reminder to myself to post something else later today. I saw a picture on Pinterest yesterday that I absolutely loved, so I think I'm gonna post it and then write a little paragraph about what I think is happening in the story. This post holds me to it. Also, I'm reading a book called Medieval Mars: The Anthology, a sci-fi/fantasy e-book which I will post a review about as soon as I finish. It was co-written by Mark Venturini and Travis Perry, both of whom I collaborated with on Colony Zero. Since then, though, Mark has been publishing the sequel to his mid-grade novel Whispers from Forbidden Earth, called Blood Tithe. I've read the first few chapters and of course it's phenomenal. I would expect nothing less. Travis, as I understand it, put together the idea for Medieval Mars and then asked a bunch of other authors to contribute. They were each given the basic idea of the planet and culture and then wrote their own stories taking place on different parts of the planet. Cool, huh? Once I finish the book, I think I'm gonna ask some of the authors for interviews. If they say yes, I will probably post one of those weekly.
So that's what's happening today. Lunch, work, home, Pinterest Picture Story, Medieval Mars, bed.

While I'm gone, you should check out these other authors, also contributors to the Medieval Mars project:

• Adam David Collings
• Jill Domschot
• Kat Heckenbach
• Cindy Koepp
• Donna Gielow McFarland
• Allison Rohan
• Kristen Stieffel

-Grace

Journal Entry #6

Lucy Windham

Elaine Wilcox

Charlie St. Claire

Otis Leech

Tabitha Mallory

Evgenia Aleksandrova

Sholto Hale

George Thornton

Kyle Bunnerman

Angelica Sacx

Frances Talimachi

 

Jonathan Fellbecker

Trista Hammond

Spencer Eleck

Erik Philipson

Timothy South

Jenna Holiday

Cecelia D'Arnet

Connor D'Arnet

 

Your character is given these two lists of names. Why?

 

-Grace

Journal Entry #5



(How I wish I looked while writing)

 

(How I actually look while writing)

I'm reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for the second or third time. I'm less than a hundred pages into it and I already look forward to coming home, curling up on my bed and just delving right in. Actually, I take it to work with me so it gives me something to do while I wait for my bus. There's also something comforting about taking a book with you wherever you go. It's almost like a safeguard, but I think I just like knowing it's there, stowed away in my backpack. The weight of it is comforting.
One thing I notice a lot when I read blog posts about how to be a better writer or how o make characters better or something along those lines, one example that constantly comes up is J.K. Rowling. Whether it's her tenacity, her will power, or, more often than not, her characters themselves, there is always something to glean from her. But what I've become tired of hearing is to try and make my characters as rounded, dynamic, deep, and genuine as the ones in Harry Potter. As if it's that easy. The place I'm at right now in my writing -not in a story, but in my writing- is that no one can duplicate characters like Severus Snape, the Marauders, Harry... Faramir, Samwise, Sauron... Screwtape, Edmond, Eustace. These characters have become as real to us as characters can be. We feel we know them intimately. But I would ask that no one expect such incredible skill on my part, because I can't just twitch my nose and add more layers to characters. Do you want to know the reason I procrastinate? Why it takes me so long to write even a single paragraph? Because me knowing my characters as intimately as knowing Harry or Sam is probably more important to me than the actual story. In developing these... people, there grows an affectionate bond. I love them and I care how they react to something, how they process things, how they respond, on more than a physical level or with words, but how their mind wraps around the information and puzzles over it. 
I get the feeling I overthink the whole "writing thing" quite a bit. I read a quote the other day that said something like, "If I waited for perfection, I would never write." Still, you can feel if a character does something, well, out of character. A ding goes off in your mind and that action or sentence stays in your mind until it's explained later on.
Sorry, I'm not sure where this post went. My goal was to explain that I am no J.K. Rowling, that she is one of those beautiful people who have blessed readers with her wonderful talent and imagination. But that doesn't mean I won't try to show my characters as more than just princesses, pirates, Hunters, and Seers.

-Grace

Jounral Entry #3

(Safe Haven by Nicholas Sparks)

 
How many Nicholas Sparks books have been adapted into movies? And of that number, how many have at least one person who dies in it?
I rewatched the trailer for The Longest Ride yesterday, and apart from a serious flashback to The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly, the movie actually looks really good. But I couldn't help asking myself, "Who's gonna die in this one?"
If you don't see my point, let's take a moment to look at Nicholas Sparks's novels-turned-movies:

• The Notebook -They both die in the end.
• The Lucky One -The husband dies.
• Safe Haven -The ex-husband dies.
• The Last Song -The dad dies.

Suffice to say that while I still do want to see The Longest Ride, I'm hesitant because I know someone's going to be offed by the end of it.
But as I was thinking about all of this, I couldn't help comparing it to other books-turned movies, or either entertainment medium in general.
Let's have another look, shall we?


(The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling)

• The Fault in Our Stars -Gus dies.
• Jurassic Park (the novel) -John Hammond dies.
• The Little Mermaid (the book) -She dies.
• The Hunger Games -EVERYONE dies.
• The Lunar Chronicles -Garrett, Grandmere, and Dr. Erland die.
• Dracula -Dead-ish.
• The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe -Jadis dies.
• Pretty Little Liars (the first book) -Toby dies.
• Little Women -Beth dies.
• The Jungle Book -the one wolf dies.
• 80% of Grimm's Fairy Tales -People be dead. Very, very dead.
• 90% of Disney films -Someone (usually one or both parents) dies.

I guess this is a long-standing a tradition in storytelling: someone has to die. From oral cautionary tales to Big Hero 6. Even I'm guilty of offing people in my stories. I wonder if it's supposed to be more of an art-imitating-life kind of thing. It may be that the character or characters represented a symbol or a specific person to the writer, like Hedwig from Harry Potter representing Harry's innocence. It could very well be that the death of each character tries to show how the protagonist deals with death, and how they try and recover from it.
What do you think? When you read about a death, or see it in a movie, how does it effect you/the character/the story/the environment?

-Grace

Journal Entry #2

I've had this idea floating around in my head for a while, an idea for a Halloweeny ghost-type story. Although the only thing categorizing it as "Halloweeny" would be the ghosts, I don't think I would want to shoot for the horror genre. Ghosts would just be a significant presence in the story. What I'm thinking is that the ghost of a person will reflect what they were actually like on the inside, not what they physically looked like. For instance, an abusive husband or boyfriend would have these exaggerated sunken eyes and gnarled joints to reflect his true nature: someone evil, someone repulsive and scary and dangerous. In real life he would have looked nothing like that. Or, say, a man or woman in a hit-and-run whose ghost form reflects a sort of tattered appearance, but with soft hands and gentle features, because that person always went out of their way to help people, even at his or her own expense.
I don't know what the actual story could be. I don't think people are often hit with the entire story at once. It's more like stringing together bits of ideas that come like ribbons on the wind, until they create a whole chain of ideas that become a story.
What do you think of the concept? Ghosts that reflect a person's true nature. Would someone finally see them? Why? Have they always been there and are now fading away? What if the ghosts are for those who need to seek repentance, and the fact that there are less and less of them perhaps means either more people are finding salvation before they die or that salvation is becoming harder to attain.
Discuss.

-Grace

Backlash for Stephenie Meyer

 

 



Let me just take this moment to apologize. Yes, this is going to be one of those kind of posts. The kind where I voice my opinion on a controversial topic. I know I'm going to get some hate for this, but it's something I've been thinking about. Don't worry. Next time I'll be back to my procrastinating, story-posting, YouTubing, Pinteresting self.

The topic of the Twilight Saga arose in a discussion with my brother the other day. He is ardently against anything casting Twilight in a positive light. He wondered what the appeal to the books was. I said it was probably the prospect of eternal youth. He smirked and said eternal teenage angst was more likely. It's hard to carry on an argument with my brother because he is usually -and I say this with the utmost respect and delicacy- so convinced in his argument that it is almost impossible to make him see something in a different light. It didn't occur to him that he was at one point an angsty teenager as well. But his response made me ponder the many postings I've seen that have placed Twilight in a category of cheesy books with underwhelming, unrealistic characters.
It's true, Meyer is no Tolkien.
But guess what? She wrote four books. Four whole books. And a novella. All for a single series. That's more books than most people have written. Every writer, novice or seasoned, knows that writing itself is hard. Sitting yourself down and putting pen to paper or curser to screen and then staying there is one of the hardest things a writer must do. But Stephenie Meyer, like all the blessed authors we know and love, did this.
But just because someone wrote a book doesn't mean every element in that book is going to be pristine. I suppose that's one thing my brother and I can agree on in regards to the subject. Yes, now that I look on Twilight now, I can see flaws that I didn't notice before. But the same could be said about The Hunger Games, The Mortal Instruments, or Pretty Little Liars. I also see more backlash for Twilight than I do for Fifty Shades of Grey, which seems pretty messed up.
Stephenie Meyer found the will to sit down and write a bunch of books carrying on a universe that she enjoyed living in. She fleshed out characters, introduced us to new places, put a spin on mythology, and taught us some three-dollar vocabulary. You know James Patterson only writes a rough draft of his books? The co-author whose name is in the smaller-embossed font did most of the leg-work. Ever wonder why no one ever asks him for writing advice?
Stephenie Meyer did the work. She reaped some benefits. And some people don't like what she wrote. Get over it.

-Grace

"De Vil May Care"

(Photo of actress Anna Popplewell)

“Where’re my cigarettes?” barked the Staff Sargent. The two Sargents outside his tent straightened automatically, but he caught their weary glances. “Boys, what is wrong with this picture?” Staff Sargent Lenore held up his empty hand. “Well?”

Sargent Phillips did not hesitate. “No cigarette, sir.”

“No cigarette!” he yelled. “Do you know why?”

“No sir.”

Staff Sargent Lenore turned to Sargent McCall. “You know why?”

“No sir,” responded McCall.

“Because it takes six guys twelve weeks to approve my orders to go to New York, meanwhile I’m stuck camping out in the middle of…” He looked around at the trees surrounding the campsite, the white-grey rocks and mossy ground. “Phillips, where are we again?”

“Lithuania, sir. About ten miles east of the Russian border.”

“Eh, figures. We’re probably camped over some holy relics, is that right, Sargent?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“Well while I’m here disturbing the mojo or whatever you want to call it, Base still ain’t processing my orders for home.”

Phillips frowned, confused. “And that’s why you don’t have a cigarette?”

“Sure don’t. McCall, you’re not doing anything. Go find me a cigarette. It’s about time we moved out of here anyway.”

“Yes, sir.” The Sargent walked away, clearly happy to be relieved of standing outside Lenore’s tent all day.

Lenore took a swig from his canteen and then offered some to Phillips. “You heard from Andrews?” he asked.

Phillips took a quick gulp and handed the canteen back. “No sir. Not since yesterday.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Should we send someone to make contact?”

Lenore paused. “If we don’t hear by the end of the day, we’re moving out.”

Just then Corporal Dean waved from his look-out point at the cleft of a rock.

Lenore rushed to the base of it. “Dean?”

“Movement ahead, sir. One person, looks like a kid.”

“How far?”

“Six meters, maybe less.”

“Bomber?” Lenore wondered.

Dean peered through his binoculars. “I don’t think so, but won’t know for sure till they get closer.”

“Yeah, or we do.” Lenore grabbed Phillips, who had followed him. “I want you and Thumper on that. If it’s a friendly, bring him back here.”

Phillips nodded. He didn’t need to be told what to do if the trespasser wasn’t a friendly.

Lenore waited at the base of the rock, watching Phillips and Thumper’s retreating backs. He even saw the rabbit’s foot Thumper carried –hence the nickname- swinging from his pocket. Eight men had been stationed at this campsite, including Staff Sargent Lenore. Phillips and McCall had graduated BOOT Camp together, and had somehow managed to stay buddies through their careers. McCall had been working at a desk, though he was good at what he did. Dean was a small arms expert. Trayl –or Thumper, as they called him- a typical soldier. Clovis, Bunnerman, Lipinski, all of them had worked well together. All of them had been deployed before. Only Lenore had seen action. And of the six soldiers who stayed behind while their brothers ventured into Lithuanian territory, none of them spoke. Silence rose from the moss like vapor, seeping into their skin and chilling their bones. Lenore swept his gaze through the wooded area that was visible, searching for any signs of movement. His ears strained for any signs of… anything.

Dean, focused through his binoculars, waved his hand down at Lenore. “Three approaching,” he said. “Phillips’s in front. The kid’s behind him. There’s Thumper, too.”

A sigh of relief rushed from Staff Sargent Lenore. No matter how long he was in the field, no matter how trite the orders, he didn’t think he would ever accept that they were truly safe, that they were good enough to be safe. All it took was one moment to not be safe. One hour or moment could always be your last. Lenore was just glad he had survived this one. “Good work, Dean.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Lenore stepped around the rock just as Phillips that the others came into view. “You bring me back my cigarettes?” he called.

Phillips laughed. “I thought that was McCall’s job.”

“Hey!” called McCall with a mocking glare.

Phillips pushed the newcomer into their camp perimeter. “Lackey for Andrews,” he said. He was grinning, and in a moment, Lenore understood why.

The lackey was a girl.

Lenore coughed down his laughter before it could erupt from his chest. He cleared his throat. “Staff Sargent Lenore,” he said, extending his hand.

“De Vil,” she answered, but then blushed, as if she’d spoken too soon.

“Miss De Vil. Why is Andrews making his secretary send messages to active soldiers in the field?”

“I’m not his secretary!” she exclaimed. Huh. British. A long way from home, he thought. Then again, so were the rest of them.

“Oh, sorry,” said Lenore. “Are you his, um… personal assistant?”

McCall and Bunnerman erupted in laughter this time, but Miss De Vil only glared as if she’d heard it all before.

“I’m not Andrews’s personal anything, but I will gladly report back to him and let him know that you and your band of idiots are wasting his resources. Do you think those orders for New York would go through then, Staff Sargent?”

Lenore went silent for a few moments. De Vil indeed. “Step inside my office.” He gestured to the tent and Miss De Vil entered first.

“I don’t suppose these will help lick your wounds?” From her pocket she produced a box of cigarettes and tossed them to Lenore.

He caught them reflexively, glanced at her, and then popped one out of the box. He offered it to her.

“No thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“Your loss. So what does Andrews say?”

“The Master Sargent said to prepare your men to move in tomorrow morning at first light. That means you should leave well before daybreak and use the tree line as your camouflage. It’s going to be cloudy tomorrow, an added bonus. His men will be waiting for you just outside the gate. He can take over from there.”

Lenore surveyed De Vil with a mixture of trepidation and… well, no, mostly trepidation. “Is that all he said?”

“And also to bring back his cigarettes.”

Lenore laughed around the item in question. “Sorry, sweetheart, but these babies aren’t going anywhere.” He slid them into his breast pocket and gave a hearty puff.

De Vil barely flinched. “Shall I tell Master Sargent Andrews that you will meet his men tomorrow at dawn?”

“Sure. Why not?”

The girl nodded and then froze. She listened. “Get down!” Diving for Lenore, they hit the ground just as shots rang through the air and through the tent. Lenore heard McCall and Bunnerman outside, as well as the clean shots Dean was taking. One –two –three –fourfive –sixeseveneight…

De Vil rolled off Lenore and grabbed his sidearm. Crawling to the front of the tent, Lenore watched as the girl took careful aim –five whole seconds- and fired eight rounds. Three, two, then four. Foreign voices sounded outside the camp, but Lenore recognized Dean’s sharp bullets as they were practically magnetized to their targets.

The whole thing had lasted less than two minutes.

When all was quiet again, Lenore carefully turned onto his stomach and crawled next to the girl, peered out at the camp.

He saw no bodies, and none of his men appeared injured. Looking up, he caught sight of Dean, still on his perch. The man pulled something from his pocket and tossed it into the woods.

Silence.

Cautiously, Staff Sargent Lenore emerged from his tent. His men gathered around, their eyes alert and guns poised.

“Dean,” he said. “What happened?”

“Sorry, sir. They were behind me. Didn’t see ‘em comin’.”

Lenore turned to the girl, who was carefully picking herself up. She gazed out at the woods as if seeing them for the first time. She looked like a child in a grown man’s uniform, dropped into the woods with only stories of snakes and mountain lions as her guide.

“Miss De Vil,” he said.

Her sharp grey eyes focused on him, and it seemed to take that action for her to find her bearings again. “Staff Sargent,” she said, her voice possessing a slight tremor. “Are you all right?”

“Thanks to you.” He extended a hand out. “What did you say your name was?”

The girl smiled. “Cruella. At your service.”

 

 

-And there you have it. Another short story via picture prompt.

"Stones of Peace"

(Sandrivishtai by http://dashinvaine.deviantart.com)

Her best friend lay on the warm stone ground, her blood seeping between the cracks. They had both been Guardians, keepers of the Stones of Peace. Now she was dead, her stone passed on. Tasha gazed at her through bleary eyes.... People had said they looked like sisters.

The brush of wind against her cheek, cold on this spring night, carried the scent of mint and pine. In a moment Jadeyn appeared from around the corner, out of breath, his white hair and leather cloak streaked with fresh mud. His eyes widened when he saw Reyna splayed upon the ground. Kneeling on her other side, his hand came to rest over Reyna’s forehead while the other pressed against her wound.

Tasha watched him numbly, knowing he felt no breath rise under his hand. Jadeyn looked up at her, but Tasha could only feel the hum of Reyna’s Stone in her hand.

Jadeyn closed his eyes and whispered something over Reyna’s body. A prayer, Tasha suspected. He opened his eyes again. “We must leave,” he said, helping Tasha to her feet.

She slipped the Stone into her bag. “I’m sorry,” she said, as if Reyna could still hear her. They knew they could not carry her body all the way back home; the weight would slow them down too much.

“Come on, Tash.” He pulled her by the arm and she fell into step behind him. But they had only just reached the end of the street when a Tarot Warrior stepped into the lamplight.

In one hand he held a serrated sabre that glistened like ink in the garish light. In the other he held Reyna’s robe. The robe each Guardian wore like a uniform, the one which symbolized brotherhood, unity, and honor. A Guardian stripped of their robe was stripped of their dignity.

Tasha could see the rips in the robe. The Tarot Warrior had torn it from Reyna’s body.

The Tarot Warrior made a face like a grin, but with features distorted by piercings and spikes, the expression looked perverted.

Before the warrior had time to blink Tasha pulled her whip-chain from her belt, still holding tightly to her bag with Reyna’s Stone. Jadeyn’s sai daggers were already drawn, as if some force had bonded them to his hands.

The Tarot Warrior let the robe fall to the ground.

Tasha attacked.

Her whip lashed out like a tongue of golden lightning, the snap ringing through the air. She gave her wrist an angry flick, setting the whip off again. Snap! Snap! Snap! With every lash she moved forward a step, but the Tarot Warrior did not. Tasha snapped her whip again and it curled around the warrior’s neck. But then the Tarot Warrior wrapped an arm around the whip and yanked it with a ferocity that brought Tasha on her hands and knees.

“Tash!” Jadeyn’s voice sounded far away.

Tasha gasped at having the wind knocked out of her. She tried to swallow, but her stomach would not contract. Distantly she felt her whip slip from her fingers and the Tarot Warrior stood over her, his distorted face blocking the light of the moon. His serrated sabre pressed against her cheek.

Something barreled into him and suddenly all Tasha saw was the starry sky. Managing to turn, she saw Jadeyn and the warrior fighting a short distance away. His sai clashed against the serrated sabre, but Jadeyn was a hair faster.

Tasha then felt the ground rumble. Finally catching her breath, she turned herself onto her hands and knees and saw, not far away, the horde of Tarot Warriors massing on the city. Tasha pushed herself to her feet. Jadeyn was forcing the Tarot Warrior into an alley, but Tasha pulled him back.

“They’re coming!” she shouted, pointing to the army.

Jadeyn growled and spat at the Tarot Warrior before following Tasha. They gathered the contents of Tasha’s bag, which had scattered when she’d fallen. Jadeyn yanked her to her feet again just as she swiped the last vial from the cobblestone. Running without pause, the Guardians fled to the chapel where lie in wait the remnants of their dying race.

(Well, I hope you enjoyed that, dark as it was. I decided to challenge myself today by using a picture as a writing prompt. This one stood out to me. It's not part of another story I'm writing [found it on Pinterest]. It just sort of... happened. Anyway, I hope you liked it.)

2015 Reading List

(Photo courtesy of http://thegospelcoalition.org )

Is it too late to make a New Year's Resolution? I feel like last year (and the year before that... and probably the year before that) I spent WAY too much time in front of the screen. Therefore I am determined to read at least three books a month this year. And, taking it a step further, I want to start writing more books reviews, too. Yeah, we'll see how well those go. But in the meantime, here's a list of books I want to read this year:

• Inkheart by Cornelia Funke
• Captivating by John and Stasi Elderidge
• The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas
• The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien
• This is Spain by Ignacio Olague and Walter Starkie
• Princess Napraxine by Ouida
• The Crystal Portal by Travis Perry
• Life in a Medieval City by Joseph and Frances Gies
• Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll
• Dubliners by James Joyce
• Outsider by Klaire De Lys
• Cress by Melissa Meyer
• Winter by Melissa Meyer
• Castles of the World by Gianni Guadalupi and Gabriele Reina
• Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott

This is by no means a finished list. I am open to suggestions.

-Grace

The Dragon Chronicles: Leia

Well this is embarrassing. Here I was hoping to give you guys a blog interview, but unfortunately I haven't gotten all my questions out, and the ones I have have not been responded to yet. No worries. Instead, I present to you a short story entitles The Dragon Chronicles: Leia. Enjoy!

Leia measured the sun’s position as it pertained to the height of the trees, then turned back to glance at the mountains, and then back to the sun again.

            “We’re lost, aren’t we?” said Natalia, sounding unsurprised.

            “No we’re not,” assured Leia. She blew a strand of brown hair out of her face. Her wings drooped a little, betraying her uncertainty. “The cove is just… this way.” She pointed to a gap in the trees that looked somewhat familiar, and she and Talia flew towards it, the hedgerow a cool, dark, luscious green. The fairy sisters zipped through the leaves and for a moment Leia was confident they were going the right way… until they came to the river. For the third time.

            “Great!” said Talia, exasperated. “We’re lost.”

            “We are not lost.” Leia flew high above the trees and shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare.

Talia’s voice appeared beside her. “I thought a graduated fairy was supposed to be a highly intelligent keeper of nature. You don’t even know where north is!”

Leia brushed away her comment. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s that way. And besides,” she added, flying toward a maple tree she thought she recognized. “I am an intelligent keeper of nature. We’ve been trained to pinpoint locations instantly.”

“Instantly, huh? Well, we’ve been flying around for fifteen minutes. How is that instant?”

Leia rounded on her little sister sharply. “Oh, will you stop it? I could find my way out of this forest blindfolded.”

Talia crossed her arms, her blue eyes narrowing under platinum blonde bangs. “Then maybe we should blindfold you. It would probably get us home a lot faster. We weren’t even supposed to go this far. Mother said to stay by Make-A-Wish Falls.”

Leia was about to respond when she spotted a dark figure over Talia’s shoulder. Eyes widening, she grabbed Natalia and dove just as the hawk’s claws missed them. “Hurry!” she yelled as they dashed away from the hungry bird. Leia heard the bird’s angry cries and could feel its wings beat against the wind as it gained on them. Sparing a glance at Natalia, she saw her sister’s wide blue eyes frozen in panic even as her wings pushed her faster and faster. “To the river!” Leia called over the wind.

Talia nodded stiffly and they both straightened their arms against their sides, piercing the air like bullets.

They were close now, the river a mere stone skip away, when suddenly the hawk swooped in front of them, spreading his wings like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Leia spread her wings wide to stop, but Talia soared straight into the hawk’s embrace. Grabbing her by the wings with his beak, the hawk gave a gargled squawk and started to rise.

“Put me down!” Talia cried, thrashing in the hawk’s mouth. But the hawk shook her once her cries reduced to a whimper. Pulling wings was like pulling hair.

Leia watched in silent horror as her sister shrunk from view, helpless in the predator’s clutches. Looking around, she only saw a few pinecones, some pebbles, and a cluster of mushrooms. She needed something to help Talia. She needed something to fend off the hawk. She needed something now! And then, out of the bushes toddled a brown and grey porcupine, its pointed face nuzzled to the ground, searching for food. Suddenly inspired, Leia raced to the porcupine and hovered carefully above it. She reached for one of the spines, but the animal wouldn’t stop moving. Talia screamed again.

“Sorry, mister,” Leia said. “But this is gonna hurt.” Grabbing a handful of spines, Leia yanked with all her might until they came loose in her hand. The porcupine yelped but Leia didn’t wait for his scolding. She sped toward the hawk brandishing her spines.

The hawk only realized what was happening an instant before it came to be.

Leia jabbed him sharply with all three of the spines and the hawk gave a pained cry. Talia dropped from his mouth. Seizing her hand, Leia and Talia flew toward the hedgerow and waited until the hawk disappeared from view before braving the skies again.

Leia stuffed the porcupine spines into the back of her belt. She was sure she could find another use for them. Turning to Talia, she saw her sister’s cheeks had grown a tender pink, her bangs hiding her dark blue eyes.

“Thanks,” said Talia, sheepishly.

Leia smiled and blew another strand of brown hair out of her face. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry I was mean to you before.”

“It’s okay.”

There was silence for a few moments before Talia spoke again.

“So… how do we get home now?”

Leia pondered, her gaze drifting to the laughing river. “Maybe if we follow this,” she said with a gesture to it, “it will lead us to Make-A-Wish Falls. Then we can find our way home from there.”

Together the two sisters drifted above the water, enjoying its’ sound and the peace it brought. Leia spared another glance to Natalia. She had been very close to losing her today. The thought made her want to hug her sister. But instead, she dipped a foot into the water and splashed Natalia in the face. By the time they reached Make-A-Wish Falls, both of them were laughing and soaked. Thankfully the air was warm as evening came, the summer sky turning shades of pink and lavender. Before the sun had set, the cove came into view with its’ bustling populace of fairies. Leia and Talia made their way to their hovel, which had once been a mole’s home before the family converted it to a fairy home after the mole’s departure. Mother only looked slightly taken aback at the state of the sisters’ frizzy hair. Leia produced the porcupine spines and set them in the corner by the coat rack, which had been fashioned out of two paperclips twisted together.

“Where did those come from?” asked Mother with a knowing look.

Leia and Talia glanced to one another. Leia cleared her throat. “We found them… while we were… looking for algae. For the tadpoles.”

Mother smiled. “I see,” she said. “What else happened today?”

Talia looked down, but Leia only smiled and leaned casually against the compass which served as the dinner table. “Oh, nothing. Played in the river. Raced each other.”

“Uh-huh.” Mother turned stirred some kind of bluish mixture in an acorn bowl. “What a day. Why don’t you two set the plates for dinner,” she suggested. “You father will be home soon.”

Lei and Talia nodded and began the nightly ritual. Occasionally they would catch each other’s eye and smile or wink. And to think, all that adventure had come from a few minutes of playing a little too long.

What a day indeed.

"The Fortelling"

Hello everyone. I'm posting a short story I wrote for my Creative Writing class. It's sort of a prequel to a story that I wrote years ago. For class, the objective was to write a fictional piece that was no longer than two pages. Now, one thing you have to understand about me is that I cannot write short stories. They are the bane of my existence (along with ethical papers, argumentation, and spam). But then something occurred to me: who said this had to be a completely pulled-something-out-of-my-hat story? Why couldn't it be a build-off of something I had already written. A prequel. Or a sequel, depending which way you leaned. It was so much fun getting back into this mindset, into this world. Without further adieu, I present to you "The Foretelling."

Lord Ivan and Lady Larissa passed through the large, decaying archway as his ancestors had done before him, the reasons the same for every one of them: they sought to discover their child’s destiny. A child’s destiny was a precarious thing. While some believed a person was free to choose their own path, those of the old families knew the truth: the future had already been written, and there were only three beings who could decipher it.

            The Fates.

            Lady Larissa clutched her daughter closer to her chest, the chill seeping into the marrow of her bones. Lord Ivan placed an arm protectively around her shoulders. Tattered grey drapes sewn into the very stone, the frigid floor seeming to have been taken from a mountain, the ceiling that towered like a cathedral to a point too high to be seen. Markings etched into the walls spoke of a time long passed, where great kings and perhaps even gods dwelled in this shrine of a room. Battle scenes and paintings bleak with age, scripts that had once spoken of great names and quests now lost to time.

            They stood almost in the middle of the room now, in front of a round marble platform with three steps, waiting for them to appear. The baby, awaking from her sleep, gave a shrill whine and the sound reverberated off the walls like an animal call.

            “Shh,” Lady Larissa cooed. “It’s all right, my love, my dearest. My sweet Giovanna.”

            Giovanna wailed and Lord Ivan and Lady Larissa shrank away from the sound.

            “Keep her silent!” Lord Ivan hissed. Another cry and Lord Ivan yanked the blanket away from the baby’s face. “Hush, now! Hush! You’ll wake the dead!”

            “Good evening, Lord Ivan,” came three voices from above. Lord Ivan and Lady Larissa looked up to see three hooded figures standing on the platform. The one in the middle was tallest by a head. The hood of her cloak concealed her features, but she was lean and Lord Ivan imagined she would have an angular nose and sallow cheeks. To her right, the other figure was short and rounded, her height barely reaching the waist of her sisters. The third one, to the left of the middle, had an unremarkable frame, and had it not been for her hood, she probably would have looked like a scullery maid.

            The three figures stood in exactly the same manner –backs straight, hoods drawn, hands hidden within the opposite’s sleeve.

            “We anticipated your return,” said the Fate in the middle. Lord Ivan remembered from his and Lady Larissa’s first visit that this was the eldest sister, the First Fate. Her voice was harsh and raspy, as if someone had stretched her throat.

            “We wish –” began Lady Larissa.

            “To know the destiny of your child,” finished the shortest Fate, the Second. Her voice was cold and grimy and frog-like, as if she were speaking around a cough. “We know.”

            “Will you accept her?” asked Lord Ivan. Though the Fates were rumored to be all-knowing, they were not required to share their knowledge with anyone, not even the gods.

            The Fates were silent for a long time, seeming to contemplate the request. Finally the third and final Fate answered in a voice like sunshine, “Bring her to the altar.”

            With a wave of her hand, a podium appeared from a twirl of white smoke, the same white as the platform. On it was a basin. Lady Larissa ascended the platform and placed Giovanna in the basin, withdrawing her hand slowly as the baby held on with a firm grip. Giovanna screamed and Lady Larissa, joining Lord Ivan, clutched her husband’s arm for strength. He rubbed her arm comfortingly, never taking his eyes off his daughter.

            The Fates surrounded the altar, gazing at the screaming child as if looking into a pool of stars. At precisely the same moment, the Fates each grasped each other’s hands until they made an unbroken circle around the altar. Lord Ivan heard chanting, though he could see no mouths moving, for the faces were still cast in shadow. But he perceived a change in the air, a crack of heat as if lightning had shot through the room. The chanting grew louder. Lord Ivan held Lady Larissa as they watched, uselessly, from beyond the platform as the three mysterious Fates dug into the churning froth of the world’s existence and located Giovanna’s destiny, like a thread in a tapestry. The basin glowed a vibrant, angry red and suddenly Lord Ivan saw the First Fate holding a knife above Giovanna, the tip impossibly sharp. All in a moment the chanting ceased and the Fate brought the knife viciously down. Lady Larissa screamed. The metal sang against the stone, filling the room like a single chime of a church bell.

            Lord Ivan jerked to retrieve his daughter, but something stopped him, some subconscious knowledge that assured him his daughter was alive.

            The Third Fate picked up Giovanna and placed her gently, so gently into Lady Larissa’s eager arms. Lord Ivan’s eyes searched hungrily over his daughter for the knife wound, but all her saw was the tiniest scratch on her arm, barely more than a hairsbreadth. Lord Ivan looked up at the Fates, but they were all concentrating on something inside the basin. A warm orange glow emanated from the basin, and Lord Ivan could almost perceive one of the Fate’s facial features.

            “She has fire in her blood,” said the Second Fate. “Fire that will breathe and consume her very core until she possesses the strength and essence of a dragon.”

            “And she will be brave,” continued the Third Fate. “As your general, she will lead your army into many battles and triumph over enemies both foreign and domestic. Not a single foe will cross her path that she will not conquer.”

            Lord Ivan gazed at Giovanna, who wriggled in her mother’s arms like a worm. Her eyes, the color of rich mahogany, seemed to gaze at her surroundings in wonder, as if she understood the significance of this sacred place.

            A general, Lord Ivan thought. A woman… my daughter… a general. He tried to imagine her grown up, those sharp, clever eyes looking into the face of an enemy and taking a life. He could not imagine something so innocent becoming something as cold and battle-hardened as, well, him.

            “But innocent, she will not be,” said the First Fate, as if she had heard his thoughts. “The child shall grow amongst those she would call her own, but just as the fire which courses through her blood and her fingers will one day lay waste to entire lands, her heart shall be as dead as the worst of these. She will fall into the hands of Hades and intertwine her fate with his, but it will be by her doing that your legacy shall continue.”

            The orange glow receded and the Fates dropped their hands. Silence like a storm overturned the room, heavy and foreboding. The Fates turned in synchronization toward Lord Ivan and Lady Larissa, their hands once again hidden within their sleeves.

            “Is this it then?” Lord Ivan demanded. “Is this to be my daughter’s fate?”

            “Ivan,” Lady Larissa said, but he brushed her off.

            “Born to raise my family up but doomed to die with her life intertwined with Hades’?” Lord Ivan took a step to advance upon the platform, but an invisible force held him back. He glowered at the faceless fortunetellers. “So long as I live, I will not allow a single member of my family to die the way you have said. You have foretold falsely today. The life of my daughter shall not be like that of a sheep led to slaughter.” Without another word, Lord Ivan turned on his heel, and he and Lady Larissa left the Fates, his sacrilegious words ringing behind him like a thousand thousand ghosts.

Excerpt from "Cinderella and Sebastian"

For your enjoyment, here is a short paragraph from my story (working title) Cinderella and Sebastian. Let me know what you think!


The bark dug into Sebastian's back as he pressed himself against a tree, listening to the travelers’ conversation. "Aye, an' he hired the bloke to kill the Caliph, he did," said the one with gravel in his voice. One of them spit. "He's a trai'or to his blood, he is," added the other. Sebastian's heart plummeted and he squeezed his eyes shut. Banished and yet wanted at the same time, he thought with no amusement. But when he opened his eyes he saw a girl standing there, her eyes like saucers as she took in his attire, his weapons. Without thinking, Sebastian tackled her to the ground and muffled her cries with a hand. He drew his dagger and held it to her throat. The girl's eyes, too shocked for tears, did not blink. Seb listened until he could no longer hear the travelers. Still keeping the dagger aloft, he held a finger to his lips. The girl nodded and he drew his hand away. "Forget my face," he said, and stole deeper into the woods.


-Grace