Weekend Writer's Retreat - 30

Here's the latest installment of Scorpius' boyhood back story.

Scorpius is a character from my dark fantasy work in progress. For the first twelve scenes posted for the Weekend Writer's Retreat, we follow him as a seven-year-old, outgrown from the nursery where he'd been brought up with the other children of the blood. When no one from his family claimed him, Scorpius was released to serve a scarred and intimidating master.

The next twelve scenes follow Scorpius as a ten-year-old seasoned falconer's apprentice. The more he understands of his world, the more he learns to beware the nobles who come to the cottage for the hunt. The political intrigues that take the lives of its players can burn anyone who comes too close - including a falconer and his boy.

We rejoin him at age thirteen.

You can follow the progress of this story arc by clicking on the Works in Progress link just under the blog header.


Scene 30

He barely noticed the darkening of the sky through the dense canopy of trees, until the persistent drip-drip began to fall on his lashes. Blinking away the vision of Ingerith, of her haughty stare and her smooth curves beckoning from the drape of her bodice, Scorpius tapped the message she’d given to him and tucked securely beneath his vest.

Satisfied that it was still there, he increased his pace, glancing up at the heavy sky. Just when he would have appreciated the protection of the forest, his path took him onto the road now bordered by scrub brush and boulders. Before long he was splashing through puddles, the rain coming in sheets.

He finally rushed up to the door of their cottage, shaking the water from his fingertips before going inside.

His master greeted him wordlessly, tossing him a linen to wrap around himself. As Scorpius shrugged out of his vest, he grabbed it back from where he’d been about to drop it on the sodden pile. Fishing around for the pocket opening, his heart stilled as he realized the paper was soft and about to fall apart at his touch.

He looked up in alarm at Richolf.

His master returned his gaze with a dawning understanding. Turning, he strode across the room, rubbing a hand over his face.

Scorpius carefully retrieved the soaked message, as limp as pastry dough. He laid it on the corner of the table, wishing the cottage was somehow bigger. He peeled out of his leggings and grabbed the linen tightly to cover himself, standing awkwardly for a long moment as Richolf said nothing.

His master had never been one to raise his voice. But Scorpius could feel the unspoken shouting hanging in the air between them. Collecting the drenched bundle of clothes in one arm, he dumped them into a bucket, turning to see his master sit at the table.

Richolf stared unseeing at the wooden surface. More than anything, Scorpius wished he could dash past his master and burrow under his blankets. But the falconer had not raised him to be such a coward. Forcing his feet to take him forward, Scorpius took his own seat at the table.

“I don’t suppose you read it,” Richolf said, finally.

“No, sir.” He wanted to look up, to look into his master’s eyes. He wanted Richolf to know how sorry he was. But he dreaded the disappointment he knew would meet him.

The memory of Ingerith’s gaze blazing down at him in the forest jogged him to recall the words she’d bade him repeat. “Talon,” he blurted without warning. “Gauntlet. Jess.”

Richolf rose and stood there for a terrible moment. He walked slowly to stand beside Scorpius. “What did you say?” he whispered.

“Talon,” Scorpius said as clearly as he could, though he shook. “Gauntlet. Jess.”

“In that order?” Richolf said, his voice stronger now.

“Yes, sir.”

His master walked to the door and strode out into the downpour. Scorpius didn’t see him again for two days.

©

5 on Friday - Set 38

Travis at Trav's Thoughts invites everyone to lay down a short set of music that takes their fancies for his 5 on Friday meme.

Continuing with Halloween Week here at A Piece of My Mind, I've collected five spooky pieces of ballet music that should send shivers up your spines.

1 - Cinderella's Waltz - Cinderella - Ukrainian State Symphony Orchestra

Composed by Sergei Prokofiev



2 - Montagues and Capulets - Romeo and Juliet - Stuttgart Ballet Orchestra

Composed by Sergei Prokofiev

The main spooky theme runs till the 1:49 mark.



3 - La mort d'Hilarion (The death of Hilarion) - Giselle - Tokyo Ballet Orchestra

Composed by Adolphe Adam

Giselle is, at its heart, a ghost story. In this scene the vengeful spirits known as the Wilis (pronounced 'will-eeze') - as in, 'you're giving me the willies' - trap spurned lover Hilarion in the forest and force him to dance to death.

In the ballet, the Wilis are the spirits of young betrayed women who were denied their wedding day and died of broken hearts.



4 - The Augurs of Spring: Dances of the Young Girls - The Rite of Spring - Mariinsky Ballet Orchestra

Composed by Igor Stravinsky

The main spooky theme runs till the 1:35 mark. It definitely brings to mind John Williams' Jaws theme, which followed Stravinsky's composition 62 years later.

This particular performance is a reconstruction of the 1913 original choreography by Vaslav Nijinsky. At the turn of the last century, this music and dance's modernism was so disturbing to the audience at the premiere, they literally rioted.



5 - 1st Tableau and The Enchanted Garden of Kashchei (an evil immortal who terrorizes young women) - The Firebird - Bolshoi State Academic Theater Orchestra

Composed by Igor Stravinsky

The main spooky theme runs till the 4:20 mark.

Thursday Thirteen - 182 - 13 of My Favorite Pop Culture Costumes

In time for Halloween, here are some costumes to which I've always been rather partial.


1 - Rob Roy

Includes a sword














2 - The Phantom of the Opera

Fought with a sword














3 - Scarlett O'Hara's curtain dress

Love her cheeky practicality














4 - Gladiator

Used many swords in the arena














5 - The Pirate King








Pirates of Penzance

Has a rapier sword and a rapier wit - and very sexy thigh-high boots


6 - Willie Wonka

Swings a mean walking stick














7 - The Artful Dodger

Could get a sword if he wanted one





























8 - Mr. Tumnus

I always found it charming that he carried too many things.














9 - Darth Maul

Has a lightsabre





























10 - Xena, Warrior Princess

Has a sword and a chakram (the round frisbee-type weapon she throws)








11 - Laura Ingalls' red calico dress

Got into fistfights in the schoolyard. Always loved her fierce nature.











12 - von Trapp children's curtain playclothes





More cheeky practicality




13 - Elvis Presley's gold lame suit

When I was little, we had this album cover and I used to stare at it, with its multiple images of Elvis and the proclamation: "50,000,000 Elvis fans can't be wrong."

It's so iconic that anyone who wears anything gold lame is referencing this suit. To me, it's the ultimate in establishing that personal brand.

Wordless Wednesday - 172

Poetry Train Monday - 175 - The Hag

Heading into Halloween Week, here's a 362-year-old poem to set the scene.

Happy Haunting!














The Hag

The Hag is astride,
This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
Through thick, and through thin,
Now out, and then in,
Though ne’r so foule be the weather.

A Thorn or a Burr
She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
Through Brakes and through Bryars,
O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.

No Beast, for his food,
Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
While mischiefs, by these,
On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,

The storme will arise,
And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
The ghost from the Tomb
Affrighted shall come,
Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder.

- Robert Herrick, 1648

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Weekend Writer's Retreat - 29

Here's the latest installment of Scorpius' boyhood back story.

Scorpius is a character from my dark fantasy work in progress. For the first twelve scenes posted for the Weekend Writer's Retreat, we follow him as a seven-year-old, outgrown from the nursery where he'd been brought up with the other children of the blood. When no one from his family claimed him, Scorpius was released to serve a scarred and intimidating master.

The next twelve scenes follow Scorpius as a ten-year-old seasoned falconer's apprentice. The more he understands of his world, the more he learns to beware the nobles who come to the cottage for the hunt. The political intrigues that take the lives of its players can burn anyone who comes too close - including a falconer and his boy.

We rejoin him at age thirteen.

You can follow the progress of this story arc by clicking on the Works in Progress link just under the blog header.


Scene 29


Ingerith gazed at him, haughty and frightened. Her lips parted as she caught her breath, her cheeks flushing so prettily. A cautious gaze in every direction made her seem like a girl scrambling to avoid self-made trouble. But when she closed the distance between herself and Scorpius, she moved like a queen.

He returned her gaze as long as he dared. When finally he bowed his head, Scorpius’ skin tingled with her nearness.

“You were not followed?” she asked, a note of admiration in her voice if he wasn’t mistaken.

“No, miss.”

Reaching down to lift her skirts, Ingerith ran her fingers along her stocking, along her thigh to a garter that hugged her there. Scorpius was certain he should not be witness to this. But there was no one here but the two of them. Besides, he’d already seen her with her skirts a-tumble in the woods that day. Though she didn’t know that.

He watched as she slipped a sealed note from between the garter and her firm skin. Swallowing against the lump that seemed to block his throat, Scorpius held a hand out to accept the message from her. When she kept it back from him, he looked up into her eyes.

They danced with amusement and...something else.

“This is for your master’s eyes only.”

Scorpius’ face grew hot with annoyance. “Of course,” he snapped.

Lifting her chin and an eyebrow, Ingerith offered the message to him a second time. Scorpius reached out and took it, being very careful not to make contact with her. He wasn’t sure why.

“In the event that something happens to it,” she said, gesturing regally at the note, “I need you to remember three words.”

Scorpius was about to protest that he wouldn’t let anything happen to the message when his master’s lover placed two fingers over his lips. He couldn’t prevent a gasp escaping him.

Her eyes met his, welling with raw emotion. His heart forgot to beat as she loosened the ribbons at her neck, tugging her neckline to the side, exposing her throat. An ugly red welt encircled her there.

At first he couldn’t imagine how such a mark could have got there. Then he remembered which man Ingerith had laid with in the woods that day. He remembered the blow which that same noble had given him, and the horrible burns and bruises and torn flesh his master had returned with, from that noble's questioning.

Ingerith retied the ribbons, bowing her own head under his scrutiny. When she finally looked up again, her face was clouded with shame. How it hurt him to see it. He’d dreamt of seeing it, had burned to see it in the private moments of the night.

Now he would give anything if she would only cloak herself in her imperious manner. Anything so he wouldn’t have to admit to himself that nothing was as black and white as he wanted them to be.

Taking a deep breath, Ingerith said, “Promise you’ll remember.”

“I swear it,” he said, recalling how his own master had spoken those words after kneeling before the lord who had murdered in the name of the prince. Bending his knee, Scorpius lowered himself before Ingerith. It was a relief to be forced to look up at her.

Her face took on a resolute gravity. Not the arrogance he’d craved, but it would do. She took hold of his shoulders. “The words are ‘talon’, ‘gauntlet’ and ‘jess’.”

“’Talon’, ‘gauntlet’ and ‘jess’,” he repeated.

Her fingers grabbed him by the chin and forced him to look into her face. Ingerith’s eyes now blazed with warning, and that was so much better than the suffering that had darkened her face, moments before. It felt good that her grip was too tight. It served him right for having wished something like the mark around her neck upon her.

“Again,” she said.

He said it as many times as she demanded it. She released him without warning, striding away to head back into the forest. “Remain here for awhile. We cannot be seen together,” she cautioned.

“Yes, miss,” he said as she gave him one final glance. Then she wrapped her kerchief over her face and slipped between the trees into the shadows.

©

5 on Friday - Set 37 by Guest Blogger Susan Helene Gottfried

Travis at Trav's Thoughts invites everyone to lay down a short set of music that takes their fancies for his 5 on Friday meme.

Today I'm handing the microphone over to my good friend Susan Helene Gottfried here at A Piece of My Mind. Susan is one of those people I can't wait to meet in real life - we've been blog friends for several years now, and the idea of kicking back and swapping stories at a pub while we shout over the music appeals like nothing else.

Until then, gather round kids - let's find out what kind of music inspired Susan's fictional rock band ShapeShifter.

*passing mic to Susan*

~~~

Even though Julia claims the whole world knows who my fictional band, ShapeShifter, is and what they're like, I am not so sure. That's because I was having a conversation with a good friend the other night and she was surprised when I drew a comparison between lead singer/rhythm guitarist Mitchell Voss and someone very real.

So let me start this 5 on Friday post by giving you an idea of what ShapeShifter sounds like - to me. I do encourage everyone to create their own image of ShapeShifter, and to let it change and evolve as you read my books and blog and get to know the guys.

1 - Harvester of Sorrow - Metallica

First off is one of my all-time favorite songs, hands-down. It's Metallica. The song is from the ...And Justice For All album.

Harvester of Sorrow. Moscow show; the language is friendlier, the sound is rawer. Plus the charming scenes of the Moscow security not getting it.

What do I love about this song? The guitar sound. It's vintage, it's powerful. Yep, if ShapeShifter were real, they'd head in this musical direction.


Drink up, shoot in
Let the beatings begin
Distributor of pain
Your loss becomes my gain

Anger, misery
You'll suffer unto me

Harvester of sorrow
Language of the mad
Harvester of sorrow

- Hetfield / Ulrich



2 - Keep Away - Godsmack

Song #2 is easier. Sort of. It's Godsmack, and the song is Keep Away From Me. I'm not sure the song matters so much as the essence of Sully, the lead singer. He's sex personified - much as many of Mitchell's fans will tell you HE is.

This is how I often describe the band. Harvester of Sorrow meets Godsmack. In real life, I'm not sure it would work, but this is fiction.


Twisting everything around that you say, yeah
Smack me in my mouth
Two hundred times every other day
Oh, rag me, I don't hear you anymore, not yet
Find out what it means to me
I don't know who you are

Do like I told you
Stay away from me
Never misunderstand me
Keep away from me

- Salvatore Erna



3 - November Rain - Guns N' Roses

One of Trevor's most devoted fans - she convinces her friends to buy my books on a regular basis, in between nudging me for more from the man - says Guns n' Roses' November Rain makes her think of Trevor. It's a ballad, sung by tough-guy Axl Rose. Like Trevor himself, it's epic. And like Trevor himself, it's not what you'd expect from the guy.


Cause nothing lasts forever
And we both know hearts can change
And it's hard to hold a candle
In the cold November rain

Do you need some time on your own?
Do you need some time all alone?
Everybody needs some time on their own
Don't you know you need some time all alone

So never mind the darkness
We still can find a way
Cause nothing lasts forever
Even cold November rain

Don't you think that you need somebody?
Don't you think that you need someone?
Everybody needs somebody
You're not the only one

- Hudson / McKagan / Reed / Rose / Sorum / Stradlin



4 - Turn the Page - Metallica


Song #4 is an oldie but one of my all-time favorite songs. It has less to do with ShapeShifter directly and more with Trevor's Song. It's Bob Seger's Turn the Page, one of THE ultimate road dog songs of all time. This is a pretty recent version done by Metallica, who took an amazing song and elevated it to a level I'd never imagined.

This song fits because I'd originally wanted Trevor's Song to be a road dog book. Then, of course, Trevor took control and made it into what it is now - a better book.




Out there in the spotlight
You're a million miles away
Every ounce of energy
You try and give away
As the sweat pours out your body
Like the music that you play

Later in the evening
As you lie awake in bed
With the echoes of the amplifiers
Ringing in your head
You smoke the day's last cigarette
Remembering what she said

What she said

Yeah, and here I am
On the road again
There I am, up on that stage
Here I go playing star again
There I go, turn the page

- Bob Seger



5 - Prayer - Disturbed

It wasn't easy to think of a song that best describes Mitchell. He's very complex and some of his moodiness is entirely an act. I had to think of music that's deceptive. Powerful yet contained. Promising to blow free, yet at the same time, smooth and likable.

Who else but Disturbed fits that bill? David Draiman's voice is like honey, but his staccato delivery suggests there's something more going on underneath it all.

This song is called Prayer, and it's one of my all-time favorites from Disturbed. On the surface, it seems one thing but underneath, you'll feel the power and the contradictions and all the goodness, waiting to explode. It reminds me of Mitchell, complete with his moody passion.


Let me enlighten you
This is the way I pray
Living just isn't hard enough
Burn me alive inside
Living my life's not hard enough
Take everything away

Return to me
Turn to me
Leave me no one
Cast aside
You've made me turn away

- Donegan / Draiman / Kmak / Wengren

CLICK HERE to watch the video












~~~

Check out ShapeShifter's Musical Hanukkah Celebration over at Susan's contest page. During November and December, Susan will be donating 50% of her book sales to the Mr. Holland's Opus Foundation. This program ensures music students at schools and community centres, as well as individual students, have actual instruments with which to practice.

Thursday Thirteen - 181 - 13 Reasons I Love Going to My Writer's Retreat

1 - Fall is my favorite season, and my writer's group has held its annual retreat in October for the past few years. An already beautiful spot unfurled into grandeur.












2 - My friend Kelly picked me up early Friday morning, as we'd both made sure to have that day free from work. Then we picked up our writing chapter president, Annette, and off we went, already enjoying our getaway with our trip out to White Point Beach. Only an hour and a half out of the city, and there we were. Long enough to be a journey, short enough to give us most of the day at our destination.












3 - We already encountered some exciting weather on the trip down - masterfully navigated by Kelly - but once the three of us settled in at the cottage and began working on our various writing projects, the wind and rain lashed the cottage with the full force of the Atlantic, a twenty-minute walk's distance from our doorstep.

It got a little unnerving at times. But it was also incredibly cozy to be inside and watching the storm from our front row seats.












4 - Once the other retreat-ers arrived, it was time to break out the bubbly. I brought a bottle of prosecco with me, which Jennie shared with me.

Yum.












5 - We played Whose Muse is Whose? Each person brought pictures of two characters they're working on, and we then guessed which writer the character belonged to, and what sort of person we thought he or she was.

There wasn't a high success rate in matching the character to the writer.

But there was a very high success rate at guessing what sort of character the picture conveyed. And really specifically, too. For example, I said "Time traveller dude" for one picture, who turned out to have started life out as a time travelling character, but then became a straight historical one. And everyone keyed into my female character's attraction to the 'bad apple' sort.

A really fun game.












6 - The next afternoon we played two versions of the Add-a-Sentence game. Here we nab an opening sentence from a book, and then each person adds their own sentence to it, resulting in some outrageously funny stories. It's also eye-opening to see what sort of style emerges from someone we think of as writing in a particular genre. Sometimes a women's fiction writer can shock us with something twisted, or an historical writer can zing us with something edgey or macabre.

Guaranteed to result in howls of laughter.
















7 - This is the first year where we didn't have craft-of-writing sessions. Instead we had multiple timed writing sessions so we could work on our own projects.

Every year by the time I get home from the retreat, my brain is on overload from all of those craft sessions. This year I didn't experience the same level of mental fatigue. Considering I'd happily subjected myself to all of that mind-numbing stimulation, you can rest assured it was all good.

But all of those writing sessions helped me to leave the retreat with my goal of completing eight missing scenes for my vampire manuscript accomplished.












8 - Last year we decided we needed more glamour at our retreat.

This year we carried on the tradition and worked it, baby.












9 - More traditions. A good retreat is a subtle blend of discovery and soothing predictabilty. Kelly and I always flourish when we partake in our pinot grigio toast at the Saturday evening dinner at White Point Beach lodge.












10 - Real quote from Nikki, the fetching brunette in charcoal gray beside me:

"Stop hitting on me!"
















11 - Discovered our newest retreat-er, Shawna is a kindred spirit.

Shawna's sleepwear = Xena, Warrior Princess

My dog = Xena, Warrior Princess












12 - More traditions. A renewing walk beside the breakers, past the resort and along the road erupting in color.

Happy sigh.












13 - Ever thought about organizing a writer's retreat in your area?

All you need is an amazing location, a group of writers to share the space and the cost, some organized activity, some unscheduled time to do whatever takes your fancy, lots of delish dishes, a considerable supply of vino, several DVDs like Mamma Mia! and Julie & Julia, a willingness to stretch your creative muscles and a kick-ass brainstorming session to set you off and running for the year ahead.

Nearly Wordless Wednesday - 171

Today is Anti-Homophobia Day. A day to wear purple in support of your gay loved ones and friends.

A perfect day to listen to Start Wearing Purple, don't you think?

Poetry Train Monday - 174 - No Courage Left For the Next Time

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.



It's a backstory poem for my falconer character, Richolf, who is featured in my serialized Saturday fiction. I was just brainstorming his storyline over the weekend at my annual real-life writer's retreat at White Point Beach, Nova Scotia.

I've based him on Scottish-Peruvian actor Henry Ian Cusick.














No Courage Left For the Next Time


Cowering in ceaseless dark
He didn't know what was worse
The waiting
The knowledge there was no more waiting
The tiny flame of hope
The hopelessness
The weight of iron on his wrists
The moment of weightlessness
The sound of their footsteps coming for him
The silence of solitary
Were they coming with food?
Would they drag him down the corridor?
Would they break something?
Would he beg them to stop?
He didn't know what was worse
The memory of his cries, his screams
Or the knowledge there were more lurking inside of him
It was hard to say
Hard to know what was worse
It was all worse
He could see no way out
There was no courage left
For the next time he heard their footsteps
For the next time the keys clicked in the lock
But he was so hungry
So thirsty
Maybe he heard something
Maybe they would bring him something
He had to ride the turbulent hope and dread
He had no choice
The iron pressed down on his wrists
The cold seeped up from the stones
The bruises ached from the last time
His stomach growled
He hoped they arrived soon
He hoped he never saw them again
He couldn't take much more
How long did it take to go mad?
Or was it already too late?


© Julia Smith, Aug. 9, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Alice Audrey says I feel his pain. But then, I felt it when Scorpius swiped him from the guards, too. (note: while reading the serialized Saturday fiction.)

Felicity says I love the last two lines. Brilliant!

Weekend Writer's Retreat - 28

Here's the latest installment of Scorpius' boyhood back story.

Scorpius is a character from my dark fantasy work in progress. For the first twelve scenes posted for the Weekend Writer's Retreat, we follow him as a seven-year-old, outgrown from the nursery where he'd been brought up with the other children of the blood. When no one from his family claimed him, Scorpius was released to serve a scarred and intimidating master.

The next twelve scenes follow Scorpius as a ten-year-old seasoned falconer's apprentice. The more he understands of his world, the more he learns to beware the nobles who come to the cottage for the hunt. The political intrigues that take the lives of its players can burn anyone who comes too close - including a falconer and his boy.

We rejoin him at age thirteen.

You can follow the progress of this story arc by clicking on the Works in Progress link just under the blog header.


Scene 28

Twisted log to the left, a ways back. He was on the right path. Jogging to stay ahead of his jittery nerves, Scorpius kept his sights forward, looking for the second marker.

This one was harder to see. Luckily, he was used to finding game birds sitting silently in their camouflaged plumage. A mossy stump, blending seamlessly with cool leaves, barely caught his eye. Scorpius halted, listening carefully, scanning the forest to be certain he wasn’t being followed.

He turned to face south. To one of the residents of the estate, it might seem that there was no path in that direction at all. Yet to a hunter, the way beckoned, clear and insistent.

Making his way over and under, pressing through the dense weave of branches, Scorpius neared the meeting place. Something his master had expressly forbidden.

“You must not give this directly to her, you understand.”

His stomach twisted into knots. “Meet me,” she’d written. “Do not fail us.”

How could he refuse? Would his master have forbidden this if he’d known she would write such a thing?

So he’d waited out the time she’d set down, picked his way through the woods and now stepped out of the trees into a gorge that opened up without warning. Two rock faces blocked the sun, making him shiver in the cooler air. The cliffs were heavily overgrown with moss, bracken and decaying logs. No paths found their way down. There were no signs of any human travel through the ravine.

The evidence of isolation brought comfort. This was the place.

Choosing a tucked-away lookout, Scorpius settled upon a long-ago toppled tree to await his master’s unfaithful lover. He wasn’t sure why the memory of another man’s hands upon her should hurt so much. Nor why his cheeks flushed.

He tried to think of something else as he waited, but his mind was full of her. He thought of the smile which filled their cottage with joy. He remembered the sound of her throaty laugh, which lifted his heart even as it stirred his body.

Fidgeting on his perch, Scorpius stilled when he thought he’d heard something. There it was again. A flash of movement through the leaves could have been an animal trundling past.

But he was certain it was Ingerith.

She emerged into the ravine clad in tones of brown and black, the need for discretion demanding her face be concealed by a wrap. Scorpius rose to greet her, when a terrible notion struck him. What if this wasn’t Ingerith?

He froze, his heart thudding loudly, so loudly he was certain she could hear it. What if she revealed herself and it was a complete stranger? Would she bring a message, keeping to the plan as Richolf had insisted?

Perhaps this woman was here only to tie up some irritating loose ends.

Scorpius shut his eyes, remembering the terrible wounds his master once wore. The look of absolute dread on Richolf’s face when Scorpius had tumbled out of the cabinet, so near to discovery by the murderous prince. The sound made by the brother as the sword was drawn from his chest.

Richolf had forbidden this. His master knew intimately the consequences of failure. Yet knowing all of this, he’d still sent his apprentice to bring a message to Ingerith. Richolf must have some sort of faith in him.

Scooping up his courage from where it had tumbled away into the ravine, Scorpius drew a deep breath and opened his eyes, just as the woman drew the kerchief down to reveal her face.

© Julia Smith, 2010

Travis Cody says Excellent tension here.

Alice Audrey says Oh sure. Leave us with a cliff hanger.

5 on Friday - Set 36

Travis at Trav's Thoughts invites everyone to lay down a short set of music that takes their fancies for his 5 on Friday meme.

I'm actually at the writer's retreat as you read this.

(sighing with joy)

I'll be around to visit my fellow 5 on Friday participants once I return. In the meantime, settle in for some tunes that are devilishly attractive, each in their own way.

1 - Old Devil Moon - Frank Sinatra

You've got me flying
High and wide
On a magic carpet ride
Full of butterflies inside

Wanna cry, wanna croon
Wanna laugh like a loon
It's that old devil moon
In your eyes

- Harburg / Lane



2 - Sympathy For the Devil - The Rolling Stones

Let me please introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
And I laid traps for troubadours
Who got killed before they reached Bombay

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

Just as every cop is a criminal
And all the sinners saints
As heads is tails
Just call me Lucifer
Cause I'm in need of some restraint

- Jagger / Richards



3 - Lil Devil - The Cult

She came on with an alligator smile
Dynamite lover, scorpion child
She came on with a cyclone kiss
Hey there baby - you don't never miss

Lizard in a bottle
Hey there little devil

Come on little devil, be my little angel
- Astbury / Duffy



4 - Angels and Devils - Echo and the Bunnymen

Note: The music ends at the 4:15 mark. Inexplicable 3:19 of dead air on this upload (?!?)

Call it a day
When night becomes our mad escape
Forgetting the things you mean to say
When all the right words come too late
And everything falls out of place
Under the pillow
Out of the race
Out of the window

Devils on my shoulder

So, so happy
When happiness spells misery
Mister, me hoping to be
Where ugliness meets beauty
And if you'll see
The demon in you
The angel in me
The Jesus in you
The devil in me

Angels on my shoulder

- de Freitas / McCulloch / Pattinson / Sergeant



5 - Devil's Haircut - Beck

Something's wrong, cause my mind is fading
Ghetto blasting disintegrating
Rock 'n roll, know what I'm saying
And everywhere I look
There's a devil waiting

Got a devil's haircut
In my mind

- Beck / Brown / Coulter / King / Scott / Simpson

Thursday Thirteen - 180 - 13 Ways to Build a Story While at the Writer's Retreat

In two days I will be at the annual writer's retreat hosted by my chapter of RWA - the Romance Writers of Atlantic Canada.

I don't think I've missed a retreat since I joined the group. As my friend Kelly said on her blog, "I start looking forward to this event the day I return home from it. It is a highlight of my year and is always a huge blast. Now, if this week would just END so I can GET THERE I’d be all set."

Last year we played the Add-a-Sentence game, where we started with a line from a randomly chosen book off the cottage shelf, then each added a sentence as we passed the paper around. Hope we play it again this year.

It was hilariously revealing.

Here are thirteen lines that wound up telling a twisty tale. I've split some of the sections in order to follow the Thursday Thirteen format. All lines preceeding a name are attributed to that writer.

1 - It's summer. Summer again.
[from the book Summer of Fear but I can't remember the author!]

2 - You can tell by the wardrobe of the the tourists - it's all khaki shorts, hawaiian shirts, and Crocs.

3 - I hate Crocs. [Nikki]

4 - I'm more of a strappy sandal girl. Who wants to spend fifty bucks on a pedicure and then have it covered up with overpriced plastic shoes that look like they belong on clowns? [Michelle]

5 - I killed a clown once.

6 - Pasty coloured bastard with that damn obnoxious red nose. [Kelly]

7 - Then there was the whole arterial-spray problem. [Julia]

8 - Yeah, Crocs. Why is it that the tourists always get them in the most garish colours?

9 - Is being on vacation a license to offend the eyes of all around you? [Jennie]

10 - Perhaps I'll kill the next tourist. Follow him home to his expensive air-conditioned hotel and suck the blood from him until he thrashes in that final moment of blackness. [Lilly]

11 - But shit, I'm getting lonely the last century or so. Maybe the next time I'll stop and turn one, have a pet for awhile. That one, maybe. No crocs. [Heidi]

12 - Then again, they do wash up easily. No DNA to trip me up.

13 - As for pets, I had a puppy once. Delicious! [Annette - with Heidi]

The End!

Photo L to R: Nikki, Annette and Heidi

Wordless Wednesday - 170

Poetry Train Monday - 173 - There For the Taking

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.
















There For the Taking


New day
New blade of grass
New whisker

I'll mow
Snip
Pluck
Shave
Tidy

New dawn
New wave breaking ashore
I'll stand
As it washes over
I'll trust
Anticipate
Rejoice
Reflect
Revive


© Julia Smith, Aug. 3, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Weekend Writer's Retreat - 27

Here's the latest installment of Scorpius' boyhood back story.

Scorpius is a character from my dark fantasy work in progress. For the first twelve scenes posted for the Weekend Writer's Retreat, we follow him as a seven-year-old, outgrown from the nursery where he'd been brought up with the other children of the blood. When no one from his family claimed him, Scorpius was released to serve a scarred and intimidating master.

The next twelve scenes follow Scorpius as a ten-year-old seasoned falconer's apprentice. The more he understands of his world, the more he learns to beware the nobles who come to the cottage for the hunt. The political intrigues that take the lives of its players can burn anyone who comes too close - including a falconer and his boy.

We rejoin him at age thirteen.

You can follow the progress of this story arc by clicking on the Works in Progress link just under the blog header.


Scene 27

Scorpius ran as though demons and dragons were on his heels. When Richolf returned to the cottage, he must never suspect Scorpius had witnessed this latest insult from the noble.

He wove and dodged through the brush, silent and swift. Why hadn’t his master slipped out his own knife? Perhaps if Scorpius had made his presence known, maybe if his master had realized there were two against one, perhaps the noble would have been made to pay for his master’s treatment.

But all he had to do was recall the expressions of dread upon the guards’ faces that night, when the prince had arrived to collect his brother. In truth, it was Richolf and himself who were surrounded. There would be no satisfaction for insults suffered at the hands of any noble who chose to remind a falconer as to who served whom.

For a winded moment he stood before the door, wondering if there was any chance his master could have reached here before him. But upon entering the cottage, he found it empty, his ragged breathing filling their home.

Scorpius wearily scrounged a few bites of food as he’d been told to do, guiltily chewing as he remembered the look of pain on his master’s face. Richolf had known it was bound to happen, hadn’t he? That’s why he’d sent Scorpius away instead of welcoming the assistance of his apprentice on the hunt.

There were things a master did not want his apprentice to see. Scorpius had not listened, and so he was now a witness to things he would never be able to strike from his memory. He stopped chewing, the biscuit dry in his mouth.

From now on, he would obey. From now on, he would be an apprentice his master could be proud of.

It was hard not to jump in alarm when Richolf finally flew through the door. But Scorpius could not let on he expected anything other than a slightly tired master back from serving at the hunt.

Luckily, the look of panic on the falconer’s face would have been enough to make him drop his food in the dish, which is what he did. Scorpius got to his feet. “Sir, what’s the-”

“I need you to hurry to the estate.” Richolf dashed into his room for ink and paper.

Scurrying to set his dish on the sideboard, grabbing up his leather satchel, Scorpius longed to ask his master what was going on. But he’d just now resolved to be good, hadn’t he? Could he not keep that promise for even a moment?

He stood ready and waiting, listening to the scratch-scratch of writing. Richolf rounded the corner into the main room, his attention very far away. He’d neglected to wipe the dirt from his face. Scorpius looked down, reminding himself he would have remarked upon it if he hadn’t already witnessed its origin.

Handing the sealed paper to him, Richolf said, “This must get to Ingerith.”

Scorpius looked up, making sure he stared pointedly at the dirt still clinging to his master’s temple and beard. “Yes, sir.”

Richolf rubbed at the dirt, irritated. When recognition dawned, the defenseless expression clouding his master’s face made Scorpius want to turn away. He swallowed hard.

The falconer drew himself up, as if shrugging off the fear that still darted through his eyes. He ushered Scorpius through the door. “You must not give this directly to her, you understand.”

“No, sir.”

Taking one of Scorpius’ hands in his, he pressed several coins into his palm. “You may need these.”

Scorpius gazed down at the money, the danger pressing down on him. So many questions. Yet he would ask none of them.

Nodding once, he set off at a jog away from the cottage, not looking back. He’d had his fill of seeing that which his master did not want him to see.

© Julia Smith, 2010

Travis Cody says The self-discipline to show us Richolf only through Scorpius enhances the emotional investment in turning the page.

Alice Audrey says I get the feeling they are so far in over their heads that being a good boy won't do Scorpius any good.