The Suggestion Box, Vol. 3: "One Thousand Words" List #3

"Kindred Spirits"

Suggested by: S. Rose LeClaire (Aka "VelvetFaeling" on DeviantArt)

The List:

-A Name: "Nakoma"

-A Time: "Either Sunrise or Sunset"

-A Place: "the forest"

-An Object: "the Druid Circle"

The Result:

"Soul Mates"

She could see the sunlight streaming through the canopy from high above the giant trees as she waited. They had promised to meet, Kharrie and Nakoma; the Wood-Sprite knew her soul mate too well to have missed her coming. They were kindred spirits, connected by powers of Fate and Fidelity entirely beyond their choosing. The only difference was that Nakoma could cross the boundaries of the Druid Circle where she lived, and Kharrie could not follow. This is why she waited now, with the shimmering boundary behind me. Others in her clan would rather stay within the Circle, where they were invisible to the eyes of their enemies, and lived at peace—but Nakoma knew no enemies beyond the borders, only a friend, and that friend had pledged never to harm her.

Nakoma closed her eyes as the sound of wings beat in time with her heart. She heard the sound of Kharrie's voice, lifted in gentle song. Finally, the streaming sunlight glinted off the snowy-white feathers covering her head. Kharrie had arrived at last. Nakoma scooted to the side and Kharrie reached with golden talons to hold the branch beside her.

“Kharrie,” Nakoma said to the eagle that was almost twice her size, “let us go quickly to this new sight you desire to show me. You know the laws of my people; the shadows grow long as our time grows short.”

Night in the Duirfin Forest was not kind to the Faefolk such as Nakoma—to remain outside the boundary beyond the sunset was to be trapped there until the barrier lifted at dawn.

Kharrie chirped reassuringly and bent her head toward the little sprite. White feathers mingled with brown hair as she leaned against Nakoma. Her tongue rattled inside her beak, and Nakoma relaxed in the soothing sensation.

“Show me,” she whispered, and Kharrie took flight once more. Nakoma followed her, wending her way through the treetops as easily as the squirrels.

Ahead of Nakoma, Kharrie had come to rest on the branch. Her bright golden eyes fixed on something below. Nakoma looked down and gasped.

There were creatures she did not know milling about in the clearing not ten yards below the two friends. These creatures resembled Faefolk in the faces and the bearing, but they were large and strong, like giants! Three Wood-Sprites standing atop one another’s shoulders could very likely just reach the shoulder of one of these giants. They grunted and growled at each other as they moved about in a small village (almost the same size as the whole Fae Glen!) made of cloth and wood and large yellow vines. Some of the giants hunched around a steaming black hole. Nakoma could see flickers of light beneath it, which she could only assume were fire spirits trapped underneath the smoking hole; she could see other giants, looking at a large flat skin that from this distance she could see was a map. The more Nakoma listened, the more she began to understand their strange noises. The giants were talking with one another!

“Where do you suppose it is, then?” said one of the giants with a red covering.

The one covered in brown rubbed his head. “Legends say the Druid Circle can be found at the intersection of these two lines,” he pointed to the skin.

The giant with a large covering on his head made a hard noise like a grunt. “Well, we’re here,” he spread his arms, looking around. Nakoma shrank against the trunk of the tree as his gaze swept past her hiding place. “So where is it?”

The giant in brown placed a hand against his chin. “Perhaps my calculations were a bit off—“

Nakoma could not hear any more over the rush of fear that swelled in her ears. The Circle! Giants were planning to invade the Circle! Nakoma needed to warn her clan. She turned to whisper to her soul mate.

“Kharrie—“

The young eagle had sensed the sprite's fear of only moments ago and had fled already. Nakoma could just barely see her white tail-feathers in the distance. Desperately, she scrambled after her. The vast forest was much too large for a Wood-Sprite—without the eagle to guide her, Nakoma would never be able to find her way back to the Circle. 

At just the worst possible moment, a branch snapped under her feet.

“What’s that?” Nakoma heard a giant yell. Very soon, they were all yelling.

“Something’s up there!”

“In the trees!”

“What is it?”

“Get the lanterns!”

Nakoma was glad of the deepening shadows to hide her escape—until she realized what those shadows meant—sunset! Nakoma swung back through the trees, trying to guess the position of the sun in the dying light on the horizon, and placing it over her left shoulder, as it had been on her right when they had come upon the giants’ village.

Below her, the forest rang with their howls.

Nakoma swung up high into a tree, where the branches crossed so thickly that no eyes would ever spot her. The chill of dusk wrapped around her, and Nakoma knew that—even if she did find the way back to the Circle—she would not be able to cross the border.

Night had fallen on Duirfin Forest.

The voices of the giants faded into the distance; all she could hear were the gentle chirps of the forest crawlers. Her narrow toes found purchase in the bark of the tree as she worked her way down to the ground. Nakoma reasoned that she could find her way to the outer Circle from below, if she had lost the path from above.

Nakoma had only advanced twenty paces when a host of glowing orbs swung into view behind her.

“I see it!” cried a giant.

Crouching low, as small as possible, Nakoma immediately began running as fast as her legs could carry her. All the while the great thump-thump-thump-ing of giant feet swelled behind her.

Running swiftly out of sight of those glowing orbs, she spotted a small hole and dove inside. Crouching at the very back of the hollow log, Nakoma stared out toward the path. The giants ran past, swinging the orbs in their hands around. The Wood-Sprite saw the flickering forms of fire spirits trapped in glass; how cruel! She did not stir until every flicker of light and every shouting voice had faded. Only then did Nakoma venture forward—

Until a glowing orb suddenly filled the mouth of the log!

Nakoma let out a piercing shriek. The orb receded, but only slightly. She was caught well within its light; surely the giant knew she was there.

“Hello?” The voice was soft, as smooth as a rippling brook. Not at all harsh and growling like the other giants. Nakoma peeked between the fingers of her hands covering her face, and saw the brown cover she had seen earlier.

He spoke again. “I thought I saw you run in there. Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you, and the others are long gone. Please, will you come out?”

Soul Mates, Part 2>>>>

Previously in This Series:
#2 "The Artist's Wife"
#1 "Red of Morning"

Throwback Series: "The Day of Reckoning" Prologue Part 7

“Did you notice those posts when you came into town?” she asked.
“Do you know what they are?”

Previously: <Part 1>  <Part 2>  <Part 3>  <Part 4>  <Part 5> <Part 6>
 

The hour was late in the morning, nearing midday, when Deej finally finished preparing the althraxine and analthraxine. Laurel and Renata joined the men in the dining hall where Deej brought the vats of the drugs, and Gorrmunsa supervised them all carefully dividing the liquids into separate vials. Laurel fumed uncomfortably under the nerve-wracking, unblinking gaze of the Kytarr. When there were only a few vials left, Carsius and Augustus set about arming the canisters while Laurel and Renata filled the remaining vials.

Gorrmunsa had brought more vials than could fit in the canisters, but the mushrooms Deej brought produced enough althraxine to fill all the vials. At last, Carsius stood and dusted off his hands.

“That is finished,” he said, “now to distribute them around town.”

“It would be best if the canisters were set all at the same time, so that their timers could be exactly synchronized,” Deej remarked.

“There are not enough of us to be able to be in every location at once,” Gorrmunsa said, hissing in frustration. “And the Elf is wounded.”

“Oh-ho, Gorrmunsa,” Deej chuckled at his friend, “you forget so soon that it was haste on both sides that caused those wounds.”

“Wounded or not,” Laurel added, “I would not go with you on a mission doomed to fail!”

“How you do go on about that!” Augustus leapt to his feet. “Are you implying that you would stoop to sabotaging your own allies?”

“How dare you—“

“Then how can you be so sure that we will, in fact, fail?”

“Because I—“ Laurel was so overcome she could not continue. Carsius took advantage of this moment to try and reason with the two operatives.

“Laurel and Augustus, this is no time to be arguing with each other! Laurel,” he turned to the Elf, “if you do not learn to curb your tongue, you may lose the respect and the listening ear of every last one of us. You must learn to be open to suggestion, instead of disparaging your comrades because you do not approve of their ideas. There is no way to know ahead of time whether a mission of this sensitivity will fail—“

“But I do know—“ Laurel interrupted, but Carsius raised his hand.

“Be silent! I have not finished: you cannot be so certain that we will not have some measure of success, though I agree: merely acting this once will not be the end of the matter. As for you, Augustus—“ Carsius did not speak to his former squire, only gave him the glare Augustus knew so well, the glare Carsius would often turn on him when as a squire Augustus would fail in his duties because he had been talking too much. He hung his head in shame. Carsius saw the change and his face relaxed.

“Yes, my friend; you must learn to respect your elders. You cannot know but that Laurel may have seen more battles than you, perhaps she has done somewhat of this thing herself. Merely because she predicts failure for an experimental mission does not give you leave to accuse her of subterfuge. In fact, merely because one person predicts failure does not guarantee success! Swallow your pride, brother, and allow the opinions of others to stand; if indeed they are unfounded, they will fade. It matters not who is right or wrong. What matters is that when all is said and done, we are all on the same side, working shoulder-to-shoulder, united in our goal.”

Carsius’ words hung in the silence for a moment, then Gorrmunsa interposed.

“The canisters are ready for distribution,” he said.

“All right,” Carsius assumed the role of mission director, “Gorrmunsa, Augustus, and I will take the three furthest points of the city, North, West, and South…” his voice trailed as he pondered how they might manage the remaining two points, Eastern and Central.

“I can help,” Renata volunteered.

Augustus could not restrain a snort, “With that head of—“ he caught Carsius glaring at him again, and ceased speaking.

Gorrmunsa did not say anything, but it was evident that he held the same disdain as Augustus.

Carsius smiled, remembering how easily she had given him the slip when he first realized that the Syndicate might have allies on Eillumaeia.

“It may come as a surprise to many of you,” he said, “but young Renata has been well-trained in the art of remaining invisible—in spite of her hair,” he finished pointedly.

The young woman blushed at the praise. “I’ll go grab my cloak.”

“I will remain here with Laurel,” Deej volunteered. “Good luck, my friends.”

“Well, we have the four points covered,” Carsius noted, “each of us will take a canister to within ten kilometers of the city borders, and also a second canister around the Square at the center of the town.”

“I’ve already prepared the timers,” Gorrmunsa said, “all you need to do is press the button there next to the console to activate them once you’ve placed them.”

“Remember,” Carsius reminded the other three, “though we are invisible to the wyrts, we do not want to risk being seen by anyone. Use the utmost caution.”

“Of course,” Gorrmunsa’s elliptical eyes narrowed happily.

“We should return around mid-afternoon,” Carsius told Deej, “If we have not returned by dusk, you may be sure something has happened and I leave it up to your instincts to decide whether to investigate and rescue or to abandon this mission altogether.”

Renata cast a worried glance at Laurel, who shook her head. She would never abandon her friend, not while she could still breathe.

Deej wagged his head, “I don’t think it will come to that, Carsius. We shall await your return.”

Laurel stood at the bay window of the sitting room at the front of the house, watching the four operatives—one a particular friend of hers—steal away into the distance. She heard a soft noise behind her.

Deej stood patiently in the middle of the room.

“So, Laurel,” he asked, “we have some time to ourselves; why don’t you tell me your story, and I will tell you mine?”

Laurel glanced warily at this stocky, yet perceptive creature. He hopped up onto one side of the grand sofa, and patted the cushion next to him, winking invitingly. Laurel sighed and left the window.

She told her whole history to the Ewok, beginning with the horrible blight that killed her grandmother and drove her people off the island of Andar and across the sea to the continent of Murinda, and how the Elvenking—her great-uncle—decided during the voyage that he would not be coming as a conqueror, but as merely the leader and spokesperson for his people. He appointed his closest officials as Royal Councilors to maintain Andarian law among the Elves, and hid his identity as the Elvenking, referring to that identity as separate from himself, going by the name Sir Golon, so as not to appear as a threat to the existing king in the nation of Glastor, where the Andarian exiles settled.

She spoke of her mother, whose mother was herself the first Andarian Elf to marry outside their race, and she married a Glastorian man, and so became disgraced. When Laurel’s father, Nareandor, married the disgraced half-Elven daughter of this union, therein the other Andarians saw folly, and therefore Laurel, though her great-uncle accepted her and appointed her as his heir, received the disdain of her people that her mother and grandmother had faced.

She recounted the time when the nation of Glastor was conquered by the armies of Fortinskan, and the king of Fortinskan wanted to remove the Andarians from the town and into the forests, but the Chief Royal Councilor worked out a deal wherein the Andarians could all return to Andar instead of remaining behind and, as Laurel had tried to point out, still honoring the word of the Elvenking, who promised his steel and his people’s skill in defending the nation. These Elves would have rather returned to an uncertain future in Andarian than remain faithful. Moreover, they deliberately excluded Laurel from the group by emphasizing that the “pure Andarians” were the only ones who could return, of which Laurel could not count herself because of her bloodline.

Laurel told Deej of the wyrts, and the wise Ewok nodded somberly.

“So that is why you believe this plan might not succeed?”

Laurel sighed, “That’s not the only reason; I know it will fail because I have observed this city since I’ve been here. Come see.” She beckoned the Ewok to the window and pointed.

“Do you see those posts?” she pointed to tall structures scattered throughout the skyline of the city.

“Yes,” Deej replied, “but I do not recognize—“

Just then, the saboteurs returned.

“Phew!” Augustus whooped, “That was exciting!” He winked congenially at Laurel, “Hey, good thing you two are standing by the window. We just might be able to see it happen; the timers will be ending soon.”

Renata went and stood next to Laurel, who put an arm around the redhead’s shoulders. Together, the six operatives watched as Carsius counted down under his breath.

“Three…two…one!”

There was no massive explosion, no noise—but a distinctive purple haze began to rise from specific points around the city. Pillars of purple vapor rose straight up—

And were harnessed by the posts Laurel had pointed out to Deej.

After the purple haze came a green haze, but this followed the path of the purple haze, no wider than a few inches, and straight upward, where it gathered in a canopy as if trapped by an atmospheric membrane.

Laurel grinned at the crestfallen expression on Augustus’ face.

“Did you notice those posts when you came into town?” she asked. “Do you know what they are?”

“Apparently…” Augustus replied hollowly, as the full effect of the situation weighed on him, “Eillumaeia is equipped with a city-wide pneumatic filtration system.”

NEXT>>>>>

The Suggestion Box, Vol. 3: "One Thousand Words" List #2

Suggested by: Cheryl Fasset

The List:

Name: Jane Austen
Place: Central Park, New York City
Time: Stone Age
Object: Paintbrush


The Result:

Title:

"The Artist's Wife" 

 

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man who spends all his time in the garret inhaling paint fumes instead of eating must be in want of his wife!"

I saw the sharpish, lanky head of dark hair emerge from behind the canvas, and two green eyes fixed on me in some mild confusion.

"Betty?"

"Oh Paul!" I ran around behind him and threw my arms over his shoulders, nearly grazing the painting as I did so.

That earned me a chuckle. Say what they like, but I could still make him laugh. "Paraphrasing Jane Austen, are we?" He grabbed my hands and tenderly kissed my wrist.

"Yes," I said, pulling back to massage his shoulders. Two good rubs and they dropped like counterweights. "I can do Shakespeare next time, if you like."

"You did last time, remember?" Paul murmured. "You came in barefoot with your hair all down, and you said, 'O Paul, Paul! Wherefore art thou an artist? Deny thy paints and refuse thy canvas!'"

I laughed and grabbed his arm, pulling him off that tiny stool he insisted on using, though it brought his knees up to his elbows.

"Or if thou wilt not," I continued, "be but sworn my love, and I'll be no longer a bother!"

Paul gave a hearty laugh at this, and reached for my other hand. Humming softly, he began leading me in a simple waltz step. I followed him. We danced among those canvases—some finished, some not. He had been working himself silly lately, but in that kaleidoscope of color swirling around us, I saw the unfolding of a master. The broad scenes that at first appeared to be nebulous swaths of color took their shapes and became tender blossoms swaying in the wind, or a captive moment of unbridled joy as half-naked boys staved off summer heat and washed away the taints of formal education with a leap into the lake.

Paul spun me away and back again, holding me close and swaying gently. His long, strong, weathered fingers threaded between my short, soft ones. He smelled of turpentine and talc, and I could barely detect traces of the lavender he tried to use for air freshener.

I suppose if he wanted fresher air, he could paint less, I thought, but I knew the idea was ridiculous even as it crossed my mind. Paul? Paint less? He wouldn't be much like my Paul, then, would he? I giggled.

Paul's long nose stroked my cheek. "What?" He whispered, bending down to kiss my neck.

I reached up and buried my fingers in his hair. It left a sheen of grease and paint on my hand. Gracious! How long had it been since the man showered?

"Nothing," I said, resting in his embrace. "I miss you, is all."

He sighed. "Betty, I'm sorry—"

"Don't be." I turned to face him. "You listen to me, Paul Robert Williamson! Don't think for one minute I didn't know what I was getting into when I married you! Other people might have passed you off as 'just another starving artist', but I saw a young man who was noble, and honest, and kind, and gentle, and brave, and very motivated, and just the sort of man for my husband!”

We wandered over to the single floor-length window that gave a spectacular view of Central Park—Paul’s source of inspiration, whether he actually painted what he saw, or the different perspective conjured imaginary images.

The shadows of the afternoon superimposed our reflections over the view of the park.

“Look at us, Betty,” Paul muttered. “You’re working while I’m home painting, we’re living by our shoestrings—and you tell me this is the life you want?”

“I do!” I held his hands as I had on our wedding day, saying those same words and firmly placing my whole heart behind them. “You’re an amazing artist, Paul, and that isn’t just because I love you!”

The smile dropped a little on one side, into a smirk. “Yes, but it does help, to be known.” He rubbed the back of his neck, leaving a little streak of blue by his ear. “I just don’t know, Betty; the show is next week and lately I’ve been wondering if all this is good enough.” He waved a hand at the canvas garden surrounding us.

“Good enough?” I squealed back. “Paul, how could you? You’ve been working so hard this whole time. Nobody else can know the hours you’ve slaved, the sleep you’ve given up, the wife you’ve forgotten—“ I said it with a smile to let him know that I wasn’t holding any grudges—“To make this your crowning achievement! You have always made sure that everything you have ever produced is the absolute best you could possibly do.”

He shrugged one thin shoulder. “I don’t know; I mean, ‘art’ is such a fluid concept these days… Don’t you think representational pantings like mine are a little archaic?”

I shook my head. “Archaic means nothing; art is the expression of the artist’s soul; theirs might look like so many random blotches and dashes, but this—“ I pointed to a nearby painting, one of an angel looking down upon the first days of Adam. That one had taken a whole weekend of us together, getting the details, the proportions, and the faces just right. We were newlyweds, very confident about one another, but still learning about each other. It certainly showed, as the angel gazed down, unseen, in tender, devoted love, while naïve and innocent Adam peered around him in boyish wonder. It was my favorite of all Paul’s expressions, a sign that his imagination was alive and well, even in adulthood. "This is yours." 

I stared right into his eyes as I said quietly. “I firmly believe that next week’s exhibit will be the single greatest display of art since the Stone Age exhibit at the Museum of Natural History!” I poked him in the chest with one of his paintbrushes.

Paul took the paintbrush out of my hand. His grin made his whole face glow at the prospect. Winking at me, he tickled my nose with the paintbrush.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked. “The Starving Artist is famished.”

Reader's Review: "Burn Our Houses Down" by Kelsey Garmendia

Synopsis from Amazon:
Hayley and Xavier, two young adults from the small town of Pine Bush, N.Y. have been friends since childhood. After Hayley's twin sister dies in a car accident, Xavier is determined to get her out of her funk. They go on a camping trip that is ended abruptly by a wildfire. When they make into the town in the valley of the Shawangunk Mountains, everyone is missing, all the food is gone and something is in the woods. Something, not quite human, is at the top of the food chain now. 
>>>>>>>

My Review:
 
Holy.

Freaking.

Guacamole.

Once again, Kelsey Garmendia has succeeded in wrecking my emotions over a few fictional characters. Her style is spellbinding; the pacing is as torrential as a roller coaster: just when you feel like you can't handle the stress of the peril, she pulls back and relaxes... Only to amp it up again once the tension eases. She chooses her intense situations to match the need of her characters to develop and change very quickly. The more I read, the more I am convinced that reading Kelsey Garmendia is not for the faint of heart! Her writing reads like an intense indie film: what it lacks in "special effects" and in-depth technical detail (like professionally-written thrillers), it makes up for in committed, realistic characters, and the tense, uneasy silence that makes you hold your breath because you don't know what's coming or what's out there... Waiting to get in.

It starts out well enough: a young woman mourning the death of her sister. Her family and friends (including her sister's fiancé) have to deal with the loss, and they do so in different ways. In a normal book, this would be the extent of the plot, and we would study the human condition in the face of loss and grief.

But this isn't a normal book; this is Kelsey Garmendia, storyteller extraordinaire.

She gives us "coping with loss and grief" in the face of a desperate race to survive against something stronger, better, faster than a normal human being. In a single cataclysm too fast for anyone to realize it before it's too late, the world positively dissolves around them, and they have to find their way through the wasteland of humanity before they too succumb to the nameless, formless, relentless danger. The young woman has to deal with running under the protection of her late sister's boyfriend because he's about the only one she can trust anymore. And the boyfriend must be the protector of the young woman who is not just the sister of the girl he was going to marry...

It's her twin.

As with the first of her books I read--Disenchanted--"Burn Our Houses Down" serves as further proof that Garmendia is a master storyteller, giving relatable characters, credible situations, and ample food for thought to her readers. (My only warning, for those who consider that sort of thing, is there is quite a bit of swearing--which does make sense, given the scenario!) 

A heart-pounding, stomach-clenching, breath-taking, race-to-the-finish read that will have you on the edge of your seat till the very end! "Burn Our Houses Down" gets a *****5 STAR***** rating from the Upstream Writer!

Further Reading: (Gripping Thriller/Paranormal Elements/Intense Action)
The Untamed Series--Madeline Dyer
       -Untamed 
       -Fragmented 
The Vemreaux Trilogy--Mary E. Twomey
       -The Way 
       -The Truth 
       -The Lie 
The Chronicles of Lorrek--Kelly Blanchard
        -Someday I'll Be Redeemed 
        -I Still Have A Soul 
        -I'm Still Alive 
        -Do You Trust Me? 
        -You Left Me No Choice 
Lord of the Wyrde Woods--Nils Visser
     -Escape From Neverland 
     -Dance Into The Wyrd 
-Beasts of Babylon--E. A. Copen
-Notna--J. D. Cunegan 
The PSS Chronicles--Ripley Patton
       -Ghost Hand 
       -Ghost Hold 
       -Ghost Heart 
       -Ghost Hope 
The LouisiAngel Series--C. L. Coffey
        -Angel in Training 
        -Angel Eclipsed 
        -Angel Tormented 

Reader's Review: "Floor 21" by Jason Luthor

Synopsis from Amazon: 

As humanity lives out the remainder of its existence at the top of an isolated apartment tower, young Jackie dares to question Tower Authority and their ban on traveling into the tower's depths. Intelligent and unyielding, Jackie ventures into the shadows of the floors below. But will her strong will and refusal to be quiet—in a society whose greatest pride is hiding the past—bring understanding of how humanity became trapped in the tower she has always called home, or will it simply be her undoing?

>>>>>>

My Review:

  

Breathe, Leslie, breathe.

I did it. Six hundred pages of a girl basically talking to herself; I made it through Floor 21.

And it was brilliant.

Can't quite call it "glorious" because right now I am trying to get images of living pink snot out of my head—but Luthor is pretty dang brilliant because the whole thing played out like a Joss Whedon horror flick. (And I am a MASSIVE fan of Joss Whedon!)

"Cabin in the Woods" meets Tower in the City. Definitely. Not the caliber in descriptors and world building of someone like, say, Mark Lawrence and his Broken Empire (now THAT is a GLORIOUS concept!) but very awesome all the same!

The Good

Luthor really captured the art of character voice in Jackie. She became very much a real character with her own distinct sound that wasn't an adult male (the author.) Some parts made me giggle, some made me squeal. I found it highly enjoyable. Her relationships with the other people in the tower felt very genuine.

I also enjoyed the consistency of omniscience. At one point, the reader is treated to a glimpse of another area (no spoilers) and something happens to cause peril across the rest of the tower. Hence the group not involved is in sudden and unexpected danger, feeling the effects of the events that happened elsewhere... But without any inkling as to why it happened, and not enough preparation to know how to respond.

Lastly, I rather liked the number of questions left unanswered. Answers came for essentially the most pertinent questions, but there is enough left unexplored that ensuing books will have plenty of material to draw from. Luthor has left himself with plenty of room to expand his world and the lore that comes with it. That takes skill to not get so excited over everything that comes with world-building that the author stuffs it all into one book. Nicely done.

The.... Not-So-Much 

I did not enjoy the aspect of Jackie's parents. I was led to believe that the manner and nature of those characters was vastly different than how they turned out... And the way it turned out was rather disappointing to me. (Still trying not to spoil anything!)

I also did not appreciate the character Edward. It just felt too... Off to me... Or something. It's like if the idea had been allowed to percolate just a little bit longer, there would have perhaps been more of a grasp on the situation. As it stands, the concept isn't terrible—rushed, maybe. But not bad for a spur-of-the-moment inspiration.

On the whole, it does leave me wanting to read more (except for the fact that it's horror so I know that if I do, there will just be more creepygross stuff!), and if the idea of The Creep doesn't turn your stomach like it does mine, then this is absolutely a book you will enjoy! I give it ****4 STARS****!

Further Reading: (Horror/Dark/Creepy Stuff)
-Charon, Unguarded--A. H. Johnstone
-Beasts of Babylon--E. A. Copen
-Sanctuary--Pauline Creeden
-Notna--J. D. Cunegan
Tales of the Fallen--Katika Schneider
       -Devotion
Stories of Togas, Daggers And Magic--Assaph Mehr
       -Murder in Absentia
Alexi Sokolsky: Hound of Eden--James Osiris Baldwin
        -Burn Artist 
        -Blood Hound
-Oblivion's Forge--Simon Williams

Throwback Series: "Day of Reckoning" Prologue Part 6

Previously: <Part 1>  <Part 2>  <Part 3>  <Part 4>  <Part 5>

Just minutes before dawn, as the first hint of natural light began to supersede the artificial illumination, Laurel found herself sitting up in bed, ramrod straight and senses on full alert. Had there been a noise? Why was she awake? The hackles rose on the back of her neck. Her Inner Sight told her that the shadows in the room where not quite what they ought to be—

Instantly, she leapt from the covers and landed atop a dark, wiry, fur-covered creature. In the slow-growing light of the morning, the creature seemed to have no form—and claws in unexpected quarters.

By now Laurel was ready to wrestle the creature within reach of her knives, but then found herself with a face full of fur. The creature underneath her quickly twisted her arms, trapping them, while the heavy, furry covering on her head threatened to suffocate her unless she held still. If it was a creature on her face, it seemed to be sitting on her head with little intention of moving until she stopped struggling. Laurel immediately took the hint and lay still.

The furry lump moved off her face, and Laurel blinked as during the time she was blinded someone had turned on the lights. Her eyes finally adjusted, and she saw Renata cowering behind her blankets, and Carsius and Augustus grinning down at her. Standing right above her head (for he had been the one sitting on it) was a squat, furry, bear-like creature. Her limber assailant proved to be a four-limbed feline creature with dark fur and vivid green eyes, which glared down at her.

Augustus stepped into the room, chuckling as Laurel’s cheeks burned.

“I see you’ve met my allies,” he remarked, gesturing to the feline. Laurel sighed as the strange creature jumped to its feet, releasing her. Carsius rushed forward and helped her to her feet. The creature’s long claws had cut her in several places on her legs and arms, and Laurel felt the burning sting of a cut on her left cheek as well.

Augustus announced to his compatriots, “May I present Gorrmunsa Kisora, a Kytarr; and this is Deej Horuku,” he pointed to the short creature, who nodded in acknowledgement, “a most esteemed ancient Ewok from the planet Endor. These two are here to help us with our plans.”

Gorrmunsa Kisora (*Not the
original image; I could not find
the original, so I had to make
do with something else that still
sort of fit the description!)

“Help us?” Laurel snapped, almost as unhappy about being caught in such an embarrassing situation as the men found her in as she was about being jerked out of a dead sleep and wrestled by two creatures she should have been on good terms with. “If they were here to help, why not come in the front door like you did? Why did they have to go creeping through my bedroom?”

“Need I remind you, hoyden,” the Kytarr hissed, “it was you who attacked us first.”

Laurel staggered to her feet in spite of her wounds, “I’ll show you hoyden, you—“

“Laurel!” Carsius laid a hand on the Elf’s shoulder. “Please try to behave. Kytarr rarely use doors, and certainly never on the ground floor if they can help it.”

“Doors are too dangerous,” Gorrmunsa muttered, flexing his long claws, “too many guards, too much security.”

“All the same, Gorrmunsa,” Carsius stood and faced the Kytarr, who towered a full head over him, “you knew that you were entering the private quarters of someone, stranger or no. You could have chosen another area by which to enter the house, that would not be so perceived as a threat to the safety of these people.”

Gorrmunsa bared his teeth, but tucked his tail between his legs submissively.

Deej Horuku

Laurel felt a small hand on her knee, and she looked up to see Deej Horuku blinking at her sympathetically. In his hand he held a small tin of paste. He offered it to her.

Laurel took the tin and smelled it, surprised that she recognized the scent. “Talatha?” she asked in amazement.

Deej nodded, pleased that she had identified the plant from which the paste was derived. “Talatha,” he confirmed. He gestured to her wounds. “glavaf oy talatha terriakelle oy ondyoruanaf,” he instructed in Andarian, accompanying his words with a spreading motion over each of the cuts.

Laurel was stunned; she had never heard a non-Elf speak her native tongue so perfectly. She immediately began spreading the talatha-balm over the cuts made by Gorrmunsa’s claws.

Meanwhile, Gorrmunsa busied himself with unpacking the pack he had carried on his back the whole way to Eillumaeia. He pulled out a small canister, and several prepared vials of liquid.

Augustus picked up one of the vials, ignoring the flicker of annoyance in Gorrmunsa’s eyes. “This is the althraxine that must be transformed into vapor?” he asked.

“That is the analthraxine,” the Kytarr corrected, snatching the vial back. He loaded the analthraxine into the top half of the canister, and a second vial into the base, “this one’s the althraxine. This is the dispersion device.” He held it up for the two men to see, but seemed reluctant to let them hold it just yet.

It was silver, roughly the size of an earthenware pot, seemingly split in half horizontally across the middle. A timer graced each half, next to an automatic valve.

“The althraxine must be released first,” Gorrmunsa explained, “so that’s the top half; when this timer runs down, the valve will seal tight, causing the pressure to build so much that all of the liquid is turned to vapor and explodes, releasing the pressurized vapor. Once this explodes, it will automatically trigger the second timer, set just long enough for the althraxine vapor to disperse, then comes a similar chain reaction to release the analthraxine, which should render all alternate neuro-systems invisible to the wyrts.”

“Hmph, should,” Laurel snorted. Everyone turned to her and she shook her head, “It will be a marvelous sight when a simple chemical reaction could bring the end of centuries of neural slavery.” She rolled her eyes.

Augustus waved her off, “What’s the range of these things, Gorrm?” he asked.

The Kytarr regarded the canister carefully and set it gently back into his pack. “Roughly a ten-kilometer radius, last I checked.”

Carsius pondered this, “So in order to cover the whole city of Eillumaeia, we would need—“

“A set at every point of the compass,” Laurel finished. “Better put it ten klicks away from the edge of town, just to cover everything,” her multicolored eyes danced, “not that it will work, anyhow.”

Carsius shook his head at her skepticism. “Perhaps we should even place a few canisters at the center of town, just to be safe? How many canisters do you have, Gorrmunsa?”

The Kytarr shrugged and glanced at his pack, “I have eight of these, but not enough vials to be able to set them right away. Deej has the mushrooms, I was going to ‘cook up’ more of both drugs when I got here. Deej!” Gorrmunsa called the Ewok away from where he was trying to become acquainted with Renata, who still did not know what to think of these newcomers, much less of the fact that the men were already dressed, but she and Laurel were still in their nightgowns.

“Deej, what did you do with the hourosh mushrooms?” Gorrmunsa rapped out in the Endo tongue.

Deej shook his silvery head, “Do not be so brash, my hasty friend! I have the fungi right here in my pack. You’re lucky they did not get crushed, the way you insisted on rushing helter-skelter across that intergalactic bridge!” The Ewok dug a small package out of his pack as he spoke, and at the first sight of the squashed, wrinkled, blackish-green-looking mushrooms, everyone expected a toxic smell and prepared to grimace, but the scent wafting from the small bits of fungi was more like the smell of freshly-turned dirt after a rainstorm.

Deej turned to Laurel, respectfully acknowledging her as the first tenant of the home. “Laiddrynn,” he used the Andarian term for “lady”, “does this house have a cooking pot of some sort?” he asked in what Carsius and Augustus recognized as English, but Laurel knew as the Murindan dialect.

Laurel considered, “I believe it does,” she said, “down in the kitchen.”

“Would you be so kind as to show me where it is, that I may prepare the mushrooms in the manner of my people to acquire the althraxine and the analthraxine?”

Laurel stood—and remembered that she was in her nightgown still. “Sure, I will show you,” she glanced up at Carsius, “and then Renata and I will get dressed, so all of you better move into the parlor.”

Gorrmunsa twitched his tail and cocked his head curiously. “Who is Renata?”

“I am,” the shy redhead answered from the bed.

Gorrmunsa sidled over to her. Her hair reminded him of a certain Kytarr with a red pelt he had once considered mating with—

“Gorrm,” Carsius had seen the fear in Renata’s eyes as the strange creature hovered closer.

Gorrmunsa left the room with the two men.

NEXT>>>>>

Story Feature: THE LAST INKWEAVER From Start to Finish!

I finished my first novel on Monday.

It wasn't my first idea that I'd ever started. It wasn't the first project I had ever finished. 

But I count it as my "first novel" because it's the first one I would be serious about publishing. So in honor of finally not having to think about it any longer... I just wanted to give a little taste of what I have been going through over the last two years. (*You'll also notice that the images scattered throughout this post--and also the linked text--are all linked to the excerpts from "The Last Inkweaver" that I've posted over the last couple years!)

1. The Start

"The Legend of the Wordspinners"

I can still remember the spring of 2013 when I first envisioned this scene: a girl wearing a dress. It tears, and the painted characters on the fabric shrink away in fear. The girl goes to see a woman, who tells a story that repairs the rip, and the girl returns to playing.

And so the concept of "Inkweaving" was born. I had the idea that there would be a girl who did not believe in the Inkweavers, and she would find an article of clothing, like a cape or something, and when she wore it, it would lead her to where the last Inkweaver was in hiding. The skeptic would not only come to believe, she would also become the next Inkweaver.

"The Last Inkweaver"

"What Are You Afraid Of?"

I think it was right about the time I started reading Shannon Hale's "Books of Bayern," where different characters had long-forgotten abilities to hear "voices" in the elements, and appear to manipulate or at least interact with them. (The first is "Goose Girl" and they were fantastic!) I suppose I kind of wanted my book to be a little bit like that. Hence, I decided there would be more than just the Inkweavers; there would be a whole guild of them: Inkweavers, who used their storytelling to fashion clothes and blankets; Earth-Tellers, who could shape clay and stone; Talesmiths who plied metal, and Story-Healers, who carved wood and could also grow plants and herbs for medicines specific to the ailment plaguing their patients. 

"In The Inkweaver's Cottage"

The fashioned items would have a story within them, audible only to the person in need of the item. I could not think of a credible reason why something so beneficial would suddenly be considered witchcraft—especially since it wasn't going to be anything like magic in my mind. It was just in the fact that storytelling is a powerful art. 

"The Unfinished Tapestry"

Telling the story in first person seemed a clever way to express some speculation over potential ideas of how and why this happened, without having to supply the answer just yet. I happily plotted the pending novel with different potential challenges that sounded good and "questy", ones that would be easy enough to make exciting, while teaching her different things about the benefit and power of storytelling. 

I had my character, the potential for conflict, and a good start. Little did I know what kind of story I was in for...

2. The Tales

"Needle in A Haystack"

To begin with, I started noticing that whenever I sat down to write "The Last Inkweaver", I would start to "hear" the characters in my head. Of course, that meant I would be writing out the words as soon as they popped into my head. I started hearing little noises, too, and I would describe those as they occurred. The further I progressed, the deeper I got into my main character Shereya's head—and the more I began to actually "experience" the novel in my head. 

"The Labors of Shereya and Belak"

I kid you not; it was the strangest thing I had ever done. Even as I was writing the fact that Shereya had begun to hear voices (because the Inkweaver's tapestry was "speaking" to her, as I described before) and snatches of a Tale, like sounds and words—her story "happened" in the same way inside my head. 

"The Three Daughters"

About that time, I decided that her story would be reflected in a series of shorter Tales which the Inkweaver had ostensibly told before, or "Told into" the tapestry–sort of like how a fairy tale adaptation I had recently read would occasionally reference the original tale, and proceed with the chapter that pertained to that part of the story.

I had the first Tale, and it led right into the core story very nicely, and so "The Last Inkweaver" was humming along...

"The House of the Talesmith"

Then the voices stopped. And it was the worst feeling in the world. Here I was, just starting out on an idea that had do encapsulated all of my mental senses that I had essentially put every other project on hold for it... And I could not add a single word. 

"The Blackrope Forest"

After trying and failing to continue, I decided I would go ahead and just focus on writing the Tales. They weren't connected to each other, and I could tell them in the style of the Brothers Grimm, which is to say, in a rather oblique manner. I could use all the flowery language and the "time snap" phrases (like "by and by" and "after a time") I wanted. There was no need for consistency between the Tales.

"Morgianna Plontus-Byrmingham"

I wrote the first three Tales... And the story came back in full force. As time went on, I kept on writing, listening to the voices of my characters. Most of the time, I would be absolutely stumped on the story, so I would go ahead and write the Tale—after which the ideas would begin flowing again and I could continue. 

"The Morning After"

I may have been a little disappointed having only twelve chapters and ten Tales, but if this was the way "The Last Inkweaver"  was turning out, then who was I to stop it from happening? I figured I could always expand as necessary.

Once I finished with the last Tale, I had added at least three chapters to my original plan (because some bits took longer than expected), but finally, I was on the second-to-last chapter, which meant I only had two more chapters to write.

Right?

 3. The End

Lady Veronica and "The Four Travelers"

That was back in... March? I think... At any rate, I spent several months on that "second-to-last-chapter"... And yet I was writing constantly. No, I wasn't just pegging away at the same chapter.

Rather, each time I tried to write the "next-to-last", something unexpected would come along and add details to the vague references I had on my outline, and would require me to add another chapter. 

I was aiming for the short and simple; I intended to be precise and concise... But these scenes would just explode in my head, and the conversations would start, and I would end up with a general mess of the original plan... But some great character development just happened. 

"In The Court of Count Bergen"

I realized what happens to a story when you don't force it. I learned just as much about myself as I did about my characters.

More importantly, it wasn't till I started writing this "end" that did not have a Tale to direct it that I realized the key to this whole story: Shereya would not become an Inkweaver. 

This whole time, I had been gearing her up for being a Wordspinner. She had been hearing Tales from different items, able to recall and share these stories—

"The Four Travelers" (Part 2)

It hit me, at about the second time I added a chapter: how come Shereya can hear ALL the Tales, when she is only supposed to be an Inkweaver? That would be like a quilter knowing how to throw intricate pottery, or smith horseshoes. Not the same skill! So would I have to go back and change the parts that have her hearing Tales from other objects? How else was I going to fix this?

I thought back to what was going on when I first conceived this idea. I think it was actually about the time I wrote my first "How To Book" post, and I was bemoaning the state of literature. I felt that a lot of writers were content with the shallow and cliche because it sells. It saddened me that writers with the whole of English vocabulary at their disposal would resign themselves to a limited number of the most basic words.

"Do You See What I See?"

That's why I wanted to write a story like "The Last Inkweaver," in a world where storytelling was a skill like smithing or weaving, and people thought it was some magical art, when it was only the ability to perceive things deeper than face value. Like sleight of hand or the fortune teller at the carnival, writing feels like "magic" when it seems to tell your deepest secrets, but while you're being dazzled, the "magician" is reading your appearance and your body language to be able to guess your "tells." In the same way, writers pull on those inner motivations that are more common than people realize, to come up with characters and morals that tell us deeper things about ourselves.

"Moon Valley"

This is what I wanted "The Last Inkweaver" to be; I wanted Shereya as the person who is afraid to "speculate", and yet when she tries to "take over" and ascribe her own meaning, even choosing to follow someone else's lead instead of actually listening to the voices she hears (as in "The Rise and Fall of Morgianna Plontus-Byrmingham") it doesn't turn out well. Writers are still responsible for their own writing.

"Writer's Eyes"

In Moon Valley, I was going to expand her abilities of perception to be able to Tell a town (she is still Wordspinner-bound at this point) but halfway through, I began asking, "Can a Wordspinner actually do that?" She was going to Tell the town and then accidentally Tell some dire situation (like a careless writer who puts characters in needless danger "just because")...

But instead, she meets an Earth-Teller who started talking about Writer's Eyes.

In a world where there are essentially no stories (because the only people Telling stories are skilled crafters, and the only people hearing the stories are the ones either watching it be made, or the ones receiving the item) what use would they have for Writers?

As soon as I decided that Writers were the ones who could hear ALL the Tales, and it was their job to Write the Tales with their deeper perception, to make them real and vivid for those who possibly did or could not hear the original Tale... Many things fell into place:

"A Word on Wordspinners"

-Shereya is the first new Writer, that's why she can hear all the Tales;

-The expulsion of the Wordspinners was not arbitrary; it started when the new King (who ascended the throne when Shereya was born, after being educated abroad in exactly the manner that Shereya had been, emphasizing logic and reason and observation instead of discernment) rounded up all the Writers; without the Writers, the Books could be banned, and the Wordspinners misrepresented, their Tales falsified, and the distrust built over time

-What was more, this wasn't going to be the end of the story, because she hasn't even been to Gramble yet;

-Additionally, it provides a sort of "in-world" explanation for the existence of this book, "The Last Inkweaver" and the accompanying "Tales of The Inkweaver"... since it could be construed as Shereya the Writer keeping a record of this story!

Final count: 21 chapters; that's 9 chapters added to the original plan.

4. What Now?

Now that the story is done, I am going to work on summarizing it in less than 300 words; I think that is about the length of a jacket blurb. If I can do it, then I will start looking for beta readers. If not, then I know that I need to pare away at those parts that do not have anything to do with the story.

Also, in case you're wondering, this is not going to be a standalone novel like I thought it would. The arc for Shereya came to a close, but I am happy to report that there is still room for expansion and loose threads! Each book will center around a different guild: this one was Inkweavers, and the rest will be for the Earth-Tellers, the Talesmiths, and the Story-Healers. The whole series will culminate in achieving the resolution to the big problem introduced in this first one. 

And then, of course, when I've gotten through all of this, I really think I will end up publishing "The Last Inkweaver." I am grateful to be participating in the anthology that will include my novella "The Princess of Undersea," because that will give me insight into the publishing process, without the entire responsibility of the project resting solely on me. Maybe I will get the confidence I need to then embark solo!

5. What Next?

I do have a project I am about 3/5 of the way finished (almost done with "Act II", that is) and now with "The Last Inkweaver" out of my head, it won't take very long to finish that.

After weighing the pros and cons of three other potential projects I've started but set aside, I've decided to go with...

MERELY MEREDITH

(A Modern Adaptation of Jane Austen's Persuasion)

-Basic Summary: The Elliots are now a Texas oil family who have run out of money due to some of the wells drying up (and the accelerated spending due to the rise in the cost of living). "Captain Wentworth" is now Fred Winston, an environmental scientist very keen on the use of modern technology to improve worldwide agriculture. "Admiral Croft" is a computer software engineer and creator of the operating system "MyCroft." Due to the extensive connections to both environmentalism and technology--neither of which Mr. Elliot trusts--Meredith (Anne) is encouraged not to associate with Fred... till his brother-in-law rents out The Beaumont Estate, and Fred comes in town for a visit. Perhaps her feelings aren't as dead as she once thought...

I've been poking around this project a lot, and I actually made it pretty far along in the story. I've been following the novel itself for my plot-line, only adjusting the storyline where necessary to befit the updated setting. It is the next incomplete manuscript that I have (besides "The Red Dragon of Wales" which I want to be more of a collaborative project, and "The ReBible Series" which I'm saving for this year's NaNoWriMo) so it naturally made the most sense to move on to that one.
Feel free to read the excerpts I have scattered around this blog, leave comments on the ones you like, and perhaps that will entice me to write more...

Till next time....

Catch you further Upstream!