Tag: writing

#BlogBattle: The Scar

This Tuesday I am taking part in Rachael Ritchey’s Writing Blog Battle the prompt word this week is Scar. With a word like that how could I say no! My theme this month is scary, spooky, Halloween stuff and nonsense so with that in mind I’ve written a paranormal, contemporary romance. Or have I? Beaton just read through this (a fellow blog battler and in his cheeky way kind of said the category wasn’t quite right, so I suppose it might be safer to keep to Paranormal for now!??) I think it started off as a romance and wondered off somewhat, though at its core the romantic ideal, of true love, is central with all the angst that accompanies it!!

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Here it is:

The Scar

The scar woke her as it always did every morning, a sad throbbing sensation that sliced into her day. She couldn’t take the pain anymore. Today had to be different, the promise of a fishing adventure with Todd at the country park lake lay ahead of her. It wasn’t exactly the crystal clear waters of the Caribbean with red snapper to be caught, but it was Todd, fish and her and that was all that mattered. Todd had always held the undisputed title of Anna’s best friend, they had met at secondary school and been inseparable friends ever since.

She dressed quickly, and rushed to meet him. It was a lovely bright sunny day with no hint of rain. The lakeside was empty, its waters calm and still. Anna arrived first as she always did, she opened her folding chair and waited. She sighed. Todd was never on time, even for fishing! He didn’t have many faults except this one. She stared at the surface of the lake wondering what they would catch today, and spied a swan far off in the distance, landing near a speck of pond flora. Todd crept up on her, unannounced, placing his cold fingertips on her shoulder. She jumped.

“Todd! Quit doing that one of these days you’ll give me a heart attack!”

“Sorry Anna, you looked so absorbed in the mysteries of that lake, I just couldn’t help myself,” Todd’s face creased, striking out into a sweet smile.

Anna couldn’t help but smile back. Todd had that way with him, one smile and you just melted. It was good to see that smile again, it had been sadly lacking of late. Nevertheless she wondered why his fingers were cold on such a warm day.

Todd took out all of his fishing gear, set up his chair, and was soon fishing line in hand baited. Ready.

“Do you want to try your luck Anna, seeing as you’ve already cast a spell on that lake?” he asked handing the fishing rod to her, with a wink.

“Very funny Todd, I’m no witch, so there’s no need for your teasing!”

“Sometimes folks don’t know what they are until it hits them in the face.”

“What do you mean Todd?” asked Anna, grabbing the rod and casting it far out into the lake.

“You could heal that scar yourself you know,” he said.

Anna fell silent. The rod flopped into the water. Her shoulders slumped and the chair that she sat on appeared to cut a deeper groove into the ground.

“Some scars are there to remind us of past hurts so we don’t do the same foolish things again.”

“Yes, but you can’t carry it around with you forever Anna, you have to face that eventually.”

Anna could feel the scar throbbing, slicing, and tearing her apart. She wanted so badly to be rid of it, but a scar in the heart was not something you could cover with makeup. It was as deep as the lake she now sat at, permanent, and ached in a way that made every single day torture.

Todd took the rod off her, and cast it out again. Anna sat in silence contemplating Todd’s words.

Anna began to wonder if there were any fish at all or whether this was just a ruse by Todd to get her on her own to talk about Nick.

“Have you spoken to him?

“No, we are both as proud and stubborn as each other neither of us will give in.”

“Anna, you’ve got to make the first move, cast your spell on him again. He’s longing for you to call him.”

“How do you know Todd?”

‘I just know, Anna.”

Todd glanced down at his feet, not daring to look Anna in the eye.

Anna leant over, cupped his face in her hands and looked at Todd, really looked at him and knew in that instant that Todd loved her.  Not just in the way you love a friend, there was so much more behind those dark eyes that had been hidden until now. Why had she been so blind?

She couldn’t cope with this revelation and the scar, it was too much.

“We always hurt each other Nick and I. We cut like twin knives slicing little irreparable notches in each other’s hearts. The scars ache so much, I don’t know if I can take that kind of love.”

“What kind of love do you want, Anna, the safe we’re just good friends kind?” asked Todd, his eyes surrendering the pain of his love to her.

The hurt in Todd’s eyes demonstrated another deep scar inflicted, why did life have to be so painful? Why couldn’t it be simple, uncomplicated like fishing? If only you could cast your line, find love, and live happily ever after. But it was never like that, ever, it was a bumpy, gut wrenching ride all the way, with a stop button that had the capability to wrench out your heart while it was still beating.

Anna sighed. If only she could love Todd, with his kind eyes, warm heart and ready smile. But she knew she couldn’t, that crazy breathless spark of passion, with its dangerous on off switch, didn’t exist with Todd. Only friends. Poor Todd.

“I want the kind that makes me know that I am alive. You’ll find love Todd, cast out again, I promise that you will.”

Todd did as Anna said, he couldn’t argue with a witch, he cast out his line, it circled a full arc, and splashed triumphantly, scattering fish in its wake.

A young woman appeared from the pathway behind them she gently tapped Todd on the shoulder. Todd turned and smiled, a hesitant smile, but there was a hint of hope in that smile.  Anna’s scar ached slightly less in the knowledge that maybe her friend’s scar and cold, sad hands would be healed. There was only so much a good witch could do before Halloween!

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

Above photo of the lake is my own. I’m now on Instagram too, you can follow me there:  https://instagram.com/kyrosmagica/

 To join in with Blog Battle or to vote for your favourite story follow the link to Rachael’s blog:

http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

Do leave a comment I’d love to hear what you think about The Scar.

Bye for now,

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Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

What Wattpad Can Do For You Now

Reblog of P h Solomon’s view of the benefits of Wattpad to emerging writers, after reading this I reckon I should be on it.

Unknown's avatarArcher's Aim

I’m not usually an early adopter when new social media, software and other services hit the public. I like to sit back and see how well it works and let the kinks get worked out.

WattpadThat being said, I recently joined Wattpad – finally – and found that it’s been very beneficial. I know, a writer not on a form of social media designed to share writing. But there are several reasons why you should be on Wattpad, including it’s partnership with Smashwords to feature existing authors.

Reasons I Joined Now

1. With the release of The Bow of Destiny I wanted to share related, pre-release short stories as well as what I’ll be working on in the future.

2. I wanted to interact more with other authors. Let’s face it, writing is a solitary process so the chance to give and receive input from other authors is important.

3…

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#Blog Battle. An Exercise in Fun: Orchid Girl

This is my entry for Rachael Ritchey’s writing Blog Battle: http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

Week 28 Theme is Orchid and the genre of my short story is Paranormal Romance.

Date to Post: Tuesday, September 29th, 2015

Rules:
1.1000 words max
2.fictional tale (or true if you really want)
3.PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
4.Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
5.Go for the entertainment value!
6.State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
7.Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
8.Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
9.Have fun!

Orchid Girl

The heady exotic scent of the orchids reminded him of a time long ago. On that particular day he had filled his living room with a floral tribute to a past life which he celebrated each year without fail. But this time it was different, he had made special plans and now they were about to come to fruition. He waited nervously for the clock to announce that it was time for him to pick Suzie up. He could hardly contain his excitement; he set about making his house as beautiful as he could so that it would meet Suzie’s expectations. But would Suzie meet his?

He had been met with derision when he told his friends and family about his plans, a mail order bride how ridiculous! A middle aged, lonely old man, exhibiting signs of desperation that’s what they’d said, or intimidated.

He greeted his bride at the airport with a shy hug. An almost perfect vision of beauty, her petite frame, and jet black hair gleamed with a glossy, playful youthfulness but her delicate features couldn’t conceal a tragic expression that seemed irreversible.

He wondered how he was to bear looking at such a sad face for the rest of his life. He prayed that he could turn the sharp downwards turn of her lips to a smile.

The journey back to his house was more or less silent apart from short bursts of conversation, in which she replied with a yes or a no.

But when she walked into the living room, she couldn’t contain her enthusiasm.
“This pretty,” she said, pointing at the orchids, a hint of a smile playing seductively on the edge of her lovely lips.

The orchids had won a tiny place in her heart, orchids always did.

As the day departed and evening began to suggest itself Alfred’s nervousness increased. It was such a long time since he had gone to bed with a woman. So many years, he did not care to count how many. He worried about his wobbly tummy, his hairy chest smattered with tiny grey hairs. Would this young woman cry and sob into his sheets, would he be the cause of a further sharp downturn of her sweet lips?

He gave her privacy to get undressed, imagined her placing a silky negligee on the bed, slipping into it, and laying her head on his pillow. He imagined her black hair fanned out on the pillow, a sharp contrast to the crisp whiteness of the sheets. He plucked one of the orchids from its stem, and took it up to her intending to pop it into her hair.

When he walked into the bedroom the humid room reminded him of a stifling greenhouse. He opened the window to let in some fresh air. He daren’t look at her, not yet, that magical moment would come later. As the fresh air drifted into the room, he turned to undress her with his gaze, but he saw his foolishness straight away.

He sat on the edge of the crisp bed, his eyes brimming with tears. He deserved this. It was always the same, she never came. He wept, picking up his wedding picture, his wife Grace stared back at him. Grace’s smiling face could match the most beautiful of sunsets. He couldn’t bear it, why did he torture himself this way? She had died without his saying goodbye. No final farewell.

Every year it was the same, on the anniversary of her death, he always bought orchids, her favourite flower and he filled their home with them. But she didn’t come. He had resorted to shock tactics, imagining a fantasy to bring her back to him one last time. His fantasy scenarios never worked, he sensed her presence in their room, but she didn’t return to him. Why would she?

He didn’t deserve her. He cried, and cried. He lifted up the tiny bottle of pills, his hands trembled as he tipped them out. Such tiny pills, he thought, so harmless looking. The water next, one big gulp and it would be all over, no more suffering. But as he turned the lid of the bottle, he thought he saw a tiny movement. The glass had moved, it was no longer on his bedside table but appeared to be hovering before him. As he looked at the glass more closely he saw the sweet semblance of his wife, a shimmering sunset glow, holding death away from him. The water tipped, evaporating as it splashed.

Alfred couldn’t believe his eyes. She had come back, his Grace, his love. “It’s you,” he said, his voice cracked, breaking with emotion.
“Yes.”
“My Gracie, I’ve missed you so much. Why have you taken so long to come back to me?”

“Hurt lay heavy in my heart, so my friend time, became my healer. Now the time is right for you to live and love again. Now I can rest forever.”

  “No, Grace, please, there’s something I must tell you.”

“There’s no need, it has taken me a long while, but I forgive you Alfred. I always knew that you didn’t mean those hurtful words.”

“I’m so sorry Grace, I was stressed. I lost my temper, shouted at you, when I shouldn’t have. I blamed myself for your heart attack.”

“You’re not to blame Alfred. My heart attack wasn’t caused by anything you said. But all this crazy fantasising is giving me a ghost of a second heart attack! Promise me this Alfred, live your life. Let your fantasies become realities. Maybe not that mail order bride, that’s preposterous, but you know what I mean.”

“I promise, Grace.”

He tucked the living orchid in the wispy suggestion of her sunlit hair. She gifted him one last sunset smile, a whispered farewell, and the sweetest hint of a lover’s kiss.

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

Thanks for reading my blog battle entry I hope you enjoyed it. Do comment and let me know what you think.

Bye for now,

file

 

Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

 

#Blog Battle: The Sunken Statue

I’m taking part in Rachel Ritchey’s writing #BlogBattle this week’s theme is Head. Apparently this is Rachel’s 6th month of doing BlogBattles!!!

Week 25 Theme is Head

Date to Post: Tuesday, September 8th, 2015.

http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

This was the perfect prompt for me as I have been intending to write a short story about a visit I had to The Edinburgh Modern Gallery of Art, where a particular head greets you as you enter the grounds of the gallery. Here’s the link to my post: https://atomic-temporary-67364188.wpcomstaging.com/2015/08/26/edinburgh-festival-photographs-of-my-art-gallery-visit/

So I wrote this very quickly this morning, rush, rush, rush, so hope it meets with your approval!

Genre: Fantasy

The Sunken Statue

He hadn’t always been concrete. He had lived once, an ordinary life, nothing spectacular you understand. Art had been his life, he called himself a sculptor, a very poor one, unknown, and undervalued. He lived alone, had no pets, no friends, no family, just his art. It wasn’t surprising that he became bitter, angry that his works of art were being ignored. His favourite art gallery was in Edinburgh, the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art on Belford Road, he went there often to fume. He was aghast when he saw the pathetic nature of some of the exhibits, the nonsensicalness of them. That particular day in August, he scowled as he saw the blocks of square colour that were meant to constitute art. Who were they kidding? A child could have drawn this.

That’s how it began, the answer to him seemed to be simple, a child, he needed a child to rekindle his child-like eye for art, to transport him to great heights of prowess. But how could he even begin to achieve this? He had no wife, no lover to provide him with a son or daughter. The seed of yearning planted deep within his soul he set out to find a child, an artistic child. Where better to look than the art gallery itself?

In the gallery the shop and the café provided him with the perfect place to find a child who had slipped past their parents’ watchful eyes. But how could he justify this? He didn’t consider himself to be a criminal. His conscience was like an uncharted piece of paper but surely what tiny remnants remained would not allow him to behave in such a despicable way? To snatch a young child from the loving hands of a parent? His justification had to be his love of art; art was his wife, his lover. He knew this action, if he carried it out, would be the ultimate heinous act, and though his heart was empty he sensed there would be a dreadful, most shocking price to pay.

He tortured himself for days and days drinking, smoking and ranting. Nobody heard him, apart from his own ears which devoured his angst and his forgotten sculptures, that sighed.  Finally his anguished soul gave in. So with this terrible plan in place he went to the gallery, and waited and waited for an opportunity. The girl was pretty, her rosy cheeks, blonde hair and colourful skirt caught his eye. He imagined her as a watercolour painting, a rainbow of sun drenched colours. She kept wandering off from her mother, exploring, chatting to strangers, her mother didn’t seem to notice or mind. Perhaps she was used to it. This was the sort of girl who could not be confined; she was a wanderer, a free spirit, an artistic soul, so that knowledge more than justified his actions.

‘Hi, that’s a pretty postcard,” he said, standing beside her.

She smiled, a dimple on her innocent face winked at him.

“Yes it is thank you, but this is my favourite.”

She held up a postcard of a statue, an exhibit that he knew was outside in the gardens. A short walk away. How easy could it be? A gift. Not from God, but he was not a believer.

“Would you like to see it? It’s just outside in the gardens I could show you if you’d like?” he asked.

He hadn’t thought what her reaction would be. So when she smiled and said, “Yes please,” he didn’t show any emotion.

He left the art gallery with her by his side, he felt proud that he had found such a wonderful child, his artistic angel. Now he believed that his sculpting ambitions would be fully realised.

She appeared thrilled by the Miró sculpture. She ran her small hands around the circular top as if she was experiencing her own personal ride through life.

She stroked it fondly as if she wished to gain an insight into the artist’s mind.

He knew then without a shadow of a doubt that she was the one.

An opportunity presented itself to him, sneaking into the silent grounds, on tiptoes of devilment it crept. No other soul was about, to witness its wicked arrival. So he grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the exit. She began to shriek. He hadn’t expected that.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, confused by her sudden change of sunny mood.

“You’re making me scared,”

“Scared of what?” he asked, frowning.

“You!” she replied in a small uncertain voice, trembling.

“I just want to take you across the road to the art gallery opposite; there are more wonderful exhibits there too.’

“No, I don’t want to go,” she said, tiny tears began to make a sad appearance on her rosy face.

He dragged her until they approached the crossing; he heard her cries but divorced himself from the monster that he was becoming. Then he stopped. It was sudden, the loss of sensation in his body, the terrible sinking feeling. Was this the price to be paid? He let go of her hand, he didn’t need her anymore. He had never needed anyone. Least of all a child. This was no price, this was the perfect solution. For the first time in his life he felt pure contentment. He was art, he was the Sunken statue. He would be seen and revered by all the art lovers in the world. Nobody would ever dare to forget him again.

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© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

Rules:

  1. 1000 words max
  2. fictional tale (or true if you really want)
  3. PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
  4. Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
  5. Go for the entertainment value!
  6. State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
  7. Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
  8. Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
  9. Have fun!

I hope you liked my entry to BlogBattle, and it didn’t alarm you too much! Apologies to the woman and child in the photo I’m sure no harm came to you on your visit to the art gallery!

Do leave a comment I’d love to know what you think of my short story.

Bye for now.

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Marje @ Kyrosmagica. xx

#Blog Battle: Ryder’s Feast of Unsuspecting Legumes

This week I’m taking part in Rachael Ritchey’s Short Story Writing Blog Battle. Here’s a link to her blog if you’d like to take part in this fun community of writers: http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

Week 25 Theme is Legumes

Date to Post: Tuesday, September 1st, 2015

This was a tough one, Legumes, huh, not the easiest of themes but I enjoy a challenge so why not?

The Genre of my entry is a New Adult Fantasy story, (for the purposes of this post I will try to keep it PG friendly!) This is a continuation of an idea which I have already started to develop on #Blog battle if you’d like to see the previous posts I’ve done then follow the following links: https://atomic-temporary-67364188.wpcomstaging.com/2015/08/04/blog-battle-week-21-writing-theme-eye/ and https://atomic-temporary-67364188.wpcomstaging.com/2015/08/11/blogbattle-week-22-time/

Ryder’s Feast Of Unsuspecting Legumes

The cupboards were practically empty apart from a few sorry almost forgotten tins of vegetables. Ryder picked them up, checked their sell by dates, and shrugged. A week or two past their sell by date wouldn’t kill him! He set them out on the kitchen counter and proceeded to open all of his flatmate’s cupboards looking for a large enough frying pan to create his imagined feast. He opened and shut the doors slamming them without any thought for his sleeping flatmates. He found a large wok that didn’t belong to him, but no matter, he decided that no one would notice if he borrowed it for this early morning feast. He set the flame to full throttle, flooding the pan with a cascade of vibrant vegetables, and loud legumes. The sizzling sound made him smile he loved the buzz of riotous noise in the silence of the early morning.

He waited patiently for the moment when someone would burst through the door and discover his antics and somebody always did, today was no exception. Olivia burst into the kitchen, a bleary-eyed look lay crumpled on her face. She scowled at him. Ryder couldn’t help but smile; Olivia was wearing her skimpy pyjamas again. Olivia must have clocked his lecherous look, but it was apparent from the dirty look that she gave him that she wasn’t in the mood for Ryder’s attempts at four a.m. flirting.

“What are you doing Ryder? It’s four o’clock in the morning, I’ve got a lecture at nine.”

“Making you breakfast,” said Ryder with a grin.

“Huh, that’s not funny, Ryder you’re driving everyone crazy with your early morning stir fries.”

“Oh, you’re too pent-up Olivia, you need to learn how to relax. Let me give your shoulders a rub.”

Olivia gave him a look that said that sounds about as appealing as a  torturous Chinese burn. “Get lost Ryder, stop being such a creep.”

“I’m only trying to make it up to you Olivia, sit down, I’ll prepare you a very special VIP breakfast.”

Olivia looked at the legumes in the frying pan and pulled a face.

“I don’t eat out of date rabbit food.”

“Ah, but you haven’t eaten my rabbit food, trust me it will be amazing,” said Ryder, his eyes momentarily lifted their attention from the flambéed frying pan, and lingered on Olivia. There was something elemental in that look, Ryder knew it, it came naturally to him, he could turn on charm like a blazing uncontrollable flame.

Olivia’s barriers began to melt; little by little she began to return his look, now it was easy, all he needed to do was stare back, to penetrate the layers of Olivia’s resistance with his wicked eyes. He just hoped she didn’t faint, that would be annoying. He liked girls to be awake; they were far more interesting that way. He’d have to be careful not to employ too much Ryder charm, just the right amount of gentle coercion had to be used, a few words would help too.

“It’s not Rabbit food, Olivia it’s a feast fit for a king.”

Ryder set the food out on the table. It did not bear any resemblance to the simple dish of legumes he had just been cooking. Its centrepiece was an enormous, flat, round Indian delicacy resembling a chapatis pancake, and on the side was a bowl of richly spiced curry sauce with a side dish of fragrant legumes. The aroma would make you feel as if you’d been re-born in curry heaven.

Olivia gasped. Curry was her favourite, Ryder knew that.

“Sit down, Olivia join me,” Ryder said, his words gently caressing Olivia’s unsuspecting ears.

Olivia practically dived to sit down. She acted like she’d been on an enforced hunger strike and was now able to eat again.

But something stopped her from touching a bite. She just sat there staring at the food, her outstretched hand hung in the air as if she was about to pick up a chapatti. The reel of her life waited temporarily suspended for a second.

“Do help yourself,” said Ryder with a smirk.

There were no plates on the table, no cutlery, or napkins. Olivia picked up the chapatti, filled it with curry sauce and legumes and rolled it on the table as if this was the most natural thing to do. She downed that chapatti in a few ferocious bites and licked her lips.

“Don’t you want a plate?’ asked Ryder raising an eyebrow in mock horror.

Olivia blushed. It was obvious from her reaction that she was mortified by her own behaviour. This was so unlike Olivia. Olivia had a reputation for being neat and tidy, and would normally never eat off a table, particularly one in a messy student flat.

She glanced at the table, and her expression said it all. Poor Olivia turned a nasty shade of green, the exact colour of the curry that she had just wolfed down. She ran to the toilet to be sick.

As soon as she fled out the door, Ryder laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. He could hear her retching, but he did nothing to help her. When he stopped laughing a wretched feeling came over him, what had he done? He felt the crystal in his eye smarting, it was vibrating, sending spasms of guilt throughout his body. That wretched crystal, he wished he could dive a dagger into his eye and rip it out.

But he couldn’t do that, not without blinding himself, the crystal was there for keeps. He had no choice, the crystal fragment acted like a conscience making him want to help Olivia. So he tucked her into bed, and crept in next to her, she didn’t seem to mind. She thought he was a nice guy, but he and the the crystal knew otherwise. Afterwards he shed crystal tears; a deep feeling of disgust filled his being. He was tainted, a lost soul, blinded by the splendour of his own shadow, with no way of being saved.  

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

Rules:
1.1000 words max
2.fictional tale (or true if you really want)
3.PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
4.Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
5.Go for the entertainment value!
6.State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
7.Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
8.Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
9.Have fun!

I hope you liked my contribution to this week’s blog battle. Do let me know what you think. Don’t forget to vote for your favourite story.

Bye for now.

kk

Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

 

 

 

Striking the Motherlode

Reblog of Brando Sanderson’s writing Youtube Seminars from D.Wallace Peach of Myths of the Mirror. These will keep you out of mischief for a very long time!

D. Wallace Peach's avatarMyths of the Mirror

flightfoxcom image from flightfox.com

Well, I have a gift for you today. NO, it’s not a book. Phew!

A friend of mine shared a link with me, and when I opened it, I gasped. My knees turned to syrup, and I wiped tears of delight from my eyes. I’d struck writing gold.

Brandon Sanderson, the highly successful author of Mistborn and The Way of Kings fame, teaches a master’s level class at BYU for fantasy and science-fiction writers. The class is so popular that only a small number of interested students actually get to enroll. In response to the flood of despair, the entire series of winter lectures were videotaped and are available on YouTube at zero cost.

image from thebooksmuggler.com image from thebooksmuggler.com

You don’t write sci-fi or fantasy, you say.

I will assert, while skipping in circles with excitement, that the ideas he presents are 99% applicable to all fiction writing. He…

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#BlogBattle : Week 22: Time

Well it’s time for another Blog Battle, if you haven’t come across Rachael Ritchey’s  Blog Battles here’s your chance to join in this fun community of writers.

This link will take you to her blog battle page: http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

The rules are:

Week 22 Theme will be Time

Date to Post: Tuesday, August  11th 2015

Rules:

  1. 1000 words max
  2. fictional tale (or true if you really want)
  3. PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
  4. Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
  5. Go for the entertainment value!
  6. Post your story by Tuesday 11:59 PM PST
  7. Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
  8. Have fun!

Time is such a perfect subject for me, as it is one of the central theme’s in my writing.  This particular #BlogBattle is a continuation from the previous #BlogBattle post Eye. If you’d like to read Eye here’s the link: https://atomic-temporary-67364188.wpcomstaging.com/2015/08/04/blog-battle-week-21-writing-theme-eye/

It’s an idea for a New Adult novel, I have had to edit some of the content of this to make it more PG friendly! I don’t want to be banned from #BlogBattle but I reckon the final version (if I get round to it!) could be a bit more steamy – any thoughts?

Time’s A Slippery Devil

Time.

Such a slippery and transient devil, one minute it’s on your side the next it’s beyond you slipping past your reach, laughing at your precociousness. Ryder had been Time’s master, but no more. Now he was alone, with no one to control. No scratch that. He had a girl, a  willing conquest, one solitary soul was his. An easy task lay before him, and what better place to hide than the leafy parkland of the University of Falmer in Brighton? Here he could be a shadow without a name, a person without a recognisable face. No one would remember him unless he wanted them to, he could be as fluid as the breeze in the trees. A nowhere man.

His only current regret was his choice of course, he had fancied himself a philosopher but he saw no benefit in discussing the merits of a grain of sand. The only worthy purpose of a grain of sand was its place within a timepiece, capturing a precious minute so perfectly turning life’s longings upside down. Perhaps studying a touch of  poetry and prose would suit him better? He needed to find some new playmates, his current flatmates were a bore. His midnight wanderings had been purposely noisy but had fallen on deaf ears, his distinctive footsteps had cast him as an outsider in his own flat.

His eyes could read the sky, tell the time of day. He smiled, only minutes remained before he had agreed to meet Bethany. He had enjoyed their last encounter. The reminiscence of the feel of her silky skin against his body caused him to smile. She had smelled so meadow fresh, untouched by someone like him. He remembered the moment when she had surrendered, the bitter-sweet light in her eyes drifting to an inky murky black. It had been a fleeting second, one the ordinary eye would have missed but Ryder had flourished in that moment. Thereafter her eyes had lightened turning just a slightly harder, darker shade than they had been before, with a hint of a tiny crystal  caught in them for all eternity. The tiny crystal light within his own eyes smarted at the thought. He had upset its crystal sensibilities, as he often did. He cast aside that thought, willing the crystal to be within the palm of his hand, a powerful force to command rather than a controlling force imprisoned within his sight. The crystal reverberated, a sharp dagger of pain pierced his eyes and tiny crystal tears shed a pathway down his  sculpted cheekbones.

Blinking back strange tears he walked to the campus shop, his long limbs carrying him there within minutes. The crystal tears abated coming to a jagged halt. Bethany was already waiting. In amongst the throng of students, she seemed overlooked but Ryder found her more striking than she had been before. Her eyes gleamed at him like a cats, she dressed to entice, her short skirt making his eyes linger on the shapeliness of her legs. She carried herself with a new-found confidence and freedom. A dare suggested itself in the curve of her lips, a flicker of danger fluttered in her curved eye lashes, and a gleam of naughtiness escaped from her eyes. A buzz of energy circulated throughout Ryder’s body, making his heart pound with unleashed excitement. He longed to entice her into the privacy of his room, but now was not the time. He sighed. He had more pressing matters to attend to. He would introduce this former bookworm to the delights of his room before long that he was sure of.

The canteen was buzzing with students, lunchtime beckoned and everyone seemed to be eating, chatting and drinking. He gestured towards a table in amongst the throng, it didn’t matter where they sat his privacy would always be assured. He didn’t bother to say hello and neither did she, instead he reached out. This reflexive reaction betrayed his desperate need to touch her. He grasped her hand in his, and turned it over as if he was reading her palm. He planted sweet kisses on it, her eyes flickered and she gasped.

“I see you enjoy my kisses, now that we are more acquainted,” he said breaking the silence.

“I do, it’s almost as if my hand can taste the honey-dew of your lips,” she replied. Ryder saw confusion resting in her eyes, her words had betrayed the veiled privacy of her emotions.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself. It’s an ability you will develop but it takes time.”

“Really? You tease me with such wicked promises.”

‘If it’s a tease then it’s a secret one. I’m afraid I can’t reveal my secrets but you will learn your own in your own sweet time.”

“What a delicious thought, I can’t wait.”

“Be patient Bethany, now’s not the time, you must let your power grow slowly, or else ……. in the meantime, I’d like you to make more friends,” Ryder’s eyes darkened, “We need more friends.”

Bethany shivered, “You make it sound so creepy, what do you mean?”

“There are only two of us, see how nobody notices us? Unless we draw attention to ourselves they overlook us, but if we become many, then imagine what we could do.”

A glint of darkness flickered across Bethany’s face, forming a temporary shadow. She shivered again.

Seeing her shivering Ryder pulled her towards him, lifting her off her seat, until she was sitting on his lap.

She smiled, a purring sound escaped from the back of her throat. He stroked her long brown hair.

“It’s fresher’s week, sweet kitten,” he said.

“No it’s not, we’ve already had fresher’s week,” she replied.

“I wasn’t in the mood for it then, but I am now.” His eyes darkened, “So now it’s time for fresher’s week.”

She nodded. “But why?”

“I want to make friends, don’t you?”

She purred.

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

I hope you enjoyed my entry for this weeks #Blog Battle. Do leave a comment I’d love to hear your opinion on my latest piece of writing for the #Blog Battle.

kk

Thank you for stopping by.

Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

 

#Blog Battle – Week 21 – Writing Theme Eye

Well it’s time for another Blog Battle, if you haven’t come across Rachael Ritchey’s  Blog Battles here’s your chance to join in this fun community of writers.

This link will take you to her blog battle page: http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

The rules are:

Week 21 Theme will be Eye

Date to Post: Tuesday, August 4th 2015

Rules:

  1. 1000 words max
  2. fictional tale (or true if you really want)
  3. PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
  4. Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
  5. Go for the entertainment value!
  6. Post your story by Tuesday 11:59 PM PST
  7. Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
  8. Have fun!

This is a new piece of writing, it is a continuation idea from my first manuscript which is open ended and could become a series of books. If I wrote a second novel I would like the male character to develop his wicked side so this is a short unedited snippet from an idea I have. I hope you like it! This is probably more a YA plus or New Adult type of idea rather than a children’s book!

 

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The Eye of the Shadow

Bethany always came to the same spot to read her book, the quietest corner of the park near her University campus. Today she saw that this favourite spot had been invaded by  a strange person who she had never seen before. She considered moving elsewhere but Bethany couldn’t bring herself to move away.

The sunlight drifted over the young man, a warm caress lingered on his upper body, savouring him. He was stripped to the waist, his back lay like a half completed painting, a terrible deed still to be done. She imagined finishing his painting. Each exquisite brush stroke could become a wicked promise, or a sweet memory Bethany couldn’t begin to decide which of the two would be more likely.

At this moment Bethany spectacled eyes found no appeal in her chosen book, she did the unforgiveable, the unthinkable, this socially awkward book-worm pretended to read! She just couldn’t keep her eyes from the young man. It was too easy to stare at such a beautiful someone who lay face down in the grass. She felt a delicious sense of wickedness staring at his muscular but lean body. A flood of hesitant shadows drifted spreading their eerie pictures on the sunny grass.

He turned around. She didn’t have time to look away, his motion had been lightning quick, as if he hoped to catch her staring at him basking in the sun. He caught her guilt straight in the eye, and sent it back to her in an unexpected ricochet. He didn’t look down or away, no attempt was made by him to play such a game, his eyes bore into her soul, and rested there imprisoned in her cluttered thoughts. His gaze was so arresting that she was certain that she had forgotten how to breathe. She gasped. A second or two passed by but she could swear that he still held her soul in his dark green eyes, resting like a tiny glimmer of crystal light, a blink and she was sure that it would be gone.

She had no idea what his face looked like, all she could see were his eyes, his beautiful eyes, cruel and gentle, dark and bright.

He stood up in one quick fluid movement, his agility reminiscent of a sleek panther, and then he smiled. Bethany saw the smile. The eyes told her to. She wasn’t sure if his mouth was forming a nice smile but somehow it didn’t matter. She wanted to capture that smile and plant it in her memory for later.

“Hello,” he said, delivering each syllable like a warning.

Bethany swallowed. She tried to return his uncertain gift of a smile but the smile that she would give appeared to have been swallowed, along with her words. She coughed and said nothing. A dry sensation lodged in her throat.

He walked over and stood directly in front of her. Now his eyes implored her to see his jet black hair, shining like a panther’s, willing her to touch it.

She trembled, the forgotten book slipped from her grasp, she reached out and stroked his hair. There was an expression of fear trapped in her eyes, but a desperate need in her shaking hands.

He picked up her book and glanced at it, turning the pages absent-mindedly as if he was searching for an answer to a question that he had posed. After a short while he grew restless and began clawing at the pages of her book until he threw it away in irritation. His temper lashed out, a cruel, forgotten wind that subsided before it began.

Bethany couldn’t believe it. Now her precious book meant nothing to her, yet a moment ago it had been her heart. He sat next to her, this book mauler, this uninvited marauder who dared to touch a loose strand of her hair and place it behind her ear. She did nothing to stop him, instead she stared into his eyes and plunged into their delightful but horrifying depths.

She could feel a tumbling sensation, as if she was falling down a long corridor. The corridor was narrow, wide, long, short, straight, and bending. The next thing she knew the tumbling sensation slammed to a complete and endless halt. She stood up, but her legs didn’t remember how to. She meant to run away but he kissed her, his lips hard and soft, apologetic and unrelenting. Her knees betrayed her giving way, buckling under, an independent component of her body.

The corner of his mouth twitched, an almost imperceptible motion but his eyes gave her a sensuous message before she had even imagined the possibility. She swore that she could hear a tiny purring sound, a throaty tender note that slipped into the heady air. He claimed her from the summer breeze as if she was a precious prize and laid her on the warm grass planting tiny kisses on her. The flood of hesitant shadows stretched their eerie long limbs reaching further into the untamed wilderness of grass.

“Who are you?” she breathed whimpering.

“I’m the Shadow you’ve been hiding from,” he replied.

She looked up at the sky, the sun was still out yet shadows danced and played all around them. She felt a strange sensation invade her body, a coldness swept deep within her soul, plunging her into a strange but welcome melancholy.

“It’s alright,” he said, his voice sounding regretful, but certain, “You and I are bonded by our shadows. Don’t be afraid. There’s no need to fight, that moment is forever gone.”

The richness of his voice inflamed her cold body, this purring black demon’s tongue struck a chord in her pounding heart.

He kissed her one last time. A tender kiss. Then it was complete.

Now he smiled, and frowned. “Welcome.”

 

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

I hope you enjoyed my entry for #Blog Battle. Do leave a comment I’d love to hear your opinion on my latest piece of writing for the #Blog Battle.

kk

Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

 

#Blog Battle Writing Week 20: Prophet

 Well it’s time for another Blog Battle, if you haven’t come across Rachael Ritchey’s  Blog Battles here’s your chance to join in this fun community of writers.

This link will take you to her blog battle page: http://rachaelritchey.com/blogbattle/

The rules are:

Week 20 Theme will be Prophet

Date to Post: Tuesday, July 28th, 2015

Rules:

  1. 1000 words max
  2. fictional tale (or true if you really want)
  3. PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
  4. Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
  5. Go for the entertainment value!
  6. Post your story by Tuesday 11:59 PM PST
  7. Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
  8. Have fun!

The prompt word this week is Prophet.  I thought I’d give you another little taster of my WIP, a children’s fantasy set in Edinburgh.  I have written about 12,000 words in total for this new manuscript, so there is still a long way to go! This is the opening chapter of Morag Eu-Fung’s adventures, which is still to be edited/critiqued, by my writing group so all comments appreciated.

Hope you enjoy!

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Grandma’s Prophesy

Morag shouted, a wide grin erupted on her moon-shaped face, any spirits evil or otherwise were probably deafened and finding a hiding place in a crater somewhere. Now Morag’s voice sounded hoarse. Eilidh rolled her eyes, and frowned, her forehead creasing tightly in a sisterly display of disapproval. Morag acknowledged the frown by sticking her tongue out at her sister, but it was too late, Eilidh had turned away totally missing Morag’s rebellious gesture.

Just at that very moment, the night sky lit up with another jubilant burst of fireworks. The rainbow of light seemed to catch Morag’s dark brown hair which hung loose, and then alighted on her coat which was unbuttoned, thrown on. Another burst of colour settled momentarily on her fingerless mittens. Morag’s face glowed, her breaths panting, like a tribe of joggers, trying to keep up with each quick step of excitement. As if to match the momentum of Morag’s breathing a sequence of fireworks burst into another wonderful display, light fell, illuminating the freckles on Eilidh’s face which squeezed together impersonating a series of tiny black dots. Somehow Eilidh’s freckles reminded Morag of what you might see after staring too long and hard at an optician’s bright light.

Morag’s dad had outdone himself. Where had he managed to find such a wonderful array of fireworks? The firecrackers had been noisy; the neighbours must be at breaking point by now. Morag imagined them in their houses gritting their teeth, and muttering with growing annoyance. She giggled. No doubt they could smell the aroma of burning bamboo sticks too. Anybody would think that they were living in Hong Kong or somewhere equally exotic, but no they were in Scotland, at least they were living in the capital city Edinburgh and not in some back water. The centre of Asian culture, no, not really, but most of the inhabitants of their house thought differently, and those who didn’t kept that opinion to themselves!

Mum, dad, grandma and grandpa joined them but watched from a distance. Morag and Eilidh huddled together in the back garden sharing this moment until Eilidh spoilt it with her selfish words.

“Come on Morag, let’s go, it’s over.”

Eilidh didn’t even have the decency to let the very last firework fizz out properly. Morag ignored her sister, she lingered, savouring the memory of the sight of the sparkling fireworks exploding into the darkness of the night, they might be gone but the atmosphere crackled with the promise of a New Year. She was so absorbed in her own thoughts that for a moment she hadn’t noticed everyone else trooping back into the house. But when she did she questioned why they always did as Eilidh said? Before Morag could wonder anymore Grandmother trudged up and grabbed her by the collar of her coat and yanked her back to reality.

“Whooa Grandma, I’m coming, stop pulling at my coat,” said Morag, as she turned for one last stolen glance at the night sky.

Grandmother might seem to be the patient one but when it came to tradition she was always the first one in line, on a mission, in a hurry, organising the family in her quiet, devoted way. She had come outside to collect Morag without bothering to put on her coat. Her black dress was tightly drawn across her plump body, acting as a fearsome barrier to the cold. Morag studied Grandmother Lean’s wrinkly, tired face. She’d been working really hard, busily preparing everything for Chinese New Year. Grandmother had very rarely sat down, whilst grandfather settled down into the best chair in the house and refused to get up! Typical grandfather!

The reunion dinner had been well worth all the effort. Morag’s favourite dumplings had sat like tempting morsels quivering with expectant anticipation on the dining table. Within one of the dumplings a gold coin  lay hidden and whoever found the coin was considered to be lucky. Morag had hoped that it would be her. She had looked at the dumplings hungrily and wondered which one to choose. Her hunger had got the better of her and she had chosen the biggest, fattest, one. In her haste she had opened her mouth wide and had taken an enormous bite, almost eating the dumpling whole. Of course, her elder sister had chosen the smaller more delicate dumpling and had found the gold coin. Typical! Why did her eldest sister have to be the lucky one? It was so unfair. Ugh! Still, maybe it was just as well, Morag had swallowed the gold coin last year by mistake, and they had had to rush her to hospital! After the gold coin incident, Eilidh had taken great delight in calling Morag a greedy pig. Morag didn’t want that name tag, even though the pig was one of the illustrious animals to grace the Chinese Zodiac.

The first day of this New Year had begun well. Grandmother Lean had greeted Morag and Eilidh with an individual ang pow, a little red packet.

“Spend it wisely, and all will be well,” Grandmother had prophesied.

Of course Grandmother hadn’t said this to Eilidh, she expected Eilidh to spend it wisely without being reminded. Eilidh would too, she knew how to get on the right side of grandmother and keep her sweet.

Morag had bowed respectfully to her grandmother, even though she was a bit annoyed by Grandmother selecting her for the “spend it wisely” message but she knew better than to say anything, and she certainly didn’t intend to open it in front of her. This was considered to be very rude! So she sneaked upstairs and opened the packet in her room, £20. Wow. She couldn’t wait to spend it.

She remembered her grandmother’s words.

“Spend it wisely.”

She loved her grandmother and knew that the spirits of her ancestors had been listening and that to disobey would be very, very, unwise. She must try her best to buy something worthy of her grandmother’s wish. She prophesied that she would be good, a little chuckle escaped betraying her like a prisoner from her lips.

© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica. All Rights Reserved.

 

Hope you like my #BlogBattle story. I’m enjoying writing this WIP. Do let me know what you think. I would love some opinions on the Chinese New Year Theme.  Thanks a million.

kk

Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx

 

 

 

Writer’s Quote Wednesday: Terri Guillemets

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Welcome to Writer’s Quote Wednesday an open invitation from Colleen at Silver Threading to join in the fun.

Here’s a link to her blog: http://silverthreading.com/2015/07/15/writers-quote-wednesday-ann-patchett/

This week I’ve had a go playing around on one of the photo editing sites that Colleen recommends: http://www.picmonkey.com/

It seems easy to use, so thanks for the great tip Colleen.

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If I fall asleep with a pen in my hand, don’t remove it I might

be writing in my dreams.

Terri Guillemets.

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Just love this quote from Terri Guillemets.

Writing whilst dreaming! That would really be something. Can you imagine how wonderful your writing would be!  Dreams can be such a wonderful source of inspiration, especially if you have very elaborate, and exciting dreams!

About Terri Guillemets from her website Quotegarden:

Terri Guillemets is a quotation anthologist from Phoenix, Arizona who has collected quotes since age thirteen. Her passion is sharing literary, inspirational, thought-provoking, and humorous quotations with a worldwide audience via her website The Quote Garden at www.quotegarden.com, one of the most long-standing online quotation collections and the first to offer a wide variety of special occasion topics. With a specialty in reviving vintage writings from the 1800s, she shares her love of old books, the art of writing, and the beauty of words with a personal, heartfelt approach — “spreading quotatious joy” as she calls it. A curmudgeonesque optimist whose inner child will never grow up, she also enjoys nature, photography, cloudgazing, and family.

Thanks for joining me for Writer’s Quote Wednesday. Hope you dream some wonderful dreams, come share some here if you’d like.

 

kk

 

Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx