A.F. Stewart's Blog, page 72
August 12, 2015
My 777 Challenge - Paranormal Style
I don't usually post twice in a day, but I was nominated to take part in the 777 Challenge by fellow Xchyler Publishing author, the very talented Danielle E. Shipley. So I say...
Challenge Accepted!
Basically this is how it works:
THE CHALLENGE: SHARE 7 LINES FROM PAGE 7 OF YOUR MANUSCRIPT + TAG 7 BLOGGERS.
And like Danielle, I've decide to share a snippet from my story that is soon to be part of the upcoming (and as yet untitled) paranormal anthology from Xchyler Publishing.
My story, The Weeping Lady, is loosing based on the La Llorona and White Lady ghost tales. This excerpt is a flashback, to the first time the main character of Eva has an encounter with the ghost.
Excerpt from The Weeping Lady
Hunched under the tree, young Eva didn’t hear the weeping at first, the sound drowned in her own tears and the noise of the river. Then it grew louder, more insistent, until the forest reverberated and the trees quaked with the heartbreaking wail intoned of aching sorrow. Her child’s mind imagined a gruesome horror, and terror sprinted within her skin. Her tears dried up, replaced with frightened whimpers. She pressed against the tree, wishing she could vanish inside the bark. Something was coming for her; she knew it.
The surrounding mist coagulated, twisted, taking strange form and ethereal substance before her eyes, transforming into the figure of a woman.
I hope you enjoyed that little snippet, and check out the book this fall.(And don't worry I'll keep you updated on its release)
And now for my nominations.
The seven bloggers I choose are:
Aaron Paul LazarNina D'ArcangelaClarissa JohalSheila DeethAngela Yuriko SmithAsh KraftonCarole Gill
Challenge Accepted!
Basically this is how it works:
THE CHALLENGE: SHARE 7 LINES FROM PAGE 7 OF YOUR MANUSCRIPT + TAG 7 BLOGGERS.
And like Danielle, I've decide to share a snippet from my story that is soon to be part of the upcoming (and as yet untitled) paranormal anthology from Xchyler Publishing.
My story, The Weeping Lady, is loosing based on the La Llorona and White Lady ghost tales. This excerpt is a flashback, to the first time the main character of Eva has an encounter with the ghost.
Excerpt from The Weeping Lady
Hunched under the tree, young Eva didn’t hear the weeping at first, the sound drowned in her own tears and the noise of the river. Then it grew louder, more insistent, until the forest reverberated and the trees quaked with the heartbreaking wail intoned of aching sorrow. Her child’s mind imagined a gruesome horror, and terror sprinted within her skin. Her tears dried up, replaced with frightened whimpers. She pressed against the tree, wishing she could vanish inside the bark. Something was coming for her; she knew it.
The surrounding mist coagulated, twisted, taking strange form and ethereal substance before her eyes, transforming into the figure of a woman.
I hope you enjoyed that little snippet, and check out the book this fall.(And don't worry I'll keep you updated on its release)
And now for my nominations.
The seven bloggers I choose are:
Aaron Paul LazarNina D'ArcangelaClarissa JohalSheila DeethAngela Yuriko SmithAsh KraftonCarole Gill
Drabble Wednesday: Teardrops
Today on Drabble Wednesday we shed a tear - in rain, in plague, in envy…
Tears of the Moon
The shadow moon rose among the gathering clouds, its grey form stark against the sombre sky. Her eyes watched its climb, a scream lodged in her throat, her palms pressed forcefully on the window pane. Each breath came shallow, held for a fraction of time, hoping for his appearance.Why did he have to go? Why tonight? He said he would return in time. But he’s not home.A single tear fell, hitting the window sill. A matching water drop struck the outside of the glass.The rains are coming.The Old Gods will awaken.And they will be hungry.
Grief of the Dead
Jeff hurried through the deserted streets. The plague seemly died out in their neighbourhood, but he didn’t wish to linger outside. It didn’t take much, and it didn’t take long. It was a risk, but they needed food. The possibility of dying was better than listening to Ryan’s sad cries.He pushed open the front door. His son lay on the floor. His wife knelt beside him. Something felt wrong.“What happened?”“He’s dead.” His wife turned.Jeff gasped. He dropped the scavenged bag of groceries.Diseased, white, tear stained eyes stared at him. Blood covered her mouth.Jeff screamed.
Dark Reflection
A thick, sooty tear, the consistency of tar oozed down her cheek, and he collected it in the vial. He watched for a moment as she slept, her breathing even, her face peaceful. She suspected nothing of his spell. He’d be flayed alive if she did.He left to his workshop, mixed her tear into a potion and took his weekly dose of her magic. Soon, he’d drain her dry and these nightly visits would end. He’d miss them. He’d miss her.But only one evil wizard could prevail in this tower, and he was tired of being her apprentice.
Tears of the Moon
The shadow moon rose among the gathering clouds, its grey form stark against the sombre sky. Her eyes watched its climb, a scream lodged in her throat, her palms pressed forcefully on the window pane. Each breath came shallow, held for a fraction of time, hoping for his appearance.Why did he have to go? Why tonight? He said he would return in time. But he’s not home.A single tear fell, hitting the window sill. A matching water drop struck the outside of the glass.The rains are coming.The Old Gods will awaken.And they will be hungry.
Grief of the Dead
Jeff hurried through the deserted streets. The plague seemly died out in their neighbourhood, but he didn’t wish to linger outside. It didn’t take much, and it didn’t take long. It was a risk, but they needed food. The possibility of dying was better than listening to Ryan’s sad cries.He pushed open the front door. His son lay on the floor. His wife knelt beside him. Something felt wrong.“What happened?”“He’s dead.” His wife turned.Jeff gasped. He dropped the scavenged bag of groceries.Diseased, white, tear stained eyes stared at him. Blood covered her mouth.Jeff screamed.
Dark Reflection
A thick, sooty tear, the consistency of tar oozed down her cheek, and he collected it in the vial. He watched for a moment as she slept, her breathing even, her face peaceful. She suspected nothing of his spell. He’d be flayed alive if she did.He left to his workshop, mixed her tear into a potion and took his weekly dose of her magic. Soon, he’d drain her dry and these nightly visits would end. He’d miss them. He’d miss her.But only one evil wizard could prevail in this tower, and he was tired of being her apprentice.
August 8, 2015
Cover Reveal: The Bookminder
Another cover reveal today from those busy folks at Xchyler Publishing. This time it's for the historical fantasy novel The Bookminder by the very talented author M. K. Wiseman. Plus, I have another delightful book trailer.
And Now Presenting...
Just wonderful, with a nice spooky touch. I love it.
ef
And now for a bit about the book.
The Bookminder by M. K. Wiseman
Istria, 1679 A. D.
Sired by magick and violence, sixteen-year-old Liara is found guilty of witchcraft and banished from her tiny village by the very priest who raised, then betrayed her. However, a mysterious mage steps forward to assume custody of her: Nagarath, the Wizard of Parentino, whose secret spellwork has long protected both Liara and Dvigrad from the ravages of war.
Despite Liara's best hopes, Nagarath refuses to apprentice her to his craft but tasks her instead with the restoration of his neglected library. Liara gleans what magickal knowledge she can on the sly, determined to learn, come what may. But the first test of her stolen knowledge goes awry and renews an evil wizard's interest in the people of the Limska Draga valley.
Only by tapping Liara's ingerent magick and joining it with his own can Nagarath protect Parentino from suffering a horrible fate. However, her discovering of his secrets destroys their fragile trust and ignites the darker tendencies of her gift. Now, he must rescue her from the influence of his mortal enemy before their powerful new alliance destroys them all.
Magick and the truth.
Through both, Liara may unravel the mystery of her origins. But at what cost?
And Now Presenting...
Just wonderful, with a nice spooky touch. I love it.
ef
And now for a bit about the book.
The Bookminder by M. K. Wiseman
Istria, 1679 A. D.
Sired by magick and violence, sixteen-year-old Liara is found guilty of witchcraft and banished from her tiny village by the very priest who raised, then betrayed her. However, a mysterious mage steps forward to assume custody of her: Nagarath, the Wizard of Parentino, whose secret spellwork has long protected both Liara and Dvigrad from the ravages of war.
Despite Liara's best hopes, Nagarath refuses to apprentice her to his craft but tasks her instead with the restoration of his neglected library. Liara gleans what magickal knowledge she can on the sly, determined to learn, come what may. But the first test of her stolen knowledge goes awry and renews an evil wizard's interest in the people of the Limska Draga valley.
Only by tapping Liara's ingerent magick and joining it with his own can Nagarath protect Parentino from suffering a horrible fate. However, her discovering of his secrets destroys their fragile trust and ignites the darker tendencies of her gift. Now, he must rescue her from the influence of his mortal enemy before their powerful new alliance destroys them all.
Magick and the truth.
Through both, Liara may unravel the mystery of her origins. But at what cost?
August 5, 2015
Drabble Wednesday: The Raven
Drabble Wednesday flies off with the birds this week, especially with one bird, the raven…
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Sentinels
They circle over head as I trudge. As it has always been. I trudge, they circle. My companions, the ravens. I welcome the sight of their black wings outstretched, the harsh croak uttered from their beaks.It makes the punishment less somehow, even though this was not the intent.No, they were sent to keep watch over me.The ravens are my guards, messengers to those who imprisoned me with this ghostly immortality. They ensure my soul will never rest, and they are my only friends.So I trudge, mile after mile, eon after eon, alone save for my ravens.
ef
Corvus
It sits outside my window in the oak tree. A common raven, a sooty feathered bird watching me. An ominous creature, perched on the edge.Waiting.I know it’s waiting for me.But it shan’t have me yet. No, not yet. Not until I’m done. Not until I’m finished. Then the wretched bird can have me. Then it can feast on my corpse and peck out my eyes. Leastwise, I’ll naught be good for anything but worm food, when my project’s done.It won’t have long to wait, just one more. One more to kill.Then the raven can come…
ef
Shadow Against The Moon
The air shivers with the beat of their wings, and their shades flit across the moon, shattering its pale contrast against the inky sky. They scream, her raven servants, a raucous screech to herald her coming.They clear her path, those black birds of the Morrigan.Her silhouette chills the wind, and deadens the shine of moonlight. Beyond and above, the ravens fly, and some perch proudly on her shoulders. In one hand she carries a lantern, lit with fire, in the other a sword. In her footsteps, the trodden grass withers and dies.Tonight, the Morrigan comes for me.
ef
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Sentinels
They circle over head as I trudge. As it has always been. I trudge, they circle. My companions, the ravens. I welcome the sight of their black wings outstretched, the harsh croak uttered from their beaks.It makes the punishment less somehow, even though this was not the intent.No, they were sent to keep watch over me.The ravens are my guards, messengers to those who imprisoned me with this ghostly immortality. They ensure my soul will never rest, and they are my only friends.So I trudge, mile after mile, eon after eon, alone save for my ravens.
ef
Corvus
It sits outside my window in the oak tree. A common raven, a sooty feathered bird watching me. An ominous creature, perched on the edge.Waiting.I know it’s waiting for me.But it shan’t have me yet. No, not yet. Not until I’m done. Not until I’m finished. Then the wretched bird can have me. Then it can feast on my corpse and peck out my eyes. Leastwise, I’ll naught be good for anything but worm food, when my project’s done.It won’t have long to wait, just one more. One more to kill.Then the raven can come…
ef
Shadow Against The Moon
The air shivers with the beat of their wings, and their shades flit across the moon, shattering its pale contrast against the inky sky. They scream, her raven servants, a raucous screech to herald her coming.They clear her path, those black birds of the Morrigan.Her silhouette chills the wind, and deadens the shine of moonlight. Beyond and above, the ravens fly, and some perch proudly on her shoulders. In one hand she carries a lantern, lit with fire, in the other a sword. In her footsteps, the trodden grass withers and dies.Tonight, the Morrigan comes for me.
ef
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
August 4, 2015
Cover Reveal: “The Story’s End”
Today I have an extra special treat, with the cover reveal for the seventh and final Wilderhark Tale by talented author Danielle E. Shipley. This book, The Story’s End, releases October 13, 2015, but today you get a sneak peek.
And here it is, Ta Da!
Another gorgeous cover for this series.
The Story’s End Book Seven of The Wilderhark Tales
For Gant-o’-the-Lute, “ever after” has been less than happy. With the last of Carillon’s charm over him gone, the minstrel-king puts royalty behind him in pursuit of the music he once knew and the lifelong dream he let slip through his fingers. But dark whispers on the wind warn that time is running out – not only for Lute and the apprentice in his shadow, but the whole of earth and Sky.
An enchantress’s curse turns a spoiled royal into a beast; a princess’s pricked finger places her under a hundred-year spell; bales of straw are spun as golden as the singing harp whisked down a giant beanstalk – all within sight of Wilderhark, the forest that’s seen it all.
You’ve heard the stories – of young men scaling rope-like braids to assist the tower-bound damsel; of gorgeous gowns appearing just in time for a midnight ball; of frog princes, and swan princes, and princes saved from drowning by maidens of the sea. Tales of magic. Tales of adventure. Most of all, tales of true love.
Once upon a time, you knew them as fairytales. Know them now as Wilderhark’s.
You can check out The Story’s End at its page on Goodreads:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25958863-the-story-s-end
Author Bio:
Danielle E. Shipley’s first novelettes told the everyday misadventures of wacky kids like herself. …Or so she thought. Unbeknownst to them all, half of her characters were actually closeted elves, dwarves, fairies, or some combination thereof. When it all came to light, Danielle did the sensible thing: Packed up and moved to Fantasy Land, where daily rent is the low, low price of her heart, soul, blood, sweat, tears, firstborn child, sanity, and words; lots of them. She’s also been known to spend short bursts of time in the real-life Chicago area with the parents who home schooled her and the two little sisters who keep her humble. When she’s not living the highs and lows of writing, publishing, and all that authorial jazz, she’s probably blogging about it at www.EverOnWord.wordpress.com.
And here it is, Ta Da!
Another gorgeous cover for this series.
The Story’s End Book Seven of The Wilderhark Tales
For Gant-o’-the-Lute, “ever after” has been less than happy. With the last of Carillon’s charm over him gone, the minstrel-king puts royalty behind him in pursuit of the music he once knew and the lifelong dream he let slip through his fingers. But dark whispers on the wind warn that time is running out – not only for Lute and the apprentice in his shadow, but the whole of earth and Sky.
An enchantress’s curse turns a spoiled royal into a beast; a princess’s pricked finger places her under a hundred-year spell; bales of straw are spun as golden as the singing harp whisked down a giant beanstalk – all within sight of Wilderhark, the forest that’s seen it all.
You’ve heard the stories – of young men scaling rope-like braids to assist the tower-bound damsel; of gorgeous gowns appearing just in time for a midnight ball; of frog princes, and swan princes, and princes saved from drowning by maidens of the sea. Tales of magic. Tales of adventure. Most of all, tales of true love.
Once upon a time, you knew them as fairytales. Know them now as Wilderhark’s.
You can check out The Story’s End at its page on Goodreads:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25958863-the-story-s-end
Author Bio:
Danielle E. Shipley’s first novelettes told the everyday misadventures of wacky kids like herself. …Or so she thought. Unbeknownst to them all, half of her characters were actually closeted elves, dwarves, fairies, or some combination thereof. When it all came to light, Danielle did the sensible thing: Packed up and moved to Fantasy Land, where daily rent is the low, low price of her heart, soul, blood, sweat, tears, firstborn child, sanity, and words; lots of them. She’s also been known to spend short bursts of time in the real-life Chicago area with the parents who home schooled her and the two little sisters who keep her humble. When she’s not living the highs and lows of writing, publishing, and all that authorial jazz, she’s probably blogging about it at www.EverOnWord.wordpress.com.
August 2, 2015
So Bad It’s Good: A Guest Post by A.G. Wyatt
So Bad It’s Good: How To Write Terribly Incredible (Or Incredibly Terrible) Campy Fiction
Like all good aesthetics, camp is a lot more sophisticated than it looks and writing it well can be challenging. It’s not enough to dress your hero in spandex and have your villain cackling madly while the heroine runs around screaming for rescue in a fruit-topped hat. That’s just cliché, while good camp is a celebration of the exaggerated and excessive.
Be Focused
It’s not enough to say “I want this to be camp.” If you throw in every campy trope you can find then you’ll have a mess, with one excess undermining another. A campy science fiction story interrupted by an excessive moment of dark literary fiction will lose atmosphere faster than a colander-based spaceship.Think about what you’re exploring, what you want to make camp, and push that thing to excess. Do you want to write a high fantasy of sweaty muscles, kidnapped slave girls and kingdoms defined by single concepts? Or are you after a delightful horror of shadowy streets, blood-spattered sheets, and dead jocks?Whatever you’re camping up, identify its individual excesses and focus on those.
Be Full-on
There are no half-measures in camp. If you approach the brink of absurdity only to hesitate and step back, then all you have is corniness and cliché. The pleasure of camp comes from its excess, so really push the boat out.Reasonableness is the enemy of camp. It isn’t reasonable for your action hero to drive a monster truck, carry a bazooka on her back, and chug beer like she has the liver capacity of the whole U.S. Congress. But if she just drives a 4x4, carries a handgun, and finishes the day with a few too many whiskies then what you have isn’t camp, it’s the hero of 90% of the adventure stories out there. So go with Bazooka Betty, not Hetty Handgun.
Be Sincere
All of this might sound like a rallying cry to mock the genre you’re working in. But again, that really misses the point. Camp isn’t about standing outside the tent pissing in, it’s about running around the inside of the tent celebrating just how much fun canvas is.The edge of mockery, the knowing wink that implies “we’re better than this,” that’s the realm of satire. It has its place and it has its audience, but that audience isn’t the same one camp appeals to. Satire is about being negative, camp is about being positive. Satire is judgemental, camp is celebratory. Satire is about pointing out the foolishness of others, while camp is about knowing that what you’re doing is foolish but enjoying it anyway. You don’t point at the excess, you join in with it.So if you want to do campy writing, make sure the subject and style are something that you love. Make sure that you can write that wild excess like you mean it. If you can make that happen then fans will love you for it. But if you step into satire, if you slip in a little mockery for fear of being mocked, then the joy will fade.
A.G. Wyatt is the author of the post-apocalyptic adventure series, MoonFall and is presently working on his second series. When he's not writing, he's reading, or looking for inspiration near his hometown in Northeastern PA.
Where you can find the author: Facebook: https://facebook.com/agwyattauthor Twitter: https://Twitter.com/agwyattauthor
August 1, 2015
Cover Reveal: Sigil of the Wyrm
Today, I have fabulous cover reveal. This time for the soon to be released urban fantasy novel Sigil of the Wyrm by A. J. Campbell, sure to be another stellar book from Xchyler Publishing. And as an extra bonus I have the wonderful book trailer as well. So on with the show...
Drum Roll Please, and Voila!
Isn't it absolutely stunning?
Now here's a bit about the book.
Sigil of the Wyrm by A. J. Campbell
Richard Lampton never believed in fairy tales, so when a stunning stranger at his uncle’s funeral warns him of an ancient family curse, he pays no heed—until a very real wyrm attempts to destroy him. Now, with the help of a homeless runaway, a fledgling jackdaw, and a key none but he can use, Richard must find the courage to meet his death or his destiny as he plunges headlong Into the Weirding.
The book releases later this August, b ut you can pre-order it now from Amazon.
Book Trailer
Drum Roll Please, and Voila!
Isn't it absolutely stunning?
Now here's a bit about the book.
Sigil of the Wyrm by A. J. Campbell
Richard Lampton never believed in fairy tales, so when a stunning stranger at his uncle’s funeral warns him of an ancient family curse, he pays no heed—until a very real wyrm attempts to destroy him. Now, with the help of a homeless runaway, a fledgling jackdaw, and a key none but he can use, Richard must find the courage to meet his death or his destiny as he plunges headlong Into the Weirding.
The book releases later this August, b ut you can pre-order it now from Amazon.
Book Trailer
July 31, 2015
Book Spotlight: Forte by JD Spero
Today I'm part of the blog tour for a great YA fantasy book, Forte by award-winning author JD Spero. It's another wonderful release by Xchyler Publishing, and I'm happy to spotlight this book. Also, there's an excerpt and a great Rafflecopter giveaway at the end of the post so be sure to check that out. So on with the show, and enjoy...
Forte by JD Spero
Forte is available at: Amazon Xchyler Publishing
~*~
Johannah Davies (JD) Spero was born near a pristine lake in the Adirondacks and has lived in various cities such as St. Petersburg (Russia), Indianapolis, Dallas, and Boston. She has pursued her love of narrative through degrees in English, Russian, and teaching—and has worked as an actress, a yoga instructor, a web design entrepreneur, freelance writer, and a high school English teacher. She lives in the Northeast with her husband and three young sons.Drawing on her experience as a high school teacher—this time with a social concern, Spero infuses the rites of passage for the teenager—cliques, first kisses, peer pressure, and bullying—with magic. This stresses how tenuous and critical this time is for young people in a new, fascinating way. Written from Sami’s point of view, Spero’s narrative puts the reader into the mind of a fifteen-year-old who must navigate the tumultuous waters of being the new girl—the underdog who starts to win and is intoxicated by it. Truly a page-turner, this action-packed story will have readers of all ages eager to see what happens next.
Spero’s debut novel, Catcher’s Keeper, was chosen as a Finalist in the 2014 Indie Excellence Book Awards contest and also made the top 5% out of 10,000 entries in the 2013 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award.
www.jdspero.com
Facebook, Twitter: @jdspero, Goodreads
The Author Visitswww.theauthorvisits.com
Excerpt
(Main character, Sami McGovern, a natural musician is recruited to try out for volleyball.)
Finally, the time has come. I ride the giant wave to the locker room, letting myself get sucked into the energy. It’s like every single freshman girl is going to tryouts. The excitement is contagious. The locker room has transformed into a sort of primping party. It’s a more amped up version of backstage before one of my piano recitals. I’m giggling as I change into gym clothes and follow the others onto the court. But I stop short on the sidelines. Payne has the girls running the court lengthwise, tapping the endline paint with their fingers, and running back. What’s this exercise called again? I see Maddie, Shaunie, and Thalia. Pixie is here too, looking miserable. She’s not awful, though. “Nice work, Maddie,” Payne calls across the gym. Okay, so Payne has favorites. No biggie. Has she already made the cuts? I have better chances trying out for the New York Philharmonic. What am I thinking? I’m no athlete. They’re all going to laugh at me. Maybe it’s not too late to make a quick exit.“Are you playing?” asks a voice beside me. My eyes don’t leave the court. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just watch.”“Me, too, then.” “Why?” I turn and am startled to see it’s the girl with the scarred neck.“I thought you might want a friend.”The scars look terrifying up close—shiny, raw strings of bumpy tissue that used to be skin. My mouth is stuck open, and I blink like mad.“I’m Brenna,” she says with a huge smile. “Sports aren’t really my thing.” “Sami.” A tiny wave. “Me, neither.” “What are we doing here, then?” She laughs.“You have a really nice smile.”“You sound surprised,” she teases.I must turn redder than her scars, my face is so hot. Because it’s true. I was surprised. Am surprised. It’s wrong, but I can’t help it. Payne’s whistle interrupts us. “You girls joining tryouts or just socializing in your gym clothes?”No time for apologies. Payne’s eyes are focused solely on me. “Come on. You’ve missed the warm up. On the court now. Let’s go.”A nervous laugh with Brenna, and I concede. Whatever. This tryout is another orientation thing, right? A rite of passage for the new girl. It will be over soon, and I’ll go home and use my fingers the way they were meant to be used. Piano. What kind of tune will I conjure, what will my muse inspire? I’m daydreaming as I wander into the middle of the court. Payne’s voice rings louder than her whistle. “No, Sami. Right in front.” In front? Me? Payne grasps my shoulders to place me at the net when I feel something strange. My chest tightens with panic—a force enters me, making my insides quiver. What’s happening?Zap!A jolt, vibration. A charge surging out from my chest to my fingertips, my toes.Zing!The faces around me blur, but the ball is radiant. A blue glow. The ball sails over the net. Bumped. Set. To me? I leap, and it’s like my feet sprout wings. Out of nowhere I reach and—Pow!It slaps the opposite court untouched. A clean strike.“Point,” Payne cheers.My body tingles. How on earth did I do that? And then I do it again. I zone in. That neat leather ball leaves a laser-blue contrail as it’s punched into the air. I know what will happen next. I can predict its path! Am I the only one who sees it glow like that? Bump, set, spike! Wahoo! I’m a giant, tapping a ping-pong ball with my big paw. Easy. I’m above everything. Everyone. Even Brenna—the one person who’s tried to be my friend—now wears a worried grin. Something has separated us. I’m separate from everyone. The ball comes again. Soaring, my hand curved in perfect form, I guide it over at cheetah-speed that somehow feels slow. My arm retracts within a millimeter of the net, but it feels like yards away. Pow! Everyone cheers. For me. How did I get so good?My eyes go to Payne, who’s already studying me. As much as I want to, I cannot turn away. My arms and legs tingle—itching to move, to play ball. The veins in my wrists pulse like a heartbeat. My birthmark throbs on my hand, ready to throttle that volleyball. I make fists, trying to contain it.I stare back at Payne, the question ringing loudly in my mind: Did you do this?She gives me a slow, wry smile. Goose bumps rise on my suddenly-athletic arms.I think I’ve just made the team.
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July 29, 2015
Drabble Wednesday: Violets and Aliens
We head to space today on Drabble Wednesday, with a very colourful voyage…
Purple Haze
See the universe, it said.That damn poster.Join the Galactic Space Corp.I should’ve never let it draw me in.Now I am stuck on this backwater world. Stuck in a dumb menial security gig at the spaceport. And worst of all, I am stuck where everything—and I mean everything, the sky, the clouds, the rain, the soil—is a damn, rotten shade of purple!Sighing, I lean my body against the bar and signal for a shot of Reposado. The bartender pours and slides the glass over to me.Oh, frak! Even the damn tequila is purple.
~*~
Falling Petals
“She loves me.”He yanked the oversized petal free of the plant, and smiled at the accompanying screech.He let the violet frond fall from his fingers. It floated softly earthward.“She loves me not.” Another yank, another screech, and smile. Another petal drifted free.Repeatedly he took this action, ripping away sections until one last petal remained.“She loves me!”He let that petal fall with the others. The last piece in a patchwork of sentient alien flora, a mauve blanket covering a bound and gagged woman.“You love me.”The woman and mutilated alien plant wept in unison.
~*~
Home
I miss the mountains most of all.I loved to wake up to that view. With their snow capped, amethyst spires stretching to the heavens, and the lavender mist enshrouding their foundations. The sky painted itself in vivid colour, mauve and tangerine, with a hint of cerise. The hues reflected in the river, tinting the water as it wended through our village. You wanted to fill your lungs with crisp morning air.Space is nothing like that. It’s frigid and black and the escape pod’s dwindling air supply is stale. I don’t want to die. I want to go home.
~*~
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
Purple Haze
See the universe, it said.That damn poster.Join the Galactic Space Corp.I should’ve never let it draw me in.Now I am stuck on this backwater world. Stuck in a dumb menial security gig at the spaceport. And worst of all, I am stuck where everything—and I mean everything, the sky, the clouds, the rain, the soil—is a damn, rotten shade of purple!Sighing, I lean my body against the bar and signal for a shot of Reposado. The bartender pours and slides the glass over to me.Oh, frak! Even the damn tequila is purple.
~*~
Falling Petals
“She loves me.”He yanked the oversized petal free of the plant, and smiled at the accompanying screech.He let the violet frond fall from his fingers. It floated softly earthward.“She loves me not.” Another yank, another screech, and smile. Another petal drifted free.Repeatedly he took this action, ripping away sections until one last petal remained.“She loves me!”He let that petal fall with the others. The last piece in a patchwork of sentient alien flora, a mauve blanket covering a bound and gagged woman.“You love me.”The woman and mutilated alien plant wept in unison.
~*~
Home
I miss the mountains most of all.I loved to wake up to that view. With their snow capped, amethyst spires stretching to the heavens, and the lavender mist enshrouding their foundations. The sky painted itself in vivid colour, mauve and tangerine, with a hint of cerise. The hues reflected in the river, tinting the water as it wended through our village. You wanted to fill your lungs with crisp morning air.Space is nothing like that. It’s frigid and black and the escape pod’s dwindling air supply is stale. I don’t want to die. I want to go home.
~*~
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
July 22, 2015
Drabble Wednesday: Midnight
From the forgetfulness of my mind and the call of my midnight muse, I bring you today’s Drabble Wednesday, scribbled in the wee hours of last night…
Witching Hour
The night bird sings in the treetop, keeping time with the warble of the wind. Above them, the moon glows, pale blue and full, lighting the way of the coming traveller. She treads softly, her footsteps a bare whisper across dirt and leaves as she wends her way through the forest. She smiles at the moon and joins the night bird’s song with a faint humming. She has come to sing to ghosts and spirits, to weave her spells and laugh with the joy of magic. She belongs to this place, this time, the midnight of the pale blue moon.
Midnight in Paris
Watch the clouds drift in the indigo sky, playing hide and seek with stars, and the coquette, silver moon. They beckon, those celestial beauties, flashing their siren gaze earthward. They glint and twinkle starlight and moonbeams to the city streets, and reflect their radiance off the steel beacon of the Eiffel Tower.This is Paris at night, in darkened splendour, alive with the quiet, and the gentle sounds of evening. Hear the Seine ripple, against soft laughter and the click of heels. Amidst it all we linger, strolling hand in hand, midnight lovers waiting for the morning sun to rise.
Midnight Man
The crow caws once, then twice more. The air shivers, and the grass bends at the edge of the woods. A cold, grey fog rolls in, thick as wool, carrying a silhouette. A figure.Can you see him now? The Midnight Man.Tall and gangly, all angles and crisp bits, dressed in black. He wears a long coat and a top hat. The crows gather round him in flight, and one perches on his spindly arm.Stay quiet. Don’t let him see you.
You mustn’t look into his eyes… they say his eyes are hollow. Inky voids sinking into death.
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
Witching Hour
The night bird sings in the treetop, keeping time with the warble of the wind. Above them, the moon glows, pale blue and full, lighting the way of the coming traveller. She treads softly, her footsteps a bare whisper across dirt and leaves as she wends her way through the forest. She smiles at the moon and joins the night bird’s song with a faint humming. She has come to sing to ghosts and spirits, to weave her spells and laugh with the joy of magic. She belongs to this place, this time, the midnight of the pale blue moon.
Midnight in Paris
Watch the clouds drift in the indigo sky, playing hide and seek with stars, and the coquette, silver moon. They beckon, those celestial beauties, flashing their siren gaze earthward. They glint and twinkle starlight and moonbeams to the city streets, and reflect their radiance off the steel beacon of the Eiffel Tower.This is Paris at night, in darkened splendour, alive with the quiet, and the gentle sounds of evening. Hear the Seine ripple, against soft laughter and the click of heels. Amidst it all we linger, strolling hand in hand, midnight lovers waiting for the morning sun to rise.
Midnight Man
The crow caws once, then twice more. The air shivers, and the grass bends at the edge of the woods. A cold, grey fog rolls in, thick as wool, carrying a silhouette. A figure.Can you see him now? The Midnight Man.Tall and gangly, all angles and crisp bits, dressed in black. He wears a long coat and a top hat. The crows gather round him in flight, and one perches on his spindly arm.Stay quiet. Don’t let him see you.
You mustn’t look into his eyes… they say his eyes are hollow. Inky voids sinking into death.
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
