Tina Yeager's Blog, page 12

The Pernicious Decay

I wish the sky fell. Or disease overwhelmed us all in a matter of weeks. Nuclear holocaust. Terrorist regimes. Give us any other form of devastation. Humanity once feared the world would end. We now can only pray for such mercy. But no one prays much anymore. The concept of God faded along with our lives. A dying existence plagues us. I wish the end came with a bang, tyrannical overthow, or at least a terminal cough. Instead the apocalypse came from within us. Pernicious, unannounced, and deadly. I welcomed it. As did we all. Few of us question whether we deserve this. Even fewer hope we can escape. I am one of these odd few. Today, I must continue my search for a way out. Even if it kills me. Or destroys us all.

I pry the magnet from the closet door track. Grab a vital-shirt. Avoiding the cuffs, I swipe the magnet over collar, chest, and abdomen. The silver sheen distorts to bronze and coal shades. I slip on the fine-spun metal garment. I shiver at the chill of fabric against my skin. Goosebumps appear on my bony wrists as I push up the sleeves. I spray the moderating tan onto my hands, forearms, face. Check the mirror to make sure all exposed areas bear the common shade.

Gaddis missed a spot last week. He only made it two blocks from our residential unit before they noticed. Someone on the way to duty. Could have been a man or woman. Anyone who spotted his natural skin color. I heard the uproar first. A beastly call to summon a mob. Countless pairs of the same boots stampeded on the streets. The outcry followed. Shrill. Piercing. Then, silent. I marched past his cannibalized remains ten minutes later. On my way to duty. Did not recognize the faceless form. At the day’s end, a new resident moved into his unit. Only then did I learn what happened.

I layer a black tunic, trenchcoat, scarf, and gloves over my skin. Examine my reflection, just to make sure. I lace up my boots, the same ones worn by all who bear duty. Who eat our neighbors upon the call of the mob.

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Story Crumbs and Winner Announcement

 

I wish the sky fell. Or disease overwhelmed us all in a matter of weeks. Nuclear holocaust. Terrorist regimes. Give us any other form of devastation. Humanity once feared the world would end. We now can only pray for such mercy. But no one prays much anymore. The concept of God faded along with our lives. A dying existence plagues us. I wish the end came with a bang, tyrannical overthow, or at least a terminal cough. Instead the apocalypse came from within us. Pernicious, unannounced, and deadly. I welcomed it. As did we all. Few of us question whether we deserve this. Even fewer hope we can escape. I am one of these odd few. Today, I must continue my search for a way out. Even if it kills me. Or destroys us all.

 

 

Story Crumbs …

I’ve left you a bit of crust on the path. To see who might follow these curious fragments. I look forward to reading your comments as I decide whether to continue the foray into this science fiction adventure.

 

Winner Announcement

We have a winner in the contest! Sally H. wins the dragon modifier prize with her word, “mordant.” Congratulations, Sally! Stay tuned for future contest posts and more opportunities to win.

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Heroes, Heroines, and Winners

When does a character transform into a hero?

The valiant peasant dreams of conquering the evil oppressing her people. Ill-equipped, untested, and devoid of status. She faces impossible odds. Obstacles loom in her path. Enemies beat her back. The adventure scars her body and robs her of companions. Allies urge her to surrender. As the challenges mount, she must choose whether to give in to discouragement or persist.

Though unbeknownst to the peasant, heroes are either made or unmade in such moments. Whether she conquers evil or dies makes no impact upon her status as the heroine. The resolve of one’s heart forges character, not some final conquest. The uncommon decision to press on raises her above the status of commoner. The persistence through sacrifice to accomplish a noble purpose transforms a peasant into a hero.

We love to read about the ascent of nobodies. Our hearts pound with the dreamer who perseveres toward an impossible destiny. For we, too, are potential heroes. Deep within us, beneath our unlikely status as peasants, dreams of divine adventure niggle at our souls. We dismiss them most days. Ill-equipped, untested, devoid of status. The impossible odds stack up against us. We fear the sacrifices, the scars, and criticism from reasonable folks.

Are the trials worth the cost? We doubt. Shrink back. Consider surrender the most logical choice.

Yet, heroes and heroines cannot be forged in comfort, safety, or reasonable company. Our character will not be molded by our results, but through our courage. Heroes press on to fulfill their destiny, charge forth to serve what is right. We might not succeed. But if we hold our decisions hostage while awaiting a guarantee, we will remain commoners forever. Heroism is wrought within us when victory is uncertain, but we try nonetheless.

The moment comes often in our adventure. Not once, but over and over again. Depending upon the quest, we can face the choice to persevere each year, day, or hour. We face repeated opportunities to transform into the heroes of our life stories.

What’s your challenge to take up today? How will you choose to become the hero in this moment? Will you pursue an impossible dream?

Some days, just trying will declare you a winner.

Which leads me to remind you of a contest I posted a few weeks ago. Deadline for entries will be September 30th. Please post entries on the blog post from September 8th CLICK HERE.

Share your comments on heroism with us! I look forward to reading your thoughts.

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Ninety Seconds

Ninety seconds.

The ferry clock hangs askew. Frozen at one minute thirty seconds past five o’clock. Lora glares. Wills the black minute hand backward. If she just had the time to live over …

The thin red hand clicked past the twelve.

Lora turned and leaned over the rail. She inhaled the ocean’s frigid breath to escape the sour odors wafting from the man standing beside her.

He rested his briefcase on the rail. Mopped his sweat-drenched forehead. The briefcase slipped from his trembling, damp hand.

Before it tumbled into the waves, Lora caught it. His perspiration slimed her wrist as she returned the case to him. Putrid breath flowed along over his jabbering. Some foreign language. He clutched the case to his chest. Bowed. Reached, as if to touch her.

Lora shook her head. Backed away. Hustled to the restroom. Slammed the door. Shoved her wrist under the faucet.

Boom.

Lights went dark. Floor capsized. Crashes. Shattering. She skidded. Squeals of metal. Hit the wall. Screams. Bawls, and barely human moaning. Lora grabbed the door handle. Forced herself to open it. Just outside the door, a blood soaked object lay on the deck. A stranded toddler shoe.

It is one minute thirty seconds past five o’clock. The thin red hand hangs still. Lora urges it. Compels them all. To move. But chaos glares back. Time halts.

In a matter of ninety seconds.

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Contest Fun!

 

Anyone else a logophile? When I can’t find delightful conversation or a compelling read, word games are my next choice for amusement while traveling. If you’re a word-lover like me, maybe you’ll enjoy this week’s contest. I decided to mix things up and have a little fun.

So, let’s play a word game. You only need to submit one word to enter the contest. Almost any part of speech will do (noun, verb, adverb, adjective). Leave out proper and proprietary names, please. Employ your creative side and describe a dragon. It can be the first word which comes to mind when you think of dragons or a well-considered favorite. There’s only one catch. You must be willing to let me use it.

Here’s how to win:

Suggest one word in your comments below. Don’t repeat other entries, or yours won’t be considered.
Include your email address, so I can notify the winner.*

 

The winning suggestion will receive $5 to spend on their favorite Starbucks treat.  For all participating bibliophiles and logophiles, I hope this will prove a fun exercise to unlock the imagination. I can hardly wait to read your brilliant notions!

Now, who wants to be a winner?

 

 

 

*All participants agree to relinquish rights to their suggested words, if they should be selected for use in a novel or as a title. No additional compensation will be provided. Winning does not guarantee use of the entry in a novel.

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Tonight’s Perspective and Prayer

As I put the finishing touches on the graphic for my previously scheduled post, the power went out. The palm tree in my front yard thrashed its head. My trash bin dove into the street. The water level rose to the lip of my pool. I peered through my windows from the darkening interior of my home. Though I had yet to eat dinner, I couldn’t bring myself to complain.

This is not so bad, really.

As I sit in the lingering cool of an air conditioned day, an entire town sifts through the rubble of their homes in Kokomo, Indiana. Many across Louisiana wish they close their mind’s eyes from the memories of their loved ones, livelihoods, and coffins floating away before them. The acrid smell of smoke clings to the skeletal remains of neighborhoods in the west. And in the distant east, Italian schoolteachers wait to find their students’ remains in the rubble which once housed their hopes for the future.

In these, and so many more places, our world knows true suffering. No, I can’t bring myself to complain. But I can pray for those who struggle. And so can you.

Instead of my regular sort of blog post, I’m sending out this call to prayer on behalf of all those who find themselves in the center of a horrific crisis. Will you take some time this Labor Day weekend and join me in prayer for those who need it most?

Blessings,

Tina

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Scenescaping

Certain days become moments of uncommon fortune. Today, luck has met you here. This blog has morphed into a vessel and extend its gangplank to you.

Welcome to Scenescaping, a venture into uncharted stories where the readers suggest tale fragments and an author navigates us through them and beyond.

Shall we take on fantasy realms, distant galaxies, a psychopath, vampires, werewolves, the future, the past, espionage, contemporary social struggles, or a combination of two? I look forward to your suggestions as we peer across the horizon together. To embark on our first journey, the first mate must raise our mainsail and shove us off …

 

Stone harvested from earth’s deepest rock veins shimmers in the early rays. The master craftsman caresses its surface as if feeling the art throb from within the raw material. He carves away the excess, letting it return to dust. Expressions twist and leap from the lifeless obelisks. Countless faces writhe and wriggle to life without a chisel mark to mar their character. From the mischievous to menacing, each winged sentry remains unique.

Fierce talons and whimsical grins hold darkness at bay. Many live under their protection. Few take note of these unseemly heroes. Humans pass by at a distance and fail to appreciate their exquisite features. Most people miss the activities of their guardians. For it is in the witching hours, when mortals rest within walls or tombs, that things of the earth’s depths come alive.

The clock marks the devilish hour now, as it strikes three hours past midnight. Dreamers toss on their pillows, but do not hear its chime. Nor does the unlucky soul who wanders through the weedy lawn. Alone …

 

 

Your turn.

 

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Mortal Illusions

Is reality defined within physical and measurable parameters? Can one discern the boundaries of truth by ruling out supernatural elements as fiction? Should we accept metaphysical factors as fringe science?

Human nature drives us to boast of our ability to discern truth with our senses. But in reality, our mortal experience is something of an illusion.

Believe only what you can see or touch?

Skeptics of the supernatural often view reality as limited to tangible data. A blue stone absorbs every light wavelength except blue. Our eyes receive refracted light wavelengths of every color except the one absorbed by the object we “see.”We see the one color frequency the rock does not hold. Therefore, a “blue” rock is actually anything but the blue color we perceive. In essence, the world is colored more by what we do not see. We only see the light which isn’t there at all.

All senses receive signals and transmit neurological data to the brain, which interprets the information. Neuroscience and illusionists concur on the fallible nature of our brain’s interpretation of input. We can sense things which aren’t there and fail to sense things right at our side.

In fact, the solidity of an object remains a matter of perspective. A tree trunk feels solid to the human hand, but offers a habitat for tiny organisms. Consider the microcosms imperceptible to our senses. Subatomic particles comprise all physical matter. Energy flows through structures, people, and the earth. No need to classify the invisible as fringe subject material.

Mainstream science defines the universe as a symphonic masterpiece of extrasensory components.

Paranormal enthusiasts embrace the existence of metaphysical elements. Psychic phenomena support theories of expanded brain capability. Cryptozoologists insist extraordinary life forms dwell among us. I don’t plan to join a seance or hunt for Sasquatch, but

a glint of reality shimmers in the search for paranormal evidence.

The mind of man, created in God’s image, does wield power few of us realize. And beings more astonishing than yeti dwell among us.

Dictionary.com lists several intriguing definitions for reality, none of which limit the term to physical existence.

something that exists independently of ideas concerning it.
something that exists independently of all other things and from which all other things derive.
something that is real.
something that constitutes a real or actual thing, as distinguished from something that is merely apparent.

Reality exists beyond our mortal illusion. The physical, tangible, measurable realm cannot contain the whole truth. Not even most of it. We see the hints of reality through our limited perspective. Creation bears the signature of its Creator. The Truth Himself, who “exists independently of all other things and from which all other things derive.”

Deep within our souls, we recognize the reality of something more.

We admire the dawn because its brilliance resonates with our innate spiritual recognition of sovereign glory. We shudder in the dark, because there really are fearful things in the unseen places. Skeptics and believers alike need only open their minds to discover the unseen truth. The tangible is an illusion at best. Reality is supernatural.

 

“So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:18).

“By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God’s command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible” (Hebrews 11:3).

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title = {Dictionary.com Unabridged},

month = {Aug},

day = {18},

year = {2016},

url = {http://www.dictionary.com/browse/reality},

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Robin’s Courage

Afternoon rays cast golden hues over the marble sill. Joyce wrung lemon-scented suds from her dishrag and gazed through the window. Tweeting mounted around their backyard’s birch. A robin swooped into the tree, nudging a scraggy-feathered youngling.

The front door banged shut.

Joyce turned from the window. “Alyssa?”

“Hey, Mom.”

She grinned at the sound of her daughter’s voice. “How was school?”

“Fine.” Keds thudded against the mudroom wall.

Drying her hands, she mumbled, “Standard teen answer.”

Alyssa padded into the kitchen on shamrock-patterned socks. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Guess what I signed up for today?”

“The un-holiday club?” She pointed to the green toe-socks. “Saint Patrick’s Day was last month.”

“They’re my lucky socks. Least I hope so.” Her backpack clunked like a sack of bricks onto a counter stool. She drew out a yellow flyer and thrust it toward her mom. “Big day’s in six weeks.”

Megaphone clip art framed its bold heading, “Cheerleader Tryouts.” Joyce smoothed the crumpled paper against the cool granite counter. “I’m surprised you’d be interested in something like this.”

“Whaddya mean?” She cocked her head.

“Well . . .” Joyce bit her lip and studied her daughter’s hazel eyes. The same eyes which had burst into tears at the mention of an oral report last month. “You feel you’ll be comfortable doing this?”

Alyssa rolled her eyes and sighed. “That’s not the point. Jeannie said it’d be good for me. She signed up, too.”

“I see the registration fee’s due tommorow.” Joyce tapped the flyer, then looked up. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Well, you could watch me practice.” She squinted up at her. “Not to coach or anything. Just kinda be there.”

Joyce patted her hand. “Sure, sweetie.”

“Thanks.” Alyssa withdrew her hand and grabbed an apple from the fruit basket. “If I back out, I’ll feel like such a loser. I gotta do this.”

She shouldered her pack and headed down the back hall. After the bedroom door hasp clicked, Joyce sighed.

Twittering snapped her attention to the tree outside. The chick tumbled over the nest’s rim and plummeted toward the earth. She hurried out the French doors. Tender spring grass pressed into the arches of her bare soles as she crossed the yard. She halted at the edge of the canopy and scanned the birch’s shadow.

No chick. She crept to the trunk, careening her neck upward. The robin warbled near a tuft of woven moss and twigs. Two mature chicks flapped at their mother’s prodding. A third youngling chirped from a nearby branch.

Joyce exhaled and rolled her shoulders. Her neck crackled and warmth bled in to ease stiff muscles. She leveled her chin and strode back into the house.

When practice began the next day, Joyce’s muscles twisted back into their familiar knots.

Alyssa clutched a pair of homemade pom-poms in front of her chest. “Ready. Okay.”

She squatted. Hands to her sides. Arms together. Kick.

Joyce purred her comments, careful not to speak in sudden tones. “Good.”

She held her breath as her daughter jumped.

Alyssa wavered mid-air and stumbled into the landing.

Joyce squeezed words from her starved lungs. “It’s okay, sweetie. Just go with it.”

Fists trembling at her sides, Alyssa’s nostrils quivered in shallow breaths. She teetered, muttering something.

Joyce squeaked on the vinyl seat of her lawn chair and leaned forward.

Alyssa raised her head and glared. “Don’t get up, Mom. I got this.”

Joyce’s heart lurched. Her toes clawed the insoles of her Toms. Everything in her yearned to rescue her baby girl. With a white-knuckled grip on the armrests, she pushed herself against the back of the lawn chair.

Alyssa squeezed her eyes shut. With a deep breath, she drew the pom-poms to her chest. And started the routine over again.

So went the next day. Certain moves flowed like oil. The jump almost worked. About halfway through the routine, another misstep triggered a shut-down. But Alyssa shot her mother that look, refusing help.

Joyce stood, knees quaking. “Do you want me here, or should I just—“

“Sit!” Alyssa raised an open hand and patted the air. “Please, Mom. I need you. Just to be here.” As her mom settled back into the lawn chair, she added, “But don’t say or do anything, okay?”

Each afternoon wrenched tangles into Joyce’s muscles. She rubbed her abdomen at night to coax away the snarls in her gut. She won’t let me help. Jesus, protect Alyssa. Don’t let her get hurt.

As dusk yawned across the horizon one evening, Alyssa grabbed her mother’s forearm and dragged her into the back yard. Joyce unfolded the chair and sat in the customary spot.

Instead of launching into the routine, she rested the cheery frizz on her hips. “Okay, so this is it.”

“It?” Joyce cocked her head.

“My last practice. Tomorrow’s the day.” She shook the pom-poms high. “Excited for me?”

“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Joyce swallowed the bile rising into her mouth. She forced a grin. “Of course, honey. You’ll be awesome.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Alyssa beamed. “Ready. O-Kay.”

Steady gestures. A lithe eagle-spread jump. She performed the routine without a hitch. Three times in a row. No panic attacks.

Twilight whirled in, spangling the skies with the jewelry of night. Mosquitoes chased the mother-daughter pair from the lawn. Despite the insect stings, Joyce nearly danced into the house.

The buoyant spirit carried on into the morning. Joyce folded the towels with a perkier snap than the day before. She even hummed through the vacuuming chore she hated most, and almost missed the phone’s ring.

The lilt spilled into the receiver with an added syllable. “Hello-oo!”

A raspy whisper replied, “Mom? I need you to come get me.”

“It’s only one o’clock. I thought try outs were at two.” She shifted the phone to her other ear as she clacked the vacuum upright to park it.

Alyssa croaked, “I just threw up. Come quick.” Click.

Joyce stared at the handset a moment before hanging up. She strolled to the French doors. Clouds gathered like grey bullies over the back yard, stifling the sunlight. Rain pinged against the lawn chair folded against the side of the house. Warbling drew her attention to the birch tree. She tapped her chin.

With a glance at her watch, she re resumed her vacuuming.

Forty-five minutes later, Joyce headed into the school clinic.

Alyssa leapt from the paper-lined cot. Her trembling shoulders crumpled in her mother’s embrace. “I thought you’d never get here. Did you sign me out already?”

“Not yet.” She patted her daughter’s back.

Alyssa nestled her forehead against her mom’s shoulder and whined, “I wanna go home.”

“In a little while.” Joyce swallowed a catch from her throat. Leaning back, she lifted Alyssa’s chin. “After you finish try outs.”

She squeezed her mom’s hand and cried, “I can’t!”

Despite the roiling in her gut, Joyce straightened her spine. “Of course you can. You’ll be awesome.” She returned the squeeze at her daughter’s hand. “Just like yesterday.”

“I’m a mess.” She wiped her cheeks amid sniffles.

“Just breathe. You got this.” Joyce closed her eyes, picturing a diving chick.

“But—”

“All you have to do is try.” She raised a brow and folded her arms. “But we’re not going home until you do.”

Joyce supported her from the side as they walked down the hall. At the first corner, a cocoa-skinned girl with a springy ponytail bounded up to them.

Alyssa cleared her throat and faced her bestie. “Hey, Jeannie.”

She grabbed Alyssa’s wrist. “Where’ve you been? We’re gonna be late.”

As Jeannie dragged her away, she glanced back. “See you in the bleachers, okay, Mom?”

Joyce waved, nodding.

A sustained buzz prompted sixty doors to fling open. Handles banged against concrete block walls. Each classroom poured into a teen stampede. Joyce surfed along the waves of students until the throng carried her past the gym. She had to swim against the tide for a few feet to return to the entrance.

Orange oil scents struggled against musty decades of perspiration. Squeaking soles echoed from the floorboards. The fifth candidate stuck her landing. Parent murmurs droned across the stands. Joyce checked her watch as the sixth girl took her place before the judges. Five minutes later, Coach Moore called up number eight.

She stretched her neck to peer at the cluster of hopefuls nestled on the bench. Jeannie’s crinkly ponytail swished against her daughter’s chestnut tresses. They kept their gaze forward. Joyce rose a few inches from her seat. Alyssa held knitted fingers over her bouncing knees.

“Twelve?” The judge scrawled on a clipboard.

Jeannie abandoned the bench and darted to the floor’s center.

The wooden bleachers hardened beneath Joyce’s hip bones. She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. Her watch lagged two and a half minutes behind the wall clock.

Tick. Tock.

At two forty-five, Coach Moore cleared her throat and called, “Twenty-three?”

Alyssa placed both feet on the floor and gripped the edge of the bench. But she did not move forward.

“Last girl.” The coach pointed at her. “You’re up.”

Joyce stood, clasping her hands until her fingertips purpled. Please, Lord. Let her fly.

Alyssa rose. She shuffled, as if each step fought the rip currents of an invisible sea. Once at her starting position, she looked up into the bleachers. And smiled.

“Ready. O-kay.”

Joyce pressed her knuckles against her lower lip, resisting the urge to chew them. She sipped the tiny breaths between each movement. Strong kick. Short inhale. Fluid jump. Shallow exhale. And then, the chick wound her arms.

Alyssa sprang into the air, executing the flip with magnificent ease. She floated to her landing as if borne on wings.

Joyce burst into applause and stumbled a bit as she hustled down the bleachers. Tears flooded her cheeks. Pom-poms rippled in the rush of air as her daughter swooped into her arms.

“Thanks, Mom.” Alyssa heaved. “For being here.”

Thank You, Jesus. Joyce kissed her dewy forehead, blinking away the blur. “You did it, baby. You flew.”

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Kardia’s Light, Part Two

The Forbidden Wood’s ebony thickets clamored at the moon, stealing half its light. Plumes of dust galloped toward it along the East Road.

Luren. He would murder her mother like the others. So clever in other matters, why had she insisted on devotion to the King?

She pressed her lips onto the chilled flesh of her father’s forehead. “I will save her.”

With embalming instructions left for the shop assistant, she mounted her family’s Shire horse. The abandoned East Road undulated eight miles to the forest’s edge.

“Be swift, Hazum!” She kicked her heels at his girth, desperate to catch the violet-armored knights gathering at the martyrs’ post. By the time she neared, smoke roiled from the site. Sleek royal stallions barreled north in the distance.

Kardia dismounted. She grabbed a dagger and blanket from her saddle. Squinting through ashy gusts, she raced toward a writhing figure on the pole. Flames clawed at the silhouette’s waist. Kardia unfurled the blanket and pounded back the fire. She tromped into the smoldering straw. Acrid fingers of smoke gagged her. Heat seared her arms. Her mother’s weak moans stayed her focus. When she sawed the final rope, her mother wilted into her arms.

“Mother?” Kardia dragged her to fresh air. “I came to save you.”

Her mother wheezed and croaked. “I’m already saved.”  A smile crackled the grime over her burned cheeks. She patted her steaming faerlight amulet. Sparkling silver rivulets streamed through its crossed pattern.

Kardia gasped. “They didn’t take it?”

“They tried. An enchantment protects it. I alone can relinquish it.” She turned aside and coughed, black spittle drizzling onto the dank earth.

Kardia stroked her singed hair. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yes, but not as you hope.” As she labored for breath, her lips formed the words, Love you. She mouthed a rune. Her mother’s broiled flesh turned still and silent. A stony monument lacking resemblance to her once-vibrant form.

A melody whispered into the distant breeze. As three twinkling orbs neared, voices clarified in their glissando songs. Iridescent wings emerged from each sphere as they stretched into woman-like shapes. The tallest fairy was half Kardia’s height. Beside her, a rotund creature chimed an exclamation at the heavens. The sky puckered and a narrow column of starlight descended among them. Wings flitting, the third fairy alighted. Six feet up from celestial beam’s base, she squeezed the column and pinched the section off. The sky rebounded as they unrolled the starlight. The resplendent trio lifted her mother’s body from Kardia’s arms.

The tall fairy’s voice tinkled like charm bells. “Leave her to us, dear.”

Her mother vanished as they wrapped her in the invisible coverlet.

“Where are you taking her? I wanted…Can you save her?”

“She’s already saved. We’re taking her to the King.” The round fairy pointed through the Forbidden Wood as they hoisted their imperceptible package. “You’ve heard of his castle on the other side of these thickets?”

“Let me go with you.” Kardia rose and followed them to the forest’s edge.

The tall fairy extended a new faerlight amulet toward Kardia. “Only followers of the king can wear his amulet. These thickets are impassible without it. What say you?”

A slate-grey cloud floated across the moon, obscuring its remaining light. “How do I believe in a king who allowed my parents’ death?”

The other two fairies beckoned as they tugged her mother’s cloaked body to the wood.

“Has Prince Luren tainted your mind?” The tall fairy shook her head. “They shall live. If you followed, you would see.”

“How do I know?”

The stout fairy chimed as she broached the thicket’s prickly tangles. “Belief weighs more than what you know.”

“A pure life sacrificed itself to create this amulet, forging new life for all in the king’s castle.” Wings flitting, the tall fairy held out the faerlight as she backed toward her companions.

The faerlight’s shimmering rivulets triggered memories. She’d seen that sparkle…in her father’s eyes as he nursed her to health, in her mother’s as she fed hungry neighbors.

The third fairy peeked back from the forest threshold and shook a finger. “You’ve glimpsed the king, have you not? I can tell.”

Kardia studied the fairies’ grip on the intangible shroud and nodded. “Yes. I believe I have.”

The tall fairy gestured to the slithering black thorns behind her. “The adventure is costly. Even demanding your very life. What say you?”

“If the king cannot be found, I have no life worth saving.” Kardia grabbed the amulet and marched toward the howling darkness. “I’m in. Make way.”

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