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A Drift of Quills for February 2019

2/1/2019

4 Comments

 
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We Quills are back this month with what has quickly become my favorite type of post. That is, we selected a single picture for which each of us has spun his or her own flash fiction tale. This time around, I got to select the inspirational image. It is entitled, A Quiet Man, and is by PeteMohrbacher, found here, on DeviantARt. What do you think?
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There are so many ways this could go that I cannot wait to see what my fellow Quills have for us. But for starters, I present to you (at exactly 1000 words, inclusive of the title!) ...

Breaking Spells
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

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​Aiden Piper journeyed from the Burara Wilds, back home, where six years earlier, Fenella’s father, Nigel Duke, had forced Finn Mock to put a spell on him. It happened the day before he and Fenella were to exchange their vows in the cobblestone-paved Dorberg village square. As a consequence, Aiden and his love would remain divided until they broke Finn’s spell. But Nigel, taking no chances, had paid crimpers to trick Aiden, drug him, and then set him aboard a ship that hauled him away. 
 
Soon after awakening in chains, trapped into sea service to the cruel pirate, Wyn More, Aiden fell victim to jungle fever. For months he knew only the mercy of forgetfulness that unconsciousness granted him. But eventually his illness passed and his memories returned. They harassed him unceasingly. He longed for Fenella and the revenge he would have when he returned home where he knew she waited for him.
 
When the opportunity arose, Aiden jumped at his chance to escape. The cliff from which he dove was higher than the three tallest trees imaginable standing one atop the next. Still, he’d have taken the risk even if that distance had been doubled. Fortunately he resurfaced alive from the water below.
 
Aiden didn’t have a single copper buckle to his name. Nevertheless, he headed for Dorberg, rendering his services along the way in exchange for food. Occasionally, he picked a pocket, but only after confirming that his mark was truly wealthy, and even then, only when in dire straights. He’d never forget that gelid morning when he awakened, shivering, to find his boots missing. Then there was the time he went for almost a week with naught to eat but a half loaf of stale bread ...

Back in Dorberg, Aiden’s first stop was The Tipsy Dove Inn. Entering, he jingled the buckles in his pocket that he’d won at dice. He was proud to have played without cheating—well, mostly so, anyway.
 
Sitting in a corner, a hood obscuring his face, he watched his old friend, Payton, tending bar. He surmised that Payton had wed Bronwyn Glynn, daughter of the previous barkeep, as she was waiting tables. Sadly, the intervening years had not treated the now-buxom lass kindly.
 
No one recognized Aiden, but then he’d yet to cut his scraggly locks or to trim his beard. Also, he remained underweight following his recent adventures. Still, he kept his hood up. Nigel mustn’t hear of his return too soon.
 
The evening grew late when, unexpectedly, a waitress shuffled to his table. Glancing up, Aiden went speechless. There stood Fenella, so close he could smell her sweet breath.
 
“Shift change,” she said, setting down a mug of bock roughly. Some sloshed out. A towel in hand, she wiped the table clean. “I’m waitin’ your table now. Need anything ’fore the kitchen closes?”
 
Aiden struggled to contain his delight in seeing her, but caution won out.  
 
“Bread ... please,” he whispered, eyes downcast.
 
She set off, then seconds later, delivered his order.
 
The sight of Fenella encouraged Aiden. He knew how to break the magician’s spell, as Finn Mock had included that information when he’d cast it. Such was required of any mage who didn’t want to risk his life operating contrary to the rules. So to reunite, Aiden and Fenella would have to face Nigel together—since he was the party responsible for the spell—and confirm their undying love for one another.
 
At closing, Fenella removed her threadbare apron, then tossed it over the bar. “To home!” she exclaimed as she departed.
 
After leaving payment, Aiden rushed to the Duke estate, grateful for his familiarity with it. At least something good had come of his having served as secretary to Nigel in years past!
 
He made his way to the man’s study through secret passageways he’d created for his former employer. There, he went about his task, pilfering no small fortune from a lockbox he knew of. Then he absconded—like the thief in the night that he was. 
 
The next morning, his pockets full of coin, Aiden set out for the public baths, then to the barbershop for a grooming. Lastly, he visited the tailor, grateful to find some premade clothing available for purchase. Now he could meet his love!
 
Throughout the day, Aiden listened for news of Nigel or Fenella. He rejoiced when he discovered the two would dine at The Tipsy Dove Inn that evening.
 
Handing a street urchin a short unsigned missive along with the last of the buckles he’d stolen from Nigel’s lockbox, Aiden instructed the lad to deliver the note to father and daughter while they dined. It read, “Awaiting you in Nigel’s study. Hurry home! Grievous news.”
 
At evenfall, sporting striped trousers, a wool cape, and the finest boots available in Dorberg, Aiden returned to Nigel’s study. He poured himself a glass of his former employer’s finest claret. It’s color, bordering on purple, glistened in the firelight. Gazing into its depths, Aiden anticipated the moment he’d reunite with Fenella.
 
He added a log to the fire. Its crackling flames flickered. Satisfied, he emptied his glass in one swallow and then refilled it again before settling into Nigel’s favorite chair, a tentative smile on his face.
 
Loud voices soon sounded out from down the hall, interrupting his thoughts. Initially unintelligible, they quickly grew nearer and clearer.
 
As Aiden stood in anticipation, Fenella’s voice rose out above the shouting, clicking of heels, and clanging of weapons.
 
“Duncan!” she cried. “Father got a message! Was it from you? Oh, what is happening? Hurry, my beloved husband! Hurry! Hurry to Father’s study!”
 
Aiden’s grip on his wineglass loosened as he grasped the facts. Fenella loved another. No longer could he face Nigel together with her for the two to swear their undying devotion to one another. No longer could they break Finn Mock’s spell.
 
With that, Aiden’s glass slipped to the floor where, like his dreams, it shattered.

Now that was fun! I'm excited to see what Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, has for us this time around. So, here we go!

The Sword of Seysan
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

Let me tell you a story. I was chosen as the Royal Companion to Seysan, the younger prince of our fair country, on account of my virtual nothingness and my . . .
Find more on Robin's site here.
Of course, not to be outdone, P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, presents his take on our pic of choice. Here it is:

The Trickster Guardian
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

When Gregus first took the idea to imitate his master it had been as a joke. At least, that's what he later said.

It happened like this.
We do so enjoy reading your comments, so please take a minute to let us know what you think. Don't forget to stop by to visit us again the next time we post!
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Review: The Junk Yard Solution

1/19/2019

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Reviewed for Readers Favorite.

From time to time I read something that doesn’t seem to fit (for me, at any rate) into any traditional genre classification. Such was the case with The Junk Yard Solution: Adventures Among the Boxcars and Other Lost Causes, by Peter Kelton. The story opens with the discovery of Loretta’s body hanging from a cell phone tower in the middle of a village made up of abandoned railroad boxcars populated by a cast of characters one might classify as “misfits.” The boxcars are as uniquely finished and decorated as the personalities that inhabit them. Each of those personalities exhibits its own unusual idiosyncrasies, as does the Federal Marshal, Rick Senate, who investigates Loretta’s death. Throughout the journey to discover Loretta’s killer, the reader is taken along on a series of adventures as parts of the villagers’ past stories are presented. 
 
For me, the most notable part of The Junk Yard Solution, by Peter Kelton, was the cast of characters. There is Loretta herself, who is described as having been “a health nut, a cleanliness freak, [and] a Yogini of the first order.” Loretta had a passion for learning. Then come the actors, Arthur, and his “friend” Oswald (who makes a fine plumber); Cicero who is also known as Don Quixote (and as CVR), who sometimes wears a monk’s robe and is the one to whom the others go with their problems; and Helena, the Chocolate Lady, whose life goal (at age 70) is to travel to India to spread her late husband’s ashes there; to name a few. My personal favorite is the widow, Ellen McDougal, who “converses mostly with her deceased husband, the historian.” I especially enjoy Miss Ellen because she “wanders among the boxcars at night, kind of like an itinerant fundamentalist of a proselytizing faith, quoting The Elements of Style.” Meanwhile, a couple of her neighbors, Jefferson Davis McClandish and Justine, don’t unsettle her in the least when they take up nudism, but they annoy her no end with their incessant use of the word “like.” (Seriously, that is a person I’d like to meet!) The various characters’ lives generally include some details as to how each has been in touch with—or has come within only a couple degrees of separation from—some famous person or event. Those in this odd and entertaining group share two things in common: their dislike of digital life, and their desire to discover who is responsible for Loretta’s murder. Together, these factors make for an interesting afternoon of reading.


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A Drift of Quills for January 2019

1/4/2019

2 Comments

 
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The Best and Worst Things About Being an Author

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I can think of no better way to welcome in 2019 than for us to share our thoughts with you about what we each find to be the best and worst things about being an author.

​Let's see what Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, has to say.
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Robin is sure to catch up with us. In the meantime, for more information, please find her here.



I wonder what P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, thinks are the best and worst things about being an author. Shall we see?
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​​My own musings on the best and worst aspects of being an author will be rather short this time around. Which will perhaps illustrate the blessing and curse of the vocation aptly. First, the worst. The worst aspect of being a writer? It can be put off. 

Follow the link for more!

Finally, here are my thoughts about the best and worst . . .
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In general, I prefer to end things on a positive note. Thus, I shall first set forth my “worst.” For me, that’s fairly easy. Some say it’s the editing. But no, no, no, not for me! That’s actually one of the best things for me, as it means that my thoughts are already down. From there, I can manipulate them to my heart’s content. I just need time, quiet, and to “get into the zone” for editing. No, the worst thing for me is getting the creative juices that are required for the first draft, flowing in the first place. ​

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Some say that the best time for being creative is when you are tired because your mind is unfocused and therefore able to ramble into unexpected realms. Others say there is a best time of day for creative thinking and they identify that time as “early in the morning.” In practice, this just means your earlier “daytime hours.” So if you are typically up at 7:00 am, your best writing time would begin then, whereas, if you’re typically not up until noon, then noon to 2 pm might be your most creative time of day. 

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And then there are those who believe that mornings are for bakers, and that the best time for writing is late at night. I think this may be the camp for me, but I admit that the jury is still out.

In fact, I’ve found that the time of day is far less critical for me than is the prospect of being interrupted. If I know that interruptions are likely to come to me, it is almost impossible for me to get in the correct frame of mind to write. (This explains a lot in terms of my writing over the past months, as my husband was in the hospital a few times this past fall, and when not in, he was home almost continuously. Thus, interruption-less time has been pretty much nonexistent.)

In short, I find that the hardest thing about being an author is getting enough solitude to be productive.
 
Now for the good news!

​So, what is the best thing about being a writer? For me there are two "best things." (Yes, I know that only one thing can really be "the best," but you're following, I'm sure...) Each of these two things is so good that I think it is the best until I consider the other. Thus, I must address them both.

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First is the incredible feeling that comes with bringing a story to conclusion. That sense of accomplishment doesn't compare well with many other things in life. Maybe graduating law school, or passing the bar, or getting all of your children through their teen years in one piece, or… No, that’s about it. The feeling is amazing, and for this writer, it compares to only one other feeling that an author might enjoy, which brings me to my second thing. 

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My second thing is the joy I’ve experienced from meeting and developing friendships with so many amazing people who share with me, an interest in writing. Because of my writing, I now have friends in many places around the world, including across the U.S., Canada, Australia, the UK ... Gibraltar … and the list goes on. These are people whose advice I feel comfortable in asking for. I feel so close to some of my fellow writers that if I was traveling through their area, I’d want to drop in to visit. (One of my author friends traveled from the southeast U.S. coast to the mid-west by herself for a book show and awards ceremony. In advance, she contacted friends from her favorite writing group, some of whom she stayed with as she made her journey  across the country.) So, heck yeah, someday I might even stay in the guest room of an author friend for a night or two! Take my fellow Quills, for example—neither of whom I’ve met in person. If I visited the area in which either of them live, I wouldn’t dream of passing through without connecting. I sincerely hope that they would do the same. So yes, that is a pretty incredible thing. Don’t you agree?

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What Do You Speak?

12/31/2018

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There are so many ways to communicate. Some, like sign language, don't even require sound, or use little of it. Many of the optional means for communicating have names of their own. Likely, you've come across these speech forms before. Which of them have you used? How many of them do you speak?

I'd say I speak the English language with a Midwestern dialect. I use legal jargon from time to time, as well as a "faith based" lingo when among particular friends, and sometimes, I use slang. Finally, my writing encompasses specialized terms, which might be identified as the use of an argot (although not for an underworld group or group of thieves) for specific people in my stories.

​How about you? What do you speak?

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A Drift of Quills for December 2018

12/21/2018

1 Comment

 
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It's Not TOO Late - Even Though It’s Quite Late

As you know, we Quills typically post on the first Friday of each month. Unfortunately, as happens with everyone from time to time, things got away from us a bit this month. Still, it’s never too late to talk about, and to do, a bit of giving. Don’t you agree? So today we post our thoughts on gift-giving—and we are including a bit of a gift to you in the form of our Fantasy eBook Giveaway. More on that to follow!
Here are some thoughts about giving from Robin Lythgoe, author of ​As the Crow Flies.
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I know what I have given you... I do not know what you have received.” 
― Antonio Porchia

It has been a strange year, sometimes awful, often amazing. [And] in this time of affliction and adversity, it’s Christmas all the time…

Follow the link for more!

Next up is P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse.

Christmas is coming. It's just around the weekend corner. And I'm finished with wrapping.

I just finished reading Jonathan Stroud's Screaming Staircase, and as usual, Stroud has this incredible knack for creating unique and clever voices in his characters. His descriptions are vivid and often hysterical. (His Bartimaeus trilogy was a good example. So that's what I'm doing. Reading good books, drinking a bit of 'nog, and enjoying the Christmasy lights, music, and raucous excitement from the boys.
That's right, there's more at the link!

Now, for my thoughts ...
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This is the season of giving. As I look at the many, many packages I’ve wrapped and put beneath the tree just for those in our little family (there will be six of us for Christmas Eve), I can see that it will take hours for us to go person-by-person, gift-by-gift, as is our tradition, to open them. This way everyone gets to see what everyone else got. And here’s the crazy part: there are sure to be more wrapped gifts to come when my beloved son, darling daughter-in-law, and amazing daughters show up on Christmas Eve.
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​So why do we give gifts, anyway? I think it's because a gift is a simple but effective way to show someone how much they mean to you, how often you think of them, how you hear them when they say there is something that they would like or could use, or even how you can see inside of them when they don’t voice those things, yet you are able to identify their wishes and desires. A gift can say, “See? I saw that need of yours.” Or perhaps it might say, “I saw this and I thought of you.” In my mind, giftgiving is an art. It is a giving of time, self, thought, and creativity. Some gifts may cost a few dollars, but it is not the cost that is important, it is the message the gift conveys.
​And so today, we Quills also have a gift for you—a GIVEAWAY. You’ll notice it is just in time for the holidays. Running until January 1—New Years Day—you’ll want to be sure to enter for your chance to win. If chosen, you will get to start 2019 with a bang!
​Wishing you the happiest, healthiest, most rewarding and promising holidays and the absolute best for 2019!
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A Drift of Quills for October 2018 - This and That - or Throwback Friday - (or something!)

10/12/2018

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October is upon us and I've found as I often do come autumn, that time is flying by faster all the time. That is so true that for our post this month, we each decided to offer something we'd previously posted here or elsewhere. We're calling it "This and That," which is precisely what you are about to get.
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P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse is reposting one of his most-loved prior offerings. Here goes!

As I dug back through my top shared posts, (that is, those collaboratively published with the our Quills writer’s group), I found, surprisingly, that the fan favorite, by a healthy margin, was The Prophet & the Assassin, a Jonah-like short story I published exactly one year ago.

Be sure to follow the link for more!
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Robin Lythgoe, author of ​As the Crow Flies, has something special for you. Find out more with the link!

​Polishing my All Seeing Eye, I carefully scanned all the Quill posts, searching for that one treasure would light up like a beacon. That one post that everyone loved more than all the others. But wait, what’s this?  There’s a tie?
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That leaves me. For my part, I decided to re-post something I wrote about five years ago and posted elsewhere, entitled ...  

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The Bookmobile is Here!

​What are your earliest memories of reading? Of finding yourself surrounded by the musty smell of books begging you to open their pages, to peruse their inner glories? I know this post will age me, but for me those memories date back to a time when I was growing up in a small rural community.
 
When I was quite young, we were a single-car family. My father worked elsewhere and “hobby” farmed. My mother was home with us eight—yes, count them—eight children. (Eight “girl” children, to be exact!) As you might expect, this meant that we did not often go places. Entertainment was found in our own backyard. We created stories that we sometimes acted out, encouraging the few other neighborhood children that were around, to engage with us in our make-believe escapades. One of our favorite pastimes was to play “Harriet the Spy,” a game (obviously) named from the book of the same title. With our notebooks in hand, we would try to creep up unaware on one another, taking notes of what they were doing, leaving behind little tidbits for other to find ... Finding someone’s notebook unattended offered a plethora of fascinating information about the antics of others. From whence did ideas of this ilk come? Reading—of course. And, where better to pick up those ideas than from the books we checked out from the bookmobile that made its way to our little community from time to time?

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I suppose the bookmobile had a schedule. It must be that it showed up every second Tuesday or Thursday (or whatever) through the summer months. Truth to tell, I don’t remember, although my mother might. I’ll have to ask her one day. I just recall hearing those magic words from time to time: “The Bookmobile is here!” The hunt would begin for all those books we’d taken out the last time, read and then perhaps misplaced in the interim, so that we could return them and select new ones: mysteries, like Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys; fantasies, like The Little Witch or Mio My Son; adventures, like The Oregon Trail; animal stories like Old Yeller or Where the Red Fern Grows; and so on.  Ahhh yes, those were the days—when the library came to us.

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I have not seen a bookmobile for many long years—but I did a little research.  They do still exist.  It seems the first “taking of collections of books to people” was in 1893. By 1899 there were 2500 “traveling collections.” Apparently, Melvil Dewey was the genius behind the idea. (The information and statistics shared here are found here.

In very early days, some book collections traveled by horseback. By 1900 some libraries sent books by mail to those who could not even reach the traveling collections. Then came the first motorized bookmobile in 1912. In 1929 the term “bookmobile” was coined.

​Check out these statistics: in 1950, there were about 600 bookmobiles; by 1956, over 900; by 1970, over 2000. As might be expected, when fuel costs increased, the number of bookmobiles decreased. By 1990 there were only about 1100 remaining, and by 2000, there were fewer than 900—roughly the same number as in 1956.

I think of children today who do not have libraries near them and wonder how many budding geniuses, how many creators of their own stories that could be shared with the world, might be lost with the demise of the bookmobile. For my part, I will always hold dear memories of those sticky hot summer days when my sisters and I would heed the call:  “The Bookmobile is Here!”

Thanks for stopping by. Please share your comments. See you next month!
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A Drift of Quills for September 2018

9/7/2018

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This month we Quills discuss what has been our biggest writing challenge regarding our current work (or works, as there may be more than one) in progress. (Incidentally, you might find this discussion on the difference between the phrases "work in progress" and "work in process," interesting.)

Reasons for delay! Goodness, but there are so many. So, where does one begin?

I thought we might start with comments from P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse. That said, I can't imagine what could possibly stand in Parker's way of getting something, anything, done! It's not like he might be busy at home with his wife and three little boys, or that he spends many hours at his full time job ... Right, Parker?
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I am currently working on a distinctly different story than anything I've done before. This new novel is not at all related to The Unseen Chronicles, and while I certainly miss Essie Brightsday and the cast of characters we met in A Hero's Curse and Nightrage Rising, I am loving the new setting. Inter-dimensional travel, a mad scientist, two brothers, a detective, a runaway...There is so much to investigate and explore! So many new characters to interact with!

(Follow the link for more.)

Next is Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies. Now, I happen to know that Robin has got some things happening in her life these days, but I can't imagine they could stand in the way of her writing. Right, Robin?
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My experiences in the novel-writing game are relatively few, but so far, every novel has posed at least one challenge. I’m not talking about the Usual Life Challenge that pops up every time you choose a cool project and Things Happen. Like the furnace goes out, or you get the flu, or you remember at the last minute that a Quills Post is due tomorrow… No, I’m talking about novel-specific snags and pitfalls. Like the Beisyth Web in As the Crow Flies, or the (top secret now) timeline issues in Flesh and Bone. This time, right-this-minute, I find myself surrounded by a virtual cloud of delicate perfume as I ...

(Follow the link for more.)

Ahhh ... so now it's my turn. Well, here goes!
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​There are so many: (1) ways to stumble; (2) reasons to delay; and (3) opportunities to turn one’s attention elsewhere. It seems in one way or another, all of these things have happened to me as I’ve worked on Volume Four of The Oathtaker Series.

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​As to my “stumbling,” I spent a year on a work that I am very pleased and proud of. Unfortunately, I feel compelled to wait to publish it until someone I know personally is able to come to grips with my doing so. Because the project put me behind on other things—including my writing Volume Four—I realize that in fact, I didn’t just stumble. In fact, I fell ... as in I fell way behind. 

But, finally, I’ve managed to get back up and to concentrate on my new work in progress ...
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​As to my reasons for delay, I’m sure I needn’t dwell on them. I’m still a practicing attorney by day, and as the economy has (finally!) improved after nearly a decade of stagnancy, things have picked up at the office. As a consequence, it is harder to find down time, and harder yet to use it productively—as opposed to using it to rejuvenate. In addition, like everyone I know, there are other things happening in my personal and family life that take time and attention, causing yet more delay ... Still, I want to, I strive to, put my family first, so this is not a complaint, merely a observation ...
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As to opportunities to turn my attention elsewhere, I admit that I’ve been having an unexpectedly good time writing some quick flash fiction stories of late. I never considered myself a short-story writer, but the concept of trying to tell a big story with few words has captured my imagination.
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I’ve worked on stories for joint blog posts with my fellow Quills (Her Golden Hair, The Resistance, and Signs, Signs, Everywhere There Are Signs!), as well as on another story in the course of my connecting with two young women interested in writing. (Find my story,  Throwback Awakening, and the story of one of these young women at the link). When I talked with these two about flash fiction, they were very excited to give it a try. Since then, not only have I spent time writing with them, but also, I’ve taken my hand to editing their materials, pointing out issues they face, researching specifics to help them to find answers, and so forth. It has all been in an effort to try to speak into their lives and their art—and that takes time. That said, I’ve had so much fun doing it, that it has pulled my attention away from Volume Four.

​Finally, in truth, I spent some time waiting for inspiration. I believe it is shaping up now, but the subject matter of Volume Four can be a bit difficult at times. Consequently, it urges me to other ventures. Still, it is a subject worth addressing, and so, I go on . . .
​So, there you have them—my main obstacles to writing Volume Four. Notwithstanding them all, it is in the works.
What sorts of delays keep you from getting to your projects?
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Words for Stuff and Nonsense

8/31/2018

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It sounds almost too unbelievable to be true, but I've actually used in my tales, a number of the words noted here. My favorites are "gewgaw" and "frippery." In fact, if I had a clothing or accessories store, that's what I'd name it: Gewgaw and Frippery. (And if I had a casual clothing store for young people, I'd call it "Disheveled.") 

What do you think of these words? Have you ever made use of them? Do you think you might?

Please, do share your thoughts. Also, let me know if you've found my use of any of these words in my stories. (It will be like looking for lost treasure!)

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Plotters and Pantsers

8/17/2018

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Writers take different approaches to their work. Some have every scene mapped out in advance, every character portrait painted, before the opening words find their way to the page. Others just . . . let it happen. It seems to me that both approaches have their benefits—and their downfalls. If all is planned in advance, will there be surprises sufficient to continue to engage the reader? On the other hand, if events are allowed to happen without any advance thought, will what ultimately transpires prove to be internally consistent? Then, of course, we writers tell our stories through our characters and as every writer knows, characters have minds of their own.

It is true. A writer may begin with the purest of intentions, but as things trip off from the ends of the writer’s fingers to the keyboard and onto the screen, things happen. Characters do and say things the author didn't anticipate.



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These things may leave the writer shocked, laughing, or even mourning, as they can force the story to change directions. Add to that the fact that characters think their own thoughts, from the purest, to the most despicable. Thus, this writer often finds herself wondering: was that always inside of me? Was it just a matter of my not having entertained those thoughts in the past?

From whence do these unexpected turns and revelations come? Does a writer dream them first? Are they floating around in her subconscious mind until they simply burst out from the tips of her fingers? And, what is this writer to do with a wayward character who simply will not abide by the rules, who displays skills of which I previously had been unaware, who says the most outrageous things, or perhaps, who says nothing at all. . . ?



(Content first published elsewhere, September 20, 2013.)

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Flash Fiction Fun

8/13/2018

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Recently, I met an amazing young woman, Veronica Clay, who it so happens, is quite the writer! We chatted briefly about flash fiction—finding ways to tell BIG stories with few words, and thought we might do some flash fiction writing together. (See the side post.)

A short time later, Reyna, another terrific and talented young woman who I've known since she was born (and who it so happens, is friends with Veronica), decided she would like to join us. 
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Together we three decided we would choose a single pic, and then each of us would write a story using it for inspiration.

The simply gorgeous pic we chose, entitled, Maori Pirate Princess, is provided, below. 
You can find more information about it, here. Of course, I never make things easy, so I decided to tell a story about the subject of this artwork as though she was not a pirate. Below is my offering. I hope you enjoy it!

Having received permission from both Veronica Clay and Reyna Myvett, their stories are also set out, below. They are fabulous!

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​Throwback Awakening
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

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​Standing near the communal bonfire, twisted tendrils of acrid smoke surrounded me, irritating my throat, stinging my eyes, and making me cough.

​My heart raced as I watched the elders change their places. Soon, they encircled me. All the while they clapped their hands to their thighs in a steady rhythm. The eerie wailing of a wooden flute joined their percussive mix.

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​Earlier, I had begged mother to tell me about the ritual event, but she just spouted the same word she used whenever she didn’t want to discuss something with me: “Throwback.” Although I’d tried, repeatedly, to get her to explain, she’d refused. Each time she struggled to hold back tears and then changed the subject, behaving as though she’d already said too much. 

But I’m pretty sure I know what she meant.

Mother used the word to describe me because I am like those of our clan’s long ago days. I know that much from paintings on the walls of our village buildings. I look like those ancients—but I differ from everyone around me. My skin is darker. Across one cheek and the bridge of my nose, runs what appears to be a jagged scar—although Mother insists it, and a similar circular marking on my left cheek just below my eye, is a birthmark. Self-conscious, I wear a bandana over that part of my face to cover the area as best I can. A bronze tattoo runs from my chin down my neck. I have a vague memory, like a dream, of getting it. I don’t suppose I was even three summers old at the time . . . Also, my eyes are a deep walnut color—not the warmer tones of a spring fawn like the other villagers. And . . . I see things—unexplainable things—that they do not. Then of course, my body type is— Well, Mother calls me “sturdy.”

In short, I am different. And everyone knows it.

I remained standing, motionless, my eyes downcast, when quite unexpectedly, the cadenced clapping and odd melancholy fluting, ceased. Only the crackling fire sounded out.

Not a soul moved.   

​The smoke, having settled closer to the earth, leveled out at about knee-height. It swirled and billowed around me.

​Gasping with anticipation—or perhaps it was fear—I looked up as the ring of adults suddenly broke open. Then from outside of it, a single hooded figure approached. I couldn’t tell by its body size, the width of its stance, or the length of its stride, whether it was a man or a woman, but soon enough his—or her—gloved hand stretched my way, palm up. 
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​Eyeing the figure, unsure, I reached out, seeking direction. Upon perceiving a single quick nod, I placed my hand in the one before me.

​Instantly, the clapping resumed.

After the figure guided me outside the circle of adults, we walked on, leaving the gathering behind. Soon we reached a building at the edge of the river. As directed, I stepped inside first. Then I turned back just as my guide removed the hood that had covered her face. Yes, I could see her now for what she was. But the surprise was not in discovering her gender. Rather, it was in observing that she looked so very like me. 

Dropping hard into a nearby chair, I gasped, staring.

“What?” she asked.

“Ahhh—”

“I am Aytama,” she said.

Still, I stared. Never before had I seen anyone I resembled. Then, “I’m Codee,” I muttered.

“Yes.”

“What is this all about? Who are you? Why am I here?” I threw questions out without pausing for answers.

“I have come for you. As a Throwback, it is time you took your place.”

My head cocked, I repeated her. “A Throwback.”

“Yes. You understand.”

“Ahhh . . . no, I’m afraid I do not.”

Staring at me, her eyes narrowed.

“My mother has used the term, but she’s never explained it to me.”

Aytama sighed. “Yes, I suppose I might have expected that of Damira. I think she never came to grips with your situation.” She shook her head. “Well then, what do you think it means?”

“Well . . . I assume it means that I’m somehow cursed, that I’m to be some sort of outcast—that I’m unworthy of—”

Aytama rapped her knuckles against the side of my head and scoffed.

“Ouch!” I cried.

“Be not daft,” she scolded.

I glared at her, wincing, rubbing the spot she’d struck. “Well, what am I to think? I know I look like our village ancestors, but I’m different from all those around me—and they avoid me. So, I assume I am something lesser, or something—”

“Tssssk!” Once more, she knuckled the side of my head, this time more forcefully. “What is the matter with you? Do you think that one’s likeness to others makes them equal? Better? Superior, even? Goodness, I would have expected Damira to have taught you better than that!”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said, scowling.

​Aytama watched me carefully, as though assessing the veracity of my words. Then, “Codee,” she said, “our people have suffered over the past generations, following war, famine and disease. Along the way, they lost their strength. But you— You are not cursed, you are blessed. You are a Throwback. That mark you bear identified you as one, at birth. You have the physical, mental, and spiritual powers of our forebears. Like other Throwback children, you were raised in your village so you could learn the ways of our people.” 
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Aytama sat in the chair opposite mine, folded her hands, and set them in her lap. “You are not inferior to those around you, Codee,” she continued. “If anything, you have a superior calling. Our people have great need of you.” She patted her chest. “I have need of you, for I am old, as you can see.”

It was true. Aytama was old. Even the birthmark across her cheek that so resembled mine, and the copper tattoo at her chin—again, like mine—drooped with her wrinkled skin.

“I have waited for you to come of age,” she said. “I have not much time left and if you are to be of any value to our people, you have a great deal to learn before taking my place. So together, we will journey to the forest home of the Throwbacks. There, all your questions will be answered. There, you will learn all you need to know so that you may be of service to our people.” Pausing, she took in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and then continued. “But first, you must agree to put childish things aside.”

“Leave here!” I cried. “B—but what of Mother?”

“What of her?”

I pulled back. “Well . . . I didn’t get to tell her any of this.”

“Your mother has known from the moment of your birth, child. I assume it is why she never told you. She could not face that I would return one day to take you from her.”

“Return? When—”

“Was I here last? On your naming day, of course.”

Aytama picked up a carafe of water from the table at her side. She poured two cups. Handing one to me, she said, “Codee, you were born to help your people, to bring them wisdom in the years to come. A great force will aid you in your endeavor. But you will not be able to perform your duties faithfully if you cannot leave some things behind. Do you think you can you do that?”

“What must I leave?”

“Your home. Your mother. Your . . . immature and fruitless thoughts—first among which is that you are lacking in some way. You, girl, are exactly as your Maker intended you to be. You would be incapable of seeing to your calling if you were anything else.” She paused for effect. Then, “Can you do that?” she asked again. “Can you leave your childish beliefs behind?”

Somehow I knew as I gazed deeply into Aytama’s eyes, that everything she told me was true. I had a purpose—and it was one I was anxious to pursue.

“Well?” she prodded.

​A faint flash of a possible future danced before my eyes. Then, “Yes, Aytama,” I said, nodding, “I am ready.”

Well, there you have it! Now, are you ready? Veronica Clay's story, follows . . .

Midnight Marauder
​by Veronica Clay
​Copyright Veronica Clay 2018

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Josmund tied the stained apron around his waist as the back door of the pub swung open, pouring warm light into the dark evening. 

“Hurry up! Yer late,” the cook called.

As soon as Josmund stepped inside, he reached for the tankards of ale and pitcher on the back counter. 

​“Thirteen,” the cook said groggily, having tested the ale himself one too many times. 

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“Thanks Briggs, you’re a life saver.” Josmund grinned over his shoulder as he left the kitchen for the front counter.

In his fourteen years of work in the pub, Josmund had only been late twice, once when he forgot his apron, the other when his mother caught the bird fever. Had he known that was her last day under the sky’s eye, he would have stayed home, but he was only eleven then.

“What held ya today?” Ryan, a bus boy, called.

​“There’s a new ship on the dock,” said Josmund amusedly. “One I ain’t ever seen before.”  

​Ryan grinned, “That’s what’s got everybody buzzing. She’s here!”

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Before Josmund could ask who or what, Ryan disappeared in the swells of thirsty sailors, thieves, and mongrels, but Josmund wasn’t concerned. He knew he would have all the information he needed soon enough. 

Taking three tankards to a table of old, sea-weathered fishermen, he heard one croak, “Aye, ’olds only 23 men and the cap’n. ’S why she’s so swift on the seas. No man e’er saw ’er comin’.” 

It was the ship Josmund had found himself gazing at for a time too long. She was sleek and tall with four pale, folded sails. But what caught his attention was the wood, dark as tar in the torchlight of the pier. 

“Midnight Marauder,” a grizzly-haired drunkard called out from table fourteen. “Ne’er saw ’n quite like ’er,” he mumbled to his slumped companion. Josmund topped off the man’s tankard and removed the empty plates before moving on.

“A dangerous ’n, that cap’n is,” a raspy voice whispered as Josmund grabbed more finished plates from the next table. “…Soiled three merchant ships in a fortnight. ’Course they couldn’t hold it all—just let ’em sink.” 

“’S a shame,” a gruff voice replied. 

Upon returning to the kitchen, Josmund threw the scraps out the back door for the hounds before grabbing the soups and bread for tables six and seven. 

“Ya ’ear ’bout the cap’n?” the cook called.

“Not yet,” Josmund replied, “only that his vessel’s called The Midnight Marauder.”

The fat, grease covered cook grinned. “Careful, boy. Cap’n’s a she.” 

​Refusing to believe the cook’s outlandish claim, and wanting to hear the truth from the sailors for himself, Josmund hurried back out to the floor. Listening more carefully, he ignored the crooning of the sailors’ songs, their cacophonous laughter, and the bettors’ cajoling for “more time.” Finally, a low and speculating tone sounded out. 

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“I heard she’s a half-breed,” a wiry cabin boy in tattered clothes murmured. “Mum was a West Indies slave on some French ship.” 

Josmund’s ears perked up at this as the boy’s older drinking mate replied, “Aye boy, you ought know yer ships better.  The Adelaide was the best of its kind, ’til it was caught in the storm and dashed to pieces on the reef!”

After dishing out soup and bread to the men at tables six and seven, Josmund began clearing the long tables where a crew of eight had just been sitting. Nearby, six men sat huddled, as though trading secrets, though their drunkenness made them loud.

Among them, a bald man with a stump for a leg cried, “’Er father was the cap’n hisself! When they wrecked on that craggy island, only ’e and the babe survived—they ’adn’t chained ’er up yet—” 

’Er wrists were too small, woulda slip’d right through!” a dimwitted looking oaf interjected to the irritation of the first man.

“I woulda kil’t ’er,” a scrawny sailor sneered in a nasally voice. “Let ’er drown like ’er mother!” 

“He woulda!” the bald man exclaimed. “But she was the only heir ’e ever sired. ’Course, ’e didn’t really want ’er, but ’e thought God might spare ’im if ’e spared the child. Swore ’e’d even raise the mutt if ’e got off that blasted island.” 

“How’d they survive?” a young lad with wide eyes asked the storyteller. 

​“They say the babe’s cry was ’eard. ’S why the cap’n—” 

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“Josmund!” Ryan called, “Table three needs refills!”

“Got it!” he replied. He abandoned his eavesdropping and grabbed a nearby pitcher to fill at the cask in the corner. 

While there, a sniveling, common thief whispered to his companion, “…Scar’s up half ’er face from a fight with three crewmen. They say she lost an eye, but they lost their lives—all three throats slit by the same blade.”  

Josmund wanted to listen longer but knew he had to get back to the kitchen. He quickly refilled the men’s drinks, snatched straggling dishes and empty tankards strewn across the floor along the way, and collected his next orders. 

“Eleven and nine!” the cook called. 

Josmund left the kitchen with his new orders and swung by the bar. As he was grabbing the specialty drinks, the bartender called after him, “No more for table two ’til Eric pays his tabs! I don’t wanna hear any more of that scum’s excuses!” 

Simply nodding, Josmund went on his way, light on his feet among the traipsing and staggering guests, careful to step over the snoring man on the ground. Rowdy laughter and a string of curses filled the air, but he focused on the conversations of those who had only drunk half their ale.

One man drawled “…Tattooed herself with the symbols of her people, snake lookin’ marks, but only half of ’em. Can’t imagine why…” 

​At table five, an ancient fisherman missing all his teeth gummed, “Killed the captain herself and took the ship. O’ course a few crewmen mutinied, but she finished ’em off like some sort of siren.”

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Refraining from chuckling so as not to start a fight, Josmund could only shake his head at the sailors’ tales. After years of practice, he had learned to sift myth from truth, but tonight seemed especially full of fishermen fantasies. Indeed, as the evening progressed, the rumors only grew stronger, with each story building off the one before. 

In the wee hours of morning, the gossip dwindled to a murmur. By the fireplace, one pirate played a worn fiddle, while another sang of a heartbroken sailor and his lover. The flickering lights of the fireplace and lanterns danced on the walls, mesmerizing watchers. While most of the pub’s inhabitants had been lulled into a drunken stupor, Josmund still heard the occasional whisper of the mysterious captain.

“Eh, boy,” the bartender gestured, “Come ’ere.” 

Curious as to why he didn’t call out like usual, Josmund drew near the counter, ready for his instructions. 

“There’s a guest in twenty-three—didn’t want to be disturbed ’til now. See to ’em,” he said gruffly. “And be careful,” he added.

​Josmund glanced at the back end of the room, a place people went to for privacy. Bringing a pitcher with him, he stood outside the curtains, thick layers of sheer that allowed guests to see out without allowing for onlookers to see in. The inhabitant pulled back the curtain, a signal for him to enter.

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A single candle lit the room, so all Josmund could make out was a lone figure leaning on the table. As his eyes adjusted, he sucked in a sharp breath. Before him sat the rumored captain of The Midnight Marauder.True to the tales, she was a half-breed with scars on her face and a snakelike tattoo twisting from her chin to her throat. Wrapped around her dreadlocks and across her face, an ornate strip of cloth hid her left eye.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she smirked, her voice low and melodic. “All the tales are true. Well…except the one about the mutiny—” 

​Pausing, she set her gaze on Josmund, candlelight glinting in her eye, “There were four men.”

I absolutely LOVE Veronia's story. What do you think? Please do, share your thoughts!
Finally, I have something for you from 14-year old Reyna Myvett. Once again, I was blown away by the creativity of this young writer! Take it away, Reyna!

The Last Renegade
​by Reyna Myvett
Copyright Reyna Myvett 2018

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I reached for the last pouch of gold, trying not to make a sound. The smells of sweat and excessive cheap cologne filled the murky air in Beliel’s bedroom where he laid, deep in slumber. His raucous, gargled snores were deafening compared to my quiet steps, but he is a light sleeper, so any stumble onto a weathered floorboard could rouse him.
 

I slipped the pouch into my bag, adding it to the abundant pile of expensive trinkets and riches I had collected. I knew that when Beliel awakened he would be quite bewildered, but that he would soon realize that the “attendant” he hired had stolen everything of value that he owned.

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Feeling no remorse, I snuck out the window, ready to run off to the docks. I thought I was safe until I heard its ear-piercing shriek as I closed it. I looked through it long enough to realize that Beliel had arisen, and that he knew exactly what I had done.

​He roared thunderously behind me as I ran, slipping through alleyways and dark streets. I didn’t stop running even when I saw my ship, The Crimson Cutlass, in front of me. 

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The ship started pulling away from the dock as I grew closer. My feet pounding against the hard ground, I leapt from the end of the wooden platform and reached for a rope hanging from the ship. As soon as my hands gripped it, I started climbing. 

I hauled myself to a standing position onto the ship where the rest of my crew waited. There, as I stood tall, I tipped my bag of riches over. Its contents slid down the steps. The sound of gold clinking blended in with loud footsteps as my shipmates rushed to collect a small part of the treasure.

“Welcome back, Captain.” my second in command, Ileas, said, bowing to me. Then, as he led me towards my room for a debriefing, a deafening shout sounded out.

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“Wren, you’re back!” 

A small girl tackled me to the ground. I laughed as her arms wrapped my waist. 

“Oh, Ottie, I missed you! The past week hasn’t been the same without your constant nagging!” I tickled her and her melodious laugh filled the air. I pulled Ottie up with me, and then dusted myself off. Ottie was like family to me. In truth, she and the crew were the only family I knew. I had rescued her when she was little, just as Ileas’ father had rescued me. 

“Oh, Wren, please tell me all about your trip! Where did you stay? How much did you steal? Are they coming after you? Did you get to fight anyone?” Ottie fired rapid questions at me. 
I crouched down to meet her, face-to-face. “Ottie, how about I tell you all about it over dinner, alright?” I asked.

“Yes! Just make sure you don’t leave anything out!” She ran off before I could say any more. 

Laughing to myself as I stood back up and then walked up the wooden steps to my room. There, Ileas waited for me. I threw my doublet and empty bag on the bed, then slumped into a chair tired from a good day's work.

“I’ve just got word on a proposition,” Ileas said.

“Oh, come on, I just got back. Can’t you give me at least a few da—”

“I think you’ll be very interested in this one, Captain.” Ileas had an intriguing look about him.
​
“Alright.”

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“It’s in the Kingdom of Imidian, your birthplace, Captain. The current ruler, King Baron, is a tyrant. He takes all the money from his people, leaving them with nothing. He even makes slaves of their children. But you can’t just steal from him. You need to kill him—and also, his only heir—if you will truly free the people. They need someone to save them and, Captain, I think that someone, is you.”
 
“Don’t you think assassination is a little . . . well, excessive? I’m a renegade, a captain. I may be a thief, but I’m no murderer.” I felt extremely unsure about Ileas’ suggestion. I had never killed anyone before. The mere thought made me sick to my stomach. I shook my head in disagreement.
 
“Oh come on, Wren!” Ileas slammed his fists on the table. 
 
I looked at him in shock. His sudden outburst disturbed me. Then his fists loosened and he dropped them back to his sides.
 
“I— I’m sorry, Captain, but think of the crew. This could be our way to show the people who we truly are. We could show them that we aren’t just thieves and criminals. We can save them! Wren, we’ve been best mates ever since my father found you. Do you really think I would lead you astray?” 
 
Contemplating Ileas’ words, I paced the room. I tried to find a flaw, but could not. Something felt amiss in the way he tried to persuade me, but his words seemed truthful. Finally, I came to a conclusion.
 
“When do I leave?”

 
↞•↠

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Breaking into the Imidian Palace was easy. Remaining unnoticed, however, was proving quite difficult. I slipped in and out of dark hallways as voices neared me. I looked around, then quickly hid in a narrow space between two cabinets. 
 
Gazing out into the dark hallway, I made out two figures in conversation. Their words grew louder. Finally, I could understand what they said.
 
“I don’t understand why Father won’t let me outside of the palace!”
 
“Princess Rose, you know your father already lost your sister. He doesn’t want to lose you as well,” the guard answered.
 
“But Maxwell, the pirates haven’t attacked in years! Who knows if they’re even alive any more? Lila was taken twenty-four years ago. I’m sure those buccaneers are long gone by now! Please let me go, even if it’s just for a little while. I deserve to see my people.”
 
“I’m sorry Princess, but I cannot do that. After your sister was taken, the King forbade me from letting you out of the Palace.”
 
At that moment, the two stepped into a spot of light. When I saw the face of the girl who I presumed was the Princess, my heart stopped. 
 
We were identical. Not only in the way her dark brown eyes deepened when she talked about a passion of hers, just like my lone one did, or the way her full lips broke into a deep scowl whenever anyone disagreed with her, which mirrored my own, but by virtue of the deciding factor—the Mark. The Princess bore a mark that stretched from her chin, down her neck, and then continued onto her shoulder. From there, the deep red satin gown that she wore hid the remainder. It was the same mark that I had. It was the same mark that only the heirs of the same bloodline bore. It was the same mark that Ileas’ father said was completely unique to me.
 
As she walked on by, her sweet vanilla fragrance filling the hallway, my heart pounded in my chest.

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When the Princess and her guard continued on their way, my knees buckled. I fell to the floor. I had surmised that something was wrong when Ileas had told me about the mission, but when I saw her face, I knew for certain. Suddenly everything connected. A realization struck me. Ileas had lied to me. I knew that his father had an ongoing rivalry with the Imidians, but I could never have imagined he had gone this far.
 
I jumped up, then chased the fading voices of the Princess and her guard. I didn’t realize how far they had gone until I reached what looked like a throne room. Four golden pillars held up its high ceiling. Its satin curtains, of crimson, mimicked the color of blood. Although the room was impressive, the mood within it was more overpowering than any adornment could mask. This was a room of suffering. 
 
At the front stood a man I knew to be King Baron. He bowed in response to his daughter’s curtsy. 
 
Without warning, I felt a force push me into the middle of the room.
 
“Your Majesty, we’ve been tailing this one,” the guard behind me announced. “She followed the princess here.” 

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I kept my head down as footsteps approached me. Then a soft hand gripped my chin and lifted it up. The moment my eyes met the King’s, he staggered back. Tears fell down his weathered face, which showed signs of worry and exhaustion in its deep wrinkles.

“Father, who is she?” The princess looked at the King in confusion, but his eyes never left my own. 
 
My heart stopped when finally, he spoke. 
 
“Lila, is it really you?”



Reyna delivered an amazing story, don't you agree? Let me know your thoughts!
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