Emily Kinney's Blog, page 2

The Owl Stop

 

 

 

“Shari froze in place, eyes as wide as the multitude of glowing silver owl eyes that stared back at her. Or perhaps they leered. It’s so difficult to discern with owl eyes. Especially so many. She could feel scrutiny pressing down upon her, like a weight. Gulping, she tried to smile, in an attempt to ward off any ill-will. If there was any. Maybe these owls were friendly, or at least some sort of guardians who could help her. It was certainly worth asking.” – Emily Kinney, author of The Island of Lote

The Awakening

“The water rippled in gentle, cold waves against her thighs. Her heart pounded as she looked one way and then the other, staring down streets, or what were once streets. They were now canals, channels for the dirty, debris-filled water. It neither rose nor fell, for it had no tide. The wind did push it just a bit, causing it to lap against the sides of the houses, just beneath the window sills, as if languidly trying to peek inside. Her throat contracted, sickness rising up inside her. Where was everyone? Had they all really fled? While she was tucked away upstairs, the bump that idiot gave her throbbing on her forehead? They had fled? They had fled and left her there, all on her own? Shifting one foot after the other , careful not to run into any unseen obstacle, she made her way down the main street, now a river, growing more and more certain that the town, her home, once frothing and teeming, was now vacant. The castle, in all its sneering, prestigious mockery, still loomed above on the hill, looking untouched by the flooding. She squinted ruthlessly up at it, wondering if he was up there, polishing his bat, grinning wickedly down at all the destruction he had caused. She wondered if he was using his telescope. If so, he was probably watching her drift along between the houses, and admiring his handiwork on her head. Just imagining it made her seethe with anger. She glared with all her might, transferring all her angst and hatred into her eyes, up at the castle, aiming at the window he was most likely using to spy on her. And he was probably laughing. Laughing at her pitiful display of anger. What could she do to retaliate now? What power did she have over him? Hadn’t he done all this to prove to her that she was weak and easily tossed about? There was a whisper of a wish; that she had been awake when all the confusion and fear had gone on. When they were evacuating, running towards hope, she should have been there. She should have participated. Been a part of it. But instead she had been unconscious, splayed on a bed, behind a locked door. He had wanted her to be separate. Maybe because he was also separate. But, that was his choice, not hers. It wasn’t fair. It was even ridiculous. She wanted no part of him, or his life, or his schemes. And he had put her a part from the flooding, made her wake up to it, so that she wouldn’t feel connected to it. So perhaps she would feel a sense of guilt, though she had done nothing wrong. She knew him, as much as she didn’t want to. He had forced himself on her, in every way, and she knew what he was trying to do. And as much as she didn’t want it to, she could feel the stirrings of guilt deep within her body. Her lips trembled, the empty husks of the houses, so many, all dark, all silent, frightened her and burned her heart. Was she really all alone? Well, except for him, and he didn’t count. If he thought she was going to flee up to the castle, he was sorely mistaken. But was there anywhere to go here? Was she really the sole wanderer? She couldn’t be sure. Not without further exploration. Letting her fingertips trail behind her, she continued on, buoyed by the water, her reflection long and murky behind her.” – Emily Kinney, author of The Island of Lote

http://www.emilykinneyauthor.com

I Disagree.

You are not a band-aid.

You’re a typhoon that rolled in and changed everything.

You pulled back the waves and revealed the tidal pools.

You knocked over the trees and built me a home.

You punctured the clouds and let the sun shine through.

And when the winds were done refreshing the air, and the rain had finished washing off all the grime, everything was different.

Everything was new.

Everything was better.

And it could never go back to the way it was before.

Thank Heaven.

But the Clouds Chose Him

“But the clouds had decided here. Right here. In this detestable, sandy wasteland. They had chosen him. Not some other poor sap rumaging around in his grandparents basement, looking for mysterious, wonderous things to nurture his curious, noble mind. No, the clouds had pointed their vaporous finger at him, the one person in Roduntok who actually had something to do today. Not that he wasn’t flattered. Personally, he never would have guessed he was a trustworthy hero. But, really, clouds. Today?” – Emily Kinney, author of The Island of Lote

They Wait to Frolic

“In that precious, frail time between night and dawn was when they would dance. Hardly a soul still lived who had witnessed this odd display of splendor, for nowadays there were few who had the patience or stillness to wait for such events. They were creatures easily startled, after all, and were covetous of their meager dancing opportunities. Dealing with prying humans was an annoying hindrance.” – Emily Kinney, author of The Island of Lote

Tell the Others!

“Just as Dimmet had expected, the house was now just a leaning structure of splinters, crackling plaster, and hay. The wall separating the main living quarters from the stable had collapsed who knows how long ago, and large drifts of moldy straw had plunged through. The roof was steadily collapsing. Masonry peeked out of fissures in the walls. The sheer, oppressive atmosphere of abandonment made Dimmet shudder. This place had been left hastily, yet thoroughly, nearly all traces of former occupation having been packed up and carted off. The only apparent evidence that someone might have once lived here was the large, sturdy wooden table in the front room, currently caked in dirt, the rusted cauldron being cradled in the crumbled remains of the hearth, two or three broken chairs, a forgotten lantern dangling from the ceiling, and in the far corner, a traditional zutzet, a carved wooden emblem holding the concord of forest animals and fay. The house was empty. It had no more soul. Dimmet could see that. And yet, there had been smoke. He had seen the smoke through the trees. And when he had drawn closer, he had seen it rising out of the house’s ancient, weathered chimney. His heart had fluttered violently, the brim of his hat quivering in time with it. He had taken a moment to think, to consider, before making any decisions. The house had looked harmless from the outside, unless you count splinters, the only foreboding thing about it being the mysterious, wafting smoke. He had almost not gone in. But then an urgency had struck him, sent from a memory that he had half hidden in his brain, in among dragon bone marrow and gnome saliva dissolver. So, after scoping out the location for another five minutes and seeing nothing threatening, he had ran in. And was disappointed. A fire had been started at one point in the hearth, yes, but he must have just missed whoever made it. It was hastily made, perching on the single solid stone slab left, right beneath the chimney opening. Just a small pile of twigs and burnt straw. The fire was almost out by the time Dimmet had found it. He sighed as he looked at it, folding his arms. It raised more questions than it answered. And he had been hoping for answers. He was so sick of questions. Despite his miffed feelings, he still felt compelled to further investigate. After all, that was what training had taught him. Don’t be fooled. You don’t know if there’s more to learn. Picking his way over the unstable ruins of the hearth, Dimmet managed to crouch low and peer at the little smoldering pile. There was nothing unusual in it, no artifacts hurriedly burned, for fear of consequences or what have you. Once again disappointed, Dimmet made to stand up and leave. But something stopped him. It grabbed his eye at the last second. The smoke, still spiraling up in skinny tendrils, was spelling something. Startled, Dimmet sucked in his breath, his limbs freezing. Languidly, in no rush, the smoke swirled and rose, slowly spelling out, “I AM BACK. DECEIVE NONE. TELL ALL. GO.” Dimmet watched, riveted, as it spelled this out again and again. Then, finally, when he was certain that it would say nothing else and he could stand the sight no more, Dimmet whirled around, clamored down to the floor, nearly crashed into the table, and dashed outside, his pulse racing faster than his legs, knowing he had to tell Gellert.”

Expedition to the Cottage

“The rain lashed at her body, drenching her garments and chilling her to the marrow. She released a shuddering sneeze, rattling her teeth. Up above, crows circled, squawking at her, laughing at her misery, making a mockery of her brave quest.

“Shush!” she called back at them, knowing it was foolish, yet still feeling the irresistible urge to defend her dignity.

The forest, growing as sparsely as it did, offered no protection from the malevolent storm. Surely the cottage was nearby? She had traveled so long already; didn’t it have the heart not to hide itself?” – Emily Kinney, author of The Island of Lote

The Mouse’s Potion

“As the brew splashed and frothed, Randolf inched closer and closer, his trembling paws clutching the next ingredient. Ithikis hummed along to the chime-like popping of the bubbles, effortlessly holding up the book in one hand, while his other twirled in the air, stirring the potion below. As much as Randolf adored Ithikis and loved the idea of potion making, his fragile heart could only take so much excitement, and it was currently reaching its limit.” – Emily Kinney, author of The Island of Lote

What They Read

“Chairs flew back with resounding clatters as they all zipped towards Grundle. Six pairs of hands clutched at the paper, all twelve trembling. The Wizardmantics’ eyes grew saucer-sized, all roving back and forth on the page in sync. Six beard bunched with anxiety. Lewis sneezed, causing the kettle to explode into blue smoke. Wizards rarely sneeze. It is a surefire way to know something is now very wrong.” – Emily Kinney, author of The Island of Lote

Summoned

“I, who heeded no one, who had charred the halls of the Banished, who sailed the skies and plundered the ground, was being made to sit docilely and recieve instruction. My blood roared with fury, while my heart tore with confliction. But my head spoke softly. It reminded me that I had come by my own decision. Had she been an ordinary soft-skin, I would have chosen differently. But a power and mystery surrounded her, and it had lurred me to the crags.” – Emily Kinney, author of The Island of Lote