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The Great Love of Fenneck Finnegan Frostears First Pages Submission.pdf

Below are the first two scenes of Spark & Flame. Chapter 1 Sparks cracked through the empty music room. Blue-white flashes, blazing and violent, picked up music sheets in a gust and snapped against the drum symbols sending them clamoring. At the center of the whirlwind, Riza Ashland knelt, gripping the sides of her head and muttering the steps her papi taught her. Not now. Please, she could not surge now. “Dirt. Rock. Cement. Brick. Steel.” She repeated, each seal within her mind building up, up and willing the power behind them. Another spark escaped, sending her curly black hair flying forward. “Come on.” Fingers pressed on her temples, she rolled out the growing pulse, pulse, pulse. “Dirt. Rock. Cement. Brick. Steel.” The pressure had been happening all morning. Nothing she hadn’t dealt with before, which was the only reason she didn’t mention anything to papi. Or why she didn’t opt for a sick day. But this was… Another steadying breath, the pressure subsided. Energy coursed through her, veins pumping and glowing under her skin, visible at the cuffs of her green school blazer. She flexed her fists once, twice, and they disappeared back to the normal olive. Sheets fluttered down, scattering on the ground at her knees where she’d buckled from the sharp flick of pain. “Great.” Quickly, she gathered up all the sheets, taking her own music and stacked the rest on her teacher’s desk on her way out. Rushing out, she nearly stumbling over the legs of a student seated on the floor, throwing an apology over her shoulder as she sped down the hall to the auditorium. Thankfully, she was always the first to arrive, the stage empty and her cello sitting, waiting to draw her into a peaceful melody. Resting the cherry wood bodice against the Franklin Station High School crest of a golden lion on her chest, the tightness in her neck eased. The dull ache in her head, numbed away. Necessary and welcome respite to the day. Especially with how today was going. Her hand drifted down, pulling the necklace until the lavender baroque pearl emerged out of the neck of her shirt. She stroked the smooth surface, then re-hid the pendant before picking up her bow. With her eyes closed, she embraced the cello and laid her fingers down on the fingerboard in a gentle caress. Familiar cold metal kissed her fingertips with a zap as she began to move them and glide the bow across the strands. Low at first, then building to a peak, the Saint-Saens “The Swan” solo notes began to vibrate around her. Music bellowed and echoed against the walls of the empty room, but Riza’s mind was quiet. In the black expanse, her seals groaned slightly at the crashing energy trapped behind but held strong. Good. Stay there. She turned the page, her bow sliding smoothly— pulse, pulse, pulse. No…not again. The bow clamored on the stage floor, Riza rolled her fingers over her temples, trying to ease the pressure gnashing at her skull, right as the auditorium doors clanged open. “First one, again?” Theo Whitaker said casually, hopping onto the stage with his violin in hand. Like all the junior boys in their grade, he wore a green blazer with white piping and the FHS crest stitched to the chest, white button down, navy blue tie and slacks. Unlike all the other boys in their grade, not many kept it as pristine all day, or looked quite as handsome, a fact many girls noticed, not that he was bothered by it. He slung his blazer over the back of the chair before sitting, his dark brown almost black wavy hair and fair skin glistened underneath the stage lights when he bent to grab her bow. “Thanks. I just thought I’d get some extra practice in for the winter concert.” She frowned. “Not that it’s helping. The acoustics are better when it’s empty so I can hear all the notes I don’t hit just right.” And fighting down energy surges wasn’t exactly helping her focus either. He looked at her with those serious deep set dark blue eyes that made him look older than seventeen. With a gruff laugh, “out of everyone here, you, Olivia and I are probably the only ones that don’t need extra practice.” “Humble.” She shook her head. “That’s because we practice, T. Not all of us can be natural born musicians and geniuses like you.” Olivia Kinley said with a quick wink and toss of her long brown pony tail in his direction as she walked passed them. Her navy blue skirt with green and gold checkering, the same one Riza wore only a few inches shorter, sashayed behind her in unison with her hair. “Music wasn’t my first choice but I appreciate the symmetry between music and math. Everything is calculated. Playing the violin wasn’t a natural born skill like math was, but it was easier for me than most. Plus, it looks good for pre-med. Steady hands.” “Uh-huh.” She laughed, the sound cheery, easy. “I think you just proved my point.” Sitting in the chair beside Riza’s she looked at her and said, “And I don’t blame you Riza. We have to keep up with the master over there.” She kept smiling and Riza tried to match that easy vibe, but looked away, pressing her eyes shut to equalize a stubbornly persistent jab coursing through her brain. “Are you going to try out for the Juilliard apprenticeship?” Riza titled her head to the side, scrunching her nose. “Mmm. Maybe. Are you?” Olivia raised her hand, fingers crossed. “Maybe we’ll be sharing chairs together again.” “I don’t know.” She flipped the music sheets back to the start. “It’s extremely competitive and I haven’t soloed before.” “So? You’re insanely good!” Riza’s eyes must have widened so much Olivia smiled. “You are. I’m kind of jealous. Anyway, soloing isn’t that big a deal. I really hope that’s not what’s keeping you from auditioning. The whole imagine them naked thing is crap. I like to just pretend I’m in my room. Don’t let fear win.” Sparks lashed against the seals. What Riza saw was chaos. Twisted metal. What she heard was screaming. Riza breathed, the energy settling again. “I wish it were that simple.” “Sure it is.” Olivia nudged her with an elbow. “Don’t make me drag you there.” “She will.” Theo chimed. The two of them laughed and the surging lulled to a quiet rumble. They weren’t friends, by any means, only exchanging a few words during rehearsal, or occasionally when they passed each other in the hall or when Riza ate at Alexi diner where Olivia worked with her mother. Olivia kept her own circle of friends from student council, girls from the cheer squad, and guys from the soccer team. And their only other connection was Max. Seeing Olivia with her friends, images of chatting, laughing with them came alive. Pulse, pulse, pulse. Fast, hard punches to the head and twisting in her gut made her hunch over. Jesus that was bad. Quickly she tried to straighten but now her stomach was cramping too. “You okay?” Theo said quickly looking at her then back to his violin as he adjusted the knobs. “Mhmm.” She shook off the ache, pulling herself upright. “Fine. Just a headache.” “This concert is a headache. Between my college prep tutoring, student council, and the science club, I’m lucky if I get a couple hours to practice during the week.” He bent forward, looking at Olivia. “Maybe our VP can get over her power trip and spare me from the pep rally stuff this week?” “No way! I need all the bodies I can get. If I can get enough practice for my solo, on top of Vice President responsibilities and dance, then so can you.” “Aren’t there rally girls lining up to cheer for my brother to help you?” “Nice try.” Olivia gave him an amused wink. Fine, long fingers worked expertly adjusting the knobs while picking at the strands. Serene, just as the swan in her piece, her delicate ivory face with a misting of freckles over her nose almost appeared like white feathers against the deep cherry of the cello. There was a reason she was one of the prettiest girls in the class. No wonder Max had dated her. Riza focused herself on adjusting her cello, ignoring that thought, while she willed whatever the hell was going on with her electricity to quiet the hell down behind the seals. Another clang. The auditorium doors swung open as more students flooded in, swarming to their seats and Mrs. Williams, her long loose brown and peppered white braid swinging back and forth behind her, large bag probably full of music books, in tow. Standing below the stage with her arms crossed, Mrs. Williams frowned. “Okay everyone, take your seats. I know it’s after school, we’re all tired, but we need focus.” She motioned to someone in the front row to take the music books from her and hand them out. “Make sure you’re on passage four of Saint-Saens.” Then, lower and sounding dissatisfied, “for those of you who were paying attention last rehearsal, that would be the tortoise piece.” It took a few more minutes, but the orchestra settled into a unified and clamorous melody, that shook against the walls, rattling the room awake. Though the name suggested a lumbering and slow piece, it was lively and quick, a complete parody to its title. And far too loud for her right now. Throughout it, Olivia and Theo played to detailed precision, not missing a single note. Pulse. Pulse. “Ah.” Her bow slipped, screeching the next note. Theo eyed her. “What’s with her today? Is she sick?” Riza’s hand froze. Pulse. Pulse. A spark sizzling in her hand— The music died off, people turning to see what the hell caused that. It was her, rather her cello, slipping and nearly crashing into Theo. No, no, no. He hadn’t been talking. That was his mind. But if that was the case then her seals— “Reez?” Theo said, concern lining his brow, mouth. He was gripping onto the neck of her instrument, guiding it back on the stand. “Something’s wrong.” “Are you okay?” “What’s up back there?” Mrs. Williams called over, both hands on her hips. “I need to—” She stood, grabbing her bag, dropping the music sheets, notebooks, and scrambled to pick them up. Theo knelt, grabbing a handful. Snatching them, he jerked back. She hadn’t meant that but she was surging, she had to be and he was too close. Everyone was.“Thanks. I’m just, uh, I think it’s a bad migraine. I need to go.” Olivia said something like feel better but she didn’t turn to say thank you or even apologize to Mrs. Williams, rushing out behind the stage exit door.

Chapter 1.[MOU1] Bri Winter lay on her couch, tossed popcorn into her mouth, and stared at the TV blindly. Daytime TV got her through the day, well, at least until midday, after that, she was at a bit of a loss. There wasn’t much she enjoyed about her life. Maybe the sighting of an eagle overhead or a cobweb pearled in frost. She often wished she had been born a couple of centuries earlier when life seemed more romantic. “Seemed.” As the old cliche says—things are not always what they seem. The eighteen hundreds may have spawned Romantic poets, but it was filth ridden and rampant with disease. The women on TV were getting heated about Botox, the Puffy Filler Face, and other stuff Bri would never have to worry about. At eighteen, Bri looked younger than her years, she would always look younger than her years. That was part of her “curse.” To the women on TV right now, she doubted her perpetual youth would be perceived as much of a problem. Bri sighed stretching her legs, wing tips digging into her hips as she tried to sit up, but her black sweater caught on something sticky. Lumps, dirt, and stickiness. That about summed things up these days. Of the millions of things she knew she’d miss about her mother she never thought her cleaning would be one of them. She slumped back like some fallen angel on the sticky couch and sighed again. “Hello, love!” called a voice from the front door. Bri leapt to her feet, popcorn tipping over, wings spreading wide and knocking over a picture on the far wall. The tips bending hard against the ceiling sending shocks of pain through her shoulder blades and down her back. Altogether too big for this place, she winced, brushing popcorn off the seats into . . .what? Where’s the bin? A lone black feather fell to the ground. “Bri? I’m coming in, love.” Aunt Stella. Her silver Sky Walker heels rapped loudly, sticking to Bri’s badly washed linoleum floor. They stuck only for a second, but still Bri closed her eyes and shook her head with an inward groan. Her dad was as useless as she was when it came to cleaning. “Ah, Bri, they’re beautiful,” sighed Stella, covering her mouth in awe. It was always the same with Aunt Stella, always the awe, always the beauty, never the damned inconvenience of having six-foot wings attached to your back that were agony to draw out of the flesh, agony to keep within and even more agony to tuck away. Beauty wasn’t exactly the first word that sprang to Bri’s mind. “Sure,” said Bri, “Give me a minute.” She closed her eyes. Bones stretched, her back arched, and she hit the floor crouched on all fours, neck bent forward reaching to the ceiling, not that she could see the ceiling, her eyes were squeezed closed, and her mouth opened in a silent scream. There would be no sound. She had mastered that much by eighteen. The fire spread out to her shoulders; they cracked, her back torn open, cold blood trailing down her skin, and finally the shiver passing through her as the wings pushed themselves within her flesh. Bri let her head hang loose for a moment as her body adjusted to the pain rattling through her bones. Keeping the wings concealed took more energy than releasing them. Placing her hands on her knees she slowly got to her feet. “Caught you at a bad time, love?” asked Aunt Stella, languishing in the doorway, sucking on a cigarette. “Those things will kill you,” said Bri. “Have to catch me first,” cackled Aunt Stella. “Right,” smirked Bri, pushing a wisp of her short hair behind her ear and getting to her feet. She couldn’t resist the old broad. Aunt Stella’s enthusiasm for life was only matched by her love of cigarettes. Two loves that ran deep, no matter the irony that one would eventually end the other. “What a mess. And I mean you, not the couch.” Bri looked around; thin curtains still drawn, flowers from Mrs. Mulligan dead in a vase, and an interesting rendition of the Leaning Tower of Pisa constructed from dirty glasses. She sighed, swatting popcorn off herself. “Come on, get the kettle on, I’m parched. Waste y’r life watchin’ that drivel,” Stella marched through to the kitchen. Her words definite. Final. No arguments allowed. That’s how she always spoke. Bri appreciated it, mostly. Bri’s toes curled when she saw the pile of crumpled bedsheets waiting to be folded piled on the kitchenette table. She scooped them up and pushed them back into the washing machine. Giving Aunt Stella a tight smile. It didn’t matter, not really, Stella loved her, and Bri knew it. As the only child of Stella’s younger brother, Llewellyn Winter, the 100th king of their tribe, Bri was the daughter Stella wished she’d had. “Where’s y’r dad this fine morning?” asked Aunt Stella, eyebrows arched at the dishes filling the sink. “Out. Went with Tommy Mulligan and the others to work on Ender’s farm. They’ve got the October potatoes to start pulling,” said Bri, striking a match and inhaling the glorious smell of sulfur before lighting the gas stove. Aunt Stella made a Tsk sound and squeezed herself between the table and bench, her bare legs squeaking on the plastic seat. Blue eyes sliding to Bri. Celtic eyes that spoke of the long history between gypsies and Celts, not to mention Stella’s long aquiline nose. That was a Celt trait no doubt about it. “Wastin’ y’r life watchin’ that drivel.” Stella pulled on her cigarette. The usual Benson and Hedges. A brand, in Bri’s view, reserved for only the hardcore smoker. “You said. So will sucking on those cancer sticks.” Bri rested her head against the cupboard, closing her eyes. “Can’t argue with ya there. Damned things will be the end of me. Get on with that there tea.” The plastic seat cover squeaked against her thighs. Bri felt a thud, not her heart, a thud within the room— an earthquake? In Enfield, London? Was that even possible? The trembling began, hands and fingers. She gripped the counter, neck tightening, legs shaking. “No, no, no!” Bri shook her head and honed in on the water bubbling, slowly churning in the kettle, toes sticking to the linoleum floor—ground, Bri, ground…she told herself. The image took hold—a small, gold clasp…a book…a man’s hand, his hand? How could she know his hand? She’d never met him. The image ebbed. With a sigh Bri released the countertop, fingers white. Bri could feel her Aunt’s eyes on her back. “Was it him?” “I think so…” “Same place?” “His hands, a gold clasp, and a book. I can’t be sure, I’ve never even met the man!” Bri felt her aunt’s weighty stare shift, the gentle flick of ash. “It’s Fate. Meeting ’ll happen. Timings right.” “Today? You’re saying I go today? I can’t go today!” Bri tried to shake the feel of the warm gold clasp. “You got more pressing matters goin’ on around ‘ere, have ya?” Stella scoffed. “Dad’ll kill us both. I can’t go running to the one place he’s forbidden in search of some guy I’ve never met because…” the next words cut in her throat. “Cos she believed?” “I haven’t decided—” Bri cut in, but Aunt Stella held up a hand. “It was decided when ya mother gave ya a gift, and that gift turned out to be the sight of that boy. He’s got this cure your hell bent on seeking Bri. Though, why you’d want it is beyond me. But, it was decided with yr mother.” “You mean when she refused treatment and died a painfully slow death? Right? Yes, I remember that. That did decide a lot of things for me.” “It’s time, Bri. No more puttin’ it off.” Stella got to her feet pulling down her skirt. Bri turned to face her, cheeks burning, her body giving way— “I miss her . . .” her body trembled, bile rose in her throat. Stella caught her before she hit the floor. “Alright, alright. Come on now.” “I . . .” Bri began, stopping to catch her breath. Everything swayed in and out of focus, as if she sat atop a rollercoaster waiting for the inevitable drop. Stella’s firm hand clutched her elbow, momentarily enveloping her in the smells of stale cigarettes, gypsum, and hairspray. Makeup, like cement, filled the lines around Stella’s eyes and mouth. Tired, hooded, steely blue eyes that saw more and saw further than most dared. Aunt Stella was built of iron not afraid to delve into pockets of the world few would peer at from a distance. Yet those eyes looked at her with a love that threatened to bring Bri to her knees. And that simply wouldn’t do. The electric kettle clicked off. Bri closed her eyes gratefully, allowing her head to hang for just a moment longer. After a couple of breaths she gripped the cold, steel, metal back of her chair she pushed to her feet. Turning her back and withdrawing cups and tea from the cupboard, she hoped to avoid the keen questioning that was sure to follow. Aunt Stella didn’t like to be told no. There wasn’t a person in their clan that accepted the word—come to think of it. “No” was perceived as nothing more than a challenge to the Winters. “Right. Well, I made ya this for the journey. Here.” Stella took a pouch out of her handbag. Bri poured water onto the loose tea in the old, chipped teapot. “A putsi?” Bri turned the pouch over tenderly in her hands. It was small, maybe one-inch by two-inch square, made of a light shade of yellow with small star-like, white flowers, “Is this . . . is this my old dress? “Course. A putsi should be made from somethin’ loved, preferably worn, by the owner.” Stella smiled. “I know ya don’ like our traditions, Bri but indulge me in this one. Ya never know what you’ll find when ya travel, and a putsi finds room for whatever ya place inside it.” Bri looked down and whispered, “You know I’m a curse.” Stella’s pale blue eyes raised to meet Bri’s and hardened. “I never believed that.” Her words weren’t mean, but her tone was absolute, brusque and she stepped away straightening the putsi cigarette crackling. It had been decided. She would go to the Deep. Find the boy, honor her mother’s sacrifice, and live a—"normal life”. A life without wings, a life free from the curse. Easy. [MOU1]Chapter 1. Morrigan [MOU1]Chapter 1.

Dragon Nightmare? Only two more centuries. I’m never going to make it. Quarter to midnight, six hours left. Kay Linda Taylor worried she wasn’t going to make it and then jumped when her mother came to check on her. Angrily she said, “Why are you up? You don’t have to worry about me, I can worry about myself. It’s my own fault I have to cram for this history test.” “You and Mary had fun taking care of Grandpop, before he died. There is more to life than A’s,” her mother said. “If you’re Mary, and are rich with a legacy, there is. But not me. If I want to go to an Ivy league school I have to get As. All As. But you wouldn’t understand because you don’t understand the value of a private school education.” “You’ve had straight A’s your whole life and this one class won’t break your record. Plus, I’m sure you’ll end up with an A.” Kay knew her mother wanted her to agree, but instead she was glaringly silent. “Ok, but don’t stay up too late. You need your rest.” “If I go to sleep now, not only will I fail, but all the stress will cause nightmares.” “Oh, honey. I worry. You are too young for all this stress. When this test is over, I want to go with you to your next appointments with Dr. Ong.” Traditional nightmares were child’s play, Kay’s were horrific. So, Dr. Ong, Kay’s therapist, who used her patented Lucid Dreams Therapy to teach Kay to control her chronic nightmares. In Kay’s nightmares she had learned to defend herself. In one she splashed jacuzzi water on visiting friends who turned to monsters melting them into smelly, black puddles. In another, a teacher threw Western Taipan snakes at her. Kay knew that one bite has enough venom to kill one hundred people in 30 seconds. She turned them into harmless corn snakes. One night, she was running and fell into a tank filled with tiny Irukandji jellyfish, whose venom causes excruciating pain. She turned them into Swedish fish and ate them. Last week, two T. rexes ripped her to shreds. While she lay on the ground in pieces bleeding out, they played tug of war with her large intestine. She pulled herself together, picked up a stick, and threw it miles away; the rexes ran off to fetch. Kay’s mother asked if she could get her a cup of coffee, but Kay gruffly told her to just go to bed. Her mother offered a kiss. Kay did not accept. When the door closed she felt guilty but instead of addressing the guilt she addressed her studies. Jarred by a loud sound, Kay bolted upright. She listened but heard nothing. She rubbed her eyes and picked up her phone. Two a.m. She realized she had fallen asleep and tried to find where she had left off in her History of the World text but was startled again by the noise, hurricane winds rushing through a barely open window paired with an electrical screeching so loud she could feel it in her spine. A shimmery light appeared across the room between the window and the closet, like thermal waves above the road on a hot summer’s day. Suddenly, the originator supplanted the shimmery light. That makes sense. I told mom this would happen if I went to sleep. She turned off her study lamp to focus the waning gibbous moon shining through the second story window on whatever had entered her room. It stood on the other side of her curtained four-poster bed, so she didn’t have a clear view, but the outline looked like a dinosaur. Kay smiled. A beastly representation of her history teacher Mr. Humbert, she thought. What should I do with this beast? She needed to know what this beast truly was and find out its intentions, which was difficult to see in the dim light. She tried to will the room brighter where the beast stood. When it didn’t work, she reached over and turned on the overhead lamp and adjusted it to dim with the remote. The beast was crawling toward her. As rounded the bedpost, she saw small, collared holes, close to the scaly skin on the side of its head reflected in her full-length mirror. It had a long jaw, horse-like, but flattened around the mandible, lizard-like. Inside the beast’s mouth large, sharp, white teeth reflected in the moonlight. It had two strong back legs and thinner arm-like legs in front. It stopped at the foot of her bed to look around the room, showing no obvious signs that it had seen her yet. One of its sharply clawed hands grabbed the bedpost as it came around to her side of the room. Kay saw wings connected to its broad shoulders and a ridge of triangular shaped plates that ran down its back. The arrowhead-shaped tip of its muscular tail whipped back and forth as the beast moved toward her. It saw her sitting at her desk, raised up on its knees, and bellowed in a thick, baritone voice “Where is Diseeodis?” Unbelievable, it talks. That’s different. Kay realized she had never dreamed of a talking animal. But if it were a manifestation of Mr. Humbert, it would, wouldn’t it? Because he never shuts up. She stood up, cleared her throat, gave a shrug, and in a calm and polite tone, said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know that person.” Remembering her manners, she added, “Uh, Sir.” Then she forced a small polite smile. Dr. Ong’s treatment taught her nightmare individuals were more manageable when treated with calm, polite, and self-control behavior. “Did you not activate the time-space re-fracturer opening the portal between the Dragon Dimension and the Human Dimension so that Diseeodis could enter?” the beast interrogated. “Do not lie to me, for I will reduce your home and all within it to ash before your lie is complete!” Kay shuddered. Nightmare characters had threatened her, and she learned to keep her composure, but this one seemed so real and so dangerous. Now, she thought, it couldn’t be a mental representation of Mr. Humbert. She wondered; what could have caused her mind to create a dragon? Then she remembered her mom had brought home an old album, Comedy Caravan, from the Thrift Store where she worked. It had a bunch of old guys doing funny radio skits. One skit, called St. George and the Dragonet, was a detective story about a cop arresting a dragon. “Well? I need your answer, human. Now!” The dragon shouted. She tried to turn him into a Whip tail. No luck. “Please, Sir, I’m telling the truth. This is the weirdest nightmare I have ever had. I don’t know this Diseeodis dude, and I didn’t open any dimensional portal. The only portals I know about are in video games. I’d like to help you find your friend, but I don’t know how to help.” “Diseeodis is many things to me but assuredly not my friend,” the dragon replied vehemently. He moved his green scaly face close to hers and peered into her eyes. She was startled by the smell of smoke and garlic on his breath. She’d never had a dream smell so real. It was unnerving to have this giant face with its impressive set of teeth so close to her face. After a long look, she saw his eyes soften. He stood up with a thoughtful hum, nodded, and said, “I sense truth, human girl.” His eyes darted back and forth as if struggling with a complicated word problem. Finally, he said, “I am Jiuristus. I am tasked, by Queen Regina to retrieve Diseeodis and take him home.” “Who are Diseeodis and Queen Regina. I have never heard of them,” Kay said. “Queen Regina is the ruler of Criloune and Diseeodis has come into this dimension without permission and must be returned to the Dragon Dimension as soon as possible.” After another thoughtful pause he said, “Right then, there is nothing for it except to take you back with me. I think that would be the best course of action and the only one to satisfy the Queen.” Kay tried to change the beast into a large talking rabbit. Still nothing. Then she tried to get it to say, “Just kidding. Go back to what you were doing, and I will go home.” She had no control. A nauseating fear soured her stomach. This is a nightmare. It must be a nightmare. If it weren’t someone would have heard the noise and come by now. Should I run for the door? Could I even make it to the door? Being grabbed by those claws would hurt. But, as Dr. Ong says, nightmare can’t hurt you. But they do like to mess with you. When I open a door there will be another scary nightmare thing to deal with like an endless pit. Oh, great, now there will absolutely be an endless pit. Kay tried to clear her mind and think of something pleasant. Field of flowers, field of flowers, field of flowers. She decided to play along. “OK, you want to take me back. Take me back, where?” “I must take you through the portal to Criloune in the Dragon Dimension,” said Jiuristus. Dr. Ong said dreams are where movie ideas come from. She thought she’d like to see this in the theater, but she didn’t enjoy being in the scene. “Well, I don’t want to go with you. Is there another possibility? I mean it sounds like an adventure, but you should know I am not an adventurous person.” Kay said. Jiuristus’ head tilted, as if recalculating. “No, I cannot think of any other satisfactory course of action. If I leave you here, Queen Regina may think you have deceived me to protect Diseeodis. Plus, you may have information, even information you are unaware of. The Queen can extract such information, and it could give us the key to find Diseeodis,” said Jiuristus. “How will she extract information? Torture?” “No, not torture. Queen Regina can tap into your subconscious.” Finding the polite façade ineffectual, she tried a different strategy. Kay screamed, “Well, I am not going. So there!” she said balling her fists and stamping her foot. “Please, human girl. Please control yourself.” “I can’t go. I have a very important test tomorrow.” “You will be back before tomorrow. When you return, you will have missed no time. Unless, of course, you are misrepresenting the truth, in which case the temporary dimension will close without you, and you will not be returning,” Jiuristus assured her. “Well, I’m not lying!” she said, stamping her foot again. Feeling the boards under feet and the rush of adrenaline made her question the reality of the situation. She rejected reality and embraced the dream. “And I’m not going with you,” Kay said. “If you do not go your whole human race could be in grave danger. Diseeodis has come to the your dimension to take revenge for the slayings of the fifteenth century, and he must be found and taken back to our dimension before he can hurt anyone or everyone.” “What? The slayings of the fifteenth century. That was a long time ago. Why now?” Kay asked. “He wants to be King, and he thinks this will make him a hero,” Jiuristus said. “I am not asking you to help us catch him. I am only taking you back in case you can help with information that will help us catch him.” “OK. Let’s say I go with you. Will I be hurt?” Jiuristus’ face softened. “You will not be tortured, and you will not be hurt. You have my word, human girl. No one will hurt you, as long as you tell the truth.” “What if I just run, run to my parents, right now?” Jiuristus looked astonished. “I assumed you understood the state of things because you did not run when I showed myself. That is also why I assumed you were the operator.” He searched her eyes. “You really have no knowledge of dimensional laws? Interesting. If you had run, you would have frozen in the temporary dimension. Go, see for yourself, but stay close to me, or you will get frozen in time.” She ran into the hall and saw her mother and father coming out of their room. She called them. And they shouted “Kay,” in unison just before she felt the dragon’s hand on her shoulder pulling her backwards. As she fell, she heard Jiuristus say, “You got too far away and froze. I had to pull you back into the temporary dimension.” “I didn’t freeze. I saw my parents. See, right there. They spoke to me,” Kay said. Kay pointed at her parents and saw that her father was reaching out to her and her mother was tying her robe. But neither moved. “They were coming to save me,” Kay said under her breath. “You were outside of my dimensional bubble and fully in the Human Dimension. I pulled you back. Please do not get too close to them again. When you reanimate them and if they reanimate inside my dimensional time bubble and see me then I will have to take them to Criloune with us. With so many humans affected by this situation, I am not sure you all will be able to return.” “So, you are saying if I go, it will help save the Human Race, and I will be back before tomorrow but if they go, we will not be able to come back ever? That seems a bit random.” “You must take my word. Or you could reanimate your parents, I can take all of you, and we can see if you can return.” She wanted to claw him, but she was afraid he would claw back. Through the bedroom door Kay could see her father’s vintage alarm clock, on the nightstand which usually buzzed loudly and showed time by flipping the hours and minutes. But it was quiet, and the minute's flap was stuck midway between 2:00 and 2:01. Her hope that she would wake her parents and have this all end up in her sleep journal was waning. Kay ran to her brother Tom’s room. He was in a deep sleep and the family cat, Muscipula, was at the end of the bed frozen in the act of jumping off. Kay took a defeated breath then turned to Jiuristus. “I don’t understand what’s going on. But I want it to stop.” “Human girl, for you to return things to normal, you must come with me to see the Queen. She will make an assessment and may more fully explain what is happening. But the most important thing is that we go now if you want to get back before your big day tomorrow.” Dredging up every bit of self-control she had left she said, “My name is Kay Linda Taylor, not human girl, and you can call me Kay. What did you say your name was, Jee-your something?” Kay smiled to herself when she heard the phrase. He told her his name was Jiuristus. She tried to repeat it but stumbled. He told her to call him Jiuri. “OK, Jiuri. You promise to bring me back before tomorrow and my family will be, OK? And I will not be hurt?” “Yes, Kay, if you are telling the truth, I can assure that you will be returned safely to your family and that none of you will be harmed in any way.” He nudged her toward her room. As they faced the distortion, ready to step through, Kay asked if his ‘word’ was any good. “It seemed like you were here to kill me when you came into my room,” Kay said. “I did not intend to scare an innocent, I meant to scare the human who helped Diseeodis open the portal to your dimension. I will stand by my ‘word’ and will do everything in my power to return you to your home,” Jiuri said and his supportive, kind face made her unwittingly assured of his sincerity. “Wait,” Kay said. She turned up the overhead light, went to her closet, and closed the door. When she reappeared, she had changed into jeans, a light blue t-shirt, a cardigan, tennis shoes, and a jacket. “I don’t want to go through a portal to another dimension in my PJs.” As they prepared to enter the portal, Jiuri reached out for her hand. It was warm and soft. His long bulbous digits had claws the size of her fingers, which, because of the cautious way he held her hand, didn’t poke or scratch. Hand-in-hand with Jiuristis reminded her of crossing the street with her mother when she was little. But, unlike her mother’s, the dragon’s thumbs had no center joint and was conspicuously smaller than the other three fingers. Her gaze followed the arm up, up, up. In the now lit room she saw that most of his body was covered in iridescent green scales, each no larger than the head of a tack. His chest scales were three times larger, teardrop-shaped with a raised center shaft from which a rainbow of colored lines extended, like feather barbs, and soft white down peeked out here and there. She wanted to touch them to see if the scales would separate like feathers. Jiuri’s wing feathers were long, green, and red, tipped with royal blue. In sum, a cross between a lizard or snake and a bird. She thought, maybe I should use Ong’s dream trick to turn him into a real bird-snake or maybe I should try the pinch test. The pinch test she’d learned long before Dr. Ong nightmare therapy, and she knew that if she felt the pinch she this was not a dream. Kay decided not to try either. She thought it best to keep believing it could be a dream, if only to prevent fear from taking control. Because if this was real, she would have to accept the fact that she was leaving her home and family to go to an unknown place, a place unimaginable on any map, with a beast by means of an unknown transportation. Her eyes and nose pinched, and she could feel clouds gathering in her eyes preparing for a storm. Her hands were clammy, and her stomach felt as if it had flipped. If she couldn’t control the environment, she would have to control herself. She blinked the tempest away, took a deep breath, and smiled, encouraging herself to enjoy the story her mind was creating as they stepped into the distortion.

Opening Scene- Establishes setting, protagonist, antagonist, and primary and secondary conflicts. CHAPTER 1 “Only one in forty are venomous.” The murmured reminder did nothing to banish the trickle of bright adrenaline down my nerves as the breakers began their telltale frothing beneath the water’s surface. I should have felt badly for skipping my voice session, but I was too sated on the sand’s warmth and a full belly to much care. Strands of hair coaxed on the sea’s winds floated across my copper cheeks, and I did not bother to restrain their path over slitted eyes which watched the ebb of the surf- waiting. The coiling of my stomach had little to do with breaking the unspoken rules governing my days, but what I now contemplated as I watched the equine creature emerge from the roiling waves. I began to hum and then to sing, my ability to voice two notes simultaneously drawing the animal near in swells of melding chords. She beckons with misting fingers Tantrums of thrown limbs Join the waves, the wind, the storm Listen to her hymns Embrace her darkness, kiss her depths Taste salt upon your lip Your neglect of dawn’s blood skies Cost more than just your ship Closer it came across the sand, ears perked at the old sailor’s ballad as I wove the chorus in the air around us. Half a dozen coves carved Cretoria’s coastline in aggressive gouges, but Oren and I had claimed this one. Tidal pools of varying sizes reflected the slouching sun like pieces of shattered mirror embedded in the dark rocks on the west end, while nothing but golden sand comprised the remainder of the small crescent. Neither the locals nor the summer sunbirds from the nearby capital city of Mytikas enjoyed traversing the narrow ledge of a trail down the slate cliffs over the cove, leaving this place to us most days. Dusk had coalesced in fading golden shafts suspended in the leaden hour of the evening- the hour in which wild sea horses sometimes swam onto shore here to fling their manes of kelp as they pounded across the sand. I had never approached one until now, the longing to run my fingers over its flaring pink gills overpowering the conviction that such a thing is never meant to be tamed or even touched by civilized hands. My hands were not soft by any means, not like the lavender oil-scented ones of those in Mytikas. But they were human hands, and humans tended to ruin things they loved. I would only touch its muzzle, just for a moment. My notes fell softer as it approached. The hard plates of its nectarine-hued body rose and fell in ridges capped with skeletal knobs, ending in a curled tail. As it danced closer, my eyes drifted to its saddle fin, which rose high on its back tipped in lethal spines. Those needle-sharp points, and the smaller ones embedded in its ridges, contained a venom the barest amount of which would paralyze your limbs with creeping stealth as you were impaled further and dragged into the sea by the carnivorous animal. It was said that during those moments, the venom caused a euphoria, and you didn’t mind your imminent death approaching on the white-tipped depths. Her gills fluttered as she stretched her neck towards me, my nostrils catching the briny scent of kelp which hung in layers of twisting jade ribbon and bulbous air pockets along her neck. The orange of her shell absorbed the sunlight slanting across the cove like my own skin did. I was always famished for sunlight, for cool seawater, for the sound of the tide shushing my staccato heartbeat. She and I were kindred. The tips of my fingers brushed her fluted nose. A familiar voice sliced through the carefully cultivated haze around me. “Oppi? What-” The horse reared back, tossing her head as she shimmied backwards and turned away from me. “Curse you, Oren!” I yelled as the creature sprinted for the surf, thundering into the undertow. I whipped towards him, eyes squinting to see the outline of his rangy limbs. The wheat gold of his hair caught the sunlight and, for the briefest of moments, gave him a haloed aura which had me snorting. Deific at first glance, perhaps, but I knew the crooked angle of his lower front tooth and the origin of the scar beneath his sharp jawline- an incident involving sea urchin spines and decidedly mortal indignity. His eyebrows weren’t even symmetrical, the right one slightly more arched than the left, undoubtedly from raising it at me so often. “What’s the matter with you?” my friend called, long legs ambling over the sand towards me. “Were you about to touch that thing?” I crossed my arms as he approached. “Maybe.” The white of his eyes showed as he sighed. “Did you skip voice lessons?” What was he, my mother? Kalliope, her lilting voice wavered in my mind. I won’t have it said you’re shirking your duties to the Opera… Anxiety curled in my gut, but I clobbered it down with an imaginary piece of driftwood. The Phoerian Opera could go rot today. I was not yet in its gold-fisted grip- or so I told myself. Rolling my eyes in answer, I picked up the lobster tail I’d been roasting and tossed it to him. “Found four today.” I didn’t mention I’d spent two hours diving for them, but they were his second-favorite food, so I didn’t mind. He caught it with a soft swear and then dropped the scalding crustacean in the sand. Flicking his nimble fingers as if to rid them of the heat, he commented casually, “Suppose it’s a good thing you’re here already.” He paused, and I almost threw sand in his sun-bronzed face before he finally spit out what I’d been waiting to hear. “My contact at the Nautilus Citadel replied to our inquiry.” Everything in me suddenly focused to a razor-sharp edge, my urge to ream him for the ruined lobster abandoned. We’d been waiting over a month for a response from Oren’s friend who served as an Ensign in the Royal Navy. This was it. The only answer to the only question that mattered. “Yes?” My hands twitched as I contemplated the urge to strangle him. “What did he say? The one-dimpled smile which crept across my friend’s face raised the hairs on my arms. “We leave in the morning for the Solstice Trade.” My breath hitched. It was true. The vanished peoples of Gomethra’s mainland were real. The Solstice Trade was real. And we were going to crash it. No rule for what we were about to do existed, but if it had- I’d break it faster than a sea horse could drag me beneath the indifferent waves, euphoric to the bitter end. **** The edge of my awareness drug on unfamiliar ground, a hem fraying further with each barefoot step we’d taken inland to arrive at the wastelands of Gomethra. Though the boat in which we’d traveled was only a mile away through the forest, I forced the image of its hull bumping against the rocks through my mind like a talisman. “Do bones burn to ash as well, or are they still beneath us?” Oren mused. Patience had never been my strong suit, but I could think of a thousand things I’d rather be than patient, so I wasn’t going to fill the Amphritis Sea with tears over it. My cheeks stung as I dragged ash-encrusted nails down them. The imbecile beside me had clearly forgotten the need for silence as we crouched on the edge of the vast, grass-covered Ash Plains, anticipation taught as a lyre’s strings in our veins. “Shut it,” I hissed, sending his larger form toppling over from where he crouched next to me. The azure of his eyes widened as he froze at the lofty grass rustling around us. I prayed to Chrosos no one in the envoy had seen the ripple in the silver vegetation. The company of a hundred soldiers waited in stoic silence a stone’s throw from us as they faced the undulating waves stretching out for miles in front of them like a sea of mirrored anemones. My shoulders dropped in relief as they stood unmoving against the cloudless skies. “Thought you were bringing more food,” Oren growled, his mutinous wheat hair slipping over one eye. I heaved a token sigh, inhaling and exhaling the smell of burning leaves still lingering in the soil after all this time. His nattering didn’t matter anyways while the breeze and the grass spoke so freely around us, drowning our words in their whispered song akin to velvet brushing over my ears. “No matter how long we wait, seeing dragons will be worth it,” I reminded him, pulling a leather thong tight around my mass of lightning pale hair. There had always been rumors the dragons still existed. The official word claimed they had gone extinct from disease and starvation after The Scything, the war waged eight centuries ago between Nyskos and the northern kingdom of Volnyrocq. The mainland had not always been the wasteland of cursed grass which stretched before us. Oren had heard through his connections in Mytikas that some Rocqes still lived beyond the Ash Plains and that an exchange of goods happened each year near the summer solstice. Yet none of the things we’d speculated about came close to the reality before us. Half a dozen cargo ships were tethered on the wide river mouth which flowed alongside the plains, and the massive caravan of goods sitting behind the line of guards could have fed the capital city of Mytikas for a month. Nyskos had amassed hundreds of barrels of salted and smoked fish, live lobsters and crabs in enormous glass tanks pulled on wagons, towers of crated wine and sweet liqueurs, bottles of olive oil, sacks of grain and kafe beans...The smell alone carried over on the wind caused my mouth to water. I’d skipped breakfast for this (more like Oren ate mine on the way) to meet him at the docks and arrive here by the sun’s highest point. A distant rumble began to shake the ground beneath my knees, and I looked up to see the hazy outline of black forms marching through the grass. Those who believed in the tales of the Rocqes’ existence said they had lost their ability to breathe fire or fly, just as we, the race of Nereiden, had lost our sirenic traits over time. Whatever form they wore caused a rhythmic trembling of the grass around us, and we watched as the first row of two dozen black plates of armor came into focus. Their pace would bring them to us in moments, but that wasn’t what caused Oren to swear. “Holy mother of tentacles,” he breathed. Behind the Rocqe soldiers were massive carts pulled by beasts I had only read about in one of the texts from my mother’s collection. Unlike most cart animals, the heads of the bone lynxes with their twitching feline noses stayed angled high in the air, looking out over the soldiers of the retinue in front of them. Black spikes of bone longer than my arms rose in pairs from the ringed white fur on their backs, chains connecting them to the carts pulled taut from the manacles encircling them. They moved as if the weight of the house-sized carts didn’t affect them in the least as they stalked forward with fluid grace. My head tilted. “Is it wrong I have an urge to see how soft their ears are?” “T’would be a noble death,” Oren replied. “I'll sing your song in the Nautilus Citadel.” Oren’s voice was terrible, so I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. More intriguing than the bone lynxes were the men encased from the waist up in armor of glistening jet black with horned helmets. As they drew closer, I could see the iridescent scales which made up the armor shifting over each other. There were what appeared to be wings for epaulets, flaring out beyond their shoulders and ending in a single talon at the tip. In contrast, the golden armor of the Nereiden almost blinded a person when looking at it in full sunlight. I was pleased to see that our representatives didn’t move a muscle in reaction to the approaching envoy. One of the bone lynxes snapped its head in our direction, looking straight at us through the grass. My lungs seized. Ducking back down, I pulled Oren with me. “Do you think it sees us?” Oren’s eyes were not teasing now. “I have no doubt it does.” Shivers chased over my scalp. Or perhaps the shiver had more to do with the way he lowered his voice to a baritone murmur that had developed of late. It was strange to realize Oren’s lanky form had filled out into broader shoulders and his face had developed new angles to it. He’d always had beautiful features, and I’d teased him mercilessly for being prettier than any of the girls on Cretoria. But now he was beginning to strike me as something different. When the retinues finally came face to face, it was rather anticlimactic. Two soldiers simply exchanged scrolls, and then we watched for almost an hour while they loaded and unloaded goods from the bone lynxes onto the ships and vice versa. My stomach grumbled as time wore on, but I refused to look away. “They managed to cross the Ash Plains unscathed,” I commented, sifting gray dirt through my fingers as I sat on the packed earth. Drawings on old parchment surfaced in my mind, images of the warped creatures which hunted in the grasses of the plains and made crossing a suicidal endeavor. Oren raised a brow at me. “I would imagine it had something to do with the giant cats they brought,” he drawled. “Even if the shadow wolves are as big as they say, nothing would attack those things.” He had a point. As we watched yet more containers and barrels being hefted onto the flat carts of the bone lynxes, Oren voiced a question of his own. “Do you think the Prince of Volnyrocq truly started the war? That he burned an entire city to the ground?” I’d thought about the answer to his question a thousand times. “Wouldn’t blame him if he did.” Oren gave me a look like I’d grown another head. “Just because one person died doesn’t mean you can-” “She didn’t just die, Oren. Her fins were cut from her body and her heart ripped out.” We’d had this argument countless times, but I was more than happy to rise to the occasion again. “If I found the person I was supposed to marry like that, I might go on a fire-breathing rampage too.” Oren frowned. “He should have known better than to bring a nereid to the Winged Court. The Rocqes were barbarians, even without the danger of a Kymaera being produced from their union.” I shrugged. “Forbid something, and someone will inevitably be stupid enough to try it, daemon spawn or not.” He paused, then looked at me sideways. “You still believe those stories? I doubt any of us could shift into dragons or mer, even eight-hundred years ago. And the Kymaera were probably just deformed children, not monsters. I pity them.” I turned my body towards him, jaw dropped. “What are you talking about? You’ve seen the Draekenmor Reef the same as I. The bones are piled from the sea floor to the surface. Thousands of dragons. They were pulled from the sky in The Scything.” He shrugged. “But what if it’s just casts and molds? Carvings? What if it doesn’t reach to the sea floor, Oppi?” “I can't even hear you over your own horsecrap,” I hissed, struggling to keep my voice low. He didn’t deserve to use his pet name for me. “What besides dragon fire could have created the Ash Plains you’re sitting on?” Those scrolls are not stories, Oren. They're histories. How can you deny that? He sighed, leaning back onto one elbow. “Mytikas has different texts now, ones that are more accurate based on actual research. Your mother’s scrolls are probably just a collection of tales that were never meant to be taken seriously.” My fingers curled into the ash beneath us. He was suddenly revealing this misbelief now, of all times? Those stories of dragons and mer were an unshakable part of us- so I’d thought. I was going to push him off a cliff when we got back to Cretoria. “What nonsense have those in Mytikas been spout-” A screech rent the sky in the distance, raising the dusty hairs on my body to stand. It was a shrill cry, ear-piercing in pitch and ending on a hopeless, echoing note like the last song of a dying glasswhale. We lifted our heads up out of the grass. All of the soldiers had stopped to listen too, and the bone lynxes had shifted to crouched positions as low as possible in their harnesses. Their great yellow eyes watched the sky to the north, and I turned to look at well. Another desolate shriek sounded, and I saw the vague outline of something high in the air- something too big to be any sort of bird. “Is that…?” I couldn’t say the words, my heart pounding so loud the bone lynxes could probably hear it with their tufted ears. “It can’t be,” Oren whispered. “It’s impossible.” The creature was too far away to make out anything more than the outline of wings and a sleek body, but I knew. It was a dragon. Apparently, the soldiers thought so too. Shouting began, and swords were pulled from sheaths as the Nereiden guards faced their dark counterparts. It was clear this wasn’t part of the plan. The Rocqe soldiers also drew their weapons from their backs, wielding two wickedly curved onyx blades in response. “We need to get out of here,” Oren rumbled, taking my hand. “Now.” I couldn’t agree more, though I was dying to stay and see what happened. But if fighting occurred, there would be no predicting where the soldiers would go, and they could run right into us. I wasn’t stupid enough to think we would be spared by even our own soldiers in such a precarious situation. Looking up to the sky once more, I saw the shape of the dragon- or whatever it was- growing closer. I had never in my life wanted to stay put more than I did in that moment, whether I was burned to a crisp or chopped into pieces. “Kalliope, now!” Oren dragged me towards the forest with more force than I expected. Tearing my gaze away from the black spec in the sky, I followed him, awkwardly running while bent over as low as I could. When we were almost to the tree line at the edge of the Ash Plains, another primeval screech struck our ears as the clang of swords rang out, and we both abandoned our stealth for speed as we sprinted for the shelter of the trees. As we reached the first few steps under the forest’s canopy, I turned back. All I saw before Oren jerked me forward again were flashes of gold and obsidian striking each other. “Wait, Oren, I want to see if-” “No, you don’t,” he snapped, and I blinked at him. He never spoke to me in that tone, but the hard set of his jaw silenced any argument I had planned to use. Still- I looked back one last time before jolting into movement… The elegantly curved blade of a black-suited soldier plunged into the space between his opponent’s armor where the shoulder met the golden breastplate. I watched as it was forced deeper, piercing sideways into the man’s chest. My own ribs seemed to constrict inwards as I pictured the perforation of his lungs, his heart, blood filling the cavities in between. The Nereiden’s cry was so small compared to the creature’s above and yet echoed through my nerve endings. It was final. It was desperate and fearful and knowing, his last sound. The gold-clad body fell to Ash Plains and did not rise. My blood had frozen, but it pounded in my ears nonetheless as Oren pulled me away. We sped over the forest paths back to where our small fishing boat waited. As we shoved off for the sail back to Cretoria, I thought I heard another wailing cry, and I caught my breath at the loneliness of it. Or, as Oren insisted on the way home, it was probably just the wind.

Hello Everybody, Pasted below is my opening scene for my story. It introduces the victim, a suspect, and The Zenith, the location for most of this tale. All feedback is greatly appreciated. Further in this first chapter a pivotal character is introduced and the protagonist comes into the story at he beginning of chapter 2. I'd love to share more, but keeping it to the opening scene for now, Cheers guys! Day One: The Zenith was synonymous with death, particularly during times of war. Murder was unprecedented. Serving as a gateway for all walks of life, passing from one kingdom to the next, The Zenith was a peaceful place for centuries. Permanent residents occupy the modest settlement inside the great fortress’ walls, while temporary accommodations are available for those with short term plans or simply passing through. Whatever their path or direction, The Zenith is a sanctuary for all comers. The murdered girl changed all of that. ***** Rain pounded down, saturating anything uncovered on the Upper Level, transforming the Rim Road to slush. Sarmras, a humble peddler and a regular visitor of The Zenith, trudged through the mud toward the Southern Gate, burdened by the weight of a backpack, containing his possessions. Each footstep sinking deeper into the road than the next, his feet becoming harder to retrieve with every lunge. “I can’t get out of this place soon enough”, he said to himself, bringing his eyes up to determine how much further. The colossal wooden gate was near, but currently locked, as was the custom for both entry/exit points during the moonset hours. The Kosolm Mountains dwarfed The Zenith from two sides. Above and around the peaks, portentous clouds could be made out, their presence obvious by the lashing they were handing to the famous citadel below. Sarmras hoped the emerging dawn might part the dreariness and end the persistent rain teeming down on him and his burden. He needed to justify his decision to leave this early, if even to himself. The mountain range ran from coast to coast, creating a natural border. The immense alps too tall and too cold at their apex to traverse on foot. The Zenith was the only way through to either kingdom by land. Once at the gate, he could dry off as an appointed registrar would set up and the nomad could sign his departure record into the visitors’ ledger, something he had done many times. He passed frequently from realm to realm, acquiring and trading wares from both kingdoms. Hauvnath, the kingdom that lay north of The Zenith, and Dimyrr to the south, which was where he was headed this time. Completely soaked, Sarmras arrived at the girl’s feet. He’d seen her multiple times during his visits, and remembered Silete by her distinctive long white hair and a skin that was paler than bones. She was faced down in the mud. He assumed, given his encounters with her were in The Tavern, she was drunk and passed out. Silete’s clothes were sodden, clinging to her skinny frame. Sarmras turned her over to check on her welfare, quivering from his gruesome discovery. Her eyes had been cut out, both sockets now filled with wet mud from The Zenith floor seeping down her pallid face like dark tears. He reeled away in horror, the momentum and weight of his pack caused him to fall backwards into the mud. Not caring that everything he owned was now covered in remnants of the Rim Road, he looked at her closer. Sarmras noticed her fingers on both hands had been sliced off. Struggling to regain his feet he whipped his head around but could not see anybody else at this early hour. He knew how The Zenith functioned. If there was trouble, a Prefect should be notified. Dropping his heft into the slop Sarmras ran away from the victim, in search for help. He knew a Prefect needed to be woken at once so they could bear witness to the crime and decide any course of action to follow.

AS II – Module 8 Book Reports "The Art of Fiction" by John Gardner (a great primer for this commercial program) 1. How did the book help you as a writer? What overall aspects of it taught you something? This is the second time I’ve read this book. It should be the first book any writer reads on the craft of writing. It validated the areas of craft that I’ve been studying for the past eight-plus years. The book taught me that you have to know the rules of craft and master them before you can break them or create your own. 2. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? a. The technique for telling a story through multiple points of view (a technique masterfully used by Larry McMurtry in Lonesome Dove).The most effective way is to have the character do an action. This signals the reader that they are about to enter into another character’s mind. Then, just as we learned in AS II – Module 1, use the four levels of POV to draw the reader closer to the character until we are in their mind. b. Removing needless explanation; or as we like to say in my local writers group: Resist the Urge to Explain (RUE). You find these excess words usually at the end of sentences. Or as Gardner writes, “Needless explanation or explanation where drama alone would be sufficient are other irritants. c. Avoiding dialogue tags that attempt to prop dialogue; e.g., “he hollered” or “he exclaimed.” A simple “he said” works just fine. The same for “he questioned.” If the character says, “Where are you going?”, no need to say “he questioned” as the the questions is already obvious and the dialogue tag is redundant. “He said” works just fine. 3. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program. If so, what were they? I’m not sure I’d say it conflicts, but Gardner leaned toward the three-act Syd Field model of storytelling. While it has some similarities, it doesn’t prepare you fully for the two-goal six-act novel that is at the heart of the novel writing program. However, every novel has to have structure, the bones that allow it to stand on its own. When I took a novel writing extension course at the University of Oklahoma, my professor tried to teach me structure. I didn’t grasp the concept and my writing suffered. I’ve since learned structure, and the readings in the novel writing program have also added innumerable amounts of structure that will benefit me as I continue to write and improve in the craft. "Writing the Breakout Novel" by Donald Maass (another good primer) 1. How did the book help you as a writer? What overall aspects of it taught you something? Like Garnder’s The Art of Fiction, this was the second time I’ve read Maass’s book. What I really enjoyed was learning about the relationship between writer and agent and writer and editor. He presented not just the craft side, but also the business side. Many writers believe that once they’ve finished writing, that’s it, just schedule them for the book tour and off they go. Not even close. I’m fortunate to know NY Times bestselling author Steve Berry and his wife Liz. I’ve followed his career and whenever Liz talks the business side of writing (she’s one of the best at it), I listen and I learn. This validates the lessons Maass is trying to teach. 2. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? a. Stakes. This is an important chapter in the book. Maass wants writers to ask themselves, “What the worse that could happen to your character? What’s worse than that? Even worse than the second thing? This simple exercise allows you to think about events that will have the most impact and true character is revealed in crisis. b. Multi-dimentional characters. Maass refers to these a layers, like an onion, the more you peel it, the more you discover. The writers who don’t publish have protagonists that don’t act, but react, or antagonists that have no redeeming qualities so the readers can’t connect with them. People are complex. Our characters should be, too. Who wants to read about a character who’s always happy, has no problems, and life is good. Boring. People have flaws, ticks, or as Rocky Balboa said, “don’t get mentally irregular.” c. Maass said, “a useful princple for making place an active character is to give your characters an active relationship to place.” He says writers have setting just to have it, to paint a picture. But fiction is action, like a movie, and the place, like the character, needs to propel the story. The exercises in novel writing program enhance this point and the exercises were wonderful at developing this important technique. It’s an area that’s still a weakness, but with practice, I can turn it into a strength. 3. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program. If so, what were they? I didn’t see anything that contradicted or conflicted with the lessons or readings. In fact, a good deal of what Maass writes is reflected in the modules. What I like about the novel writing program is the structure of the two parts, eight modules each, with each module building toward the next until the final module where we put it all together. "Write Away" by Elizabeth George (a no nonsense primer, and humorous) 1. How did the book help you as a writer? What overall aspects of it taught you something? My favorite of the four books. The two areas I wanted to improve dramatically in were the preparation phase before writing the first draft, and then self-editing the draft to a ready-for-publication work. Ms. George book had exactly what I was looking for when it came to preparing to write a novel. 2. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? a. Dialogue tricks. Getting the dialogue to work for you, to create emotion, reactions, and most importantly, propel the story forward. b. Step Outline. Ten to 15 scenes from start to finish of the novel. I’ve actually done this with other novels I’ve written, but Ms. George focuses the process, giving it structure that will be useful going forward. c. Attitude. Voice, is what Ms. George refers to. The story has a sound, a rhythm, a feeling. That was very important in my novel because of the time and place. d. Bum glue. It really works (even for Novel Writing Programs). 3. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program. If so, what were they? Ms. George plotting process is different than the two-goal six-act process, but it still contains the important plot points, pinch points, minor reverals, major reversals, climax, and denouement. She did address MacGuffins, which was a plus. "The Writing Life" by Annie Dillard (a look at the struggle) 1. How did the book help you as a writer? What overall aspects of it taught you something? The main thing from this book is that it confirmed a lesson my local writing mentors has said numerous times: don’t butt write. What Ms. George did was to experience life and when she did, she was able to give her words life on the page. This was especially telling when wrote about Dave Rahm, and aerial demonstration pilot who flew airshows and gave Ms. Dillard the ride of her life. I’m very familiar with these performers as they flew at the Naval Air Station Jacksonville (Florida) air shows every other year. Some good friends that I came to know are no longer with us, just like Mr. Rahm. This part of her book was spot on and beautifully written. 2. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? a. No matter the adversity, you can perservere. She spent a good deal of time in primitive conditons that today’s writers would find objectionable. Probably the toughest of all is writing long-hand. Who does that these days? And when you meet someone who does, what’s your reaction? It proves that writers who really want to write, can do it anywhere, anytime, and don’t have to wait until inspiration strikes. In fact, you have to use the bum glue, sit, and force yourself even when you think the writing is awful. Keep going. Never stop. Or my favorite saying, “Always forward, never backwards.” b. I enjoyed her writing, her metaphors, the imagery she created, and the courage to go after what she believed. She possess great courage. I hope that type of writing is present in my work. 3. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program. If so, what were they? No conflicts. An enlightening look at the writing life of a Publitzer Prize writer.