When I began work on my current fantasy project, I was eager to be one of the few to write a fantasy saga in the first person. Now I am beginning to see why this is done so rarely.
With fantasy, there's a lot happening at once. Rarely do all of the important characters take the stage at the same time. So, you can either have characters narrate their in-the-meantime stories to the first person narrator upon their reunion, or you can use third person and tell the simultaneous stories more or less simultaneously.
There's also a lot that needs to be explained in fantasy books. When you write a non-fantasy story that takes place in the real world, you can assume your reader knows how things work in that world - he or she lives there! But if you've invented a world, complete with locations, races, religions, cultures, magical rules, politics, and history, it's entirely up to you to make sure your readers know pertinent details.
So your options are to have a really smart first-person narrator who already knows everything, which ruins the adventure by making everything too easy; to have your first-person narrator stumble across information in the form of wizened old sorcerers or mysterious books that reveal information in a conveniently timed fashion (which again makes it seem that things are too easy; the world is helping the character complete this supposedly impossible mission); or to tell your story in the third person, so that you can fill in the details necessary for fleshing out the world and perhaps even create some dramatic irony, which is possible but difficult with first person.
I thought that I would be able to achieve a more distinct and quirky voice for my main character, Anna, by writing in first person, but in fact the more fun and satisfying chapters to read (and to write) have by far been the ones I've done in third person. Somehow Anna has more of a voice when someone else is telling the story for her. Anyway I think she's a little busy combating evil and all that to be giving people a play by play of her adventure. So third person it shall be.
Peace, love and power naps,
Miss Rex
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Another end-of-the-world story
The end of the world didn’t come the way everyone expected it to, and Ravenna was the only one to realize what was happening. She sat in the cupola of her hilltop house and watched as the stars lined up behind the moon, single file like a gaggle of goslings behind their mother, and as the ocean drew back and back and back as if the Atlantic was baring its teeth before sic’ing. It was only a matter of time, she thought, before everything would end, and since there was nothing to be done about it, she simply sat and watched.
But dawn showed up anyway. The sun, rising in the south, must have missed the memo that the world was over and he could go on his way now; the Earth no longer needed him. Ravenna did the only thing she could think to do, what was the thing she always did: she got ready for work and rode her bike out to the atrium.
Her boss was nowhere to be found, nor were the animals she always tended. It seemed her charges must have known what was coming and fled, trampling the flora as they went.
Ravenna wandered the grounds and found nothing but yesterday’s traces of life. Nothing moved, nothing twittered, nothing scurried into the bushes.
That was when it dawned on her that she hadn’t seen a single car on the road that morning. Suddenly panicked, she leapt back onto her bicycle and rode until her legs couldn’t pedal anymore, through the business district, to the harbor, down the coast on the wrong side of the Jersey barrier. There wasn’t a moving car on the street.
She finally arrived at her old house. The family car was still there, but her family was gone.
A balmy breeze swept through the yard, though New England was waist-deep in November. Ravenna could only shiver in response. The world had ended, all right, and she’d been left behind.
-----------------------------
I wrote this a few weeks ago as an exercise for my class and forgot to post it. Thoughts? Comments? A simple Like or Unlike?
Peace, love and California dreamin',
Miss Rex
But dawn showed up anyway. The sun, rising in the south, must have missed the memo that the world was over and he could go on his way now; the Earth no longer needed him. Ravenna did the only thing she could think to do, what was the thing she always did: she got ready for work and rode her bike out to the atrium.
Her boss was nowhere to be found, nor were the animals she always tended. It seemed her charges must have known what was coming and fled, trampling the flora as they went.
Ravenna wandered the grounds and found nothing but yesterday’s traces of life. Nothing moved, nothing twittered, nothing scurried into the bushes.
That was when it dawned on her that she hadn’t seen a single car on the road that morning. Suddenly panicked, she leapt back onto her bicycle and rode until her legs couldn’t pedal anymore, through the business district, to the harbor, down the coast on the wrong side of the Jersey barrier. There wasn’t a moving car on the street.
She finally arrived at her old house. The family car was still there, but her family was gone.
A balmy breeze swept through the yard, though New England was waist-deep in November. Ravenna could only shiver in response. The world had ended, all right, and she’d been left behind.
-----------------------------
I wrote this a few weeks ago as an exercise for my class and forgot to post it. Thoughts? Comments? A simple Like or Unlike?
Peace, love and California dreamin',
Miss Rex
Wrecking Ball
Stealing is bad... except when you're a writer.
For my fiction writing class, I had to develop a story from a stolen first line. Mine came from Ursula K. Le Guin.
"Wrecking Ball"
Worms shot like subway trains through the dirt of gardens, among the writhing roots of roses, while swallows shot like fighter jets through the dazzling digits of daylight and while minnows shot like brown bullets through the plishing plashing pool and while a tiny gray rodent shot like a wine cork through the undergrowth, not quite invisible to the hawk that shot like a wrecking ball through the canopy.
But there were no subway trains.
At that time there were no fighter jets, no bullets, no corks or wine, no wrecking balls. The worms simply did as worms did, which was all that worms knew how to do, and centuries later when subway cars came along one of them had the bright idea to impersonate a worm.
And one day when there was a war to be fought, someone thought it might be useful if people could shoot around the sky like swallows and they armed themselves with bullets that cut right through the sky like airborne minnows.
When someone learned that the nectar of grapes could be fermented and was good for making the head spin, they bottled it up and decided to stopper it with a little round porous thing that would shoot out of the bottleneck like a doomed rodent.
But at that time there was nothing like a wrecking ball. There were humans, but back then it wasn’t the same thing. Besides, there were only two of them, and they were at peace with the worms and the swallows and the minnows and the mice, and even the thrashing, crashing, swooping, scooping hawk.
They were like twin towers, the man and the woman, tall and sparkling side by side for each other and for the world and for God.
------------------------
I'm coming up on my 300th post here at Blogger! How to celebrate? I'd love to bake you all a fabulous yellow loaf of banana bread, but since I can't figure out how to upload baked goods I'll have to come up with something else. How would you, my readers (if you are still out there, you non-commenting worm-toed ninnymuffins, you), like to celebrate Post #300?
Peace, love, and Claymore (which tragically refuses to open),
Miss Rex
For my fiction writing class, I had to develop a story from a stolen first line. Mine came from Ursula K. Le Guin.
"Wrecking Ball"
Worms shot like subway trains through the dirt of gardens, among the writhing roots of roses, while swallows shot like fighter jets through the dazzling digits of daylight and while minnows shot like brown bullets through the plishing plashing pool and while a tiny gray rodent shot like a wine cork through the undergrowth, not quite invisible to the hawk that shot like a wrecking ball through the canopy.
But there were no subway trains.
At that time there were no fighter jets, no bullets, no corks or wine, no wrecking balls. The worms simply did as worms did, which was all that worms knew how to do, and centuries later when subway cars came along one of them had the bright idea to impersonate a worm.
And one day when there was a war to be fought, someone thought it might be useful if people could shoot around the sky like swallows and they armed themselves with bullets that cut right through the sky like airborne minnows.
When someone learned that the nectar of grapes could be fermented and was good for making the head spin, they bottled it up and decided to stopper it with a little round porous thing that would shoot out of the bottleneck like a doomed rodent.
But at that time there was nothing like a wrecking ball. There were humans, but back then it wasn’t the same thing. Besides, there were only two of them, and they were at peace with the worms and the swallows and the minnows and the mice, and even the thrashing, crashing, swooping, scooping hawk.
They were like twin towers, the man and the woman, tall and sparkling side by side for each other and for the world and for God.
------------------------
I'm coming up on my 300th post here at Blogger! How to celebrate? I'd love to bake you all a fabulous yellow loaf of banana bread, but since I can't figure out how to upload baked goods I'll have to come up with something else. How would you, my readers (if you are still out there, you non-commenting worm-toed ninnymuffins, you), like to celebrate Post #300?
Peace, love, and Claymore (which tragically refuses to open),
Miss Rex
Out of the blue poetry
I've been writing some poetry lately. I dunno where it's coming from because I'm not trying to write poems; they just keep appearing in my notebooks. This blog is the closest thing I have to a workshop right now, so help me out. These are rough drafts. If you don't like them, rip them apart, just tell me why. And if you think they're decent, great, but again, tell me why.
Jet Stream
7/22/10
It was a subtle change,
but the daylight looks so strange today.
The window gleams with golden pane.
The wheat fields bow with golden waves.
The sky is such a crystal blue
my godless eyes might pierce it through.
You sly trick mirror, you fox-begotten shroud!
What happened to my heart-shaped cloud?
My ice lamps sputtered and died in your jet stream.
You rained them down soft, then harder—
like static on an old TV,
shook out and hung to dry across your harbor.
------------------------------------------
The World Is Too Sharp Through A Glass
7/17/10
The world is too sharp through a glass.
There’s no slanting, no spin: it lets the bright
and ugly in
just the same.
The world is too sharp through a glass.
There’s no blur, no spin; washing out the whites
is sure to wash the scarlet in.
The world is too sharp through a glass.
The light cuts through the curve, a saber
to the eye,
jousting with the colors, fencing with
the lines.
Whiskey-wash your thoughts down,
dull your head.
Leave the lenses on the stand beside your bed.
-----------------------------
In particular I've been struggling with the line breaks for both of these. I resist end-rhyming, but Jet Stream seemed awkward without that structure, yet somehow seems awkward with it as well. And the breaks in The World Is Too Sharp, I don't know, just seemed too arbitrary to justify. Thoughts?
Peace, love and H2O,
Miss Rex
Jet Stream
7/22/10
It was a subtle change,
but the daylight looks so strange today.
The window gleams with golden pane.
The wheat fields bow with golden waves.
The sky is such a crystal blue
my godless eyes might pierce it through.
You sly trick mirror, you fox-begotten shroud!
What happened to my heart-shaped cloud?
My ice lamps sputtered and died in your jet stream.
You rained them down soft, then harder—
like static on an old TV,
shook out and hung to dry across your harbor.
------------------------------------------
The World Is Too Sharp Through A Glass
7/17/10
The world is too sharp through a glass.
There’s no slanting, no spin: it lets the bright
and ugly in
just the same.
The world is too sharp through a glass.
There’s no blur, no spin; washing out the whites
is sure to wash the scarlet in.
The world is too sharp through a glass.
The light cuts through the curve, a saber
to the eye,
jousting with the colors, fencing with
the lines.
Whiskey-wash your thoughts down,
dull your head.
Leave the lenses on the stand beside your bed.
-----------------------------
In particular I've been struggling with the line breaks for both of these. I resist end-rhyming, but Jet Stream seemed awkward without that structure, yet somehow seems awkward with it as well. And the breaks in The World Is Too Sharp, I don't know, just seemed too arbitrary to justify. Thoughts?
Peace, love and H2O,
Miss Rex
Thoughts from La Rocca
In Assisi, there is really nowhere to look but up. The buildings aren’t tall, but they loom as if reading over your shoulder, and when you feel their breath on your neck you must look.
When you do, you’ll see nothing but texture. In the architecture, yes – rough-hewn rock is mixed with more recent, geometrical stones and modern-day bricks in the walls. The streets, too, are mostly cobbled. Wood and metal doors to homes and yards are set in the walls like gates to secret gardens. And there are gardens in plenty. The greens are intoxicating. Pines and palm trees live side by side. People raise cactuses next to wild poppies. The flora hides dozens of different kinds of birds, from city street pigeons to happy darting finches, that chirrup and tweet in disregard of the many tourists.
In short, the place itself is a paradox. Sacred shares ground with secular. Modern infringes on ancient. The rustic lingers in the urban. There is an old wooden cart in an alley off the piazza and a red crane repairs a tower held up by Roman columns.
Yet much of the texture comes from the juxtaposition of the people. Assisi is a pilgrimage town, which makes it more of a melting pot than even our home in the States. I’ve heard Italian, Spanish, German, and Swedish. Once in a while I even catch a snatch of English.
Visitors of all ages and races gather in the piazza. A class on tour takes pictures by the fountain. A group of Swedish tweens plays some version of sharks and minnows. Families dine under umbrellas at an open-air restaurant. A man wearing a beret sits on a stone bench and scribbles in a notepad. There are parents, grandparents and children, schools, couples, seekers and pilgrims, all bundled together in one jostling, joyful square. Countless camera eyes are poised to remember what the photographers fear they will not.
So, I have described the people in any tourist town. What makes Assisi unique is that all of these gather in the shadow of churches and basilicas that played major roles in Christian history. The streets bear the names of saints. Shop windows showcase religious souvenirs. To this day, friars and nuns walk the narrow streets, heads covered, alongside bare-shouldered visitors, Vespas, cars and buses.
And it’s relaxed. American tourist towns are so rushed in comparison, urging guests to squeeze in as much activity as possible. Assisi seems to call us simply to be. Enjoy. Take a leisurely meal. Nothing remotely like fast food exists here – the thought must be as appalling as requesting to check books out of the library (which is not allowed; most of the libraries are not even public).
Even groups on tours aren’t frazzled. The only ones in a hurry are the little children, who can’t wait to see the next new thing. As for the rest, they have nowhere to rush to, nothing to cause them stress. Assisi is a sanctuary from such things. Thus, the wine bar bubbles with company throughout the day. A man sits by himself, drinking and watching the traffic. A kid gets water all over his face at the bubbler and simply laughs. Most of the shopkeepers are gracious and patient while we try to communicate with them and everyone seems eager to help, like the friar who brought us around the library and even to the rooms and secret passages below. It seems Assisi extends as far down as it does up.
And everywhere you go, there is always something to look up at. But with the direction of up comes a compulsion to climb, and thus I find myself at La Rocca, a mountaintop castle that kept its eye on the rival city of Perugia once upon a time. From here the city is only patterns – unfolded origami rooftops, quilted farmland laced with wild poppies. You could play tic tac toe with the property lines. Patches of green pepper the rooftops where people have planted gardens. The city spills down the hillside into a valley of a thousand greens.
There are no people or cars from up here, no storefronts or pizzerias or wine bars. It’s hard to call Assisi a city from the mountaintop. With a castle behind me and the quilt below, I’d sooner say I got caught in a time warp. Tradition still holds sway in the stone labyrinths below me; it’s in the very mortar. One might say it is the mortar. Something has held this city together for over a thousand years, and I’m guessing it’s more than rocks.
----------------------
Still sorting through pictures from Rome, but I'll post them in the next couple of days provided I have time. Which I may not since I have to go back to Rome to replace my freaking passport. I dunno what happened to it. I didn't have it leaving for Rome on Friday, but I had it coming through customs at the airport. I remember the guy was all impatient because it took me a second to open up to the page with my photo and he just waved me through without even taking it. But beyond that things get a little fuzzy. I had been traveling for 12 hours at that point. Anything is possible. I could've gotten pick-pocketed by aliens and never known it.
Anyway, the fact now stands that I have to get the damn thing replaced before I can leave the country. I actually would not be opposed to spending a few extra days here, but you know... I might've rationed my Euros better if I'd known that would be the case, as opposed to indulging in so many of those yummy sprize things at the local bar...
When you do, you’ll see nothing but texture. In the architecture, yes – rough-hewn rock is mixed with more recent, geometrical stones and modern-day bricks in the walls. The streets, too, are mostly cobbled. Wood and metal doors to homes and yards are set in the walls like gates to secret gardens. And there are gardens in plenty. The greens are intoxicating. Pines and palm trees live side by side. People raise cactuses next to wild poppies. The flora hides dozens of different kinds of birds, from city street pigeons to happy darting finches, that chirrup and tweet in disregard of the many tourists.
In short, the place itself is a paradox. Sacred shares ground with secular. Modern infringes on ancient. The rustic lingers in the urban. There is an old wooden cart in an alley off the piazza and a red crane repairs a tower held up by Roman columns.
Yet much of the texture comes from the juxtaposition of the people. Assisi is a pilgrimage town, which makes it more of a melting pot than even our home in the States. I’ve heard Italian, Spanish, German, and Swedish. Once in a while I even catch a snatch of English.
Visitors of all ages and races gather in the piazza. A class on tour takes pictures by the fountain. A group of Swedish tweens plays some version of sharks and minnows. Families dine under umbrellas at an open-air restaurant. A man wearing a beret sits on a stone bench and scribbles in a notepad. There are parents, grandparents and children, schools, couples, seekers and pilgrims, all bundled together in one jostling, joyful square. Countless camera eyes are poised to remember what the photographers fear they will not.
So, I have described the people in any tourist town. What makes Assisi unique is that all of these gather in the shadow of churches and basilicas that played major roles in Christian history. The streets bear the names of saints. Shop windows showcase religious souvenirs. To this day, friars and nuns walk the narrow streets, heads covered, alongside bare-shouldered visitors, Vespas, cars and buses.
And it’s relaxed. American tourist towns are so rushed in comparison, urging guests to squeeze in as much activity as possible. Assisi seems to call us simply to be. Enjoy. Take a leisurely meal. Nothing remotely like fast food exists here – the thought must be as appalling as requesting to check books out of the library (which is not allowed; most of the libraries are not even public).
Even groups on tours aren’t frazzled. The only ones in a hurry are the little children, who can’t wait to see the next new thing. As for the rest, they have nowhere to rush to, nothing to cause them stress. Assisi is a sanctuary from such things. Thus, the wine bar bubbles with company throughout the day. A man sits by himself, drinking and watching the traffic. A kid gets water all over his face at the bubbler and simply laughs. Most of the shopkeepers are gracious and patient while we try to communicate with them and everyone seems eager to help, like the friar who brought us around the library and even to the rooms and secret passages below. It seems Assisi extends as far down as it does up.
And everywhere you go, there is always something to look up at. But with the direction of up comes a compulsion to climb, and thus I find myself at La Rocca, a mountaintop castle that kept its eye on the rival city of Perugia once upon a time. From here the city is only patterns – unfolded origami rooftops, quilted farmland laced with wild poppies. You could play tic tac toe with the property lines. Patches of green pepper the rooftops where people have planted gardens. The city spills down the hillside into a valley of a thousand greens.
There are no people or cars from up here, no storefronts or pizzerias or wine bars. It’s hard to call Assisi a city from the mountaintop. With a castle behind me and the quilt below, I’d sooner say I got caught in a time warp. Tradition still holds sway in the stone labyrinths below me; it’s in the very mortar. One might say it is the mortar. Something has held this city together for over a thousand years, and I’m guessing it’s more than rocks.
----------------------
Still sorting through pictures from Rome, but I'll post them in the next couple of days provided I have time. Which I may not since I have to go back to Rome to replace my freaking passport. I dunno what happened to it. I didn't have it leaving for Rome on Friday, but I had it coming through customs at the airport. I remember the guy was all impatient because it took me a second to open up to the page with my photo and he just waved me through without even taking it. But beyond that things get a little fuzzy. I had been traveling for 12 hours at that point. Anything is possible. I could've gotten pick-pocketed by aliens and never known it.
Anyway, the fact now stands that I have to get the damn thing replaced before I can leave the country. I actually would not be opposed to spending a few extra days here, but you know... I might've rationed my Euros better if I'd known that would be the case, as opposed to indulging in so many of those yummy sprize things at the local bar...
Creating the Cast
It's characterization week for Miss Rex! Yes, these individuals have lived in my head for more than four years now, and on some level I knew them... but it wasn't deep enough. My shallow relationship with them was getting in the way of telling the story because I didn't know what each person would be likely to do. I had characters who, while being distinct from one another, weren't really three-dimensional people; they were just archetypes carrying out my bidding. Fellow writers, you understand my position.
So this week I've been delving into them. Putting on their skin, so to speak. Which reminds me of this weird episode of Pokemon I just watched with my friend down the hall (then again, what episode of Pokemon ISN'T weird?). There's this guy named Bill who lives in this random lighthouse where he studies Pokemon and hopes that one day the Dragonite making mysterious noises across the ocean will come be his friend. Apparently this Bill guy dresses up as Pokemonfor kicks and giggles in order to understand them. So that's what I'm doing this week: Dressing up as Pokemon. I mean, as my characters. I guess it's pretty weird either way, huh.
But I know I've been successful because the characters now feel out of my control. It's odd being worried that a character might behave in ways that make you, the author, look bad. I don't think most people (that is, non-writers) understand that, beyond a certain point, the character has her own free will - she's a person, not a pawn. She does what she does without any consideration for how beating up her fourth-grade classmates and swearing might make me look. Lila, dear, I would very much like my book to be suitable for young readers, not to mention classy....
To which I'm sure Lila would reply, "The hell do I care about your scant readership?"
YOU CARE BECAUSE I CREATED YOU, YOU SAUCY WENCH!
Writers, how do you get to know your characters? And what do you do with the rogue ones?
So this week I've been delving into them. Putting on their skin, so to speak. Which reminds me of this weird episode of Pokemon I just watched with my friend down the hall (then again, what episode of Pokemon ISN'T weird?). There's this guy named Bill who lives in this random lighthouse where he studies Pokemon and hopes that one day the Dragonite making mysterious noises across the ocean will come be his friend. Apparently this Bill guy dresses up as Pokemon
But I know I've been successful because the characters now feel out of my control. It's odd being worried that a character might behave in ways that make you, the author, look bad. I don't think most people (that is, non-writers) understand that, beyond a certain point, the character has her own free will - she's a person, not a pawn. She does what she does without any consideration for how beating up her fourth-grade classmates and swearing might make me look. Lila, dear, I would very much like my book to be suitable for young readers, not to mention classy....
To which I'm sure Lila would reply, "The hell do I care about your scant readership?"
YOU CARE BECAUSE I CREATED YOU, YOU SAUCY WENCH!
Writers, how do you get to know your characters? And what do you do with the rogue ones?
Buried treasure!
Isn't buried treasure great? I don't mean just the kind at the bottom of the ocean. I mean A bottle of Naked you forgot was in the fridge. $20 bills you didn't know you had (yep, I found one last week. It bought me a new pair of flats, which I would be thrilled to show off if it would stop freaking snowing already). A theatrical morsel you wrote but never published.
You guessed it - I found one of those, too! Enjoy and comment. Your literary critiques are more valuable than forgotten Naked. Maybe even more so than free money... convince me ^_^
(MARCUS and JADE walk into a messy bathroom. JADE has an empty grocery bag in one hand and is dressed/groomed nicely. MARCUS is wearing sweats, hair uncombed.)
JADE: Wow… everything looks exactly the same. It’s like I never left.
MARCUS: Sorry it’s such a fucking mess. My dad lives like a–
JADE: Like a frat boy. I know. Don’t worry about it; I just want to grab my stuff.
(She opens the bottom drawer. MARCUS stands in the doorway and watches, shifting his weight uncomfortably.)
MARCUS: I’d really like to clean this place up.
(Beat; JADE moves pajamas from drawer to bag.)
MARCUS: Dad just gets so pissed when anybody touches anything, y’know?
(Beat; JADE grabs a handful of make-up and throws it in the shopping bag)
MARCUS: But, y’know, he goes to New Orleans in February, so maybe then I can…
JADE: Yeah. (She throws a tube of toothpaste in the bag and shuts the drawer, stands up)
MARCUS: So you’re doing OK? School and everything?
JADE: Well, you know. I like it about as much as I did last year…. (Beat; then, brightly:) But I have an internship now.
MARCUS: That’s great! What are you doing?
JADE: Channel four news.
MARCUS: That’s fucking great!
JADE: Yeah, it’s been fantastic so far. How about you? Written any good songs lately?
MARCUS: No, work’s been kicking my ass. That's what sucks about Christmas. The post office looks like a fucking bomb went off. Hey, you wanna… go grab dinner or something? Catch up?
JADE: Oh, umm… Tonight’s not–
MARCUS: C’mon, I’ll treat.
JADE: With what, your Monopoly credit card?
MARCUS: Hey! I have real money.
JADE: (Laughs) I know, I know. But you like to save it. Don't go throwing it away on my account.
MARCUS: I got paid today. Come on, where should we go? You always like that place, what is it, that place in Gloucester. I’ll take you there.
JADE: (Breaks eye contact, pushes past him to go downstairs) I have to go. My boyfriend’s waiting in the car.
MARCUS: (Looks surprised, but tries not to miss a beat; follows her to the door) Oh. Well, we should hang out soon.
JADE: (Opens front door, faces MARCUS. A black car is parked outside, still running, with said boyfriend in the driver’s seat) Yeah. Well, uh, thanks for my stuff and, uh, take care….
MARCUS: You too. I’ll call you.
JADE: Sounds good. (Leaves, closing door behind her; chuckles softly) Sure you will.
You guessed it - I found one of those, too! Enjoy and comment. Your literary critiques are more valuable than forgotten Naked. Maybe even more so than free money... convince me ^_^
(MARCUS and JADE walk into a messy bathroom. JADE has an empty grocery bag in one hand and is dressed/groomed nicely. MARCUS is wearing sweats, hair uncombed.)
JADE: Wow… everything looks exactly the same. It’s like I never left.
MARCUS: Sorry it’s such a fucking mess. My dad lives like a–
JADE: Like a frat boy. I know. Don’t worry about it; I just want to grab my stuff.
(She opens the bottom drawer. MARCUS stands in the doorway and watches, shifting his weight uncomfortably.)
MARCUS: I’d really like to clean this place up.
(Beat; JADE moves pajamas from drawer to bag.)
MARCUS: Dad just gets so pissed when anybody touches anything, y’know?
(Beat; JADE grabs a handful of make-up and throws it in the shopping bag)
MARCUS: But, y’know, he goes to New Orleans in February, so maybe then I can…
JADE: Yeah. (She throws a tube of toothpaste in the bag and shuts the drawer, stands up)
MARCUS: So you’re doing OK? School and everything?
JADE: Well, you know. I like it about as much as I did last year…. (Beat; then, brightly:) But I have an internship now.
MARCUS: That’s great! What are you doing?
JADE: Channel four news.
MARCUS: That’s fucking great!
JADE: Yeah, it’s been fantastic so far. How about you? Written any good songs lately?
MARCUS: No, work’s been kicking my ass. That's what sucks about Christmas. The post office looks like a fucking bomb went off. Hey, you wanna… go grab dinner or something? Catch up?
JADE: Oh, umm… Tonight’s not–
MARCUS: C’mon, I’ll treat.
JADE: With what, your Monopoly credit card?
MARCUS: Hey! I have real money.
JADE: (Laughs) I know, I know. But you like to save it. Don't go throwing it away on my account.
MARCUS: I got paid today. Come on, where should we go? You always like that place, what is it, that place in Gloucester. I’ll take you there.
JADE: (Breaks eye contact, pushes past him to go downstairs) I have to go. My boyfriend’s waiting in the car.
MARCUS: (Looks surprised, but tries not to miss a beat; follows her to the door) Oh. Well, we should hang out soon.
JADE: (Opens front door, faces MARCUS. A black car is parked outside, still running, with said boyfriend in the driver’s seat) Yeah. Well, uh, thanks for my stuff and, uh, take care….
MARCUS: You too. I’ll call you.
JADE: Sounds good. (Leaves, closing door behind her; chuckles softly) Sure you will.
Out of the frying pan...
I seem to recall promising to post a scene some time ago. Now, the one I wanted to post finally got workshopped last Tuesday and I decided it sucked as a theatrical morsel; it needed to become a full-fledged ten-minute play to be any good. So I'm not going to post that here. But I will post another morsel that will hopefully spawn some giggles and end your Monday on a good note. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you "Out of the frying pan."
OLIVER (11) is sporting a fresh black eye. He stands at the kitchen sink, dutifully scrubbing dishes and passing them to CALEB (15), who clearly thinks he has better things to do than dry dishes.
(CALEB has two pots and a glass measuring cup laid out in front of him. He’s drumming on them with a wooden spoon and a whisk.)
OLIVER: You’re supposed to be drying those.
(CALEB pauses and looks at OLIVER, perturbed at him for interrupting his beat. OLIVER places two dripping wet mugs in front of CALEB, who incorporates them into the “drum kit” and resumes playing.)
OLIVER: I’ll tell Mom.
CALEB: Relax, Liver. I’ll dry the dishes.
OLIVER: (Shouting over the noise) And I’ll tell her you’re calling me Liver, too.
CALEB: (Stops drumming) Jesus, Oliver. That’s your problem, you know.
OLIVER: (Sticks his chin out and goes back to washing dishes. Pause.) You shouldn’t say “Jesus” like that.
CALEB: (Incredulous laugh) Who gave you that shiner?
OLIVER: Ronnie Kent.
CALEB: What for?
OLIVER: I dunno. I was just getting a drink of water.
CALEB: (Talking over him) I’ll tell you what for. It’s cause you’re a pussy.
OLIVER: (Turns off sink, puts the metal strainer in front of Caleb and gives his brother full attention) What’s a pussy?
CALEB: It means you’re too good. Teachers love you. Parents love you. The principal knows your name, and not cause he caught you smoking weed by the dumpster. Christ, I bet you can’t even drop an f-bomb. You make everybody else look bad, see?
(OLIVER drops his eyes and goes back to washing dishes – sullenly now, and embarrassed)
CALEB: And what’s worse, you let people walk all over you for it. I mean, Jesus, Liver, you’re a smart kid; do yourself a favor and learn to sucker punch someone, yeah?
(OLIVER is silent, so CALEB goes back to drumming.)
CALEB: (Loudly over his own noise) I’d tell you to play dumb but it’s too late for that. They all know better. You dug your own grave, kid.
OLIVER: Shut up, Caleb. You’re just as bad as they are.
CALEB: I’m just sayin’! Man up or high school’s gonna suck monkey–
(OLIVER turns around suddenly and hits CALEB in the head with the frying pan – not hard enough to knock him over, but hard enough to make a loud clang.)
CALEB: Jesus, Oliver!
OLIVER: Dry the dishes, douchebag.
(CALEB turns away from OLIVER and complies, grinning.)
Help me out - what did you learn about the characters from what they say and do? What do they want/what motivates them? This one hasn't been workshopped and probably never will be, so I need your input! Thanks, my loves ^_^
Oh, and while you're being awesome, check out my new article on boston.com! This one's about a bluesy duo, Dwight & Nicole. Talking to the two of them and their producer was so much fun, and they gave me so many great quotes I could hardly decide which ones to keep. This was definitely one of the most fun articles I've written!
Peace, love, and trippy Anime movies,
Miss Rex
OLIVER (11) is sporting a fresh black eye. He stands at the kitchen sink, dutifully scrubbing dishes and passing them to CALEB (15), who clearly thinks he has better things to do than dry dishes.
(CALEB has two pots and a glass measuring cup laid out in front of him. He’s drumming on them with a wooden spoon and a whisk.)
OLIVER: You’re supposed to be drying those.
(CALEB pauses and looks at OLIVER, perturbed at him for interrupting his beat. OLIVER places two dripping wet mugs in front of CALEB, who incorporates them into the “drum kit” and resumes playing.)
OLIVER: I’ll tell Mom.
CALEB: Relax, Liver. I’ll dry the dishes.
OLIVER: (Shouting over the noise) And I’ll tell her you’re calling me Liver, too.
CALEB: (Stops drumming) Jesus, Oliver. That’s your problem, you know.
OLIVER: (Sticks his chin out and goes back to washing dishes. Pause.) You shouldn’t say “Jesus” like that.
CALEB: (Incredulous laugh) Who gave you that shiner?
OLIVER: Ronnie Kent.
CALEB: What for?
OLIVER: I dunno. I was just getting a drink of water.
CALEB: (Talking over him) I’ll tell you what for. It’s cause you’re a pussy.
OLIVER: (Turns off sink, puts the metal strainer in front of Caleb and gives his brother full attention) What’s a pussy?
CALEB: It means you’re too good. Teachers love you. Parents love you. The principal knows your name, and not cause he caught you smoking weed by the dumpster. Christ, I bet you can’t even drop an f-bomb. You make everybody else look bad, see?
(OLIVER drops his eyes and goes back to washing dishes – sullenly now, and embarrassed)
CALEB: And what’s worse, you let people walk all over you for it. I mean, Jesus, Liver, you’re a smart kid; do yourself a favor and learn to sucker punch someone, yeah?
(OLIVER is silent, so CALEB goes back to drumming.)
CALEB: (Loudly over his own noise) I’d tell you to play dumb but it’s too late for that. They all know better. You dug your own grave, kid.
OLIVER: Shut up, Caleb. You’re just as bad as they are.
CALEB: I’m just sayin’! Man up or high school’s gonna suck monkey–
(OLIVER turns around suddenly and hits CALEB in the head with the frying pan – not hard enough to knock him over, but hard enough to make a loud clang.)
CALEB: Jesus, Oliver!
OLIVER: Dry the dishes, douchebag.
(CALEB turns away from OLIVER and complies, grinning.)
Help me out - what did you learn about the characters from what they say and do? What do they want/what motivates them? This one hasn't been workshopped and probably never will be, so I need your input! Thanks, my loves ^_^
Oh, and while you're being awesome, check out my new article on boston.com! This one's about a bluesy duo, Dwight & Nicole. Talking to the two of them and their producer was so much fun, and they gave me so many great quotes I could hardly decide which ones to keep. This was definitely one of the most fun articles I've written!
Peace, love, and trippy Anime movies,
Miss Rex
Fame! (Doodlybop)
SO MANY GREAT THINGS ARE HAPPENING RIGHT NOW. I don't even know what to do. Maybe like, dance party plus eat cookies times hug people squared....
Saturday was Adam Ezra Group's CD (re)release party at the Paradise. As I mentioned before, I got to chat it up with Adam freakin' Ezra last week, as I was hyping the party in this article I was writing for my journalism internship.
Said article is now on BOSTON.COM!!! This is.... (I'm searching for an adjective that could possibly encompass my excitement)... Radical! Stellar! Fan-freakin'-tabulous!!! Yes, the plethora of exclamation points is NECESSARY!!!!!
Ahem. So, that's the big news.
The party was great fun! I was one of the first people inbecause I'm a groupie like that because I seriously overestimated how long I would be lost in the labyrinthine, unlabeled streets of Boston even with my new GPS. Said hello to Turtle and Robin Vincent on my way in. Claimed the best spot in the house - front and dead center, leaning on the speakers - and waited that last agonizing hour between doors and showtime.
The first band was called Girls Guns and Glory. They're the sort of band that are a lot of fun live but not really something I'd listen to in my car, or anywhere else. Too western-sounding. But there was a guy with an accordion, which rocked, and the bassist had this weird upright bass with no body, just all neck. And of course, I was close enough to reach out and play the lead singer's guitar if I'd wanted to, but I'm not into the whole interfering-with-the-show bit.
But some people are into that sort of thing. This one young lady clambered over all of us in the front row and started dancing on stage. ("I thought this place used to have security," said the woman next to me. Yeah, I thought so too.) The band just kept playing; I don't think there was much else they could do. Then the song ended and Very Drunk Dancing Girl gave them all kisses and hopped off the stage. Good gravy. People.
Then it was Adam Ezra Group's turn to play. I've never seen people so jazzed about them, yelling and singing and dancing like that - I mean, it was more upbeat than the last Relient K show I saw! Somehow that just shouldn't happen. Even I, who had spent two and a half days with my face buried in a tissue, was singing my heart out. In fact, I might even credit this show with curing me. Anyway it cured, or at least boosted, my rather drab outlook on life. AND, Adam bent down away from the mic mid-song to tell me, "Great article!"
It's hard NOT to be inspired when a band you love decides to share the spotlight on their big night and give all the money they make to Haiti relief efforts. They passed around the Love Bucket (a.k.a. a re-labeled recycling bin) and people filled it with even MORE money, after they had already donated just by buying a ticket. Adam dumped it all out on stage and they played the rest of the show wading through a sea of cash. I was devastated that I hadn't brought my camera. You'll just have to use your imagination.
But it would have been inspiring even minus the Haiti angle and minus the "great article" comment. Adam is one of those people, like Jon Foreman, that can make things seem better just by being in the same room. I don't get how people can do that. Granted, he was pretty giddy himself; Aerosmith's bassist came out and played a song with them, and Adam's only looked up to the guy for like, his entire life.
Then Very Drunk Dancing Girl returned for an encore (I couldn't believe they hadn't made her leave). This time she brought a friend. Security actually showed up and tried to get them to leave, but the friend wouldn't go until she'd told Turtle "I love you!" and kissed Adam on the cheek. God. No shame.
We all had a great time being rowdy and obnoxious during the new song, "Scandal," but I think the most fun was when everyone from both bands came out on stage for Bob Dylan's "Wagon Wheel." It was one of those bighappyfamily moments, with everyone on stage and the whole crowd singing and dancing along. That's why AEG is different from other bands. Other band have fans; AEG has a family. Aww cute.
Well that's all for now; stay tuned since I've got a new scene to post after tomorrow's playwright's workshop!
Peace, love, and FAME!
~ Miss Rex
Saturday was Adam Ezra Group's CD (re)release party at the Paradise. As I mentioned before, I got to chat it up with Adam freakin' Ezra last week, as I was hyping the party in this article I was writing for my journalism internship.
Said article is now on BOSTON.COM!!! This is.... (I'm searching for an adjective that could possibly encompass my excitement)... Radical! Stellar! Fan-freakin'-tabulous!!! Yes, the plethora of exclamation points is NECESSARY!!!!!
Ahem. So, that's the big news.
The party was great fun! I was one of the first people in
The first band was called Girls Guns and Glory. They're the sort of band that are a lot of fun live but not really something I'd listen to in my car, or anywhere else. Too western-sounding. But there was a guy with an accordion, which rocked, and the bassist had this weird upright bass with no body, just all neck. And of course, I was close enough to reach out and play the lead singer's guitar if I'd wanted to, but I'm not into the whole interfering-with-the-show bit.
But some people are into that sort of thing. This one young lady clambered over all of us in the front row and started dancing on stage. ("I thought this place used to have security," said the woman next to me. Yeah, I thought so too.) The band just kept playing; I don't think there was much else they could do. Then the song ended and Very Drunk Dancing Girl gave them all kisses and hopped off the stage. Good gravy. People.
Then it was Adam Ezra Group's turn to play. I've never seen people so jazzed about them, yelling and singing and dancing like that - I mean, it was more upbeat than the last Relient K show I saw! Somehow that just shouldn't happen. Even I, who had spent two and a half days with my face buried in a tissue, was singing my heart out. In fact, I might even credit this show with curing me. Anyway it cured, or at least boosted, my rather drab outlook on life. AND, Adam bent down away from the mic mid-song to tell me, "Great article!"
It's hard NOT to be inspired when a band you love decides to share the spotlight on their big night and give all the money they make to Haiti relief efforts. They passed around the Love Bucket (a.k.a. a re-labeled recycling bin) and people filled it with even MORE money, after they had already donated just by buying a ticket. Adam dumped it all out on stage and they played the rest of the show wading through a sea of cash. I was devastated that I hadn't brought my camera. You'll just have to use your imagination.
But it would have been inspiring even minus the Haiti angle and minus the "great article" comment. Adam is one of those people, like Jon Foreman, that can make things seem better just by being in the same room. I don't get how people can do that. Granted, he was pretty giddy himself; Aerosmith's bassist came out and played a song with them, and Adam's only looked up to the guy for like, his entire life.
Then Very Drunk Dancing Girl returned for an encore (I couldn't believe they hadn't made her leave). This time she brought a friend. Security actually showed up and tried to get them to leave, but the friend wouldn't go until she'd told Turtle "I love you!" and kissed Adam on the cheek. God. No shame.
We all had a great time being rowdy and obnoxious during the new song, "Scandal," but I think the most fun was when everyone from both bands came out on stage for Bob Dylan's "Wagon Wheel." It was one of those bighappyfamily moments, with everyone on stage and the whole crowd singing and dancing along. That's why AEG is different from other bands. Other band have fans; AEG has a family. Aww cute.
Well that's all for now; stay tuned since I've got a new scene to post after tomorrow's playwright's workshop!
Peace, love, and FAME!
~ Miss Rex
A tale of two homecomings
Sorry for the lengthy absence, my friends. I've been really down on myself this month and not into the whole going-back-to-school-AGAIN deal, which makes a poor catalyst for writing. Or anything else, for that matter. Lucky for the blogging world, I'm in an incredible mood today in spite of many stupid inconveniences (parking lot clearings, fire drill, bad head cold, fish poop). So it's update time!
I have my four favorite professors this semester and I actually care about all the subjects I'm taking. This may be surprising since I was in my mother's room sobbing about the prospect of taking classes just last week, but the more I get into the rhythm the better my outlook becomes. Being here really is like being home in a way. Some part of me belongs here.
Reasons this semester will/already does kick ass: I'm finally going to read the classics, or at least a few of them, in western lit (but so far all we've done is Gilgamesh and Genesis - ick). My internship afforded me the chance to talk to Adam Ezra at length last week (Wanda was thrilled when she found out I actually got his phone number after she made me promise to). I'm taking philosophy for kicks and giggles (I know that sounds insane, but Brian Glenney is teaching it).
And then.....
Then there's playwriting.
I've only had one other class with Mark, the prof (I love how all my favorite profs refuse to be called by their last names), and I already like this one better, even though I was way nervous to be trying my hand at a new genre. I'm a novelist, not a playwright. I haven't written a play since like fifth grade when my best friend and I tried to write a Pokemon fan-fic saga for the theater.
That being said, as far as novels go, dialogue has always been my strength. It comes naturally. So this class is filled with the most fun part of writing! Yet I'm already learning so much about other elements of storytelling. That's what I love about writing classes: What you're learning tends to inform every other kind of writing you'll do.
So short story long, I'm having so much fun with my playwriting exercises that I want to post them here. For fun (and because The Pantsless One yelled at me yesterday for not blogging). This exercise is called "Unspoken Word." The idea is to convey a specific word through dialogue and actions but not state it outright. So without further ado, I give you The Homecoming.
POLLY (15, dressed stylishly, wearing Ugg boots; arms are crossed and she takes an irritated tone) and her MOTHER (late forties, looks like she hasn’t slept much) are in the pantry. MOTHER is staring at shelves of canned vegetables.
POLLY: Don’t ask me. I hate both.
MOTHER: (Pleasantly as she reaches for a can of peppers) You like the chili.
POLLY: No, Derek likes the chili. Just because Derek likes something doesn’t mean everybody does.
MOTHER: (Reaches instead for a can of corn) Well then I’ll make him the shepherd’s pie. He always liked that.
POLLY: Mmk. Whatevs.
MOTHER: (Raises voice) You know, Polly, you’re being a real brat. Derek’s been away for six months. Thank God we can have dinner with him at all… (trails off)
(POLLY glares at MOTHER, then drops her eyes but doesn’t argue back.)
MOTHER: I know things will be different when he moves back in, but try to be sympathetic, okay?
POLLY: Because I’m sure that’s what he wants, Mom. People feeling bad for him.
MOTHER: Don’t antagonize him, Polly. Don’t ask questions about the… place… or what he did, or why. Okay? Until things go back to normal, Derek gets treated like a prince.
POLLY: (mutters) Doesn’t he always?
MOTHER: That’s enough! Go upstairs and make sure all your razors and little pointy manicure things are out of the bathroom before he gets here.
POLLY: I already did.
MOTHER: (Sighs and rubs eyeballs hard) Just… try to be helpful, okay?
POLLY: (Softly) I’m making him Boston crème pie. From scratch.
(POLLY starts to cry)
POLLY: (Sobbing) Mom… what if he does it again?
Can you guess the unspoken word...?
I have my four favorite professors this semester and I actually care about all the subjects I'm taking. This may be surprising since I was in my mother's room sobbing about the prospect of taking classes just last week, but the more I get into the rhythm the better my outlook becomes. Being here really is like being home in a way. Some part of me belongs here.
Reasons this semester will/already does kick ass: I'm finally going to read the classics, or at least a few of them, in western lit (but so far all we've done is Gilgamesh and Genesis - ick). My internship afforded me the chance to talk to Adam Ezra at length last week (Wanda was thrilled when she found out I actually got his phone number after she made me promise to). I'm taking philosophy for kicks and giggles (I know that sounds insane, but Brian Glenney is teaching it).
And then.....
Then there's playwriting.
I've only had one other class with Mark, the prof (I love how all my favorite profs refuse to be called by their last names), and I already like this one better, even though I was way nervous to be trying my hand at a new genre. I'm a novelist, not a playwright. I haven't written a play since like fifth grade when my best friend and I tried to write a Pokemon fan-fic saga for the theater.
That being said, as far as novels go, dialogue has always been my strength. It comes naturally. So this class is filled with the most fun part of writing! Yet I'm already learning so much about other elements of storytelling. That's what I love about writing classes: What you're learning tends to inform every other kind of writing you'll do.
So short story long, I'm having so much fun with my playwriting exercises that I want to post them here. For fun (and because The Pantsless One yelled at me yesterday for not blogging). This exercise is called "Unspoken Word." The idea is to convey a specific word through dialogue and actions but not state it outright. So without further ado, I give you The Homecoming.
POLLY (15, dressed stylishly, wearing Ugg boots; arms are crossed and she takes an irritated tone) and her MOTHER (late forties, looks like she hasn’t slept much) are in the pantry. MOTHER is staring at shelves of canned vegetables.
POLLY: Don’t ask me. I hate both.
MOTHER: (Pleasantly as she reaches for a can of peppers) You like the chili.
POLLY: No, Derek likes the chili. Just because Derek likes something doesn’t mean everybody does.
MOTHER: (Reaches instead for a can of corn) Well then I’ll make him the shepherd’s pie. He always liked that.
POLLY: Mmk. Whatevs.
MOTHER: (Raises voice) You know, Polly, you’re being a real brat. Derek’s been away for six months. Thank God we can have dinner with him at all… (trails off)
(POLLY glares at MOTHER, then drops her eyes but doesn’t argue back.)
MOTHER: I know things will be different when he moves back in, but try to be sympathetic, okay?
POLLY: Because I’m sure that’s what he wants, Mom. People feeling bad for him.
MOTHER: Don’t antagonize him, Polly. Don’t ask questions about the… place… or what he did, or why. Okay? Until things go back to normal, Derek gets treated like a prince.
POLLY: (mutters) Doesn’t he always?
MOTHER: That’s enough! Go upstairs and make sure all your razors and little pointy manicure things are out of the bathroom before he gets here.
POLLY: I already did.
MOTHER: (Sighs and rubs eyeballs hard) Just… try to be helpful, okay?
POLLY: (Softly) I’m making him Boston crème pie. From scratch.
(POLLY starts to cry)
POLLY: (Sobbing) Mom… what if he does it again?
Can you guess the unspoken word...?
55 fiction: Felled
Surely it’s there. Decades have bloomed, withered and died, but my feet cannot forget the trail they trod so often with him. It should be there, the sapling we (but saplings ourselves then) had claimed with ugly, abecedarian scars.
But alas! I settle my arid bones upon the darling, decomposing stump.
It, too, is gone.
--------------------
I've only been meaning to try my hand at 55 flash fiction for the past half a year now. Dang! It is not easy! 55 words is about two sentences, three or four if you keep 'em short. Hardly enough to tell a story. I challenge you all to give it a try if you haven't; it really forces you to be picky about word choice and burn the chaff. Post me a link when you're done! I can't wait to see what everyone comes up with!
Peace, love, and sleep deficiency,
Miss Rex
But alas! I settle my arid bones upon the darling, decomposing stump.
It, too, is gone.
--------------------
I've only been meaning to try my hand at 55 flash fiction for the past half a year now. Dang! It is not easy! 55 words is about two sentences, three or four if you keep 'em short. Hardly enough to tell a story. I challenge you all to give it a try if you haven't; it really forces you to be picky about word choice and burn the chaff. Post me a link when you're done! I can't wait to see what everyone comes up with!
Peace, love, and sleep deficiency,
Miss Rex
The Second Storm (Ingraham Rhodes translation)
The Seven Storms define the history of Myriad. At this time, three have occurred; four are yet to come. Please see “prophecies” (page 1236) for information on the latter storms. The following is Ingraham Rhodes’ translation of the ancient literature, originally written in Irvish by Modungo, the first Great Rhetor of Marcador.
####################
In the beginning, Men were young and mindless, no different from the creatures that crawled, swam, slithered, and flew. There was but one realm at that time, for it was Ildiago: the time before the separation. Versitas was the only reality, and Myriad did not yet exist.
Then the High Cadant, Fëanáro, conjured the First Storm, which gave birth to the world of Myriad and bestowed upon mankind the gift of hope. He set the Andasi the task of crafting dreams for Men, and these dreams fostered the hope that raised Men above the creatures of the earth.
Fëanáro made his dwelling place atop the Mount of Acharia, the mysterious kingdom of the air, which was shrouded to all but those whom the High Cadant wished to see it. He ruled all from the clock room at the pinnacle of a glass castle atop the Acharian mountain – for at that time, Versitas and Myriad were as one and all passed freely between them. Andasi communed with Men. Hope held fast, for despair was, as yet, unknown, nor had Death shown her face. Peace reigned supreme for many centuries.
But the equilibrium between man and muse displeased one of the Andasi. The rogue, Jamus, looked down upon Men and their reliance upon the dreams they borrowed from the Andasi. He saw them as inferior, weak, and altogether undeserving of inspiration.
And so Jamus severed ties with the other Andasi. He dreamt up the first nightmares and set them loose to punish unwary dreamers. For the first time, Men came to understand fear. For the first time, hope and happiness had to be sought rather than merely enjoyed. If they were not found, Men sank to great depths and committed evil crimes against one another and against the muses.
Fëanáro called a council of the Andasi. The seven monarchs and some of their underlings were all present, most notably: Asa of Séasia, kingdom of the sea; Tamoura of Fairbeam, kingdom of the sun; Haligh of Jadessa, kingdom of the earth; Modungo of Marcador, kingdom of the word; Femar of Nomaçao, kingdom of the heart; Alassea of Lokkenshire, kingdom of the clock; Adayla of Acharia, Fëanáro’s daughter and princess of the kingdom of the air; and of course, Fëanáro himself, High Cadant and king of all Myriad. The rogue was present as well, and Caukkor, the great goldsmith from Versitas. They all gathered in the clock room, kings and queens and lesser Andasi united for the last time. Grandfather clocks stood against the glass walls of the round room at twelve, nine, six and three o’clock. The High Cadant’s throne was stationed in front of the clock at twelve, and the others’ seats were arrayed about him in a circle.
Said Fëanáro unto the rogue, “Why have you done this?”
“My lord, whatever you say, I do not see what I am doing as wrong,” entreated the rogue. “Andasi of the council, hear me now, so that you will not be persuaded against me by muses who would choose to gild the reality.
“Men are weak and stupid. They have become utterly dependent upon us. They suck us dry like leeches, leaving no dreams for the very creators of dreams! What have they done that they should be considered worthy of our service and sacrifice? Naught! For they are animals, no different from the birds that fly and the fish that swim. Therefore join me! Together we shall restore the realms to their proper order!”
“Proper order indeed!” exclaimed the Empress Haligh, and the Andasi voiced their agreement.
The High Cadant rose from his throne and strode around the clock room, anti-clockwise as was the custom. “Jamus,” said he as he passed the ninth mark. “Thrice have I given you my warning. This is your last chance to retract what you’ve said and turn from your wicked ways.”
“Your Majesty, I do not retract what I’ve said, nor do I repent.”
Heavily Fëanáro lifted his hand. The clocks around the room fell still and silent, and the only council members moving were the High Cadant himself, his daughter the Princess Adayla, the rogue, and the Versitan goldsmith.
“You know the destiny that awaits you if you do not change your ways,” said Fëanáro. “It has been written since time began.”
“The prophecies are not unalterable,” said Jamus. “If the people about whom they were made choose to act differently than we foresaw, they become irrelevant.”
Said Fëanáro, “I cannot choose other than I have. My son, I hoped it would not come to this. I do not wish your destruction.” He sighed, fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose while he thought.
“Jamus,” said he at length. “Though I change not the prophecy, this promise I give you: I will delay its fulfillment, that you may have time to see the error of your ways. But if you do not, you know what I must do. Do you agree?”
“I do,” said Jamus at once.
“Caukkor, Adayla,” said the king. “Seal the contract.”
The man shuffled forward. He was bearded, bespectacled, and short, even by the standards of Men. Though by all appearances he had been around since time began, he was yet quick of body and wit; for at that time, the bodies of Andasi and Men did not slow down or pass away.
He approached Fëanáro and drew a small, golden dagger. The king held out his hand, and the Man slit the palm, collecting some of the blood on his knife.
Adayla then drew her own golden dagger and faced Jamus. The rogue hesitated, glancing at the king: surely this girl was not to take part in a sacred ritual of blood?
Fëanáro nodded, and Jamus offered his hand to the princess, who cut it without flinching and gathered the blood on her blade.
While the other two watched, the girl and the goldsmith conjured a white flame and used it to distill the droplets of blood, muttering fragments of magic as they did so. Then they stood, each with a smoldering crimson gem suspended magically above an outstretched hand, and faced the others.
“With this forging, thee I bind: each to the other for all of time,” said they in unison.
Then Jamus, in defiance of the contract, interfered.
“I have made my choice,” said he, “and time shall change it not. I will take Myriad for myself, and then there will be no more Men leeching our dreams from us.”
The white flame created by the goldsmith lashed out to reclaim the bloodstones. Lithe Adayla of the Kingdom of Air sprang up and hovered out of the fire’s range, clutching the stone to her breast, her spirit fighting to hold the magic in place until it settled and sealed the contract.
But Caukkor suddenly felt the weight of his years and fell to his knees. The fire quickly engulfed him – a whirl of hot ash – and presently he was gone. This was the first death.
“Aha! See what I have made!” crowed Jamus. “How do you like it, Fëanáro? I call it death. When a Man has lived out his span of years, then he shall be taken from life, to spend the rest of time in the Kingdom of the Dead.”
Adayla drifted slowly to the ground. “There is no kingdom of the dead,” said she.
Jamus laughed again. “Oh! But there is! What was once the Kingdom of the Clock shall henceforth be the dwelling place of the dead. So have I said, so shall it be. The people of Lokkenshire will serve me from now on.”
“Alassea won’t allow it,” said Adayla.
Jamus paused, as though considering this. Then he swept across the floor, disregarding the anti-clockwise tradition of the Clock Room, and faced the Queen of Time. He then reached out and, by all appearances, drew her spirit from her body. “She shall be queen of the Kiragati,” said he. “Not living, yet never dying; for I have fractured her spirit and she can be neither alive nor dead.”
“What a monstrous thing to do!” cried Adayla, brandishing her dagger at him.
“Peace, my daughter,” said Fëanáro. “Jamus, you have done quite enough for today, I think. Just remember that, although you may disregard our agreement, you were too late: the magic did take. You have time, as I promised, but I will not forget what else I promised.”
With that, the council was revived from its sleep – all, that is, except Alassea; what spirit remained in her shadow of a body had been magicked away to Lokkenshire. The council’s eyes were on the rogue, however, and her absence at first went unnoticed.
Fëanáro opened the door of the grandfather clock at six. To the council’s surprise, it did not merely open on a pendulum and weights, but on a faraway vista. The Andasi saw dunes of blood-red sand undulating under a relentless blue sky. It was through this portal that the king drove Jamus.
“Andasi of the council! Lend me your magic!” he implored. The Andasi gathered around the clock.
But something was taking place.
From the rogue’s skin emerged a creature none of the council had dreamed of. Like a lion, it was, but blacker than the darkest night or the deepest sea; so black was he that the red sand at his feet became washed out and dull; all the light of the bright blue sky behind him was dimmed as if he had absorbed it into himself and grown none the brighter for it. His mane was made of fire that burned white around his snarling face and fiery white eyes. He dwarfed the very desert he stood upon, straining ever higher til his face scraped the dome of sky and rent it.
Then, with a sound like thunder, the realm of Man was ripped away from the realm of Muse. The realm of Versitas healed at once, filling in the space where the realm of dreams had been. Around the Andasi’s world, which came to be called Myriad, there was nothing but a vast empty space where Men had once lived.
The council was thunderstruck. Said King Asa of Séasia, “What is this trickery?”
“There’s no trickery, boy,” growled the lion. “Now you see what power we have – and we’ve wasted so much of it on Men! No more, dear muses. Dream the dreams you would have for yourselves, and leave the animals to die as animals must.”
Immediately, Fëanáro sealed the door on Jamus. Brightness returned to the room.
“Andasi of the council,” said he before anyone could speak. “It grieves me that one of our number has turned on us in this way. Indeed, until it happened, I am sure many thought it impossible.
“A new order of things has come upon us. When Men dwelt among us, they dreamt with the entirety of their minds, bodies and spirits. Now only their spirits shall commune with us. I cannot say what else may come of this.
“Jamus has been confined to the Sangrine Desert in the wastelands of Nomaçao. For the time being, he cannot leave. However, be advised that dreaming Men should not be allowed anywhere near there henceforth.”
########################
This concludes Modungo’s account of the Second Storm.
***In case you didn't notice, this is an excerpt from my work-in-progress, Before the Empty Moon. If you want more, check out my other excerpts (though most of them have already undergone revision since these posts).
An early draft of the prologue
A fragment of Chapter One
S'more Chapter One
In which our heroes find themselves in an alternate reality
What say you? Drop me a line!
Peace, love, and Hurricane Danny,
Miss Rex
####################
In the beginning, Men were young and mindless, no different from the creatures that crawled, swam, slithered, and flew. There was but one realm at that time, for it was Ildiago: the time before the separation. Versitas was the only reality, and Myriad did not yet exist.
Then the High Cadant, Fëanáro, conjured the First Storm, which gave birth to the world of Myriad and bestowed upon mankind the gift of hope. He set the Andasi the task of crafting dreams for Men, and these dreams fostered the hope that raised Men above the creatures of the earth.
Fëanáro made his dwelling place atop the Mount of Acharia, the mysterious kingdom of the air, which was shrouded to all but those whom the High Cadant wished to see it. He ruled all from the clock room at the pinnacle of a glass castle atop the Acharian mountain – for at that time, Versitas and Myriad were as one and all passed freely between them. Andasi communed with Men. Hope held fast, for despair was, as yet, unknown, nor had Death shown her face. Peace reigned supreme for many centuries.
But the equilibrium between man and muse displeased one of the Andasi. The rogue, Jamus, looked down upon Men and their reliance upon the dreams they borrowed from the Andasi. He saw them as inferior, weak, and altogether undeserving of inspiration.
And so Jamus severed ties with the other Andasi. He dreamt up the first nightmares and set them loose to punish unwary dreamers. For the first time, Men came to understand fear. For the first time, hope and happiness had to be sought rather than merely enjoyed. If they were not found, Men sank to great depths and committed evil crimes against one another and against the muses.
Fëanáro called a council of the Andasi. The seven monarchs and some of their underlings were all present, most notably: Asa of Séasia, kingdom of the sea; Tamoura of Fairbeam, kingdom of the sun; Haligh of Jadessa, kingdom of the earth; Modungo of Marcador, kingdom of the word; Femar of Nomaçao, kingdom of the heart; Alassea of Lokkenshire, kingdom of the clock; Adayla of Acharia, Fëanáro’s daughter and princess of the kingdom of the air; and of course, Fëanáro himself, High Cadant and king of all Myriad. The rogue was present as well, and Caukkor, the great goldsmith from Versitas. They all gathered in the clock room, kings and queens and lesser Andasi united for the last time. Grandfather clocks stood against the glass walls of the round room at twelve, nine, six and three o’clock. The High Cadant’s throne was stationed in front of the clock at twelve, and the others’ seats were arrayed about him in a circle.
Said Fëanáro unto the rogue, “Why have you done this?”
“My lord, whatever you say, I do not see what I am doing as wrong,” entreated the rogue. “Andasi of the council, hear me now, so that you will not be persuaded against me by muses who would choose to gild the reality.
“Men are weak and stupid. They have become utterly dependent upon us. They suck us dry like leeches, leaving no dreams for the very creators of dreams! What have they done that they should be considered worthy of our service and sacrifice? Naught! For they are animals, no different from the birds that fly and the fish that swim. Therefore join me! Together we shall restore the realms to their proper order!”
“Proper order indeed!” exclaimed the Empress Haligh, and the Andasi voiced their agreement.
The High Cadant rose from his throne and strode around the clock room, anti-clockwise as was the custom. “Jamus,” said he as he passed the ninth mark. “Thrice have I given you my warning. This is your last chance to retract what you’ve said and turn from your wicked ways.”
“Your Majesty, I do not retract what I’ve said, nor do I repent.”
Heavily Fëanáro lifted his hand. The clocks around the room fell still and silent, and the only council members moving were the High Cadant himself, his daughter the Princess Adayla, the rogue, and the Versitan goldsmith.
“You know the destiny that awaits you if you do not change your ways,” said Fëanáro. “It has been written since time began.”
“The prophecies are not unalterable,” said Jamus. “If the people about whom they were made choose to act differently than we foresaw, they become irrelevant.”
Said Fëanáro, “I cannot choose other than I have. My son, I hoped it would not come to this. I do not wish your destruction.” He sighed, fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose while he thought.
“Jamus,” said he at length. “Though I change not the prophecy, this promise I give you: I will delay its fulfillment, that you may have time to see the error of your ways. But if you do not, you know what I must do. Do you agree?”
“I do,” said Jamus at once.
“Caukkor, Adayla,” said the king. “Seal the contract.”
The man shuffled forward. He was bearded, bespectacled, and short, even by the standards of Men. Though by all appearances he had been around since time began, he was yet quick of body and wit; for at that time, the bodies of Andasi and Men did not slow down or pass away.
He approached Fëanáro and drew a small, golden dagger. The king held out his hand, and the Man slit the palm, collecting some of the blood on his knife.
Adayla then drew her own golden dagger and faced Jamus. The rogue hesitated, glancing at the king: surely this girl was not to take part in a sacred ritual of blood?
Fëanáro nodded, and Jamus offered his hand to the princess, who cut it without flinching and gathered the blood on her blade.
While the other two watched, the girl and the goldsmith conjured a white flame and used it to distill the droplets of blood, muttering fragments of magic as they did so. Then they stood, each with a smoldering crimson gem suspended magically above an outstretched hand, and faced the others.
“With this forging, thee I bind: each to the other for all of time,” said they in unison.
Then Jamus, in defiance of the contract, interfered.
“I have made my choice,” said he, “and time shall change it not. I will take Myriad for myself, and then there will be no more Men leeching our dreams from us.”
The white flame created by the goldsmith lashed out to reclaim the bloodstones. Lithe Adayla of the Kingdom of Air sprang up and hovered out of the fire’s range, clutching the stone to her breast, her spirit fighting to hold the magic in place until it settled and sealed the contract.
But Caukkor suddenly felt the weight of his years and fell to his knees. The fire quickly engulfed him – a whirl of hot ash – and presently he was gone. This was the first death.
“Aha! See what I have made!” crowed Jamus. “How do you like it, Fëanáro? I call it death. When a Man has lived out his span of years, then he shall be taken from life, to spend the rest of time in the Kingdom of the Dead.”
Adayla drifted slowly to the ground. “There is no kingdom of the dead,” said she.
Jamus laughed again. “Oh! But there is! What was once the Kingdom of the Clock shall henceforth be the dwelling place of the dead. So have I said, so shall it be. The people of Lokkenshire will serve me from now on.”
“Alassea won’t allow it,” said Adayla.
Jamus paused, as though considering this. Then he swept across the floor, disregarding the anti-clockwise tradition of the Clock Room, and faced the Queen of Time. He then reached out and, by all appearances, drew her spirit from her body. “She shall be queen of the Kiragati,” said he. “Not living, yet never dying; for I have fractured her spirit and she can be neither alive nor dead.”
“What a monstrous thing to do!” cried Adayla, brandishing her dagger at him.
“Peace, my daughter,” said Fëanáro. “Jamus, you have done quite enough for today, I think. Just remember that, although you may disregard our agreement, you were too late: the magic did take. You have time, as I promised, but I will not forget what else I promised.”
With that, the council was revived from its sleep – all, that is, except Alassea; what spirit remained in her shadow of a body had been magicked away to Lokkenshire. The council’s eyes were on the rogue, however, and her absence at first went unnoticed.
Fëanáro opened the door of the grandfather clock at six. To the council’s surprise, it did not merely open on a pendulum and weights, but on a faraway vista. The Andasi saw dunes of blood-red sand undulating under a relentless blue sky. It was through this portal that the king drove Jamus.
“Andasi of the council! Lend me your magic!” he implored. The Andasi gathered around the clock.
But something was taking place.
From the rogue’s skin emerged a creature none of the council had dreamed of. Like a lion, it was, but blacker than the darkest night or the deepest sea; so black was he that the red sand at his feet became washed out and dull; all the light of the bright blue sky behind him was dimmed as if he had absorbed it into himself and grown none the brighter for it. His mane was made of fire that burned white around his snarling face and fiery white eyes. He dwarfed the very desert he stood upon, straining ever higher til his face scraped the dome of sky and rent it.
Then, with a sound like thunder, the realm of Man was ripped away from the realm of Muse. The realm of Versitas healed at once, filling in the space where the realm of dreams had been. Around the Andasi’s world, which came to be called Myriad, there was nothing but a vast empty space where Men had once lived.
The council was thunderstruck. Said King Asa of Séasia, “What is this trickery?”
“There’s no trickery, boy,” growled the lion. “Now you see what power we have – and we’ve wasted so much of it on Men! No more, dear muses. Dream the dreams you would have for yourselves, and leave the animals to die as animals must.”
Immediately, Fëanáro sealed the door on Jamus. Brightness returned to the room.
“Andasi of the council,” said he before anyone could speak. “It grieves me that one of our number has turned on us in this way. Indeed, until it happened, I am sure many thought it impossible.
“A new order of things has come upon us. When Men dwelt among us, they dreamt with the entirety of their minds, bodies and spirits. Now only their spirits shall commune with us. I cannot say what else may come of this.
“Jamus has been confined to the Sangrine Desert in the wastelands of Nomaçao. For the time being, he cannot leave. However, be advised that dreaming Men should not be allowed anywhere near there henceforth.”
########################
This concludes Modungo’s account of the Second Storm.
***In case you didn't notice, this is an excerpt from my work-in-progress, Before the Empty Moon. If you want more, check out my other excerpts (though most of them have already undergone revision since these posts).
An early draft of the prologue
A fragment of Chapter One
S'more Chapter One
In which our heroes find themselves in an alternate reality
What say you? Drop me a line!
Peace, love, and Hurricane Danny,
Miss Rex
Don't you give up or fade away.
The other day I dug up our old camcorder from a mountain of dust behind the television. I cleaned it off, including the lens, which no one had bothered to cover when they stored it for ten years, even though the lens cover is built into the camera; charged the batteries; dusted off the tapes. And guess what! The thing still works! I'm not sure yet what I want to do with it. It's a bit bulky to be carrying around everywhere, especially when I've got a digital camera that takes digital videos that'll transfer easily to my computer. This thing, which we bought in probably 1999, is analog and takes the biggest tapes I've ever seen short of actual videocassettes - so not exactly computer friendly. I'm hoping to find a converter at the B&H superstore when Boyfriend and I go to New York THIS WEEKEND.
Holy smokes, I can't believe this weekend is almost here! The awesomeness is almost too much to bear. Friday night: Mae concert. Saturday night: dinner with Boyfriend's godmother. In between... art museum... B&H... a lot of walking, to be sure, because we don't want to take cabs if we can avoid it.... It's no cross country road trip, but in the end it's probably better for both my schedule and my wallet, AND we get to go to Mae's trippiest show ever. What's not to love?
In other news, I've been writing a ton. I was pretty stuck at the one point in the story and couldn't figure out what should happen next. Then I realized the characters needed more direction and sent a monster to chase them. That takes care of that, eh? How about an excerpt, then?
Notes:
- Sam and Jesse are staying with a couple, Bibo and Lillia, who live at the foothills of the Jakala mountains, where our heroes arrived in Myriad.
- Jesse just figured out that a century had passed in Myriad over the course of a single day at home, meaning Sam's dad couldn't possibly still be alive.
- Sam asks Bibo if Jamus would send grackals after them. Grackals are big, ugly black birds that have yellow eyes on all sides of their heads and one big, clawed foot, used for plucking out people's eyeballs and carrying them around so the grackals can see out of their feet. Jamus uses them as spies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The house was chaotic with the clatter of dishes and scurrying feet. Even Jesse had gotten swept up in preparations for dinner. I felt badly that I had left all the work to the others and tried to help, but when Lillia caught me building up the fire for the pig Bibo was roasting, she scolded me and made me sit aside. This was worse because it left me with no distractions from my misery over Dad. And you could tell the others knew it, but didn’t know what to do about it; they were treating it like something the cat dragged in, which no one wanted to clean up, not even the cat, and which everyone hoped would take care of itself if left alone, but instead all it did was reek and rot. Their attitude was almost as unbearable as the actual fact that my father was….
“Sam, could you help me peel these potatoes?” Jesse asked – quietly, so Lillia wouldn’t hear. He didn’t have to ask twice.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” he said, still speaking softly, as our knives shicked across the potatoes.
“It's not your fault,” I muttered. “Please, don’t talk about it. Do you remember what Avelía said to do once we got to Myriad?”
Jesse’s peeling hand slowed down. “I don’t remember her saying anything besides how to get here. Though she didn’t really even say that.”
“Because she couldn’t, remember?” I prompted. “Remember she said Jamus made it so she couldn’t talk about certain things outside of Myriad? But that, when we got here, there would be Cadants who could guide us?”
Jesse’s face lit up. “That’s right!”
“So I was thinking Bibo and Lillia probably know where to find one. I mean, Cadants are like wizards, so they probably aren’t too hard to come by here. We can leave tomorrow before the grackals come, just like Bibo suggested.”
“Perfect.”
Dinner was soon ready and we all settled at the table. The sun was balanced on the flat western horizon and its red rays slanted through the windows to bathe us in weary light. I had very little appetite even in spite of the magic I’d done and was glad Jesse wasted no time cutting to the chase; maybe in the midst of conversation no one would notice how little I ate.
“Do either of you know where we can find a Cadant?” he asked.
Bibo and Lillia paused, Bibo with a loaded fork halfway to his mouth, Lillia with her hands twisted in the napkin on her lap. “Now what would you want a Cadant for?” Bibo asked suspiciously.
“The Irvish queen who sent us said a Cadant could tell us what to do next,” I explained.
Bibo’s eyes remained slitted. “We don’t associate with Cadants,” he said. “And if ye got half a mind you’ll do the same.”
“‘We?’” Jesse repeated.
“Ever’body.”
“Why? What’s wrong with them?” I asked.
“They deal in wild magic. Stuff everyone else’s got enough sense to stay away from. Wild magic is powerful, but unpredictable and almost impossible to control. Mages, on th’other hand – there’s a groupa wizards who know what they’re doin’. There’s one protectin’ every town. There’re precious few Cadants left these days, and I say thank Faye for that.”
“Precious few – but they still exist?” Jesse persisted.
“Mmm.” Bibo nodded grimly.
“Then we’ve got to see one,” I said, and Jesse nodded firmly in agreement.
Bibo said “mmm” again and scratched his beard. “I’ll think about it after dinner,” he promised. “Don’ want none o’ those shenanigans spoilin’ our lovely suppah.”
An awkward silence settled over the table. I didn’t know whether to blame our demand to see the Cadant or the news about dad, still festering under the carpet where they’d swept it. Lillia, in her infinite hospitality, attempted to break the silence.
“Your sunburn seems to have healed up,” she commented. “The aloe must’ve been especially good this year.”
“Oh – well,” I said sheepishly, not wanting to offend her by saying the aloe hadn’t done much more than soothe me to sleep last night. “It did feel wonderful. But I actually sped up the process with a bit of magic this afternoon.”
She and Bibo froze again, their positions reversed this time. “Did you say magic?” Lillia whispered. A glob of potatoes and corn dropped from her fork to her plate.
Perhaps magic wasn’t as common in Myriad as we had presumed. At any rate it seemed to be a very touchy issue with a lot of tricky nuances. “Yes….”
“Oh, for the love of Faye!” Bibo burst out, standing violently. “Doncha know ye cain’t just use magic whenever the fancy strikes around here?”
I shrank in my seat, what little appetite I’d had now totally destroyed. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know,” I squeaked. “Sorry.”
Bibo sighed and glanced meaningfully at Lillia, who started bustling again, swiftly clearing away dishes whose contents we had yet to taste. “I’m sure it was differnt in the stories yer dad told ye,” Bibo said gently, “but these days the people of Nomaçao live like Versitani. Most of ‘em don’ even remember magic exists, let alone how to do it. The ones that do remember know better’n to draw attention to themselves by usin’ it except in the most dire circumstances. People go about their business in nonmagical ways. They leave it to the city Mage to handle those things.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“Frankly, I’m surprised it worked,” Bibo admitted. “A lot of magic don’t innymore, least not in this kingdom. But the fact is, Jamus keeps tabs on all the magic used in Nomaçao. You can be sure he knows exactly where you are now, and I’ll bet he’s sent a little friend to greet you.”
“A grackal?” I asked timidly.
Bibo dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Naw, grackals’re dirty spies. I expect he’s got something a little more grand in mind now he’s found ye. ’Fonly we had a way to figger out what.”
“Maybe this is a bad time to bring it up,” said Jesse, “but I’ll bet the Cadant could help us.”
Bibo made a low growling noise at the back of his throat. “Never trust a Cadant! We’ll go west-southwest to Siobhan. I’ve met the Mage there once. Good chap. He’ll defend us. But we got to leave right away, or we might find out what Jamus sent before we get to the city.”
“What, now?” I said, alarmed. The last remnants of sunlight were fading fast on the horizon. There was no way around it: we would have to travel by night, through a strange land full of strange creatures, some of whom may have been sent to eat us. I set my jaw. “Right. I can take some supplies in my backpack if it’ll help. I’ve got a few things in there already….”
Bibo, Jesse and I packed while Lillia hard boiled a dozen eggs and packed up the rest of our feast. No one in Versitas can truly appreciate the meaning of “take-out” unless they’ve had to take their five course meal, shove it in a rucksack, and take off across the dusky plains while their food stayed magically warm in its bag, courtesy of Bibo.
“What happened to no magic?” I asked.
“They already know yer here. It cain’t git much worse,” he pointed out. “But yer not to do inny more magic yourself. Jamus’ll taste that it’s you and track ye down wherever y'are.”
I promised I wouldn’t.
In addition to the food, Lillia overloaded us with about a million aloe leaves and warm blankets for nights, packed into potato sacks, the laundry bag, and a cloth sack that had once been home to her yarn. Jesse and I were almost too top-heavy to stand.
When Bibo saw us, he promptly started unpacking goods while Lillia objected that we couldn’t leave the quilts and pots; how would we sleep or eat without them?
“We won’t be doing much of either if that thing catches up to us,” Bibo said grimly. “Speed is the most important factor right now. Samantha, you got anything else to wear on yer feet besides those….” He gestured at my flip flops, and I shook my head.
Lillia fetched a pair of loafers that turned out to be just the right size for me, and she urged me to take them. I felt guilty accepting an aging countrywoman’s only pair of shoes, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. “It’ll be my little contribution to saving the human race,” she told me, smiling and patting my arm. “Now go! May your feet be light as Acharia.”
“You’re not coming?” I asked.
“No, no. I’m in no condition to be running. I’d only slow you down.”
“Besides,” Bibo added. “Someone’s got to stay behind an’ keep up the illusion yer still around.” He pointed to the sofa with his thumb. I was shocked to see Jesse sleeping there. Snoozing in the blankets on the floor beside him was… me. I shuddered and looked away.
Lillia herded us out the door. “Thank you for everything, ma’am,” the real Jesse said, reaching to hug her goodbye.
She returned the embrace too quickly. “Yes, yes; go!”
“We’re sorry for all the trouble we’ve caused,” I tried to say.
“Don’t be! Just go!”
With one last look at the cheery little cottage and the cheery little woman waving in the warm glow of the doorway, Jesse, Bibo and I slipped away into the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As always, please comment! You know the drill:
1. Does it make sense? Do events follow logically? Are new concepts clearly explained?
2. Does it hold your interest? Where and why do you get bored?
3. Do you want to read more?
4. And, since no one answered #4 last time: How do you feel about the characters thus far? You can base your opinion off any and all of the excerpts I've posted, not just this one. I'm just curious how they come across to people who didn't create them.
Holy smokes, I can't believe this weekend is almost here! The awesomeness is almost too much to bear. Friday night: Mae concert. Saturday night: dinner with Boyfriend's godmother. In between... art museum... B&H... a lot of walking, to be sure, because we don't want to take cabs if we can avoid it.... It's no cross country road trip, but in the end it's probably better for both my schedule and my wallet, AND we get to go to Mae's trippiest show ever. What's not to love?
In other news, I've been writing a ton. I was pretty stuck at the one point in the story and couldn't figure out what should happen next. Then I realized the characters needed more direction and sent a monster to chase them. That takes care of that, eh? How about an excerpt, then?
Notes:
- Sam and Jesse are staying with a couple, Bibo and Lillia, who live at the foothills of the Jakala mountains, where our heroes arrived in Myriad.
- Jesse just figured out that a century had passed in Myriad over the course of a single day at home, meaning Sam's dad couldn't possibly still be alive.
- Sam asks Bibo if Jamus would send grackals after them. Grackals are big, ugly black birds that have yellow eyes on all sides of their heads and one big, clawed foot, used for plucking out people's eyeballs and carrying them around so the grackals can see out of their feet. Jamus uses them as spies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The house was chaotic with the clatter of dishes and scurrying feet. Even Jesse had gotten swept up in preparations for dinner. I felt badly that I had left all the work to the others and tried to help, but when Lillia caught me building up the fire for the pig Bibo was roasting, she scolded me and made me sit aside. This was worse because it left me with no distractions from my misery over Dad. And you could tell the others knew it, but didn’t know what to do about it; they were treating it like something the cat dragged in, which no one wanted to clean up, not even the cat, and which everyone hoped would take care of itself if left alone, but instead all it did was reek and rot. Their attitude was almost as unbearable as the actual fact that my father was….
“Sam, could you help me peel these potatoes?” Jesse asked – quietly, so Lillia wouldn’t hear. He didn’t have to ask twice.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” he said, still speaking softly, as our knives shicked across the potatoes.
“It's not your fault,” I muttered. “Please, don’t talk about it. Do you remember what Avelía said to do once we got to Myriad?”
Jesse’s peeling hand slowed down. “I don’t remember her saying anything besides how to get here. Though she didn’t really even say that.”
“Because she couldn’t, remember?” I prompted. “Remember she said Jamus made it so she couldn’t talk about certain things outside of Myriad? But that, when we got here, there would be Cadants who could guide us?”
Jesse’s face lit up. “That’s right!”
“So I was thinking Bibo and Lillia probably know where to find one. I mean, Cadants are like wizards, so they probably aren’t too hard to come by here. We can leave tomorrow before the grackals come, just like Bibo suggested.”
“Perfect.”
Dinner was soon ready and we all settled at the table. The sun was balanced on the flat western horizon and its red rays slanted through the windows to bathe us in weary light. I had very little appetite even in spite of the magic I’d done and was glad Jesse wasted no time cutting to the chase; maybe in the midst of conversation no one would notice how little I ate.
“Do either of you know where we can find a Cadant?” he asked.
Bibo and Lillia paused, Bibo with a loaded fork halfway to his mouth, Lillia with her hands twisted in the napkin on her lap. “Now what would you want a Cadant for?” Bibo asked suspiciously.
“The Irvish queen who sent us said a Cadant could tell us what to do next,” I explained.
Bibo’s eyes remained slitted. “We don’t associate with Cadants,” he said. “And if ye got half a mind you’ll do the same.”
“‘We?’” Jesse repeated.
“Ever’body.”
“Why? What’s wrong with them?” I asked.
“They deal in wild magic. Stuff everyone else’s got enough sense to stay away from. Wild magic is powerful, but unpredictable and almost impossible to control. Mages, on th’other hand – there’s a groupa wizards who know what they’re doin’. There’s one protectin’ every town. There’re precious few Cadants left these days, and I say thank Faye for that.”
“Precious few – but they still exist?” Jesse persisted.
“Mmm.” Bibo nodded grimly.
“Then we’ve got to see one,” I said, and Jesse nodded firmly in agreement.
Bibo said “mmm” again and scratched his beard. “I’ll think about it after dinner,” he promised. “Don’ want none o’ those shenanigans spoilin’ our lovely suppah.”
An awkward silence settled over the table. I didn’t know whether to blame our demand to see the Cadant or the news about dad, still festering under the carpet where they’d swept it. Lillia, in her infinite hospitality, attempted to break the silence.
“Your sunburn seems to have healed up,” she commented. “The aloe must’ve been especially good this year.”
“Oh – well,” I said sheepishly, not wanting to offend her by saying the aloe hadn’t done much more than soothe me to sleep last night. “It did feel wonderful. But I actually sped up the process with a bit of magic this afternoon.”
She and Bibo froze again, their positions reversed this time. “Did you say magic?” Lillia whispered. A glob of potatoes and corn dropped from her fork to her plate.
Perhaps magic wasn’t as common in Myriad as we had presumed. At any rate it seemed to be a very touchy issue with a lot of tricky nuances. “Yes….”
“Oh, for the love of Faye!” Bibo burst out, standing violently. “Doncha know ye cain’t just use magic whenever the fancy strikes around here?”
I shrank in my seat, what little appetite I’d had now totally destroyed. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know,” I squeaked. “Sorry.”
Bibo sighed and glanced meaningfully at Lillia, who started bustling again, swiftly clearing away dishes whose contents we had yet to taste. “I’m sure it was differnt in the stories yer dad told ye,” Bibo said gently, “but these days the people of Nomaçao live like Versitani. Most of ‘em don’ even remember magic exists, let alone how to do it. The ones that do remember know better’n to draw attention to themselves by usin’ it except in the most dire circumstances. People go about their business in nonmagical ways. They leave it to the city Mage to handle those things.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“Frankly, I’m surprised it worked,” Bibo admitted. “A lot of magic don’t innymore, least not in this kingdom. But the fact is, Jamus keeps tabs on all the magic used in Nomaçao. You can be sure he knows exactly where you are now, and I’ll bet he’s sent a little friend to greet you.”
“A grackal?” I asked timidly.
Bibo dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Naw, grackals’re dirty spies. I expect he’s got something a little more grand in mind now he’s found ye. ’Fonly we had a way to figger out what.”
“Maybe this is a bad time to bring it up,” said Jesse, “but I’ll bet the Cadant could help us.”
Bibo made a low growling noise at the back of his throat. “Never trust a Cadant! We’ll go west-southwest to Siobhan. I’ve met the Mage there once. Good chap. He’ll defend us. But we got to leave right away, or we might find out what Jamus sent before we get to the city.”
“What, now?” I said, alarmed. The last remnants of sunlight were fading fast on the horizon. There was no way around it: we would have to travel by night, through a strange land full of strange creatures, some of whom may have been sent to eat us. I set my jaw. “Right. I can take some supplies in my backpack if it’ll help. I’ve got a few things in there already….”
Bibo, Jesse and I packed while Lillia hard boiled a dozen eggs and packed up the rest of our feast. No one in Versitas can truly appreciate the meaning of “take-out” unless they’ve had to take their five course meal, shove it in a rucksack, and take off across the dusky plains while their food stayed magically warm in its bag, courtesy of Bibo.
“What happened to no magic?” I asked.
“They already know yer here. It cain’t git much worse,” he pointed out. “But yer not to do inny more magic yourself. Jamus’ll taste that it’s you and track ye down wherever y'are.”
I promised I wouldn’t.
In addition to the food, Lillia overloaded us with about a million aloe leaves and warm blankets for nights, packed into potato sacks, the laundry bag, and a cloth sack that had once been home to her yarn. Jesse and I were almost too top-heavy to stand.
When Bibo saw us, he promptly started unpacking goods while Lillia objected that we couldn’t leave the quilts and pots; how would we sleep or eat without them?
“We won’t be doing much of either if that thing catches up to us,” Bibo said grimly. “Speed is the most important factor right now. Samantha, you got anything else to wear on yer feet besides those….” He gestured at my flip flops, and I shook my head.
Lillia fetched a pair of loafers that turned out to be just the right size for me, and she urged me to take them. I felt guilty accepting an aging countrywoman’s only pair of shoes, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. “It’ll be my little contribution to saving the human race,” she told me, smiling and patting my arm. “Now go! May your feet be light as Acharia.”
“You’re not coming?” I asked.
“No, no. I’m in no condition to be running. I’d only slow you down.”
“Besides,” Bibo added. “Someone’s got to stay behind an’ keep up the illusion yer still around.” He pointed to the sofa with his thumb. I was shocked to see Jesse sleeping there. Snoozing in the blankets on the floor beside him was… me. I shuddered and looked away.
Lillia herded us out the door. “Thank you for everything, ma’am,” the real Jesse said, reaching to hug her goodbye.
She returned the embrace too quickly. “Yes, yes; go!”
“We’re sorry for all the trouble we’ve caused,” I tried to say.
“Don’t be! Just go!”
With one last look at the cheery little cottage and the cheery little woman waving in the warm glow of the doorway, Jesse, Bibo and I slipped away into the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As always, please comment! You know the drill:
1. Does it make sense? Do events follow logically? Are new concepts clearly explained?
2. Does it hold your interest? Where and why do you get bored?
3. Do you want to read more?
4. And, since no one answered #4 last time: How do you feel about the characters thus far? You can base your opinion off any and all of the excerpts I've posted, not just this one. I'm just curious how they come across to people who didn't create them.
The dreamers are at full swing.
Three orders of business today. I shall list them in descending order of importance.
3. Muse - "Black Holes and Revelations."
Also, "Invincible" may have to be the first song I dance to at my wedding.
2. The housing lottery was tonight. Three friends and I were going for a suite in Chase, but the building was full before we even drew numbers (because we're only sophomores, so we don't get priority. In fact, I think even incoming freshmen get higher priority than us.) Instead we got the Fishbowl in Ferrin. Now, I didn't especially want to live in Ferrin again, BUT the Fishbowl is awesome because a) it's on the third floor and right in front, as if to say, "the girls who live here are the Queens of Ferrin, and you better treat 'em as such." b) it's huge - big enough for four people anyway - and will be even more spacious if we bunk the beds. c) it's got more windows than any room I've ever lived in; in fact, I think you could only beat it with a greenhouse. d) one of the walls is a chalkboard. e) it's off the lobby and on the top floor, so no one will be stampeding overhead, and we'll be separated from the noisiness of the hall while still being members of the hall community.
3! STORYTIME!!
I promised myself I wasn't going to type any more of my story for a little bit because when I write it by hand, I treat the words differently and the final result is better. But I enjoyed writing this part so much, and I'm so happy with how it turned out, that I had to type it up and share it!
A lot has happened since the earlier excerpts. Sam and Jesse met a woman from Myriad who basically told them they had to save the world from Jamus, who's going to seal Myriad against the people of our world. She gave Jesse a sketchbook and told him to fill it with drawings of water, which he would later piece together into a mural. She told Sam to harness her magic, as thus far, everything she's tried has ended disastrously. She also asked them to bring Lila when they came to Myriad, which would only be possible after Jesse finished the mural. Long story short, Lila was finally re-convinced of Myriad's existence. Sam managed to do magic without explosive results. Her Dad took them all out to see a window between our world and Myriad and taught them that learning to look at things they way they looked at the window would make magic more accessible to them. Soon after showing them the window, Sam's Dad left for Myriad for reasons he wouldn't fully explain.
Also, I think the word "Lacuna" is in this excerpt. The Lacuna is the empty space around Myriad - you see, Myriad isn't a planet, like Earth, but rather a slice of space-time with distinct endpoints. In addition to being a physical space, the Lacuna is that void between consciousness and REM sleep, the place where your mind is free to wander but alights on nothing and remembers nothing, because ultimately there's nothing there. Usually you've got to pass through the Lacuna, physically and mentally, before you can enter Myriad, and you can only enter if an Andasun finds you in the Lacuna and leads you in.
Okay, here goes! Feedbacks, please =)
Most mornings, I went down to the kitchen expecting to find Dad making omelettes or to hear him singing old Beatles songs in the shower. It always came as a shock when I found only Pheebs and Rachel at the table, staring morosely into twin bowls of soggy Cheerios and looking anything but cheery themselves.
It was early Tuesday morning and the house was already in shambles on account of Rachel packing last minute essentials before she and Pheebs left for Duke. I had to goosestep into the kitchen to avoid crushing the little fragments of her life that were strewn across the foyer. I resolved to bolt for Lila’s, where I would be staying while Pheebs helped Rachel settle in at school, as soon as I’d had something to eat.
Eating, however, proved to be a greater obstacle than I’d imagined. I couldn’t make an omelette; they reminded me of Dad, and I might cry. I rummaged through the freezer in search of waffles or some equivalent Eggo product that could be thrown in the toaster and magically transformed into a healthy, complete breakfast. But most of the freezer foods had migrated to a plastic bin that would accompany Rachel to North Carolina so she wouldn’t have to go grocery shopping, so in the end I settled for a banana with peanut butter scraped off the walls of a nearly empty jar. I plunked myself down in the chair at the head of the table – Dad’s chair – and watched the chaos unfold around me.
It quickly became clear that the chaos was not purely Rachel’s fault. Pheebs had dragged a score of dusty boxes down from the attic and was going on about a yard sale we were evidently having that weekend. This was the first I’d heard of said yard sale, and it was hardly surprising they’d kept me out of the loop, packrat that I am. I moseyed over to the foyer to make sure they weren’t getting rid of anything too good; knowing Pheebs, she’d be trashing family heirlooms without a second thought.
It was a good thing I’d checked. “We can’t get rid of Dad’s Beatles records!” I cried. “They’re his favorites!”
Rachel put on her most grown-up tone. “Sam, be reasonable,” she said from the bathroom, where she was frantically gobbing mascara onto her lashes so she’d look sexy for all the college boys she was about to meet. “We don’t even have a record player.”
This was true, not to mention I couldn’t imagine Dad having much use for the vinyls in Myriad.
“Hey!” I shouted. “How come no one asked me about selling all these stuffed animals?” Franny the yellow elephant, Mr. Rags the well-loved tiger, and a silly brown puppet I had cleverly christened “Browny” were some of my best friends. I was as likely to sell them as I was to sell Jesse or Lila.
Pheebs emerged from the basement, sweating and wearing a kerchief around her head. “Sam, we’ve got to make up for Dad being away,” she said gently. The note he’d left for her and Rachel said he was searching for work at a different college because the university had let him go, but I think they’d been suspicious even then because his disappearance had been so sudden, and they were even more so now that weeks had passed without so much as a phone call.
“I know it’s hard,” said Pheebs, pulling me into a hug. “But we’ve got bills to pay. We’ve got to eat. Dad left us in a crummy position and now we have to make some sacrifices.”
I actually felt bad for her and hugged her back. “You still should’ve asked me,” I mumbled.
Pheebs let go. “Why don’t you head over to Lila’s early?” she suggested.
I knew she only wanted me out of the way, but I was happy to oblige. I threw the essentials into a backpack along with the book of Lore and my latest story, donned a pair of headphones to motivate me on the hot bike ride there, and fled via the front door – but not without snatching Franny, Mr. Rags, and Abbey Road from their respective bins on my way.
~
Jesse, Lila and I had made a habit of biking out to the boulder where Dad first showed us the window into Myriad, so as soon as I got to Lila’s, she and I packed supplies for lunch and hit the road again.
We found Jesse lying flat on his stomach by the river behind his house, illustrating the swirls and eddies of the lazy, brackish water with a set of chalk pastels. His marker, charcoal and ink drawings were enough to make me thirsty; the way he shaded the ripples and droplets suggested the picture might splash off the page at any moment. I was glad he’d been given this task. Most people, myself included, would have gotten bored drawing the same subject again and again, but Jesse couldn’t get enough of it. He said it made him feel centered, balanced.
He said he was not to be unbalanced today, so we left him alone with his art.
Sitting at the usual spot, Lila and I silently slipped into the now-familiar state of seeing. “It still looks the same,” she grumbled, and with that, she set about making sandwiches with angry, jerking motions. Knife: peanut butter. Slap to bread. Repeat for jelly. Though the scene had moved at normal speed the day Dad brought us, ever since, it had been like seeing one page of a flipbook each day.
Out of boredom we’d taken to inventing stories about the monsters we saw. “Those two are married, and that smirking little fuzzball with the gnarly fingers is their kid.” “That one’s about to eat the wingaling perching on the branch beside him.” I think part of the reason we laughed at the creatures was to stave off our fear of one day confronting them face to face.
For an instant, I thought I saw something bright and in motion. The smallest trick of light or hint of movement would have glared like a neon sign in a scene as still and dingy as the one before us, yet still I was unsure. “Did you see that?”
“See what? I stopped looking!” Lila said indignantly. “Are you telling me something finally happened and I missed it?”
I could’ve sworn my father was just in the midst of the macabre mob with the mysterious blond man I’d seen the first day we looked. But no; they were gone as quickly as they’d appeared. Everything else was still frozen. I must have imagined it.
“Just wishful thinking,” I sighed. “Can I get a PB and J?”
Lila slapped a slice of bread on top and passed me the sandwich, never lowering her skeptical gaze. I pretended not to notice her staring and took a big bite. “Fanks,” I said through the peanuty paste.
“Yeah.”
But after that, neither of us could tear our eyes from the window. We ate in silence, and when we’d had our fill we continued to stare at the motionless frame. “I’m bored,” Lila complained after what could have been minutes or hours.
“Try changing the color of that tree over our heads,” I told her. Although she had a better Eye than me or Jesse, neither of them had actually accomplished any magical feat. I worried we’d get eaten alive in Myriad if they didn’t figure it out soon.
“You’ve had way better luck with magic than I have,” she said. “Talk me through it, like your Dad did the first time we looked at the window.”
I lay back on the rock and Lila followed suit. “Look at the tree,” I instructed. “The same way you Look at the window. No, you know what, pick just one leaf to Look at.” Already I could see the heart of the tree, its inner workings, its sheer joy at the act of living. A hairline aura of glimmering gold outlined every detail with perfect clarity. Individual cells mirthfully went about the business of life. “Do you see it?”
“Mhm.”
“Okay. Now you need emotion to fuel your intent,” I said, referencing Dad’s old adage. “You need to shut out everything else in the world. Try to get to the Lacuna. Then commit to changing that leaf like your heart will break if it’s still green when you’re done with it.”
I sensed the tree looking at her, debating whether she was worth heeding. Then, with a rush of glittering gold, every leaf on the tree turned traffic cone orange.
“Oh,” said Lila, at once pleased and bewildered. “That was easy. I guess all I needed was a little guidance, huh?”
Too easy, I couldn’t help thinking. How could something that had taken me weeks to master come so quickly to her?
But what I said was, “I guess so! That was great, La.”
We reveled in the odd, fluorescent shade for a little bit, still checking the window periodically. “Well, I guess I’ll work on changing it back now,” Lila said at length. We both lay down again. “Let me try it myself this time.”
“Okay.” I opened my eyes to Look. It was immediately clear that something had changed, and it had nothing to do with the tree; the same thing was happening to all the trees, and to the water, and to the sunlight. It was happening to us. Something was pulling us like a magnet or a colossal drain. I felt it more than I saw it, though the shimmering auras around everything were wobbling infinitesimally, flickering as if fighting the tide, and bits of glitter were being sucked away to the far shore.
I sat up. “We have to go to Jesse’s,” I said firmly. I haphazardly repacked our luncheon materials and thrust the bag at Lila, who was still reclining on her elbows.
“What? Why?” she asked.
“You didn’t feel that?” I was already at the trail, impatiently waiting for her to get up and go.
“Feel what? I was focused on the tree. Which, by the way is still neon orange!” she called after me as I took off. It couldn’t be helped. The pull was more urgent than anything I’d felt in my life, and we couldn’t delay for a second.
“I’m out of breath!” Lila panted after half a mile or so.
“Can’t slow down,” I gasped back. There was only one thing for it. I Looked at the air and begged it to recognize our need for it to flow easily through our lungs and sustain our tired bodies.
It obeyed instantly. The burning in my chest subsided and the thick, humid air ran over my skin like cool satin. I ran harder.
Lila caught up to me. “Uhm… what just happened?” she asked. I noticed she was breathing normally, as I was.
“Magic!” I exclaimed.
We found Jesse in his studio, a.k.a. the pantry, which he had refurbished (or rather, unfurbished) to suit his artistic needs. He was tearing pages from his sketchbook and, hands trembling, sticky tacking them side by side on the wall. Then I understood.
The mural was finished.
It was time to go.
“When with a magic eye perceived, the water leads the way to dreams,” Jesse said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. It doesn’t mean we have to walk across the reservoir or anything like that. It means we have to walk through this water.”
“Of course!” I said.
“So, Sam, this is your big moment,” he said. “Avelía said to ‘awaken the water with the words you find within.’ Give it a try.”
“No pressure or anything,” Lila added.
I stared at the mural. No words in particular came to mind. I softened my gaze and Looked more closely.
Of course: being merely a facsimile of water, its aura was merely a facsimile of an aura, more Jesse-colored than anything else. The mural had to become real water with a real aura before we could pass.
Eyes shut, I pressed my body against the wall, straining to feel its lines as fluid to my whole length. I listened for the rush of rivers. My throat recalled a quenching stream in the straits of thirst. My skin tingled with the sensation of tides. I felt the peculiar polarity of water dimpling around my prodding fingertips….
Lila and Jesse gasped behind me, and without opening my eyes, I knew I’d done it. The sensations of water were not just in my head. The wall was water; and I was the wall, and now my purpose was to become a door. And now the words that had evaded me tumbled from my lips. They were strangers to my ears but kin to my heart:
Tæna éna aru fie;
Lacudi æ’d’arum, aru kai.
I opened my eyes and stepped back. The pantry was still small and dark when I looked at it normally, but Jesse’s mural, magically welded together at the seams, rippled like an upright puddle even to the unmagical eye.
“Wow,” said Jesse.
“What did you say to it?” Lila wanted to know.
I couldn’t repeat the foreign words, but I knew what they meant. “‘From space to space we stride; void the separation, we beg.’”
“So now we can just walk through?” she asked, as if it had been altogether too simple.
“Look at it,” I told her.
We all went silent and shifted into the proper state of mind. The ripples swirled with a liquid gleam as filled with glittering life as the auras around the trees. Slowly an image imposed itself, exactly the way a magic eye picture would, only the longer we looked the more defined the details became. Woods became trees became trunks, branches and leaves. Clouds bubbled into existence in the deepening canvas of the sky. Mountains spiked up from the flat horizon and donned snowcaps. Green distinguished itself from brown distinguished itself from blue and purple and white. The scent of rain and pine wafted into the pantry.
I stepped eagerly forth into the landscape and it sprang to life. Birds twittered gleefully as they swooped from limb to limb. Squirrels bickered somewhere in the foliage. Raindrops clinging to blades of grass kissed my bare ankles and trickled down my skin to meet the earth. The breeze lifted a strand of hair from my face, and my lungs expanded with their first breath of the air of another world. It tasted like afternoons beneath the cherry tree outside of Jesse’s house when springtime swept New England off its feet and the warm, rosy petals unfolded overhead. The whole world seemed to be embracing me, and I embraced her back.
“I wonder where we are,” said Jesse. I looked back at the pantry. I felt that as long as it was in sight, I would know where I was. Home would be at hand. This would be the adventure to crown all past adventures, and when it was over, Pheebs would call us for dinner and we would eat and go to bed, sleepy, scratched and scraped, but safe.
But the scene around us had already knit itself together over the gap in the worlds, and there we stood, foreigners misplaced in a world beyond our wildest dreams.
3. Muse - "Black Holes and Revelations."
Also, "Invincible" may have to be the first song I dance to at my wedding.
2. The housing lottery was tonight. Three friends and I were going for a suite in Chase, but the building was full before we even drew numbers (because we're only sophomores, so we don't get priority. In fact, I think even incoming freshmen get higher priority than us.) Instead we got the Fishbowl in Ferrin. Now, I didn't especially want to live in Ferrin again, BUT the Fishbowl is awesome because a) it's on the third floor and right in front, as if to say, "the girls who live here are the Queens of Ferrin, and you better treat 'em as such." b) it's huge - big enough for four people anyway - and will be even more spacious if we bunk the beds. c) it's got more windows than any room I've ever lived in; in fact, I think you could only beat it with a greenhouse. d) one of the walls is a chalkboard. e) it's off the lobby and on the top floor, so no one will be stampeding overhead, and we'll be separated from the noisiness of the hall while still being members of the hall community.
3! STORYTIME!!
I promised myself I wasn't going to type any more of my story for a little bit because when I write it by hand, I treat the words differently and the final result is better. But I enjoyed writing this part so much, and I'm so happy with how it turned out, that I had to type it up and share it!
A lot has happened since the earlier excerpts. Sam and Jesse met a woman from Myriad who basically told them they had to save the world from Jamus, who's going to seal Myriad against the people of our world. She gave Jesse a sketchbook and told him to fill it with drawings of water, which he would later piece together into a mural. She told Sam to harness her magic, as thus far, everything she's tried has ended disastrously. She also asked them to bring Lila when they came to Myriad, which would only be possible after Jesse finished the mural. Long story short, Lila was finally re-convinced of Myriad's existence. Sam managed to do magic without explosive results. Her Dad took them all out to see a window between our world and Myriad and taught them that learning to look at things they way they looked at the window would make magic more accessible to them. Soon after showing them the window, Sam's Dad left for Myriad for reasons he wouldn't fully explain.
Also, I think the word "Lacuna" is in this excerpt. The Lacuna is the empty space around Myriad - you see, Myriad isn't a planet, like Earth, but rather a slice of space-time with distinct endpoints. In addition to being a physical space, the Lacuna is that void between consciousness and REM sleep, the place where your mind is free to wander but alights on nothing and remembers nothing, because ultimately there's nothing there. Usually you've got to pass through the Lacuna, physically and mentally, before you can enter Myriad, and you can only enter if an Andasun finds you in the Lacuna and leads you in.
Okay, here goes! Feedbacks, please =)
Most mornings, I went down to the kitchen expecting to find Dad making omelettes or to hear him singing old Beatles songs in the shower. It always came as a shock when I found only Pheebs and Rachel at the table, staring morosely into twin bowls of soggy Cheerios and looking anything but cheery themselves.
It was early Tuesday morning and the house was already in shambles on account of Rachel packing last minute essentials before she and Pheebs left for Duke. I had to goosestep into the kitchen to avoid crushing the little fragments of her life that were strewn across the foyer. I resolved to bolt for Lila’s, where I would be staying while Pheebs helped Rachel settle in at school, as soon as I’d had something to eat.
Eating, however, proved to be a greater obstacle than I’d imagined. I couldn’t make an omelette; they reminded me of Dad, and I might cry. I rummaged through the freezer in search of waffles or some equivalent Eggo product that could be thrown in the toaster and magically transformed into a healthy, complete breakfast. But most of the freezer foods had migrated to a plastic bin that would accompany Rachel to North Carolina so she wouldn’t have to go grocery shopping, so in the end I settled for a banana with peanut butter scraped off the walls of a nearly empty jar. I plunked myself down in the chair at the head of the table – Dad’s chair – and watched the chaos unfold around me.
It quickly became clear that the chaos was not purely Rachel’s fault. Pheebs had dragged a score of dusty boxes down from the attic and was going on about a yard sale we were evidently having that weekend. This was the first I’d heard of said yard sale, and it was hardly surprising they’d kept me out of the loop, packrat that I am. I moseyed over to the foyer to make sure they weren’t getting rid of anything too good; knowing Pheebs, she’d be trashing family heirlooms without a second thought.
It was a good thing I’d checked. “We can’t get rid of Dad’s Beatles records!” I cried. “They’re his favorites!”
Rachel put on her most grown-up tone. “Sam, be reasonable,” she said from the bathroom, where she was frantically gobbing mascara onto her lashes so she’d look sexy for all the college boys she was about to meet. “We don’t even have a record player.”
This was true, not to mention I couldn’t imagine Dad having much use for the vinyls in Myriad.
“Hey!” I shouted. “How come no one asked me about selling all these stuffed animals?” Franny the yellow elephant, Mr. Rags the well-loved tiger, and a silly brown puppet I had cleverly christened “Browny” were some of my best friends. I was as likely to sell them as I was to sell Jesse or Lila.
Pheebs emerged from the basement, sweating and wearing a kerchief around her head. “Sam, we’ve got to make up for Dad being away,” she said gently. The note he’d left for her and Rachel said he was searching for work at a different college because the university had let him go, but I think they’d been suspicious even then because his disappearance had been so sudden, and they were even more so now that weeks had passed without so much as a phone call.
“I know it’s hard,” said Pheebs, pulling me into a hug. “But we’ve got bills to pay. We’ve got to eat. Dad left us in a crummy position and now we have to make some sacrifices.”
I actually felt bad for her and hugged her back. “You still should’ve asked me,” I mumbled.
Pheebs let go. “Why don’t you head over to Lila’s early?” she suggested.
I knew she only wanted me out of the way, but I was happy to oblige. I threw the essentials into a backpack along with the book of Lore and my latest story, donned a pair of headphones to motivate me on the hot bike ride there, and fled via the front door – but not without snatching Franny, Mr. Rags, and Abbey Road from their respective bins on my way.
~
Jesse, Lila and I had made a habit of biking out to the boulder where Dad first showed us the window into Myriad, so as soon as I got to Lila’s, she and I packed supplies for lunch and hit the road again.
We found Jesse lying flat on his stomach by the river behind his house, illustrating the swirls and eddies of the lazy, brackish water with a set of chalk pastels. His marker, charcoal and ink drawings were enough to make me thirsty; the way he shaded the ripples and droplets suggested the picture might splash off the page at any moment. I was glad he’d been given this task. Most people, myself included, would have gotten bored drawing the same subject again and again, but Jesse couldn’t get enough of it. He said it made him feel centered, balanced.
He said he was not to be unbalanced today, so we left him alone with his art.
Sitting at the usual spot, Lila and I silently slipped into the now-familiar state of seeing. “It still looks the same,” she grumbled, and with that, she set about making sandwiches with angry, jerking motions. Knife: peanut butter. Slap to bread. Repeat for jelly. Though the scene had moved at normal speed the day Dad brought us, ever since, it had been like seeing one page of a flipbook each day.
Out of boredom we’d taken to inventing stories about the monsters we saw. “Those two are married, and that smirking little fuzzball with the gnarly fingers is their kid.” “That one’s about to eat the wingaling perching on the branch beside him.” I think part of the reason we laughed at the creatures was to stave off our fear of one day confronting them face to face.
For an instant, I thought I saw something bright and in motion. The smallest trick of light or hint of movement would have glared like a neon sign in a scene as still and dingy as the one before us, yet still I was unsure. “Did you see that?”
“See what? I stopped looking!” Lila said indignantly. “Are you telling me something finally happened and I missed it?”
I could’ve sworn my father was just in the midst of the macabre mob with the mysterious blond man I’d seen the first day we looked. But no; they were gone as quickly as they’d appeared. Everything else was still frozen. I must have imagined it.
“Just wishful thinking,” I sighed. “Can I get a PB and J?”
Lila slapped a slice of bread on top and passed me the sandwich, never lowering her skeptical gaze. I pretended not to notice her staring and took a big bite. “Fanks,” I said through the peanuty paste.
“Yeah.”
But after that, neither of us could tear our eyes from the window. We ate in silence, and when we’d had our fill we continued to stare at the motionless frame. “I’m bored,” Lila complained after what could have been minutes or hours.
“Try changing the color of that tree over our heads,” I told her. Although she had a better Eye than me or Jesse, neither of them had actually accomplished any magical feat. I worried we’d get eaten alive in Myriad if they didn’t figure it out soon.
“You’ve had way better luck with magic than I have,” she said. “Talk me through it, like your Dad did the first time we looked at the window.”
I lay back on the rock and Lila followed suit. “Look at the tree,” I instructed. “The same way you Look at the window. No, you know what, pick just one leaf to Look at.” Already I could see the heart of the tree, its inner workings, its sheer joy at the act of living. A hairline aura of glimmering gold outlined every detail with perfect clarity. Individual cells mirthfully went about the business of life. “Do you see it?”
“Mhm.”
“Okay. Now you need emotion to fuel your intent,” I said, referencing Dad’s old adage. “You need to shut out everything else in the world. Try to get to the Lacuna. Then commit to changing that leaf like your heart will break if it’s still green when you’re done with it.”
I sensed the tree looking at her, debating whether she was worth heeding. Then, with a rush of glittering gold, every leaf on the tree turned traffic cone orange.
“Oh,” said Lila, at once pleased and bewildered. “That was easy. I guess all I needed was a little guidance, huh?”
Too easy, I couldn’t help thinking. How could something that had taken me weeks to master come so quickly to her?
But what I said was, “I guess so! That was great, La.”
We reveled in the odd, fluorescent shade for a little bit, still checking the window periodically. “Well, I guess I’ll work on changing it back now,” Lila said at length. We both lay down again. “Let me try it myself this time.”
“Okay.” I opened my eyes to Look. It was immediately clear that something had changed, and it had nothing to do with the tree; the same thing was happening to all the trees, and to the water, and to the sunlight. It was happening to us. Something was pulling us like a magnet or a colossal drain. I felt it more than I saw it, though the shimmering auras around everything were wobbling infinitesimally, flickering as if fighting the tide, and bits of glitter were being sucked away to the far shore.
I sat up. “We have to go to Jesse’s,” I said firmly. I haphazardly repacked our luncheon materials and thrust the bag at Lila, who was still reclining on her elbows.
“What? Why?” she asked.
“You didn’t feel that?” I was already at the trail, impatiently waiting for her to get up and go.
“Feel what? I was focused on the tree. Which, by the way is still neon orange!” she called after me as I took off. It couldn’t be helped. The pull was more urgent than anything I’d felt in my life, and we couldn’t delay for a second.
“I’m out of breath!” Lila panted after half a mile or so.
“Can’t slow down,” I gasped back. There was only one thing for it. I Looked at the air and begged it to recognize our need for it to flow easily through our lungs and sustain our tired bodies.
It obeyed instantly. The burning in my chest subsided and the thick, humid air ran over my skin like cool satin. I ran harder.
Lila caught up to me. “Uhm… what just happened?” she asked. I noticed she was breathing normally, as I was.
“Magic!” I exclaimed.
We found Jesse in his studio, a.k.a. the pantry, which he had refurbished (or rather, unfurbished) to suit his artistic needs. He was tearing pages from his sketchbook and, hands trembling, sticky tacking them side by side on the wall. Then I understood.
The mural was finished.
It was time to go.
“When with a magic eye perceived, the water leads the way to dreams,” Jesse said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. It doesn’t mean we have to walk across the reservoir or anything like that. It means we have to walk through this water.”
“Of course!” I said.
“So, Sam, this is your big moment,” he said. “Avelía said to ‘awaken the water with the words you find within.’ Give it a try.”
“No pressure or anything,” Lila added.
I stared at the mural. No words in particular came to mind. I softened my gaze and Looked more closely.
Of course: being merely a facsimile of water, its aura was merely a facsimile of an aura, more Jesse-colored than anything else. The mural had to become real water with a real aura before we could pass.
Eyes shut, I pressed my body against the wall, straining to feel its lines as fluid to my whole length. I listened for the rush of rivers. My throat recalled a quenching stream in the straits of thirst. My skin tingled with the sensation of tides. I felt the peculiar polarity of water dimpling around my prodding fingertips….
Lila and Jesse gasped behind me, and without opening my eyes, I knew I’d done it. The sensations of water were not just in my head. The wall was water; and I was the wall, and now my purpose was to become a door. And now the words that had evaded me tumbled from my lips. They were strangers to my ears but kin to my heart:
Tæna éna aru fie;
Lacudi æ’d’arum, aru kai.
I opened my eyes and stepped back. The pantry was still small and dark when I looked at it normally, but Jesse’s mural, magically welded together at the seams, rippled like an upright puddle even to the unmagical eye.
“Wow,” said Jesse.
“What did you say to it?” Lila wanted to know.
I couldn’t repeat the foreign words, but I knew what they meant. “‘From space to space we stride; void the separation, we beg.’”
“So now we can just walk through?” she asked, as if it had been altogether too simple.
“Look at it,” I told her.
We all went silent and shifted into the proper state of mind. The ripples swirled with a liquid gleam as filled with glittering life as the auras around the trees. Slowly an image imposed itself, exactly the way a magic eye picture would, only the longer we looked the more defined the details became. Woods became trees became trunks, branches and leaves. Clouds bubbled into existence in the deepening canvas of the sky. Mountains spiked up from the flat horizon and donned snowcaps. Green distinguished itself from brown distinguished itself from blue and purple and white. The scent of rain and pine wafted into the pantry.
I stepped eagerly forth into the landscape and it sprang to life. Birds twittered gleefully as they swooped from limb to limb. Squirrels bickered somewhere in the foliage. Raindrops clinging to blades of grass kissed my bare ankles and trickled down my skin to meet the earth. The breeze lifted a strand of hair from my face, and my lungs expanded with their first breath of the air of another world. It tasted like afternoons beneath the cherry tree outside of Jesse’s house when springtime swept New England off its feet and the warm, rosy petals unfolded overhead. The whole world seemed to be embracing me, and I embraced her back.
“I wonder where we are,” said Jesse. I looked back at the pantry. I felt that as long as it was in sight, I would know where I was. Home would be at hand. This would be the adventure to crown all past adventures, and when it was over, Pheebs would call us for dinner and we would eat and go to bed, sleepy, scratched and scraped, but safe.
But the scene around us had already knit itself together over the gap in the worlds, and there we stood, foreigners misplaced in a world beyond our wildest dreams.
Flirt
The next segment of Before the Empty Moon, hopefully to be critiqued tonight if my constellation test doesn't take too long.
Just to refresh your memory:
1. Does it make sense, does one event follow the previous event, are new concepts well explained?
2. Does it hold your interest? Where and why do you get bored?
3. Do you want to read more?
4. (I know, I'm adding more! Sorry) How do you feel about the characters? You don't have to base your opinion purely on this excerpt. I'm just curious how they're coming across thus far.
If you haven't read the first and second installments...
Prologue
Beginning of Chapter One
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It took us five days to make it around Upper Saranac Lake, and Dad never left me alone with Jesse for more than two minutes. By the last night of our trip, the secret was burning a hole in my tongue.
A thunderstorm cut our bonfire story time tragically short, but at least we’d already pitched the tent and hung the bear bag. All that was left to do was crawl into our sleeping bags and wait for the Andasi to take us.
Sleeping proved to be nearly impossible, though. Dad’s warning and the prospect of telling Jesse coupled with the cold and wet made for a particularly restless night on my part. Fantasies of all the things I’d like to do with magic kept lapsing into fitful dreams in which I was controlling the storm. I clashed the clouds together like cymbals and stirred the treetops with my finger. I breathed onto the beach and scattered sand like stars. I twirled and twirled across the thunderous purple sky, spilling diamonds on the water and trailing my regal veil in the waves. My footfalls were as big as a valley, but they left no crater because I weighed nothing; I was made of sky. And I held wind and water and lightning in my hands, but darkness threatened at every step. Though every stride carried me across lakes and mountains and even nations, the line of day receded before me and I couldn’t shake the coming night. I didn’t know what would happen if it caught me, but its hunger for me was like rusting iron on the backsides of my teeth. Relentless. Insatiable. I knew I couldn’t withstand its might if it overtook me.
I woke with a shiver, feeling only marginally more rested than when I’d gone to sleep. For all I knew of Jamus, I was a stranger to nightmares, and this one had deeply shaken me.
The first strains of dawn were leaking through the dripping foliage and seeping into our tiny haven: the storm had passed. Jesse was nestled into his sleeping bag so that only his brow showed. It was furrowed as if he were concerned about something, and while I watched, he murmured something and rolled over. Dad was nowhere to be seen, which explained the cold spot at my back. Tired as I was, I sat up, struggled into my fleece and went to see if he was puttering around the campsite. Having no luck, I checked near the trees we’d suspended the bear bag from, but he wasn’t there either.
Back at the campsite, Jesse was crouched beside the sopping fire pit, poking the sodden ashes with a stick. He looked up, blinking, obviously half-conscious. “Where’ve you been?” he grumbled.
“Looking for my dad. Did he tell you he was leaving?”
Jesse shook his head.
“Wonder where he is,” I murmured.
Jesse shrugged. “He’ll be back. You know how it is with him.” It was true: my dad was known for disappearing and appearing at random, seemingly into and out of nowhere, and could be gone for an entire day without anybody knowing his whereabouts. Still, he’d never done anything like this while we were camping, and I was worried.
“I had a dream…” Jesse said, rubbing his face and muffling the words with his hand. We both considered dreams very important because of what we knew about Myriad, so I gave him my full attention. “We were on the Reservoir. In the paddle boat. It was just like it always is, but then the water started to boil and evaporate. It turned black, and as it evaporated, it darkened the sky. I was terrified because I knew that when the water was gone, all that would be left was a monster of some sort. The dream wasn’t clear what kind of monster it was or what it would do, but I knew the thing was hungry, and I was the meal it wanted.” He shuddered and drew his arms tight around himself. “I felt like it would’ve done anything to get me.”
“That sounds a lot like what I dreamed,” I remarked, and told him about the darkness. “I feel like the Andasi are telling us the same thing…. But the monster didn't get you, did it?”
“No, I never even saw it.”
“Me either. So I guess that’s a good sign.”
There was a pause. Then Jesse said, “We tried to stop it from coming. Or I did. For some reason you weren’t doing anything, but I remember… I did some sort of magic….”
Then I remembered. We were finally alone, and my words broke through the dam of secrecy. “Jesse! Magic is real. I’ve done it!”
“You have? Where was I?” I loved that he believed me immediately and unquestioningly.
“You were there. It was when Dad was talking to Mr. Castillo before we left.” Jesse’s eyes widened expectantly. “Let’s walk,” I suggested.
Jesse heaved himself to his feet and we set out in the direction of the rising sun. Pine trees left cool, clear droplets on our faces as we brushed past. Early morning mist wrapped itself around their trunks and branches, clinging thick enough to shroud the campsite from view almost instantly. It was the sort of fog that could keep a secret if you asked, and I spoke again.
“I don’t remember ever hating anybody before,” I said. “But I sure hated Lila’s dad that morning. And you know what my dad says about emotions.” I looked at him meaningfully, and he nodded. Jesse knew the adage as well as I. “When Castillo came down that walkway all big and bad, ready to ruin our camping trip, I wanted to kick him. And then, when he started shoving his finger in Dad’s face, I just lost it. I wanted that finger to fall off. I thought, that’ll show him!”
Jesse swallowed a laugh.
“I hardly realized what I was doing. Of course, now that my head’s cleared, I remember thinking about the skin cells coming unstitched from each other and the bone pinching and coming unfastened from the knuckle….”
“Castillo’s finger didn’t fall off, Samjay,” Jesse pointed out in his no-duh tone.
“Well, thank goodness my dad was there to stop it,” I said.
“Mmm.” Jesse sounded skeptical. Then he burst out, “He was playing with his fingers! The whole time they were talking! I’ll bet he was doing some sort of counter magic or something.”
“I’ll bet you’re right.”
The sun began to eat away at the fog as we walked. The raindrops wobbling at the fingertip of every pine needle seemed to hold miniature suns captive inside of them and the forest glittered like something out of a fairy tale. “Do you think I could do magic again?” I asked.
Jesse shrugged. “If it took that kind of emotion to fuel it, it must be pretty hard.”
I thought. “Maybe there are different degrees of magic, though. A human body is complicated, so maybe it takes more to affect one.”
“So something simple… like a… a leaf,” Jesse said, picking a glistening green specimen off a nearby beech tree. “Could you make it, I dunno, change color? Or wilt?” He held the leaf out to me and I took it gingerly by the stem. I thought about a cell and all its tiny parts. I thought about the chloroplasts pumping out juicy green life. Then I imagined them all stopping still in their tracks.
Nothing. I realized I was holding my breath and let it out with a big puh. “Maybe I’m not supposed to think about it so much,” I said. “Maybe I just need to… think about the result more than the process. That’s kind of how it was with Castillo.” Jesse nodded encouragingly and I tried again. This time I pictured the leaf going brown and crumbling between my fingers. Still nothing.
I looked hopelessly at Jesse. “I don’t know what’s wrong. Obviously it worked fine the other day.”
“I wouldn’t think something was wrong,” said Jesse. “There are so many different interpretations of how magic works, it’s hard to say exactly what you should be doing.”
He was right, of course. But it frustrated me that I could’ve done something so dramatic before and now I couldn't even change a little leaf to brown. I glared at the stubborn specimen.
Suddenly the leaf caught fire in my hand. I shrieked, dropped it, and stumbled backward in terror. Jesse, practical young man that he was, rushed forward to stamp out the flames and steady me. We watched the smoke curl upward to mingle with the mist and vanish.
Jesse’s face was pale enough to blend in with the fog, but he feigned fearlessness. “Well. I guess that makes you about the coolest person I know,” he said faintly.
I shook off his hands and started walking again. “What, because I can make body parts fall off and light things on fire?” I snapped.
Jesse was flabbergasted. “Are you angry?”
I sucked on my scorched fingertips, deep in thought. “I’m scared,” I admitted. “I don’t know what I’m doing. All the magic I’ve ever done has ended disastrously. What if Dad isn’t there next time and I really hurt someone? There’s just this sudden weight. I want to do good with my magic, or else what’s the point?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Jesse consoled me. “You can’t possibly know everything about magic yet. I’m sure with practice you’ll be able to direct it however you want.”
At once we both stopped dead, for quite suddenly, a cottage had emerged from the sparkling mist ahead of us. It was bathed in the kind of golden light that only happens when the sun goes highlighter pink, and everything about it, from the ivy-laced rock wall to the snow white gables, shimmered like the pines with an infinite number of twinkling raindrop Christmas lights. Though the fog revealed its secrets at random, there was no question that the cottage hadn’t been there a moment before.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I just realized my spatial synaesthesia extends to movies as well as time, numbers, and music. I don't know why I never noticed before. I guess it just seemed normal that The Wizard of Oz had that spiraling shape and the weird tumor at the part where they go to the Witch's castle. It's just always been like that. Castle in the Sky is easily the wackiest though. Think if you handed a two year old a crayon and some paper. That's Castle in the Sky. o_O
Just to refresh your memory:
1. Does it make sense, does one event follow the previous event, are new concepts well explained?
2. Does it hold your interest? Where and why do you get bored?
3. Do you want to read more?
4. (I know, I'm adding more! Sorry) How do you feel about the characters? You don't have to base your opinion purely on this excerpt. I'm just curious how they're coming across thus far.
If you haven't read the first and second installments...
Prologue
Beginning of Chapter One
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It took us five days to make it around Upper Saranac Lake, and Dad never left me alone with Jesse for more than two minutes. By the last night of our trip, the secret was burning a hole in my tongue.
A thunderstorm cut our bonfire story time tragically short, but at least we’d already pitched the tent and hung the bear bag. All that was left to do was crawl into our sleeping bags and wait for the Andasi to take us.
Sleeping proved to be nearly impossible, though. Dad’s warning and the prospect of telling Jesse coupled with the cold and wet made for a particularly restless night on my part. Fantasies of all the things I’d like to do with magic kept lapsing into fitful dreams in which I was controlling the storm. I clashed the clouds together like cymbals and stirred the treetops with my finger. I breathed onto the beach and scattered sand like stars. I twirled and twirled across the thunderous purple sky, spilling diamonds on the water and trailing my regal veil in the waves. My footfalls were as big as a valley, but they left no crater because I weighed nothing; I was made of sky. And I held wind and water and lightning in my hands, but darkness threatened at every step. Though every stride carried me across lakes and mountains and even nations, the line of day receded before me and I couldn’t shake the coming night. I didn’t know what would happen if it caught me, but its hunger for me was like rusting iron on the backsides of my teeth. Relentless. Insatiable. I knew I couldn’t withstand its might if it overtook me.
I woke with a shiver, feeling only marginally more rested than when I’d gone to sleep. For all I knew of Jamus, I was a stranger to nightmares, and this one had deeply shaken me.
The first strains of dawn were leaking through the dripping foliage and seeping into our tiny haven: the storm had passed. Jesse was nestled into his sleeping bag so that only his brow showed. It was furrowed as if he were concerned about something, and while I watched, he murmured something and rolled over. Dad was nowhere to be seen, which explained the cold spot at my back. Tired as I was, I sat up, struggled into my fleece and went to see if he was puttering around the campsite. Having no luck, I checked near the trees we’d suspended the bear bag from, but he wasn’t there either.
Back at the campsite, Jesse was crouched beside the sopping fire pit, poking the sodden ashes with a stick. He looked up, blinking, obviously half-conscious. “Where’ve you been?” he grumbled.
“Looking for my dad. Did he tell you he was leaving?”
Jesse shook his head.
“Wonder where he is,” I murmured.
Jesse shrugged. “He’ll be back. You know how it is with him.” It was true: my dad was known for disappearing and appearing at random, seemingly into and out of nowhere, and could be gone for an entire day without anybody knowing his whereabouts. Still, he’d never done anything like this while we were camping, and I was worried.
“I had a dream…” Jesse said, rubbing his face and muffling the words with his hand. We both considered dreams very important because of what we knew about Myriad, so I gave him my full attention. “We were on the Reservoir. In the paddle boat. It was just like it always is, but then the water started to boil and evaporate. It turned black, and as it evaporated, it darkened the sky. I was terrified because I knew that when the water was gone, all that would be left was a monster of some sort. The dream wasn’t clear what kind of monster it was or what it would do, but I knew the thing was hungry, and I was the meal it wanted.” He shuddered and drew his arms tight around himself. “I felt like it would’ve done anything to get me.”
“That sounds a lot like what I dreamed,” I remarked, and told him about the darkness. “I feel like the Andasi are telling us the same thing…. But the monster didn't get you, did it?”
“No, I never even saw it.”
“Me either. So I guess that’s a good sign.”
There was a pause. Then Jesse said, “We tried to stop it from coming. Or I did. For some reason you weren’t doing anything, but I remember… I did some sort of magic….”
Then I remembered. We were finally alone, and my words broke through the dam of secrecy. “Jesse! Magic is real. I’ve done it!”
“You have? Where was I?” I loved that he believed me immediately and unquestioningly.
“You were there. It was when Dad was talking to Mr. Castillo before we left.” Jesse’s eyes widened expectantly. “Let’s walk,” I suggested.
Jesse heaved himself to his feet and we set out in the direction of the rising sun. Pine trees left cool, clear droplets on our faces as we brushed past. Early morning mist wrapped itself around their trunks and branches, clinging thick enough to shroud the campsite from view almost instantly. It was the sort of fog that could keep a secret if you asked, and I spoke again.
“I don’t remember ever hating anybody before,” I said. “But I sure hated Lila’s dad that morning. And you know what my dad says about emotions.” I looked at him meaningfully, and he nodded. Jesse knew the adage as well as I. “When Castillo came down that walkway all big and bad, ready to ruin our camping trip, I wanted to kick him. And then, when he started shoving his finger in Dad’s face, I just lost it. I wanted that finger to fall off. I thought, that’ll show him!”
Jesse swallowed a laugh.
“I hardly realized what I was doing. Of course, now that my head’s cleared, I remember thinking about the skin cells coming unstitched from each other and the bone pinching and coming unfastened from the knuckle….”
“Castillo’s finger didn’t fall off, Samjay,” Jesse pointed out in his no-duh tone.
“Well, thank goodness my dad was there to stop it,” I said.
“Mmm.” Jesse sounded skeptical. Then he burst out, “He was playing with his fingers! The whole time they were talking! I’ll bet he was doing some sort of counter magic or something.”
“I’ll bet you’re right.”
The sun began to eat away at the fog as we walked. The raindrops wobbling at the fingertip of every pine needle seemed to hold miniature suns captive inside of them and the forest glittered like something out of a fairy tale. “Do you think I could do magic again?” I asked.
Jesse shrugged. “If it took that kind of emotion to fuel it, it must be pretty hard.”
I thought. “Maybe there are different degrees of magic, though. A human body is complicated, so maybe it takes more to affect one.”
“So something simple… like a… a leaf,” Jesse said, picking a glistening green specimen off a nearby beech tree. “Could you make it, I dunno, change color? Or wilt?” He held the leaf out to me and I took it gingerly by the stem. I thought about a cell and all its tiny parts. I thought about the chloroplasts pumping out juicy green life. Then I imagined them all stopping still in their tracks.
Nothing. I realized I was holding my breath and let it out with a big puh. “Maybe I’m not supposed to think about it so much,” I said. “Maybe I just need to… think about the result more than the process. That’s kind of how it was with Castillo.” Jesse nodded encouragingly and I tried again. This time I pictured the leaf going brown and crumbling between my fingers. Still nothing.
I looked hopelessly at Jesse. “I don’t know what’s wrong. Obviously it worked fine the other day.”
“I wouldn’t think something was wrong,” said Jesse. “There are so many different interpretations of how magic works, it’s hard to say exactly what you should be doing.”
He was right, of course. But it frustrated me that I could’ve done something so dramatic before and now I couldn't even change a little leaf to brown. I glared at the stubborn specimen.
Suddenly the leaf caught fire in my hand. I shrieked, dropped it, and stumbled backward in terror. Jesse, practical young man that he was, rushed forward to stamp out the flames and steady me. We watched the smoke curl upward to mingle with the mist and vanish.
Jesse’s face was pale enough to blend in with the fog, but he feigned fearlessness. “Well. I guess that makes you about the coolest person I know,” he said faintly.
I shook off his hands and started walking again. “What, because I can make body parts fall off and light things on fire?” I snapped.
Jesse was flabbergasted. “Are you angry?”
I sucked on my scorched fingertips, deep in thought. “I’m scared,” I admitted. “I don’t know what I’m doing. All the magic I’ve ever done has ended disastrously. What if Dad isn’t there next time and I really hurt someone? There’s just this sudden weight. I want to do good with my magic, or else what’s the point?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Jesse consoled me. “You can’t possibly know everything about magic yet. I’m sure with practice you’ll be able to direct it however you want.”
At once we both stopped dead, for quite suddenly, a cottage had emerged from the sparkling mist ahead of us. It was bathed in the kind of golden light that only happens when the sun goes highlighter pink, and everything about it, from the ivy-laced rock wall to the snow white gables, shimmered like the pines with an infinite number of twinkling raindrop Christmas lights. Though the fog revealed its secrets at random, there was no question that the cottage hadn’t been there a moment before.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I just realized my spatial synaesthesia extends to movies as well as time, numbers, and music. I don't know why I never noticed before. I guess it just seemed normal that The Wizard of Oz had that spiraling shape and the weird tumor at the part where they go to the Witch's castle. It's just always been like that. Castle in the Sky is easily the wackiest though. Think if you handed a two year old a crayon and some paper. That's Castle in the Sky. o_O
Sweet temptation
Just a TASTE. Just to get you salivating for more. Mwahahahaha.
Yeah, no, this post is not about the obscene amount of candy I received for Easter. Ugh, fat attack, here I come.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We reached the north end of the Adirondack range well before noon and set out on foot, following a river that, at times, dwindled to a burbling brook and, at other times and seemingly without any warning at all, unfolded into wide blue lakes dotted with the colorful canvas sails of families and kids at summer camps enjoying themselves on the water. The clouds had finally surrendered to the sun’s advances about the same time we hit New York state, and not a wisp of white remained to mar the vast blue dome of sky.
By lunchtime, I couldn’t help wishing for a bit more cloud cover. I was sweating, if not buckets, then at least goblets, and I was on my fourth reapplication of sunscreen in half as many hours. All four of our Nalgene water bottles were empty, which meant we would have to spend the next half hour or so pumping lake water through the filters to refill them.
“Jesse,” said Dad, producing a dull and dented metal pot from our food bag. “Would you run this down to the water?”
“Sure thing, Zee,” said Jesse. He took the pot by its handle and started down the overgrown slope to fetch the water.
“I’ll go too!” I volunteered. The longing to splash cold water on my face was almost too much to bear, not to mention the brambly hill looked like a challenge and I was ready to bet Jesse I could make it up faster than he could.
“I need your help with this, Sam,” said Dad. He was crouching beside a broad stump and had the map spread out in front of him. He never let us see the map, so it wasn’t hard for him to convince me to stay.
But as soon as Jesse was out of earshot, he folded the map away and looked at me sternly. “What have I always told you about emotions, Samantha Jane?”
I was dumbfounded. He was angry with me? I opened my mouth, but no excuse came out. I wasn’t even sure what behavior I needed to excuse. I finally mumbled, “I didn’t offer to go get water so I could be alone with Jesse.”
Now it was Dad’s turn to be confused. “What are you–” He shook his head. “Never mind that, Sam. What have I always told you?”
He might as well have asked me to recite the Pledge of Allegiance for how well I knew the old rhyme. “‘Emotion fuels intention. Through intent we can invent. But caution, heart, lest subtle art spark brighter than you meant.’ So? Why do we need to talk about this?”
“Because you, my dear, are a passionate young lady. I’ve trained you well, and I can usually trust you to control yourself, but this morning, talking to Mr. Costello, I spent half the conversation keeping his finger from falling off. Any ideas about that?”
Little black spots crowded the edges of my sight and I sat down hard on the stump. I had actually done something just by wishing? Something… magic? “I… I didn’t really mean to….” I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to clear my vision and my thoughts. My own voice seemed to reach me through a long tunnel. This couldn’t be happening.
Then Dad’s voice came floating down the tunnel, calling my name. I felt his hand cover mine in the comforting way only a father’s hand knows how to do. I blinked hard and forced myself back into reality, albeit a reality that had just shifted on a fault line beneath my feet. “No harm done this time, okay?” he said. The anger was gone. “But you need to be conscious and cautious. You have more power than you think.” I nodded mutely. I wondered if he meant he was going to teach me magic. How did one go about doing magic, anyway? Was I likely to mess up again and actually cause someone harm by accident? There was so much to ask, if only my mouth would form the words!
Jesse appeared at the top of the hill and I tried to compose myself. He joined me on the stump and started pumping water through the filter while Dad searched the bags for lunch. As soon as Jesse had filtered enough water to fill a bottle halfway, he handed me a drink. “Do you have heatstroke?” he asked worriedly.
I gulped down the water. Dad hadn’t wanted Jesse to hear what he said about magic or he wouldn’t have sent him away like that, so I would have to wait until we were alone to tell him what I’d learned. “I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “Want to hand me the other filter? I can help.”
“If you’re sure….”
A minute later, Dad presented our traditional smorgasbord of crackers and condiments – cheese, pepperoni, peanut butter, honey, mustard, jelly, pickles, and, for some reason, a can of tuna fish – and we ate while we pumped water, being careful not to drop so much as a crumb of food. We had clementines and chocolate raisins to top off the meal, packed up, and set out again. I wished Dad would go somewhere else for a minute. I was dying to tell Jesse about the magic.
Yeah, no, this post is not about the obscene amount of candy I received for Easter. Ugh, fat attack, here I come.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We reached the north end of the Adirondack range well before noon and set out on foot, following a river that, at times, dwindled to a burbling brook and, at other times and seemingly without any warning at all, unfolded into wide blue lakes dotted with the colorful canvas sails of families and kids at summer camps enjoying themselves on the water. The clouds had finally surrendered to the sun’s advances about the same time we hit New York state, and not a wisp of white remained to mar the vast blue dome of sky.
By lunchtime, I couldn’t help wishing for a bit more cloud cover. I was sweating, if not buckets, then at least goblets, and I was on my fourth reapplication of sunscreen in half as many hours. All four of our Nalgene water bottles were empty, which meant we would have to spend the next half hour or so pumping lake water through the filters to refill them.
“Jesse,” said Dad, producing a dull and dented metal pot from our food bag. “Would you run this down to the water?”
“Sure thing, Zee,” said Jesse. He took the pot by its handle and started down the overgrown slope to fetch the water.
“I’ll go too!” I volunteered. The longing to splash cold water on my face was almost too much to bear, not to mention the brambly hill looked like a challenge and I was ready to bet Jesse I could make it up faster than he could.
“I need your help with this, Sam,” said Dad. He was crouching beside a broad stump and had the map spread out in front of him. He never let us see the map, so it wasn’t hard for him to convince me to stay.
But as soon as Jesse was out of earshot, he folded the map away and looked at me sternly. “What have I always told you about emotions, Samantha Jane?”
I was dumbfounded. He was angry with me? I opened my mouth, but no excuse came out. I wasn’t even sure what behavior I needed to excuse. I finally mumbled, “I didn’t offer to go get water so I could be alone with Jesse.”
Now it was Dad’s turn to be confused. “What are you–” He shook his head. “Never mind that, Sam. What have I always told you?”
He might as well have asked me to recite the Pledge of Allegiance for how well I knew the old rhyme. “‘Emotion fuels intention. Through intent we can invent. But caution, heart, lest subtle art spark brighter than you meant.’ So? Why do we need to talk about this?”
“Because you, my dear, are a passionate young lady. I’ve trained you well, and I can usually trust you to control yourself, but this morning, talking to Mr. Costello, I spent half the conversation keeping his finger from falling off. Any ideas about that?”
Little black spots crowded the edges of my sight and I sat down hard on the stump. I had actually done something just by wishing? Something… magic? “I… I didn’t really mean to….” I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to clear my vision and my thoughts. My own voice seemed to reach me through a long tunnel. This couldn’t be happening.
Then Dad’s voice came floating down the tunnel, calling my name. I felt his hand cover mine in the comforting way only a father’s hand knows how to do. I blinked hard and forced myself back into reality, albeit a reality that had just shifted on a fault line beneath my feet. “No harm done this time, okay?” he said. The anger was gone. “But you need to be conscious and cautious. You have more power than you think.” I nodded mutely. I wondered if he meant he was going to teach me magic. How did one go about doing magic, anyway? Was I likely to mess up again and actually cause someone harm by accident? There was so much to ask, if only my mouth would form the words!
Jesse appeared at the top of the hill and I tried to compose myself. He joined me on the stump and started pumping water through the filter while Dad searched the bags for lunch. As soon as Jesse had filtered enough water to fill a bottle halfway, he handed me a drink. “Do you have heatstroke?” he asked worriedly.
I gulped down the water. Dad hadn’t wanted Jesse to hear what he said about magic or he wouldn’t have sent him away like that, so I would have to wait until we were alone to tell him what I’d learned. “I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “Want to hand me the other filter? I can help.”
“If you’re sure….”
A minute later, Dad presented our traditional smorgasbord of crackers and condiments – cheese, pepperoni, peanut butter, honey, mustard, jelly, pickles, and, for some reason, a can of tuna fish – and we ate while we pumped water, being careful not to drop so much as a crumb of food. We had clementines and chocolate raisins to top off the meal, packed up, and set out again. I wished Dad would go somewhere else for a minute. I was dying to tell Jesse about the magic.
Can you keep a secret?
This is it: the complete prologue of Before the Empty Moon. I haven't posted any of my writing in a while, and this is all I've been working on. So you got lucky! Because I wasn't going to leak it. I was going to make you all bring me flowers and candy and concert tickets before leaking this thing. ^_~
If you're going to comment, do me a huge favor and pay attention to three things:
1) Does it make sense? Or are there too many new names/terms/ideas to keep straight? Are new concepts explained well enough?
2) Does it hold your interest? If not, where and why do you get bored?
3) Does it make you want more?
Have fun!
EDIT: I ADDED A CONVERSATION I HAD CUT OUT OF THE PREVIOUS DRAFT. IT'S IN ITALICS. TAKE A LOOK AT IT, AND LET ME KNOW IF IT SEEMS OUT OF PLACE.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was the sort of car ride you’d expect to end in a crash. We were teetering on the brink of dawn with the sky turned upside down over our heads like a bowl of molasses so that neither the sun nor the car seemed to be making any progress. The radio leaked static now that the CD had ended and no one had anything to say. The only other sound was the concrete whispering to the tires of Dad’s faithful ’95 Camry.
My best friend Jesse was sulking in the back seat and trying to hide it by doodling in the sketchbook he always carried. Even my dad, ever the optimist, was brooding behind the wheel. I had my forehead pressed against the cold hard Plexiglas, watching the white dashes streak past until they blurred into one another and faded into the same flavorless grey as everything else. Every bump reminded me how awake I was. How real it all was. How I’d gone into freshman year with two best friends and come out the other end with only one.
Lila Castillo wasn’t dead. Not literally anyway. Let me back up to where the story began, or at least to where I came in.
Once upon a time, there was a man who was made of paradoxes. He was fierce and humble, dignified and defiant, a craftsman and a caretaker all at once. He was a friend; he was a father – and not just to me, his daughter, but also to Jesse, who had never known his father, and to Lila, whose father was an incorrigible realist and frowned upon creativity of any sort. My father’s insistence that there was more to humanity than met the eye drove Mr. Castillo especially mad.
That brings us to it, then: Dad didn’t think like other people. He believed in dreams, and not the way most people tell their kids to “follow their dreams.” He believed that what we experienced while sleeping was a world unto itself, a world called Myriad where real heroes and villains clashed like the characters of storybooks.
My father reared me, Lila and Jesse on the chronicles of that other world. According to the lore, man was no different from any other creature wandering the planet at the beginning of time. Then Fëanáro established Myriad and appointed muses to script fantastic dreams for the people of our world, Versitas, and to bestow upon those we call “artists” the gifts of inspiration. By enabling us to dream, Fëanáro completed mankind. He gave us hope and raised us above the beasts of the earth. Ever since, Myriad has served as the Grand Central station of humanity’s collective heart.
Growing up, Jesse, Lila and I understood the establishment of Myriad’s muses, the Andasi, better than the Senate. We respected them more than we respected the principal of our school. We feared Jamus, the Andasi’s outcast, more than terrorists in the Middle East. We had our priorities straight; so, naturally, everyone else thought we were completely bonkers.
And so the other grown-ups rejected my dad, writing him off as a bad parent, a dreamer, a lunatic, or (worst of all), a liar. “Crazy man Quinn” they called him, and “Zany Zechariah.” You see, people don’t like being told Myriad is the fount of their hope and inspiration. They want to think their ideas come from themselves, not some distant, invisible strangers who deign to give us humans our dreams. Artists can be particularly stubborn about this. Sooner or later, all the greatest ones either recognize the hand of the Andasi in their work, hence their quirkiness, or go crazy and start cutting off their ears and stuff.
Then there are those who, like Mr. Castillo, simply can’t stomach the schmaltzy idea of hopes and dreams. For them, Myriad’s right up there with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. It’s a story for kids. Nothing more.
But Dad kept his chin up, a statue of steadfastness in the face of mockery. No one could change his mind about anything, and that was how I knew he was telling the truth in every one of the far-fetched yarns the other adults hated so much. Dad would never lie to us. I knew it. Jesse knew it. Lila had known it when we were young; we spent most of our childhood years searching for a secret passage to Myriad, or else pretending we were heroes of the lore. I was Adayla, princess of light; Jesse was Asa, king of the sea; Lila was Haligh, empress of the earth. The three of us scoured the woods around the Reservoir out back of my house for any signs of Myriad and staged battles in the state park beyond that. It was one thing when we were children; searching for another world and calling each other by imaginary names was, if not normal, at least acceptable at that age. But as our peers outgrew those kinds of activities, we were forced to become more and more secretive, and even so, we were each other’s only real friends in the small, suffocating world of the Scituate, Massachusetts public middle school.
Since as long ago as I could remember, Dad would convince Phoebe, my so-called mother (who was hardly more tolerant than Lila’s realist father), to let Lila and Jesse stay over some weekends and he would tell us stories late into the night. Then, once he’d tucked me and Lila into the full size bed in my room and Jesse into one of the twins in the guest room, we would scamper out through the windows to convene on the rooftop and talk about Dad’s stories, our own stories, or our latest scheme for finding a way to Myriad.
But once we started high school, it was nearly impossible to excuse or disguise what we were doing. It was especially hard to fool Phoebe. We dropped our Myriadan names. We started an environmental club at school, hoping to pass off our adventures as tree-hugging eccentricities. But free time was harder and harder to come by as our parents signed us up for all the extracurriculars we would need to get accepted at the best colleges, and in the end, we had to give up searching in favor of plotting and theorizing. I remember our last conversation like it happened just this morning.
“If we dream every night,” Jesse theorized, “then we must go to Myriad every night. It’s just a matter of controlling what happens when we get there.”
I objected. “Even if you learn to control your dreams, they’re still just dreams. You don’t wake up with battle wounds every time you dream about slaying the kraken, do you?”
Lila muttered, “I don’t dream about slaying the kraken.”
“Besides,” I continued over her. “Don’t you think someone would have noticed by now if people were vanishing off to Myriad every time they fell asleep?”
“Are you saying you don’t think it’s there?” Lila asked. Her bottom lip stuck out like she might cry if I said it didn’t exist.
“No!” I objected. “I’m saying that there must be a way to get there physically, not just in our heads.”
“Because it has to be more than a state of mind,” Jesse added. “Things don’t happen in a state of mind they way they happen in a place, and Myriad is a place where things happen. Real things!”
“Exactly,” Lila agreed. “But we’ve always known this. How do you suggest we get there? Because I’m pretty sure we’ve tried everything short of a rocket ship.”
As always, neither Jesse nor I could answer her with any degree of certainty.
“What if you just have to look at things a certain way?” Jesse finally said. “We’re using our imagination now, so theoretically, we could be there already.”
We hushed and looked around in silent wonder.
“Looks like Versitas to me,” Lila grumbled.
“I don’t think the Andasi like us to know too much,” I said thoughtfully. “They’ll give us hopes and dreams because that’s what Fëanáro made them to do, but they’ll never let us see the hand that’s feeding us.”
You might call it an obsession. And you wouldn’t be wrong, but you have to understand that to our knowledge, humanity was on the line. Every able body had to play a part in the resistance against the Jamus, the Rogue Andasun. If he got his way, the people of Versitas would not be a people for much longer. Jamus has been working against Fëanáro since the creation of Myriad, trying to cut off the unworthy leeches of Versitas from the source of their inspiration. He doesn't actually have the authority to do anything of the sort, of course. Instead he sends nightmares to punish us and unleashes whatever wars and plagues he can think of on the realm of Myriad, knowing that sooner or later the strife would bleed through to our world. Only Fëanáro had the power to do away with Jamus, but until the day he put his foot down, we would fight for him and for the sake of all that Myriad added to humanity, if only we could find our way there.
Anyway, that was how it used to be, but things started to change in high school. Lila became difficult to pin down. A seemingly endless onslaught of schoolwork and all-too-frequent martial arts lessons filled up her time. Dad kept saying to let her be, that she would come back to us when the timing was right. He was so certain of it that I truly thought she’d be on our side again within weeks, if not days, but winter dissolved into spring, and it was clear that the inseparable trio had separated.
Summer finally rolled around and Jesse and I hoped we could resurrect the old camaraderie, but Lila got a job at the dairy hut on route 3A and constantly used that as an excuse not to see us. All I have to say is, there are laws against making a fifteen-year-old work as much as she claimed to be working. I would have valued her honesty almost as much as her company, though admittedly, paddle boating around the Reservoir and snooping around the state park weren’t the same without her.
It wasn’t like Jesse and I were still actively searching for a secret passage to dream land. It was just nice to know that we both expected the same things out of life. Somewhere in our hearts, we both still believed that the time would come for us to make our way to Myriad, and if nothing else, we mutually understood and appreciated each other’s weirdness in a way the others at school never could. Lila never quite overcame that weirdness, even when she cut herself off from us. What hurt the most was that she still refused to come back.
The four of us had an old tradition: as soon as school let out for the summer, Dad would take us on camping adventures as often as Jesse and Lila’s parents would allow. It was the best ever for Jesse since he didn’t have a father of his own to do that sort of thing with. Dad used to wake him up early and the two of them would have “man time” catching and gutting fish for breakfast while Lila and I slumbered happily in our two-person tent. But best of all, far away from critics and doubters, we didn’t have to hide what we were doing. Dad could tell us all the stories he wanted without making Phoebe angry. Jesse, Lila and I were free to discuss whatever we wanted without raising any eyebrows. And, we could search in earnest for any signs of that other reality overlapping ours, because let’s face it: the world is a lot bigger than the state park near home. The way to Myriad could be anywhere.
Dad taught us to look for anything out of place: moss and lichen growing on the wrong side of trees and rocks, non-native plants and animals, areas of mysteriously dead or thriving flora, signs of rain on a dry day….
It wasn’t often that we found anything noteworthy, but the few times we did, Dad marked it on his map and made us camp and fish far away. It drove us crazy that he never explained why. I always thought some Myriadans might wander into Versitas while we slept and I wanted to see them when they came. Maybe Dad thought the same thing and feared it for reasons I couldn’t have understood.
In one last desperate attempt to win back, if not Lila’s belief, then at least her friendship, Jesse and I begged my father to take us camping the summer after freshman year. We were fifteen years old, and with the loss of one of our number, even Jesse and I were starting to play tug of war with the real world. There was so much pressure to act like everyone else, to think like everyone else, to make oneself into a clone of everyone else. We weren’t antisocial by a long shot, and the fact that nobody wanted us around was almost enough to make us give it all up. We would never admit it, but Jesse and I needed the camping trip as much as Lila. We were on the cusp of something new and frightening, clinging to the old ways but thirsting for change. It was a make or break kind of summer, and I hoped to God we wouldn’t break.
Usually we would’ve camped at least twice by mid-July, but this would be our first excursion of the year. I think Dad had recognized the rip tide we were caught in and feared we had moved on, so naturally he was thrilled that we wanted to go. He cracked out his collection of maps and immersed himself in planning the journey. Part of the adventure, after all, was never camping the same site twice. He tauntingly refused to let Jesse and I look at his plans. He wouldn’t even say what state we were going to. The curiosity would have stretched out the days leading up to the trip if they hadn’t been such a whirlwind of finding long underwear and socks and hiking boots that fit.
The Friday morning of our departure finally dawned – if you can call it “dawning” when the sun has yet to rise – and Dad and I set out. Jesse was waiting for us on his stoop, wearing a fleece and stamping his feet to generate warmth. He crashed into the back seat and thrust a handful of CDs in my face. I shuffled through them and popped in our favorite album for starting the day, U2’s “The Joshua Tree.”
We pulled up by Lila’s house. But it wasn’t Lila who came to greet us; it was her father. Before we had even shut the car doors, he was striding down the slate-stone walkway wearing a scowl that could have curdled milk on the spot.
Jesse and I quickly ducked back into the car, where I hand-cranked the window open a crack to listen to his conversation with my dad. “That guy scares me more than anything we might meet out in the woods,” I whispered. “Wolves, bears, or otherwise.”
“I bet he could make Jamus cry like a little girl,” Jesse agreed darkly.
Mr. Castillo reached the sidewalk and spat, “She en’t going with you.”
Jesse sucked in air through his teeth. “Ooh, skipping the formalities? Your dad won’t like that, Samjay,” he remarked.
“Top of the morning to you, Mr. Castillo,” Dad replied cordially, inclining his head in a tiny bow. I fumed silently. This guy didn’t deserve my father’s warmth, especially if he was about to spoil our camping trip. I pressed down the car door lock so I wouldn’t be tempted to jump out and kick him in the shins.
Meanwhile, Mr. Castillo folded his arms and chewed his lip, searching for words behind dark, furrowed eyebrows. Jesse couldn’t resist a chuckle. If there was one thing in the whole world that terrified Mr. Castillo, it was my dad. “Zee: one,” Jesse tallied. “Castillo: zip.”
“Look, Quinn, you know how I feel about you,” said Lila’s dad, jabbing an accusatory finger in my father’s face. Dad didn’t so much as blink, but I flared up. How dare he! I dug my fingernails into my palms, wishing that finger would somehow, miraculously, detach itself from his hand and fall twitching to the pavement. That would teach him to disrespect Zechariah Quinn!
Mr. Castillo was on a tirade, and my dad coolly waited for him to finish, fiddling behind his back with the chunky ruby class ring we never saw him without. “For fourteen years I’ve tolerated you feeding nonsense into my little girl’s head,” Castillo ranted. I noticed he was still waving his finger around. “But I won’t stand for it anymore. She’s a big girl now, and she needs to start acting like it.” He must have realized how crazed he looked, because suddenly he shoved both hands deep into the pockets of his black leather jacket and tried to look nonchalant.
“I respect your opinion, Mr. Castillo,” said Dad. “However, I must disagree with you. Camping is an activity that requires a lot of maturity, responsibility, and resourcefulness, not to mention its health benefits-”
“Quinn, she en’t going,” Mr. Castillo interjected.
“Perhaps it would be wise to talk it over with Lila.”
Mr. Castillo’s eyebrows shot up. “Talk it over!” he roared. “I don’t know how your family does things, but I make the decisions in this house, and I say she en’t going!”
“All the same,” Dad persisted, “let’s hear what she has to say.”
As if they’d scripted it, Lila appeared on the stoop just then, wearing a black bathrobe and a frown. Jesse and I exchanged a triumphant glance. Castillo was going to cave now. He had to.
But it turned out Lila’s frown was for my father, not hers. “Zee,” she said sleepily, “I’m sorry, but I just can’t take the time off for something like this. Looking for a magic gateway to another world was a fun game when we were kids, but you know how it is. Everyone has to grow up sometime.”
Do they? I thought. Maybe everyone else, but not us. Never us! And we weren’t “looking for a magic gateway,” as Lila had so derisively phrased it. We were just camping.
Dad jerked his head in some semblance of a nod. “Of course I know how it is,” he said. “Well, I guess that settles it. Mr. Castillo, sorry to have bothered you. Lila….” He embraced her, and she awkwardly returned the hug. “We’ll miss you. You’re always welcome if you ever change your mind.”
Lila pulled away. “Thanks, Zee. Have a good trip,” she said curtly. She saluted to me and Jesse in the car and shuffled toward the door, followed by the man I couldn’t help blaming for her change of heart. Mr. Castillo stood scowling by the door until we pulled away.
So that’s how the three of us came to be speeding west on the Mass Pike at six thirty in the morning, one friend short of complete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Remember:
1) Did it make sense?
2) Were you interested or bored?
3) Do you want more?
Thanks my lovelies!
If you're going to comment, do me a huge favor and pay attention to three things:
1) Does it make sense? Or are there too many new names/terms/ideas to keep straight? Are new concepts explained well enough?
2) Does it hold your interest? If not, where and why do you get bored?
3) Does it make you want more?
Have fun!
EDIT: I ADDED A CONVERSATION I HAD CUT OUT OF THE PREVIOUS DRAFT. IT'S IN ITALICS. TAKE A LOOK AT IT, AND LET ME KNOW IF IT SEEMS OUT OF PLACE.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was the sort of car ride you’d expect to end in a crash. We were teetering on the brink of dawn with the sky turned upside down over our heads like a bowl of molasses so that neither the sun nor the car seemed to be making any progress. The radio leaked static now that the CD had ended and no one had anything to say. The only other sound was the concrete whispering to the tires of Dad’s faithful ’95 Camry.
My best friend Jesse was sulking in the back seat and trying to hide it by doodling in the sketchbook he always carried. Even my dad, ever the optimist, was brooding behind the wheel. I had my forehead pressed against the cold hard Plexiglas, watching the white dashes streak past until they blurred into one another and faded into the same flavorless grey as everything else. Every bump reminded me how awake I was. How real it all was. How I’d gone into freshman year with two best friends and come out the other end with only one.
Lila Castillo wasn’t dead. Not literally anyway. Let me back up to where the story began, or at least to where I came in.
Once upon a time, there was a man who was made of paradoxes. He was fierce and humble, dignified and defiant, a craftsman and a caretaker all at once. He was a friend; he was a father – and not just to me, his daughter, but also to Jesse, who had never known his father, and to Lila, whose father was an incorrigible realist and frowned upon creativity of any sort. My father’s insistence that there was more to humanity than met the eye drove Mr. Castillo especially mad.
That brings us to it, then: Dad didn’t think like other people. He believed in dreams, and not the way most people tell their kids to “follow their dreams.” He believed that what we experienced while sleeping was a world unto itself, a world called Myriad where real heroes and villains clashed like the characters of storybooks.
My father reared me, Lila and Jesse on the chronicles of that other world. According to the lore, man was no different from any other creature wandering the planet at the beginning of time. Then Fëanáro established Myriad and appointed muses to script fantastic dreams for the people of our world, Versitas, and to bestow upon those we call “artists” the gifts of inspiration. By enabling us to dream, Fëanáro completed mankind. He gave us hope and raised us above the beasts of the earth. Ever since, Myriad has served as the Grand Central station of humanity’s collective heart.
Growing up, Jesse, Lila and I understood the establishment of Myriad’s muses, the Andasi, better than the Senate. We respected them more than we respected the principal of our school. We feared Jamus, the Andasi’s outcast, more than terrorists in the Middle East. We had our priorities straight; so, naturally, everyone else thought we were completely bonkers.
And so the other grown-ups rejected my dad, writing him off as a bad parent, a dreamer, a lunatic, or (worst of all), a liar. “Crazy man Quinn” they called him, and “Zany Zechariah.” You see, people don’t like being told Myriad is the fount of their hope and inspiration. They want to think their ideas come from themselves, not some distant, invisible strangers who deign to give us humans our dreams. Artists can be particularly stubborn about this. Sooner or later, all the greatest ones either recognize the hand of the Andasi in their work, hence their quirkiness, or go crazy and start cutting off their ears and stuff.
Then there are those who, like Mr. Castillo, simply can’t stomach the schmaltzy idea of hopes and dreams. For them, Myriad’s right up there with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. It’s a story for kids. Nothing more.
But Dad kept his chin up, a statue of steadfastness in the face of mockery. No one could change his mind about anything, and that was how I knew he was telling the truth in every one of the far-fetched yarns the other adults hated so much. Dad would never lie to us. I knew it. Jesse knew it. Lila had known it when we were young; we spent most of our childhood years searching for a secret passage to Myriad, or else pretending we were heroes of the lore. I was Adayla, princess of light; Jesse was Asa, king of the sea; Lila was Haligh, empress of the earth. The three of us scoured the woods around the Reservoir out back of my house for any signs of Myriad and staged battles in the state park beyond that. It was one thing when we were children; searching for another world and calling each other by imaginary names was, if not normal, at least acceptable at that age. But as our peers outgrew those kinds of activities, we were forced to become more and more secretive, and even so, we were each other’s only real friends in the small, suffocating world of the Scituate, Massachusetts public middle school.
Since as long ago as I could remember, Dad would convince Phoebe, my so-called mother (who was hardly more tolerant than Lila’s realist father), to let Lila and Jesse stay over some weekends and he would tell us stories late into the night. Then, once he’d tucked me and Lila into the full size bed in my room and Jesse into one of the twins in the guest room, we would scamper out through the windows to convene on the rooftop and talk about Dad’s stories, our own stories, or our latest scheme for finding a way to Myriad.
But once we started high school, it was nearly impossible to excuse or disguise what we were doing. It was especially hard to fool Phoebe. We dropped our Myriadan names. We started an environmental club at school, hoping to pass off our adventures as tree-hugging eccentricities. But free time was harder and harder to come by as our parents signed us up for all the extracurriculars we would need to get accepted at the best colleges, and in the end, we had to give up searching in favor of plotting and theorizing. I remember our last conversation like it happened just this morning.
“If we dream every night,” Jesse theorized, “then we must go to Myriad every night. It’s just a matter of controlling what happens when we get there.”
I objected. “Even if you learn to control your dreams, they’re still just dreams. You don’t wake up with battle wounds every time you dream about slaying the kraken, do you?”
Lila muttered, “I don’t dream about slaying the kraken.”
“Besides,” I continued over her. “Don’t you think someone would have noticed by now if people were vanishing off to Myriad every time they fell asleep?”
“Are you saying you don’t think it’s there?” Lila asked. Her bottom lip stuck out like she might cry if I said it didn’t exist.
“No!” I objected. “I’m saying that there must be a way to get there physically, not just in our heads.”
“Because it has to be more than a state of mind,” Jesse added. “Things don’t happen in a state of mind they way they happen in a place, and Myriad is a place where things happen. Real things!”
“Exactly,” Lila agreed. “But we’ve always known this. How do you suggest we get there? Because I’m pretty sure we’ve tried everything short of a rocket ship.”
As always, neither Jesse nor I could answer her with any degree of certainty.
“What if you just have to look at things a certain way?” Jesse finally said. “We’re using our imagination now, so theoretically, we could be there already.”
We hushed and looked around in silent wonder.
“Looks like Versitas to me,” Lila grumbled.
“I don’t think the Andasi like us to know too much,” I said thoughtfully. “They’ll give us hopes and dreams because that’s what Fëanáro made them to do, but they’ll never let us see the hand that’s feeding us.”
You might call it an obsession. And you wouldn’t be wrong, but you have to understand that to our knowledge, humanity was on the line. Every able body had to play a part in the resistance against the Jamus, the Rogue Andasun. If he got his way, the people of Versitas would not be a people for much longer. Jamus has been working against Fëanáro since the creation of Myriad, trying to cut off the unworthy leeches of Versitas from the source of their inspiration. He doesn't actually have the authority to do anything of the sort, of course. Instead he sends nightmares to punish us and unleashes whatever wars and plagues he can think of on the realm of Myriad, knowing that sooner or later the strife would bleed through to our world. Only Fëanáro had the power to do away with Jamus, but until the day he put his foot down, we would fight for him and for the sake of all that Myriad added to humanity, if only we could find our way there.
Anyway, that was how it used to be, but things started to change in high school. Lila became difficult to pin down. A seemingly endless onslaught of schoolwork and all-too-frequent martial arts lessons filled up her time. Dad kept saying to let her be, that she would come back to us when the timing was right. He was so certain of it that I truly thought she’d be on our side again within weeks, if not days, but winter dissolved into spring, and it was clear that the inseparable trio had separated.
Summer finally rolled around and Jesse and I hoped we could resurrect the old camaraderie, but Lila got a job at the dairy hut on route 3A and constantly used that as an excuse not to see us. All I have to say is, there are laws against making a fifteen-year-old work as much as she claimed to be working. I would have valued her honesty almost as much as her company, though admittedly, paddle boating around the Reservoir and snooping around the state park weren’t the same without her.
It wasn’t like Jesse and I were still actively searching for a secret passage to dream land. It was just nice to know that we both expected the same things out of life. Somewhere in our hearts, we both still believed that the time would come for us to make our way to Myriad, and if nothing else, we mutually understood and appreciated each other’s weirdness in a way the others at school never could. Lila never quite overcame that weirdness, even when she cut herself off from us. What hurt the most was that she still refused to come back.
The four of us had an old tradition: as soon as school let out for the summer, Dad would take us on camping adventures as often as Jesse and Lila’s parents would allow. It was the best ever for Jesse since he didn’t have a father of his own to do that sort of thing with. Dad used to wake him up early and the two of them would have “man time” catching and gutting fish for breakfast while Lila and I slumbered happily in our two-person tent. But best of all, far away from critics and doubters, we didn’t have to hide what we were doing. Dad could tell us all the stories he wanted without making Phoebe angry. Jesse, Lila and I were free to discuss whatever we wanted without raising any eyebrows. And, we could search in earnest for any signs of that other reality overlapping ours, because let’s face it: the world is a lot bigger than the state park near home. The way to Myriad could be anywhere.
Dad taught us to look for anything out of place: moss and lichen growing on the wrong side of trees and rocks, non-native plants and animals, areas of mysteriously dead or thriving flora, signs of rain on a dry day….
It wasn’t often that we found anything noteworthy, but the few times we did, Dad marked it on his map and made us camp and fish far away. It drove us crazy that he never explained why. I always thought some Myriadans might wander into Versitas while we slept and I wanted to see them when they came. Maybe Dad thought the same thing and feared it for reasons I couldn’t have understood.
In one last desperate attempt to win back, if not Lila’s belief, then at least her friendship, Jesse and I begged my father to take us camping the summer after freshman year. We were fifteen years old, and with the loss of one of our number, even Jesse and I were starting to play tug of war with the real world. There was so much pressure to act like everyone else, to think like everyone else, to make oneself into a clone of everyone else. We weren’t antisocial by a long shot, and the fact that nobody wanted us around was almost enough to make us give it all up. We would never admit it, but Jesse and I needed the camping trip as much as Lila. We were on the cusp of something new and frightening, clinging to the old ways but thirsting for change. It was a make or break kind of summer, and I hoped to God we wouldn’t break.
Usually we would’ve camped at least twice by mid-July, but this would be our first excursion of the year. I think Dad had recognized the rip tide we were caught in and feared we had moved on, so naturally he was thrilled that we wanted to go. He cracked out his collection of maps and immersed himself in planning the journey. Part of the adventure, after all, was never camping the same site twice. He tauntingly refused to let Jesse and I look at his plans. He wouldn’t even say what state we were going to. The curiosity would have stretched out the days leading up to the trip if they hadn’t been such a whirlwind of finding long underwear and socks and hiking boots that fit.
The Friday morning of our departure finally dawned – if you can call it “dawning” when the sun has yet to rise – and Dad and I set out. Jesse was waiting for us on his stoop, wearing a fleece and stamping his feet to generate warmth. He crashed into the back seat and thrust a handful of CDs in my face. I shuffled through them and popped in our favorite album for starting the day, U2’s “The Joshua Tree.”
We pulled up by Lila’s house. But it wasn’t Lila who came to greet us; it was her father. Before we had even shut the car doors, he was striding down the slate-stone walkway wearing a scowl that could have curdled milk on the spot.
Jesse and I quickly ducked back into the car, where I hand-cranked the window open a crack to listen to his conversation with my dad. “That guy scares me more than anything we might meet out in the woods,” I whispered. “Wolves, bears, or otherwise.”
“I bet he could make Jamus cry like a little girl,” Jesse agreed darkly.
Mr. Castillo reached the sidewalk and spat, “She en’t going with you.”
Jesse sucked in air through his teeth. “Ooh, skipping the formalities? Your dad won’t like that, Samjay,” he remarked.
“Top of the morning to you, Mr. Castillo,” Dad replied cordially, inclining his head in a tiny bow. I fumed silently. This guy didn’t deserve my father’s warmth, especially if he was about to spoil our camping trip. I pressed down the car door lock so I wouldn’t be tempted to jump out and kick him in the shins.
Meanwhile, Mr. Castillo folded his arms and chewed his lip, searching for words behind dark, furrowed eyebrows. Jesse couldn’t resist a chuckle. If there was one thing in the whole world that terrified Mr. Castillo, it was my dad. “Zee: one,” Jesse tallied. “Castillo: zip.”
“Look, Quinn, you know how I feel about you,” said Lila’s dad, jabbing an accusatory finger in my father’s face. Dad didn’t so much as blink, but I flared up. How dare he! I dug my fingernails into my palms, wishing that finger would somehow, miraculously, detach itself from his hand and fall twitching to the pavement. That would teach him to disrespect Zechariah Quinn!
Mr. Castillo was on a tirade, and my dad coolly waited for him to finish, fiddling behind his back with the chunky ruby class ring we never saw him without. “For fourteen years I’ve tolerated you feeding nonsense into my little girl’s head,” Castillo ranted. I noticed he was still waving his finger around. “But I won’t stand for it anymore. She’s a big girl now, and she needs to start acting like it.” He must have realized how crazed he looked, because suddenly he shoved both hands deep into the pockets of his black leather jacket and tried to look nonchalant.
“I respect your opinion, Mr. Castillo,” said Dad. “However, I must disagree with you. Camping is an activity that requires a lot of maturity, responsibility, and resourcefulness, not to mention its health benefits-”
“Quinn, she en’t going,” Mr. Castillo interjected.
“Perhaps it would be wise to talk it over with Lila.”
Mr. Castillo’s eyebrows shot up. “Talk it over!” he roared. “I don’t know how your family does things, but I make the decisions in this house, and I say she en’t going!”
“All the same,” Dad persisted, “let’s hear what she has to say.”
As if they’d scripted it, Lila appeared on the stoop just then, wearing a black bathrobe and a frown. Jesse and I exchanged a triumphant glance. Castillo was going to cave now. He had to.
But it turned out Lila’s frown was for my father, not hers. “Zee,” she said sleepily, “I’m sorry, but I just can’t take the time off for something like this. Looking for a magic gateway to another world was a fun game when we were kids, but you know how it is. Everyone has to grow up sometime.”
Do they? I thought. Maybe everyone else, but not us. Never us! And we weren’t “looking for a magic gateway,” as Lila had so derisively phrased it. We were just camping.
Dad jerked his head in some semblance of a nod. “Of course I know how it is,” he said. “Well, I guess that settles it. Mr. Castillo, sorry to have bothered you. Lila….” He embraced her, and she awkwardly returned the hug. “We’ll miss you. You’re always welcome if you ever change your mind.”
Lila pulled away. “Thanks, Zee. Have a good trip,” she said curtly. She saluted to me and Jesse in the car and shuffled toward the door, followed by the man I couldn’t help blaming for her change of heart. Mr. Castillo stood scowling by the door until we pulled away.
So that’s how the three of us came to be speeding west on the Mass Pike at six thirty in the morning, one friend short of complete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Remember:
1) Did it make sense?
2) Were you interested or bored?
3) Do you want more?
Thanks my lovelies!
