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Life is a hornets’ nest. If I don’t poke it, it won’t sting me. But now I’ve got hornets everywhere. Not literally, which is unfortunate because a literal hornets’ nest in my studio could be my get out of jail free card. I would kill for anything even remotely hornet-adjacent right now. When I agreed to this fiasco, Open Studios was shrouded in the mists of an unimaginable future, five whole months away. Now it’s here, and the sunlight that slants through my north-facing windows throws into brutal relief every reason I should not allow the general public into my space: bits of colored tin on every surface, gouges in the wood table where I eat my sad little solo meals, clothing slouched around an overflowing hamper, holes in the wall where I neglected to spackle after taking nails out. “Breakfast?” Jessie makes it sound like a question, but it’s a command. I put two breakfast bars in the toaster and push the knob down. I’m not a painter, but I can’t (won’t) show the mixed media pieces I’ve built compulsively for the last six years, so Jessie’s helping me hang paintings. And by “helping me hang,” I mean she’s hammering nails into the wall and putting canvases up. I’m pushing the toaster knob. “Pop-Tarts are not food!” Hazel’s in my sleeping loft rifling through my dresser. I think my black shift is arty and vaguely French, but Hazel says it makes me look like a burlap sack. “They’re not Pop-Tarts.” I consult the box. “They’re Fruitopia Bars. From the health food store. They’re health food.” “Oh, Mia.” Hazel sighs theatrically and steps to the edge of the loft, holding a pair of pants. “How about these?” “No,” Jessie says. “Those make her look like Charlie Chaplin.” “More like Billie Eilish.” Which is fresh, right? The toaster pops. “Who wants a Fruitopia Bar?” No one but me, I guess. I take a bite. It’s delicious. “Remind me why you’re doing Open Studios?” Jessie asks. “Because Axiom told me to.” “Do you do everything Axiom says?” “Of course.” Is that even a question? Axiom is an important sculptor, the only successful artist at Potrero Studios. Mia the Mouse does not say no to Axiom. Hazel descends and hands me an armful of black fabric. “These were the best I could find.” It’s a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved tunic that barely covers my ass. “No.” “Just try it, Mia,” Jessie says, sounding tired of me. I don’t blame her. I’m annoying. Jessie is my girl guide, a salty mountain of don’t-mess-with-me who is somehow, magically, my friend, even though I constantly mess with her. “It’s okay not to look like a waif from a silent movie,” Hazel says. “Not that there’s anything wrong with waifs. I’m pro-waif.” I change and stand in front of the big mirror by the door. “I look like a mime.” I tug at the hem of the tunic, trying to cover a potentially terminal case of camel toe. “We just need to zhuzh it up.” Jessie digs in my workbench and comes back with a red cord, which she ties around my waist. “Now I look like a gift for a Goth.” Note to self: trademark Gifts for Goths. “I need another ribbon to cover this.” I point to the camel toe. Jessie flips me off. Hazel grabs my hands. “Take a deep breath.” She breathes in, puffing out her chest. I breathe in and hold it, returning her intense stare. “Now breathe out slowly, slowly.” Hazel is always trying to improve herself, and she’s ever hopeful she can fix me, too. Ha! “Mia, be here now. Can you do that?” I’d rather be literally anywhere else. “Sure.” My leg jiggles out of control, a nervous tic, and I knee her in the groin. She yelps and jumps back. “Sorry. Sorry!” Jessie’s phone buzzes and she dashes out and returns with a small ball of effervescent joy. “I asked Greg to drop her here. We have a playdate at 11:30. Hope that’s okay.” It’s more than okay. I bend down as Jessie’s daughter throws herself into a hug. “Kayla-Roo!” “Mi-Mi-Mia!” Kayla burrows into my shoulder, a squirming jumble of yellow and pink, smelling like chocolate milk and cinnamon. I breathe her in. “Are you okay?” she asks, her kid radar unerring. “Better now.” “Of course,” she says with more gravitas than a five-year-old should be allowed. “Open Studios will be awesome because I’m here.” Over the next hour, with all four of us working, the rest of the paintings get hung, cookies get put out for guests, the stray clothes disappear, and Kayla leads us in a K-Pop conga line (my favorite part of the morning). At 11:10 am, I prop the door wide, hiding the “Studio 3” in cracked, gold peel-N-stick lettering and the shadows underneath where I can’t completely expunge “Mia Lieberman, Multimedia Artist.” Jessie and Kayla bump me from behind. “Excuse me,” Kayla says. I step to block her and she runs into my backside, giggling. “We have to go. Kayla’s playdate.” Oh, right. “Come back later?” Jessie shrugs. “Busy day. No promises.” At least Hazel — oh no, she’s putting on her coat. “Where are you going?” “Naked meditation in Dolores Park.” How am I still thrown by Hazel’s choice of self-improvement activities? “Naked — wait. Won’t you get arrested for public indecency?” “It’s not indecent. It’s transcendent.” She gives me namaste, followed by a tight squeeze that’s over far too quickly. “Love you.” After Hazel leaves, the emptiness feels immense. I prop myself on an uncomfortably high metal stool (every art studio must have one, so I do, but why?) and await my fate with all the joy of a figure in a Bosch painting screaming from the seventh rung of hell. # Open Studios is blessedly uneventful for 49 minutes. I’m almost bored enough to wish for a visitor. My wish is granted when a guy about my age, so 29, give or take, walks in. This is it. My first chance to humiliate myself. Oh boy. Even at midday, the winter sun casts weird shadows in my space, so my visitor is all perpendicular angles and straight lines, very minimalist, but also built, the outlines of his muscles visible under his tight jeans and the long-sleeved tee stretched over his broad shoulders. He carries himself with a fluid grace I rarely see in men. He strikes me as a dancer, though none of the dancers I know could afford the designer jeans and fancy sneakers he wears. “Hello,” he says, looking directly at me. His voice is a rich tenor. I could listen to that voice for hours. Days. Years. I’m smitten. “Hello,” I croak back, trying (and failing) to play it cool. He turns to examine my paintings and I examine him. He’s tall and (this is what slays me) has long bangs that swoop across square-framed black glasses, a cross between Clark Kent and a manga hero. He’s too cool to smile but, even turned down slightly at the corners, his lips look eminently kissable. I want him. The thought startles me. I don’t date or even hook up. Of course, there are the idle crushes, the erotic fantasies, but no feels for an actual human standing five feet from me. I slide down from my stool and stand too close to him to be socially appropriate. He smells like eucalyptus with a whiff of something else. Cleaning products? Maybe he works as a janitor. A hot, rich janitor. “What do you think?” I ask him. “Of you or the art?” His eyes are intense, deep brown irises blazing through the distortion of corrective lenses. I can’t look away. “Of the paintings.” And by paintings, I mean me. He frowns, and there’s the cutest little furrow between his eyebrows. I reach up to trace it with my finger but stop just in time. “I think the artist is more interesting than the art.” He looks at my lips as he says it and my sad little mouse heart races so fast I think it might spin out of my chest. I don’t know what’s happening but I’m here for it. “Mee-ah!” There is no good time for Samira Abdo to come to my studio, but this is the absolute worst. The contender for Most Kissable Lips in San Francisco whips his head toward the door and the moment is lost. I manage to arrange my face into a smile by the time a familiar head of honey brown curls bounces through the door. Barely. “Samira!” Even without the unfortunate timing, I wouldn’t be happy to see Samira, not because she’s not a nice person (she’s the nicest) but because she's everything I’m not: outgoing, gorgeous, a successful working artist. She’s the only member of my MFA cohort who kept in touch after I cratered out of the program, and I wish she wouldn’t. Samira has a way of looking at you when you talk like she really sees you and her eyes sparkle when her perfect, heart-shaped mouth curves into a smile. She's the most likable person I’ve ever met, and she never stops reaching out, even though I don’t reciprocate. I hate her. She dances over to hug me as if we’re best friends and she smells like honey and fresh oranges, because of course she does. I’m surprised a flock of bluebirds doesn’t flutter around her head. Samira eyes my paintings, walking from one to another and I get a sinking feeling in my chest. “These are…nice.” She damns me with faint praise. “But is this all you’re showing? Where is your other work, your constructions?” “I don’t do those anymore,” I lie. Samira turns to me, alarmed. “Why not?” “You know why not.” My dentist has been on me about grinding my teeth. She should pay my next dental bill. I see memory flood her face. She opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Dreamy Guy says, “Do you mean these?” He’s opened the top drawer of an ancient dresser I use to store art supplies. I stashed my other work in there, the pieces I don’t show anyone, not even Hazel and Jessie. He and Samira peer in. I wish I could melt through the paint-splattered floorboards into the San Francisco sewer system. Being carried to the ocean on a river of effluent would be better than this. Samira picks one up. “Do you mind?” Of course I mind, but I don’t stop her. It’s a piece I just finished, a ragged little Franken-dollhouse room made of colored tin and wire. Inside, tiny tin figures eat and dream. A thought bubble hanging over one says, “I’m never getting out of here.” The only reason I still make these pieces is I can’t stop. As art, they’re worthless. Someday, they’ll all go into the dumpster, but, for now, I guess they’re a kind of therapy. And I need a lot of therapy. Just ask Hazel. Samira turns the piece around with delicate, caramel-skinned fingers. “It’s amazing, Mia. Why aren’t you showing this?” I’m sweating under my tunic, even though it’s freezing because my studio has 20-foot ceilings and a wall of windows that make it impossible to heat unless I want to hand my entire paycheck to PG&E. “It’s not for sale,” I say. I take the piece from her roughly and shove it into the dresser. Something snaps, but I close the drawer before any of us can see what it is. I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I wish they would both leave. “I agree with Samira. It’s your best work,” Dreamy Guy says. “Well, you don’t know me, and a lot of people don’t agree, including me,” I say, dying a little inside. My declaration is followed by a moment of supreme awkwardness when no one moves or knows what to say. Then Samira holds out a hand to Dreamy Guy. “Samira Abdo. And this is Mia Lieberman.” “Justin Wu. Nice to meet you.” He smiles politely as he shakes Samira’s hand, but when he turns to me, he looks like he’s calculating how much he could get for my organs and sizing me for a body bag. Which makes me think, Dismemberment is cheaper — you can use trash bags. Except I didn’t think that last bit. I have a bad habit of blurting my most random thoughts instead of keeping them tucked behind my teeth where they belong. Justin drops my hand like it’s a hot potato. Samira looks bemused. This isn’t her first rodeo with my quirks. She probably thinks I have an unusual form of Tourette’s. Maybe I do. “Too many true crime podcasts.” I babble, desperate to change the subject. “There’s a dance studio next door. You should check it out.” Justin’s body is angled toward the door, ready for escape, but when I mention Studio 4, his spine stiffens. He narrows his eyes, looking even more murderous than when he shook my hand. Jesus. He really might be a serial killer. “Nice to meet you.” His tone makes it clear what he really means is You’re dead to me. Hopefully not literally. He stomps out of my studio without taking me prisoner and murdering me and, when I hear the lobby door click, I start to breathe again. “Well, Mia.” Oh yeah. Samira’s still here. “I think there’s a market for your constructions.” She hands me a card and I let it slip through my fingers onto the floor behind my back. “Please call me.” The worst thing about Samira is that she genuinely wants me to call her. The absolute toad. After she leaves, people drift in and out but none of them are gorgeous janitor/axe murderers, which is a relief and also oddly disappointing. It starts to rain toward the end of the afternoon, the drops a faint drumbeat on the metal roof. I like the sound of rain — God knows it’s rare enough these days — but it steals the light and leaves me feeling empty as Cindy Sherman’s boots. I count the minutes till I can close the door on this dismal day.

CHAPTER ONE.docx

HAMMERED STEEL CRIMSON FIRE – is two stories. One within the other. The true story of Brian Boru’s life from insignificant orphan to the only True and Rightful High King of Ireland, united in peace – book-ended, as you watch over Geoffrey of Monmouth’s shoulder, as he steals Brian’s life – His dreams, deeds, and glory; to fabricate a Hero for King Henry Ist – King Arthur of England. HAMMERED STEEL AND CRIMSON FIRE ~ 6 Book Series The Life of Brian Boru High King of Ireland 951-1014 Based on a true story High Concept, Commercial Fiction History, Biography, Adventure, Romance, Intrigue, Mystery, War (No fantasy) Braveheart of Ireland meets Uhtred of the Last Kingdom, and the Da Vinci Code (Solving the mysteries of the Real, King Arthur, and the nature and location of the original Grail) Concerning ~ A boy who would never be King, A “certain most ancient book” that would never be found, A thief in the night who would never be caught, The most compelling mystery never solved, The most successful and perfidious fraud ever committed, The two most famous, enduring, and beloved, imposters of all time, King Arthur of Britain, and the Holy Grail, And the truth. Fact: - Geoffrey, cleric, of Monmouth Wales, in 1136, penned the first account of 5th century King Arthur of England. Despite what 800 years of historians, nonfiction books, documentaries, and scholars, claim – there is absolutely no mention of 5th century King Arthur, Hero, Defender, Uniter of Britain, before Geoffrey – not one. - Though, for centuries, historians and archeologists have searched England, for any evidence, the real King Arthur lived; or of Camelot, his castle; Avalon, the place of his burial; or Camlann, the site of his great final Battle – though some has been, speculated or fabricated – nothing has ever been found. - To date, experts have declared Geoffrey’s account of King Arthur of Britain, a king who: united his people, defended, won, restored his country, for a period of peace and prosperity, and finally gave his life in a final battle for the homeland he loved – a figment of Geoffrey’s imagination, a literary device, a myth, or compilation of several men. They adamantly claim – there never was a real man behind the larger-than-life legend, nor could there have been. - However, Geoffrey states quite clearly in his introduction, his source for King Arthur of Britain – “a certain most ancient book”, given to him by Walter, Archbishop of Oxford. - Norse, Njal’s and Thorstein’s Sagas, with accounts of the Battle of Clontarf, known as King Brian’s War, reference a book for their recounting, called – Brjans Saga – Brian’s Story. One of the great mysteries of Norse Literature, is what became of it. Although many Sagas of this period survived – Brjans Saga was “lost.” - Scholar, Einar Olafur Sveinsson, and academic Donnchadh O. Corrain, experts on Norse Literature and History, claim there must have been such a book, referenced by Njal’s and Thorstein’s Sagas, based on their accounting of events, from the Irish perspective, leading up to the battle of Clontarf. They hope one day it will be found. - The few Norse and their allies that barely survived the apocalyptic battle for Ireland, King Brian’s War, on Clontarf field, Dublin, Ireland, Good Friday, April 23rd, 1014, and made it to their ships, headed for the closest landfall – the Norse longphort, just across the Irish Sea from Dublin and the battlefield – Anglesey Wales. Book 1 ~ INSTIGATOR OF IRELAND ~ The Twelfth Son ~ And so, it was . . . That all of Killaloe lay smoldering in embers and ashes, And the Shannon ran red with blood of the sons of Cennetig, And blood red, the hills, and meadows of Erin. In years to come, the old ones would say, looking back at the time of dragonships, That was the day the Banshee of Craig Lia, who loved the boy, The last, and least of twelve sons, found him trembling, burned, and broken, And drenched in his mother’s blood, And she drew him to her breast, and wiping his tears away, blessed him with her own, For she could see the days to come – the evil, the horror – the seas of blood rising! And vowed she would be with him – even unto the end. Then Avril, of the high crag – guardian of the crumbling ring fort of Beal Boru, Shee of the ancient ones – riders of the white horse, mound builders, chariot racers, Raisers of stones – and the child of the last Thracian King, Issued forth a keening wail . . . an oath of reckoning . . . a vow, Even as the thinnest veil of moss, covers the ancient bones of Erin, So too, the sprinkling of a priest, binds the Warrior’s heart, All that is needed – a single thorn, borne on the wind . . . Then she placed her mark upon, The heads of his enemies, The soul of a priest, And in the hearts of three women. Then raging in wild and savage fury, Scored their fates, into the face of her cliffs, By thunder, of hammered steel! And lightening, of crimson fire! For the courage in the heart of the boy, Destined – him to be the one . . . The Instigator of freedom for Ireland! Part ~1 The Boy, The Book, and the Thief in the Night ~ The Saga-teller ~ Hill of Tara, Ireland April 23rd, 1137 “Tell us a tale,” the people called out in the night, and drew back like the tides of the Red Sea, “Of myths and monsters . . . of demons and dragons!” The old man, gnarled and weathered as a druid oak, made his way to the top of the windswept hill, drawing near to the fire. Then placed his hand upon the ancient pillar stone, gently as a grandfather caresses the face of a child. “I have no fairy tales,” he said. So, the people turned away, and went down from the hill. And the old man bent his head, so that his tears fell at the base of the Stone. But Eireann was listening . . .. And she summoned the wind and the waves from the edge of the world, over the Western Sea, and flung them into the cliffs, and hurtled her breath up and over the hills and valleys, tumbling in fits and torrents, and blew in their faces, and tore at their clothes, and fanned the flames of the fire, till sparks flew up into the night sky, to dance with the stars. Just then . . . The old man felt a tugging at his gown. A thorn in the wind, he thought, and tugged back. But the pesky thorn would not be denied and yanked harder still. So, he set his jaw, to give it a righteous thrashing – but . . . when he looked down, he saw, not a thorn bush but . . . a boy . . . a small boy, a thin and grimy and raggedy child, hair standing on end, eyes bright with longing. “Have, ye a true tale then, Sir?” the boy asked, “Of a real hero?” But he hesitated then, shivering in his thread bare rags, and looked down at his dirty feet, ashamed for he had no shoes. When he looked up again – ‘twas with eyes bright with tears . . . “Who was once an orphan child, that no one wanted . . . but, because he was brave, became something else, entirely?” The old man looked around the hill, but the child was alone, neglected and forgotten as the old stone. The strings of his heart tightened, even as his eyes stung. Fingertips traced along a scar upon his cheek, as if a touchstone to his memory, “Ah so,” he smiled, “I have a tale, of a boy who was brave. . .” He squinted then, and looked up into the night sky, searching the stars, and hesitating, as if he might have forgotten something – then, remembered. And looking down with a sly wink and a nod, “And a girl.” Then the old man looked out from Tara’s hill, to where moon shadows of clouds, raced in rippling waves over shimmering seas of grass. His rime-frothed hair, and cloak, and gown whipped madly about him, as sparks burst and swirled, blazing, but not as wild and brightly as his deep blue eyes. As though what he saw, belonged not to this night – but to another long ago. “The truest of tales,” he murmured, searching the stars, for just the right one, “The only kind told, by real heroes ‘round campfires in the sky.” But the people had gone down from the hill and turned their backs on the boy, the stone, and the stars. When the old man spoke again, ‘twas a fearsome thing – a rumbling, come from way down deep in the earth, up through the hill and the stone. The growling of a feral beast, to scold, and score, and shake the earth from its slumber, and wind blew over Hill of Tara, hurling his voice like rolling thunder, across the plains, over the mountains, and beyond the seas. “Oh, you foolish children, who seek what is not there, and never was – a reflection in the pool, a shadow upon the meadow, an echo in the hills – has no beating heart! Don’t you know, there can be no courage, nor valor, nor Hero, nor deeds worth remembering, nor story worth telling without truth. All else is chaff in the wind.” And Eireann’s breath whispered all around them, quickening every blade of grass, ruffling the leaves silver, and tumbling the clouds in moon-glow. . . “Listen well!” The old man roared, a mighty stag upon the mount. “For, I will tell you of a myth that is true, and of the monster who fed upon it, Of a boy who became a giant, and of the serpent who dragged him down to Hel, Of a light, a brilliant light, as bright as a blood-ember, glowing, And of a demon in the darkness, black as a tomb in a new moon, And of the shadow he conjured, that grew upon the wall, Twisting and writhing, and slithering through the cracks, Until it spread o’er the land, extinguishing the light, And with it came a pestilence, a poison, a plague, on the children of Eireann, To scorch and shrivel every meadow and flower, and dream and dawning, For every dew drop in Erin, turned to blood! And the most sacred of all fell on this hill, on this stone, on this very night . . . And it all began – the day the dragons came.” So, the people gathered once again around the Lia Fail Stone, the Stone of Destiny, upon the Hill of Tara. The crowning place of the ancient High Kings of Erin. The high hill between the Seas, where more blood and tears, lay shed, and dreams born and shattered, than any other. The old man put his arm around the shivering child and drew him into the folds of his gown. Then, borne up by the rushing wind, and the longing of a boy, he drew himself tall and straight as a yew mast, arms outstretched, cloak beating around him like billowed sails. His hoar-frost hair, a glowing banner of moonlight, whipped about like sea-frothed surf in the fury of a winter storm. Voyagers all – a ship in the offing – bound for the stars . . .. And the old man stirred the dying embers of their cold and empty hearts, searching for a Hero, as all men do. And set them ablaze with forgotten memories, and abandoned dreams, as his voice shattered the night, and shuddered the earth, even as thunder waves pounded the sea-cliffs to sand. . . “O’r the lap of the land, o’r Sea-kings’ road, From sea-eagles’ nest, on cragged mount, To fen of troll, in Hel-fires below, Dwell many thieves, Ring thieves, who steal a man’s silver and gold, Fiend thieves, who ravage homeland and savage loved ones. Demon thieves, who lie in wait to blood-eagle his soul, No matter, These treasures belong to the man and will fade soon enough. But – the most craven of all – are the Liar Thieves! Robbers of treasure that belongs to all men, for all time. Cowards, who claim another man’s glory, His courage, And his dreams, And the deeds that were his life, And call them their own. This I know. I saw. And I tell you now, the truth of it. For I, Sword-Dane, and Spear-Dane, and brother to God’s dastard, Was there in the beginning . . . the middle . . . and the end . . . I knew the boy, the young Rebel and Outlaw, the Warrior and the King, I held the book in my hands, I touched the blood-smeared names . . . And, I saw the Coward, thieving in the night!” Chapter 1 ~ PLAGUE RAVEN 1134 ~ Anglesey, West Coast of Wales ~ 3 years earlier Geoffrey of Monmouth, cleric to Walter, the Archdeacon of Oxford, perched on his stool like a plague raven gargoyle, casting a loathsome eye back and forth between the piles of musty manuscripts, and the trencher of spitted piglet carcass on the table before him. The corners of his right eye and mouth ticked spasmodically, like the twitching of maggots flicked onto red embers. And rightly so, for he drew nearer to a spit-scorching himself, every day. He’d exceeded his deadline for the King. There by, reneged on his contract, betrayed the trust, and spat in the face of the King’s generosity. Ah yes, and how had the First Henry put it? Coyly, with one arm about his shoulder, and his dagger in his other hand, the tip of the blade, darting about his face like a poison-fanged adder, as he walked him to window gesticulating East, over Wales to England. His broad sword and small mace jingling; and compliment of soldiers with all the aforesaid, as well as battle-ax, boar-spear, neck-cuffs, chains, and gaffing hook, helped to make his point. “You, Geoffrey, hold not only the outcome of my war with France – in your right hand – but my very life, and the future of all Britain, as well.” His eyes narrow-slitted, and glinting, “Do you think you can manage?” Geoffrey, his right hand usually occupied with himself, let go to wipe the sweat from his upper lip, and flap at his gown to fan the water running down his legs and moth-eaten stockings, into his scuff-worn sandals. Indeed, Henry 1st, King of England had decked the Tower of London, for Yule – with bowels and bollocks – for far less disappointment, than this. How his entrails would be removed to garland the Great Hall, and his cods to roast with the chestnuts, during the hymn singing, evoked in Geoffrey intolerable pain and a constant sweating, so that he wondered if he might be bleeding from every pore. He quickly crossed himself over the blasphemous thought, turning his gaze away from the waning sun’s rays, palely illuminating the three crucifixes hanging upon the stone chamber wall, above the fireplace before him. A thief on each side, and Christ in the middle, who loved scabby lepers, filthy Samaritans, and poxied prostitutes, diverted His gaze from Geoffrey as well. Glistening like a freshly boiled tripe, bald as a bladder and mottled as mange – pocked as a sea sponge, and as white and dimpled as a leavened loaf, needing to be punched – Geoffrey possessed the sweaty sheen about him of a cooling corpse, and the odor of a rancid sausage casings. His eyes bulged, black and bloodshot as festering buboes. Jowls hung swollen and hairless as milch cow udders. Nose inflamed and purple-veined, as a cankered teat with mastitis, he tended well with copious amounts of Sacramental red wine – the pilfered blood of Christ, meant for the poor. Pouring from a large pewter pitcher, he filled his Rhineland glass goblet, a parting gift from the King to the brim, and gulped greedily. Balm for his tormenting physical incarceration and mental self-flagellation, within the piddling tower chamber. With a pang of self-pity, Geoffrey acknowledged he’d seen horse stalls bigger and more congenial than this, and far less foul smelling. His chamber, a flue for the kitchen below, cow-pen, pigsty and stable just outside and up-wind, possessed stone walls stained with several hundred years of smoke and greasy soot, and infused with the smells of rotting rubbish heap, rancid swine slop, and pungent horse dung. In one corner, the stone floor opened to a steep and winding staircase down, contrived so that one Kingsman, with a sword in his right hand, could defend the tower against an upcoming horde of Saxons. Perhaps left-handed, he’d obviously failed his task, the filthy drunken Saxons having used his chamber for a privy for three hundred years, and the stench remained. In the other corner – a rudely constructed cot, lumpy with infested horse-hair mattress, home to bed lice, and other small vermin, attracting certain barn foul, which in turn deposited defecated remnants of said vermin, all over the contents of the chamber. Next to the bed, a small chest contained everything shabbily made and thread bare, he owned. And beside it, a wicker basket with his only other set of grimy linens, which the Archdeacon’s cat, following the Saxons lead, befouled on a regular basis as well. No, he’d had one thing and one thing only, of any value, his entire life – his mother’s little copper pot, he kept on the windowsill. Geoffrey sniffled. Every meal she had ever made for him, simmered in that pot, from nettle soup to mealy-worm gruel, and frog-broth when he burned with fever. She would cradle him in her arm while she stirred at it, telling him he possessed a poet’s heart and one day, he would be a great man, important to the King. And after she was gone, her cherished copper pot would be his, to remind him of her forever. Up until the day the King’s men burned the hovel down about her. She would not leave her only gift for him behind. And although she managed to fling it out to him, from the window, she succumbed to the flames. He scraped up what was left of her, after, with a scorched wooden spoon, and carried it with him in her pot, always placing her gently upon the windowsill, so she could see the hills of the west-lands, she loved. Geoffrey snorted, then poured liberally, raising his goblet, and toasted the barren sill. Then sloshed down another draught. All in all, his world – up until Henry Rex had trodged up the Saxon stairs, stood perusing his realm, took a piss out the window, and deposited the rancid eel he ate in France, into his mother’s little copper pot, could be summed up in two words – awful and offal. A tear rolled down his cheek, at least he had been blessed with the poet’s heart she longed for. But that was two years ago. And after Henry had trodged back down the stairs, Geoffrey vowed to rid himself of the pot, its contents, and all sentimentality with it. No more copper in his life – shimmering, pale green, Rhineland glass, silver chalices and golden adornments, crimson silk and finely laced-linens hovered on the horizon before him. Even, as odious as the task of extracting a credible history had become, the plethora of manuscripts piled high around him, lay upon a beautifully carved and highly polished table of English oak. The King’s Oak. And everyone in England knew to pluck even a branch of the King’s Oak, meant being skinned alive and boiled in oil. The table, yet another gift from Henry, to grease the skids, he said, of the project, along with a silver ring inlaid with a large sapphire and engraved with the King’s initials, HR – Henry Rex. And no one doubted Henry’s ability at . . . skid-greasing . . .. He’d the reputation of procuring whomever, and whatever he wanted, in the class of human, flora or fauna, Abbess, novitiate, or mutton, in several kingdoms. Lucky Geoffrey, he reminisced, dabbing at his forehead with his sleeve, and pulling on the chaffing neck of his gown, receiving a commission from the racking, and disemboweling King, Henry I, to write a History of the Kings of Britain from the Trojan horse, to time remembered. “A gift to his people, from their beloved Monarch”. Henry gloated, displaying brown teeth, and purulent gums, “A beacon of inspiration for the ages! Something for them to revere me by!” But Henry lied. For his “Historia” was to be a scheming far more insidious than that – and he, Geoffrey – complicit. His innards grumbling, and outards shriveling, he considered what would happen if he failed to deliver the wherewithal for the King’s intrigue . . . "Concerning Geoffrey of Monmouth – Oath-breaker! Procrastinator! Renegar! Of the King’s good grace! Shall be taken to the Tower, forthwith. To be mutilated, drawn, and quartered! Each limb to the four corners of the Realm! Head on a pike, cods on a skewer, what is left, interred in an iron basket, to dangle above the castle gate, until his maggot-ridden flesh should rot, and bones fall to the ground to be eaten by worm-infested dogs, carried away, buried, and pissed on by drunkers and scabied crones, from this day, and henceforth!" Geoffrey poured another goblet full, the translucent pale green, shimmering in the firelight, his eyes stinging, a knot rising in his throat. What else could he do? Thanks to Walter, the Archdeacon, his superior and benefactor – from whom all moldy porridge, runty-piglets, and slatternly necessities in life flowed – The King of flogging England had promised him, upon completion of his task: The Priesthood, an anointing in Westminster Abby to Bishop, consecration to Archdeacon, with a position at Aslaf, and – his pending missive, Historia of the Kings of Britain to be published, to the far reaches of Christendom, ad infinitum. Not to mention, recognition and acceptance in the courts of Kings, with good food, fine robes, a feather bed, no doubt his choice of belly-warmers, and everyone genuflecting before him, and kissing his right hand all the time, bearing the bejeweled ring from the King. He, Geoffrey, lowly cleric from Monmouth, who would otherwise be trapped in the cave-infested, midden-heap of Anglesey, in the farthest foul dregs of west Wales, beyond the outer edge of the Roman Empire and civilization, and the closest landfall to the barbaric Irish. Even mighty Caesar, though he conquered the rest of the world – loathed to go to Ireland. And if he refused? His future loomed bleak. Nothing had ever come from puking Wales, beset with superstitions, ghosts of ghoulish Danes skulking in the mists, and wailings echoing throughout the hills of evil otherworldly demons. The last of the headless Celts, festering in tombs, and bansheeing about in vile winds, forever blowing over from the Irish Sea, with the fetid breath and blustering bowels of the Irish! Geoffrey sloshed himself another glassful, consumed with melancholy, tipped, and guzzled. And why should he alone, bear the burden of the fate of Britain? The fact of the matter – Henry 1st, King of England, Scotland, Wales, and Duke of Normandy – 4th son to bastard, William the Conqueror, and some whispered, father to at least 22 ill-conceived gammy get out of bowlegged sheep on both sides of the Channel. Though over-sexed and nonselective, remained incapable of producing, even one living legitimate son. Geoffrey grunted – that made Henry, 0 for 22 – an astounding feat in any wager hall in all of Christendom. And with a new wife, pronounced, pox-free, womb-worthy, sluice-sanctified, younger, and ever more virginal than her predecessor. And although, with everything considered, and the odds favorable for his success upon his return from war; many of his subjects lined up to accept the wager – against their King. In fact, Geoffrey mused blurrily, jokes aplenty were chortled in the shadows of every castle, ale house, and sacristy. And written on privy walls from Cardiff to Whitehall, inspiring him to wax poetic – a ditty concerning the new odds of the King managing a legitimate son, in his own bed. He sneered sadistically. A hymn of sorts, from the soon to be Archbishop, to his beloved benefactor – Henry Rex. Refilling and swilling, abandoning for a moment his besotted melancholy, and normally dour and petulant demeanor, he raised his goblet to the Crucified, jowls aquiver, and broke into an unholy, hand slapping, foot stomping, slurry of tone-death, song . . . “Whilst Henry was off fighting his wars and tending his wounds, His nobles, guards, and grooms of the stool tended his wombs, So, by the time he returned in the spring, His odds had taken an insufferable swing, His fields – over tilled – and amply slung, Well seeded – and deeply plumbed . . . Possessed a far greater square acreage, Then his entire Kingdom!” “Ha!” Geoffrey smirked wickedly at the poetic irony, tinging the glass goblet with his crusty brown, rat-gnawed, third fingernail. Thus, Henry’s once favorable odds for success – Now, down the privy – floating with Mum!” The fact of the matter – the King of England, brutally successful in all things base or unconscionable, waxed undisciplined in all things kingly or sanctified. Simply put, Henry I, the rutting old whore-hound, lived to run trash – in the hunt, and out. And now out of money for his wars, sporting a raging brothel disease, with only one legitimate daughter, and in dire need of his people accepting his eldest bastard son, Robert 1st Earl of Gloucester, as heir – he expected Geoffrey to rectify the rat's nest, of all his many bastards – in his family tree, buried in the roots, and stinking up the place. And he expected him to accomplish this feat, a fortnight ago, before he returned to England from France. . . any minute now, still steaming from battle, sword bloodied, pissed off, broke again, with a full bladder, itchy crotch, empty bollocks – the apparent curse of his Viking forefather, Ivar the Boneless – and a frustrated yearning to mutilate something! Geoffrey swiped at his tears and sweat, mixed with pigeon dung, dripping down his barren pate with a malodorous sleeve. Then deposited it again with two swipes across both cheeks. All the while, his stomach howling from hunger, and bowels convulsing in terror Hazily drawn back to the moment, sniffling, he remained wretchedly racked by two pressing problems. The first – the didn’t know whether to eat or shite. And the second – Geoffrey concealed a secret of his own . . .. As if on cue, a spasmodic coughing echoed through the tower, from the adjoining chamber, a croaking, huffing, gaging, hurling fit of what he knew to be a greenish slurry, of phlegm, a congealant, looking considerably like moldy bread pudding, spraying the walls, oozing from the pustules of fetid rot in the occupant’s lungs. Hocked up, and spit everywhere, except into the spittle pot. Followed by an intense wheezing and choking as air was sucked in, along with whatever congealed, yet un-hocked. Just when he thought his plight couldn’t get worse – the grunting of a wild boar rooting for truffles, combined with the wheezing of a heevy horse, filtered up the stair-well. Walter, the Archdeacon, with the paunch of a pregnant palfrey, flatulent and stiff with gout, lumbered up the winding stone stairs of the keep, bracing himself against the wall at the top, scarlet faced and puffing like a blacksmith’s bellows. In one corpulent fist he pressed a lace-embellished handkerchief to his copse of sprouting nose-hair, bearing the embroidered emblem of Pope Innocent II. In the other – an item of dubious origin, and malodorous construction, he dangled as far away as possible from his person. Geoffrey sucked his tongue against the back of his teeth, waggling his own itchy ballast against the stool, resentful for the piling on of his other piles – yet another manky missive, from the puffing little pisspot. Needing fortification, he funneled more of the sacramental red wine, first into his goblet, swigged it, and then sloshed it around in his mouth and through his sparse teeth. Puffing out first one cheek, then the other, and finally down his gullet, belching loud and long, with great satisfaction at the perceived quavering Crucifixes. Even by candlelight, and brined in wine, Geoffrey discerned the hideous thing could never have been any sort of a book, as might have been passed down by a family of nobles. Newborn calf-vellum meticulously tied into folio and bound with fine leather, in any reasonable way. Nor a manuscript of venerable worth, scrolled and wrapped in velvet, and embroidered with silver thread, as one would find in the collection of the Holy Church. Nor was it finely rendered in unborn translucent lambskin, illuminated in gold-leaf, embellished with silver trappings, and ensconced in a bejeweled reliquary from the library of the King. To the contrary, it appeared more like the hideous saddle bag collection of used privy papers, belonging to a vile Visigoth in the sacking of Rome. Sneezing convulsively, Walter waddled and wheezed over to the desk, dropping the repugnant midden heap, in front of Geoffrey, in a puff of dust, and other indistinguishable flotsam. Then snorted into his linen and lace handkerchief, blowing like a trumpeter swan, the congealant from each nostril. Inspecting it thoroughly, he continued, “Some foul relic of a waesucks, looking as though he’d been tossed from a godforsaken dragon ship, a century ago, showed up at the door. Had the manner of the churlish Irish about him, mumbling codswallup about a High King . . . as if there’s anything higher than a King! . . . soused old sarder, lying on the front steps like a worm-infested dog. Had him doused with a bucket of cold water . . . then hot piss, and sicked the hounds on him, but he refused to leave until you were given this . . . this . . . sheer bloody evil . . . Heard you’re compiling a record of Kings.” Walter sneezed, spasmodically, beflummoxed by vapors in the air. . . “As if that old boothahler would know anything of Kings! I was afraid he’d die on the doorstep, let loose of his pesty bowels, and spread the plague . . . Anything to get rid of him . . . the filthy, pribbling old stank!” He turned and fled the chamber, groaning and wheezing, his slack rear sally-port flapping like wet laundry, in a stiff March breeze. At the top of the stairs, he called back to Geoffrey, “The crazed old laggard kept mumbling something about . . . the grayest . . . or gravest . . . rubbish like that . . . King that ever lived! . . . Can you imagine that . . . by Satan’s hairy ass! . . . If he’s ever been close to a real King, I’ll drink the piss pot next time . . . the gorbellied old gudgeon.” And with that, the dried-up old chitterlings, puffing and grunting, lumbered his gout-oozing legs, and dying bagpipe effluvium back down the Saxon stairs. Geoffrey sighed heavily, closing his eyes, and bowed his head, sanctimoniously, feigning prayer. Then with a momentary air of abject concentration – heaved a rancid belch, before reluctantly studying the loathsome pile of middlings upon his desk, nose twitching, striving to separate the fetid reek of the bundle, from the fomenting dregs of Walter. His entire face puckered in disgust, ultimately deeming his latest acquisition far worse – reeking as a kilted Celt’s saddle blanket, and rank and worn as the womb, of the brothel-bred, third wife of Claudius. Whatever would he want with a grayest or gravest King? Just what he needed, an account from one half-dead old scrote, to another half-deaf! Requiring further sustenance, he poured another brim full, sucking greedily, until breathless, eyes watering, belching like a bloated toad. Well, he had to admit, it would be original . . . an old and dignified King. If there was one thing, that the piles of manuscripts in front of him, and the piles in his ass, for the last two years, bore witness – in the entire privy-porridge before him – old kings, as well as dignified kings, didn’t exist. And for good reason; they were a miserable, sadistic, gold-grubbing, mank-mongering, brutish bunch. In fact, all Kings, he had found so far, waxed more of the: brutal-torturing, limb-quartering, treacherous-poisoning, eye-gouging, bowel-extracting, tongue-lopping, burning at the stake types. Hated by not only their enemies, and own people, but by kith and kin as well. And deservedly so, all of them tormenting him now with their tediously unremarkable lives. Apparently unworthy of any sort of a mention at all – the boring, abysmally inconsequential bastards! . . . What’s he supposed to do, make the rubbish heap up? He fought to swallow the lump in his throat, a fuzzy moment of melancholia, washing over him. Casting a furtive glance towards the wall, he wondered if he were being condemned to Purgatory by the all-knowing, ever-present, all-powerful Crucified Christ. In all the stacks of manuscripts and books on his desk, and four centuries of dredging up every old geezer: Gildas, the Venerable Bede, Nennius, Welsh Annals, Anglo Saxon Chronicles, and God help him – the fomenter – Ireland’s Patrick! . . . even flogging Beowulf! – Who all claimed to make record of the history of Britain, after the Romans fled; none of them mentioned a King of Britain by name, who rose to defend against the barbarians, won battles, restored peace, and united the Kingdom – not fetching one! Henry’s command: “I need a King! A great Warrior! Defender against invading Saxons, and Franks, Sacker of Ireland, Guardian of Christendom, a Uniter and Protector of his people, and Bestower of Peace and Prosperity! A Hero among men – a shining light upon the hill against the black plague of filthy Barbarians!” Then, affably placing his arm around Geoffrey’s shoulder, he slid it further along, until locking his head in his clenched elbow, just at his throat. He squeezed, teeth grinding, voice growing ever more menacing and thunderous – “What I need now, cleric – succinctly . . . is Precedent . . . to invade Ireland! . . . the ignorant little pissants would rather give their gold and silver to God, then to their King, and stubborn too . . . I’ll have to slaughter them all, to get it. And to butcher fellow Catholics – which I might add, has never been done before – even Irish Catholics – I need a Papal Bull . . . and that I need, that before my doddering, moldering, bribable, English Pope, is supplanted by the German anti Pope. He growled menacingly, “Which means you’ll have to hurry, or we’ll all be gagging on head cheese, and sauerkraut!” Henry Rex, wild-eyed, red in the face and raging, bellowed into his ear. . . “No one seems to understand the stress I am under – the bloody bastards! It costs, to make war on everyone, in this country and out, and on both sides of two seas. Do you see my predicament now – Geoffrey – hopelessly insignificant, smelly little flea-infested cleric of Monmouth?” King Henry the 1st, pressed his cold wet lips, and putrid hot breath against his ear, snarling like a baited bear – “Precedent Geoffrey. He’s in your piles somewhere – find him!” Geoffrey swayed on his stool, his face puckering to fight the tears, and raised his blurry glass, delivering a swaggering toast, to the eminent specter of the King, who would soon appear at top of the stairs. “Well, come on up Harry, you boneless little bastard, and have a good and close looksee at my piles, why don’t you” . . . he garbled, gulping and welling up with melancholy, eyes brimming, throat tightening even as visions of flames engulfed him . . . the sounds of his fat crackling, the smell of his own searing flesh and singeing hair, what was left around his ears – his carcass, and little stunted pink and hairless chestnuts, crackling on a stick over the brassier of some cankered toothless hag, gummed to death, hawked out, and frog-gulped by a filthy mongrel dog, and cast off as a hairy, toothy turd. Gasping for air he slammed the goblet down on the table. It shattered in his hand. A drop of blood oozed from a tiny, imperceptible sliver of glass in his palm. Sniveling, his breath catching, he held his hand up for the three wavering Crucifixes to see, lower lip quivering, “As if any of you give a rat’s ass!” Well, he’d checked his piles. There was no such beloved British King, Defender, Uniter, Protector, Sacker of Ireland, named in all bloody Britain . . . not bloody flogging one! Geoffrey sniveled and wiped again. First his nose, then his eyes on his threadbare crusty-sodden sleeve, smearing pigeon dung anew, from cheek to crevasses of jowl. He could see it now . . . Henry’s ghost clanking up the stone stairs in his bloodied armor, spurs clinking across the wooden floor. He hovered at his shoulder with his steel-studded mace, swinging in a calculated arc, that if moved the width of a ferret’s fanny, would crush his skull . . .. “Well, let the fusty-lugging Henry come.” He drooled. If he was to be carried away to the Tower of Whitehall. any moment upon the Rex’s return, he might as well enjoy himself. He raised the pitcher, in toast, to the three blurry crucifixes – “To imposters and thieves all – and last suppers!” Then swilled his well-deserved draught to the dregs, just to spite them, wine running in rivulets down the corners of his flaccid lips. With soused and reckless abandon, he would deny himself no longer. He cast all thought of deadline and disembowelment out of his mind and pulled the wooden trencher closer. He studied the roasted little corpse before him from every angle. . . the sheen of grease, the curling of the rind around the edges, the shimmer of seeping fat. De-spitting it, his mouth watered at the bloody oozing of juice, from the gash along the belly, as he rubbed his thighs together tingling in anticipation. Tucking the white linen tablecloth into the crusty neck of his frayed woolen gown and pushing up his sleeves; he commenced the only thing that felt good all day – tearing limb from ribs, skin from breast, popping joints, excoriating bones with his teeth and tongue, his cheeks twitching like a toad-stuffed weasel. A teeth-sucking, fingernail-tooth plucking, messy business. When he realized, rather stuporously, bits of flesh, and juice splashing around the trencher upon his own ink-blotched, scratched-through, pigeon-dunged, manuscript. His bowels convulsed again, clenching in spasm, at the reminder of his own work. Two years’ worth of heartburn and bowel-bloat, a hodge-podge of wizards and dragons, Trojan Horse to Vortigern hog-swill. In a drunken quandary, he surveyed the table covered with antiquated lore, on loan from some stogy self-righteous Venerable or another. All of whom he had to bow on his knees and kiss their rings, and pimpled, hairy asses, in return for their sacred manuscripts. Always on the right hand . . . well he knew where their right hand had been, the same place he kept his! A flood of self-pity washed over him – strangely followed by something else . . .. He spied the only missive, whose mutilation wouldn’t mean his own fat, bursting and oozing in runnels of grease, into the fire. Reaching out, he stabbed his greasy knife tip into the pile of grimy rags and gaffed the Visigoth’s privy-papers closer. Upon blurry-eyed inspection, he thought it was quite possibly the most befouled pile of scat he had ever seen. It appeared to be slovenly wrapped in tatters of squalid linen, begrimed with sard knows what, and carelessly leather bound in tough old cow hide. As if a child had fashioned it from a sharp rock, a dull blade, and cured it in reechy curds. Black as pitch from smoke, green with mold, and rodent chewed along the edges; it appeared to be warped from sea water and cured with salt-scum. And for a moment . . . he could almost see . . .not blurry like everything else in the chamber . . . but clearly . . . the image of it . . . the old book washed up on a distant shore, mixed with flotsam of pink foam, and the blood and gore of mutilated bodies . . . the waves tugging and flipping the pages . . . and running the ink . . .transforming the words . . .. He rubbed at his eyes, just as quickly, the image went away. A drunken belligerence followed. He would show Walter, the King, and the old scutters on the steps, just what he thought of his newest acquisition. His brain wallowing in wine, and the room swaying, he roughly sheared the tattered covering away with his grease smeared blade. Then sliding the tip underneath, severed the layers of contracted thin leather thong, wrapped around it, binding the leaves of calfskin together. As he did, the roar of wind from over the Irish Sea throttled through the window, blowing open the shutters, banging them against the stone wall, and careening through the chamber, fanning the flames of the brasier, sparks flying, all around him, whipping loose velums from the Venerables, around the chamber, in a maelstrom, swirling in a vortex of ancient texts. Geoffrey grabbed at them, trying to keep them from igniting, or being sucked out the window. Geoffrey froze . . . He heard something . . . a voice? A wave of dread washed over him, and even – guilt, as if he were somehow – trespassing . . . or worse – violating . . . and even more than that, before the scowling crucifixes – profaning. He quickly crossed himself, sloppily missing each intended mark. Then let the pages loose. Rattled, and wild-eyed, he reached for the pitcher again, raised, tilted, and swilled long and hard, sucking at the empty brim, until slamming it down on the table, swiping at the crimson dribbling down his chin. This time, he would be master of his own destiny, rejecting the prompting to leave the book intact. He stood over it, inspecting it with all the cunning of a drunken butcher and grunting like a lusty bull; he thrust the tip of his knife into the heart of the book. He stabbed, and gouged viciously, piercing deeply, and in increasing rapid succession, as if slaughtering a tough old sow, that wouldn’t fall to her knees. The vellum pages, brown with age and welded together, seemed unwilling to give up their secrets, clinging to the leather covers, as if bound and sealed by some unfathomed covenant. Then standing to gain leverage, he put his full weight into it, prying the lacerated calf skin, open, until he had enough to grip. Flopping his weight upon it, he wrenched the covers down, splintering the spine apart. The sinew binding the leaves together ruptured. Until it lay, like a deboned chicken, filleted and flattened, a broken thing. The vellum, stiff and crusted together with what appeared some sort of mold, muddied, and darkly stained, quivered in shreds, so that various strips of flayed skin lay in mess of disparate layers, indiscernible as pages in form or content. The mutilation left him breathless, heart pounding and exhilarated, for once in his life, he reigned as the only Master and subjugator of his realm. The brutality serving to whet his appetite even more. He slid the eviscerated carcass under his trencher of piglet, so that its insignificance, might further serve his appetite. It felt good to let the bits of torn flesh and ruptured tendon fly, and the juice splatter, and the grease run all over the grimy old pages – the one bit of flotsam in his life, no one would miss. He belched, cheeks puffing, lips flapping, spitting out the bones, once slurped and sucked of marrow, upon the old book. He let the fat drip, and bloody juice ooze off the trencher on to it. The thickest grease, salty and sweet, running down through his fingers, he savored before it could get away, plunging each appendage into his mouth, one after the other. Circumventing each joint, he licked, working his way down to the fist and finally backing out, while sucking it clean. His lips pursed around each one, as pink and puckered as the tail-end of a winking she-goat in heat. Then wiped, first the front and then back of his slimy fingers, off on the pages, smudging charcoal, and soot, and foraged on, until the last, canted beam of setting sunlight withdrew from the arrow-slitted window. There! The goose flesh rising, like a plucked chicken, on his hairless arms, in mid-mastication of the suckling creature’s heart. He strained to see in the dimming light, his mouth slack and gaping, like the wanton lips of the Sheela-na-gig of Rattoo. With a taper, he lit a candle and moved it closer, straining to see in the darkening chamber, struggling to find again, the melding and morphing phrase of words that had caught his eye – now illusive . . . He pushed his trencher and assorted bones, and the worst of the bloody juice off the dismembered pages, carelessly onto the rest of the Venerables’ manuscripts. Then moved the candlestick closer, until the incandescent light, illuminated the scourged and bloody skin before him. With grease-slicked fingers, he tried frantically, to smooth out the mutilated vellum, to make sense of it. Upon closer inspection, he found it to be a muddle of mismatched drawings, words, and images, faces and places, creating a riddle of sorts, in a jumble of bits and ragged pieces. Utterly sloshed, eyes blood-shot and blurry, he thought he had seen a phrase, a run of words that intrigued him. But try as he might, he could not get them back. He licked his corpulent thumb with a thick tongue, again and again, and shoved the tattered, pieces back and forth, smudging the inked words and images, desperate to find the right combination to patch together an entire page . . . Dragon heads with tongues extended . . . mouths dripping with blood . . . flames leaping high, consuming cots of a ringfort . . . shooting out from a round tower windows . . . enfrenzied horses, eyes wild with fear . . . hideous monsters, bearded, with fangs . . . a chariot flying through the air, one wheel landing . . . the face of a beautiful little girl . . . a small boat with oars and mast . . . swords dripping with blood! He flipped down a strip of tattered vellum – not dragons but Dragonships! And the monsters – Northmen in pointed helms and chainmail, with battle-ax, and broad-sword – all rendered in the primitive hand of a child. There . . . from the fractured spine of the book, protruded the tip of a quill, feathered in variegated stripes of white and dark gray, and stained a faded and rusty pink. He tugged at it, and out it came, along with a legion of – wispy milk-weed seedlings – of all things. Hovering around his head, on his face, in his eyes. He swatted at them. To no avail, as they swirled around him, floating on the drafts, luminous in the quavering candlelight of the chamber. The tip of the quill, darkly stained, had been carved into a point. Inspecting it for sharpness, he tapped it against the vellum, a fine dark-rust colored powder fell upon the page, the pungent odor – moldering blood. Distracted, he sucked at the back of a broken tooth, spit on the tip, of the quill, wiped it on the page, then used it to pluck a stubborn bit of bowel sheath out, from between his festering gums and blackened teeth, all the while inspecting the page before him. Then slurped the bit of sheath, off the tip, fondling it with the tip of his tongue, savoring, and swallowed. Strangely, the rust-colored powder had fallen into a pool of grease, upon the aged manuscript before him. There . . . beneath the grease . . . words he could barely make out. He wiped at the pool, smearing it with a large suety thumb. It immediately turned to a bright crimson streak of what appeared to be fresh blood. He swiped again, and beneath the bloody smear – words appeared – still illegible. He reached for the pitcher – empty, save for a few drops, and frantically shook the last of the Sacramental wine upon the letters. It pooled over the stain on the page, stripping away grease and grime, time, and ages until – there they were . . . Again, came the wind, blasting the shutters open, hurting them into the wall, rupturing the hingers, in an explosion of wooden splinters, and whirling around the chamber, sweeping the pages of the Venerable ones up and hurtling them around, the flying sparks igniting them into flames! As they flew up, swirling around the tower, and out the window. But Geoffrey, paid no mind. For upon the flayed calf skin before him, streaked with crimson blood – lay the fragment of words that had eluded him, in all the venerated piles of manuscripts. Words of the pleading old scutters on the doorstep, Words the stone-deaf Walter didn’t hear, Words for which he had been searching desperately, for two years, Words that might just keep his fat from sizzling in Henry’s fire, The very words to seal his future, filled with gold and silver, crimson and lace, and Kings kneeling before him, to kiss his ring . . . Written in blood . . . Bound and sealed in blood . . . And redeemed only – by the blood of Christ . . . “. . . the greatest High King who ever lived . . ..” (Geoffrey continued bookend for end of book I) Geoffrey froze . . . mind racing in reckless abandon . . .. He began to pace back and forth, across the chamber, eyes locked upon the blood-stained, wine-blurred words, his besotted brain, sloshing around inside his skull, with him. Is it possible, he possessed the only book in the world with a record of, “The greatest High King that ever lived!” He savored the words slowly. It was true, that on the West Coast of Wales, rumors were heard in drunken ale halls, and scratched on the walls of privies, and murmured in the cobwebs and shadows of the superstitious Welsh. He’d heard tall tales of an Irish King, that all the people loved, who fought great battles, against Sea-raiders, and Irish traitors, to achieve what all knew to be impossible – peace in a united Ireland. “Ha!” He sneered, “As if anyone would ever believe that!” Only to be betrayed by his very own his wife, and stepson, enticing a huge Viking army to come and sack the Isle, steal the treasure, kill the King, and all for the very hand, of his cuckolding wife of astounding beauty! What was it the Sagas called her . . . the “balm in bed for her many Kings!” Rubbish! But they were just tales, murmurings, gossip, who would believe that an Irish King accomplished what no British King or Roman Emperor had? Ridiculous! Still . . . he could drop the High – sounded too Irish . . . The Greatest King who ever lived?” “Well,” smirked Geoffrey . . ." I’ll give old Henry Rex what he wants . . . a Hero for Britain, who invaded Ireland. and every place else!" Once the British had a Hero of their own, who would give a ferret’s fart, about an extinct Irish Hero? Certainly not England, and France, and the rest of the world! Geofrey giggled -" I'll give Henry his Hero - a bloody Emperor of all Britian! Geoffrey grabbed up the hem of his moth-eaten gown, and diddling a tone death tune, began to dance around, like a princess in anticipation of the ball. He dipped and whirled, toes pointed, lifting his skirts, in a dance for joy. As the shutter’s blew open again, and the wind hurtled in, sparks flying from the nearly dead brazier, igniting the flying pages, and the smoke and ashes and sparks flew out into the night. Geoffrey, giggled, and pranced about, in wild and reckless abandon . . . Twas then the voice came again . . . murmuring . . . “Geoffrey . . . Geoffrey. . . What profit it a man . . . if he gain the world – but lose his soul?” Geoffrey wheezed and grinned coyly. This time he knew the answer . . . and he picked up the pitcher of red-wine and tipped it sucking at the brim . . . but it was dry. And he looked at the words of the page of the old book, where the last of the Sacramental wine, pooled across the words, that would give him all. . .. And he took his knife and spearing the page of vellum, ripped it out of the book, and holding it up so that the Crucifixes might witness, licked the page, the last drop of Sacramental wine, the ink, and the words, until they could barely be seen. Then grinning and drooling at the Crucifixes, eyes glinting black and empty and red as coals, For he knew the answer to the riddle . . . And he queried . . . “What does it profit a man, to gain the world – but loose his soul? . . . . . . “Why 30 pieces of” . . .. and he hesitated then, for he knew the scripture well – 30 pieces of Silver, was the price Judas received, for betraying Christ to the Romans. Then, feigning piety, he stood at attention, and saluted the image of Christ on the wall . . . and the two beside him, thieves, nailed to a cross for stealing a bit of bread, who would, before the end of the day, be with Christ in Heaven. Then sweeping his arm across the table, hurling the Venerable’s manuscripts around the chamber, pages igniting in the brazier, then snatched up by the wind, swirling, in a vortex of smoke and ash, sparks and flames – he reached for the only thing left on the table . . . a strange looking pouch, of indistinguishable material, shabby, and slightly hairy, and warty looking. Yet when Geoffrey shook it, it jingled like the bells, of the Sacrament in Winchester Cathedral. Because he had already chosen – crimson silks, lace, silver and gold, the company of Kings, fame, fortune, glory, and copies of his Epistle read round the world – ad infinitum. Geoffrey grinned, with his darkly, ink stained, slack lipped, lips and drooling, as he held the strange bag up to the Crucifixes . . . eyes lit up, red and glinting, as the handmaiden of Lucifer . . . “Why” . . . he giggled – “It profit me . . . 30 pieces of . . . Gold!” Chapter 2 ~ WOLVES AT THE EDGE OF NIGHT King Brian’s War ~ Clontarf Battlefield ~ Dublin Ireland ~ Good Friday April 23rd, 1014 124 years earlier Young Latean, attendant to the High King, thrust his foot up and down with all his might into the mutilated face of a youth not much older than himself, but the mass of gutted wound-slurry would not let loose of his ankle. A ghastly claw, white and bloodless, tethered him to the battlefield of blood and gore – the specter of death haunting the corpse’s eyes, plotting to drag them both down to hell. He swiped at his eyes with a blood-soaked sleeve, and kicked frantically until his shoe slid off, talon and all, then staggered on up the battlefield, towards the tent at the top of the hill. He bore a message for the Ard Ri, he’d sooner cut out his heart than deliver – but deliver it he would. The gory dead conspired to trip him up, their severed heads and limbs scattered among their own entrails. The dying moaned out to him and tore at his clothes. He slipped and fell, again and again, crawling on his hands and knees, retching, and gasping for air. Blood, warm and cold and clotted as blood pudding, oozed through his fingers. Smoke and ashes seared his lungs. Scarlet spurted from sword slashings and dripped in stringy rivulets down from tree branches overhead, upon his face. The salt from the blood, mixing with the salt in his sweat-soaked tears, ran into his eyes, stinging and blinding him so that he could not see. All around him, the great oaks of Tomar Wood grew black with ravens, as corpses twitched and writhed from hill to sea. He struggled to stand, and clinging to a sapling, looked back down the battlefield, his stomach revolting at the sickening stench of burning flesh and ruptured bowels. The pallor of death had spread over the land, strewn with corpses, gray and bloodless. For it was all on the field – all the blood in the world, oozed and gushed, and seeped onto the mud and trampled flowers of Clontarf meadow. To the West, the last of the sun, blazed like a dying ember in a windblown fire. To the South, black smoke churned, and carcass-flames leapt up from the walls of Dublin Castle into a scarlet sky. To the East on the seashore, Danes, drowning in chainmail thrashed at water’s edge, flickering silver and blue, in scarlet foam, like a bucket of bait-herring. Their dragon ships, born out and away by the high tide and offshore wind, drifted empty and rudderless. All around him, the edges of the earth, burst into flames. And all the while, Erin’s treasure, in a river of crimson, flowed down the battlefield, across the strand, and into the Irish Sea, staining the dark green, like red wine spilled onto a silken gown. For bestowed overall, meadow, man and beast, a blessing – an Irish blessing of blood, borne, on a crimson, rain-soaked wind, up from the frothing sea. Latean wiped at his eyes with a blood-soaked sleeve, looking up to the Heavens, wondering at the hand, that could offer such a benediction over the end of all dreams. At the top of the hill, wound-ravaged warriors encircled the High King’s tent. The last of the original Dal Cassians, Brian’s boys from the beginning, now gray with age, scarred, and battle battered. They listed back and forth against the gusting wind, leaning upon gore-slurried spears – splintered shields locked together, dulled swords encrusted in blood-clotted scabbards. Still, they stood bravely at the ready, loyal to their Chief until the end, their silhouettes, etched in torrents of red rain, lashed sideways upon the outside walls of the tent. Ghosts, and blood of ghosts born over the battlefield, on banshee winds hurled up from the wild Irish Sea. In front of the tent, a terrible pain stabbed at his heart – a scene more sorrowful than bearing. “Amergin,” he whispered. Three battle weary warriors struggled at the ends of ropes, around the neck of an enfrenzied gray war-horse – the King’s stallion – his valiant battle companion for more than thirty years of warring. The beast, crazed with pain, thrashed between them, dragging, and tossing them like wet rags, desperate to be free. Oblivious to his war wounds, he skittered and reared, trying to bolt. Broken shafts of spears pierced his shoulders and flanks. Deep slashes laced his powerful chest. Arrows pierced his heaving belly as streams of blood trailed down over his legs, strafed with sword cuts. The aging stallion screamed, fierce and blood-curdling, charging towards the tent. The whites of his eyes shot with blood, as he tossed his proud head. His thick muscular neck, flexing and twisting, snake like. His massive rump bunched and coiled to bolt, rearing, and pawing the air. A profuse white mane and tail, blood-drenched and muddied, churned about him like the fury of tempest-tossed waves, spraying spirals of blood over his restrainers. Even as scarlet foam blew from his nostrils – barbed arrow tips twisting in his lungs. Still his great heart would not give in, he too, fighting to get to his beloved master.

CHAPTER TWO - Introduces protagonist, antagonist, setting, tone, inciting incident, and primary conflict. CHAPTER TWO _______________________________________ Mallory They say life can change in the blink of an eye. Mine changed in the carpool lane. After I pulled myself out of bed, after the blur of packed lunches, signed permission slips, and kisses, I received an unexpected email while dropping the girls off at school. One I wouldn’t notice or read for another thirty-four minutes. Those thirty-four minutes on that fateful Friday were filled with blissful ignorance of how the life I had built for myself would start crumbling around me. It seemed like just another ordinary day. I drove with the windows down. The California sun hit my face, and the wind blew back the loose strands of my hair. I sipped my coffee and sang along to Train’s Drops of Jupiter album. I swung by the dry cleaners and picked up Ryan’s suits, returned a call to my mother, and waved to Rebecca, my husband’s administrative assistant, who I passed at the intersection of Broadway and Fillmore on the way home. I stopped in our driveway and chatted with our neighbors, who were trimming their annoyingly immaculately maintained hedges. If I had known what was sitting in my inbox waiting for me, I wouldn’t have done any of those things. When I finally was sitting in front of my computer, I didn’t recognize the sender of the email. It was from a generic Yahoo account, truthteller55@yahoo.com, but the subject line was two simple words: Read Me. It was the type of email I usually disregarded as spam, but the subject line was so simple it caught my attention and made me pause. It came across as a pleading and urgent request from a friend, not the typical “Bad Babes All Access” junk mail that I deleted upon receipt. I clicked the subject line and staring back at me were two lines of text and an image that changed everything. Mallory, I debated sending this but decided I would want to know if it was me. This isn’t a one- time thing. Ryan has been cheating on you for months. I am so sorry. I froze. My hands shaking. The empty, nauseous feeling in my gut grew. Panic and fear swept over me as I hesitantly scrolled down to view the entire image. A grainy picture loaded on the screen, one that would live on in my head unwelcome for years and be recalled by the smallest of triggers. In it, my husband was in his office standing in front of his desk, not working. He was standing between the legs of his assistant, Rebecca, while she sat atop his desk. Her head was thrown back, mouth open in ecstasy. Even with bad lighting and a poor angle, his eyes appeared to be smiling while he licked up her neck. They thought they were alone. They were wrong. I could feel my face getting hot, the blood pooling in my cheeks as I stared at the screen. I closed my eyes and tried to take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, but it didn’t work. The rhythmic thumping of my heartbeat picked up pace and grew louder in my ears as I scrolled through the email and analyzed all the details of the photo, over and over again. Driving myself crazier with each passing minute. I scrutinized every piece of punctuation, every curve of their bodies, and every conversation I could recall having with Ryan in the weeks leading up to today. I scanned my memory trying to remember every interaction I had with Rebecca. Every time she answered his phone, added something to his calendar, or greeted me as I walked passed her into Ryan’s office. Were there tells I had missed along the way? She had been his assistant for three years. How long had this been going on? I would have been caught off-guard less if someone had driven a semi-truck through our house. After all, car accidents happen every day and are an expected part of life, but this betrayal was earth-shattering. How could he do this to the girls? What are they going to think when they find out? Who else knew? Were they all laughing at me? How long have I been lied to? The pathetic clueless wife. I continued spiraling and obsessing. I counted the number of words in the message and would later realize while lying in bed that night, that it was the same number of minutes it took me to open the email after it had been sent. Thirty-four. It surely couldn’t be a coincidence and must mean something. A sign. A warning from the universe. My mind raced days, weeks, and months into the future as I tried to strategically plan every action and counter-reaction that might happen once I confronted him. After several hours of my crazed examination of anything I could recall or get my hands on, I stopped and called Colleen. Ryan might have been my husband, but Colleen was my person. She answered on the second ring and listened patiently as I spilled all the details, my concerns about the girls, how the situation would play out if I ignored the email versus how it would play out if I confronted him. Then I repeated for the hundredth time, “I’m so embarrassed. This is going to crush them,” and she interrupted me. “Stop! Please stop it. Mallory, breathe and hear yourself. I just listened to you go on about how this would affect the girls, how you couldn’t believe he could do this to them, how you don’t want them to grow up in a split home, and never once did you say how upset you were he did this to you. How hurt you are. How angry you are. How betrayed you are. How you don’t want to think about how he likely has been inside another woman or -” “Stop, Colleen. I don’t want to think about that,” I interrupted, my voice catching in my throat as I tried to clear the image from my head. Seeing it on paper or in my inbox was one thing but having the image of his infidelity live out inside my head was too much to bear. My imagination was a dangerous place where extreme scenarios played out daily. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head in frustration. “Of course, you don’t. No one does. But don’t you see, you aren’t jealous or scorned for yourself. You’re reacting for the girls. Mal, be honest with me for a minute. Did you see this coming? Are you even in love with him anymore? Because for someone that just found out her husband has been having an affair, you aren’t nearly as pissed off or hysterical as you should be”. Instinctively, my hand squeezed down on the arm of the chair, and I leaned forward defensively. “Seriously, Colleen? I find out my husband is cheating on me, and this is your response? I’m hanging up now”. “Mal, wait...” But I didn’t wait. I hung up before she could get another word out. I picked up the cold cup of coffee I had been nursing for almost an hour and walked to the back patio, propping myself up in one of the wicker chairs. Knees pulled to my chin, I stared out across the meticulously manicured lawn in a daze. Ryan had paid more attention and care to our grass than our marriage. Not a blade was out of place. Clean, straight, crisscross lines showed where he had pushed the mower the night before. How had I missed this? I braced myself for the tears that were supposed to come, but they never did. I willed them to the surface. Nothing. Instead, anger bubbled. I stood and marched through the house directly to our master bedroom, threw back the door to our walk-in closet, grabbed his overnight bag from the top shelf, and began angrily balling up and stuffing his clothing inside. Shirts, ties, pants, shoes, anything I could grab. Some went in the bag still on the wooden hangers. I couldn’t be bothered to do it neatly. I didn’t want to have to look at anything that reminded me of him. When the bag was full, I grabbed the empty laundry basket from the corner and started stuffing his belongings into that too. Within minutes, his side of the closet was empty except for a row of empty swinging hangers. Throwing the overnight bag on top of the full laundry basket, I made my way back toward the backyard. The corners of my lips crept into a smile as the grass tickled the bottom of my feet. I closed my eyes and began throwing his belongings across the lawn. When the last shirt hit the ground, I marched toward the spicket and turned on the sprinkler before walking back to my chair on the patio to take in my work. I don’t know how long I sat like that, watching the sprinkler go round and round soaking his clothes and shoes and leaving muddy puddles on the lawn. An hour? Two? But when I was able to pull myself back to reality and named my feelings: anger, distrust, and rage, I realized sadness, jealousy, and shock were not among them. Colleen was right. She usually was. I picked up my phone and hit redial. “You don’t need to say it,” Colleen answered. “I’m sorry.” “I know you are. So, we’re going to leave him?” Colleen asked reluctantly. Bracing herself for my honest reply. “Yup,” I spat out, smiling at her use of we instead of you in her question. Even now she had paired us together as a dynamic duo. “I had that unread email in my inbox when I waved at her this morning. She is cheating with my husband, and she fucking waved at me like she wasn’t going straight to the office to slide her hand down his pants. I feel like a fool.” “Oh girlie, I wish I could make it better. Why don’t you drop the kids off at your parents? Give yourself some space and time to think and come stay with me in New York for the week. A change of scenery would do you good.” I sat up straighter in my chair. A flutter of hope filled my chest as I considered her offer. I hadn’t taken time alone in years. “I’ll book you a flight out on Monday morning. You won’t need to do a thing. Just pack and drop the girls off at your parents'.” “Okay,” I answered quickly before I could think my way out of it. “I love you.” “I love you, too,” she responded. I could hear the hug she so desperately wanted to give me in the tone of her voice. I set the phone down and stared out across the lawn strewn with Ryan’s sopping wet clothes. The blood rose in my cheeks again. Each perfectly cut blade of grass that hadn’t been touched by the sprinkler or my temper tantrum seemed to taunt and anger me further. Screw Ryan and his stupid lawn. I’d see to it that he knew the grass wasn’t always greener on the other side.

Genre: YA Fantasy Logline: A spoiled noble girl with a good heart rebels against her parents to join a dethroned prince on his journey to build a team capable of reclaiming his throne and ridding the magical Islands of Rune of the injustices that plague them. Comparable to: It's can't think of anything with a similar storyline off the top of my head. I feel more comfortable saying I drew inspiration from Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, Inuyasha, One Piece, Ouran High School Host Club, and Bridgerton. Pitch: A spoiled noble girl with a good heart named Josie has grown tired of the way her parents treat those beneath their station. While she certainly enjoys the luxuries of being nobility, she sees no reason for senseless violence or to treat others in an undignified manner. One day, she meets Malachi, a half-demon, dethroned prince from the magical islands that lie off the coast of the kingdom she is from. He sees the kindness in her heart and invites Josie to join him on his journey to build a team capable of reclaiming his throne and ridding the islands of the injustices that plague them. When her good heart and longing for adventure pushes her to accept, her parents disinherit her as a result. Josie and Malachi begin traveling from island to island on his boat. Early on in their journey, Josie finds out that her line is descended from a great priestess that defended the mainland in a war long forgotten by her people. She reconnects with her roots and throughout their journey she develops her own spiritual powers. As the team grows, they are joined by Johanna, a warrior who can speak to nature spirits and falls hopelessly in love with Malachi, Kai and Cal, who possess ground runes and become involved in a poly relationship with Josie, and lastly, Jameson, Malachi's half-angel cousin who is also prince whose family is still in power and possess water runes. As the team comes closer to completing their goals, they find that they are sacrificing a lot in the name of the greater good. For some, it is their freedoms, for others, it is any chance at true love, and some even sacrifice their lives. Josie finds herself lost in a sea of pain and rage as a result of this, that is, until she is given new hope by a great chief who informs her that the prophecy he once gave her has not yet been fulfilled. When a visiting prince comes to negotiate a new alliance, the team sets out on a new journey to solidify it. Josie has another mission in mind as well: to find answers about the prophecy. This leads into the second book, which I've already titled 'Runes in Rallem'. Chapter One: In a world much different from the one you know today, a world of ancient ways and the most fascinating of skill sets, there lies the land of Loft. Loft used to be an average kingdom at the time they held no magic and because of that, the people of Loft were almost dangerously unaware of the truth about the world they lived in. Just a few miles off the coast was a group of five islands. These islands were called the Islands of Rune. They were beautiful and full of magical runes but hidden well beyond a cloud bank that never left. It protected the people of the islands from the people of the mainland so that mainlanders would never find out the truth about the islanders. Both the mainland of Loft and the islands had been riddled with many injustices, that is until one man decided to make a difference. Today, I tell the story of what happened all those years ago for the first time. In my old age, I have come to fear that if the histories of our lands are not passed on, future generations will come to repeat the mistakes of our past. Of course, hiding the truths of the world is how things got so messed up to begin with, so it makes sense I would feel this way. Therefore, I am writing this to document the truth of what occurred when the team now known as “The Inter-Kingdom Board of Peace and Foreign Relations” was formed. In truth, we started out as a group of kids with an impossible dream and a boat. I was about nineteen at the time. As most of you reading this will know, I was highborn. My father was first cousin to the Queen of Loft, his title was Duke, and I was the heiress to the title of Duchess. I was a spoiled child who had little regard for those beneath my station, though, even I was kinder than my parents in that sense. I suppose it did not help that my mother and father were who they were, they made me believe that my behavior was normal. They also saw being kind-hearted or caring as a flaw. They were also not the nicest people I have ever known; I honestly cannot say if they meant harm by what they did or if they were just ignorant to the harm had they caused because of the world they knew. It is not my place to judge whether harm was intended though, I did come to find that no matter one intentions, if harm if being done it is my place to stop it. That, my friends, is everyone’s place. Perhaps my biggest regret is never having an honest conversation with them. The beginning of this story goes back to a single moment, on a day that changed my life, I was walking through town when I met him for the first time. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was young and my views about the world were so limited, my biggest concern was figuring out how to rid myself of the guard my parents had following me so I could have an adventure. Eventually, I produced a plan to disappear into a large crowd after creating a panic. I pretended to faint and people crowded around. The guard was overwhelmed trying to keep them all back, so I slipped away and made a run for it. He realized quickly, so I kept running in an attempt not to get caught. However, I turned a corner without looking much and ran into a young man. I fell into a puddle and got mud all over my clothes. I scoffed at him and said, “Watch where you are going, peasant!” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, my lady, but I do believe you ran into me.” Then, he reached out his hand to help me up. I rolled my eyes and stood up ignoring his hand. I began to answer him, but then my guard caught up. He saw the state I was in and overreacted, grabbing the man by his shirt. “How dare you do this to my lady?” I saw where it was going so, I quickly interjected out of fear that my guards would harm him, even back then I was not a fan of senseless violence. “Put him down, now!” On my orders, the guard put the man down and said. “But my lady…” “But nothing!” I interrupted him, “This man did nothing wrong. It was a stunt I pulled so I did not get in trouble for running off. Now, leave him be.” I turned to the man. “My apologies, sir. Please, join my family and me for dinner tonight so that we may offer you a proper apology.” The man nodded. “Thank you, I’d be honored.” I nodded and began to walk away before turning back. “It’s the biggest house on Main Street, it should be easy to find, seven o’clock, okay?” Then I continued about my day. Right on time, he came to the house. I welcomed him in, saying, “I don’t believe I got your name earlier, sir.” “Please, stop calling me, ‘sir’.” He sounded annoyed, “My name is Malachi, I’m from the Island of Tendu, and you?” I gasped. “You’re from the Islands of Rune! I have always wanted to go! I hear no one from the mainland has ever been to one of the islands. You have to tell me all about them!” Malachi laughed. “Jeez, I just asked your name. What are you, crazy?” I froze in embarrassment for a moment, then pouted. “Hmph! I am Lady Josella Marie Spade Lucietta III. My friends call me Josie though.” Malachi rolled his eyes as we sat down. I guess he thought I was a bit obnoxious. I do not suppose it would have been complicated to think such a thing. We sat in silence for a few minutes waiting for my parents. It was an awkward silence. I did notice though, Malachi carried himself differently than most other peasants. I wondered about him. He was rather handsome. He had a bronze complexion and his skin was perfectly clear, but he was muscular and his hands were callused from labor of some sort. His hair was untamed, but kind of gorgeous in a way and he had blood red eyes. They looked unreal. When my mother and father entered, my mother said, “I am so sorry my dear, we got a bit caught up with the Kightington family. And you must be the young man my little Josie inconvenienced earlier. I am so sorry about her; she’s always been a bit eccentric for a noble lady.” Malachi looked surprised, “No, actually I find her quite lovely. She’s an exceedingly kind and brilliant young woman.” I was honestly a bit shocked that he came to my defense, at the time, I did not think he liked me much. As it turns out, Malachi did like me. My mother replied, “Well aren’t you just a gentleman? You better not flatter her too much, my dear boy. She already has an ego ten times her size.” Then my father added, “He is rather well-spoken too. For a peasant boy, that is.” “Father! That’s rude!” I exclaimed, “Both of you stop. I am not a child anymore and you can’t just speak to Malachi like he’s beneath you because of who his parents are.” “I am absolutely astonished at you, Josie.” My mother said, “We have a guest, and you are having these ridiculous outbursts. I’m sure Malachi understands his place in the world perfectly fine.” Malachi spoke up, “With all due respect, Madame, Sir, I do understand my place in the world. I am the man who is going to change it, once I assemble my team of course. I came here to find someone to represent the mainland and I decided that should be your daughter, Josie.” My mother and father laughed. “Young man, you will not be taking our daughter anywhere and you will not be changing a thing.” He chuckled in return. “Again, with all due respect, I do believe that is Josie’s decision to make. By my estimate, she is legally able to make those decisions for herself, am I correct?” At that moment, I do not know if it was spite, or just for the thrill, but said to him, “Of course, I’ll go. Thank you for the offer. Out of curiosity though, why me?” He explained, “Even though you act like one of those arrogant nobles, it truly is just an act. On the inside, you are driven to defend anyone you feel is being done wrong. That is why you stopped your guards and that is why you stood up to your parents. In a world like this, there are not many people I would be willing to put my faith in. But you have my full trust, even if I’m still earning yours.” I nodded and we left my parents’ home. I did not really believe in what he was doing at the time, but it seemed like the type of adventure I needed in my life. My parents disinherited me. All I had to my name when I left was whatever I could fit into my travel trunk. I did not know where I was going, but I knew I was not coming back to that house. Malachi and I spent a few days after that stocking up on supplies and loading them onto his boat. I never knew how much went into sailing; I had never paid it any mind before. Malachi asked me as I was looking at some spices, “Can you cook?” I replied, “Yes, of course. I am a woman. Regardless of social class a woman should know how to cook. My mother feared that if I did not learn to perform womanly duties that I would not marry well, therefore I was trained by the best all because I am not as eye catching as some of the other noble woman, particularly in the bust and the romp. I can’t help it that I have a smaller frame though.” He nodded. “I agree, but I can’t cook. So, do you mind doing the cooking on the ship? If I do, it'll taste terrible every time.” I giggled. “Well, of course. I figured I’d have to pull my weight.” He laughed. “I honestly didn’t plan on having you do anything. We are friends, friends take care of each other. So, even if you did not have anything to offer, I’d take care of you.” “Friends, huh?” “You’ve never had a friend before?” “Not really.” “It’s okay, I’ll teach you.” We smiled at each other. Given the circumstances; Malachi seemed like a nice guy. There was something magnetic about him. He was the type of guy who was just good-natured. I started to think that if someone could fix all the things wrong with the world, it would be him. I then thought, it was impossible for anyone to do, even with a team behind them. Reality is the world is a horrible place because people suck. I was sure even Malachi had major downfalls. Perhaps he was a liar, cheater, thief, or something of that sort, either way I felt that genuinely good people were far rarer than they are. Not to say that good people are not still flawed, but they try to correct their behaviors and do better. By the time we finished readying the ship for departure, it was late and we were both tired so we decided to rest for the night to get a fresh start and a full day at sea tomorrow. Malachi showed me to my cabin on the ship and made sure I had everything I needed. After he left, I sat on the bed and looked around. I started to doubt myself. Could I really live in such different conditions from what I was used to? The cabin was so small, the bed was hard, and I could feel a draft. But then it hit me, Malachi really lived like this every day and he still felt he had enough to share with me even though I had no money without my parents? I must do this; it is the right thing to do. From that moment, I had made up my mind, I was going to walk this path and be strong enough to face everything ahead of me, no matter how impossible it seemed. After a while, I fell asleep with a powerful resolve in my heart. Early the following morning, Malachi knocked on the cabin door. He called out, “Josie! It is time to get moving! Wakey, wakey!” I groaned, “Ugh, okay! I’ll be out in a minute to start breakfast!” I stumbled out of bed and got myself together for the day. When I went on deck, Malachi was hard at work to get the ship out to sea. He paused when he saw me and said, “Well, good morning. You finally decided to join the land of the living. We have a long trip ahead of us so make sure you make a good breakfast.” I asked, “Where are we going next, out of curiosity?” “I think we’ll go to Pallentine first; we can collect another teammate easily there. The Pallentinians are rather friendly if you do not judge their culture. We should be cautious though, Pallentine is hard to navigate. The rainforests there are so thick that only the natives bother. Once we dock, we should try to always stay with a guide from the village. Otherwise, I can’t promise we will find our way back to the ship in one piece.” That made me far more nervous to hear than I cared to discuss with Malachi. “Okay, well, I’ll go start the food. Just eat once we are set on course, I guess.” I became anxious as I thought about the possibility of getting lost in such a place. I wondered why anyone would want to live in such a place. Then I caught myself, I was judging them without even realizing it. I thought about it and concluded that there had to be difficulties to living anywhere. I could not look down on others for their lifestyle choices. Besides, who knows? I was free of my parents finally; I had no clue what kind of place I would choose to settle down in once we finished our journey. Malachi nodded then continued messing with ropes as I headed toward the kitchen. After a little while, the boat began to move. Malachi called out, “Hey, bring the food up here and eat with me!” So, I made some plates and carried the food up to the deck where Malachi had a table and some chairs set up for us. I sat down with him and looked out at the sea as we started our journey. I smiled and said to Malachi, “We should make a toast.” “To what?” “We’re two friends set out on a magnificent adventure to change the world, take your pick.” “I’ll drink to that.” I raised my glass to his. “To friendship and adventure!” “To friendship and adventure!” And with that, our adventure began. We had many challenges to come. We would cry many tears, meet many people, lose other people, laugh, and cry in the weeks and months to follow. However, one thing was for sure: our friendship and our hearts would set the course for a new future, a better future. I could not wait to find out what was next. At the time, I had no clue how ill prepared I was for the journey I had agreed to go on. ---------- Contact: marialevato6@gmail.com

What happens when your vocation as an Executioner keeps you from finding love? Finding happiness while lopping off heads sends this unusual woman into a partnership she never saw coming. This is a 79,000 word Speculative Romance. Maigrede is proud to follow in her family’s footsteps to act as the Executioner, but it is forbidden for women to perform the task so she must keep her identity a secret. One day, she arrives at her hidden home to discover Philip, an injured nobleman. Against her instinctual need for isolation she finds herself falling in love with him. All is well until he discovers the truth about her job. Forced to make a choice between her heart and her duty she chooses her life’s work and loses the man. Left alone and with child she breaks her code to rescue a woman she is supposed to execute. The woman becomes a friend, helpmate, and then lover. Together, they raise Maigrede’s child and build a family until war enters their balanced existence. Once again, Maigrede faces choices which seem impossible. She struggles to understand her role in a fractured land. Comps include: Sistersong by Lucy Holland and The Princess and the Odium by Sam Ledel

Self-Coverage Novel Scorebox Charles and Agnes, Historical Fiction, Susie Pruett MARKET VALUE Originality, freshness, high concept: 4 I believe these three categories are covered. The concept, an American heiress goes to London to marry a Viscount and falls in love with the Viscount’s valet is an idea that came from two of my favorite authors. I love P.G. Wodehouse’s character Jeeves and wondered what would happen if he ever fell in love. Another favorite author of mine is Edith Wharton. I combined her last book, “The Buccaneers” about rich American girls going to Europe to marry titles with the idea of Jeeves and came up with the story of an American heiress who falls in love with a Viscount’s valet. The story began from there. In the Romance genre the concept of a rich person falling for a poor one is not new. Usually, the rich person is a man and the poor one a woman. If a rich girl falls for a poor man, he usually turns out to be an aristocrat or prince or some other class that elevates him to the level of the woman. However, in my story the valet does not turn out to be a secret prince or aristocrat in hiding. He is simply a servant who also happens to be a good man worthy of inspiring love and of course, there is the sexual tension between Agnes and Charles. The additional aspect that contributes to the concept is that the Viscount the heiress is supposed to marry is a homosexual with problems of his own. Additionally, the valet and the Viscount have grown up together and the valet has devoted his life to protecting the Viscount’s secret life. When the valet falls in love with the American heiress, he is conflicted by his need to protect the Viscount’s secret while saving the heiress from a disastrous marriage. Clear target readership: 4 I am a fan of historical romance. I have read over one thousand historical romances from various authors. With a few rare exceptions, they all seemed pretty much the same to me. I wanted to write a book I would read. So I think the person who would read this book is someone like me, a fan of historical romance looking for something a little different. Hook: 3+ As 1912 England is on the brink of catastrophic change, a compassionate British valet to an emotionally damaged, opium addicted, homosexual Viscount, and a desperate American heiress sent to London by her domineering grandmother to marry the Viscount, meet under false pretenses and fall in love. When they discover their true identities, they must overcome duty, and society to be together. STRUCTURE Act Zero back-story development: 3 The story begins with the history of Glennwell Abbey which haunts the Viscount and will be his eventual downfall. Then the story picks up in London through a scene with Charles, the valet, going to an opium den and homosexual brothel to find the Viscount. The reader is introduced to Charles as a devoted, though equivocal servant, and to the Viscount as an addicted, haunted soul. We learn the back-story between the two men through their conversation and internal narrative. In New York, Agnes is introduced at her engagement party. We learn her back-story through her momentary memories before she enters the party. I don’t think it is an info dump as I tried to make the memories brief and relevant. Agnes’s relationship with her grandmother is shown through their conversation and Agnes’s thoughts. Concise, effective setup with inciting incident: 4 Setup: The Viscount is informed by the Earl that it is time he married. The scene is through the Viscount’s POV: The Earl cleared his throat. "It's time you married. Twenty eight is a good age to start filling your nursery. Glennwell needs a long line of heirs and since your mother never provided me with more sons, it's up to you. Maybe a true Forster will come out of those loins of yours after all. I dare say if you have enough sons, at least one of them will take after my side of the family." If Robbie had been at liberty to react as he truly wanted to, he would have barked out a laugh. Sons? From his loins? Never. It was never going to happen. Oh if his father only knew his whereabouts six hours earlier. But, he could play this game if he had to. "Absolutely, sir. That's the ticket. It is time. Sons, yes. That is exactly what I need to do. I need to marry and have sons for the title." Agnes breaks her engagement to her cheating fiancé (setup) and is sent by her grandmother to London to escape the scandal and to marry the Viscount (Inciting incident). "Be that as it may," Grandmother said, looking down her nose at Eleanor. "The question before us now, is this engagement business. After last night, Agnes is not inclined to go through with the wedding and I won't insist on it knowing what a fool Freddy is. However, if at all possible, I'd like to avoid another all out scandal." The disgrace that cost Grandmother her standing in society was still a topic of conversation. "Yes, of course. We must avoid a scandal at all cost. The only solution is for Agnes to go away for awhile.” Eleanor turned from addressing Grandmother to Agnes. “You simply must come with me to Europe, Agnes. Trevor and I are returning to Harding House next week. There is nothing like a trip to Europe to cure the blue devils and cover a multitude of sins. Don't you agree, Camille? Maybe there is a titled gentleman there for you, Agnes my dear.” Agnes held her stomach as it rolled over. She wanted to hide. The term “Dollar Princess” from the Broadway play echoed in her mind. Was she destined for the same distressing fate as so many of those other girls whose marriages ended up being disasters? Plot line arc and subplots: 3+ The plot line arc follows the hero’s journey for all the characters. The only difference is that Charles and Agnes end their journey having achieved their goal and the Viscount and Earl each end theirs in tragedy. The POV of the Viscount is a subplot. His suffering and motivation are revealed to the reader. Another subplot involves two orphans which Charles finds on the street and takes them to Mrs. Collier’s, the same orphanage where he lived as a boy. In the end they are adopted by Charles and Agnes and taken to America. Well designed reversals: 2 Agnes doesn’t marry Freddy, goes to London and meets Charles Agnes and Charles find out their true identities at the party. Agnes marries the Viscount. After finding out Agnes is pregnant, Charles’s loyalty changes from the Viscount to Agnes. The Viscount dies. Agnes tells the Earl the child is not his blood heir, but the Earl doesn’t care and still wants the boy. Pinch Points: 2 After Agnes and Charles have promised to end their relationship, the Earl requires Charles to persuade Agnes to marry the Viscount. Agnes becomes pregnant after confessing to Charles how miserable she is. Catalytic, situation driven: 3 Each new situation is a catalyst for the conflict. Agnes breaks her engagement and consequently is sent to London. Agnes in London meets Charles which is the beginning of the romance. Agnes and Charles discover their real identities and must end their budding relationship. Agnes meets the Viscount and sees his weirdness which prompts her to question the engagement. The weekend at Glennwell Abbey gives Agnes and Charles a chance to be together in secret. Agnes ends her confusion over whether to honor her grandmother’s wishes by finally marrying the Viscount. The admission that the marriage has not been consummated leads to Agnes getting pregnant by Charles. The Viscount despairs and falls from the Abbey walls and dies. The Viscount’s death means Charles and Agnes can be together. Agnes tells the Earl the child is not the Viscount’s. The Earl does not care because he wants an heir. Agnes and Charles leave for America. When the Earl finds out they have taken his grandson, he has a stroke leaving him paralyzed on one side of his body. The Countess is free from his domination and in charge of his care. Conflict, tension, rising action: 4 I believe there is a high degree of conflict in the story which contributes to the rising action and tension. Over arching conflict of class; External conflict between Agnes and her grandmother regarding her marriage; External conflict between the Earl and the Viscount; Internal conflict of Agnes concerning her desire to be loved by her grandmother; Internal conflict of Charles concerning his desire to protect the Viscount’s secret; Internal conflict of the Viscount over his secret life; External conflict of the Viscount as he is haunted by the ghosts of the Abbey; Conflict between Charles and Agnes over their differing social class; Internal conflict of Charles and Agnes concerning their love for each other; Conflict between Agnes and the Earl over the child. Every scene relevant: 3 I have tried to make every scene relevant. However, I’m not sure the subplots contribute to the main plot. In the case of the orphans, I wanted to illustrate Charles’s compassion and add a touch of whimsy. In the end I’m not sure if I should keep that part, though I love the orphans. In the subplot of the Viscount I have included his POV. I wanted to show how his anguish over his sexuality (remember it’s 1912) and how his father treated him drove him to use opium and what effect it had on him. Is he really haunted by the ghosts of the Abbey, or is it the opium? The subplot of Trevor sets up the sequel. Effective, believable climax: 4 The climax is predictable in the sense that this is a romance and must have a happily ever after. I toyed with the idea of not letting Charles and Agnes end up together, a circumstance more consistent with their reality especially in 1912. However, I did let them end up together because I felt their true essences were what made them ultimately compatible and willing to face whatever obstacles they might encounter. Resolution: 4 I believe each of the story lines have satisfactory resolutions. Agnes and Charles end up together with their baby and the orphans. The Viscount’s end is sad, but where else could he have ended up? He was in a nightmare life. The Earl is ultimately outwitted and meets his deserved end. Trevor is left with a possible future. CHARACTERS: Antagonistic force: 4 The over-riding antagonistic force is the class difference which Charles and Agnes must overcome to be together. The other antagonistic forces are their feelings of duty to others over their own happiness. The Earl’s cruel treatment of the Viscount and his desire to control everything is another antagonistic force. Agnes’s grandmother is also an antagonistic force since she keeps Agnes from having a life of her own. Consistent opposition: 4 The forces of society and tradition which pull on both Charles and Agnes are the most consistent opposition. However, the subtle influence which the Viscount has on Charles and Agnes keeps them apart by the fact that Charles must be loyal to him and Agnes is supposed to marry him. He is an obstacle to their being together. Protagonist’s goals: 4 There are two protagonists in this love story since the outcome of each is important to the story. Charles begins with his goals being to protect the Viscount and keep his secrets. By the end of the story, his goal changes to being with Agnes and his child. Agnes begins with the goal of obeying her grandmother. Her goal changes to being with Charles and their baby. Sympathetic protagonist: I think Charles is set up as a sympathetic character. He is loyal and kind. He cares about other people and tries to help the orphans. 4 Setting up Agnes as a sympathetic character was harder. Although she is in a life she doesn’t want, and is controlled by her grandmother, she is rich and has everything material in life she could want. I tried to show her as a rebel at heart and thus able in the end to find a life she wants in spite of her grandmother. 3 Protagonist’s arc: 3 Charles begins as a man who is dominated by his desire to take care of others to the point where he does things he doesn’t believe in. For instance, he goes to great lengths to protect the Viscount. In today’s language we would say he is an enabler. Although Charles does not know the term, he instinctively knows what he does for the Viscount is not in the long run helping him. Naturally, when the Viscount dies, Charles blames himself because he has already begun to separate himself from the Viscount in favor of Agnes. In the end, although he is still a kind and loving man, he has chosen to seek happiness of his own. Agnes begins as a young woman who is dominated by her grandmother’s desire to re-join Old New York society and uses Agnes to that purpose. Because she has always felt responsible for her grandmother’s fall from grace, she does whatever her grandmother requires of her. In spite of that, Agnes has a small fire of rebellion within her. She goes through an anxious time deciding whether or not to marry the Viscount and ultimately succumbs to her grandmother’s wishes. When she finds out what kind of man the Viscount is when he can’t consummate the marriage, she goes to Charles. They make love and Agnes becomes pregnant. Her life becomes much more complicated since she must tell the Viscount the truth. He despairs, takes too much opium, hallucinates and dies from a fall. After that, Agnes defies both her grandmother and the Earl and goes to America with Charles, their baby and the orphans. Supporting characters: 4 There are several supporting characters. The Earl’s valet, Mr. Percy, who mentored Charles; Mrs. Collier the owner of the orphanage where Charles lived; Lady Harding, Agnes’s aunt, Trevor’s mother and the woman Agnes is living with in London; the Countess of Glennwell, the Viscount’s mother; Lyle, one of the footmen; Rat and Mouse, the orphans; the woman who lives with Mrs. Collier; the cook; the head butler at Glennwell House; Katie, the scullery maid. NARRATIVE DEVELOPMENT: Scene length and structure: 2 This might need work. I tried to keep the scenes and chapters relatively even, but may have missed it with the structure. I know each scene must have a beginning, middle and end in the same way a story must. And each scene must carry the plot forward. I’m not sure I did this with every scene. Effective transitions: 2 Again, I’m not sure this is accomplished. I re-ordered the scenes for more effective transitions, but this may need more work. Clarity of spatial set: 4 I attempted to make clear where each scene was taking place. The reader sees everything through the eyes of the character whose POV we are in. So, the reader knows where the character is by what the character can observe and feel. I tried to bring in all the senses when describing a place. Comprehensible prose narrative: 4 This is not a work of literary fiction. It is genre fiction. I have written it in simple language without writing down to the reader. I believe it is easily read and understood. Nothing fancy here. Tension on the page: 4 Because there is always the tension of the overall situation, each page has some of that tension. The problem with the Viscount, the difference in social status between Agnes and Charles, the looming presence of the Earl, plus the emotional ups and downs of the characters, keeps the tension going. Dialogue mastery: 4 If there is one thing I am proud of, it is my ability with dialogue. It seems to flow naturally when I’m in the character’s POV. The dialogue reflects the time it is in without being arcane. Exposition delivery: 2 Not sure about the exposition delivery. I may not have achieved the fine line between too much exposition and not enough. Narrative composition: 4 I tried to make the narrative composition equal among description of places as seen through the character’s POV, interior monologue and dialogue. I may have overdone the exposition at times. Cinematic imagery: 4 I think I have come pretty close to nailing this one. I see the story as if it were a movie playing out before my eyes and try to describe what I see. The descriptions of most places are told from a cinematic perspective. Proper point-of-view: 4 I use the point-of-view that I believe will best enhance the scene and I am careful to stay in that character’s POV. Wise use of craft technique: 3 I have studied a lot of craft. In addition to attending workshops and classes, I’ve read at least twenty books on craft, from structure (three act, four act, six act, plot points, pinch points, midpoints) to description and characterization. I know what each plot point is to achieve and where it goes in the story. Needless to say, I should have a pretty fair grasp of craft at this point. However, I’m a “pantser” so even though I use a brief outline, I’m not sure my plot points are accurate or well timed. Interior Monologue and rumination: 3 Interior monologue is a way to bring the reader closer to the character. It shows the emotion the character is having at any given moment. I’m aware that is a weak point of mine and although I have tried to develop the interior monologue as a way to experience the character’s emotions, I’m not sure I have achieved this effectively. BOOK REPORTS “The art of Fiction” by John Gardner How did the book help you as a writer? What overall aspects of it taught you something? Gardner obviously has a great respect for the art of fiction. He elevates it to a high level of moral responsibility. Although he says there are no “rules” for writing, he elaborated on some of the basic guidelines. For instance, character shapes plot, plot is discovered through exploration, characters must be interesting, fiction is art yet there are serious principals at work. I found his verbosity too heavy for me. It got in the way of the ideas he was attempting to get across. I thought he was very judgmental at times like when he said, basically a morally corrupt person cannot write a good book, which may or may not be true. He also implied the only way to become a good writer is to have a University Professor as your guide which fits well with his pedagogical approach. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? The one aspect that was instructional to me was the idea of the “vivid and continuous dream” of the novel which must not be interrupted by the writer. He rephrased the idea of author intrusion into a more interesting context. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program? If so, what were they? Gardner does not talk about the structure of a story. “Writing the Breakout Novel” by Donald Maass How did the book help you as a writer? What overall aspects of it taught you something? I read this book many years ago. I have also taken a workshop by Maass. I was inspired by the concept of my novel being better than “good enough.” He introduced me to the idea of striving for “break out” status. He gives a practical guide for how to create subplots, multiple points of view, building interesting characters, inner and outer conflict and stakes that have what he calls “break out” status. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? Good storytelling is the core of a successful novel. Conflict is the essence of plot. Word of mouth is the best advertisement. Continually escalate the stakes. Ask “what if” questions. Kill somebody. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program? If so, what were they? Nothing conflicted, although the approach was different. Maass described structure as elements of plot. He also stresses escalating conflict as one of the basics in writing a break out novel. “Write Away” by Elizabeth George How did the book help you as a writer? What overall aspects of it taught you something? This book was the most instructional for me of all the books on this list. George goes into detail about everything the writer needs to know in order to write a novel. She gives examples of her own and other’s writing to illustrate her points. Her diary entries at the beginning of each chapter make her seem as insecure as any writer. One does not expect such insecurities from a successful writer which made her all the more relatable. This is a good book to keep as a reference guide. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? George gave excellent suggestions for how to develop character, the importance of place as setting, how to structure scene, the power of dialogue, and plotting. She broke each topic down using specific examples which were easy to understand and follow. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program? If so, what were they? Again, there was nothing that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings. But the topics were approached in more depth. "The Writing Life" by Annie Dillard How did the book help you as a writer? What overall aspects of it taught you something? My overall impression of this book the first time I read it was that it was depressing as hell. For example, on page eleven, she makes a most discouraging comment, “…your work is so meaningless, so fully for yourself alone, and so worthless to the world, that no one except you cares whether you do it well or ever.” I understand the sentiment here. But, she could have stated it in a more uplifting way, I thought. Then I picked up the book again in order to write this report and saw it in a completely different light. There are pearls of wisdom on the pages, also irony and humor. She said if you leave a work in progress for too long, it will turn on you. So true. Her stories of the typewriter that caught fire, the use and limits of coffee, revving oneself up to write only to take a break, the strange chess game, the story of the stunt pilot and how she was struck by the beauty of the skill. I am a painter and I liked the way she often compared painting to writing. She observed and interpreted her life experiences and used them to illustrate aspects of writing. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? I learned about the author’s life and experiences and how she viewed them in a grander scheme. She was awake to her life and that was an example to me. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program? If so, what were they? Nothing that obviously conflicted, but the authors approach to writing was more creative and non-academic. SELL SHEET (TITLE OF PROJECT) SELL SHEET Agnes and Charles (working title) 2. GENRE and COMPARABLES (please review the comp guidelines!). Historical Romance The Echo of Twilight by Judith Kinghorn The Last Summer by Judith Kinghorn The House at Riverton by Kate Morton 3. LOG OR HOOK LINE (this is crucial!) A British valet and an American heiress accidentally meet and fall in love. 4. SHORT PITCH SYNOPSIS (200-300 words - tight and punchy!) After Agnes Worthington breaks her engagement, she is sent to London to marry a British Viscount. The Viscount is living a secret life as an opium addicted homosexual, haunted by the ghosts of the monks from the old Abbey. Charles Stevens, the Viscount’s devoted valet protects the Viscount and covers for him. When Agnes and Charles accidentally meet in the park and spend time together, an attraction develops. At a dinner where Agnes is a guest and Charles is acting as a footman, they are shocked to see each other. With the differences in their social status, their relationship must end. Meanwhile, the courtship between the Viscount and Agnes is not proceeding. The Earl, who needs money, and is also obsessed by the desire to have an heir, becomes angry and orders Charles to intervene and make sure the Viscount marries Agnes. Charles is torn by this request because he knows the marriage will be a disaster and he loves Agnes and wants to protect her. When Charles and Agnes surrender to their passion for each other, Agnes becomes pregnant. Now she must marry the Viscount. Eventually, the Viscount dies by falling from the crumbling walls of the old Abbey. After the Viscount’s funeral, Agnes is faced with the decision to tell the Earl the child is not his heir, or let her child be in line for the earldom. Together, she and Charles realize they must not let the cruel Earl raise their child. They leave for America. 5. FIRST 500 WORDS (best of the best--make or break) LONDON October 1912 Charles Stevens pulled the worn coat tighter as the chill night air of the waterfront settled around him. The stink of rotting fish and brine washing up from the Thames seemed to coat the inside of his nostrils. He pulled out his watch and noted that he’d been standing here for one hour. The only light came from a yellow haze that encircled a street lamp, and the moon whose light could be seen behind strands of clouds. A sound alerted him to something crawling from the gutter. A tom cat emerged, its fur patchy and scratched, one ear torn. It reminded him of a boxing man he once knew. He laughed silently at that notion, watching as the cat ignored his surroundings and began twitching his whiskers sniffing the air. "Out for a late supper, old chap?" Charles reached in the pocket of his second hand coat and pinched off a piece of left-over cheese. He tossed the chunk down in front of the animal. It crouched, hesitating before stalking the cheese. The feline devoured the food and hastened away. “Quite right." Charles said. "No sense dithering. I should get on with the task at hand." Vaguely amused at himself, he blamed procrastination for the boredom that had him talking to cats. For a moment, Charles questioned why he was here. He asked himself why he was always in places he didn't want to be, disguised in old clothes, required to be patient as he waited in the shadows? But, he knew why. He had a job he took seriously, to protect the Viscount from harm. And that meant he must keep the Earl of Glennwell from finding out where his son, Robert, Viscount Forster spent his nights. The Earl was a cruel bully whose self-centered desire in life was to have an heir, a son who looked like himself, large and dark, and who liked hunting, shooting and womanizing. These were things the Earl could understand. He could not comprehend his son. And, indeed Robbie was not masculine in the way the Earl valued. Robbie was average height with light blonde hair like his mother. He was prettier than a boy should be. He was naturally thin and not the least athletic. Charles had never actually known a homosexual man, until Robbie. He first became aware that Robbie was attracted to men when they had gone swimming together, in the nude, and Robbie had an erection upon seeing Charles's body. At the time, Charles and Robbie were young men and Charles had just become Robbie's valet. Charles was lying on the blanket in the sun when he felt a hand on his groin. Shocked, he slapped Robbie’s hand away and jumped up. “What the blazes?” Charles said as he grabbed up his trousers and put them on. Barefoot and carrying the rest of his clothes, he stormed away, leaving Robbie by the river. 6. PLOT OUTLINE (bullet by bullet summary of all the major points from the Six Act, divided by Act--plot points, reversals, etc--one line only per point. This should be brief, please, but also label each bullet, e.g., Reversal #1, Pinch Point #2, etc.) Story statement: A lonely valet meets a naïve heiress and they fall in love. ACT ONE Set Up Agnes breaks her engagement, to avoid scandal she goes to London to marry a Viscount Conflict between Agnes and her grandmother regarding her marriage The Viscount has meeting with his father and is told he is to marry a rich heiress. Inciting incident: Charles and Agnes meet accidentally in the park. Exposition: Charles and Agnes continue to see each other and their attraction grows. ACT TWO First PP: Charles serves as footman and Agnes is guest at dinner. Conflict between Charles and Agnes over their differing social class; ACT THREE Minor Reversals: Charles and Agnes each feel betrayed and they know any future is hopeless. The courtship between Robbie and Agnes is not going well. The Earl instructs Charles to intercede on behalf of Robbie. Minor Complications: Charles must seem to encourage Agnes to marry Robbie. Agnes and Charles fall more deeply in love. Agnes and Charles succumb to their attraction and make love. ACT FOUR FIRST MAJOR REVERSAL and 2nd PP: Agnes discovers she is pregnant and decides she must marry Robbie. Agnes marries Robbie as Charles watches helplessly. Pinch point: The Earl belittles Robbie for not getting Agnes pregnant. Agnes tells Robbie she is pregnant. Agnes tells Robbie who the father is. Robbie is jealous that Charles loves Agnes. Climax: At the Abbey, Robbie climbs a crumbling wall where he falls and dies. Agnes has the baby boy. Agnes and Charles tell the Earl the truth about the baby. The Earl says he will accept the boy as his heir anyway. Agnes and Charles tell the Earl they will not let him have the boy. ACT FIVE Denouement Agnes tells the Earl she will marry Charles and return to America. The Earl becomes angry and tells her if she leaves, he will find her. Agnes and Charles leave for America. The Earl is angry and has a stroke which leaves him partially paralyzed Final Surprise In a letter, Agnes’s grandmother confesses her long time love for her butler. Tells Agnes to marry the man she loves.