Writing

Happy Halloween, everyone! In honor of this spooky time of year, I’d like to share an except from Silver Rose. I’m not much into horror, but this is one of the creepiest things I’ve ever written. Enjoy!

Chapter 32

Separation in the Cave

The mouth of the cave smelled like mildew. I turned my head away in disgust and saw that Mag and Artie had wrinkled their noses as well.

“We’d better go in,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “We won’t find the ice rabbit by standing here.”

Mag and Artie agreed and together, we crept slowly to the cave’s maw.

“I’ll go first,” Mag whispered. “If there’s a yikty in here, it’ll have a hard time facing off against a dragon.”

I could think of no argument for that, so trailing behind Mag, we entered. The cave was slightly damp. I tripped over a rock and caught the wall to steady myself. My hand came away with a layer of moisture.

Artie, who was behind me, reached out a hand to steady me. “This place is freezing,” he said.

“Yikties like the dark and the cold,” Mag said, from the front. “That’s why fire is so effective. They can’t stand the heat.”

Artie and I followed Mag deeper into the cave. The sunlight outside was growing fainter behind us, until it was only a pinprick of light. I had kept the torch from Artie’s shortcut and passed it up to Mag.

We tried to be quiet, so we could sneak up on the yikty, but unfortunately, our feet slapping against the wet rocks were loud. They echoed around the passageway.

Mag paused. “There’s a chamber right in front of us,” she said. “I can hear the yikty, be careful.”

We emerged into the next chamber and saw that the cause of the noise was no more than an echo, but from which of the three archways in front of us, I had no idea.

“Endoraken,” I said, just as Mad Maude had taught me. The middle arch flared up at once with a soft blue light, but then so did the left path, and a second later the right path dazzled me with its brilliance.

“What happened?” I said. “Wasn’t the spell supposed to reveal the yikty’s presence?”

Artie was studying the ground in front of the center path. He picked up something to show it to us. “Its part of the yikty’s armor. It molted right off.”

“Then, the yikty’s that way,” Mag said.

I wandered over to the left path. “There’s some more over here,” I called, holding up a piece of shell.

“Here too,” Mag said, now kneeling before the right arch.

“Now what?” I asked miserably. “How was the yikty able to fool my spell?” “It’s an old thieves’ trick,” Artie said. “Leave a sign of your presence in multiple locations, so your pursuer won’t know which way to turn.

Mag banged her fist against the rock wall. “So what are we supposed to do? It’ll take too long to test every path and it might move at any time.”

“I think,” Artie said quietly, “that we’re going to have to split up.”

I stared at him incredulously. “What?! No, Artie, its much safer if we go together.”

“I agree,” he said, “but what would happen if the yikty discovers us and decides to escape. We’d be too busy checking every path, it would be long gone before we noticed.”

“This leaves us vulnerable,” Mag said. “When one of us finds the yikty, how will the others help?”

“If the yikty isn’t down our path, come back to this chamber and wait for the second person to appear. Then both will take the third and correct path.”

“I don’t like it,” I said.

“It’s the only plan we have,” Artie said grimly.

I gazed at the three arches. Was it my imagination or was the left arch glowing slightly brighter than the other two?

“I’ll take the left path,” I said.

“I’ll go right,” Mag said. Her eyes sparkled with fierce excitement.

“That leaves the center for me,” Artie said.

We clasped hands and I knew Mag and Artie were thinking the same thing as me. Would we ever see each other again?

***

I had a bad feeling about my chosen path when the archway sealed itself behind me. I looked back and saw nothing but a solid rock wall.

“Mag! Artie! Can you hear me?” I whispered as loud as I dared, in case the yikty was nearby. They didn’t answer me, but a roar from deeper into the passageway did.

I slowly turned around and examined my surroundings. I was in another stone chamber. The walls were completely smooth, which struck me as odd. Who would spend all this time smoothing stone in a random cave?

I started forward, my right hand clasped on the hilt of my sword, while my left trailed along the moisture-covered walls. I hadn’t gone more than ten feet when a creaking noise from above attracted my attention.

I rolled away just in time to keep myself from being squashed flat by the rock that had dropped from the ceiling. I lay shaking an inch away.

“So weak,” a soft and dangerous voice said, echoing around the room. “To think the mighty Silver Rose was almost crushed by a meaningless rock.”

I gritted my teeth and stood up, backing away from the rock until my foot hit a curious sort of puddle. I glanced down and hopped away with half my shoe burnt off. I had stepped in a puddle of water that was strangely hot. It was the only hot area in the room. Fire seemed to dance across its surface.

“And so the little heroine is defeated by the very substance her friend hates,” the voice laughed. “I set the traps for her. Boiling water from the mermaids. So hot, even dragons would feel the pain of the heat.”

“Who are you?” I demanded. “Why are you doing this?”

“Who am I?” the voice purred. “Why, Penelope, I’m hurt you don’t recognize me. After all,” a figure stepped from the shadows and I gasped, tripping away from the woman.

She was tall with long, brown hair and green eyes that gazed thoughtfully at me. Her smile was pleasant, just as I remembered it.

“I am your mother,” she finished.

“You can’t,” I said, my voice trembling. “You can’t be my mother. She died two years ago.”

“No, Penelope, I’m very much alive,” the woman who so resembled my mother, said. “Watch.” She held out her hand and a ball of flames appeared.

Unbidden, memories of my mother conjuring a ball of flames flashed through my mind. She used to do that for me when I was young and afraid of the dark.

“You’ve done wonderfully, sweetie,” she said, holding out her hand. “Come with me, we’ll find your friends and escape together.”

I longed to take her hand, to rush to her side and bury my head in her shoulder and cry, but I looked again at her smile and saw it had changed. A moment before, it had been lightness and sweetness, now, however, she was leering at me with malice. I searched her eyes and saw they had turned hungry and black.

I unsheathed my sword and slowly placed the tip against her throat. “You aren’t my mother,” I said quietly. My voice only shook slightly. “‘A rock, watery flames, and the shade.’ The Riddle Chipmunks were right. You’re one of the challenges sent to stop me.”

The woman began to dissolve into dust. Her legs disappeared, followed by her torso, until only her head remained and still I didn’t remove my sword.

“We could have been happy together, Penelope,” the head of the apparition said. “You, me, Lydia, and Malcolm. Now, watch as your mother dies before your eyes again.”

I stumbled forward as the dark version of my mother vanished. I was left with an empty room, a lingering feeling of dread, and tears in my eyes. I shivered as I continued through the chamber to the very back.

Questions rose in my mind. What if that had been my mother? Had she been trying to contact me? Did I kill her a second time? A moan escaped me as I wiped fresh tears away.

“Now, now, now,” a deeper and deadlier voice cooed. “There’s no need for tears. You’ll see your mother again soon.”

The speaker stepped forward and I forgot my misery as I looked upon the face of a giant scorpion. A yikty.

“I’m so glad you made it,” Wansetop said. “It wouldn’t have been any fun without you. Your friends aren’t here to save you now. Prepare yourself. You won’t escape me this time.”

There are two types of writers: discovery and architect. Architect writers meticulously plan every last detail of their writing, before they even start. They’re the type of authors who write an outline. They can write their stories out of order, because they know what’s going to happen anyway. They can write whichever scene seems the most fun to write at any given moment. My brother is an architect writer, so he knows where the story is going.

Discovery writers don’t follow an outline. We write whatever we want, usually in the correct chapter order that the reader we see it. There are no outlines, we just let our characters guide us. Oh, this character just said or did something? Well logically, this scene would happen next. At least, this is how I think. I, personally, think outlines are a waste of time. I want to get to the actual writing as soon as possible.

Most writers fall somewhere in between the two extremes. Architect writers won’t simply stick to the outline, if a new idea grows organically through their writing. They are flexible enough to pivot if it will benefit the story. And discovery writers won’t just wildly write anything and everything that comes to mind. I do have a general idea where the story is going and can plan where my story is going from there.

There are pros and cons with both styles of writing. Architect writers can produce some well-written plots, with foreshadowing and little seeds they plant along the way, but their characters can be a bit stale if they only stick to the outline. Discovery writers can have amazing characterization, but our plots might be all over the place if we ignore even the most basic planning. There’s no right or wrong way to write. Authors should write in whatever style suits them. As for me, I’ll stick with be a discovery writer. I can always fix everything later in the editing process.

Like many other people who live in southern California, I got to experience Hurricane Hilary on August 20th. I’ve lived in California my whole life and there has never been a hurricane in my lifetime. In fact, the last hurricane I can find that hit California was in 1939. None of us knew exactly what to expect.

I didn’t hear of Hurricane Hilary until a few days before it hit. Then, suddenly everyone was talking about it. We were warned that we might have to evacuate, and to brace ourselves for the oncoming storm. My mom had us move the patio furniture, flower pots, and tomato cages from outside the house inside, so that the winds wouldn’t blow it through windows.

The night before the storm, my brother and I saw clouds rolling in with lightning strikes every minute of so. We never heard the thunder, though. Everyone was tense in the morning on Sunday, August 20th. There wasn’t any rain early that morning, so my brother went to work. A few hours after he left, the rain started. At first, it started off light. It would rain lightly for a while, stop, and then start again.

As we entered into the afternoon, the rain suddenly became fierce. I looked outside and saw some of the heaviest rain I’d ever seen. A little before 2:00pm, my phone started to blare out a warning, saying that we were experiencing flash floods and that all residents should stay were they are. Roads started to close. I couldn’t make it in to work that day. I later found out that the store I work in closed early that day, so all the employees could go home.

A few hours later, my brother got off work and started the half-an-hour drive between his job and home. My mom was worried for him on his entire way back. When he finally do get home, he was wet and relieved to be home. He had to drive through quite a few inches of water and he said that it felt more like his car was swimming, rather than driving. My mom gave him a big hug after that.

By the next morning, the rain was gone, but the mud and puddles remained. Everything has dried out now, but I’ll never forget the terror I felt when I saw the power and devastation of Mother Nature.

Lately, I’ve been working on Silver Storm, the third book of my Silver Rose series. I’d like to share a sample from the beginning of the book. Enjoy!

A long time ago, when Alsmora was new, there lived a good king. His name was Nicholas. Everyone prospered under his rule.

But there was a darkness across the valley.

In the nearby mountains, there lived a dragon, a terrible black dragon. Black as midnight. Trapped in endless slumber by a good witch. But everyone feared the dragon would wake again.

Nicholas ruled his people for ten happy years, with no threat of the dragon.

One day, Nicholas was taking a walk near the mountains, when an astonishing sight met his eyes. A young woman stumbled out of the trees at the base of the mountains. Her dress was torn, her hair was a mess, and she appeared close to collapse.

Rushing forward, Nicholas caught the woman as she fell. Her eyes were closed and she seemed unconscious. As Nicholas lowered her to the ground, her eyes fluttered open and she gasped.

“Nithe. The terrible dragon, Nithe, is waking.”

She slipped back into unconsciousness.

Nicholas took the poor woman back to the castle. For three days and nights, she slept. Nicholas waited anxiously outside her door, concerned not only for her well being, but also her cryptic words.

On the fourth day, the woman stirred. Nicholas rushed to her bedside.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“Elton Castle,” Nicholas answered. “I am Nicholas, king of Alsmora. Who are you?”

“Serena, Your Highness. I must warn you. Nithe is waking.”

“Calm yourself, Serena,” Nicholas said soothingly. “Nithe hasn’t woken for a hundred years. What makes you think he is now?”

“Because I have seen him,” Serena said. “I am a sorceress. Recently, I felt a magical surge coming from the mountains. When I went to investigate, I discovered that the dragon will wake in four days, on the day of the solstice.”

“That’s today. I’m sorry, Serena, but you’ve been asleep for three days.”

Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to respond, when the ground began to shake. Nicholas and Serena both turned to the window. Outside, clearly visible, was the peak of the mountain. A black dragon had landed on the top and roared.

“He’s back,” Serena whispered. “We’re too late.”

A few months ago, I was approached by another author and asked if I’d like to be a featured reader at a writer’s group. I agreed. On June 8th, I attended that meeting. It was mostly made up of other writers, all much older than me. But that was fine. I was just happy for a chance to read the first chapter of Silver Rose out loud.

I already knew from the author hosting the meeting that there were three featured authors. What I wasn’t expecting was that there was also an open mic available for anyone else to read. In between the featured readers, members of the audience would get up and read their own work. At least one of these readers was a featured author last month.

While I had prepared my first chapter, most of the other readers had decided on poetry. This surprised me, because poetry isn’t really my strong suit. I appreciate poetry, but I’ve never wanted to be a poet. I’m more visual when it comes to poetry. I need to read it myself to get any meaning out of it. I don’t get that from someone reading poetry to me.

When it was my turn, I stood and read from Silver Rose. I started off nervous, but I got into a groove and finished strong. Relieved to be done, I thanked my audience and started to walk away. Before I could take more than two steps, they started to bombard me with questions. They wanted to know if this was set in the real world, how old my main character Penelope was, and why I had included magic. I explained that this was a fantasy story, so no, it was not set in the real world, Penelope is sixteen, and part of the plot involves her learning to control her magic.

They listened intently, some of them even said that their children and grandchildren would love my book. At the end, they applauded me and said that it was accomplishment for someone as young as me to be an author.

This morning, my cat Cannoli was playing with a new toy. We’ve had a couple of helium-filled balloons floating around my house for a few days. Jenny and Cannoli have been playing with the strings. One of the balloons was out of helium and was lying on the floor. Cannoli walked up to it and batted at it. It popped in his face.

Cannoli didn’t know what to do. He and Jenny were staring at it. Slowly, they approached the popped balloon, unsure if it was a threat. While Jenny busied herself with the string, Cannoli batted at the balloon, checking to see if it was dead. Once he was sure he had killed the balloon, Cannoli wandered off, in search of another balloon to play with.