Anne Elisabeth Stengl's Blog, page 44
November 12, 2012
Fan Fiction Contest
Note from the Judges: "The writer clearly knows how to weave a good story! The archer’s past is interwoven smoothly into the present events. The archer himself is a highly intriguing character, as we learn a great deal about who he is and what he has been through and yet never find out so much as his name. It is very difficult to make characters like that come off well, but this writer does it with aplomb."
Silver Arrows
By: Hannah Williams
A placid breeze ever so slightly stirred the silver-feathered shafts of the arrows. The breeze continued on, passing over the black quiver, and disappearing into the forest.
The young man watched it go, following its path of frolicking leaves with his eyes. He sat in the fork of a tree, one leg propped against a branch to anchor himself. A long and slender bow was grasped in one hand.
The rabbits in a nearby clump of grass were not as interested in the arrows as the breeze had been, and they looked at the man himself. They saw a man of perhaps twenty years, though his forest green eyes told of a greater age. His hair was dark, if not black, and it hung in long, greasy, unkempt strands around his angular, but handsome, face. His dress was rugged: a dirty black shirt, over which was a dark brown leather jerkin. His pants were also black, as were his travel-worn boots. Other then that, there was very little on him. A bottle of water and a packet of food strapped to his belt. And a quiver hung behind his back.
The quiver was simply wrought, but the arrows—the arrows were crafted of great beauty. Their slim shafts were of a shady wood, strained with veins of gold. The arrowheads were silver and looked sharp enough to slide through iron. The feathers balancing the shafts were also silver. The bow that the man held was of the same wood as the arrows, and a silver thread stretched from tip to tip.
At the rabbits’ first glance, the young man seemed to be in an easy posture, but if they’d looked closer, they would have seen his rigid shoulders, his controlled breathing, his tense jaw, and the white of his knuckles as he gripped the bow.
Somewhere out in the forest, a bird sang.
The man’s head bobbed up, almost as if he been asleep, and he peered out to the ground below. In a moment more, he had dropped from the tree onto the leaf-strewn earth. Then he vanished.
Not simply walked away. He simply was not there.
The rabbits in the grass darted back to their burrow in fright.
* * *
A path like moonlight stretched out before the young man, and he walked on it without reserve. The song of the bird, a wood thrush, led him on.
There had been a time when he hated the steam-like voice. A long time ago, in another life. Or at least it felt like another life. A life in which everything burned.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but that did not make the memories evaporate. The thought of a branding kiss on his forehead made him flinch.
Follow my path, the wood thrush sang.
The silver notes washed the pain of the memory away. He lifted his head and continued forward, his stride long.
He did not ask where he was going. He went wherever the path led and was not afraid.
Once he’d followed another path, a path that had almost destroyed him. There was a time, centuries and centuries ago, when he had been a Faerie Prince of a long forgotten realm. Even as a child he had felt the deep sense of insecurity, as his home fell into decay. The feeling had worsened as he grew older, and he’d spent many sleepless nights listening to the whisperings of his father and mother. A wood thrush had sung to him in comforting tones, but he’d hated it. At last, unable to bear the tension, he had run away, hoping to find a place of peace. But instead of finding peace—the Dragon found him.
As terrifying as the Dragon had been, he’d offered what the boy was searching for, and deceived, the prince had taken the bait.
There it was again—the memory of the flaming touch of the Dragon.
The young man smoothed a hand across his forehead as though to brush off the remembrance.
Being a dragon…Ha! That had led to anywhere but peace. The Dragon’s Path led to Death. More memories flooded in. The terror-filled hours in the Dragon’s valley, surrounded by other dragons, other doomed souls.
He had run again, this time vanishing into the expanse of the Red Desert, hoping to die. To the rest of the world, he had. No one ever remembered the prince of the soon afterwards fallen Faerie realm. The entire world forgot him.
But the dragon boy had not died out in the desert. The wood thrush had come to him, only it was not a wood thrush. It was the Prince. The Prince of Fartherstshore. The much hated enemy of dragons. But as close to death as the boy was out in the merciless realm, the once upon a time Faerie prince felt no hate.
The Prince of Farthestshore had nursed him back to health, and the boy realized that the peace he had always desired was offered to him in the service of this great Prince. But he was still a dragon.
Another painful memory came to the dark-haired one’s mind. But this time he did not flinch. Painful as it was, this one brought with it great joy and freedom. For he had let the Prince of Farthestshore kill the dragon part of him, leaving the boy behind. Afterwards he was knighted to continue on in the Prince’s name, and he was given a new path. A path that led through the Near World, the Far World, the Wood Between, and sometimes even into the Netherworld. But it was the Prince’s path for him, and he followed it. Century upon century he’d followed it, flitting in and out of peoples’ stories with none noticing him or any of the good deeds he performed. But that didn’t matter. The Prince saw. The Prince knew.
The boy that was now a man came suddenly out into another patch of trees, and he paused as the path did not go on anymore. Quick as thought, his hand went up, withdrew an arrow and set it taut on his bow. In the forest below him was a child. He knew already this was not his target, but he let his gaze linger on her odd appearance all the same. She was covered in veils. She was covered in veils, and she was softly singing.
In that moment he saw the wildcat. The tawny beast was creeping along a cliff edge toward the unsuspecting girl. He drew the arrow up to his eye, and aimed along the shaft—but then he paused. It was spring here; the cougar was gaunt and showed signs of being a mother. It had kittens to feed. It did not know right from wrong. Death was not necessary in this case. Dropping his bow, he swept up a large stone and flicked it through the air like a missile. The rock struck the beast in the shoulder, and with a wail of fright, she turned and darted away.
The little girl jerked up with a cry. She looked around, and he ducked behind the bush. Then he heard her tiny voice crying out, “Beana! Beana! Where are you?”
The path continued on, and he followed it. Through woods, and deserts, and cites, he kept on its trail.
Follow my path, the wood thrush sang.
* * *
Many years and saved lives had passed, and still the archer went on. One night the path led him out to a mountain fortress in the dead of night. He paused on a battlement, looking down in horror. The stone courtyard below him was cluttered with dead bodies of soldiers, yet this was not what caused him to draw his breath in so suddenly.
The Dragon had been here.
He had been here very recently, and the leftover sensation of his presence made the man’s stomach lurch in pain. Blacked stones still glowed from where the Dragon had released fire. But where was he now, and why had he left?
The man’s eyes scanned the bodies, and the moonlight enabled him to see insignias that he recognized as from the mortal and corrupt land of Shippening. Then he saw, in one corner of the yard, a Shippening archer rise to his feet and stealthily string an arrow on his bow. The observer’s gaze darted to the direction the barb of death pointed. On the far side, another figure stirred, but this one was almost like a shadow, though his eyes, as they blinked open, shone like the sky. “Rogan…” he moaned. “Oeric….” The moon caught the emblem on his armor.
The watcher’s fingers tore into the stone wall on which he crouched. The shadowy one with the sky eyes was a knight of Farthestshore! And he was about to be killed!
The enemy’s’ arrow was about to be released—but the silver arrow was much faster. With a cry the Shippening man fell, the silver feather on the arrow shaft gleaming white underneath the eye of the moon.
The Farthestshore knight turned with a startled gasp as he heard the cry of death, and he whipped up his sword. But all was silent. And save for him, there was no other living creature in the courtyard.
For his unknown rescuer had continued on the path.
Turning, the knight ran back into the fortress, calling for the aid of the men hiding deep within.
* * *
Not long after, the green-eyed archer was tested. The path had sometimes taken him through terrifying places, but one day as he walked along it, he suddenly froze, for in that moment he realized where it would pass through. It was a place that he had known all too well.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No…don’t have me go back there. Not there…please.”
Do not be afraid. I will let no harm come to you. Follow my path.
He shook his head more violently, and his heart thudded. “No! I won’t see that place again. I’m not going back there!” In a burst of panic, he spun around to go back the way he had come, but he halted in shock.
There was no path behind him.
Trembling, he looked over his shoulder.
The path only went forward. It never went back.
Follow me.
Setting his jaw, he shoved his black hair behind his ears, and took two steps forward.
The world around him swirled in black and red.
Then he stood in the cavern.
The darkness was overcast in red, as if soaked in blood. He looked up to see, in a hole in the roof of the colossal cave, the night sky in which hung the moon. The moon was crimson.
“Orden Hymlume`,” he whispered. “Moonblood….”
He looked down and saw a dragon, human form, at his feet.
He was in the Village of Dragons again, but to his surprise this dragon slept. A few feet away another dragon slept as well.
And then he noticed all the commotion and ruckus that rang out from the center of the cavern.
In the middle of the floor was the Dragon’s throne—how he shivered at seeing it again.
But there was a girl bound to this throne, a girl who was both beautiful and ugly at the same time. Upon the Throne’s dais, two figures were crumbled, presumably dead. There was another living person there, a woman in lavender and green, and she was bent over to check the fallen bodies.
All around the expanse goblins fled shrieking, (what were they doing here of all places?) and in a corner was a golden-haired army protected by a dome of light. Sleeping dragons sprawled out across the floor. Fire licked up from the ground in various places.
One dragon, at least, was awake.
Then he saw her.
She was across the cavern, a humungous monster of red, and now that he saw her, he could not tear his eyes away. He remembered her from his time of being a dragon. She was called the Bane of Corrilond.
Another figure of scarlet dashed ahead of her.
He narrowed his eyes upon it and saw that it was a man. The dragon was pursuing him to kill, and she spouted out fire. The scarlet-clad man rolled to avoid the flame. He went in the roll as a man…he came out of it as a cat. As a cat he had greater speed and agility, but that would not aid him, the archer knew, as he saw the Bane of Corrilond gather herself for a flood of fire.
The young man’s hand flew back to his quiver, and in a blink he was sighting down an arrow.
Flames licking around her teeth, the dragon’s throat dipped inwards as she prepared to let out a fire ball that would consume her prey.
The archer’s fingers released. The silver arrow flew forward. It streaked across the room and thudded under the jaw of the dragon.
She roared, jerking her head to the side, and as she did, she released her fire. The aim was thrown off, and though the fire rolled out like a wave, the man saw the cat leap behind the body of another dragon to safety.
“Eanrin!” a voice shrieked.
After yanking out the arrow, the Bane of Corrilond turned her head towards the Throne from whence the cry had come and saw those upon it. She roared, and lumbered forward to kill them.
“No,” the archer hissed, and he stepped to the side for proper aiming, not noticing that he stepped off the path to do so.
The bow was bent, the arrow was ready…
Follow my path, the voice sang.
Stunned, he looked to see that the path was once more going forward. “But…but, my Prince! I could be of more help here! I could save them! They are your people!!! Let me help them!” he protested.
I will care for my people. I am with them, just as I am with you. Youfollow me.
The man hesitated. But then he stepped back on the path, and went forward. The cavern and all that happened there faded away and he once more stood in a forest.
The tree branches arched above him like beautiful lattice framework. A zephyr stirred their leaves like distant chimes.
He breathed deep, inhaling the sweet smell of honeysuckle.
He was no longer afraid for those he’d left behind. The Prince was faithful, and even if some would come to the shores of the Final Water they would not be left behind.
The moon was shining silver again, and the path went before him.
No one knew of him. No one knew his name, save for himself, the Prince, and those over the Final Water. No one knew how he slipped through their lives, saving some, aiding others. One day, when all who were called crossed over to the Farthestshore, the wonderful deeds of theirs, great and small, would be told. There people would hear of him and know his name.
But until then, it simply did not matter.
His hand went up, and he slid the silver arrow back into the quiver.
The Prince’s path went before him, and he followed it.
Silver Arrows
By: Hannah Williams
A placid breeze ever so slightly stirred the silver-feathered shafts of the arrows. The breeze continued on, passing over the black quiver, and disappearing into the forest.
The young man watched it go, following its path of frolicking leaves with his eyes. He sat in the fork of a tree, one leg propped against a branch to anchor himself. A long and slender bow was grasped in one hand.
The rabbits in a nearby clump of grass were not as interested in the arrows as the breeze had been, and they looked at the man himself. They saw a man of perhaps twenty years, though his forest green eyes told of a greater age. His hair was dark, if not black, and it hung in long, greasy, unkempt strands around his angular, but handsome, face. His dress was rugged: a dirty black shirt, over which was a dark brown leather jerkin. His pants were also black, as were his travel-worn boots. Other then that, there was very little on him. A bottle of water and a packet of food strapped to his belt. And a quiver hung behind his back.The quiver was simply wrought, but the arrows—the arrows were crafted of great beauty. Their slim shafts were of a shady wood, strained with veins of gold. The arrowheads were silver and looked sharp enough to slide through iron. The feathers balancing the shafts were also silver. The bow that the man held was of the same wood as the arrows, and a silver thread stretched from tip to tip.
At the rabbits’ first glance, the young man seemed to be in an easy posture, but if they’d looked closer, they would have seen his rigid shoulders, his controlled breathing, his tense jaw, and the white of his knuckles as he gripped the bow.
Somewhere out in the forest, a bird sang.
The man’s head bobbed up, almost as if he been asleep, and he peered out to the ground below. In a moment more, he had dropped from the tree onto the leaf-strewn earth. Then he vanished.
Not simply walked away. He simply was not there.
The rabbits in the grass darted back to their burrow in fright.
* * *
A path like moonlight stretched out before the young man, and he walked on it without reserve. The song of the bird, a wood thrush, led him on.
There had been a time when he hated the steam-like voice. A long time ago, in another life. Or at least it felt like another life. A life in which everything burned.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but that did not make the memories evaporate. The thought of a branding kiss on his forehead made him flinch.
Follow my path, the wood thrush sang.
The silver notes washed the pain of the memory away. He lifted his head and continued forward, his stride long.
He did not ask where he was going. He went wherever the path led and was not afraid.
Once he’d followed another path, a path that had almost destroyed him. There was a time, centuries and centuries ago, when he had been a Faerie Prince of a long forgotten realm. Even as a child he had felt the deep sense of insecurity, as his home fell into decay. The feeling had worsened as he grew older, and he’d spent many sleepless nights listening to the whisperings of his father and mother. A wood thrush had sung to him in comforting tones, but he’d hated it. At last, unable to bear the tension, he had run away, hoping to find a place of peace. But instead of finding peace—the Dragon found him.
As terrifying as the Dragon had been, he’d offered what the boy was searching for, and deceived, the prince had taken the bait.
There it was again—the memory of the flaming touch of the Dragon.
The young man smoothed a hand across his forehead as though to brush off the remembrance.
Being a dragon…Ha! That had led to anywhere but peace. The Dragon’s Path led to Death. More memories flooded in. The terror-filled hours in the Dragon’s valley, surrounded by other dragons, other doomed souls.
He had run again, this time vanishing into the expanse of the Red Desert, hoping to die. To the rest of the world, he had. No one ever remembered the prince of the soon afterwards fallen Faerie realm. The entire world forgot him.
But the dragon boy had not died out in the desert. The wood thrush had come to him, only it was not a wood thrush. It was the Prince. The Prince of Fartherstshore. The much hated enemy of dragons. But as close to death as the boy was out in the merciless realm, the once upon a time Faerie prince felt no hate.
The Prince of Farthestshore had nursed him back to health, and the boy realized that the peace he had always desired was offered to him in the service of this great Prince. But he was still a dragon.
Another painful memory came to the dark-haired one’s mind. But this time he did not flinch. Painful as it was, this one brought with it great joy and freedom. For he had let the Prince of Farthestshore kill the dragon part of him, leaving the boy behind. Afterwards he was knighted to continue on in the Prince’s name, and he was given a new path. A path that led through the Near World, the Far World, the Wood Between, and sometimes even into the Netherworld. But it was the Prince’s path for him, and he followed it. Century upon century he’d followed it, flitting in and out of peoples’ stories with none noticing him or any of the good deeds he performed. But that didn’t matter. The Prince saw. The Prince knew.
The boy that was now a man came suddenly out into another patch of trees, and he paused as the path did not go on anymore. Quick as thought, his hand went up, withdrew an arrow and set it taut on his bow. In the forest below him was a child. He knew already this was not his target, but he let his gaze linger on her odd appearance all the same. She was covered in veils. She was covered in veils, and she was softly singing.
In that moment he saw the wildcat. The tawny beast was creeping along a cliff edge toward the unsuspecting girl. He drew the arrow up to his eye, and aimed along the shaft—but then he paused. It was spring here; the cougar was gaunt and showed signs of being a mother. It had kittens to feed. It did not know right from wrong. Death was not necessary in this case. Dropping his bow, he swept up a large stone and flicked it through the air like a missile. The rock struck the beast in the shoulder, and with a wail of fright, she turned and darted away.
The little girl jerked up with a cry. She looked around, and he ducked behind the bush. Then he heard her tiny voice crying out, “Beana! Beana! Where are you?”
The path continued on, and he followed it. Through woods, and deserts, and cites, he kept on its trail.
Follow my path, the wood thrush sang.
* * *
Many years and saved lives had passed, and still the archer went on. One night the path led him out to a mountain fortress in the dead of night. He paused on a battlement, looking down in horror. The stone courtyard below him was cluttered with dead bodies of soldiers, yet this was not what caused him to draw his breath in so suddenly.
The Dragon had been here.
He had been here very recently, and the leftover sensation of his presence made the man’s stomach lurch in pain. Blacked stones still glowed from where the Dragon had released fire. But where was he now, and why had he left?
The man’s eyes scanned the bodies, and the moonlight enabled him to see insignias that he recognized as from the mortal and corrupt land of Shippening. Then he saw, in one corner of the yard, a Shippening archer rise to his feet and stealthily string an arrow on his bow. The observer’s gaze darted to the direction the barb of death pointed. On the far side, another figure stirred, but this one was almost like a shadow, though his eyes, as they blinked open, shone like the sky. “Rogan…” he moaned. “Oeric….” The moon caught the emblem on his armor.The watcher’s fingers tore into the stone wall on which he crouched. The shadowy one with the sky eyes was a knight of Farthestshore! And he was about to be killed!
The enemy’s’ arrow was about to be released—but the silver arrow was much faster. With a cry the Shippening man fell, the silver feather on the arrow shaft gleaming white underneath the eye of the moon.
The Farthestshore knight turned with a startled gasp as he heard the cry of death, and he whipped up his sword. But all was silent. And save for him, there was no other living creature in the courtyard.
For his unknown rescuer had continued on the path.
Turning, the knight ran back into the fortress, calling for the aid of the men hiding deep within.
* * *
Not long after, the green-eyed archer was tested. The path had sometimes taken him through terrifying places, but one day as he walked along it, he suddenly froze, for in that moment he realized where it would pass through. It was a place that he had known all too well.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No…don’t have me go back there. Not there…please.”
Do not be afraid. I will let no harm come to you. Follow my path.
He shook his head more violently, and his heart thudded. “No! I won’t see that place again. I’m not going back there!” In a burst of panic, he spun around to go back the way he had come, but he halted in shock.
There was no path behind him.
Trembling, he looked over his shoulder.
The path only went forward. It never went back.
Follow me.
Setting his jaw, he shoved his black hair behind his ears, and took two steps forward.
The world around him swirled in black and red.
Then he stood in the cavern.
The darkness was overcast in red, as if soaked in blood. He looked up to see, in a hole in the roof of the colossal cave, the night sky in which hung the moon. The moon was crimson.
“Orden Hymlume`,” he whispered. “Moonblood….”
He looked down and saw a dragon, human form, at his feet.
He was in the Village of Dragons again, but to his surprise this dragon slept. A few feet away another dragon slept as well.
And then he noticed all the commotion and ruckus that rang out from the center of the cavern.
In the middle of the floor was the Dragon’s throne—how he shivered at seeing it again.
But there was a girl bound to this throne, a girl who was both beautiful and ugly at the same time. Upon the Throne’s dais, two figures were crumbled, presumably dead. There was another living person there, a woman in lavender and green, and she was bent over to check the fallen bodies.
All around the expanse goblins fled shrieking, (what were they doing here of all places?) and in a corner was a golden-haired army protected by a dome of light. Sleeping dragons sprawled out across the floor. Fire licked up from the ground in various places.
One dragon, at least, was awake.
Then he saw her.
She was across the cavern, a humungous monster of red, and now that he saw her, he could not tear his eyes away. He remembered her from his time of being a dragon. She was called the Bane of Corrilond.
Another figure of scarlet dashed ahead of her.
He narrowed his eyes upon it and saw that it was a man. The dragon was pursuing him to kill, and she spouted out fire. The scarlet-clad man rolled to avoid the flame. He went in the roll as a man…he came out of it as a cat. As a cat he had greater speed and agility, but that would not aid him, the archer knew, as he saw the Bane of Corrilond gather herself for a flood of fire.
The young man’s hand flew back to his quiver, and in a blink he was sighting down an arrow.
Flames licking around her teeth, the dragon’s throat dipped inwards as she prepared to let out a fire ball that would consume her prey.
The archer’s fingers released. The silver arrow flew forward. It streaked across the room and thudded under the jaw of the dragon.
She roared, jerking her head to the side, and as she did, she released her fire. The aim was thrown off, and though the fire rolled out like a wave, the man saw the cat leap behind the body of another dragon to safety.
“Eanrin!” a voice shrieked.
After yanking out the arrow, the Bane of Corrilond turned her head towards the Throne from whence the cry had come and saw those upon it. She roared, and lumbered forward to kill them.
“No,” the archer hissed, and he stepped to the side for proper aiming, not noticing that he stepped off the path to do so.
The bow was bent, the arrow was ready…
Follow my path, the voice sang.
Stunned, he looked to see that the path was once more going forward. “But…but, my Prince! I could be of more help here! I could save them! They are your people!!! Let me help them!” he protested.
I will care for my people. I am with them, just as I am with you. Youfollow me.
The man hesitated. But then he stepped back on the path, and went forward. The cavern and all that happened there faded away and he once more stood in a forest.
The tree branches arched above him like beautiful lattice framework. A zephyr stirred their leaves like distant chimes.
He breathed deep, inhaling the sweet smell of honeysuckle.
He was no longer afraid for those he’d left behind. The Prince was faithful, and even if some would come to the shores of the Final Water they would not be left behind.
The moon was shining silver again, and the path went before him.
No one knew of him. No one knew his name, save for himself, the Prince, and those over the Final Water. No one knew how he slipped through their lives, saving some, aiding others. One day, when all who were called crossed over to the Farthestshore, the wonderful deeds of theirs, great and small, would be told. There people would hear of him and know his name.
But until then, it simply did not matter.
His hand went up, and he slid the silver arrow back into the quiver.
The Prince’s path went before him, and he followed it.
November 9, 2012
Friday Tidbits
Superman and the Saint
So a few weeks ago I talked about the need to spend time on your secondary characters, giving them real life and personality so that they become as relatable as your protagonists. Amusingly, in many of the comments writers said that they had the opposite struggle . . . they found their secondary characters more interesting to write about than their protagonists!
A fellow author this last week told me the same thing. She was talking about how she had made the alternate-hero (the one who doesn't get the girl) more interesting than the hero, and now she needs to go back through and give her hero some flaws.
And that started me thinking.
What makes for an interesting character--be it hero, heroine, villain, or sidekick? A character who needs to grow. A character who has real internal struggles and flaws they have to surmount as they struggle toward their goals.
Yet many writers feel that a Hero needs to be Superman and a Heroine needs to be a saint. Oh, sometimes they'll give them some little cursory flaws . . . your hero might be a little too devotedly passionate about the heroine, your heroine might be a little clumsy (shades of Edward and Bella, my friends?). But neither of these--unless taken to an extreme that effects the story on shattering levels--are really flaws enough to make for interesting characters.
An interesting character is one you as the writer can relate to. And you, my dear writer, are neither Superman nor a saint. Sorry! It's no wonder you find yourself more drawn to your villain or your less-saintly sidekicks.
So start giving those protagonists of yours some real, besetting flaws. Flaws that effect the story on a profound level. Flaws that you relate to, even if you wish you didn't. You'll find yourself much more drawn to your characters, much more eager to see them triumph!
Because suddenly their story has become your story.
So a few weeks ago I talked about the need to spend time on your secondary characters, giving them real life and personality so that they become as relatable as your protagonists. Amusingly, in many of the comments writers said that they had the opposite struggle . . . they found their secondary characters more interesting to write about than their protagonists!A fellow author this last week told me the same thing. She was talking about how she had made the alternate-hero (the one who doesn't get the girl) more interesting than the hero, and now she needs to go back through and give her hero some flaws.
And that started me thinking.
What makes for an interesting character--be it hero, heroine, villain, or sidekick? A character who needs to grow. A character who has real internal struggles and flaws they have to surmount as they struggle toward their goals.
Yet many writers feel that a Hero needs to be Superman and a Heroine needs to be a saint. Oh, sometimes they'll give them some little cursory flaws . . . your hero might be a little too devotedly passionate about the heroine, your heroine might be a little clumsy (shades of Edward and Bella, my friends?). But neither of these--unless taken to an extreme that effects the story on shattering levels--are really flaws enough to make for interesting characters.
An interesting character is one you as the writer can relate to. And you, my dear writer, are neither Superman nor a saint. Sorry! It's no wonder you find yourself more drawn to your villain or your less-saintly sidekicks.
So start giving those protagonists of yours some real, besetting flaws. Flaws that effect the story on a profound level. Flaws that you relate to, even if you wish you didn't. You'll find yourself much more drawn to your characters, much more eager to see them triumph!
Because suddenly their story has become your story.
November 8, 2012
Abigail Hartman - The Soldier's Cross
As the second part in my feature of our favorite historical author sisterly duo, I give you teen authoress, Abigail Hartman!
About Abigail
Abigail J. Hartman writes historical fiction and fantasy from her home in South Carolina. Being taught at home for all her schooling years, she has had ample opportunity to branch out into the subjects she enjoys most: history and literature. The Soldier's Cross is her first novel.
About the Novel
A.D. 1415Fiona's world is a carefully built castle in the air, made up of the fancies, wishes, and memories of her childhood. It begins to crumble as she watches her brother march away to join in the English invasion of France. It falls to pieces when he is brought home dead. Robbed of the one dearest to her and alone in the world, Fiona turns to her brother's silver cross in search of the peace he said it would bring. But when she finds it missing, she swears she will have it and sets out on a journey across the Channel and war-ravaged France to regain it and find the peace it carries. I know many of you readers are aspiring authors yourselves. So, for your sakes, I asked Abigail to answer this question: I'm sure you get this a lot, but I know it's what everyone is wondering, so I'm going to ask it anyway! How did you, a busy young high school girl, find the time, gumption, and drive to write and polish a manuscript? And what steps did you take to prepare it for publication? Abigail:Well, the true answer is that my name is actually Loki and I found myself burdened with glorious purpose.Glory and joking aside: a lot of people do ask how I manage to juggle schoolwork and writing without totally dropping either. When I began writing The Soldier’s Cross, I had just begun high school and courses were getting more difficult; plus it was my first year of competing in November’s National Novel Writing Month, or at least my first year competing with a plot. There were a number of things that I couldn’t ignore (no teacher is really interested in hearing that your essay is late because you’re trying to write a novel) and that had to be balanced. Now I’m in my senior year of high school and the case is the same.The truth of the matter, however, is that there will always be other areas of life that require a writer’s attention: schoolwork, housework, jobs, family, reading and exercising and a hundred other things. If we spent all our time actively writing, we would no longer have anything to write about. We have to recognize the importance, and the level of importance, in everything that we do and operate accordingly. For me, this means that I discipline myself to do schoolwork and also to carve out time to write, because while one is significantly more enjoyable than the other, both are important. I don’t expect there will ever be a time when I will stop the juggling act; but writing will always be a part of it, because writing is part of me.As far as preparing The Soldier’s Cross for publication goes, I have to confess I was pretty ignorant about the whole thing when I began. The first thing I did was to go through the story and iron out the crinkles in the plot; I knew enough to do that! I also did some rewriting after a personal “line edit,” composed primarily of weaving in a romantic subplot. After that, the major thing was trawling through a massive copy of Writer’s Market Guide, choosing a number of prospective publishers, and querying them. When I signed with Ambassador Intl., they had another editor go through the manuscript and suggest alterations. It turned out to be a significantly more laidback process than the mad dash of writing the story was! But I know better now than to expect that to ever be the case again.___________________________
Thank you so much for sharing with us, Abigail! I know your story will be inspiring to other young aspiring writers out there.If you would like to follow along with the Birthday Book Party, hop on over to Abigail's blog, Sc ribbles and Inkstains , for more writing-related articles and tidbits on the authorial life. And be sure to get yourself a copy of the novel!
About Abigail
Abigail J. Hartman writes historical fiction and fantasy from her home in South Carolina. Being taught at home for all her schooling years, she has had ample opportunity to branch out into the subjects she enjoys most: history and literature. The Soldier's Cross is her first novel.
About the Novel
A.D. 1415Fiona's world is a carefully built castle in the air, made up of the fancies, wishes, and memories of her childhood. It begins to crumble as she watches her brother march away to join in the English invasion of France. It falls to pieces when he is brought home dead. Robbed of the one dearest to her and alone in the world, Fiona turns to her brother's silver cross in search of the peace he said it would bring. But when she finds it missing, she swears she will have it and sets out on a journey across the Channel and war-ravaged France to regain it and find the peace it carries. I know many of you readers are aspiring authors yourselves. So, for your sakes, I asked Abigail to answer this question: I'm sure you get this a lot, but I know it's what everyone is wondering, so I'm going to ask it anyway! How did you, a busy young high school girl, find the time, gumption, and drive to write and polish a manuscript? And what steps did you take to prepare it for publication? Abigail:Well, the true answer is that my name is actually Loki and I found myself burdened with glorious purpose.Glory and joking aside: a lot of people do ask how I manage to juggle schoolwork and writing without totally dropping either. When I began writing The Soldier’s Cross, I had just begun high school and courses were getting more difficult; plus it was my first year of competing in November’s National Novel Writing Month, or at least my first year competing with a plot. There were a number of things that I couldn’t ignore (no teacher is really interested in hearing that your essay is late because you’re trying to write a novel) and that had to be balanced. Now I’m in my senior year of high school and the case is the same.The truth of the matter, however, is that there will always be other areas of life that require a writer’s attention: schoolwork, housework, jobs, family, reading and exercising and a hundred other things. If we spent all our time actively writing, we would no longer have anything to write about. We have to recognize the importance, and the level of importance, in everything that we do and operate accordingly. For me, this means that I discipline myself to do schoolwork and also to carve out time to write, because while one is significantly more enjoyable than the other, both are important. I don’t expect there will ever be a time when I will stop the juggling act; but writing will always be a part of it, because writing is part of me.As far as preparing The Soldier’s Cross for publication goes, I have to confess I was pretty ignorant about the whole thing when I began. The first thing I did was to go through the story and iron out the crinkles in the plot; I knew enough to do that! I also did some rewriting after a personal “line edit,” composed primarily of weaving in a romantic subplot. After that, the major thing was trawling through a massive copy of Writer’s Market Guide, choosing a number of prospective publishers, and querying them. When I signed with Ambassador Intl., they had another editor go through the manuscript and suggest alterations. It turned out to be a significantly more laidback process than the mad dash of writing the story was! But I know better now than to expect that to ever be the case again.___________________________Thank you so much for sharing with us, Abigail! I know your story will be inspiring to other young aspiring writers out there.If you would like to follow along with the Birthday Book Party, hop on over to Abigail's blog, Sc ribbles and Inkstains , for more writing-related articles and tidbits on the authorial life. And be sure to get yourself a copy of the novel!
November 7, 2012
Fan Fiction Contest
Note from the Judges: "It can be tricky to interweave past events into the present of a story’s setting, but the author handles this nicely and doesn’t overdo it. Excellent job!"
Return to Southlands
By: Christy
The familiar sight of Southlands greeted Lionheart’s eyes. Southlands. His home, the dragon-scarred city. The place he had left because he had been rejected as the crown prince. The place of his shame, where all he knew and loved held him in contempt. The place where the Prince of Farthestshore had sent him. Although chills swept through his body, he continued on. The Prince had said this was not an easy task, and he was right. This is my mission. There is no turning back. Lionheart reasoned.
The words the Prince had spoken to him beside the Final Waters rang through his head, “Don’t be afraid. I am with you this time. I am with you.” Lionheart had fa“You dare to return?” Her gaze bore through him like fire.
“Please,” Lionheart begged, “where is my father?”
Daylily stared. “Of all the insolent things…” Her fiery gaze broke as she remembered what could have been. A dream that had been lost when she married Foxbrush. She lowered her eyes. “He’s in his room.”
Lionheart walked down the corridors, his heart beating faster. All those wretched memories he wished he could forget flooded back. His father was alone. The Eldest of Southlands’ dark skin was unusually colored. He opened his eyes as Lionheart took his hand. “Lionheart,” he said, “where have you been? I missed you. ”
Lionheart sighed. “From beside the Final Waters and back,” Lionheart murmured. “I got stabbed by a unicorn- therefore saving Rose Red’s life, saw the Final Waters, and with the Prince of Farthestshore’s help, I faced the Dragon. I’ve become the Prince’s knight.”
“You did face the Dragon after all, did you?” The Eldest questioned. “I don’t know if I can believe a single word you said.”
Lionheart nodded, “I don’t expect you to, dad. After what I did, I don’t deserve to be believed. I know now that nothing I can do can redeem my honor.”
The Eldest looked into Lionheart’s eyes. “Usually, I would have asked you a thousand questions about your wild story. But now, I am too tired for that.” He closed his weary eyes. “You’ve changed. Before, I would not have believed a word you said. But now, maybe I do believe. Perhaps you really have become the Prince’s servant.”
A single tear fell from Lionheart’s cheek. “I’m so sorry for failing you, for failing everyone I love.” The tear splashed on the stone floor. “Please, won’t you forgive me?”
Lionheart’s father nodded. “Son, I already have. I still love you, and I always will.”
Lionheart then realized how old and tired his father looked. The hair that had been gray was white. Those cheeks that had been full were now sunken. His father was at death’s door. Lionheart was not in the least bit worried though, his father had met the Prince too. He squeezed his dad’s hand, then left the room. He’d been forgiven again.
Return to Southlands
By: Christy
The familiar sight of Southlands greeted Lionheart’s eyes. Southlands. His home, the dragon-scarred city. The place he had left because he had been rejected as the crown prince. The place of his shame, where all he knew and loved held him in contempt. The place where the Prince of Farthestshore had sent him. Although chills swept through his body, he continued on. The Prince had said this was not an easy task, and he was right. This is my mission. There is no turning back. Lionheart reasoned.
The words the Prince had spoken to him beside the Final Waters rang through his head, “Don’t be afraid. I am with you this time. I am with you.” Lionheart had fa“You dare to return?” Her gaze bore through him like fire.
“Please,” Lionheart begged, “where is my father?”
Daylily stared. “Of all the insolent things…” Her fiery gaze broke as she remembered what could have been. A dream that had been lost when she married Foxbrush. She lowered her eyes. “He’s in his room.”
Lionheart walked down the corridors, his heart beating faster. All those wretched memories he wished he could forget flooded back. His father was alone. The Eldest of Southlands’ dark skin was unusually colored. He opened his eyes as Lionheart took his hand. “Lionheart,” he said, “where have you been? I missed you. ”
Lionheart sighed. “From beside the Final Waters and back,” Lionheart murmured. “I got stabbed by a unicorn- therefore saving Rose Red’s life, saw the Final Waters, and with the Prince of Farthestshore’s help, I faced the Dragon. I’ve become the Prince’s knight.”
“You did face the Dragon after all, did you?” The Eldest questioned. “I don’t know if I can believe a single word you said.”
Lionheart nodded, “I don’t expect you to, dad. After what I did, I don’t deserve to be believed. I know now that nothing I can do can redeem my honor.”
The Eldest looked into Lionheart’s eyes. “Usually, I would have asked you a thousand questions about your wild story. But now, I am too tired for that.” He closed his weary eyes. “You’ve changed. Before, I would not have believed a word you said. But now, maybe I do believe. Perhaps you really have become the Prince’s servant.”
A single tear fell from Lionheart’s cheek. “I’m so sorry for failing you, for failing everyone I love.” The tear splashed on the stone floor. “Please, won’t you forgive me?”
Lionheart’s father nodded. “Son, I already have. I still love you, and I always will.”
Lionheart then realized how old and tired his father looked. The hair that had been gray was white. Those cheeks that had been full were now sunken. His father was at death’s door. Lionheart was not in the least bit worried though, his father had met the Prince too. He squeezed his dad’s hand, then left the room. He’d been forgiven again.
November 6, 2012
Jennifer Freitag - The Shadow Things
This week, I have the fun of participating in a Birthday Book Party! Sister authors Jennifer Freitag and Abigail Hartman are celebrating the two-year birthdays of their debut novels. As part of that celebration, I am spotlight featuring them here this week.
First of all, give a warm welcome to Jennifer Freitag.
About JenniferJennifer writes fantasy and historical fiction from her home in South Carolina, where she lives with her husband and two cats. Her inspiration flows from writers like C.S. Lewis and Rosemary Sutcliff, both of whose works have influenced her first novel, The Shadow Things.
About the NovelThe Legions have left the province of Britain and the Western Roman Empire has dissolved into chaos. With the world plunged into darkness, paganism and superstition are as rampant as ever. In the Down country of southern Britain, young Indi has grown up knowing nothing more than his gods of horses and thunder; so when a man from across the sea comes preaching a single God slain on a cross, Indi must choose between his gods or the one God—and face the consequences of his decision. But now I'd like for Jenny to tell us a little bit about The Shadow Things in her own words! So, for the sake of you curious readers, I've asked her this question: I would like to know why you wrote this book. And I do mean this book, specifically! Considering the busy imagination you have, what was it about The Shadow Things that compelled you to write it instead of another story?Jennifer: I almost wish this was a very difficult question to answer, that I had some deep inner struggle between this story and that, and that The Shadow Things won out because I felt that its message was pertinent to the world. That would make a great miniature hero-story of my own, but that just wasn’t the case.
I wrote The Shadow Things because…I just did. It is very rare for me to recall the exact blink of time in which I sat down and began the first line of a new novel, but I do remember writing the first page of The Shadow Things. I had no heart-felt drive to write it because I felt the world needed it (that would come later), nor even because I wanted to write this tremendous though tiny story just to get it out of my head. In a sense I was very like child, a very serious child, sitting down to the normal business of play (my play-things were words). The day I began The Shadow Thingswas a day like any other, and I kept writing it because (and this may sound a little odd) it tasted serious: I knew from the feel of it, from the taste of it, that it was going to be a complete story unlike the little shards of stories and one-shots that I will occasionally send off from the fringes of my imagination like sun-bursts off a star. This is not to say that it did not give me trouble, or that it was not hard; I got stuck and bogged down, confused and lost as much as anyone else while writing a story. But I wrote it anyway.
As for my busy imagination, it was not busy solely with The Shadow Things, that I will admit. I do not have a one-track mind: my mind is more akin to the butterfly from The Last Unicorn than anything else, I suppose… But Indi and Procyon and the secluded little world of a South Down village, the grit of a young Christian ground between pagan teeth, all kept coming out of my imagination and I dutifully continued to write it all down.
I suppose the most honest answer I can give is that I wrote The Shadow Things because it was writing itself in my head and I think I might have gone mad if I didn’t put it on paper. And I’m so glad I did.
_______________________
We're all glad you did as well! Thank you so much for sharing, Jenny.
If you would like to follow along with the Birthday Book Party, hop on over to Jenny's blog, The Penslayer for more writing-related articles and tidbits on the authorial life. If you would like to participate in a giveaway and perhaps win a copy of The Shadow Things, go here for details. And be sure to get yourself a copy of the novel!
November 5, 2012
Fan Fiction Contest
Note from the Judges: "I enjoyed these romantic and imaginative scenes about familiar characters. You have captured the “cat-ness” of Eanrin very well indeed!"
A Reprieve at Tables Turned
By: M. J. Morgan
“Mreaaahhh.”
“Ah. Good morning, Eanrin.” The Prince of Farthestshore greeted his servant, regarding the cat over the piece of parchment that currently absorbed his attention. The cat, in turn, stretched and shook the sleep from his limbs, his blind face turning in the direction of the fair-skinned man, “Morning, my lord. What news?”
Momentarily distracted by the letter in his hands, it took a few moments for Aethelbald to hear the voice of his companion, “Hm? Oh, I just received a letter from Una.”
Eanrin flicked his tail, but said nothing. He heard the light sound of what seemed like a chuckle from the prince, and Eanrin stalked silently from the chamber, seeking a small haven where he would not bother the clearly preoccupied young man.
It had not been more than a week or two, Far World time, that Aethelbald had left the palace, a departure with which his princess had bequeathed him with loving words and a long, tender kiss. As happy as Eanrin was for his Prince and the lovely Princess, something inside him would twitch every so often when they were together.
This twitch was nothing of course. Merely the ache of oncoming weather, yes, that was it. Brave, noble, talented Sir Eanrin would be swayed by nothing less; least of all the prince’s sincere relationship with his wife. So he did what any logical minstrel in search of inspiration would do. He went to see Imraldera.
She was in her library again, reading this time. Perched sideways upon a large chair with her legs over one fabric arm and her elbows resting on the other, Dame Imraldera looked as though she wasn’t expecting company for a while.
Eanrin sniffed once to get a whiff of her scent, somehow discerning her mood immediately. Some strange mix between a frown and a smirk etched itself on his feline face. She was undoubtedly reading the record of Aethelbald and Una’s romance, and, knowing her, probably their wedding, despite the fact that she had been there in person.
The woman clearly heard him even before he opened his mouth, addressing him without even lifting her gaze, “Good morning, Eanrin.”
The animal stretched, his long pink tongue extending with the gesture, “What intrigues ye this fine day, fair maiden?”
A light sigh escaped her mouth without putting her readings down, “What’s your business today, Eanrin? What would you like?”
“The Prince has just received a letter from Princess Una and I am finding it slightly frustrating to be around while he pines for his Princess and I am left only to watch him with no love or attention for myself.” He sighed dramatically, coming out of a cat’s mouth as a discontented mewl.
Imraldera’s eyes visibly narrowed and darkened, but she once again did not look up from her readings, her serious voice coming out as almost a mutter this time, “I cannot say the notion is unfamiliar.”
Ignoring her last remark, Eanrin wailed a complaining drawl and meandered up to the chair, pawing at the edge of her tunic. The woman took a deep breath and glanced down at him, “So, what do you want?”
The cat withdrew from the chair, sitting promptly on the floor as his blind face stared up at her, his tail twitching back and forth periodically. He tilted his head and seemed to drink in the attention while he could get it before he spoke again, “Inspiration.”
She immediately turned away, returning to the beautiful story at her fingertips, “And you came looking for that here?”
Eanrin allowed a slight perturbed groan escape his throat. A few moments of silence fell between them as he sat at the foot of her chair, all fluffed up and staring at her with all the imaginary glaring power he could muster from his empty eye sockets. She seemed to no longer be paying attention, completely engrossed in the parchment before her, probably intentionally.
Slight aggravation and lack of attention drove him to crouch on his haunches, shifting his weight between his front legs as he bounded onto her lap, issuing a withheld grunt from the woman as he landed squarely on her stomach.
The written love story in her hands fell to the side as she came face to face with a furry-muzzled little monster. Both sat in silence for a while as she stared at him; he simply curled up and made himself comfortable on her stomach, tucking his front paws under himself as the end of his tail flicked. Her mouth twisted, “Oh, what, now you think this is appropriate?”
“But you like it.”
Another moment of silence fell until the lady sighed and began to stroke his long golden mane. She raked her fingers down his back, the fur rippling after her fingertips, and raised her hand back to his head to scratch the spot behind his ears.
It only took a couple moments for the low rhythmic sound of a purr to echo from his throat. Glancing at him, she knew if he had eyes, they would be closed in ecstasy in that moment. Her mouth deepened in a sad frown, almost hoping he wouldn’t pick up on it.
He did.
“What troubles you, sweet lady?” he managed through a purr.
Her hand stopped scratching and lay on his fur coat as her nose wrinkled a bit, “You know flat well what troubles me, Eanrin. I do not want to hear it.”
“Then let us not speak of it for a while.”
His answer surprised her. That is, until he added a tail end to it, “Now, I believe you left the business of petting me unfinished.”
Imraldera puffed out her cheeks, but continued stroking him nonetheless, and his purring continued. They stayed like that for a few minutes, and, gradually, Imraldera closed her eyes as she sat sideways on the chair, running her fingers slowly through the thick coat of the cat lying so naturally on her stomach.
Whether her state became somewhere between waking and sleeping or something simply very relaxed, she could not tell. But, at some point, as her hands moved through his fur, his weight shifted somehow on her middle, and the mane that her fingers now flowed through felt relatively the same, but seemed just a tad softer and much, much longer.
Her eyes remained closed even as she felt the knight’s humanoid ear amongst his golden locks. Large, calloused fingers of a man touched her free hand and lightly gripped her fingers, her other delicate hand still weaving through the knight’s hair. Silence held the two servants as she felt his warm breath ruffling the fabric of her tunic.
The peace did not hold for long, however, for as she felt the warmth of his hand caress her palm, Imraldera’s dark eyes shot open only to see the form of a cat settling back into his spot once again, relatively content, on her abdomen.
Gritting her teeth, Imraldera shoved the cat from his roost, “Dreadful beast!”
Recovering his footing on the floor and preening his paw for a moment, he did not answer, and she averted her eyes, a very subtle hint of red bridging her nose.
It was another minute or so before she finally spoke, “You are a vile mess.”
A soft trill echoed from his throat, “Nonsense, old girl. I just groomed a quarter of an hour ago.”
But both knew she wasn’t talking about the state of his fur.
So, acknowledging that his presence was no longer desirable, Eanrin returned to the Prince, who seemed to be having a dreadful time containing his amusement at the feline’s slightly miffed manner.
“My Prince?”
“Yes, Eanrin?”
“Might I inquire after your knowledge and experience?”
Placing Una’s letter on the table near where he was sitting, Aethelbald raised his eyebrows, “Am I hearing this correctly? The Great Eanrin, world-renowned bard and romanticist across both Near World and Far, asking me for advice about women?”
A low grumbling noise came from the cat’s throat, “Pardon me, sire, but when did I ever say anything about—”.
“You know, Eanrin, maybe you should take a break from songwriting for a while.” The Prince mused.
Flabbergasted, Eanrin balked, “My lord, with all respect, how does that—”
Aethelbald lifted one eyebrow in wry amusement, “Think about all your written works of music, then think about whom you have claimed to have written them for.”
Eanrin growled, but sat down, waiting for the prince to continue. The prince picked up where he had left off, “Perhaps you should be a little more honest, Eanrin. Your insincerity with even yourself does you no good with the womenfolk, much less the true object of your affections.”
The smile currently playing on the edges of the prince’s mouth was currently toying with the knight’s patience. Eanrin plodded over to a window, pretending to stare outside as his tail began to whip violently in irritation. The prince continued, “Perhaps the best decision, Eanrin…”
When Aethelbald trailed off, Eanrin prompted, “Yes?”
Glancing at the ceiling thoughtfully, Aethelbald continued; a slightly sardonic smile curling across his visage with the gratification of knowing that the knight was actually listening, “Well, and I speak with the greatest respect for your art…”
“What is your suggestion, my Prince?”
The grin against Aethelbald’s lips widened considerably, certainly incredibly entertained by the irony of the situation, “I believe that your problem is, to be honest, not only your insincerity, but your music, not to mention your overdependence on fluffing your diction with unnecessary words you do not even believe.”
Both men were silent for a moment as Eanrin strived to digest the prince’s advice. The poet did not have the patience to decipher the statement and decided to inquire directly, “Sire?”
The Prince of Farthestshore put it extraordinarily simply, “You talk too much.”
Eanrin whipped around immediately to face Aethelbald. Eanrin did not need eyes to see it; he could feel the look on the prince’s face from where he was sitting halfway across the room.
It was unmistakably the smuggest and most highly amused smirk spread clear across Aethelbald’s face coupled with raised eyebrows and an altogether satisfied presence.
Eanrin could sense it as if he was seeing it himself, and it enraged him. In his calm and graceful catlike way, of course.
Exacerbated, Eanrin heaved a heavy breath through his nose and prepared to stalk out of the room, leaving the extraordinarily content Aethelbald alone with his satisfaction and Una’s letter lying on the table.
“I’m going to go chase a ball of yarn.”
Fin.
A Reprieve at Tables Turned
By: M. J. Morgan
“Mreaaahhh.”
“Ah. Good morning, Eanrin.” The Prince of Farthestshore greeted his servant, regarding the cat over the piece of parchment that currently absorbed his attention. The cat, in turn, stretched and shook the sleep from his limbs, his blind face turning in the direction of the fair-skinned man, “Morning, my lord. What news?”
Momentarily distracted by the letter in his hands, it took a few moments for Aethelbald to hear the voice of his companion, “Hm? Oh, I just received a letter from Una.”
Eanrin flicked his tail, but said nothing. He heard the light sound of what seemed like a chuckle from the prince, and Eanrin stalked silently from the chamber, seeking a small haven where he would not bother the clearly preoccupied young man.
It had not been more than a week or two, Far World time, that Aethelbald had left the palace, a departure with which his princess had bequeathed him with loving words and a long, tender kiss. As happy as Eanrin was for his Prince and the lovely Princess, something inside him would twitch every so often when they were together.
This twitch was nothing of course. Merely the ache of oncoming weather, yes, that was it. Brave, noble, talented Sir Eanrin would be swayed by nothing less; least of all the prince’s sincere relationship with his wife. So he did what any logical minstrel in search of inspiration would do. He went to see Imraldera.
She was in her library again, reading this time. Perched sideways upon a large chair with her legs over one fabric arm and her elbows resting on the other, Dame Imraldera looked as though she wasn’t expecting company for a while.
Eanrin sniffed once to get a whiff of her scent, somehow discerning her mood immediately. Some strange mix between a frown and a smirk etched itself on his feline face. She was undoubtedly reading the record of Aethelbald and Una’s romance, and, knowing her, probably their wedding, despite the fact that she had been there in person.
The woman clearly heard him even before he opened his mouth, addressing him without even lifting her gaze, “Good morning, Eanrin.”
The animal stretched, his long pink tongue extending with the gesture, “What intrigues ye this fine day, fair maiden?”
A light sigh escaped her mouth without putting her readings down, “What’s your business today, Eanrin? What would you like?”
“The Prince has just received a letter from Princess Una and I am finding it slightly frustrating to be around while he pines for his Princess and I am left only to watch him with no love or attention for myself.” He sighed dramatically, coming out of a cat’s mouth as a discontented mewl.
Imraldera’s eyes visibly narrowed and darkened, but she once again did not look up from her readings, her serious voice coming out as almost a mutter this time, “I cannot say the notion is unfamiliar.”
Ignoring her last remark, Eanrin wailed a complaining drawl and meandered up to the chair, pawing at the edge of her tunic. The woman took a deep breath and glanced down at him, “So, what do you want?”
The cat withdrew from the chair, sitting promptly on the floor as his blind face stared up at her, his tail twitching back and forth periodically. He tilted his head and seemed to drink in the attention while he could get it before he spoke again, “Inspiration.”
She immediately turned away, returning to the beautiful story at her fingertips, “And you came looking for that here?”
Eanrin allowed a slight perturbed groan escape his throat. A few moments of silence fell between them as he sat at the foot of her chair, all fluffed up and staring at her with all the imaginary glaring power he could muster from his empty eye sockets. She seemed to no longer be paying attention, completely engrossed in the parchment before her, probably intentionally.
Slight aggravation and lack of attention drove him to crouch on his haunches, shifting his weight between his front legs as he bounded onto her lap, issuing a withheld grunt from the woman as he landed squarely on her stomach.
The written love story in her hands fell to the side as she came face to face with a furry-muzzled little monster. Both sat in silence for a while as she stared at him; he simply curled up and made himself comfortable on her stomach, tucking his front paws under himself as the end of his tail flicked. Her mouth twisted, “Oh, what, now you think this is appropriate?”
“But you like it.”
Another moment of silence fell until the lady sighed and began to stroke his long golden mane. She raked her fingers down his back, the fur rippling after her fingertips, and raised her hand back to his head to scratch the spot behind his ears.
It only took a couple moments for the low rhythmic sound of a purr to echo from his throat. Glancing at him, she knew if he had eyes, they would be closed in ecstasy in that moment. Her mouth deepened in a sad frown, almost hoping he wouldn’t pick up on it.
He did.
“What troubles you, sweet lady?” he managed through a purr.
Her hand stopped scratching and lay on his fur coat as her nose wrinkled a bit, “You know flat well what troubles me, Eanrin. I do not want to hear it.”
“Then let us not speak of it for a while.”
His answer surprised her. That is, until he added a tail end to it, “Now, I believe you left the business of petting me unfinished.”
Imraldera puffed out her cheeks, but continued stroking him nonetheless, and his purring continued. They stayed like that for a few minutes, and, gradually, Imraldera closed her eyes as she sat sideways on the chair, running her fingers slowly through the thick coat of the cat lying so naturally on her stomach.
Whether her state became somewhere between waking and sleeping or something simply very relaxed, she could not tell. But, at some point, as her hands moved through his fur, his weight shifted somehow on her middle, and the mane that her fingers now flowed through felt relatively the same, but seemed just a tad softer and much, much longer.
Her eyes remained closed even as she felt the knight’s humanoid ear amongst his golden locks. Large, calloused fingers of a man touched her free hand and lightly gripped her fingers, her other delicate hand still weaving through the knight’s hair. Silence held the two servants as she felt his warm breath ruffling the fabric of her tunic.
The peace did not hold for long, however, for as she felt the warmth of his hand caress her palm, Imraldera’s dark eyes shot open only to see the form of a cat settling back into his spot once again, relatively content, on her abdomen.
Gritting her teeth, Imraldera shoved the cat from his roost, “Dreadful beast!”
Recovering his footing on the floor and preening his paw for a moment, he did not answer, and she averted her eyes, a very subtle hint of red bridging her nose.
It was another minute or so before she finally spoke, “You are a vile mess.”
A soft trill echoed from his throat, “Nonsense, old girl. I just groomed a quarter of an hour ago.”
But both knew she wasn’t talking about the state of his fur.
So, acknowledging that his presence was no longer desirable, Eanrin returned to the Prince, who seemed to be having a dreadful time containing his amusement at the feline’s slightly miffed manner.
“My Prince?”
“Yes, Eanrin?”
“Might I inquire after your knowledge and experience?”
Placing Una’s letter on the table near where he was sitting, Aethelbald raised his eyebrows, “Am I hearing this correctly? The Great Eanrin, world-renowned bard and romanticist across both Near World and Far, asking me for advice about women?”
A low grumbling noise came from the cat’s throat, “Pardon me, sire, but when did I ever say anything about—”.
“You know, Eanrin, maybe you should take a break from songwriting for a while.” The Prince mused.
Flabbergasted, Eanrin balked, “My lord, with all respect, how does that—”
Aethelbald lifted one eyebrow in wry amusement, “Think about all your written works of music, then think about whom you have claimed to have written them for.”
Eanrin growled, but sat down, waiting for the prince to continue. The prince picked up where he had left off, “Perhaps you should be a little more honest, Eanrin. Your insincerity with even yourself does you no good with the womenfolk, much less the true object of your affections.”
The smile currently playing on the edges of the prince’s mouth was currently toying with the knight’s patience. Eanrin plodded over to a window, pretending to stare outside as his tail began to whip violently in irritation. The prince continued, “Perhaps the best decision, Eanrin…”
When Aethelbald trailed off, Eanrin prompted, “Yes?”
Glancing at the ceiling thoughtfully, Aethelbald continued; a slightly sardonic smile curling across his visage with the gratification of knowing that the knight was actually listening, “Well, and I speak with the greatest respect for your art…”
“What is your suggestion, my Prince?”
The grin against Aethelbald’s lips widened considerably, certainly incredibly entertained by the irony of the situation, “I believe that your problem is, to be honest, not only your insincerity, but your music, not to mention your overdependence on fluffing your diction with unnecessary words you do not even believe.”
Both men were silent for a moment as Eanrin strived to digest the prince’s advice. The poet did not have the patience to decipher the statement and decided to inquire directly, “Sire?”
The Prince of Farthestshore put it extraordinarily simply, “You talk too much.”
Eanrin whipped around immediately to face Aethelbald. Eanrin did not need eyes to see it; he could feel the look on the prince’s face from where he was sitting halfway across the room.
It was unmistakably the smuggest and most highly amused smirk spread clear across Aethelbald’s face coupled with raised eyebrows and an altogether satisfied presence.
Eanrin could sense it as if he was seeing it himself, and it enraged him. In his calm and graceful catlike way, of course.
Exacerbated, Eanrin heaved a heavy breath through his nose and prepared to stalk out of the room, leaving the extraordinarily content Aethelbald alone with his satisfaction and Una’s letter lying on the table.
“I’m going to go chase a ball of yarn.”
Fin.
November 2, 2012
Friday Tidbits
This Thing Called FocusWhen you have deadline . . . write on the deadline, not on your blog!
Sigh.
Sorry about the lack of Tidbits these last few weeks, my dear readers. Finishing up some massive deadlining, but should be back to a more regular schedule soon! In the meanwhile, enjoy the Fan Fiction. And then next week I have author features, one on Tuesday and one on Thursday, for two young historical novelists. I think you'll enjoy learning about them and their work.
Happy writing. Are any of you doing NaNoWriMo this year?
November 1, 2012
Huzzah!
Today is Starflower's official release date! Time to celebrate!
This book has been a long time in coming. From the day I conceived the first idea for it nine years ago, to today when I may official present it to you, it has been a story I have loved and longed to share. For me, today is a Dream Come True day!
So, for those of you who have read Starflower already, why don't you share your favorite part (spoiler free, please!) in the comments. And for those of you who haven't, why don't you share with us about a dream of yours that you had to wait to see come true.
And be sure to check out these various blogs which are hosting interviews and/or giveaways. Lots of oppoortunities to win an autographed copy of Starflower today!
Claire Reads
Somewhere Only We Know
My Guilty Obession
Books Worth Cheering For
Lost in Literature
Brandi Boddie-Penning Praises
A Thousand Wrongs
I Am A Reader, Not A Writer
