The Wild Hunt

An answer to Kristian's opening sentence prompt...

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When the moon turned blood red she knew. The Wild Hunt had started. The howls of the Sidhe’s hounds chilled Brighid’s blood. She quickly stamped out the meager fire she had just managed to kindle. “If they catch me, what will I become?”

The wind felt like thousands of knives pricking her skin. She ran the short distance to her shelter, managing to trip over the fire wood. She slammed the thin wooden door and slid down the rough surface. The entire structure of the hovel was shaking as the pounding of hooves became thunderous. The shadows on the walls seemed to be dancing and advancing towards her.

She heard the hunting horn and the whoops of the riders. The hounds were yelping in excitement. They had locked onto prey. Something slammed into the door and began scratching at it. Brighid let out a whimper. She heard the crunching of hooves on the fallen leaves. Her nails bit into her palms as she tried her best to stay silent. “There’s nothing here boy.” It was a female’s voice. “Come on, let’s rejoin the hunt.” Brighid held her breath until the sound of galloping faded away. She swiped away the tears that were streaming down her face. Every scenario of why the girl didn’t even try to open the door raced through her mind. Then she heard a piercing shriek and understood. They found somebody else. Another screech pierced the forest and then came the melodious chanting that used to be so soothing. It now caused her to tremble uncontrollably.      

Silence.

Brighid was frozen in place and the only thing she could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ears. Is it over? She raked her pale and shaking hand through her cinnamon hair. She blinked away the tears and let out a breath, “I’m safe,” she whispered. She slowly stood, feeling like a newborn foal. She brushed off the dirt from her roughspun skirt and peaked through the window. There were glittering flakes of white falling in the obsidian night, the first snow of the season. “It’s over.” She fell to her knees in relief, barely noticing the cold breeze that tickled her neck.

“Is it?” It was a male’s voice and sent a spike of ice down her spine. Brighid watched as the window began to frost over. The layers became thicker and thicker until the ice became opaque and she was forced to confront her unwanted companion.

He was swathed in a white cloak of animal fur which almost matched his skin tone. His black hair seemed to be tipped with frost. He was surrounded by a ring of ice that all of the other ice in the room seemed to emanate from. Brighid knew exactly who he was. He was the Winter King.

“M-my lord.” Despite the cold she was sweating.

He had his head cocked and was examining her like she was a stock animal up for auction. “A decent addition, I guess.” His voice was deep. He withdrew a flask and slunk towards Brighid, “Open up.”

Brighid finally found her voice, “Wait! I can be useful. Much more useful in this form.” She started laughing nervously.

He rose an eyebrow. “How?”

“I know what the humans are planning. I know where they are planning to strike.”

“How.”

“I’m easily ignored and when they do notice me, they assume that i don’t understand what they’re talking about. Changelings, after all, are perhaps the least valued denizens of my village.”  Her back hit the wall.

The Sidhe lifted the sapphire flask to her lips. “I’m sure that information will be quite valuable, after you drink.” Brighid sealed her lips together and the Sidhe’s brow knitted together, “It’s only winter wine.” His cold finger trailed down her cheek.

“Winter wine,” Brighid murmured. A bad move because as soon her mouth opened he poured the wine down her throat. It felt like her veins had been flooded with ice water.

The Sidhe smiled. “Welcome to the ranks of the Sidhe. I do hope you will be as useful as you promised.” Brighid’s vision became fuzzy. “It’s time to enter your new life.”

Her world dissolved into thousands of swirling snowflakes.

Who Am I?

Who am I?  A question I have pondered for the longest time; one many others have asked as well. Identity has been something I've struggled with for almost my entire life, but now I think I have an answer.
My name is Alyssa and I'm a freshman biology major from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Ever since I could pick up a pencil I've been a writer. The one I remember writing about two rival fairies fighting to be queen of all the fairy children; I was eight years old.  Back then I only wrote for fun. It wasn't until I was twelve that I began to take writing seriously. I had two other writer friends. We all wrote a collaborative fan fiction that consisted of multiple fandoms. It was enjoyable at first, but as our story progressed I realized I was the only one who had their own characters and plot. The concept of using another world made me uneasy. So what did I do? I started my own story with my own ideas and characters. 
Back then I had no direction. The plot was everywhere. My characters were static. Over the years I've improved tremendously. The little story that started out as a creative outlet is now a full blown novel. Though the plot and characters have changed more times than I can count, this story is my child. It's called Queen of Light, a young adult fantasy that sets to redefine the fantasy genre and its capabilities.

My story is by no means perfect, but after almost seven years of working on it, most of the big issues have been sorted out. My story and writing have come such a long way. It's incredible to look back at the beginning of my journey to see how much I've improved. I've even entered writing contests for with the short stories I've written. This past year I got first place in one held by a local college. 
Now I even mentor other teen writers. Nobody taught me how to write or edit; I taught myself. And I'm grateful that God has given me such a talent. So I use what I know to help those who struggled as I did all those years ago. I'm by no means a perfect writer, I just do my best. I hope my experiences and guidance can make a difference in the lives of writers and readers everywhere. 
Keep writing, my friends. I know you can achieve great things.   

 

 

Prompt for Madison

One of my favorite parts of writing is the first sentence. First sentences can draw in a reader. So Madison, I want you to write a story or poem that starts with this phrase.

The Bang

An origin story. It was tricky to think of a beginning. The beginning of what? A world, a character? It hit me yesterday, and it happened. -Kristian

It started with a bang. 

Not a big bang, by any means. It was more of a hand half heartedly hitting the wall type of bang. A bang that ushers in winter compared to spring.

Markee Owens slid into the world on the newly mopped floor of the Acres High girl’s bathroom.

Feebe’s last priority had been finishing this last floor, this last bathroom. She was a thick girl, with her hair tied back in a severe ponytail that stretched her pale skin and gave the skin around her green eyes premature crow’s feet.  She was well past high school but still young enough to be figuring out what she wanted. She wore old, worn sneakers and loose tan pants and a once loose button up. She’d gained plenty of weight in her stomach the last couple of months, and yet no one asked. 

Feebe had just continued trucking on, rolling out of her small twin bed, shuffling in the morning into the bathroom, often hunched over the toilet puking. A new step in her morning routine. No one asked how she felt. No one asked if she’d seen the doctor. No one asked who the father was. No one asked if she was pregnant.

So she convinced herself that the night never happened. That the brief and intense happiness had never occurred. It’d been a dream.

Until her shirt tightened. 

Until her sick spells became more than a cold, more than a sudden virus or infection. 

That’s when the doctor came into play. And the news was spelled out in clear letters. Pregnant.

Feebe had just finished mopping, as if she knew inside, the inside you hid from, that her contractions and birth would speed up at such a rate that the bathroom would serve as the newborn’s first exposure to the world.  She prided herself on her cleaning speed: bending over, whipping that hand towel into nooks and crannies, and catching the smallest debris.

Now those hands held a newborn baby that was staring at her through slitted eyes, mouth open with no scream. 

That night had really happened. Her calloused fingers brushed over the baby’s wet skin, stopping at the pointed ears. Larger and more shapely than human ears.

That's what one gets when meddling with nonhumans. 

Markee continued to stare at her mother in a quiet, nonhuman fashion, like she was staring at prey.

Feebe brushed off the dread, remembering the brown eyes, lean muscle and soft voice of Markee's father. Everything would be okay. 

Feebe stood up, looking down at the mess she’d have to clean up, and began what she knew best. Cleaning. This time her own flesh and blood.

I Blame The Toast

I've been bad and have been avoiding the origin story. I started it, but currently the background of my world is still in progress. So here's a short story that's a moment between two characters. *hopefully*-Kristian

I Blame The Toast

What was to be said of it? Nothing. Nothing was the state of avoiding, where I let the waves of frustration and anger flow over me, as I entered the void of just being. The images of what I would say, how my body would move seemed so real that I could imagine my nails digging into my palms. But after each discovery I never felt the gratifying pain.

What was to be said? Everything. But everything would cause change, and change would be uncomfortable.

So I moved around the annoyance, brushing off the chip of steam that rose within me. The gifts just large enough to be noticed and small enough for Jem to forget to hide. The need to scream grew within me like a kettle but I swallowed the unsaid words.

But I was always alone, never with anyone for the steam to be directed towards. It was always an item, or a note. Something small.

Until today.

He did it.

The toast was in the oven instead of the toaster. We had a toaster for a reason. I stepped into the kitchen, the tension heavy on my tongue and a veil across my body.

The steam was rising. He had on the watch she bought for him, including the shoes that he bought after receiving her money.

“So. The toaster wasn’t good enough?” I said.

Jem looked up,the rush of oven heat reddening  his cheeks. A slow smirk spread on his face, and his green eyes moved from my face down past my sweatshirt, yoga pants, and finally my shoes. I was wearing everything that I had bought myself thank you very much.

He brushed his black hair from his face. “I tried this at a place and I liked the flavor better.”

I tapped my nails on the counter, tap tap tap. Tap for his ‘place’. Tap for liking the freaking flavor better there. Tap for him not knowing that I knew he was having an affair..

“Oh, the flavor was better,” I said.

He smiled, nodding. He caught my eyes and then squinted for a second before the smile disappeared and turned into a frown. Frowns looked like bad photoshop on him.

He moved past me, and retrieved a plate.

“Yes, the flavor was much better, so I thought I’d try it here,” he said.”What’s wrong?”

I moved to the opposite side of the counter, grabbed my coffee,  and sat down in my chair. I combed my fingers through my thick hair, staring at the black refrigerator that clanked from making ice, and the first picture we’d snapped of each other at New Years years ago. She had been there then.

“Well, I don’t know Jem. Maybe use the equipment we bought to use,” I snapped. “We bought a toaster for toast, just as we brought an oven to---”

“Stop. I wanted to experiment and see if the toast would taste better,” he calmly cut me off.

His fingers touched the toast, the butter bright and yellow and greasy. The edges were a golden brown. Jem took a bite and smiled. “Tastes just like I knew it would.”

I pulled a handful of grapes and smashed them into my mouth. They tasted sour, but I didn’t let it show.

“You’re off today,” I said.

Jem looked at me and began to nod but stopped. “Ye-no. No I am not. I must work to bring honor to the family.”

He laughed. A loud belly laugh while also waving around the second piece of toast. I wanted to trip him to wipe the smirk off of his face. Honor to the family? Were we in Disney now?

“Whatever.” I said, and got up.

Jem ate the second piece of toast with loud chompy chewing. The worst liars were the ones who thought they had everyone fooled. And Jem fit that well.

She and I looked completely different. I was tall, with a bush of black hair and moderate sized body. My eyes were hazel with flecks of grey. Jem said that I was caught up in my head, and only spoke when words needed spoken. We were barely out of college and he couldn’t control himself already. She was in our friend circle. Her, with a sweet smile, slim body and humor that would rival a comedian. And she had baked me cookies. The nerve.

I turned to him, slamming my cup into the sink. “I know.”

Prompt

There was...what?

My favorite mythology (both historical and fictional) systems have incredibly interesting origin stories. This is the one story that the rest of the world's theology, morals, ect is built on.

So Kristian, my prompt for you is to create an origin story.

Wind

I am among you

darting among the trees

glinting green

dancing among the pink petals

I carry the sweet scent of new life

I carry the laughter and smell of salt

the revelry of the sun

I provide cool relief to the farmer

who works the land, our mother

to provide nourishment

Caw! Caw! My friend the crow cries

as I support his wings

when he flies among the harvesters

making the little girl giggle

as she picks her pumpkin

The trees whip as I weave between them

I leave shimmering white in my wake

in this I am cursed

by those who do not appreciate icy beauty

I am the storm

I am the cool relief

on a hot day

I am the blizzard

I am free