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A Sand Flea Breakthrough

esAfter writing the second draft of the Sand Flea for my first National Novel Writing Month, I’ve been stuck.  I tried to rewrite this problem story in Camp NaNoWriMo, but it wasn’t to be, and I failed utterly, despite being psyched up for the challenge.

However, after Two years, I feel I am ready to look at it with fresh eyes, and I realize something.  Ask is the protagonist, but that doesn’t mean the story has to be told through his eyes.  The POV character came shortly after, in the form of Korenila.  This will allow the reader to watch Ask’s outward changes that he wouldn’t notice, give insight into the priestess and her bodyguard Evoxe, and perhaps see more of the world in which they all live.

It should also follow a more solid timeline that the reader can track, and will eliminate the boring points when Ask is bedridden and nothing is happening from his perspective.

This is still his story.  The voice telling it is simply someone else.

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2015 in Announcements

 

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Bugmen Attack

The war was old, and we knew our enemies well– perhaps almost as well as they knew us. That’s what the captain said, at least.

They were reptilian bugmen, with a hive mind that they could connect to and disconnect from at its will. Tough leathery skin on the outside, and unnatural organs on the inside made these beasts, and they were deadly, with built in explosive cores, long claws on hands and feet, and sharp teeth. They lacked eyes, but had strange antennae atop their heads. Read the rest of this entry »

 

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Meet the Scout

When pacing in circles the normal way finally stopped being less boring than sitting, Billy the captured scout began to walk in circles backward.  His nimble feet kept him upright, despite his growing dizziness, and he soon stopped to shake his head in an effort to clear away the strange sensation.

Billy was so horribly bored.  He finally walked back to the cot and flopped onto his back.  The scout closed his eyes and tried to nap the day away, but his legs soon began to tingle, and simply flexing the muscles was not enough to satisfy his restless limbs.  With a groan, he threw himself into a sitting position and pouted.  His capture was neither right, nor fair.  He had not crossed the border, merely taken a peek when he heard sounds of someone in distress. Read the rest of this entry »

 
 

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The life of recovery.

It’s been so long since last I pulled out a book.  I didn’t even finish the last series, despite adoring it.  I will have to restart it another time.  Hm, what’s this on my Kindle?  I’ve not read this before.  Perhaps if I read it, I’ll have inspiring dreams that aren’t about the crap I do all day.

I pressed the selection button and sought out book one in the series.  Ah, there it was.  I set my cell phone down.  My app games could wait until tomorrow.  That familiar warm tingle filled my mind  I bit my lip and shifted my breasts out of the way so I could try reading on my side in my warm bed.  My heated blanket soon heated my cold toes nicely, and I burrowed underneath it while struggling to keep my eyes open and my Kindle visible.  Thus, I entered a world where an old man was trying to write the history of the world and reflecting on his life. Read the rest of this entry »

 
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Posted by on January 30, 2013 in Modern Fiction

 

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Fist to the face!

The starry sky was clear.  It was an unusually warm winter night with a strong wind.  Deceptive howls and whistles surrounded Min and Otto.  Otto squinted up suspiciously at the sky and clenched his strong hands into fists. “Min…” he murmured as he glanced toward the dainty, proud-looking woman.

“Never mind it.  The rumored monster is just a story to scare people.” She waved a slender hand absently and stepped forward, toward the half-bare willow tree.  Half-melted snow slopped and clung to her boots and soaked the hem of her long cloak.

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Posted by on January 19, 2013 in Semihistorical Fiction

 

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The Festival of Icy Lights

Unlit lanterns hung from the eaves of every building in the town, each made of low-quality glass, and filled with bubbles and cracks.  All around, citizens were busily building ice tables, chairs, cups, and plates.  Holes were ground into the tables, and expensive candles were forced into each hole.

Children laughed as they gathered shards of ice from the construction and carried them in buckets to a large pile in the center of town, where young women painstakingly created a tree from shards and packed snow.

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“It’s not wise to let someone like that know your name.”

The villagers milled around the injured young traveler.  None rushed to aid him, nor did they speak to him or otherwise acknowledge his existence.  He called for help, and they ignored him, save to watch his blood slowly leave his body.  He reached to grip at his bleeding hip and snarled.  He held it tightly as he slowly rose.  Every move sent ringing shocks through his body.

Pound.  Pound.

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Posted by on December 6, 2012 in Saldecla, Semihistorical Fiction

 

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