M.B. Weston's Blog, page 25

Change Your Telling into Showing: A Tiny Example of Show, Don’t Tell

As I mentioned yesterday, I’m working on edits for a short story due in by April 30th–egads, that’s tonight!–for the Thunder on the Battlefield sword and sorcery anthology being put out by Seventh Star Press.

I ran across a section in the story that needed more description and explanation:

The trees grew too close together, hampering flight. Arrows whizzed past them. Another soldier fell.

Davian’s mind raced as he jumped over the root….

(Note: A quick explanation for those of you unfamiliar with my Elysian Chronicles. My characters are cherubians (angels), and they are being chased by mornachts (demons). (You’ll want to click on the links for an explanation of both species.))

Here are a few problems I found with that sentence:

It “tells” instead of “shows.” In a huge battle with lots of soldiers, me throwing an “Another soldier fell” sentence out there works fine. However, Davian is down to six soldiers. Each life matters. I can’t just have one of them die without giving the reader a reasonable explanation for how it happens.
It cheapens the life of this particular soldier. If you are dealing with unimportant characters, glossing over their death or their trouble might be fine. However, because this is one of Davian’s only surviving soldiers, and the first under his command, Davian would remember this death specifically.
It fails to evoke emotional reaction in the reader.
It misses an opportunity to show how evil my mornachts are. I could show more character with this if I work it right.
This story’s audience demands more visceral details. My Elysian Chronicles audience spans ages 9 on up to adult. I have to tread carefully with the violence. I often say that the body count in a Pirates of the Caribbean movie is about the same as that in The Gladiator. The two differ in how they portray violence. The Gladiator shows more visceral images–more blood, more of the horrific aspects of swordplay. Pirates of the Caribbean makes little boys want to be pirates. In this anthology, I have been asked to rev up the violence a bit and share the details that I might withhold from my novels. Because of this, “Another soldier fell,” simply won’t cut it.

The Fix:

The fix sounds simple, but is actually complicated. I need to add more details regarding how this soldier dies, but I need to take into account:

Pacing: Davian and Co. are flying through a woods trying to escape mornachts. It’s high-speed. My pacing needs to be slightly quick. I can’t spend twelve sentences describing this person’s death. That, and it’s a short story, which always has shorter pacing.
Word count: I can’t waste words on this person. I haven’t even named him. I need to get in and get out with as few words as possible while still giving the reader (and my editor) enough visceral details to sink his teeth into.
Point of View: The story takes place from Davian’s point of view. If he doesn’t see it, my readers don’t get to see it. Davian is currently flying/running for his life through a forest where one improper turn could make him trip or send him careening into a tree or a boulder. He must keep his attention in front of him. If a soldier falls to the ground dead, Davian can’t turn around to watch. (Note: In the story, I’ve already established that getting hit with a mornacht arrow will kill no matter what, so the soldier is as good as dead when he falls.) I have to describe what happens to this soldier from Davian’s perspective only.

Here were my changes. It’s not perfect yet, and it will go through another round of editing tonight, but I figured I would show you what I’ve done to fix the problem so far.

The trees grew too close together, hampering flight. Arrows whizzed past them. One hit a solider in the side. He tumbled to the ground with a pained roar. Mornachts and wolves seized him, and his cry melded with their howls and shrieks.

Davian dared not look behind, and he refused to let himself imagine the torture the soldier was enduring. His mind raced…

It’s not the most visceral, violent thing I’ve written, especially in this story, but it conveys the horror of these creatures and gets me closer to meeting my audience’s expectations. (I’ve found the power of suggestion can create a more intense image in the reader’s mind than words alone.) It also shows a bit of Davian’s mindset–well, as much as I can show in as few words as possible. Davian is horrified by the death, but he has to keep focus to keep the rest of the team alive.

Fantasy novelist M. B. Weston is the author of The Elysian Chronicles, a fantasy series about guardian angel warfare and treason. Weston hosts The Final Cut in Movies, an radio talk show about science fiction and fantasy movies that airs on 740 am WSBR. The Final Cut in movies can also be heard  on iTunes.  Weston speaks to children, teens, and adults about writing and the process of getting published. For more information on M. B. Weston, visit www.mbweston.com. Find out more about The Elysian Chronicles at www.elysianchronicles.com.

Spice Up Your Prose with Description: Example–Morvenian Wolves

I’m working on edits for a short story due in by April 30th for the Thunder on the Battlefield sword and sorcery anthology being put out by Seventh Star Press. My story takes place in the Elysian Chronicles world with Davian as my main character and Eric as a supporting character. (The story takes place at least 100 years before A Prophecy Forgotten, so you Eric haters need to give him a break here…)

In this story, which has yet to be named, Davian cements himself as a legend in battle. The problem I’ve been dealing with is keeping the balance between action and description. Description slows down action, but without description, the action takes place in a dreary white background, and the readers don’t fully appreciate the experience. During my editing, I came across this sentence:

“Davian heard a low growl to his left. Two Morvenian wolves stared at him. They howled and jumped.”

Let’s be honest. That is so non-descriptive, especially considering it is the first time I have introduced the wolves. Not only can I not see the wolves clearly, but the image I see of them doesn’t exactly fill me with dread. And I’m the author. If I can’t see them, and if I don’t fear them, how can my readers?

Since I had trouble imagining the wolves, I Googled “black wolves images” and set to work. (You can see the most inspiring picture at the top of this article. This is how the wolves would have looked from Davian’s perspective, so I kept this picture in front of me.) I wrote down words I wanted to include in my description—or at least words I wanted my audience to feel. Here are some ideas I came up with:

Hair on backs stood on end.
Fangs bared.
Eyes glowed in the black backdrop
Uncaring eyes.
over 4 feet tall on all fours. (The official height of Morvenian wolves in my books.)
snarl
ready to pounce

The trick would be to cram all the information into one or two sentences and sneak the rest in the prose.

I came up with this. It will probably change before it gets published, but its a good start. I have the feeling my editor will cut down all those compound sentences and take out some of the “their’s”…

Davian heard a low growl to his left. Two Morvenian wolves crouched, glaring at him with uncaring eyes that glowed against their black fur. Their hair stood on end, and they bared their blood-stained fangs. They sprang at Davian, their howls splitting through the air.

So today’s writing lesson wrap up:

Sometimes, you just have to use Google images for descriptive help–especially if you can’t see your creatures/characters in your mind. Don’t be ashamed. Just do it. Your imagination isn’t perfect, and that’s okay.
Make a list of the descriptive traits you want to include and see where you can fit them in. You won’t fit all of them in, but it gives you a good starting point. For instance, I don’t have time to mention the wolves’ heights.
Don’t spend too much time on revisions during your first go-round. Plan to come back to it during your final edits. You can always make changes before you hit “send.”

Happy writing!

Fantasy novelist M. B. Weston is the author of The Elysian Chronicles, a fantasy series about guardian angel warfare and treason. Weston speaks to children, teens, and adults about writing and the process of getting published. For more information on M. B. Weston, visit www.mbweston.com. Find out more about The Elysian Chronicles at www.elysianchronicles.com.

Sample Sunday: Excerpt from “The Survivor”

I haven’t been able to blog much about this, but my steampunk short story, “The Survivor” was recently published in the Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets steampunk anthology. I figured for this Sample Sunday, I would give you all a bigger sample of the story than what I have published on my website.

“The Survivor” tells the story of Angelica Blackmore, the lone survivor of the HMS Phoenix, Great Britain’s first airship attempt that ended in disaster.

Here are some links to purchase the book of you are interested.

Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets – Hardcover
Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets – Trade Paperback
Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets – Kindle

The Survivor

Angelica’s head throbbed. A scorching breeze laced with smoky fumes—far too hot for an autumn evening in England—rushed across her face. She lay on her back against the ground with the corner of a sharp rock poking at her temple. With each heartbeat, intense pressure burst across the left side of her head. Such pain felt foreign; Angelica rarely experienced headaches.

An explosion thundered in the distance and caused the ground underneath Angelica to vibrate. Several yards away, women, children, and even men shrieked with terror.

Wake up, Angelica ordered herself.

She blinked, trying to open her eyes. Once she fully lifted her eyelids, Angelica saw only swirling smoke that blocked out the half-moon’s light.

My circumstances have not improved, she thought. She was lying in an unknown field, barely able to see the ground beneath her feet. Fortunately, but not surprisingly, the throbbing across her temples began to subside. The headache would disappear in a few minutes.

Those near her, hidden in the smoke, continued to wail. Their haunting cries resounded on all sides. Angelica ignored them. Her mission required all of her focus.

Another gale brought yet another gust of heat, intensifying the suffocation she already felt beneath the layers of fabric in her dress, bustle, corset, camisole, and drawers. She pushed herself onto her arms and attempted to stand up. Her corset fought against her.

“My underthings will be the death of me,” she mumbled. Unlike other ladies, Angelica loathed the confinement of such finery. She possessed a far different set of talents than others of her gender, and all required freedom of movement.

Angelica rolled onto her stomach. She pushed herself to her knees and stood up. She spent a few moments brushing off her dress and making sure it hung correctly. Once satisfied, Angelica reached to the top of her head to adjust her hat. She felt only air and loose strands of hair. It must have blown away during her fall. Angelica huffed with frustration. She prized that midnight-blue bonnet with its black trim and peacock feathers. Finding another like it would take time.

Another blast rumbled through the field.

Focus, Angelica reminded herself. She had only completed half her mission. Forget the hat.

Her eyes stung and started to water from exposure to the dense smoke. She squinted as she grasped her purse. Inside, she found a pair of goggles, which she pulled over her head. No one considered goggles appropriate attire for a respectable British lady, but Angelica never claimed to be one of those.  Besides, she reasoned, wearing the goggles compensates for having to wear a corset.

The goggles may have protected Angelica’s eyes from the smoke, but they did little to help her see through it. She knelt to the ground, feeling for the one item she required to complete her assignment.

Angelica’s fingers grazed pebbles, shoots of grass, and an occasional sharp rock. She continued her search until she found a smooth, leather box. She pulled it close and beamed at the sight of the ivory-handled briefcase. She grasped the handle and stood up.

“How much time do I have?” she muttered to herself.

Angelica glanced at the small silver watch that hung around her neck. It was two fifteen. She needed to rendezvous with the carriage no later than four o’clock that morning in order to meet Alistair in London at seven.

“What are my bearings?” she whispered.

Angelica turned the watch over and opened the back, revealing a small compass. She turned south. Then she sighed, closed the compass, and let the watch fall to her chest.

No point in knowing where south is if I don’t know where I am to begin with, she thought. She hoped to find a point of reference with more promise than random stones lying on the ground.

Slowly, the smoke thinned, and the soft glimmer of light beckoned to the east. Angelica began hiking toward the glow. The heels on her boots sank into the ground as she walked, adding to her sweaty, fabric-and-corset-lined misery.

It’s silent, she realized. The screaming and moaning had stopped. Even the normal nocturnal animals, such as crickets and owls, made no peep.

Angelica refused to entertain any morbid thoughts of why those around her had fallen silent. Focus, she again reminded herself. For some reason, maintaining her concentration seemed more difficult than usual on this mission.

She took only a few steps when she heard voice. She dropped to the ground, softened her breathing and waited, ready to spring if those who approached had malevolent intentions.

The silhouettes of two men, each wearing custodial helmets, emerged from the smoke.

Police, thought Angelica. A pleasant development. They might be able to help her reach her destination or at least give her a hint of her location.

She ripped off the goggles, stowed them in her purse, and held the briefcase behind the ruffles of her skirt to prevent them from noticing it. She took a deep breath and stood up.

The men hurried toward her the moment they saw her. They gazed at her with concern and pity.

I must look ghastly.

Her midnight-blue dress, lined with black and bits of teal, was smudged with dirt and grass stains. She assumed the graceful twist that swept her hair up had been ruined. Soot probably covered her face, and her high-lace shoes most certainly bore scuff marks.

One of officers, a young man with freckles and buckteeth, asked, “Are you hurt, Madame?”

Angelica started to say not at all, but her throat tingled from all the smoke she had inhaled. She coughed.

The buck-toothed fellow stepped to her side. “Should I take her in, Sergeant?”

The sergeant nodded. “I’ll search for others.”

The young policeman offered her his arm and noticed the briefcase. He reached for it.

Angelica moved the briefcase away. “Thank you, but I’ll carry this.” She slipped her hand into his arm and allowed the man to guide her across the field.

“What happened out there?” he asked.

“I’m… I’m not sure. Lots of smoke… People, people were screaming.” Angelica sounded panicked. “I don’t know what happened.”

A booming creak reverberated from the wreckage site. Angelica and the officer turned and watched what resembled a molten, round skeleton collapse to the ground with a metallic groan.

It was October 21st, 1886—a day that, if the Royal Navy’s plans had succeeded, would have changed the course of British military history. Angelica had gathered with the rest of the ill-fated passengers in a field outside London at ten o’clock. Military officers, ministry officials, lords, and other persons of importance waited for the inaugural flight of the HMS Phoenix, a dirigible class R10. The Royal Navy had chosen to test the dirigible at night. They hoped to keep from arousing the suspicions of Britain’s enemies if they succeeded and the suspicions of the Times if they failed.

The Phoenix, composed of a white, horizontally-cylindrical balloon more than 800 feet long, was much bigger than Angelica expected, even from the plans she had been given. Underneath the balloon hung a gondola with two decks of cabins, a dining room, and a storage compartment. Moonlight reflected off the ship, and Angelica decided they should have chosen a color other than white if they truly desired secrecy.

They boarded the gondola, and the airship rose. Angelica originally feared the wind would toss the ship about, but she found the ride smooth, quiet, and pleasant. She stayed in the background for most of the night. She preferred watching people to participating in their political games. After an elegant dinner, the initial excitement of flight had worn off, and most of the passengers retired to their rooms.

Angelica lingered in the dining room where plates of partially eaten food still spotted the tables. She sat on a plush, velvet bench right next to one of the French-paned windows that surrounded the bow of the hull, allowing patrons a full view of the sky. Below, the lights of London flickered. She watched the Thames River wind through the city, resembling a black snake slithering among embers.

She checked her watch. One fifty-nine. The time to begin her assignment was nearing. She stood up and stretched, preparing herself for her first task. Before she could move, the ship shook ever so slightly, throwing her off balance. She spotted a half-drunk glass of wine and noticed the liquid tilted toward the port side of the ship.

The Phoenix was listing.

Eerie, orange light flooded in through the windows indicating the balloon had burst into flames. In five to ten minutes, fire would engulf the ship.

Angelica’s stomach lurched. The Phoenix was descending, speeding toward the ground below. She had precious few minutes to complete her assignment.

The airship’s passengers, bellowing with panic, flooded into the dining room, and the crew tried in vain to calm them down.

I must find the professor, thought Angelica. Her mission’s success depended on it. The frail, timid man traveled alone and would require assistance. Angelica hunted for him, navigating the humanity frantically running about.

The ship continued to tilt. She opened each cabin door, searching for him. The last door in the hall was locked. She knocked on the door. “Professor Guthrie?” she yelled.

A muffled cry sounded inside.

Angelica suspected the professor could not traverse the floor’s steep incline to unlock the door.

“I’m going to get you out, sir!” she yelled.

Angelica flicked her right hand back. A three-inch-long, needle-thin dagger shot out of her sleeves under her wrist. She inserted it into the lock, and with a few jiggles, opened the door.

She jerked her wrist down, and the blade retracted into the spring-loaded sheath hidden under her sleeves.

The door fell open inward. A thin, balding man with a long beard leaned against the wall, which in a few minutes would become the floor if the ship continued to tilt. He clutched a briefcase to his chest.

Angelica tried to keep her balance—despite her heeled boots and corset—as she shuffled down the steepening incline.

“Who are you?” he asked. He had a high-pitched voice and beady eyes.

“No time for that now,” Angelica said. “Take my hand and come with me.”

The professor hesitated for a few moments. Then he reached for her hand, and the two struggled up the incline to the starboard side of the ship.

“We’re going to jump out of the window and roll out of the way,” she yelled over the din.

“Why couldn’t we have used my window?” asked the professor.

“Because we would hit the ground under the dirigible,” she said. “We wouldn’t be able to outrun it. This gives us a chance.”

The two of them climbed into the room and tried to open the windows. They were locked.

“Move away from this window,” Angelica said. She flicked both hands up and aimed each spike at the window, breaking the glass.

The professor teetered and almost lost his balance. She grabbed his hand, hopped on the windowsill, and pulled him out. They crouched on the side of the ship, watching the fire, which almost engulfed the balloon, move toward them.

“The minute we land, we need to run,” she yelled. “Hold tight to your briefcase.” She wrapped her arm around his waist before he could object. The ground lay forty feet below them. “Now!”

They jumped out of the gondola together, leaving behind both the blazing airship and the professor’s shrill holler.

…to be continued in “The Survivor”

Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets – Hardcover
Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets – Trade Paperback
Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets – Kindle

Fantasy novelist M. B. Weston is the author of The Elysian Chronicles, a fantasy series about guardian angel warfare and treason. Weston hosts The Final Cut in Movies, an radio talk show about science fiction and fantasy movies that airs on 740 am WSBR. The Final Cut in movies can also be heard  on iTunes.  Weston speaks to children, teens, and adults about writing and the process of getting published. For more information on M. B. Weston, visit www.mbweston.com. Find out more about The Elysian Chronicles at www.elysianchronicles.com.

Check Out My Steampunk Short Story in Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets!

Forgive me for taking so long to announce this. My first steampunk short story, “The Survivor,” has officially been published in the Dreams of Steam: Gadgets steampunk anthology.

“The Survivor” tells the story of Angelica Blackmore, the lone survivor of the HMS Phoenix, Great Britain’s first airship attempt that ended in disaster.

“The Survivor” preview:

Angelica’s head throbbed. A scorching breeze laced with smoky fumes—far too hot for an autumn evening in England—rushed across her face. She lay on her back against the ground with the corner of a sharp rock poking at her temple. With each heartbeat, intense pressure burst across the left side of her head. Such pain felt foreign; Angelica rarely experienced headaches.

An explosion thundered in the distance and caused the ground underneath Angelica to vibrate. Several yards away, women, children, and even men shrieked with terror.

Wake up, Angelica ordered herself.

She blinked, trying to open her eyes. Once she fully lifted her eyelids, Angelica saw only swirling smoke that blocked out the half-moon’s light.

My circumstances have not improved, she thought. She was lying in an unknown field, barely able to see the ground beneath her feet. Fortunately, but not surprisingly, the throbbing across her temples began to subside. The headache would disappear in a few minutes.

Those near her, hidden in the smoke, continued to wail. Their haunting cries resounded on all sides. Angelica ignored them. Her mission required all of her focus.

Another gale brought yet another gust of heat, intensifying the suffocation she already felt beneath the layers of fabric in her dress, bustle, corset, camisole, and drawers. She pushed herself onto her arms and attempted to stand up. Her corset fought against her.

“My underthings will be the death of me,” she mumbled. Unlike other ladies, Angelica loathed the confinement of such finery. She possessed a far different set of talents than others of her gender, and all required freedom of movement.

Angelica rolled onto her stomach. She pushed herself to her knees and stood up. She spent a few moments brushing off her dress and making sure it hung correctly. Once satisfied, Angelica reached to the top of her head to adjust her hat. She felt only air and loose strands of hair. It must have blown away during her fall. Angelica huffed with frustration. She prized that midnight-blue bonnet with its black trim and peacock feathers. Finding another like it would take time.

Another blast rumbled through the field.

Focus, Angelica reminded herself. She had only completed half her mission. Forget the hat.

Her eyes stung and started to water from exposure to the dense smoke. She squinted as she grasped her purse. Inside, she found a pair of goggles, which she pulled over her head. No one considered goggles appropriate attire for a respectable British lady, but Angelica never claimed to be one of those.  Besides, she reasoned, wearing the goggles compensates for having to wear a corset.

The goggles may have protected Angelica’s eyes from the smoke, but they did little to help her see through it. She knelt to the ground, feeling for the one item she required to complete her assignment.

Angelica’s fingers grazed pebbles, shoots of grass, and an occasional sharp rock. She continued her search until she found a smooth, leather box. She pulled it close and beamed at the sight of the ivory-handled briefcase. She grasped the handle and stood up.

“How much time do I have?” she muttered to herself.

Angelica glanced at the small silver watch that hung around her neck. It was two fifteen. She needed to rendezvous with the carriage no later than four o’clock that morning in order to meet Alistair in London at seven.

“What are my bearings?” she whispered.

Angelica turned the watch over and opened the back, revealing a small compass. She turned south. Then she sighed, closed the compass, and let the watch fall to her chest.

No point in knowing where south is if I don’t know where I am to begin with, she thought. She hoped to find a point of reference with more promise than random stones lying on the ground.

Slowly, the smoke thinned, and the soft glimmer of light beckoned to the east. Angelica began hiking toward the glow. The heels on her boots sank into the ground as she walked, adding to her sweaty, fabric-and-corset-lined misery.

It’s silent, she realized. The screaming and moaning had stopped. Even the normal nocturnal animals, such as crickets and owls, made no peep.

Angelica refused to entertain any morbid thoughts of why those around her had fallen silent. Focus, she again reminded herself. For some reason, maintaining her concentration seemed more difficult than usual on this mission.

She took only a few steps when she heard voice. She dropped to the ground, softened her breathing and waited, ready to spring if those who approached had malevolent intentions.

…To be continued in “The Survivor.”

You can get a copy of Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets here:

Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets – Hardcover
Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets – Trade Paperback
Dreams of Steam 3: Gadgets – Kindle

Fantasy novelist M. B. Weston is the author of The Elysian Chronicles, a fantasy series about guardian angel warfare and treason. Weston hosts The Final Cut in Movies, an radio talk show about science fiction and fantasy movies that airs on 740 am WSBR. The Final Cut in movies can also be heard  on iTunes.  Weston speaks to children, teens, and adults about writing and the process of getting published. For more information on M. B. Weston, visit www.mbweston.com. Find out more about The Elysian Chronicles at www.elysianchronicles.com.

Sample Sunday: New 1st Chapter of A Prophecy Forgotten

For Sample Sunday, I figured I would upload a sample of the changed first chapter of A Prophecy Forgotten, which was just released last week:

Hoof beats pounded against the forest floor. Alexor concentrated on keeping himself upright on Jeleth’s back as they galloped through the woods. With each stride, the herald grimaced. The damp soil did little to mute Jeleth’s steps. Anyone a mile away could hear the clamor, but they needed to forego stealth for speed. Though a soft mist had settled around them, Alexor could see darkened shadows darting through the trees above. The odor of rotten garbage and burning sulfur—the familiar stench associated with their enemies, the mornachts—began to spread throughout the forest.

“They’ve found us,” Alexor muttered. He chastised himself for choosing a path through the woods. He knew better. The southern front was infested with mornachts waiting to ambush a single cherubian like him. He should have sacrificed time and ridden around the forest instead of through it.

An arrow whistled near the herald’s head and imbedded itself deep inside a tree. The prickle of adrenaline coursed through Alexor’s body, numbing him to the autumn chill that only a few minutes ago seemed to seep through his black breastplate and tunic.

Jeleth neighed and veered left around a massive trunk that blocked their path. The herald leaned into the turn. His sweaty palms gripped the silver-white, almost iridescent strands of hair that flowed from Jeleth’s mane.

Three more arrows screamed past. One nearly hit Jeleth’s long neck.

Jeleth took another sharp turn—this time to the right—to avoid another tree. Alexor struggled to stay on his back. His thighs stung with exhaustion from gripping Jeleth’s sides. Riding bareback on a unicorn who made his own decisions was no easy task. Normally, the herald could have used his wings for a balance. Unfortunately, his caramel-hued wings extended to twice his body length and made excellent targets.

Alexor’s hand involuntarily patted the brass cylinder that jostled around in the pocket of his maroon kilt. The buttons would keep it secure, but he still worried. Did their enemies know about the scroll locked inside the cylinder? Did they see Ahimus, the head of the scribes, hand it to him? If he died, would the mornachts search his body and find it?

They must not get this scroll.

If the mornachts found the scroll before he could deliver it to Seraph Zephor, it would destroy everything his people had fought for during the past 3000 years and endanger those under Elysia’s protection. Dying in this ambush was unacceptable.

For a tempting instant, Alexor considered leaping off Jeleth’s back, hiding in the trees, and then soaring into the sky. Though many frowned upon it, Elysia did not penalize soldiers who abandoned a unicorn who had agreed to bear them. Protecting the scroll was paramount, he tried to reason.

Alexor clenched Jeleth’s mane harder, resisting the temptation to bolt. He would rather die with honor than live as a coward.

The few moments it took for the herald to make up his mind were the only moments he had to flee. The mornachts’ sulfuric smell increased. Several of them scurried through the limbs above them. He could not escape through flight now; they would surely shoot him down once he left the shelter of the trees.

A shower of arrows flew past them. One embedded itself in Alexor’s leg. He let out a sickening grunt and twisted Jeleth’s mane in his fingers as acidic poison from the arrow’s shaft leaked into his flesh. He reached for the poisonwood arrow with his right hand. If he could remove it, he might survive.

He pulled his hand back. The wound was too deep. The poison had already burned into his skin, and its sting coursed through his bloodstream. The arrow’s effects would be irreversible at this point. Removing it would only damage his leg more, and he would lose his hand if he touched the shaft.

Conserve energy. Live as long as possible.

Reaching Seraph Zephor before he died was his only option. Alexor might have fifteen minutes, thirty if he was lucky.

“How much longer?” he yelled, hoping Jeleth would hear him over the wind rushing past their ears and the thundering hooves.

“Twenty minutes,” neighed Jeleth.

With one hand holding Jeleth’s mane, the herald reached into his pack and yanked out his long cloak. He risked half-way extending his wings for balance. What damage could an arrow in the wing do now? He ignored the throbbing in his leg while he wrapped the cloak around Jeleth’s long neck, tying himself to his steed.

“Take my body… to Seraph Zephor,” said Alexor. Both the race through the woods and his wounds had drained him. “Tell him that… the message from the scribes is in my left pocket.” He braced himself as Jeleth bounded over a fallen tree. “Tell no one but the seraph.”

“Or the officers?” asked Jeleth, displaying a unicorn’s typical lack of emotion.

“No officers!” panted Alexor. “Zephor only. Alone.” The scribes had warned him about a traitor within the Elysian military and instructed him to tell no one but Zephor about it—not even the unicorns. Their desire for such secrecy confused Alexor. He would rather have announced the traitor’s name to all of Heaven’s Realm and brought him to justice, but he trusted the scribes.

“My mission was secret,” Alexor explained, “but the mornachts were waiting for us…” He took a few breaths. “…after we left the scribes’ library.” He groaned. The arrow’s poison was traveling up his leg. “Someone put them on our trail. Someone… with access.”

An arrow buried itself in Jeleth’s right hindquarter. The stallion whinnied but continued to run.

“Can you make it?” asked Alexor. Pain and fatigue muted his voice. Jeleth’s survival was now Elysia’s only hope.

Jeleth grunted. “I can make it as long as my horn stays attached.” Unicorns’ horns possessed healing powers so great that an enemy could only kill one through crushing, drowning, or burning.

“They won’t take your horn,” said Alexor. “Not while I’m alive.” He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and pulled his sword out of its sheath. The sword felt heavier than usual, and the herald knew he could not fight in his weakened state. He thrust the sword in the air, hoping a show of valor would encourage the mornachts to stay hidden in the trees. He adopted his fiercest glare, staring up the tree trunks that disappeared into the fog above.

The fog has thickened, he realized. The mist might hide them long enough to escape the forest without attracting more arrows.

Jeleth continued galloping, but Alexor could feel him favoring his back leg. The herald’s head fell to his chest. Exhaustion overcame him as the poison spread throughout his body. He worried for his guardian, Arch-Seraph Zephor—the only father he had known. Zephor had taken him into his service after his parents were killed in a mornacht raid when Alexor was just a boy. He wished the scribes had written down the warning for Zephor instead of just telling him.

“I feel you fading,” said Jeleth. “I can run faster once we leave this wood. Lean up against me.”

Alexor had heard that unicorns’ sweat contained some of their healing power. Maybe Jeleth’s would help keep him alive long enough to find Zephor. He leaned his head and body against Jeleth and wrapped his arms around his warm neck. In a few moments, the pain lessened and his muscles relaxed.

Soon, the swirling mist around them turned from dark grey to light grey. They had escaped the forest. Every part of Alexor’s uniform felt damp, and beads of dew dripped off his helmet onto his nose. The sword fell out of his hand. Jeleth’s speed would be more effective than a weapon at this stage. He shivered and tightened the cloak that held him to Jeleth.

“Hold on,” said Jeleth. His iridescent horn glowed bright red as he accessed his stored energy. He took off in a gallop most cherubians had never experienced. The herald felt as though he was soaring down the mountainside, something he never expected to feel on the back of a unicorn.

Alexor tried to control his breathing as they ran. He needed to keep his heart rate low to slow the poison.

A few miles later, the red glow in Jeleth’s spiraled horn began to fade, and his breathing sounded labored. Jeleth was losing his stored energy, especially now that he needed it to heal himself. Alexor hoped they would make it.

“We’re approaching the tower,” said Jeleth.

Even without Jeleth’s words, Alexor knew they were close. The fog may have hidden the southern front’s charred, leafless trees, but it could not block out the territory’s smoky stench or the scorched grass under Jeleth’s hooves.

Through the haze, they finally beheld the Southern Command Tower, an obelisk encircled by a gated wall. They were close enough for Alexor to see a lone figure pacing along the parapet. For the past few months, Zephor had been pacing more than usual, and Alexor knew his tidings would only burden the seraph more.

Alexor leaned against Jeleth’s neck, unable to move. Bodies of fallen cherubians, his people, lay strewn across the ground. Healers and other soldiers knelt beside the wounded. He and Jeleth must have missed the battle by half a day.

Jeleth’s gait slowed, and Alexor could feel the unicorn’s body quiver as he hobbled to the tower.

Just a few more minutes and we’ll be there, he thought. He felt too weak to speak. Hold on for a few more minutes.

Jeleth, sensing the herald’s urgency, let out a neigh and fought on until they reached the tower gate where he collapsed. Alexor, still tied to Jeleth, fell with him. He lay on the ground with his leg trapped under Jeleth’s body. He kept his hand close to the scroll in his left pocket.

Alexor, lacking the strength to twist his neck up, saw only a sea of soldiers’ black boots and maroon and black kilts surrounding them in frenzied commotion. Suddenly, the soldiers hushed. Their boots parted, creating a path. The soldiers’ fists hit their breastplates in salute to the officer who walked toward them. The black leather trim on the officer’s silver seraph’s kilt swished about his knees faster than usual. Seraph Zephor, Alexor realized with relief, was only a few paces away.

Zephor knelt next to Alexor. His face was as stoic as usual, but the creases around his brown eyes had deepened with worry. “Get me a healer!” Zephor yelled.

The soldiers stayed put, staring at the wounded herald with pity. They knew healers would be of no help.

Zephor’s nose flared, and he flashed the soldiers a snarl only an unlucky few had ever seen. “Quickly!” he roared.

Zephor yanked a knife out of his boot and slit the cloak that tied Alexor to the unicorn. He pulled the herald out from under Jeleth and laid him on the ground. Only then did Alexor notice the damage Jeleth had sustained. Not one, but three arrows stuck into the unicorn’s side, and blood striped his white coat. Jeleth’s eyes were shut. He barely breathed.

Alexor turned his gaze back to Zephor. Rarely did unicorns die, and he did not want Jeleth’s death to be his last sight. He struggled to lift his right hand and crossed his fist over his chest.

“Seraph,” he gasped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the scroll. “From the scribes…. Davian…was right.” His vision blurred. Only Zephor’s face remained in focus. He felt Zephor’s strong hands grasp the scroll.

“Tell the High Seraph…” He tried to finish the scribe’s warning, but his lips fell silent. Alexor, herald to Elysia’s second most powerful military leader, died with honor in his guardian’s arms. The name of the traitor died with him…

To read more, click the links below:

The Elysian Chronicles: A Prophecy Forgotten – Amazon Kindle
The Elysian Chronicles: A Prophecy Forgotten – Barnes & Noble: Trade Paperback & Hardcover

Fantasy novelist M. B. Weston is the author of The Elysian Chronicles, a fantasy series about guardian angel warfare and treason. Weston hosts The Final Cut in Movies, an radio talk show about science fiction and fantasy movies that airs on 740 am WSBR. The Final Cut in movies can also be heard  on iTunes.  Weston speaks to children, teens, and adults about writing and the process of getting published. For more information on M. B. Weston, visit www.mbweston.com. Find out more about The Elysian Chronicles at www.elysianchronicles.com.

The Elysian Chronicles: A Prophecy Forgotten Hardcover on Sale at Barnes & Noble!

I just discovered that Barnes & Noble (.com) is currently offering the newest version of The Elysian Chronicles: A Prophecy forgotten on sale for 40% off. Hardcovers are $17.90 and trade paperbacks are $10.54. I figured I would pass this information on to anyone who is interested. Click here for the link.

The hard copies (both hard and soft) still aren’t available at Amazon yet, but I will keep everyone posted.

 

News: M. B. Weston’s New Book Releases & Appearances

First, I have to apologize for not blogging for a while. In the past few months, I have dealt with a family death, economic hits to the family income, a change in jobs, a move across town, and working with a new publisher that acquired the rights to The Elysian Chronicles: A Prophecy Forgotten. If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter, you may have noticed that I have rarely updated my status for quite a while. Thankfully, life seems to have settled down, evidenced by my top-secret chocolate stash lasting longer… I’m still dealing with having no wi-fi, so bear with me…

I am going to give a more detailed blog for each of these items, but I wanted to make sure to announce them now.

THE ELYSIAN CHRONICLES: A PROPHECY FORGOTTEN

As mentioned above, a larger publisher has acquired the rights to A Prophecy Forgotten! I’m so excited about this because in the past week, APF has moved more books than it has in its life, and it’s not even fully released yet!

With this 3rd edition, I was able to change up the first chapter, which I hated, a lot. (I’ll try to post a bit of it on this site soon.) Now it stars with more of a bang. We’ve also cleaned up some of those grammar errors a few of you have pointed out. The 3rd Edition is available in both Hardcover, Trade Paperback, Kindle, and it will be available in Nook in 85 days.

The 3rd edition of A Prophecy Forgotten isn’t up and running fully on all the sites, yet, but here are a few places you can get it immediately:

Kindle Edition
Trade Paperback (Barnes & Noble.com)
Hardcover (Barnes & Noble.com)

Please note that the Hardcover is currently on sale at Barnes & Noble.com for $17.95, which is just a little more expensive than the normal price of the trade paperback!

DREAMS OF STEAM 3: GADGETS

I have just entered the world of Steampunk! I have a short story published in Dark Oak’s well-known steampunk anthology. It’s my darkest story yet. I will blog more on this when I have more time, and I will post some samples, but for now, if you need a steampunk fix, be sure to scarf this up:

Amazon Kindle
Trade Paperback
Hardcover

Also, I will be at a few conventions this month:

MB WESTON CONVENTION APPEARANCES:

Coast Con, Biloxi, MS
MidSouthCon, Memphis, TN

Please drop by my booth and say hi!

The New Prologue After Previous Edits

If you have been following my blog this week, I have been showing a few examples of my editing process using the prologue to a paranormal thriller I’m working on (currently called Unleashed).

On Monday, I posted the working prologue in the post, “The Writing Process: Find & Eliminate Stupid Words“. Throughout the week, I posted showed a few of things I do when I edit and gave examples of how I used them to change my prologue:

Writing & Editing: Find and Eliminate Useless Verbs
Writing & Editing: Find & Eliminate Words You Overuse
Writing & Editing: Find & Eliminate Undescriptive, Empty Words
Writing & Editing: Find & Eliminate Cheesy Clichés
Writing & Editing: Find & Correct Common Grammar Mistakes

This prologue is not complete yet. I will still need to give it a few re-reads to eliminate awkward sentences, make sure it flows, and possibly add in an item or two more in order to make it connect more to the story, which actually takes place in modern-day Ascension Parish, Louisiana. However, it’s much better than it was when I started, and in a pinch, I can give it to an advance reader without much worrying.

Unleashed [working title]: Prologue

Sogne d’Auvers, Provence of Gévaudan, France, June 19th, 1767

A hogtied wolf, deformed and tinier than most, swung back and forth as it dangled from the gallows in the village square. Blood trickled from its abdomen, which the villagers had ripped open, down to its snout and onto the ground below. It dripped on a collarbone that once belonged to a small child—a collarbone the villagers recovered from the wolf’s stomach.

Cries from the villagers rang out across the town and into the hills. “La Bête! La Bête! La Bête!”

La Bête du Gévaudan, the beast that had terrorized the French province, mauling and killing over one hundred people since 1764, hung limp and lifeless. This beast was not a loup garou, as many first suspected when the attacks first occurred, nor was it the wrath of God pouring out on Gévaudan as the Bishop of Mende once declared. La Bête was real. She was a wolf. And the wolf was dead.

Only one man refused to share the crowd’s joy. Gustave Géroux leaned against the tavern wall with his hands thrust in his coat pockets. The coat looked a few sizes too big and hung limply off his shoulders. His knickers, once faced with clothing more of him, now buckled under his belt. His gaunt, sunken-in face made his cheekbones protrude more than normal. A large pit formed in Gustave’s stomach as he listened to the villagers rejoice. Each cheer nauseated him.

A twenty-two-year-old nobleman who wore a silk, navy waistcoat with gold trim stood near the wolf’s carcass and addressed the crowd. Marquis Jean-Joseph d’Apcher had spent every Sunday for the past three years organizing battues, hunting parties, to search for the beast. Gustave, and many others, suspected the young lord used the beast as an excuse to avoid attending mass, but they still admired and loved their lord. Their respect for him would only grow, now that his fierce determination to find the beast finally produced results. The members of his hunting party stood behind him.

“I am not your hero,” said the Marquis d’Apcher. He pointed to the roughened, burly man with a large face and prominent cheekbones standing next to him. This man wore no dainty wig, as the Marquis did. Instead, he kept his coarse hair tied back with a ribbon. The wind and the action from the hunt had pulled some of his hair out of the ponytail, but he had not bothered to retie it. A rust-colored bull mastiff sat obediently at the man’s side.

“Here is your hero. La Bête’s killer, Jean Chastel!”

As the marquis stepped aside to allow Chastel take the stage, his gaze fell on Gustave. Gustave looked away and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The marquis’ gaze had often fallen on Gustave for the past four months.

Chastel, oblivious to the marquis and Gustave’s exchange, stepped forward, and the crowd roared. He raised his hands to quiet the crowd and began to tell the story of how he shot la Bête.

Gustave barely listened. The rumors about Chastel had already begun to spread. Some said his son, Antoine, teetered on the insane and owned a unique menagerie of animals including such exotic species as hyenas. Some accused Chastel of poaching, insisting he spent time in prison for it. Others dismissed the accusations, claiming he spent time in jail for a prank he pulled on some of the king’s soldiers. Whatever the rumors, Gustave didn’t trust the large country bumpkin. Not that it mattered. None of this actually mattered.

Chastel held up a book of litanies to the Holy Virgin. “I was reading this,” he said, “when I saw her!”

The crowd hushed. They had already heard the story, but Gustave knew they wanted—no, they needed to hear it again. The retelling made it feel real. If this beast was La Bête, their terror would end. Their woman and children, the beast’s main targets, could finally walk through the woods and mountainsides in safety. The king’s soldiers would leave Gévaudan, allowing them to return to their farms and work the fields instead of seeking out the beast. This year’s harvest would be plentiful, and the people would not starve. Yes, the villagers needed to hear Chastel’s story once more.

Chastel held up his rifle. “I loaded it with silver bullets, in case it was a loup garou,” he said.

The crowd clung to his words. A wolf—not a werewolf—hung before them, but Chastel enjoyed reveling in his own forethought. “I knelt on the ground and prayed. When I finished, I looked up, and I saw her: la Bête!”

Chastel shook his fist in the air. His dramatic intonations had become more fantastic with each retelling of the story, noted Gustave. Next time, he might even jump in the air and land on the ground, imitating a werewolf.

The mob gasped on cue. They had memorized their role by Chastel’s fourth retelling earlier.

“I knew it was a sign from God,” continued Chastel. “I took my rifle; I aimed; I fired.” Chastel acted out the sentence, pretending to hold a rifle made of air. He paused for a breath. “And la Bête fell!” He raised his fist to the air again, and the crowd roared.

Except that’s not la Bête. The thought made Gustave’s stomach churn. The crowd should have known as well, he mused. The eye-witnesses had described a much bigger monster with a flatter snout and a more ridged back. This wolf was probably a scavenger that had eaten the true Bête’s last victim.

Gustave turned away and trudged home, feeling sick to his stomach from listening to their short-lived joy. What would happen to the villager’s joy when la Bête killed again?

Gustave stopped as he approached his home and saw something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Under his door, someone had tucked a folded piece of paper. He reached for the note. His hands shook as he unfolded it. He stepped closer to the door to examine the contents without anyone noticing. The violent trembles made it almost impossible for him to read it.

He glanced at the message, but he paid little attention to the words. He already knew what it said. He intended to burn it later, as he had done with the others. He started to hide the note in his pocket when he heard the click of a musket near his left ear.

“What time does it say to meet?” The voice belonged to the Marquis d’Apcher.

“Ten o’clock. Tonight.” Gustave stared at the ground. He had avoided eye contact with the marquis for months. Why start now?

“Where?”

Gustave said nothing. He had stopped reading before he reached that part.

The marquis snatched the note out of his hands and read it. “La Ténazeyre forest? Interesting. The same forest where the wolf was shot. Appropriate, don’t you think?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Gustave.

The marquis motioned to the villagers. “They’ll be celebrating long after that, Monsieur Géroux. And I would hate for you to miss your appointment this time.” He shoved the nose of the musket closer to Gustave’s face. “Move.”

*****

A few hours later, the Marquis leaned against the tree with his hunting rifle pointed at Gustave. “There’s still time,” he said. “I can get you a priest to perform last rights.”

Gustave stared at the ground, still refusing to look the marquis in the eye. “No priests.” He might have deserved absolution for his sins before the attacks, but not now.

Every passing moment brought them closer to ten o’clock. Fear—mortal fear—now replaced the guilt that had seeped into Gustave’s bones and eaten through his soul. He had seen what happened to la Bête’s victims. Sweat dripped from his forehead, down his chin, and onto the forest floor. “My lord, please have mercy.”

“Mercy?” The marquis’ face remained emotionless. Noblemen knew how to maintain control. “This is mercy. You allowed others to die so you could cling to life, only to be reduced to this.” He prodded Gustav in the ribs with his riffle. “Hiding from la Bête has reduced you to a skinny mass of bones. It’s not good for your health,” he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “This ends tonight. And we will let the people think they have their Bête.”

“Kill me now. Please.”

“Taking your life is not my decision to make. It is la Bête’s.”

“You won’t escape it either,” said Gustave, trying another ploy to escape.

The marquis threw the note Gustave had found earlier at his feet. “I’m not the one it’s after.”

The temperature started to drop, and the clear, yet humid air turned into mist.Nearby, bushes and underbrush rumbled and creaked. Something much larger than a wolf approached.

Gustave’s heart beat increased. He felt numb. He considered running, but the marquis kept the rifle aimed at his heart.

The rustling in the bushes grew nearer, and Gustave could see the dim outline of the creature that had haunted his every movement for three years. He fell to his knees, terrified. Behind him, Gustave heard the marquis let out a cry of horror and his rifle hit the ground with a thud. This bête was no beast.

The darkened form stepped into the clearing. It pounced, and the forest of Ténazeyre echoed with Gustave’s tormented screams.

On the ground lay the original note stained in blood. Along with the Ten O’clock and La Ténazeyre Forest, it contained the words:

Fantasy novelist M. B. Weston is the author of The Elysian Chronicles, a fantasy series about guardian angel warfare and treason. Weston speaks to children, teens, and adults about writing and the process of getting published. For more information on M. B. Weston, visit www.mbweston.com. Find out more about The Elysian Chronicles at www.elysianchronicles.com.

Your day of reckoning has come.

Writing & Editing: Find & Correct Common Grammar Mistakes

No matter how often we try to avoid it, we all make a few subtle grammatical errors when we write. Some of them occur when we type the wrong word. Others are born from listening to incorrect grammar on TV and radio. While taking the time to use Word’s Find/Replace function to seek every grammar mistake makes no sense, I do recommend searching for a few of the most common ones–and ones least likely to be found by your editor and advance readers.

As I mentioned in Monday’s post, “The Writing Process: Find & Eliminate Stupid Words“, I’m working on editing a paranormal thriller novel, and I figured I would share some of the things I’m looking for in this week’s blog posts. YMonday, I posted my working prologue before any of these edits. At the end of the week, I will post the prologue after the edits.

Today’s editing directive: seek out and eliminate common grammatical mistakes.

Here is a list of mistakes that I look for because I know I’m a repeat offender:

So: Should never be used as a substitute for “very”
Like: Marlboro started the whole “like verses as” problem with their ad “Marlboro tastes good like a cigaret should.” Remember: use like with objects (He looks like a dog!) and as with concepts (Marlboro tastes good as a cigaret should.)
Plus: Don’t you mean “also.” Use “plus” when you are adding numbers.
Irregardless: This is not a word. Therefore, you shouldn’t use it.
Due to/because: Remember, “It was canceled because of rain,” but “The cancellation was due to rain.”
Different Than: It should be different from.
Which/That: “Which” is parenthetical, meaning you can take what comes after it completely out of the sentence and the sentence would still work, as in “Grab the paint, which I think is a beautiful color.”  “That” is used with the phrase after it is imperative to the sentence. “Grab the paint that we just opened,” has a totally different meaning than, “Grab the paint, which we just opened.” Especially if you have more than one can of paint in the room.
Lay vs Lie: Lay (present tense) is transitive, meaning action. The conjugation looks like this: Lay/Lays (present tense), Laid/have laid (past tense), laying. “The hen lays an egg” (present tense), and “Yesterday, the hen laid an egg.” Lie (present tense) is intransitive, meaning no action, which includes being in the state of lying down. (If you are in the process of lying down, then you are actually laying, as in “Now I lay me down to sleep.” The conjugation of “lie” is where things get confusing: Lie/Lies (present tense), Lay/have Lain (past tense, not to be confused with the present tense form of lay), Lying. Yes that means 1) you can lay down while 2) someone is already lying down and 3) your wife is laying the baby down. If this happened in the past, you would have laid down while your friend lay in the bed and your wife laid the baby down.) Catch all that?
Fewer/Less: You have fewer numbers. You have less amounts.
Nor: No double negatives here. Incorrect Usage: “He cannot eat nor sleep.” Instead try one of these three: “He cannot eat, nor can he sleep.” “He cannot eat or sleep.” “He can neither eat nor sleep.”
Two, to, too: Do a word search and make sure you haven’t confused them.
There, Their, They’re: Same here.
Your, you’re: And same here.
Though, Thought, Through: Believe it or not, you will confuse these, too.

After doing a search on a few of these in my prologue, I discovered this:

“Others dismissed the accusations, saying his jail time was due to a prank…” I actually found it during a “was” search earlier. Technically, his jail time is a noun, so the sentence might have worked. However, the cause of the jail time was not just the prank. It would have included a trial, etc. I changed the sentence to: “Others dismissed the accusations, claiming he spent time in jail for a prank…”

I will post the new prologue with all the changes tomorrow.

Fantasy novelist M. B. Weston is the author of The Elysian Chronicles, a fantasy series about guardian angel warfare and treason. Weston speaks to children, teens, and adults about writing and the process of getting published. For more information on M. B. Weston, visit www.mbweston.com. Find out more about The Elysian Chronicles at www.elysianchronicles.com.

Writing & Editing: Find & Eliminate Cheesy Cliches

Eliminating cheesy cliches is easier said than done. We writers are busy as bees trying to write our stories, and words cannot express how easy it is to close up shop at the end of the day and ignore the overused cliches that bring our readers to the depths of despair and cause them untold agony. Is your prose full of so many cliches that words cannot express it’s cheesiness? Better late than never! Use the find/replace function in Microsoft Word to search and destroy cliches, and soon you will find that they are few and far between.  Last but not least, don’t let cliches dampen your spirits. If you follow these steps, you can find each and every one and repair your shattered dreams and make other writers green with envy.

That being said, do I need to explain why you should avoid cliches in your writing?

As I mentioned in Monday’s post, “The Writing Process: Find & Eliminate Stupid Words“, I’m working on editing a paranormal thriller novel, and I figured I would share some of the things I’m looking for in this week’s blog posts. Yesterday, I posted my working prologue before any of these edits. At the end of the week, I will post the prologue after the edits.

Today’s editing directive: seek out and eliminate cliches.

Here is a list of cliches I have gathered from several sources:

Acid Test
As luck would have it
Better late than never
Bitter end
Busy as a bee
Depths of despair
Easier said than done
Festive occasion
Few and far between
Finer things in life
Green with envy
Last but not least
Mother Nature
Needless to say
Rich and varied experience
Ripe old age
Sadder but wiser
Slow but sure
Untold agony
Words cannot express
Each and every one
Shattered dreams
Seemed like eternity
World turned upside down
At the end of the day
To make a long story short
I can’t wrap my hands around it
All his might
Dampened his spirits
That being said
Copious notes

Leave a comment and let me know what others I missed. I’m sure there are several more out there!

Fantasy novelist M. B. Weston is the author of The Elysian Chronicles, a fantasy series about guardian angel warfare and treason. Weston speaks to children, teens, and adults about writing and the process of getting published. For more information on M. B. Weston, visit www.mbweston.com. Find out more about The Elysian Chronicles at www.elysianchronicles.com.