Flash Friday: “Moment of Doubt”

Today’s Flash Friday is a short piece from my upcoming release, DAUGHTER OF ASHES.  I really love the depth of these two characters – they manage to complete each other, without actually needing each other to be complete.  It’s a very interesting relationship. :)

“Moment of Doubt” – excerpt from Legends of Tirum I: DAUGHTER OF ASHES

copyright 1994 by Esther Mitchell

Sala floated back into the fireplace, and the fire suddenly doused itself into little more than hot ash and a few smoldering coals.

Telyn swallowed hard, suddenly edgy now that she was completely alone with Nacaris.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted quietly.

“Shh.” He touched a finger to her lips, stilling her. “I understand there are things you can’t share with anyone. I’m only asking to be a part of what you can share.”

His face filled her vision, and Telyn’s eyes widened as his lips replaced his touch against her mouth in a soft, gentle kiss she never expected from this battle-hardened man. Enclosed in his embrace as he released her lips, Telyn allowed herself to sink against the leather of his tunic and breathe in the scents of man, horse, and travel that clung to him. It was a comforting scent, underscored by something dark, dangerous, and uniquely Nacaris. She sighed regretfully. “I wish–”

“What?” He nuzzled her hair, and stroked a hand lightly over her back. “Talk to me, Telyn.”

She stifled a mirthless laugh. He had no idea how much she struggled to keep her thoughts from him — she already feared they were doomed. “I wish it could always be like this.”

“What, always on the hunt? Roaming endlessly, without a home?” He squeezed her lightly. “Be careful what you wish for, balnyt. Nature is both a capricious and mischievous mistress. You may get what you want, in ways you least desire.”

Telyn shuddered, hearing the ring of prophecy behind those teasing words. She wasn’t fool enough to test them just now. Instead, she burrowed into his embrace and allowed herself a rare moment to be something other than a warrior.

Breaking the Rules: Romance and the Happily Ever After

Warning:  I’m about to make myself largely unpopular with most of the Romance community.

Why?

Because I want to talk about not just bending the rules, but flat-out breaking them.

Of all the areas of fiction that fill library, bookstore, and now internet store shelves, Romance has the biggest market share.  And, at least in terms of the internet, it’s growing rapidly (though this has more, I think, to do with Erotica slowly being lumped under the “Romance” label – and, well, let’s face it, people will ALWAYS pay for a chance to peek into someone else’s sex life – human beings are by nature voyeuristic).  But of all the areas of fiction, the one most in the need of a good shake-up is the Romance industry.

Yes, yes, I know.  You can point to numbers and statistics and claim that Romance is just fine as it is, because blahdity-blah number of units are sold each year, and so on and so forth.  But, if you look a little deeper, you’re going to see something I’ve noticed – that most of those units are being sold to the SAME people.  The die-hard escapists.  The hopeless (or hopeful) romantics.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  There’s nothing wrong with either of these groups (I happen to be very much in the “hopeful romantic” category, myself).  But what I want to know is – what about the OTHER 95% of the reading population?  What about the people who want to know that human beings can connect to one another on more than a physical level, and who also want to see that life’s an adventure, not something to be escaped?  What about the readers who are far too aware of the real world to ever be able (or willing) to escape it?

There’ve been a lot of Romance crossovers in recent years.  Now, there’s Paranormal Romance, Romantic Suspense, Urban Fantasy Romance, Science Fiction Romance, etc, etc, etc.  And this is a good start.  But there’s still a fundamental flaw in the picture.  The Happily Ever After.

Do I wish life was a Fairy Tale, full of HEAs and jaunts around Neverland on a handful of pixi dust?  Hell, yes.  I wish no one ever had to die because someone had a boneheaded idea of fighting to prove their superiority.  I wish people didn’t suffer and die from brutal disease.  I wish we could all ride off into the sunset, and just fade from view at a certain point.

The hopeful romantic in me wishes that love lasted, that everyone felt cherished by someone, and that no child ever suffered pain or hardship.  The romantic in me wishes like hell that abuse, neglect, and torture never happened, and that hate, prejudice, and terror were never born in the human mind or heart.

But the reality exists.  And ignoring it doesn’t make it go away.  So, I’m challenging the Romance industry to take a good look at Happily Ever After, and ask yourself – do you really believe it exists?

Personally, I’m more inclined to believe in Happily For As Long As It Lasts.  And I’m more inclined to believe that some passions, some romances, just aren’t meant to be.  Sometimes, no matter how much we give, how deeply we love, it just never gets a chance to happen.  And maybe the real story is in the love lost, rather than in the sunset kiss.  Maybe the real romance is in what might have been, rather than in “Happily Ever After.”

So, my challenge stands – Take a step outside the box, and ask yourself why this is the unbreakable rule.  Because, speaking from personal experience, the greatest love in life is sometimes the one that never had a chance of surviving.

Flash Friday: “Morpheus”

This week, I’ve taken a departure into something a little bit more unusual.  Many people don’t know this, but along with fiction, I’ve been an avid poet over the years.  I’ve written close to 500 pieces of poetry, on a wide range of subjects.  And one of those poems (one near and dear to my own heart) eventually found its way into story form, of a sort.  So, for this week’s Flash Friday, I offer you something very different, as I unveil the short story/poem that defined a major transition in my own life.

“Morpheus” — A Short Story

copyright 1993 by Esther Mitchell

            The old fountain pen clinks against the side of the inkpot, as if shaking loose what little ink it has managed to find in the dry glass jar.  Then, like the dry rasp of dying man’s last breath, it scrapes across the brittle, yellowed paper.  It is the only sound in the eerie stillness of the dark room.  A single dot of light blooms in the withered void of night, barely sufficient to see by.  Yet, pen trembling, a pale hand endeavors to write, spurred by the weary desperation of its mistress.  Only the night bears witness to her cloudy eyes, to the salty water which slips down her parched cheeks.  As the tears slowly fall from face to page, each drop punctuates the words her hand frantically scribbles:

‘Without earthly thought,’ plip

‘I, nightly, spend this tryst,’ plip

‘wrapped in dreams dearly bought,’ plip

‘which vanish, as dawn’s ethereal mist,’  plip

            The words fall from mind to lips to paper without so much as a whisper.  The matted grey hair that wreathes her face stirs as a breeze slips through the room, changing the dimensions of the darkness for an instant.  She is beyond feeling such winds, beyond seeing these changes in shadows.  Her eyes are fixed solely on her unfinished task.

‘Within pages unwritten,

beyond lives never lived in,

rests forbidden fruit, as yet unbitten,

a knowledge offered but never given’

            Her head slips slowly down, her lined face sagging behind curtains of steel and snow.  It is so easy to slip into that other place, to leave this all behind.  Her mind lives in a younger age, a memory she’s never forgotten, and never will.  Lonely years have greyed her hair and wrinkled her skin, but her gaze holds the starlight of eternal youth.  Nearly a century of distrust and solitude have made her hands shake, and her breath a faint tremble through thin lips, but the bloom of youth still lingers in her heart.  She remembers clearly what the night hours have given her, and what they have taken from her, over the years.  As she remembers, the pen scratches out those memories in a fierce symphony of pain and joy.

‘Nightly here, I’ve reverently slipped,

to dance a dream’s darkness,

safe within Morpheus’ grip,

my heart a dark jewel in his starkness;’

 

‘Here in dreams I am safe from harm,

a fugitive child, held so tightly,

in love’s warmth, childhood’s charm,

here, I escape daylight woes, nightly’

            Age has worn her body down, these loveless years in which sleep has become her only solace, her personal haven.  In her dreams alone did she once meet love, and, over the years, it has been in dreams that she learned the lessons of life.  However, her waking hours have left her empty, longing for a sleep she will not awaken from, a dream that never ends.  Her waking life is as bare as her tiny room. 

            The shuffle of steps moves past her door, and her eyes turn mournful.  No one stops here anymore, and her room has become a cell.  The walls close in more tightly with every day, it seems.  Only night holds reprieve from the endless suffocation.  Only sleep gives her wings beyond her tiny cage of glass and stone.  She slips into sleep as quickly as she can most nights.  As soon as the sun touches the horizon to the west, she escapes into blessed slumber.  But not this night.  No, this night she will not sleep.  But her hours of agitation are nearly at an end, her time of dreaming nearly come, as she labors to create, in these last hours before dawn, a memory of her only haven, her only friend.  In these dark hours between twilight and dawn, she drives away that welcome weariness as she strives to explain her passage from waking to sleeping, to grant a first and last glimpse of her fragile young heart to those who will come in the hours and days after.  The trembling in her hands seems greater now, her control more frayed, as she scrawls her heart onto that yellowed page.

‘Here I’ve found my only home,

a dream well bought and spent,

to dance before a silver throne,

where time’s veil remains unrent’

            Slowly, her head lifts, and her eyes touch the paleness of dawn beyond the horizon outside her small window.  Pain stabs her chest, briefly, and she feels at last the chill, touching every limb.  Shivering, she draws her shawl up about her quaking shoulders with a violently shaking hand.  Her words on the page before her seem blurred, beyond comprehension, and each stroke she makes slants a little more, wobbles about the page like a drunken oaf.  Her hands tremble with the shivering cold of the dawn, a dawn she will not look at, light she refuses to see.  Her watery, weary eyes fix stoically on the page and her lips compress as the last words jerk from pen to page with the squeal of a tortured animal.

‘Now, as dawn slays the night,

so do I leave the waking place,

and though dawn flees from my sight,

I’ll at last see pale Morpheus’ face.’

            A final squeak leaves a trail of inky blackness down the yellow face of the paper, but no hand moves to correct the error, no eyes scan the final line for its ending.  Only the quivering light of dawn, peeping solemnly through the tiny window, notices the frail figure slumped before her writing table, her eyes fixed beyond the waking world as the last spark of starlight gutters away.

Flash Friday: “Her Father’s Keep”

Today’s Flash Friday comes from the second book, still a WIP, from the Legends of Tirum series.  As Telyn undertakes the quest levied on her, will she uncover a secret alliance meant to destroy everything she loves, or can a shadow of her past save her from the ultimate mistake?

“Her Father’s Keep” — excerpted from Legends of Tirum II:  PHOENIX RISING

copyright 2010 by Esther Mitchell

The crumbled ruin of a soaring war keep loomed on the forested horizon, bathed in the bloody streaks of Helios’ setting light.  Telyn’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at the structure, imposing in spite of its dilapidation.  Pain wrenched her heart, startling her.  She’d never been to this place, so why did the mere sight of that decaying ruin fill her with such grief?  Her eyes stung, and she blinked away the tell-tale signs of impending tears.  She didn’t have time for this foolishness.

Determination fueled her forward, toward the destroyed remnants of her father’s lineage – all that remained of her heritage, and the once-mighty Phoenix Clan.  One day, she promised herself silently, she would see it restored.  For now, she intended to search every nook and cranny of the old ruin.  The Phoenix Book was still here.  She could feel it.

Pelarius Brunnari was an evil man, driven by an insatiable desire for power that didn’t rightfully belong to him, but he wasn’t stupid.  Oh, no.  The old fox was wily, right up to the end.  He knew the legends of the Phoenix Book, and probably better than anyone left alive, at that.  It was said, she’d heard whispers once, that the removal of any of the sacred artifacts from those entrusted with their care would not only render the artifact useless, but also quite dangerous to the one who did the removing.  The Aerai Majin, it was said, made sure of that.  And those whispers confirmed Telyn’s gut feeling – the Phoenix Book never really left Phoenix Hall.

Excitement pulsed a fiery song through her veins as she urged Bloodcloud toward the forest surrounding Phoenix Hall.  She had no fear of its darkness – her Bathron eyes would grant her vision even in its darkest corners and brambles.  And, if Kishfa rode with her this night, she’d have the Phoenix Book in her hands before the morning light.

Interested to know more?  See how it all begins in Book I: DAUGHTER OF ASHES, due out from Desert Breeze Publishing June 2010!