How long have I found
My Light upon the ground
Sinking slowly, like a setting sun
My Light disappearing
…Done
I wrote this short poem as I was reading through Brandon Sanderson’s Way of Kings. This poem is in the viewpoint of one of the main characters, Kaladin, a strong yet tormented man.
The Highwayman, which I have provided below if you have somehow NEVER read this ever (for shame!), is incredibly important to me. Years ago, possibly eons (you don’t know!), my grandfather would come into the small bedroom in his house by the lake that was for all the kids and pull out a beautiful red, hardcover book.This book is full of poems. Some were funny, like the Eletelephony by Laura Elizabeth Richards, and some were frightening like the Jabberwock by Lewis Carrol, and others, others pulled you into them and didn’t let go. One of these poems was The Highwayman written by Alfred Noyes.
My grandfather was truly an amazing man and I miss him still. I wish he were here and I’d like to think he would be proud of his grandchildren, of which there are many.
He would pull out this book and we all (sisters, brothers, cousins, nephews and nieces) would gather around him, hushed instantly. But my grandfather, he had a way about him that made you stop and listen. He knew how to grab your attention without waving his arms in front of your face. It was simple, effective, and beautiful.
He would usually start with a funny poem like Custard the Cowardly Dragon by Ogden Nash. And then, after begging relentlessly, he would read The Highwayman. His voice was instantly captivating as he began to read the first lines: “The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees; the moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas…”
Instantly, I was there on that stretch of sandy highway, pounded hard by thousands of horse hooves. Looking out along the distance I could just begin to make out the Inn where Bess, the Highwayman’s love, lived. I could almost smell her perfume in the air.
My grandfather was a truly remarkable man. He accomplished more than I ever knew or still know and understand during his lifetime. He was like a sun in the house by the lake, and it has never been the same without him. I still remember the milkshakes he would make for us after a poetry reading even though we were supposed to be going to sleep. Milkshakes don’t taste the same without him.
I have a small piece of his memory though. I have that red hardcover book. I will never let that go and whenever I miss him, I pull out the book and read The Highwayman aloud, trying to match my grandfather’s rhythm. I never get it quite right, but that’s okay. I know he’s there.
Enjoy the poem. It might be the most important piece you have ever read. It is to me.
The Highwayman
I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain .
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
A few days ago, a man I greatly admire and whom I have the pleasure of working with, asked me a poignant question: If you could be anything, what would you be?
“A writer,” I answered him. “That’s all I want.”
Words are my lifes-blood. I devour literary works and fuel my own creativity with their inspiring words. I follow others who dream my same dream. To write. To express in beautiful finality. To leave a living legacy of written word that cannot be denied, for there it is, in perfect physical matter, resting heavily in my own two hands someday…someday.
If I could not write, I would not live. Dry as a husk. Empty and without vitality.
To write is all I want in life and all I could ever ask for…
Close your eyes
In and out
…………….
Open your eyes
The air is perfect
It is dawn
Dusk
And twilight
You are outside, inside, and underground
You are the water, the fire
You are him, her, and it
They, we, them, and everyone
Nobody and no one
At every moment
Any moment
It is the perfect moment where everything aligns
The gears turn without hesitation
The words come in perfect rhythm
Your heart beats faster
And when you finally look up
When you finally turn out of the moment
You are dizzy and flushed, as though you have run a thousand miles
Exhaustion sets in, for you have travelled the world
Explored every crevice
Met a million new faces
Discovered new creatures and named new places
Creator, close your eyes
In and out
……………
If I let my fingers wander idly over the keys of a typewriter it might happen that my screed made an intelligible sentence. If an army of monkeys were strumming on typewriters they might write all the books in the British Museum. The chance of their doing so is decidedly more favourable than the chance of the molecules returning to one half of the vessel. – Sir Arthur Eddington, 1927
The above quote has ben stated in different ways over time. The quote might be more familiar if it were paraphrased like this: If you put a hundred monkeys in a room with a typewriter, you’d come up with Shakespeare.
Yesterday, I couldn’t find my plot notes. I looked everywhere and, since I’m in the middle of a move, nothing was (is) where it should be. I was petrified. What if I couldn’t find them? Can I recreate the story from memory? Would I remember important changes I had made?
I did find my notes in my file cabinet I use for important documents like taxes and birth certificates. Those papers certainly are important so it makes sense I would hide them there – I knew they would be safe. I am now in the process of translating them into my computer where they should – hopefully – be safe. But just in case, I will keep the paper! You never know…
But what that fear invoked was interesting. The monkey quote above would seem to say that eventually I should be able to reproduce them. However, it brought to mind a completely different question. Suppose a hundred monkeys do write a Shakespearean sonnet – does it mean anything? Letters make up words which make up stories, but do those stories mean anything if they are not written with purpose? Even if they end up with the same result: the same story, the same characters, the same plot twists, and all the same endings, will it still resonate the same?
Words without purpose.
Poetry without background.
Imagery of just black.
It all seems like such a waste. Poetry would mean nothing if there was not feeling written behind it. The tragedy of two lovers who are torn apart due to terrible circumstances means nothing without the author caring about them behind it, sobbing as she writes the awful scene. If he feels nothing, if she cares for nothing…then it is all for nothing.
Words are a powerful tool but they must be said with meaning and purpose behind them or they stand for nothing.
Source(s): http://www.antievolution.org/people/wre/essays/typing.txt
Well, it certainly has been a while since I’ve written anything on here. Managing a blog takes time, of which I have been lacking lately. In the midst of buying a house and starting a new job, I have been sorely lacking in my motivation in writing.
However, the other problem has been Writers Block, also known as the fear that I have gone as far as I can in the story and all my aspirations are crumbling into dust and floating away in the wind. Writers Block can be fatal to a story, and sometimes it’s practically suicidal, writing yourself into a rock and a hardplace. Really, that is uncomfortable! 
(Picture from Tumblr)
Now how to get over that crushing realization that you’re never going to get out the place you’ve written yourself into? Or maybe your problem is you just don’t know what’s coming next. I’ve been there, I am there, and I will be there again! Every single person who has decided to write any story will come across this problem. The first thing you need to do is realize that you’re realization is WRONG. You can fix this. You made the problem up, you can concoct the solution.
“HOW?!” You scream at me. WELL I’LL TELL YOU! Just don’t yell. Geez.
Misery by Stephen King. Have you read it? You had better. Not only is it an amazing book that I’ve read probably a dozen times, but it hits the nail on the head on a HUGE problem we still see in story-telling today (movies, tv shows, books, comics etc). Sometimes they cheat. Yup, you heard me. They cheat. They show you, they tell you, under no uncertain circumstances your favorite character EVER has just kicked the bucket. Gone, fried, smashed, smushed, and all around splattered into nothingness. You saw it, you read it, you experienced it even.
And then, miraculously, they are alive the next episode or chapter. How? It was all just a dream, hallucination, time travel continuum, wormhole, alternate universe BS. Don’t you freaking hate that?! Yeah, me too. (That’s called a Cliffhanger Copout by the way)
Moving on! The two main characters in Misery is Paul Sheldon, an extremely successful writer who has published countless books in a series called Misery with the main heroine called Misery (yes there is irony there) and Annie Wilkes, a fanatical of the Misery books. Long story short, poor Paulie ends up in the not-so willing care of Annie Wilkes. When she reads the last book in his series and finds that Misery is dead she demands he find a way to bring her back to life and write a new book: Misery’s Return. Well, Paulie makes a poor choice and cheats to bring her back to life. He re-writes the ending of the last, already published book, so that Misery never dies in the first place. That is a BIG no-no. Annie doesn’t take too kindly to that and Paul is forced to think of a new way to bring her back to life.
How does he do that? He uses his knowledge and thinks outside the box a little. Misery is set in a time when being buried alive is a common occurrence that is feared by everyone. Many coffins were equipped with a string connected to a bell above ground. If you were to wake up buried alive just ring the bell and the cemetery guardian will come dig you up. And that is exactly what he used to save Misery in the end. Good on you, Paul! Now get out of there!!!
So next time you’re sitting there staring at you just wrote, like 10,000 words, and you’re just freaking loving it…and then it dawns on you that you have just written yourself in to the Cliffhanger Copout nightmare, don’t fret! Go do a little research about your time period. Read what other writers have done, free-write about anything you want, or go for a brisk walk and you’ll be surprised how quickly the solution comes to you. It’s probably staring you in the face right now and you don’t even know it yet.
Well, what are you still doing here? Go fix your story! And don’t forget to have fun.
Happy writing and thanks for reading!
-Ms Sable-
Looking for something to suck you in? Read this. It’ll only take a moment and maybe you’ll be inspired.
Day two of Khara House’s 30X30 challenge. Here goes:
Leap
I find myself on a precipice
readying myself to leap
once again
to the narrow rock bridge
that will then lead me to
the cliff face
where I need to meet with
two individuals,
both, somehow,
in charge of my destiny,
and in charge of the destiny
of the child I am carrying
piggyback.
I try to gauge whether or not
I can make this leap,
but the rock bridge looks further away
than it did earlier.
I am uncertain.
I call out to the leaders,
waiting impatiently for me
to come to them
with this child.
They angrily demand that I leap.
I demur; the bridge is too far away now,
especially overburdened as I am.
They grumble and go to move the rocks
that form the bridge
back
to where they were before,
and when they do…
View original post 46 more words
I have been participating in creativity challenge that has been hosted on Facebook. Every day there is a new prompt, challenging myself and several others to write, draw, paint, or whatever else you come up with that is inspired by the days prompt. Today’s prompt was ‘Fit to be King’. This prompt made me think of Evander, Rowan’s father who decides to go after Rowan when he discovers her missing. Below is a short speech by Evander to his crewman. He is a simple man and I think the brief paragraph below really outlines his character. I hope you enjoy and thank you so much for reading!
(If you would like, please visit this Facebook page hosting the challenge! https://www.facebook.com/events/130150197183704/)
I am not a legend. Kings are written into legends and I am no King. Heroes are written into songs, I am no hero. I am a man. I have not done great things in my life; I’ve only tried to be a good man, a man whom other men would follow. I won’t ask you to come with me. But if you choose to follow me, I would be honored.
-Evander, from Darkness Falls
Below is a short story connected to my series in-progress Darkness Falls. Compulsion is set a few years before Darkness Falls. This story will only be available on this blog (and perhaps published in magazines), giving you more insight into the series. I hope you enjoy the story and please leave your comments below! I would love to hear what you think!
Compulsion
What was once a formidable castle was now a forgotten ruin. Centuries of disuse had allowed the dark tower to fall into almost complete disrepair and Dorian’s heart mourned for its loss. The Dark Sovereign’s reign had ended abruptly long ago but the evil still lingered within its confines. The evil is what had compelled Dorian to return to this once hallow place.
The throne room, once a place that demanded immediate and unquestioning obedience, was now barely acceptable as living quarters, but he could not afford such luxuries as he was used to. A more urgent matter required his attendance. Comfort would have to wait.
The most important matter, which he had attended to before anything else, was to cast complex illusionary spells surrounding the castle. He could not risk someone accidentally stumbling across this place. Of course, Dorian could easily dispatch the person, but that would create curiosity and curiosity was his worst enemy now.
Even more pressing was the matter at hand: The prophecy. He scowled. The prophecy itself was not difficult to interpret but it did not give him clues as to who he was searching for, just what he or she were required to do. Which is exactly what he must change. The prophecy did tell him the location, although it had taken him many years to find the proper place. This castle was filled with evil; the most saturated of places in the world. It was perfect.
“Darkness falls upon the flower, doom for her this final hour, …great is the blackened tower…hatred moves her to the test,” Dorian muttered to himself, thinking over the prophecy once more. The prophecy told him the person he was searching for was a woman. He had debated this for some time, trying to determine if the prophecy only referred to the flower as a ‘her’ simply because Nature is female or if it meant the person was in fact female by gender. Eventually he had to conclude the prophecy had meant a woman. It made sense. Women gave life; it was in their nature to give, making his goal more difficult. If he wanted the world, he would have to destroy her very nature, turn her into something else entirely. Such a change would require much more than simple charms or small events. No this woman will have to endure much and be unable to recover.
And that is where Dorian would come in. He would be her Dark Savior.
He shook his head and cleared his mind, reaching out with his magic to find someone that felt different. Most people had some degree of magic, but it was limited. Mostly that was due to a lack of training. Even with training however, most people would not be much higher than a Shield.
In this case, Dorian was looking for someone with the untapped power of a Seer or Creator. A Seer could look into multiple futures, determine the color of one’s soul, and more. The Seers kept many of their powers a secret for fear of manipulation. Any potential Seers were forced into the Covenant and required to swear an oath to their leader.
A Creator was arguably the most powerful in the ranks of magic. This person could create a living creature from nothing. Many people believed them to be Gods, which was partially true. Creators come from the bloodline of Gods. For this reason Creators were rare. These children often died during childbirth because their power was too strong and unable to confine their power to themselves. The mothers tended to die along with the child in a literal explosion of trapped power. Quite tragic. But, this fact made Dorian’s task at hand far easier, which he greatly appreciated.
His fingers reached out over miles and miles, feeling the tingles of slightly touched people, and every once in a while, very powerful persons. None of them were enough. He took his search north, racing over the warm waters to the island of Viridiana. Something was there, pulling him toward it. Farther and farther he stretched looking…and then…there! He plunged down and saw a house radiating power. He dove into the house and saw a family. The mother was touched but at the most she was a Shield. The father was extremely powerful but his power was untapped energy. A Caster at the least, a Seer if he wanted. Dorian wondered absently how he had escaped the Seers grasp but the small bundle in the mothers’ arms was what attracted Dorian. She glowed the brightest and almost hurt to look at. She was the most powerful he had seen in a long time.
The child had a full head of bright red hair, fair white skin, and bright intelligent blue eyes. Her face was full of light and laughter but then her attention was taken away from her parents. She looked directly at him and Dorian felt a shove. He was so taken aback he was unable to protect himself and suddenly he was on his back, somehow tossed from his throne. He gasped for breath and sat up, his back and ribs aching but already his magic was healing the bruises.
He found the child. She would be his. He smiled.
* * *
“Must you go now?” Azrea asked, holding Evander’s small bundle in her arms. Her eyes looked as though they might spill tears any moment, tears he may not have the strength to fight. He smiled warmly and kissed the forehead of his tiny, precious daughter.
“I must.” His hand pressed gently against her cheek. “I have been gone too long already. The crew is becoming restless and we need the funds…especially now. Winter will be on us soon and the waters will freeze. Then we will have all winter long, my love.” Azrea scowled, but managed to make it completely adorable and he pulled her into his arms, taking care the baby was comfortable. He breathed in her scent, nuzzled his face into her hair and kissed her forehead. She tilted her face upward and he kissed her silky lips. The kiss was much longer and more passionate than he could afford. He could feel the need rising once more and fought the desire to lead her back into their home. Already he was late to sail.
He pulled away from her and smiled. “You are a temptress,” he said, grinning. She shrugged as if to say she couldn’t help it and he laughed. “I love you.”
Her face grew serious but soft. “I love you too Evander. Please be safe. And don’t be late!” Her eyes filled with tears again but she refused to let them fall. He admired her resolve and stroked her cheek once more.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, my love. I’ll be back sooner than you think.” Evander bent to kiss his tiny daughter once more and she let out a coo of joy. His entire body rushed with warmth and the deepest love he had ever felt. It broke his heart to leave her so soon but if he didn’t neither him nor his crew would eat for the long winter. With one last look he mounted his horse and galloped away.
Azrea watched him leave, her heart swelling with grief. It was always difficult to watch him leave, but it was so wonderful when he finally came home. She worried constantly of course. It was next to impossible to send him letters. She wrote him a letter a day regardless and kept them for him in a special box. The night he returned, after they made love, he would sit by the hearth and read each letter, his lips moving soundlessly as he took in her words.
Few of the letters spoke of the day-to-day occurrences. Many more of them were poems and songs. And he read each and every one, praising her gift of prose. After he finished each letter he would carefully fold and return them to the chest and, more often than not, he would return to bed for another passionate embrace. She loved those nights the best. It was on one of those nights she conceived her beloved little girl.
Azrea looked down at her daughter. She looked so much like him; her hair red as fire and her eyes as blue as the deep ocean. Rowan reached out her small hand to Azrea and she grasped it lightly in hers smiling down at her. Her little Rowan seemed to grasp what had happened, although she was no more than three months old. By the time Evander would return, she would be almost a year. So much he would miss. She knew Evander hated to leave but she also knew it could not be helped. He was the captain of an important merchant ship and the only one who could sail the seas without risk of piracy. He had the protection from both Kings, making the Isle of Viridiana a neutral and protected island. The safest place for Rowan to grow, thanks to her husband.
Evander had become wealthy at a young age, inheriting some money from his father before him and investing all of it into the best merchant ship money could buy. Evander had then acted as Ambassador to both kingdoms and had somehow negotiated a wary peace. It had been seven years since then and Evander was the most reputed merchant sailor in the world. He single-handedly saved the island from sure destruction and secured its future. Had the Island a system of kingship, the villagers would have hoisted him upon their shoulders and declared him so. But Viridiana was a place of equals. Every person was respected and each allowed an opinion and vote in the goings on of the Isle, even women. For Evander’s efforts though, he was granted a high seat on the Council and a large estate. He welcomed both and immediately asked Azrea to marry him. Azrea’s heart warmed with the memory.
Someday Evander could retire and they would enjoy the many years to come. Someday. Azrea walked back inside her home, readying herself for the long, sleepless nights to come.
The thundering on her door woke her instantly. Azrea reached under the bed for her dagger and crept to the doorstep. Using her limited powers she looked through the door. It was dark and raining outside but she could make out the shape of a man. He was clutching his side and looked terrified, on the verge of fainting. Azrea threw open the door, flinging the dagger to one side as the man tumbled inside the house. She caught him with some difficulty and half-helped half-dragged him to the couch by the hearth. She lit the fire with shaking hands but soon it was roaring. With practiced skill, she removed the mans’ sopping clothing, piling them on the floor to deal with later. She gasped when she saw the wound.
His side was grievously injured, the wound was deep. Dark blood flowed quickly from him and his face looked ashen. She had seen wounds like this before, of course, but outside of a battle field it was an oddity. “What is your name?” She asked but the man seemed delirious. He kept babbling about a prophecy and then repeated flower over and over.
Azrea put her hand over the wound and concentrated her energy on the wound, searching for the deepest mark with her magic. Something pinged and with magic fingers, she pinched the vein closed. She imagined a tiny needle and thread and began sewing the vein closed. It took her thirty minutes before she was certain the man would live. He had lost quite a bit of blood, ruining her couch in the process, not that she much cared for it in the first place. She was only a Shield but she was considered a powerful Shield among the islanders. Still, his wound had been so severe she had not been certain….The man would live, though. Some color had returned to his face and she studied him closely. She was sure she had not seen him in the village near the harbor. It was possible he was from one of the villages deeper in the island but she doubted it; his pallor, his hair…no he was not native to her land, which made him a possible threat.
She considered her options. If she forced him out now he would probably die from infection. All her work to save him would have been wasted. She would have been better off not to have opened the door in the first place. No, she could not just toss him aside and with him injured she was doubtful he would be able to cause her any harm.
Azrea found extra blankets and clothing she thought might fit him well enough until she could dry and mend his own clothes. She bandaged his wound and laid a sleeping spell over the man. He certainly needed the rest. Come morning she would find out what sort of man he was.
* * *
Azrea was feeding Rowan when she heard the man groan. She tucked Rowan back into bed and laid a quiet spell over her daughter. Normally she would not do such a thing but it would not bode well for her if the man was dangerous and learned she had a daughter.
Azrea came into the room and knelt by the man’s side with a cool cloth, wetting his brow. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Shock registered and then disappeared. It looked as though he was recalling last night. Azrea smiled warmly and waited for him to ask the proverbial questions. “Where am I, who are you, what happened?” But instead he surprised her.
“You must be Azrea.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know my name? I am quite certain you are not from this island.”
“My name is Dorian. I was travelling here to meet with you. I thought you might be able to help me. While I was making my way here a group of bandits drew upon me and stole my horse. I’m afraid I have never been much of a fighter.” He laughed and then grimaced. Azrea was not convinced.
“You’re lying.” Her gaze was level with Dorian, if that was truly his name. There were no bandits here. Still, if he was lying, how had he received such a serious wound? Surely someone would not do this to themself.
As if reading her thoughts Dorian said, “Do you honestly think I would do this to myself? I was dying! Well, I am dying.” He said softly and looked away.
She looked at him quizzically and laid her hand upon his. “You’re not going to die. You will survive this wound, although I must tell you it was a close thing. You will be fine a few weeks’ time.”
“You misunderstand. I have a sickness…in my brain. None of the Shields I have seen can heal me. No one will help me. I haven’t the coin to pay anyone else and now…I have none at all. I’m afraid I cannot even repay you for extending my life.” He looked away and Azrea’s heart filled with compassion for the man.
“I have no need of coin. I will do my best to help you but if others cannot heal you, I don’t know that I can.”
“But you are willing to try?”
“Of course.” She smiled and the man breathed a sigh of relief.
* * *
Weeks passed and it seemed Azrea was no closer to healing his sickness than the other Shields, though she consulted all her books and exhausted all other avenues. Azrea was at a loss and knew not what to do. The sickness inside his mind was great but there seemed to be no origin point. She could feel the sickness with her magic and all attempts at healing him was met with cold, nonchalance. It was as though the sickness knew she was incapable and laughed at her.
Azrea stood in the soft blue grass, gazing at the sky as though the answer may come to her from the clouds. The only answer that revealed itself was one she had known from the first time she felt the sickness. She could not heal him. The man would die.
She made her way back into the house when she heard her daughter laughing from her room. Dorian was not in sight. Azrea ran into the room and saw the man holding her daughter in his arms, his finger locked in her tiny little grip. She was smiling brightly and the man looked…he seemed enraptured. Then he turned to Azrea with a look of awe on his face.
“I believe your daughter has just healed me.”
“What?!” Azrea asked, incredulous. She stepped forward and snatched her baby away from him, making sure she was unharmed. “How dare you touch my daughter!”
“I apologize, but she called to me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Reach with your magic; see if you can feel the sickness.” Azrea did and pulled back instantly. The sickness was gone, completely eradicated.
“How is this possible?” She looked down at her daughter and for the first time felt the great power she held within her.
“Azrea,” Dorian said calmly, feeling the panic beginning to overwhelm her. “Why don’t you sit down.” Azrea nodded and took a seat, her knees trembling. Dorian took a deep breath. “There is more that I should tell you that I did not before because I was not certain…but now…I am certain this is the child.”
Azrea shook her head. How was this happening? “I don’t understand anything you are talking about!”
The man took a deep breath and the air around him changed. Azrea didn’t understand the sudden atmospheric change but he suddenly seemed taller and his eyes lit with a fire. “I believe your daughter is the child of a prophecy that has been waiting to be fulfilled for many centuries. Her fate will determine the fate of the world.”
His words echoed in the small room and Azrea did not doubt him for an instant. “What is this prophecy?” She asked, clutching Rowan closer to her breast as though she might protect her form this new danger.
“The prophecy speaks of a girl who will wield great power and, with her actions, determine the fate of the world. Rowan must be protected, Azrea, at all costs. What I need to ask you is no simple thing…Let me take your daughter. I can protect her from those who would harm her and force her into darkness-“
Azrea stood, clutching Rowan ever tighter. “You will never take my child,” she hissed. “I don’t know who you are, really are, but I do not trust you nor do I believe you!”
“I only want the best for Rowan-“
“You are a liar! Get out of my house!” The power of her shout forced Dorian to take a step back, but no more. He gathered his strength about him, his appearance changing from an easily trusted man to his true form. His eyes turned to liquid silver and his skin paled to deathly white. His fingernails lengthened and sharpened into ivory claws. He grew two feet, giving the appearance of constant agony in his bones.
Azrea fell back against the wall in fear. “What are you?” She asked.
“I am the Shadow,” he growled, his voice dark and gravelly, the kind of voice only a demon could possess. The Shadow reached out for Rowan but as his claws neared Azrea and her child and blinding golden light sparked into existence.
“What is this?!” The demon shrieked as it tried to break through. He slashed with his claws, causing golden sparks to fly but the shield would not budge. Azrea had never created a shield so strong before. She looked down at her daughter and felt the power emanating from her. Somehow Rowan knew she was in danger and had reacted instinctively. Not even Creators well beyond Azrea’s years had been able to develop such strength.
With a final shriek the Shadow stopped its attack. “Know this, Azrea,” it growled, “I will come for her. She will be mine and not you nor her nor your precious Evander will be able to stop me!” Before her very eyes the demon disappeared in a flash of black smoke.
Azrea let out the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding and slumped to the floor, silent tears coursing down her face. She looked down at her sweet, sweet little girl as understanding dawned on her. Rowan was indeed special. The demon had not lied about that. It may not have lied about the prophecy either. Her little girl was in terrible danger and she knew not how to protect her.
For the first time in her life, Azrea was truly afraid.
* * *
The room was dark, lit only by a few candles. The strong smell of incense hung heavily in the air. Old withered hands hovered above the bundle in the center of the table, a white chalk line encircled the child, with symbols were written around the tiny child. Dorian recognized these symbols. He grinned and continued to watch silently in his astral state, muting his power so as not to attract attention.
Her red hair curled on her forehead as the old woman reached down and plucked one tiny red-gold strand from her head. The child made no sound, only watched with an intense curiosity and an intelligence that greatly surpassed perhaps even the old woman looking down upon her.
“Your child is extremely rare, my dear,” the woman warbled. “My powers are great but hers are raw and unchecked. She may understand even now what we are planning to do. She may not allow me to bind her powers.”
A tall man with fire-red hair put his arm around Azrea, hugging her close. “What do you mean she may not allow you to bind her powers? How is that possible?”
The old woman stepped close to Azrea’s husband, stretching her hands out to him. She closed her eyes, humming and then gasped, stepping back. “Your power is great Evander.” His eyes widened in surprise. “You didn’t know? Peculiar…Your daughter has enough power to bring someone back to life without risking her own. You understand?”
“What?” Azrea said, shocked. She looked up at her husband for comfort and found his own eyes filled with the same shock and disbelief. The woman turned around, focusing on the child on the table.
“Now, my dear little girl, I must do something very important and you must allow me to do this, you understand?”
The little girl stared intently at the old woman and then nodded as though she understood. The old woman smiled and set a hand hovering just above the child’s forehead and moved it slowly up and down her body, muttering under her breath. A golden light began to shine, encapsulating the little girl. The light began to fade, being replaced by a soft blue light. It settled onto the child and glowed green for just a moment and then faded away. The old woman let out a sigh of relief.
“It is done.”
Dorian smiled and drifted back to his own body. “You have made a grave error, Azrea,” Dorian said to himself. “And soon, you will know my wrath.”
I love to write. I have written hundreds of poems, a smattering of short stories, and began about five novels. The novel I am currently working on has been rewritten countless times. The story began when I was in high school which was, oh, seven years ago, as a co-writing project with my sister.
When I first began this novel, it started with a rather simple title and a fairly simple plot. Over the years the story has evolved into something more complex and the characters have come to life. This novel, I feel, will be my greatest work. I cannot wait for the novel to come to fruition and, if everything goes as planned, there will be much, much more to come about Rowan. I hope that you, my readers, will be just as excited as I am for this enticing tale and I hope to share more with you about my creative highs and lows. Please enjoy the brief synopsis below and thank you for reading:
Darkness Falls is the shattered story of a little girl whose young life had been defined before she had ever been conceived. We follow young Rowan as she falls deeper and deeper into a world that is unforgiving and cruel, much different than her vibrant island home. Rowan is taken from her home and thrown into a slave trade known by the common people as the Noble Trade. Her only hope for rescue is her father, the captain of a merchant ship, who had been saved from the carnage while on a voyage. Unbeknownst to Rowan and her father, a dark stranger has been watching and waiting for his moment. And now, he has it.
Darkness Falls 