Moira Zuill

Everything seemed cold, dead. The grey courtyard listened in silence to the wind howling around the stone walls and watched as the crowd of people all dressed in grey, brown or black split ranks, allowing a walk way between the two groups. It was not a funeral. Down the middle of the walk way four knights wearing silver armor, carrying long spears with their black capes trailing behind them escorted a young woman, two in front of her and two behind. Everyone in the crowd turned towards her and bowed their heads immediately, not daring to look into her dark brown eyes. The young woman's brown hair was covered by the black hood of her cloak and she seemed to hide behind it, her dark eyes shifting from side to side. A long flight of steps lay before her and her escort. The platform that the long steps led up to had a tall flat stone set up upon it with a rock table carved from it sticking out of the middle. A man dressed in black robes stood to the right side of the sacred stones, holding a knife in his hand. The young woman drew closer to the broken, sacred steps, taking them fearlessly as she stared straight ahead. She made it up to the platform and turned slightly to stare at the crowd. All of the people down below held complete silence. The man wearing the black robes wordlessly grabbed the woman's left hand and pressed the jagged knife's edge against the palm of her hand. The two locked eyes. Before the woman knew what was happening the blade had cut through her skin and the blood was dripping down into a depression in the rock table. She caught her breath, turning away so that the crowd could not see the pain on her face. The robed man held her hand above the depression, lifting up the knife to the crowd he showed it to them then dropped it on the platform.

“The blood of Moira Zuill blesses us today. The gods receive her sacrifice and will bless us through her rule.”

The woman Moira Zuill closed her eyes, feeling lightheaded as the crowd cheered loudly in excitement and supposed enthusiasm. Zuill felt the robed man bandaging her hand. She opened her eyes, feeling him sprinkle some of her blood on both their garments. Though she never would have admitted it, Moira felt sick and faint. One of her escorts took hold of one of her arms, allowing her to lean upon him. Her blood in the bowl looked black. The robed man turned, taking a box from a pedestal he opened it and took out something that flashed red and silver and he pulled it out, a stark contrast to everything else in the courtyard. It was a crown with scarlet fabric attached all around the ring of the royal possession. Moira managed to stand tall and straight by herself, pulling the hood and cloak away she let it fall. The man walked around the table over to the woman and placed the crown on her head. It was heavy but Moira Zuill would not let it show. The robed man took her bandaged hand and raised it high.

“Moira Zuill, queen of Sccairn, ruler of the northern isles and leader of our people.”

The clouds came in thick and strong over head, covering the sun and moon completely as the crowd cheered, repeating his words. A cold wind blew up from the north, blowing Moira's thin scarlet veil around and plastering it to her face as she watched the crowd. They seemed sincere, happy. Moira could only hope that they were.

The Red House

Stiff wasn't the word for it. My limbs ached horribly and my neck was stuck in a uncomfortable position looking down at my phone screen that blinked on and off slowly. I moved my legs painfully, looking up for a second out the car window. More flat, tasteless grass land. I looked down again. My neck made a weird popping sound. Sixteen whole hours in the car. We stopped once to rest for five or so hours on the side of the road then it was up and out onto to the open road again. I was thrilled. Really, I was. Visionaries. I have a whole family of them, people who will drag you sixteen hours out from no where to maybe, I stress maybe, be able to fix up a old house and make it into a... What was it? Oh yeah, rent it out to potential customers. It was my older sister this time. Yeah, she's a interior designer. She likes to think that I want to be one too so she volunteers me for things like this. It's kind of a interesting company she has. She does the design work and most of the hands on stuff then the whoever owns it tries to rent it out. Marry, my sister was head banging to her 80's hard rock music, her long brown hair flying as she tapped her fingers hard against the steering weal. I winced as she reached over and cranked up the volume.
  "No... Marry, don't..." I almost groaned.
I leaned over and turned it back down to a more respectable volume that would not burst my tender young eardrums. Marry turned back up louder then before. I turned it down. She turned it up. I turned it off.
  "Marry, can we please listen to something that sounds a little less like a bunch of frogs being strangled?"
The air became tense for a moment. This was a touchy subject in our family. Me and mom preferred the classic style, Bach and such like. Marry and my dad though really went for the dark, scream your head off type of thing. It was a rather tricky subject. One time me and mom conspired together to rip out the old car's radio and CD player to stop the pain. It worked for a while, til Marry crashed into our neighbor's barn and we had to get a new car. That was also kind of awkward, the whole barn business. Marry raised one of her dark eyebrows thoughtfully. I widened my eyes expressively to match her intense face.
  "Please?"
She sighed and waved a hand.
  "Fine, have it your way."
I smiled wickedly, reaching down into my purse as I pulled out one of my albums.
  "It's only fair since you dragged me out here."
Marry raised a finger.
  "Hey, I'm paying you this time."
I put the CD in.
  "Yeah..."
The music began to play. I felt sudden relief and my whole body started to relax. Sweet relief... Marry was talking again, about the house.
  "All the tools and paint and stuff we need was delivered to the house already so when we get there all we need to do is organize it and start working."
I gave her a sidelong glance.
  "Where are we staying?"
  "At the house."
  "Yeah... Good, great."
Marry smiled broadly.
  "I know, right?"
  "Yeah," I answered. "It sounds super awesome."
Marry's attention was suddenly drawn to something on the road.
  "Look, look! That's it, that's it, Jill! See it?"
All I could do was blink.
  "Yeah, I do."
Marry's driving skills had never failed to give me heart attacks, life threatening heart attacks mind you. She swung round, barely stopped then crossed the high way and made a dash for the drive way. God was with us. That semi truck was two inches away from hitting us. Marry drove fearlessly into the driveway and stopped the car. My head flew forward and just grazed the dashboard. Marry was already hopping sprightly out of the car.
  "I can't wait... Oh it looks good."
I felt my forehead.
  "It's alright, I'm okay." I muttered, finding the door handle and pushing it til the door slid open.
I got out. Marry was standing near the west wall of the house, her happy demeanor seemingly gone. I glanced at the house. All I could say for the moment was that it was red. Very, very red. I walked around to where my older sister was standing, seeming stunned. I sidled up to her. She didn't seem to notice. I turned to see was she was staring open mouthed at. My jaw feel too. A gigantic hole in the west wall stood staring at us like a huge black eye. There was only a little wall on that side of the three story house. I ran my fingers through my red hair distractedly.
  "A real fixer upper, huh?"
For once Marry seemed almost speechless.
  "Yeah... I guess so."

Learning and aspiring writer for God's glory,
- J.C.

"I am no man."

 

Eowyn is one of my all time favorite characters, both in the Lord of the Rings books and movies. Not because she's the feminist character in the series that proves herself and so on and so forth but because her character goes way beyond anything like that. J.R.R. Tolkien had good, logical reasons for her to do what she did. Her motives were easy to understand and relate to. Eowyn was not a character made up just to prove a point like many female characters are today in novels, her character was treated with due respect and depth. Too many times in a movie or a book there's a character put in there just to show how to tough women are and how they should be treated just like men and yada, yada, yada. If that's the point of your plot fine, I'll deal with it. But putting a character like that into your plot just distracts from your overall theme and message. Have that female character, but don't have her be smarter then all the rest of your protagonists and super strong and have super human running abilities or whatever. In The Lord of the Rings, Eowyn had a logical reason for going to fight with her brother and uncle, maybe not the best choice on her part but it can be justified. That's the important thing. Treat all your characters with the respect they deserve, don't push character traits on them that don't make any since. Most of the time when there's a feminist character in a book it doesn't even match with that character's background. Think carefully, logically about why your characters act the way they do, why they are the person that they are and who influenced them to be that way. If you can figure out that you won't have so many distractions in your books and the plot will be less confusing and more interesting.

Happy writing slash reading!

Learning and aspiring writer for God's glory,

-J.C.

Being Okay with Okay

As a writer I strive for perfection. I spend hours struggling to come up with the 'right' name for my secondary character and days coming up with perfectly tragic ending to my novel. As a writer I want to run away and hide when I miss a word or a comma in a sentence that was supposed to be  The Turning Point in my plot. So I get frustrated, a lot. The words just don't come out write 70% of the time. But that's okay. If you're a young writer or new to writing fiction, you can't expect to write like someone who's been writing for fifteen years when you've only been writing for four. Improving your craft takes practice. A lot of practice. It also takes commitment. That's a tough one, especially when ten thousand different story ideas are poring out of your mind per second. That's actually a good thing, if you can still keep your focus on the novel at hand. I have a problem with that.... To much genius more out of my head, I need to find the plug. The point is, it's okay to not be perfect. Nobody's perfect. There is no perfect way to write fiction, however, there is a good way and a bad. Work on your craft. Brush up on your character arcs, put a little humor in the life of your protagonist, make sure the antagonist is treated with due respect in your plot. Things like that. If you want to be published work on perfecting your novel, not to perfection of course, but to the best it possibly can be. Who knows? Maybe in heaven all us writers will finally get the chance to write the perfect novel but until then, keep working! Writing is work, and fun, and lots of other things.

Happy writing slash reading!

Learning and aspiring writer for God's glory,
- J.C.

Streetwalker

In one of the forgotten back alleys in the Westside City District, sitting curled up beside a dumpster with paper and torn books from the garbage piled on top for warmth a small child huddled beneath a thin shawl, shaking as the cold wind coming through the alley whipped off the crumpled and stained papers that she had piled on to get some insulation. Painfully, the child uncrossed her stiffened arms and slowly pulled her hood back over her head. One long cut ran down her left cheek. Bruises and scratches lined her forehead and chin, dealt out by other children stronger and faster then she ever could be. Digging around in her long dress pocket with a shaky hand her cold fingers rapped around two thin coins. They didn't find them. The wind howled, twisting and swirling about her as it blew the rest of the paper away. The child got up quickly, leaning on the brick wall for support as she drew the rag shawl about her. For a moment she swayed, staring down the street as she held the two coins in her left hand, pressing them hard against her skin to keep herself awake. Knowing that she had to move on the child forced her legs to move. The little figure shuffled down the alley at a slow place, a street light casting a long shadow behind her as she went. Though the girl was beaten up and half starved, she was not all together lost. Running her small, pale hand over the brick wall she came to the end of the alley way and peered around the corner. Lighted signs stood out on that road. The child recognized the area and knew there was a chance of getting food there, she hesitated, seeing several figures standing around the doors of the shops. Under her hood the little girl's grey, hallow eyes reflected the warn lights coming from the open doors. A sound from behind her made her jump. She turned quickly, hearing loud voices laughing and talking together from the alley behind her. Stuffing the two ice cold coins back into her pocket she child darted around the corner and onto the open street, recognizing the voices. Four boys jostled and pushed one another as they walked past the dumpster in the alley. The oldest boy, almost fourteen swore and cursed loudly as he counted the coins in his grimy hands. His companions leaned close as he counted, eager to get their share. The girl ran along the street, rapping her shawl tightly around her thin shoulders. Seeing from the corner of her eye the four boys emerging from the dark alley the child panicked. Changing course suddenly, she turned, making for a thin gap between two crumbling buildings. The oldest boy dropped his coins into a leather sack, slinging it over one shoulder he quickly pointed to the girl making a run for it. The child heard him saying something to his friends then their footsteps sounding quickly on the road. The girl running blind in the dark part of the street she did not see the street's ditch. Her left food slipped and she fell awkwardly into the ditch. Crying out in pain she scrambled to get up clawing at the ditch walls. A large hand descended on her shoulder and she was hulled up out of the ditch and dumped in the opening of the gap that she had been making for. The four boys were standing over her. One of them sighed in disappointment.

“We've already got this one's money just a few days ago. She won't have more.”

The child got up slowly, caging her chances of escape.

“No,” the oldest boy said gruffly. "She got away from we could search her proper."

The girl made a dash for the road again but of the thieves grabbed her arm and jerked her back into their circle.

"Dahn, hold her." the oldest said.

The girl felt her arms being twisted as the oldest boy tore of her hood and shawl then checked both pockets. His short think fingers closed over the two coins. pulling his hand out of the girl's pocket he held them up for his friends to see. The child's heart sank.

"See? I told ya. Probably begged it off of some old woman, didn't you?"

The girl did not answer. The thief hit out at her face with his large fist. The child was knocked to one side but the boy holding her hulled her back to her feet.

"Can't you talk, girl?"

The other thieves were laughing. Panic welled up in the girl's chest as she saw the boy's hand hardening into a fist again. He struck out again at her cheek. She ducked the blow then straining her neck as far back as she could she bit the right arm of the boy that was holding her. Crying out in pain he let go and the girl sprang towards the street, taking the ditch in a leap and scrambling up onto the road the girl dashed off. Disregarding the people on the streets and around the shops the girl looked frantically for a dark place to hide . She did not dare to look back to see if the thieves were following. As she ran she caught sight of a dark hiding place near one of he shops. Darting past several people standing around the open door she ran into the dark alley way and pressed her back against the brick wall, listening for the sounds of the four boys on the street. Faintly she heard the oldest boy curing as he berated his friends for loosing her. Slowly, with her strength fading the girl slid down the brick wall until she was sitting with her legs pulled up to her chin. Eyes half closed she watches the four boys pounding past her on the road, calling out dire threats. The child turned her head away and slowly closed her eyes, shivering uncontrollably as the wind whipped about her. If the child had been able to read the sign sticking out of the front of the building would have read 'Banryn Family Bakery'. The back door of the bakery swung open and a old man came shuffling out, carrying a bowl of old dishwater. He was about to throw it out when he saw the figure of a child curled up against the building, shaking violently. Despite the shaking the girl had still managed to fall half asleep and was unaware of the man.

"Child?" the old man said softly.

The little girl jumped at the sound of his voice, her head jerking up. At the sight of the old baker the child scrambled back and stood to her feet. The man held up his free hand, speaking slowly to the girl in a calm voice.

"Are you lost, child?"

The girl shook her head silently. The old baker pored the water out quickly then set the bowl aside, looking concerned.

"Is your home near?"

Again, the girl shook her head.

"Where are your parents?"

She did not answer. The child stared up at him with her bleak grey eyes, saying nothing. The old man offered his hand.

"You'll freeze out here, child. Come in. Me and my wife will get you some food and warm clothes."

Not wanting to take his hand the girl walked walked past him towards the door. The man took the bowl and followed her in, shutting the door behind him. Feeling more like a captive then a welcomed guest the child was led through the old baker's kitchens towards the front of the house but stopped at the sight of all the people waiting in a line for the large counter. A elderly woman stood at the counter, taking orders from the clients. The old baker patted the child's shoulder kindly.

"It's okay, child. No one will hurt you hear. Cirna," he said, beckoning to the woman at the counter.

The woman walked over to the two and listened to the old baker as he spoke in a quiet voice to her.

"I found this child outside on the street. She's scared of people, I don't know if she can talk but.. Could you get her something to eat?"

Cirna smiled and nodded.

"Of course I can."

The child followed the woman rather reluctantly, staying close to the wall as she kept her head down. Cirna led the child into a side room and set her down at a small wooden table then brought a bowl of soup and a piece of a freshly baked loaf of bread and set it down on the table. The child grabbed the bread without looking at Cirna and began wolfing it down. Cirna leaned against the wall and rubbed her arms slowly, watching the girl eat. The child's blond hair cover in dirt and dust could hardly be recognized as blond and her tattered, thread bare dress hampered her every movement. Having devoured the bread the girl picked up the bowl and her mud smeared face was hidden behind the large dish but Cirna could still just see the child's grey eyes, staring back, watching. Cirna walked over to the table and sat down opposite to the child as the girl put down the now empty bowl. Cirna smiled at the child and spoke in a gentle voice.

"What is your name, child?"

The child cleared her throat and spoke in a hoarse voice.

"Meriel Lastmen."

Cirna chuckled.

"Well you certainly are not the last woman to eat." she paused for a moment then continued. "Are your parents gone?"

Meriel nodded silently. Cirna took the bowl and stood, hearing her husband calling her.

“I'll let you sleep here tonight if you want, Meriel."

Meriel nodded, saying nothing.

The darkness did not seem to press around Meriel as much as usual. Warmth. it was a strange thing. Meriel turned on her side in the little bed, pulling her long tangled hair from her face as she snuggled deeper under the warm blankets. The woman Cirna had led her up to a small room above the kitchens on the second floor and had given her new clothes and warm blankets. Meriel traced the patterns on one of the blankets with her fingers, hearing Cirna and the old baker speaking in low tones to one another in the room beside the one she was in.

"How's the child doing?" the man said, sitting down on a old ripped up couch with a cup of coffee in his work worn hands.

Cirna replied slowly as she folded one of the extra blankets.

"She's fine, Anrin."

"Good," Anrin replied, turning up the lamp on the coffee table beside him. "Well the bakery's all locked up and I've paid all those pesky bills for once. So you got the girl to speak then?"

Cirna nodded.

"I knew you would," Anrin said smiling. "You were always better with children."

Cirna put the blanket she had folded to one side.

"The child said her name was Meriel Lastmen. She said that her parents were gone."

Anrin sighed.

"What child's parents aren't on this planet? Lastmen... Wasn't that some politician from New York, earth or somewhere who came to enforce civilian protection?"

"Shh..." Cirna said softly, glancing at Meriel's closed door.

She walked over to Anrin and sat down beside him.

"He was killed in that bomb raid a couple of weeks ago. It's amazing that Meriel escaped that if she is his daughter."

Meriel turned again on her bed, half asleep she let out a long sigh. Cirna glanced at the closed door again, taking her husband's hand in her own. She spoke softly.

"I think we should let her stay here."

Anrin said up quickly but Cirna but off what he was about to say.

"Please, Anrin, just as long as she wants. She probably won't like us and move on soon."

Anrin shook his head.

"No, Cirna. No, I know where this will go. What if she stays? We can barely keep up with the taxes as it is!"

Cirna tugged on his arm.

"Come on, Anrin. You know we always wanted children but never could have any. Maybe God is blessing us through her.."

Anrin shook his free arm distractedly.

"But we had time for children back then, love. I don't know if I can fit it into the schedule..."

Both were silent for a long time. Cirna bit her lip, looking down at her hands.

"Then why did you rbing her in Anrin? Told me to warm her up and get her something to eat?"

Anrin looked down at his coffee and swished it around for a moment.

"Because she would have freezed out there if she hadn't gotten shelter." he muttered.

Cirna rubbed her hands together slowly.

"Then she will just freeze tomorrow night. Please, Anrin, we prayed for a child for so long, it wouldn't hurt to let her stay here for a couple of nights."

Anrin looked up at Cirna and almost smiled.

"A night or two then. That's all I'm saying for now. Besides, she proabably won't like me and move on soon."

Cirna chuckled softly.

"I think she likes you."

The child in the small back room had finally fallen asleep. Her tightly shut fists opened and she breathed slowly, lolled by the voices of the two bakers.

Learning and aspiring writer for God's glory,
- J.C.