WOE: The Queen Approaches

WOE prompt: use setting to deepen the development of your story.  You can use it to give insight into a character or a conflict or simply to evoke an emotional mood from your reader.


The clearing was in the deep of the forest, and it was unexpected, even with the GPS coordinates.  A sudden parting of trees, and Zenna found herself wide-eyed and surrounded by a coven of tall, ancient oak trees that stretched endlessly into the air. Their branches formed a canopy so thick that the dying sunlight barely penetrated.  Instead, a soft glow emanated from the bark of the majestic oaks, brightening with the darkness.  No insect or bird sounds seemed to penetrate the area around the circle of trees, and even the sounds of Zenna's breathing seemed to be muted.  There was a stillness to the air, as if the entire forest was waiting.  Darkness finally fell, and the air at the center of the clearing began to shimmer rhythmically.

Feeling the pulse of an immense power within her bones, Zenna bowed her head.  She did not enter the clearing.  Placing her backpack on the ground, she knelt to wait for the arrival of the Queen. 

Lucifer Always Collects

Melchior entered the sanctuary of his office, striding angrily over to the sideboard and throwing ice into a glass.  His harsh breathing created a fog in the cold darkness of the room.  The remains of a fire and the lamp on his desk were the only illumination; he preferred it that way.   He muttered incoherently in his rage as he poured his drink.  His mind was already plotting his next move against the enemy.   Perhaps another assassination attempt...

 

"It isss time, Melchiorrr." the sibilant voice was low, but an echo of sinister certainty poured into the cavernous room.  A slithering rustle of movement emanated from the darkest corner, and the air became suddenly oppressive.

Melchior blanched. The drink he had just poured fell from suddenly numb fingers; the sound of the glass shattering was swallowed up by the darkness.  

 

Had it been a thousand years already? The bargain had not been completed!

"No! That cannot be!  I have not eradicated the dragon!"  Melchior's eyes searched the darkness.

"Neverthelessss."  The voice seemed to feed on the shadows, becoming more substantial as the darkness grew. 

"I am so close!"  Melchior screamed.  "I will not go!  I need more time!"

 

"You would dare argue with ME?"  Barking, gutteral laughter seemed to come from everywhere at once.

 

Melchior felt the tortuous weight of cold air pressing him into the floor.   A whispering of anguished screams skittered around the room, and an icy wind of displeasure stirred the papers on Melchior's desk.  An impossibly huge shape began to coalesce within the darkness in the center of the room.  The last embers of the fireplace flickered, fighting to maintain what little light they could.   

 

Melchior's eyes focused on escape.  He pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway, a brief flicker of hope in his chest. He had left the door on the other end of the hallway open!  Freedom was ten steps away. 

An icy talon gripped his ankle, and a wail of despair was released from Melchior's lungs as he was dragged back into the darkness.  The sound of his screams accompanied his departure.

Write on Edge Prompt: This week, write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about a time one of your main characters finds himself or herself paying back a debt–financial or otherwise.  This post goes along with this particular storyline.

Write On Edge: The Blessings

Prompt:   Hope comes in a jar. It floats. We wrote about hope in our memoirs this week, now let’s take it in a different direction. According to Dante, the gates of hell are inscribed “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”   Let that inscription lead, but not necessarily define, your piece for Friday’s link-up.   This piece connects with this one.  

The door to the interior office area of The Blessing Society was absent of any vestige of warmth;  Andy shivered as his hand touched the knob of the door.  The door opened at his touch with a sound that always invited comparisons to a crypt, a wail of air flowing behind him and pushing him reluctantly into the dark hallway.  The door closed silently, and he was cut off from the world.

Andy's breath hitched, a voiceless sob.  He bit his lip and began to move forward, telling himself that there was nothing to fear.  His father was Melchior Blessing, after all; the most powerful man in the world.  Andy had been coming to this building, and this office, since he was a young child.  Nothing had ever happened to him in this hallway, not really. His experiences were all in his mind.  It was only ten steps from outer door to the inner one.  Ten steps.   

And yet...

The air seemed thicker in this hallway, as if clotted with blood, and a vague smell of rotted flesh crawled into Andy's nostrils with each step.  His legs felt heavy, pulled into the floor by unseen talons.  His shoulders were weighted with the burdens of the entire world.   As he moved, there was a sense that his spirit was being separated from his body, suctioned out of him by a wretched vortex of desolation.  All was forsaken, the walls seemed to whisper.  Andy kept walking, gritting his teeth as tears of despair poured down his cheeks.  Only what was left of his will prevented him from gibbering with fear as he arrived at the door on the other end of the hallway. 

He knocked on the door, twice, then waited for his father's voice to rescue him.

"Enter."   Andy shivered with relief.  Inhaling as deeply as he could, he opened the door and stepped into the firelit office of his father.   Melchior swiveled in his chair as his son entered the room, a large gold chalice in his hands.

"Welcome, my son.  Please, join me."  Melchior motioned Andy toward a chair in front of the massive stone desk.  He hurried to obey his father, pretending to ignore the slowly swinging, bloodless corpse of a woman hanging upside down in front of the fireplace.

"Would you like a drink, son?"

Write On Edge: Anti-hero

Prompt:   An anti-hero is a character who stands in opposition to the protagonist, who provides a foil and an obstacle on the hero or heroine’s narrative journey. The way I see it (and I know not everyone will agree), all villains are anti-heroes, but all anti-heroes are not villains.  Show me an anti-hero. It can be a character sketch or a scene, but try to establish how and why this person is the obstacle to the protagonist’s goals. I've written about Zenna before; now here's a little more about Boone.



Boone had been killing the enemies of the Dragons, and others, for hundreds of years.  He had flown joyfully into battle, gleefully ripping off heads with his talons and setting archers on fire with his breath.  He had retained human form to be in the heart of whatever war men fought, wielding his axe and sword as a farmer wields a scythe.  He had bathed in the blood of his foes, and it had felt good.    Fighting, and killing, had also made him incomparably wealthy.  Boone was a warrior, he lived to fight and kill, but if he could be paid to fight or kill, well!

He scanned the darkness of the bar, looking for his contact.  As Boone watched, a group of women on their way to the restroom fell silent as they hurried past a well-dressed man sitting alone at a table for four.   Boone moved in that direction.  The man looked up, glaring, until he saw who was in front of him. 

"You're the man with the problem?"  Boone directed his voice so that it carried through the din of the bar.  The man in front of him reeked of expensive cologne.  Underneath that ran a faint scent of rotting flesh.  The man nodded and motioned to the seat opposite him.  Reluctantly, Boone sat down.

"Yes, I have a problem that I need taken care of immediately, if not sooner,"  Adjusting his tie and leaning close, the older man pushed a manilla envelope across the table toward Boone, who took the envelope and put it into an inside coat pocket. 

"She is my son's fiance," the man continued. "I don't want the wedding to take place."

"I don't care about trivialities," Boone responded, cutting his client off.  It wasn't that he didn't want to hear details; the man's breath was vile.  Like old animal blood left out in the sun after a sacrifice, he thought. 

"As you like," his client waved a hand imperiously.   "Half of your commission has been deposited into the account as specified.  You'll get the other half after the job is done."

Boone could hardly wait to get away from the foul man in front of him.  He nodded, but it took enormous will to casually rise and stroll out of the bar.  He waited until he got into his car before pulling the envelope out and opening it.  

A pair of smiling green eyes gazed out of the photograph; the attractive woman had been captured in a happy moment.  Her eyes held his attention for a moment. Boone flipped the picture over to read the name:  Zenna Clayton.  

Throwing the picture on the seat next to him, Boone started his car and headed home.

WOE: The Cave Of The Old Ones

Prompt:  This week, we’d like you to take an honest look in your toolbox and pull out one of the tools you believe needs a little polishing. You could practice dialogue or character development, narrative description or setting, plot advancement or denouement.  I think that I have a weakness in narrative description; I was trying to be more sensory here.  I tend to want to get right to the meat, and skip the set up.  I'm also going to step out of first person, just because that is my comfort zone. Eeek!  

As always, concrit is extremely appreciated! 



Zenna woke up slowly, feeling the unfamiliar warmth surrounding her and snuggling into it until her back became painfully aware of the hardness of the floor beneath her.  Her abdomen fluttered in protest, the baby inside of her demanding movement.  Absently, her palm rubbed small circles on her already protruding belly in a calming gesture.  She took a deep breath, and the rich aroma of cinnamon, vanilla, sandalwood, and something unfamiliar filled her lungs.  Zenna blinked. 



And as her eyes opened, they were pulled upward to what should have been the darkness of the ceiling. Yet light was reflected off of even the tiniest speck of gypsum or quartz above her. Zenna was stunned by the intense beauty. It was as if the entire roof of the cavern had been removed and all the stars in the sky were streaming their light at her. 

It was also overwhelming; she closed her eyes again quickly and turned her head away.  She may not know where she was, but she was very certain that she did not want to vomit. 


Eyes still closed, Zenna sat up, gingerly, stretching to ease the dull pain in her back.  She crossed her legs in front of her.  A light breeze whispered over her skin and ruffled her hair. She smiled; it had almost sounded as though a large pair of wings had just stirred the air into movement.



"Welcome to my home, Zenna Boones-mate," a rich voice resonated in the cavern. "And welcome to your children, as well."

Red Writing Hood: The Doorbell

Prompt: We’d like you to craft a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction around the holiday season, keeping in mind that for some people “the holiday season” begins around Halloween and doesn’t end until well after the New Year is underway.
The piece should begin with “The doorbell rang” and end with “snow began to fall.”
This is fiction, and is sort of connected to this piece and this piece.

The doorbell rang. My tattoo felt hot on my skin, and I knew. I sighed heavily, wiped at my puffy eyes, pulled my robe closed, and shuffled downstairs. As I opened the door, I could hear the voices of carolers drifting in the cold air.

The man that I would love with my last dying breath stood there. Boone. The dragon who had ripped my heart from my chest with his sudden departure two months ago. The heat rolling off of him had melted all of the snow around the front door; I looked up to find Boone's green eyes glowing, his face haggard.

I bit my lip, willing myself not to cry in front of him, and moved toward the living room. He followed. I stood awkwardly in front of the Christmas tree. I clenched my teeth; my emotions were too raw for conversation. I wanted to just scream out my heartache; instead, I kept my eyes down. Boone reached out and wrapped his hand around my wrist, pulling me closer. His touch made my dragon tattoo writhe like a living thing. I cried out at the sensation and then I was pulled into his arms. He was still so much a part of me. My arms knew exactly where they fit to hold him close.

"You are in danger every second that we are together," Boone whispered into my hair. "You know my secret; you know what hunts me and my kind."

He pulled away, lifted my chin so that our eyes met.

"But I simply cannot be without you. I don't want to leave your side ever again. I love you, Z."

I pulled away from Boone and turned toward the window. My tears, and the snow, began to fall.


I can't keep writing about these characters using only pronouns! I like the name of Boone for the guy character, but I'm having trouble with the name for my heroine. Any suggestions?

Red Writing Hood: And Her Glory Shone All Around

Prompt: This week we’d like you to write a piece about hair. It can be about you or one of your characters where hair figures prominently. Don’t just describe it. Use it as a vehicle to tell us something about your character, a situation, you and your life. This is a continuation of my dragon story, here.

A dragon!

Drawn by the light of an enormous fire, Arik watched the dragon from his hiding place in the forest. He had witnessed the change from dragon to woman, stunned. He had stared in disbelief as she stumbled from the fire and crawled to the cooling waters of the lake. As she rose from the water to stand, smoke rolled away from her pale skin, and all was revealed to Arik in the moonlight.

He was transfixed.

Even wet, the dragon’s new hair caught the firelight and consumed it, until the rich obsidian waves seemed to glow in the darkness. Arik could not take his eyes off of the thick, rippling waves of hair that undulated down her shoulders to her waist. Her hair seemed to be a living entity, enticing in its sensuality. He wanted to grab those locks, to feel them flow over the bare skin of his hands. The urge was so visceral that Arik clenched his hands into fists, feeling those tresses slide through his fingers. He drew in a breath.

At his inhalation, the dragon turned slowly toward the darkness surrounding his hiding place, as if she could see Arik, or feel the weight of his stare. Her eyes glowed. He froze.

“I know that you are there, human.” To Arik’s ears, the dragon’s voice was melted chocolate. She held out an open hand toward him.

“Come.”

I should be afraid, he thought. No one would have called him coward for running. Instead, he was intrigued.

He stepped out of the forest and walked toward her.

Red Writing Hood: Roll with the Changes

Prompt: Find the song that will be played during the pivotal scene in the movie based on your magnum opus. With that song playing, write that pivotal scene – it’s your choice whether you write it as a screen play or as it’s played out in your novel. This is a continuation of my dragon story, with the tattoo, and the love interest. I think that I went a tiny bit over 300. Sorry.


I slipped the bartender a twenty when I had arrived, to keep the beers coming instead of questions. I was glad that the bar was quiet and empty for the moment. I was too lost in my thoughts to be on guard, and I didn't need a crowd.

My life seemed to have gone completely offline.

I stared at the tattoo that was now wrapped around my wrist. A red and gold dragon, coiled on the inside of my left wrist, so detailed that the eyes seemed almost to glow. So detailed that all that needlework would have hurt. A lot. Why didn't I remember it?

Andy had been very angry about the tattoo. I would make him look bad, he told me, and would keep him from getting the partnership. Maybe he was right, I thought, and signaled for another beer.

Ever since that gorgeous stranger had kissed me and the tattoo had shown up, things had been different. Nothing in my life was what I wanted anymore, I realized. I didn't want my job and I didn't want Andy. I felt as if I had fallen into an empty grave. I shivered at the image.

The jukebox near the door suddenly began blaring out a song. I turned around, startled.

He stood next to the jukebox, the man of my dreams for the past month. I drank him in, from the black cowboy boots to the smile on his face. That smile told me that anything was possible. My lips tingled, remembering his kiss, my heart coming alive again. He motioned for me to follow, and then stepped outside.

I took a deep breath, blew out the candle of my old life. Then I tossed back the last of my beer, threw some bills and my engagement ring on the bar, and followed that man out the door.

The tattoo on my wrist began to burn.

So if you're tired of the same old story
Oh baby, turn some pages...

Red Writing Hood: Tattoo

Prompt: If you haven’t figured it out, this week, we’d like you to write a piece in which a tattoo figures prominently.

This goes along with THIS and THIS. I personally do not have a tattoo, although I intended to get one when I turned forty. Part of it has to do with a rampant fear of needles, but the fact is that I can't decide what kind of tattoo I want. It has to be something that will hold up to the saggy skin that I will inevitably have, and it has to be something that I won't get bored with in five years.




Mela slowly opened her eyes and realized that she was in her own home. She was not in her bed, but on the floor in front of the fireplace. The fire was burning brightly; it was the shrieking whistle of the kettle that had brought her out of her darkness. She sat up slowly, disoriented. When she could, Mela grabbed the tongs that were propped next to the fire and pulled the kettle off to the side to stop the horrible screaming. A frown creased her brow. She put her hands on the ground to push herself to her feet.

And stared.

There was now a magnificently detailed tattoo of a red and gold dragon coiled on the inside of her left wrist. The veins quickly pulsing underneath the skin of her wrist made the dragon come alive; its tail seemed to undulate as it curled around her arm. In the firelight, the eyes of the dragon appeared to glow, and the smoky breath of the tattoo felt warm. Mela put her fingers on that warmth, incredulous.

She had a sudden image of running through the forest in the twilight, glowing eyes above her, the sound of leathery wings chasing her, falling, then hot breath on the back of her neck, a male voice whispering "You are mine."

And...chanting? Chanting was only for magic. A low moan of fear escaped her.

If anyone saw the tattoo, she would be burned at the stake.

Red Writing Hood: Personal Ad

Prompt: Let’s have fun this week. We want you to write a personal ad for your character, like one you would find on a dating site. The ad should tell us about your character, but should not be a laundry list – and no cliches about walks on the beach.

Make it interesting, unexpected. Is there something your character is trying to hide that you can tell by reading between the lines? Would we know which character it was (if you have a recurring one) by reading the ad? Will something be revealed? We’re not looking for the ad to be part of a piece – we want it to be THE piece. Hmmm...my character is slightly different. Plus, I've never really looked at any personal ads. I know, I'm freaking myself out. Here goes.


Mature Female with "Fiery" Passion Seeks Human Male.

I am a reclusive scholar with a fondness for flying, spelunking, mountains, and lava. I seek a courageous, adventurous male who is strong of mind and purpose. I desire a permanent alliance, as I intend to mate for life. I am to be the matriarch of a large family, so it is vital that my partner be willing to share in the parenting and education of our children, our Gifts. Warriors are preferred; a cunning mind is required. I need someone who is willing to be the Keeper of Secrets, Guardian of Clan, and Protector of Gifts. Loyalty and fidelity are expected and will be rewarded. I have many assets secreted all over the world, so I travel often An acceptance of sudden change may be required; my mate must be able to adapt. Those seeking my favor should apply in person at my home, located on the side of a volcano on the southern-most tip of the continent.

Red Writing Hood: The Ritual of Changing

Prompt: For this week’s prompt, write about a season of change for your character or you. It can be literal or metaphorical. I am trying to continue what I started here. I apologize in advance for any spelling errors; it was late when I wrote this. Concrit is appreciated!

My time came upon me, and the urge to create life became too strong. It pulsed through my blood in rhythm with my heart, until I could not sleep. I must mate.

How?

There were no other dragons, just me, I thought bitterly. I lay in my cave, despairing, and then remembered a story once told by the clan Seer about the Ritual of Changing. I had only heard the story once, and could barely recall the name of the Ritual, much less the story. Now I had hope.

I searched through what archives I could find, traveled from cave to cave. By day I read the rocks. I could find nothing! Until my eye spotted something gleaming on the side of a lonely spire nearby, I was growing desperate. A forgotten dragon lair, with the bleached bones of a human outside its entrance. The gleaming was a sword and shield. Daylight found me poring over dragon archives that were hidden away deeper in the mountain than I ever knew possible.

It was here that I found the answer, in the ritual magic of the dragons. I carefully copied what I needed on a rock of my own; I did not want to disturb this lonely place by removing the secrets it had held close for so long. I took the sword and shield with me, and dropped them as I flew over a pasture on my way home, reasoning that if I had been able to see their gleam, other humans might also.

I prepared for my own Ritual of Changing. I would be unable to eat while in my temporary form, but I would only be changed for a short time. I gathered the required materials; emeralds, obsidian, the bones of a deceased human, a knife made of silver, a small Aspen tree, a plant called rosemary, and a snow-fed lake.

That night, I moved rocks into a circle next to the lake, and breathed onto the broken bits of Aspen in the center to start a fire. I picked up the rosemary plant and walked in a clock-wise circle three times, chanting the ancient words that were now embedded in my mind. I began to sense the bones of my Ancestors stirring in the earth below me. I then held the rosemary over the fire until it began to smoke, and walked the circle another three times. The circle closed, and suddenly my Ancestors were whispering; they surrounded me. Their power filled me, seeking, but I was determined and therefore unafraid. My chanting never slowed as I placed the human bones in the fire, then the emeralds and obsidian. The Ancestors took up my chant. The fire rose higher in response, and the flames appeared blue, indigo and violet. I picked up the knife, held it with both hands over my head. Then I used the knife and sliced open a vein by inserting the blade between the scales on my arm.

Bleeding heavily, I walked into the fire. The flames seemed to feed on my blood and rose even higher. I could hear my Ancestors screaming. Then the Change began; the sudden pain as my bones began to reform made my back arch as I screamed.

I fell, curling up with the pain, the seething pain, and the flames grew even higher, consuming me. I knew no more for a time. I came to myself with the flames still cradling me, and hurled myself from the fire. I staggered, crawling, and finally was able threw myself into the cool waters. I felt the hiss of the steam upon my body. When it stopped, I rose to the surface, stood on two legs instead of my four, and made my way to the shoreline. My scales were gone, and as I looked down my pale skin gleamed in the moonlight.

I would appear human for the next ten days. Now I could mate, and bear offspring.

Red Writing Hood: The Kiss

Prompt: Let's get all steamy up in here and write about sex. But you know us. There's a twist. You can't write about the act. I don't want to read about any heaving bosoms or girded manhood (please tell me someone else giggled besides me). This is based on a dream I had. A really, really, happy dream.


He was standing by the door, bare chested, when I walked out of the bathroom stall.

I have been known to be inattentive to my surroundings, but in retrospect, I would have noticed if anyone had come into the Ladies' room while I was in the stall, because the door creaks. Somehow, he got there without making a sound.

Of this I was certain: he was waiting for me.

I looked up, into his face, so I could stop staring at his perfect abs and how his taut skin disappeared into his pants.

My body reacted viscerally. For the first time I understood what the romance novels meant by their use of the word "lusted".

My Ladies' Room visitor was big, broad shouldered, solid looking, the top of his head nearly touching the ceiling.

Cropped hair so dark that it reflected a blue sheen in the fluorescent lighting.

A jawline carved from stone, dusted with the beginnings of stubble.

Eyes the green of a forest nested between high cheekbones fixed on me with what I can only describe as hunger.

Hunger?

I had time to blink, my mouth slightly agape.

Then this strange, stunning man was holding my face in his huge hands and his lips were on mine.

A sigh escaped him, as if he had been waiting his entire life just to kiss me.

What the heck is a girl to do in these sorts of situations, when a gorgeous, half naked man kisses you?

I kissed him back, of course.

I shivered with intensity of his apparent passion for me. All coherent thought poured out of my head. Goosebumps flowed over my skin, immediately followed by a tingling heat. My legs seemed to lose the power to keep me standing. He pulled me into a tight embrace, lifting me so that my feet no longer touched the floor.

I wanted more. I tried to melt into him, so the kiss would never end.

But it did, dammit.

I remember making a sound of frustration as he pulled away. I was suddenly back on my unsteady feet and he was backing up. Swaying, I touched my lips, staring at my mystery man.

"You are mine," he whispered, smiling. And then he vanished.

Red Writing Hood: The Last Dragon

Prompt: "What you know" doesn't necessarily always mean "your comfort zone." For this week, take what you know out of your comfort zone. Try a new genre, a new time period, a geography you've only dreamed of, fantasy or historical instead of contemporary fiction, try the male POV if you usually write women. Or vice versa. Of course this is fiction. No actual dragons were harmed in the making of this blog post.


In the beginning, there were dragons.

We were many.

Majestic creatures we were, proud of the sleekness of our bright rainbow scales, and the way our wings cut through the air.

And oh, what magnificent flames did we breathe across the sky as we flew!

We were many.

We were content.

We lived in our caves with our clans, guarded by our largest males. We mated for life. We birthed children, as warm-blooded mammals do, not by egg as the legends about us say.

We recorded our long history in the language of our people, written on rocks which were laid deep within the caves where we lived.

When the first Men came to our attention, we discussed what we would do at our yearly meeting of the clans. There were some who wanted to kill, others who wanted to show ourselves and strike fear, but the majority of us were determined to remain hidden, to watch and see.

We watched as the Men grew numerous upon the earth, and at first we did not understand our peril. We did not understand that Man did not eat the fire and rock of volcanoes as we did. We did not understand their need to hunt and kill. We did not understand their hunger to conquer.

We were fools.

And thus it was, that after so many thousands of years, our race began to die. One by one, we perished.

Those dragons who killed men were hunted down and killed themselves. Those dragons who appeared in the sky to seek food were also hunted and slain, and those were our strongest males, our Guardians. The mates of the Guardians grew despondent, and threw themselves at the Men so they could rejoin their mates in death.

Without our guardians, the smaller of us were defenseless, and were slain in turn. We hid deep within the mountains, but Man dug into the mountains for gold and silver and discovered our hiding places. Some of us entered the Sleep of Ages through our ritual magic, never to awaken until the world ended. The rest slowly died of despair, since we could no longer fly. There were no more pure dragons.

Except for me.