Your shadow has a lot to say.
Enter the Benevolent Intruder
/
Image by ImaArtist on Pixabay
The Patron found him in the garden he planted for his beloved before they wed.
He had created an Eden of her favorite flowers to welcome his bride home, surrounding the house with lilies in every size and color.
Narrow paths wove through the blooms; some were the color of wine, while others were golden and streaked with black, and still others blushed deep magenta. Pure white callas made regal sentinels that lined the path along the way to the pillars of the portico at the front door.
The garden of lilies became more splendid with every passing year after his wife died.
Their stalks grew taller and the bulbs thickened until the blooms were the largest he’d ever seen, perfuming the air with sweet musk as they opened.
The Vagabond came in early spring, just after the girl’s thirteenth birthday.
A light rain fell that morning, sun shining through clouds and drizzle, making ribbons of light and water over the house and garden when he saw the young man among the lilies. Dressed in patchwork clothes, with the heavy rucksack of a wanderer at his feet, his mouth was agape as he stared around the garden.
“I beg your pardon,” the Patron said, “but are you lost?”
“Not this time,” the stranger answered, turning in circles and shaking his head at the profusion of blooms growing taller than he. “But everybody’s a bit lost, don’t you think?”
His voice had the smooth texture of aged cognac, but he was a vagabond for certain. His command of language was that of a citizen, but his accent drawled of faraway places.
“Can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought,” the Patron replied.
The Vagabond faced him then and smiled.
His teeth were brilliant against his tan skin, golden brown eyes sparkling as he removed his worn hat. Instead of bowing to introduce himself, he leaned his head back to allow droplets of rain on his face. He closed his lids, the flares of his nose puckering from the long swallow of air.
“Smells like heaven here,” he sighed. “I’ve been just about everywhere, but I’ve never come across anything like this.”
“Is that what you’re doing here? Coming across something new?”
“No,” the Vagabond said, pulling his head up and peering at the Patron. “I’ve come to work and they tell me you have a more generous heart than most.”
“Did they? I guess that depends on what you can do.”
“I can do lots of things, but I like to work with horses whenever I can. I have a nice way with them.”
“Oh really?” the Patron said, cocking one brow.
“Yeah. Really.”
The Patron chuckled and shook his head, unable to resist the urge to lead the young man to the barn. He heard the gasp of his visitor and grinned, knowing the sudden change in smell from the garden to the sharp pungency of the stables shocked his senses.
But the Vagabond followed him to the last stall, whistling when he looked inside.
“What a beauty!”
“That he is,” said the Patron. “Still a colt and absolutely uncontrollable.”
His coat was deep gray and his mane and tail could have been spun from silver. The long strands cascaded along the curve of his neck and reached to the ground from his hindquarters. His torso had the same girth, his limbs the same length as most adult stallions.
The Vagabond tapped on the door to bring him closer.
But the colt stayed at the far side of the stall, looking at the visitor with one eye and snuffling.
“Think you could have a way with him?” the Patron asked.
“Sure.”
“Two of my best stable hands are unable to work for a month after trying to break him in. Both men have worked with horses since they could walk and you believe you can do better?”
“I know I can.”
“I don’t think so.”
The Patron beckoned the Vagabond to accompany him back to the garden, feeling foolish and even a bit cruel for misleading him.
“It’s too dangerous,” he continued. “I know nothing about you, but I know that colt. I’ve never seen anything like him and he’s not even full grown.”
The Vagabond grinned and shrugged, yet the Patron sensed bitterness as his handsome features tightened for a moment.
But the Vagabond took in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh, and any signs of wrath disappeared.
Then he looked the Patron in the eye with a directness bordering the offensive. He had never seen a destitute meet him as an equal.
“Sounds like that colt is one that’ll choose his master,” the Vagabond said. “Maybe you should just let him go.”
He chuckled then, with a richness that can only come from the belly.
The sound of the young adventurer’s laughter was infectious, yet brought to mind the warnings the Patron had heard all his life about those who follow no law but their own.
He’d always tried to be generous and fair to those restless souls who showed up at his door, most of them diminished to half-starved wretches. The Patron always gave them decent wages and a good meal.
But out of prudence, he never allowed them stay.
“Thief…”
“Never-do-well…causing trouble wherever he goes…”
“Beware the vagabond and send him on his way…”
The litany of cautions echoed in his memory until the Vagabond interrupted.
“I can handle your colt, Patron. And if I’m wrong, then it’s my tragedy. But what do you stand to lose giving me a chance?”
The Power of the Pan
/
Then I hurled through the trees to the creek bed where I intruded on the Pan in the F*ck.
That stopped me in my tracks.
The girl was splayed on her back on top of a boulder. Her legs bent at the knees and dropped aside to form the portal of the Divine Harlot, where the Pan gripped her hips with his meaty hands and f*cked her mercilessly.
I could see the outline of taut muscles through his furry thighs as the Pan rolled his pelvis. Her full breasts bounced in rhythm to the beat of the beast thrusting in and out of her. Her lips were black cherry red and her cheeks flushed roses, her pale straw-colored hair streaming around her head.
I had never seen anything more beautiful.
This girl was absolutely exquisite in the F*ck.
From her writhing, moaning bliss, I could tell she was no virgin when she had crossed paths with the Pan. But she might as well have been. Chances were she had never been pummeled like this, and she clearly loved it. She arched her back and gyrated her pelvis while reaching for her peak.
The girl’s flesh quivered, her body quaked as she dove into an explosive climax that consumed her in waves. Shrieking ecstatically, the girl was already begging for more.
What a magnificent little whore. She had to have descended from a nymph.
I was so enthralled with watching her I didn’t realize the Pan was watching me.
His hair was so thick, I could barely make out the horns and flying ears. His beard was the same ruddy chestnut as the hair on his head. His features were brutish, with deep set murky eyes and a blunt nose.
The Pan was still hard when he pulled out of the girl. The sight of that huge, engorged c*ck made the blood drain from my face.
I recoiled.
This was not the way things usually happened with the Pans.
According to all the stories I’ve ever heard, I should have been overcome with a searing lust.
Of course, he noticed.
“Huh,” he muttered.
I backed away from him.
The Pan peered intently into my eyes, tilted his head, and grinned.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You belong to Sappho.”
“What’s that mean?”
Suddenly, I was neither afraid nor repelled.
The Pan chuckled.
“Unless you don’t know who Sappho is, you know exactly what I mean. You like girls.”
As soon as he said it, I knew it was true.
Suddenly, my longing for Adele and her vicious torment made far more sense. She probably suspected that about me, and fed off my yearning to pump her vanity.
The girl pulled herself upright on the boulder, still quivering.
The Pan picked her up by the rump, and she tried to wrap her legs around him. Instead, he set her on the ground, and directed her towards me.
Once she was closer, I noticed she was a few years older than I. Her eyes still bleary from the F*ck, but her gaze cleared and brightened when she saw me.
The girl looked me up and down slowly, and smiled.
It took every bit of self-control I had to hold still. Every part of me wanted to tremble.
Even with her hair tangled and her skin flushed from the F*ck, she looked more like a Madonna than the wanton slut I’d just seen getting pounded and relishing it.
“Oh my,” she said breathlessly, and turned her face to the Pan. “Is she going to join us?”
“Do you want her to?” he asked.
The girl moaned and threw her head back. She had a lovely, long throat and her deep red lips curved in a smile.
“I do,” she murmured. “I want to play with her while you f*ck me.”
I blazed when she said that.
“And then I want to watch while you fuck her.”
I froze.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” the Pan said.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t think she wants me.”
“How is that possible?”
“Because she wants you,” the Pan replied. “I think she wants you really bad. As bad as you want me so bad you’re dripping for me right now.”
“Really?” the girl murmured, her mossy green eyes intent on me. “If you’re right, maybe I can change her mind.”
I’ve never been at a loss for words at any time in my life before or after that moment. The wetness between my legs made me blush.
The girl giggled at the expression on my face.
“Hello there,” she called out. “I’m Heather. What’s your name?”
I paused, still unable to speak.
“You have a name, don’t you?”
“Dusky.”
“I like that. It’s sexy. Do you like to play with girls, Dusky?”
“I don’t know. I never have.”
“Have you ever messed around with boys?”
“No.”
“So you’re a total virgin?”
I blushed so hard, I thought I’d pass out.
“I guess so. Yeah.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen. Most people think I’m older.”
Heather nodded slowly and smiled, as she perused me up and down again.
I had seen that rakish expression before. On the faces of men and boys, that look made my skin crawl.
But coming from a slutty Madonna like Heather, that look made my knees shake.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “You have such a strong, womanly body. Do you want me like Pan says you do?”
I nodded before I could stop myself. It was impossible for me in that moment to deny how I felt.
Such was the power of a Pan.
What Happens After One Breaks Free
/
Image by Sasin Tipchai from Pixabay
I had just turned sixteen the first time I met a Pan.
I was also a virgin at the start of that adventure, and I wasn’t by its end.
But things didn’t go as they usually did, maybe because the Pan was in the middle of the F*ck when I came across him.
I saw him in the deepest parts of the forest. Of course, that’s where I found him.
Most of the stories about Pans took place in the natural wild – in the woods, near rocks and cliffs, beside rivers and creeks, and even under waterfalls.
Where else could Pans feel most comfortable shedding their human forms, to don their animal selves, and let the horny half goat live, breathe, and f*ck?
Autumn was at its peak. Not just the trees, but the foliage exploded with the madness vivid color, so vivid that our home was famous for it.
Tourists from all over the world crowded the more famous forests, leaving the more secretive and private woods known only to the locals.
I was in one of these havens, hiking with the girl I considered my best friend at the time.
Adele was a pretty girl, who I both loved and hated in equal measure. I always yearned for more of her, more of her time, more of her attention than she was willing to give.
My treacherous best friend liked the shape of triangles, especially of the human variety. I rarely had the pleasure of enjoying Adele to myself. There was always another best friend or her boyfriend joining us.
On this particular day, we had gotten an early start to go hiking.
Her new best friend of the moment – and my least favorite – was with us.
Adele insisted Lise was necessary, for although we were all sixteen, Lise was the one who had both a license and a car.
She could take us to the oldest parts of the secret woods, far from the tramp and stomp of oblivious tourists who made our larger forests rather unpleasant this time of year.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
I found her personality close to unbearable, and I didn’t understand what Adele saw in Lise, with her simpering smirks, and a grating voice with an insipid tone that worked on my last nerve.
But like most people, Adele had a case of hidden ugly-nasty, which expressed itself through malice. Girls like Lise were made for that kind of poisonous indulgence.
Since triangles are always two sides against one, it was hardly surprising I was on the outs that morning.
Adele and Lise walked arm in arm, either in front of me or behind me, whispering secrets in each other’s ears, and giggling.
I fumed, which is exactly what they wanted. I even realized that at the time, which made my impotent wrath even more palpable.
The forest saved me that day.
To keep from losing my temper and my dignity, I forced my attention on the beauty around me.
The woods were particularly exquisite.
There had been a recent rain. Leaves, a myriad of golden passion and exploding fire, covered the trees; the ground was resplendent and heavy with ample moisture, along with the warmth of changing color as well.
The powerful softness of morning light highlighted the forest canopy, and the colors were most vivid right after the rains.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply through my nostrils. The smoky aroma of autumn permeated the air along with a hint of spice.
I also heard the creek running in the distance. The sound of riotous peace of a waterbed streaming fat with fresh, luscious water brought me back to myself.
As the great-great-granddaughter of a water nymph, this was my favorite element. Water was my savior that gave me strength and power during times of stress.
I opened my eyes again.
I could finally notice the flurry of squirrels, the wing-flap and songs of the birds.
Everything pulsed with life, in this season right before the death of winter.
My heart beat strong inside my breast.
I turned around and faced the not-so-hidden ugly-nasty of Adele and Lise, sniggering at my expense.
The malice gleaming from their eyes was undeniable.
Suddenly, I knew I had been played for a fool to accept the role they gave me.
It was incredible how quickly love-hate dissolved in an instant.
Adele caught on to my indifference immediately. The vicious glee in her face disappeared and her brow furrowed.
If I had possessed less inborn composure, I probably would have laughed out loud. Adele and Lise seemed so dull and ordinary in that moment.
Really, what was I doing with these silly girls? I was borne from magic. I was a descendant of a nymph.
“I’m done,” I said.
“What are you talking about, Dusky?”
“I don’t want to hike with you and Lise anymore. I’m going my own way.”
“Are you nuts?” protested Lise. “We’re more than an hour’s drive from town.”
“Then I’ll be home by nightfall.”
I took off at a violent run.
I became giddy with each stride that took me away from them.
The delirious freedom borne from liberating myself from invisible shackles that rendered me powerless only because I had allowed it to be so.
Adele and Lise didn’t bother chasing after me, because what was the point of futility?
My father was tall and lean, with far more physical power in his physique than his appearance implied. I took after my father in that way.
I was several inches taller than Adele, with longer, stronger limbs. There was no way either she or Lise could keep up, much less catch me.
They shrieked after my departing back.
I didn’t hear all of what Adele said, something innocuous like calling her when I got home.
The euphoria of freedom kept me running hard for nearly twenty minutes.
The forest was a blur of green, while leaping over rocks, cracking twigs, and the earthy spice in the air.
Then I hurled through the trees to the creek bed where I intruded on the Pan in the F*ck.
The Girl Who Didn't Need Anybody
/
Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay
The Patron always put off business for as long as he could.
He never confined himself to his study until the leaves changed color, and only then would he engage in the duties he found so tedious.
This was the time of year when he reacquainted himself with the sounds of his household.
He could recognize the Cook from her heavy shuffle and the maids from their light-footed trots; his daughter’s personal maid and his manservant had similar glides, the tread of the latter heavier than the former.
Their paces made a mesmerizing rhythm, making the dullness of his work more tolerable.
Late one afternoon, his concentration was interrupted by an unfamiliar tread coming from his daughter’s rooms.
The Patron looked to the ceiling and frowned.
This gait was long and steady with a firm step to the floor, its resonance echoing through the ceiling.
His daughter’s footfall was a whisper, so soft to be almost silent. Many times, a servant or merchant would be startled to turn around and find her standing there, for they hadn’t heard her approach.
The Patron looked at his watch.
The girl was usually on a ride at this time before dinner. Whoever he heard walking above him couldn’t be his daughter.
Stunned that an intruder should be in his home, the Patron rushed from his study and up the stairs.
Her skirts and petticoats swirled around breeches cuffed at her boots. Thus reminded of his daughter’s refusal to ride in a lady’s saddle, the Patron knew it was she who now had the firm tread of a stranger.
In his haste, the Patron almost collided with his daughter at the top of the stairs.
But the girl reeled away from her father, her face pale.
Yet she recovered quickly and stepped back, crossing one foot behind the other and sweeping one side of her skirts to her waist. The girl’s composure restored, color returned to her cheeks as she came out of her curtsy, waiting for her father to allow her to pass.
Embarrassed, the Patron stepped aside.
His daughter descended to the landing.
To his surprise, she stopped before the portrait of his wife. The girl kissed her fingers and then pressed them on the lips in the portrait.
His daughter glanced to the top of the staircase, and flushed when she saw the Patron still watching her.
Yet all the Patron noticed was that she now stood a shade taller than the woman in the painting.
His daughter was now the same exact age as his wife when he had met her.
He looked at her again.
The girl was actually glaring at him, the defiance in her eyes unnerving, even as she curtsied to him once more.
The Patron didn’t return to his study.
He stayed upstairs, listening to the fade of his daughter’s gait as she left for the stables.
He came down a step and sat down, staring at the portrait, while the same question ran through his mind.
When had their daughter grown up?
There he stayed until his manservant startled him out of his reverie with a hint to get ready for dinner.
The Patron watched his daughter closely after that day.
He found it wasn’t just her walk that had changed.
All her life, people whispered what a tragic shame it was the girl didn’t take after her mother. The Patron agreed, although he tried to hide it. The girl’s presence would have been easier to bear if she could have reminded him of his wife.
But he never saw anything, no matter how much he wanted to.
Time had not refined the girl’s features, and she never acquired the languid poise of her mother.
Yet after that day, the Patron noticed the girl radiated an assurance that was unusual for women, and she possessed her own grace, moving with animal freedom.
The Patron also noticed his daughter had grown more animated.
He found she chose satires and comedic novels for her reading, often biting her lower lip to suppress her chuckles.
She also began painting for the first time since her formal education came to an end, singing or humming while working watercolors onto canvas. The Patron often found her on the back portico of the house, where she had a splendid view of the young forest to the east.
The girl always stopped her brushstroke when he came, confusion clouding her features every time she saw him. But the coolness in her eyes was unsettling.
His daughter’s transformation intrigued the Patron.
How had this happened? For nothing had changed.
The girl was still despised everywhere she went.
Rooms fell silent on her entrance.
People stared at her or ignored her, just as they had for years.
But the girl was no longer stricken by it.
Instead, her indifference to what others thought of her was clear as crystal, even though she went through her day as alone as ever. Yet she now had an air of contentment about her, happiness even.
After years of ostracism, his daughter had become the rarest of human mysteries, somebody who didn’t need anybody.
7 New Writing Prompts!
/
Hey y’all,
It never ceases to amaze me the variety of stories that can spur from a few lines.
I’m sharing some lovely graphics complete with excerpts from my novels and blogs that could potentially inspire you to a work of your own. Usually, I come up with original prompts that are not connected to my writing, but I’ve done something similar to this before and I’ve never seen anybody come close to what I wrote. I’m not saying it couldn’t happen, so I’m not worried about plagiarism, at least not really.
Give it a try. You never know what you might come up with.
Enjoy!
8 Nudges to Write Fantasy With These Gorgeous Writing Prompts!
/
I’m going to come straight out and just say it. I’m proud of these!
What’s not to love about beautiful images with a chunk of story to get your creative juices flowing?
It’s that time of year again.
When the faery folk come to dance upon the earth.
So light the way for them beneath the ancient tree.
If you remain still, you might get a glimpse of them.
Be careful though.
If they suspect a trap, they will grab you and imprison your soul in the tree for 1000 years.
“Dance with the Devil, you handsome darling. If you please me, all your dreams will come true.”
“Are you saying you’re the Devil?”
The sensuous woman smiled and shrugged.
“I never thought of the Devil as a woman. So what dance?”
“Tango. Of course.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“I am. Lie upon the yellow lines and the genie will come to grant you three wishes.”
“I thought genies lived in bottles and oil lamps.”
“Times have changed. Genies are now captive beneath the cement of roads and sidewalks.”
“What if a car runs over me?”
“That’s how the portal opens.”
“You must think I’m an idiot.”
“No. That’s the chance you gotta take. How badly do you want this?“
Isabelle knew she was disappearing into the world of words, but she didn’t care.
Carlos begged her to stay, but she shook her head.
“I’d rather cease to exist physically if I get to enjoy all the pleasures of fantasy, of the erotic and romance.”
“What do you want, Isabelle, from the ethers of imagination? You will cease to be.”
”I know, darling Carlos. But ordinary life is mundane. I can’t bear the mundane.”
Bernado’s heart pounded. This was the portal. it had to be.
But how could he get past that brick wall?
If he didn’t, Celeste was lost forever and their parents would perish from heartbreak.
Fern yearned for the glory of humans. As psychic beings, plants healed, soothed, gave solace, and offered insight.
But there was no power. Plants were at the mercy of humans and animals.
Until the day a sad looking woman came into the forest undergrowth and lay down on top of Fern.
Fern felt her sorrow, and knew its time had come. This woman no longer wanted to be human.
“How about if we trade places?” Fern whispered. “You become me and I become you.”
The woman looked right at Fern.
“Is that possible?”
She was emerging. She could feel herself coming back to flesh, blood, and bone.
After so many centuries held captive in the trees, she would be free at last.
“Why now?” she asked. “Why let me go now when the world is so changed?”
“Because we need you to convince humanity to protect us.”
“Why would I do that?”
Ophelia threw herself into the water, but instead of the death she sought in her despair, she found conviction.
She deserved life. Only revenge would do for her father’s death.
Hamlet would suffer.
SO HERE THEY ARE, THE FANTASY WRITING PROMPTS! I HOPE YOU LOVE THE IMAGES AS MUCH AS I LOVED PUTTING THEM TOGETHER. AND I HOPE THEY GET THE STORIES SPINNING!
PEACE,
MONTGOMERY
Writing Advice on Character, Plotting, Novel Structure.
/
Plot first, character second, or character first, plot second?
That is the question many of us struggle with.
General rule of thumb: Characters who drive the plot make up literary fiction; a fully developed plot where the characters come across as ‘flat’ or ‘1-dimensional,’ kind of like actors in a play, make up commercial fiction.
Perhaps that is an oversimplification. But generally speaking, it’s pretty easy to discern when a novel has its foundation in ‘character’ or ‘plot.’
To refer again the marvelous Margaret Grossman, one is either a plot writer or a character writer, and each envies the other their talent.
As a plot writer, I’ve had to research and devise tools to give birth to more intriguing characters – or at least, I think they’re intriguing. But I haven’t a clue how to show those writers who struggle with plot how to develop one.
Remember the post, Engaging Characters or Juicy Plot?
In it, I gave a character checklist for those who write plots but don’t write characters naturally. If you’ve never seen that post, here’s the link.
This is a similar tool I use when I’m struggling with fleshing out characters and why they do the things they do. Since I write plot naturally, I have to work on developing characters. Yet it’s very difficult to give pointers on something that comes naturally, at least it is for me.
Anyhow, on Pinterest, I came across a writer, Penelope Redmont, who offered a very simple and elegant method for developing plot, clearly for those who naturally write character. Here’s that wonderful blog here.
Also, while I’m at it, here is my Cage-Escape-Quest-Dragons-Home, the basic structure for forming chapters and the arc of the novel as a whole. This may help with the character arcs Penelope Redmont refers to in her blog, Plotting Fiction: 3 Plotting Tips to Make Fiction Easy.
And guess what else? Penelope Redmont writes Romance! Regency romance and romantic suspense – ha! Oh, what an odd coincidence that is! For anybody who doesn’t understand why that’s strange and would like to know, check it out here.
The Power of the F*ck
/
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
As wonderful as it was to grow up without shame, the lack of it had its annoying consequences.
Ordinary people thought us a bunch of whores.
It grew tedious to be stared at through narrowed eyes and whispered about from prim lips.
Except for me, of course. I was pointed at for other reasons. But I’ll get to that in due time.
The good-looking rogue didn’t prove he was a Pan by shapeshifting. I think Mamie had always been disappointed by that.
Perhaps he wanted to stay handsome as he f*cked Mamie.
Shapeshifting into a half goat would have distorted his face enough to wipe it clean of beauty.
Or perhaps Great-Aunt Dottie was right that he was second or third generation Pan, and thus less likely or less able to shapeshift.
As Pans always did, whoever seduced my grandmother left her after a full night of the raucous, unrestrained F*ck.
Mamie tried desperately to stay awake to make the night last as long as possible. But eventually, the F*ck exhausted her and she passed out.
As was the usual way, she woke up to an aching c***, shaking limbs, and very alone beside the riverbank where she had enthusiastically given up her maidenhead.
But Mamie never got over her night with the maybe Pan.
Most women didn’t.
Pans were notorious for the siren call of animal lust they awakened in women, as well as their ability to satiate the hunger hidden between a woman’s legs.
No woman who ever crossed their paths was able to resist the sudden urge to f*ck and be f*cked senseless.
The only problem was that stirred up a lifelong craving. For the women would never know such carnal satisfaction again.
They only got to have that one night.
I was sixteen years old the first time I met a Pan.
I was also a virgin at the start of that adventure, and I wasn’t by its end.
But things didn’t go as they usually did, maybe because the Pan was in the middle of the F*ck when I came across him.
I saw him in the oldest parts of the forest. Of course, that’s where I found him.
Most of the stories about Pans took place in the natural wild – in the woods, near rocks and cliffs, beside rivers and creeks, and even under waterfalls.
Where else could Pans feel most comfortable shedding their human forms, to don their animal selves, and let the horny half goat live, breathe, and f*ck?
I was in the woods hiking with the girl I considered my best friend at the time.
Adele was a pretty girl, who I both loved and hated in equal measure.
I always yearned for more of her, more of her time, more of her attention than she was willing to give.
My treacherous best friend liked the shape of triangles, especially of the human variety. I rarely had the pleasure of enjoying Adele to myself. There was always another best friend or her boyfriend joining us.
On this particular day, we had gotten an early start to go hiking.
Her new best friend of the moment – and my least favorite – was with us. Adele insisted Lise was necessary, for she was the one who had a license and a car, and could take us to the oldest part of the woods.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
I found her personality close to unbearable, and I didn’t understand what Adele saw in Lise, with her simpering smirks, and a grating voice with an insipid tone that worked on my last nerve.
But Adele had a taste for malice, and girls like Lise were made for that kind of poisonous indulgence.
Since triangles are always two sides against one, it was hardly surprising I was on the outs that morning.
Adele and Lise walked arm in arm, either in front of me or behind me, whispering secrets in each other’s ears, and giggling.
I fumed, which is exactly what they wanted. I even realized that at the time, which made my impotent wrath even more palpable.
The forest saved me that day.
To keep from losing my temper and my dignity, I forced my attention on the beauty around me.
The woods were particularly exquisite.
It was the middle of spring, right after the rainy season. The moss covering the trees and ground was resplendent and heavy with ample moisture.
The powerful softness of morning light highlighted the forest canopy of dark green, yellow green, bright green, the colors most vivid right after the rains.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply through my nostrils.
The aroma of the last rainfall permeated the earth below, and fed the leaves and budding blossoms, the hint of spice in the air around me.
I also heard the creek in the distance. The sound of riotous peace of a waterbed streaming fat with fresh, luscious water brought me back to myself.
As the great-great-granddaughter of a water nymph, this was my favorite element.
Water was my savior that gave me strength and power during times of stress.
I opened my eyes again. I could finally notice the flurry of squirrels, the wing-flap and songs of the birds.
Everything pulsed with life and my heart beat strong inside my breast.
I turned around and faced the ugly nasty of Adele and Lise, sniggering at my expense. The malice gleaming from their eyes was undeniable.
Suddenly, I knew I was played for a fool to accept the role they gave me.
It’s incredible how quickly love-hate can dissolve in an instant.
Adele caught on to my indifference immediately. The vicious glee in her face disappeared and her brow furrowed.
If I had possessed less inborn composure, I probably would have laughed out loud.
Adele and Lise seemed so dull and ordinary in that moment.
Really, what was I doing with these silly girls? I’m descended from the magic of nymphs.
“I’m done,” I said.
“What are you talking about, Dusky?”
“I don’t want to hike with you and Lise anymore. I’m going my own way.”
“Are you nuts?” protested Lise. “We’re more than an hour’s drive from town.”
“Then I’ll be home by nightfall.”
I took off at a violent run.
I became giddy with each stride that took me away from them.
The delirious freedom borne from liberating myself from invisible shackles that rendered me powerless only because I had allowed it to be so.
Adele and Lise didn’t bother chasing after me, because what’s the point of futility?
My father was tall and lean, with far more physical power in his physique than his appearance implied.
I took after my father in that way. I was several inches taller than Adele, with longer, stronger limbs. There was no way either she or Lise could keep up, much less catch me.
They shrieked after my departing back.
I didn’t hear all of what Adele said, something innocuous like calling her when I got home.
The euphoria of freedom kept me running hard for nearly twenty minutes.
The forest was a blur of green, while leaping over rocks, cracking twigs, and the earthy spice in the air.
Then I hurled through the trees to the creek bed where I intruded on the Pan in the F*ck.
That stopped me in my tracks.
The Beginning of a Long Walk Home
/
Image by Lars_Nissen from Pixabay
For years, I have heard Ella Bandita described as the ugly seductress no man could resist.
I always thought that strange, and not simply because she had always been so lovely to me. Beyond the beauty held in my eyes, the vagabond seductress never had to be beautiful and her savage features made her a legend.
Woman was the most fascinating creature I had ever known. She was also the most dangerous, even in that time I knew her before she became the Thief of Hearts.
So to reduce her to a lack of prettiness always seemed to me the pettiness of an empty mind.
And then there is Adrianna.
Adrianna the Beautiful, the most legendary Courtesan of the Capital City, and they say she grows more beautiful with time.
Thank you for understanding and for your grace, Wanderer.
The time has long passed that I should tell you the story of my Woman who would become your Ella Bandita. But I can no longer do that without sharing the extraordinary stories of the Courtesan who wanted to destroy her.
So much has happened since we parted that this tale will take many days and nights to unfold.
I must start from the beginning, in which you played a crucial role.
I hope you forgive me if I talk about your part in this as if you hadn’t been there. I know it’s irritating, but I need that kind of distance to make sense of the stories I lived through and the stories I heard during these past few months.
So…Wanderer, may I walk with you on your long journey home?
****
The Courtesan’s beauty was staggering.
I had never seen so much flesh in my life as I did in the massive portraits on these walls.
Standing, reclining, full front on, in profile, her back to the artist, the Courtesan was naked in every pose, her silhouette that of an hourglass.
Her full breasts stood high on her chest, her torso curved to a slender waist above rounded hips, her legs were long and tapered. Her skin was creamy and luminous; and black hair cascaded to her waist. Her features were noble; hers was the classical beauty of the highborn class.
But her eyes made her unforgettable.
Beneath arched brows, her large eyes angled on a tilt and mingled the hues of gold and amber. Her steady gaze held the controlled ferocity of a wildcat.
Such fierce scrutiny replicated in portrait after portrait overpowered my senses for a moment.
I turned my back to gather my bearings, only to come back to the incessant pink of the foyer.
How in the devil did I come here?
That’s what I wondered as I encountered again the cavernous entry into the home of Adrianna the Beautiful.
The atrium had soaring ceilings with pale pink satin lining the walls, while mottled pink marble stretched along the floor and up the steps of the sweeping staircase in the middle.
Maybe even the ceiling was pink.
It was impossible to tell because the massive chandelier hanging in the space between the ceiling and the floor reflected pink everywhere.
Hundreds of candles and thousands of crystal droplets married fire and ice when the tiny flames coupled with the glimmering teardrops, then flickered along the marble floor, the stairs, and the walls.
Such a pairing had cast rosy radiance throughout the foyer to render everybody inside timeless and ageless.
Instead of gaining my balance, the glowing majesty of the entryway stirred the memory from that afternoon, which made me light-headed.
I turned back to the paintings.
This time, I found it easier to focus on the portraits lined along the wall north of the wide elegant staircase that cut a dramatic swathe in the center of the foyer.
The woman peered intently at the artist who had painted her.
The loving attention to detail made me wonder if the artist had caressed his lover with each stroke of the brush. Carnality and lawlessness emanated from the Courtesan’s portraits. I could easily imagine a handsome, tormented soul painting with fevered intensity, a creator hopelessly in love with his libertine muse who would only cherish him in the moment.
Perhaps they had made love in between sittings?
Before me were nine paintings displaying the glory of a legendary Courtesan in all the phases of her life.
About five years must have passed in between each portrait.
Her features matured and grew more defined with each painting, as she left the plump bloom of youth behind. Her body ripened to her prime, then past it; silver streaked her glossy black hair more and more in each portrait.
Yet in all the paintings, her expression was much the same.
Those golden eyes sparkled with defiance and unrepentant joy.
Her generous mouth curved in a knowing smirk.
Had she anticipated her future audience when she posed for her portraits? Did she see past the artist, looking to those who would later gaze upon her?
Her stare was relentless.
She dared me to judge her, the scarlet woman who should have been an outcast.
The Bounty Hunter's Last Track
/
The Charmer was found with the same witless expression and glazed eyes of her other conquests, muttering just as those who fell before him.
“Eh…eh…la bandita stole my heart.”
A few days later, the most exclusive courtesan in the city waited for the lover who never came.
Adrianna had not heard the fate that befell the Charmer, and she was livid he dared not keep their appointment.
She had never suffered this indignity before.
She was as notorious for her temper as she was renowned for her allure, and her fury was at its peak when another courtesan came with the dreadful news about her favorite lover.
Then the wrath of Adrianna the Beautiful was all for Ella Bandita.
It was the legendary Courtesan who gathered the women together.
Adrianna the Beautiful made her first visit with her lover’s near widow.
They had a long meeting, Adrianna staying for the better part of the day until she made a rival into a friend. The wife and the mistress sacrificed their most precious jewels to start a reward for the capture of the woman who had felled the Charmer.
Word spread fast.
The other wives and courtesans didn’t need much convincing to join them.
This sisterhood seemed incredible at first, but once the women set their grievances aside, it made sense.
Deprived of widowhood, the Charmer was committed to an asylum where he would be for the rest of his life, and his wife would never be free to marry again. Plenty of ladies shared her fate and courtesans lost some measure of comfort when their lovers were destroyed.
Ella Bandita was a genuine threat to them all, and she had to be stopped.
The women were confident they would find their hero amongst those hired to use outlaw ways to bring outlaws to justice.
Bounty hunters had the freedom to use methods forbidden to lawmen, and theirs was a lonesome calling. Since they gained in wages what they lost in respect, these men dreamed of earning enough to buy a modest estate and retire as a Patron.
The fortune of the women’s jewels was enough to realize this dream for the man who captured or killed the Thief of Hearts.
It wasn’t long before the price on Ella Bandita was the highest ever for a single fugitive.
But to the ladies’ surprise, not one bounty hunter came forth, even though all of them were tempted.
The bounty was unsavory, the first put on the life of a woman and not just any woman.
Perhaps it was fortunate coincidence, but entire villages were liberated from oppression whenever she conquered a tyrant. Many were grateful when she destroyed a Patron who had made their lives a misery.
Ella Bandita was universally feared, but she also had her admirers.
The last to hear about the reward was the man who accepted, the one most despised in his profession.
This Bounty Hunter was a roughneck to his core, devoid of scruples and full of greed. He almost looked a dwarf with short limbs and a powerful torso, his large head and wide face covered with shaggy black hair and beard.
The Bounty Hunter seemed absurd to the women when he promised them relief from their distress within weeks. He hardly looked their picture of a hero.
But he was the only man who came forth, so they were cordial to him.
Not that the Bounty Hunter would have cared if the ladies had been rude. The fortune was all that mattered to him. The thought of it made his mouth water.
Ella Bandita formally became an outlaw once the bounty was accepted.
The lawmen announced she was to be brought to them alive. She was wanted in several countries and failure to cooperate would reap severe consequences.
The Bounty Hunter started in early spring, at the outset of fashionable seasons that would last through the summer, when the Thief of Hearts would be on the prowl. He was confident he’d find her within weeks.
But his prey proved more elusive.
The Bounty Hunter tracked her haunts as he heard about them. He scoured the country and depleted most of his modest fortune for a fresh track that would lead him to her.
Like most greedy people, the Bounty Hunter was miserly.
He probably would have quit if his search hadn’t cost him everything. He had never come across a quarry so elusive. So much so that he became obsessed.
And the lighter his purse became, the more his obsession grew.
The fashion seasons were coming to an end and he had spent almost everything he had.
The ladies were impatient, and almost as bitter as the Bounty Hunter.
Then he found his first real lead.
Ella Bandita had struck several days before in the last of a series of fashion towns. But the witnesses there gave the same answers they had everywhere else.
The interviews was tedious, and the Bounty Hunter was no closer to his mark.
His frustration got the better of him one day and he ignored the appointments made for that afternoon to run his mare through the woods.
That’s when he found it.
During his ride, the Bounty Hunter came to a bald spot in the trees.
The undergrowth had been brushed away, leaving raw earth dotted with tufts of small green shoots.
He pulled his horse to a stop and sniffed.
The Bounty Hunter could almost swear that smoke still lingered in the air as he dismounted.
Plowing the earth with one foot, he dragged the clearing until he found what he was looking for, bits of charred wood. Digging deeper, he found larger pieces with ashes mixed in the dirt where her fire pit was buried.
When he found a scrap of cloth, likely torn from a tent, the Bounty Hunter knew he had found her shelter.
He scanned the site, imagining how it must have looked a month before when Ella Bandita had made her camp there.
The Bounty Hunter shook his head over the money he spent on lodgings where he assumed a lone woman would reside.
What a fool he had been.
Everybody he spoke with said she had the grubby look of a vagabond.
Yet he had never considered the woods.
And if he had, he would have found her months ago.
All the cities and villages she traveled had a forest beyond the town walls, usually just outside the gates.
His heart pounded. The Bounty Hunter imagined the fortune that would be his now that he finally knew where to hunt his prey.
He found Ella Bandita two weeks later.
The Bard's Favorite Villainess
/
Illustration by BANE, Dennis McElroy
Three days of snow covered the village, draping the roofs and windows with blazing white. Flaky chunks fell from the sky on the night for stories, but the children still came.
The older boys helped the Bard’s grandson plow a path to the cabin. He had grown much since the previous summer. He was thin and lanky, with limbs now longer than he was accustomed.
The doors and windows of the cabin glowed from the fire built up in the hearth.
The Bard was in his place, his silhouette black against the crackling tongues of flame shooting up behind him.
The heat soothed the young until the room grew crowded with them sitting, lying, and leaning against each other for comfort and the cabin became hotter than summer, their sweat gluing them to each other.
But tonight the young would bear with the heat.
They were more excited than usual for this night’s tale.
The week before, his own grandson challenged the Bard that Ella Bandita was not truly a seductress, but a vicious trickster.
The Bard sighed and was silent for a few minutes.
Then he promised to prove the seductive prowess of the Thief of Hearts the following week.
His grandson was laughing when he entered the cabin with his friends.
The boys remembered to stop in the cold storage shed and brought with them bags of nuts, frozen berries, ground spices, dried herbs, and jars of mushrooms preserved from summer and autumn.
The Bard watched the boy pull two large skillets down from the hearth and three village girls approaching him before he got to work. The Bard didn’t hear their talk, but he frowned when he saw his grandson’s eyes glint and his mouth curve in a smirking grin.
The boy glanced at his grandfather and flushed.
With more warmth in his smile, he told the girls he had to get supper ready.
Reluctantly they walked away.
The Bard shook his head.
Girls liked that boy more than was good for him and he was becoming precocious[jwwz1] .
A few minutes later, he caught the scent of garlic and cayenne and smiled.
His grandson had a nice touch when it came to cooking. The hash would be spicy tonight, perfect for winter and warming the blood.
The children rumbled, impatient to hear tonight’s story.
The Bard stared into the sea of young faces and hoped tonight’s tale scared the devil out of his grandson.
“Things change when one crosses the line between countries,” he began.
“Our neighbors are different on the other side of No Man’s Land, the woods that separate us from the nation to the west. Their language is not ours, their customs aren’t the same, and their society is more intricate. Here, one is either Patron or peasant. To be Patron is to be noble, to be peasant is to be humble.”
“But there, the highborn are ranked according to their title, and to come from humble origins is to be less than common. Such a society is cruel, often mercenary and always lacking in heart.
“Such a society is a rich hunting ground for Ella Bandita.”
*****
The hunt for Ella Bandita began with the women.
They raged with each new tale about the notorious seductress, these women who spent their lives caring for their beauty and enhancing their manners to appeal to the most desirable men in society.
Wives and courtesans worked hard for their pampered lives, fine gowns, and sparkling jewels.
Ella Bandita was a spit in the face of their world. Ugly in face and grubby in dress, how could this be a woman no man can resist?
To be left as only shadows of their former selves once the Thief of Hearts moved on, her conquests would never be the same again.
The wrath of the women grew alongside the terror of the men.
I’ve never heard of a time when married ladies and harlots of easy living cast their rivalries aside, but they did to stand against her.
Ironically enough, the man who brought them together was more akin to a courtesan than a Patron. He was an easy conquest, not worth a mention if it weren’t for what happened afterwards.
He was a charmer, the one who set all the women against Ella Bandita.
He lived in the city, having arrived in society through a marriage of convenience.
In some ways, the Charmer was blessed amongst fortune hunters.
His wife was lovely, with fair hair and creamy skin. Her beauty would have been almost as appealing as her generous dowry had she not been a malcontent.
Her dreary accent and petulant nature challenged his polished manners every day, and her company grated desperately on his nerves.
The Charmer hadn’t been married a year before he pursued a courtesan who was as exciting as his wife was irritating.
He must have spent quite a bit of her fortune, for he stopped at nothing until he gained the favor of the most sought-after woman of her profession.
She was known as Adrianna the Beautiful.
Dark, fiery, and with a formidable lust, her appetite for pleasure was insatiable, her salons legendary. Her guests were the handsomest, the wealthiest, the most powerful, and the most brilliant men in the city.
She had her pick of lovers from only the best, and she was selective.
The Charmer was far beneath her usual choices, but he was witty and his courtship was relentless. He made himself irresistible enough that Adrianna allowed herself to be seduced.
But the Thief of Hearts ensnared his notice at the opera.
The Charmer was with his wife in a balcony above the stage. His mistress was also present, escorted by a handsome young prince.
They sat across from the Charmer and his wife.
Adrianna the Beautiful even winked at her other lover when neither of their companions was looking.
The Charmer smiled and winked back just before his wife turned to him with a complaint. He made his face a mask of attentive concern, caressing her hand and whispering gentle words until she was quiet.
He saw Ella Bandita as soon as he could look away, his regard drawn to the common seats on the floor where she sat.
The Charmer found her gaze startling and riveting, reminding him of the way a predator stares at prey.
But his attention was diverted when the lights faded and the velvet curtains lifted.
The Charmer forgot about that strange woman in the common seats below, once the performance was under way, for opera was one of the few things he cherished.
Really, the Charmer was a satisfied man, so it was surprising he fell under her spell.
He had a wealthy wife who seemed a Madonna in those blessed moments of silence, a decadent temptress for a mistress, and a life of elegance and leisure.
He was still enjoying himself, the gift of privilege too fresh to take for granted.
Yet perhaps his wife was especially tiresome that evening, or the sight of Adrianna in a blazing red gown made the reality of what she was painfully apparent.
Maybe the Charmer sensed the boredom that would come.
6 Conversational Writing Prompts - Inspiration Through Dialogue!
/
Writing prompt original by Montgomery mahaffey from Free Flying Press
“I take it Rosco talked you into this?”
“That’s one way to look at it, Adele.”
“I’m very pleased you’re staying, Martinez. I didn’t think you would.”
“Yes.”
“Did Rosco blackmail you?”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far.”
“But you are not here willingly.”
“No. I’m not.”
Writing prompts are back. Sweet chunks of dialogue to get your imagination revving! What’s the story behind these intriguing pieces of conversation? One way to find out is to take the deep dive and see what you come up with. Enjoy!
WRITING PROMPT ORIGINAL BY MONTGOMERY MAHAFFEY FROM FREE FLYING PRESS
“What a foolish vanity you have. Lady Fortune is fickle. Luck always changes.”
“Not for me, it doesn’t. You saw what happened here tonight.”
“Tell me, Gambler. Are you looking for the game you can’t win?”
“No. I’m looking to see that I always will.”
“Perhaps you only play the games that are easy to win.”
WRITING PROMPT ORIGINAL BY MONTGOMERY MAHAFFEY FROM FREE FLYING PRESS
“You’ve really gotten yourself into a mess now, darling. Wasn’t I enough trouble for you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your fancy courtesan.”
“She wants you dead, woman.”
“Of course, she does. Beautiful courtesan has lusted for my blood for a long, long time.”
WRITING PROMPT ORIGINAL BY MONTGOMERY MAHAFFEY FROM FREE FLYING PRESS
“Congratulations.”
“Why feign your good wishes? You weren’t cheering for me.”
“Why do you love it? What do you love about gambling? Is it the money you don’t need?”
“No. It’s the games.”
“So you like to play games? Why the games of chance?”
“Because I love to win them.”
“Why not games of skill? The victory would be sweeter.”
“Luck has no play in games of skill.”
WRITING PROMPT ORIGINAL BY MONTGOMERY MAHAFFEY FROM FREE FLYING PRESS
“What about Anthony?”
“What about him?”
“Doesn’t he deserve vengeance?”
“Hell no! That vicious little brute got what he deserved!”
“So what if he was horrid? Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“He’s despicable.”
“Well now, he’s a drooling mess of an imbecile, and your lady love is to blame.”
WRITING PROMPT ORIGINAL BY MONTGOMERY MAHAFFEY FROM FREE FLYING PRESS
“You aren’t the kind to take the coward’s way out.”
I turned around to see the Sorcerer behind me. I was never afraid of the Sorcerer. Not then and not later, not even once I knew what he was capable of.
“I’ve been watching you,” he continued.
“Oh yeah? And what do you see?”
“I see a girl who wants what she can’t have.”
How to Structure Short Stories, Chapters, and Novels
/
Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
One of the greatest gifts I ever received as a writer was the most basic story structure that could be as simple or as complex as the tale needed. This worked for novels, screenplays, short stories, and even poems.
Welcome to the journey of the Inverted “C” - Cage, Escape, Quest, Dragons, and Home.
At the time, that I learned this valuable lesson, I desperately wanted to become a novelist and had no idea how to get started.
Being a voracious reader of novels did not make me adept at writing them.
The Inverted C is very similar to the Joseph Campbell’s narrative structure that is known as the Hero’s Journey.
I like the Inverted C because it is simple and flexible.
However, if anybody struggles with a Quest cursed with a sagging middle, the Hero’s Journey would help to flesh out the meat of the story.
The Inverted C is perfect for beginners.
Over the years, I’ve shared this in 5-10 minutes with friends who were natural writers, but didn’t know what to do when it came to structuring a story.
When it comes to the Inverted C:
1. The arc of the entire novel is to fit the curve of the Inverted C;
2. Every chapter is to be structured on the Inverted C;
3. Every character should have an inverted C storyline, even the minor players.
For the purposes of simplicity, I’ll stick with the protagonist.
Cage: This is where the Protagonist begins.
The Cage could be attractive, the protagonist a Lucky Dude who has everything – beautiful and loving wife/girlfriend (or both), exciting career, beautiful home, Master of the Universe status, etc.
Or the cage could be the prison of misery. A Wretched Dude has a broken spirit, broken bank, addiction, depression, despair, etc.
Escape: Enter the Intruder and the Protagonist leaves the Cage.
The Intruder can be a friend or a foe. A murderer could kill the Lucky Dude’s beautiful wife/girlfriend (or both), and the character is now kicked out of his Cage of a wonderful life.
Or Wretched Dude could be visited by an angel or a demon (or both) and be challenged to change, heal, grow, or perish. Thus Wretched Dude leaves his miserable life to start the Quest.
Quest: What does Protagonist want?
What does Protagonist yearn for?
No Longer Lucky Dude wants vengeance for his dead and beautiful wife/girlfriend (or both). So he has to find the killer, find why the killer chose him and his loved ones, figure out the best revenge for killer, and meet all kinds of characters along the way, one of whom is a Comely Lady Cop.
Wretched But Wanting a Better Life Dude yearns for wholeness, healing, abundance, and redemption. Wretched Dude is in a battle against himself and his inner demons that lead him to make such bad decisions. He still meets friends and foes along the way, those who would help him grow and heal, and those who would keep him stuck, addicted, and toxic. These adventures and journeys make up the bulk of the novel story.
Dragons: The moment of truth.
Challenges/confrontations lead to the Crucial Choice.
Not Lucky Dude finds the killer of his wife/girlfriend (or both), and they battle. He has his chance to torture and kill the killer, and avenge her death (or their deaths). But he has met the Comely Lady Cop is on his tail, knowing that he is on the killer’s tail. Does he let Comely Lady Cop bring killer to justice or does he take it in his own hands?
Not So Wretched Dude has conquered his addictions and is feeling renewed hope in life. He goes to a party to celebrate his acceptance into school, but there are cocaine and a Hooker there. The Hooker’s Pimp is a dealer and it is her job to get Not So Wretched Dude back into his addictions. She pressures him to snort and swallow. Wretched Dude feels an uprising of his self-loathing and takes that silver straw to snort. But then he thinks of all he could have ahead of him. Does he give in to habit and the temptation of his weaknesses, or does he choose redemption and the unknown of a sweeter life?
Home: The destination at the end of the Quest.
Back to the original Cage, on to an open wide Vista, or descending into a deeper and darker Cage.
Has the protagonist changed? Or did the protagonist remain the same?
What did the protagonist learn? Did the protagonist find liberation or did the protagonist die?
Home can be anything from a happy ending to the abyss of despair to emptiness.
Lucky Dude could become Transcendent Dude if he forgives killer enough and chooses a second chance at joy and love with Comely Lady Cop. Or Lucky Dude could become Convict Dude in the Cage of prison by killing killer and getting caught by Comely Lady Cop who lives by her Cop-ly duties even with a man she’s fallen in love with.
Wretched Dude could become Healer Dude if he says no to cocaine and the Hooker, goes on to school, and becomes a therapist. Or Wretched Dude could become Homeless Dude because he succumbs, and goes down the spiral until he loses absolutely everything.
If every chapter and every character has the story curved on an Inverted C, and you’re golden.
This works for short stories, novellas, plays, screenplays, novels, and it would probably work well with poems too.
This is a structure, not a formula.
And it is ancient.
Myths and fairy tales are structured along the Inverted C.
Even Pulp Fiction was told along the Inverted C. Every character in that crazy movie had an Inverted C storyline that was spliced up and rearranged.
Hope this helps. Thank you for reading and happy writing!
The Fall of the Patron and the Rise of the Thief of Hearts
/
Something was horribly wrong.
The manor had not been a joyous place since the death of their Patroness, but there had always been the motion and noise of activity.
Now everything was quiet.
A few servants waited before the front door, the personal maid to the Patron’s daughter, the Cook, and the man in charge of the stables.
The rounded features of the lady’s maid were swollen, tears streaking her cheeks. The Cook’s face, which she often boasted turned red from the stove fires, was the color of ashes. The head of the stables was composed, but the anguish in his eyes seared through the elderly Doctor when they shook hands.
“What happened?” he asked.
“We don’t know, Doctor,” the other replied. “I think it’s best to just show you.”
They entered the house.
The stillness inside was eerie.
Instead of the bustle of servants and tenant farmers and visiting patrons from neighboring counties, there was nothing but the muffled sounds of weeping.
The walls seemed to close in on the Doctor.
This grief was fresh, raw.
He could feel the sorrow throughout the house as he followed the stable hand upstairs to what he recognized as the daughter’s room.
The Doctor gasped at what he saw inside.
The creamy white quilts on the bed were soaked with blood, cascading down one side to make a small pool beneath.
He had to fight the urge to retch, unable to speak until he steadied himself.
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone,” the stable hand replied. “One of the boys had a tale about her running off in the middle of the night on a giant stallion, the wild gray colt that ran away from here several years ago. He swears he saw her blow something that dazzled around the beast and say ‘immortal like me.’ And he claims there was blood all over her face and gown.”
“Well, she can’t have gone far. Shouldn’t we send for the lawman?”
“I suppose we could. But if what the boy says is true, that won’t do any good. I saw that stallion last year at the river. He’s a monster of a horse.”
“And where is…”
The stable hand squeezed his eyes shut, but a stream of tears escaped. Breathing deeply until he regained his composure, he opened his eyes and beckoned the Doctor to follow.
The Doctor was relieved at first when he came into the study and saw the Patron sitting in his chair.
Then he looked into the glazed eyes staring right through him, noted the slack jaw and witless expression.
His heart ached at the sight of him, and the Doctor had to fight back his own tears while searching through his bag. He took his time preparing his instruments, not starting his examination until he recovered his poise.
The Patron was quite robust, showing the health of a man half his age until the Doctor felt for a pulse and found nothing.
He froze, his mind reeling over the telltale mark of the Sorcerer of the Caverns.
But that was impossible, for the Sorcerer only preyed on young women.
“Patron, what happened to you?”
“Eh…” he said, his voice ravaged. “Eh…la bandita stole my heart…”
The Doctor frowned and shook his head.
“I don’t understand. Who is this Ella Bandita?”
The Patron looked confused at the name. Then his face cleared for a moment, a spark of intelligence flashing in his eyes only to become nothing.
“Ella Bandita…” the Patron said, nodding and his voice dropped to a whisper. His left eye welled with single tear which fell down his cheek.
“Ella Bandita,” he repeated. “She’s my daughter.”
The Patron stood up.
The Doctor watched him leave, scarcely able to believe it was the Patron he saw.
His gait was almost silent, too soft to leave an echo.
The Doctor closed his eyes and bowed his head, his hand shaking while making the sign of the cross, only a thought kept intruding on his prayer.
The Patron had finally given his daughter a name.
*****
The Bard took his place before the hearth, his figure a dark silhouette in front of the fiery mound. The children heard the soft hiss of deep breathing.
He always claimed a moment to enjoy the fragrance of wood burning before he spoke.
Then his voice rang clear, rising from the depths of his belly, its subtle cadence rolling through the cabin as the Village Bard began another tale about his favorite villainess, the woman known as the Thief of Hearts.
“In the south of this country, there’s a fashion town built into the upper walls of high cliffs where the sea crashes against the walls below. The buildings of this village change color through the day, depending on the place of the sun in the sky.”
“In evening time, the town is invisible. The buildings are the same muddy pink hue of stone bluffs at sundown.”
“Nobody knows how this town was built. The structures are ancient, and those skills were not passed to the masons of today. No one now has the knowing to carve deep into the rock, to find the support for buildings jutting out from the cliffs and hanging over the ocean.”
“During winter storms, the waves get high enough to flood the streets with salt water. Yet the village stands, half buried in stone, half suspended over the sea.”
The Bard paused a moment, his silhouette completely still. The sharp cracks of the blazing fire echoed through the cabin.
“But this fashion town has no protection from Ella Bandita.”
The End That Was Only the Beginning
/
Image by enriquelopezgarre from Pixabay
As always, the Sorcerer was right.
A few days later, I saw the Patron’s Daughter as soon as I came into the trees.
She was clearly waiting for me, impatiently pacing back and forth. She had dark circles under her eyes, marring the perfection of her face.
“What took you so long?” she demanded.
“I didn’t know I was meeting you for a walk. Last time I saw you, you seemed angry-”
“Will I need to bring money or jewels?” she interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
I felt like an idiot for not considering payment.
I knew what the Sorcerer wanted from the Patron’s Daughter, but she certainly didn’t know what she was walking in to.
“To pay him!” she snapped. “What are his terms?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, thinking fast. “But that’s not a bad idea.”
There are no words to describe the sweet relief and exquisite terror I felt in those days approaching that night.
On the eve of the holy day of rest, the Patron’s Daughter agreed to sneak out after dark to meet me at the edge of the Ancient Grove.
Even her tyrannical father didn’t dare dishonor holy days to make us work.
I remember there was absolutely no suspicion on her face as we made our plan.
The only risk at this point was getting caught.
If our absences were discovered, the Patron’s Daughter would be ruined.
But I would be doomed.
On that day before my liberation, I was worthless in the fields.
I couldn’t sleep the night before. As much as I had dreamed about my liberation from servitude, I had no plan for it and no idea what to do with it. I certainly couldn’t come back to my parents after selling my heart and the virtue of the Patron’s Daughter.
The night before my destiny was to change, I realized I wasn’t ready.
I was so panicked, I considered the coward’s way out, leaving the Patron’s Daughter to wander the Ancient Grove alone, looking for the cabin.
But I had come too far to lose faith now. As terrified as I was of an unknown future, I still met the Patron’s Daughter in the Ancient Grove.
She had to jostle my arm to get my attention because I didn’t see her at first. She wore a long, dark cloak that covered her face and form, blending her in amongst the dark trees.
She, too, must have had the fear of detection.
It was so dark that night.
I looked for the moon in the sky through the trees. Either it was a dark moon, or the trees of the Ancient Grove were so thick, it was impossible for any light to shine through.
But I was still able to guide her through the trees.
The Sorcerer must have had a fire burning in the hearth, for I caught the aroma of smoke before I saw the glow through the only window of the cabin. But that did nothing to warm the chill inside me.
My heart pounded on our approach.
For a moment, I hesitated.
The thought crossed my mind that this would be the last time I would feel that inner pulsing. Good thing I didn’t spend too much time reflecting on that in those weeks leading up to this night.
It’s a tremendous decision to sell off my essence, my life force, all so a being like the Sorcerer of the Caverns could be immortal. If I had pondered on the sheer magnitude of it all, I likely would not have been able to go through with it.
As it was, in that moment, I knew that everything I had always known would come to an end.
Although that was certainly true, this was only the beginning.
My first adventure in life would begin that night. And my first adventure would be by far the most bizarre.
My darling Shepherd, that is a mighty statement to make at this juncture in my life after more than forty years of decadence.
My hand shook when I knocked on the door.
A gruff voice from inside bid us to enter.
I opened the door, and in my nervousness, I forgot to step aside to usher the Patron’s Daughter in before me.
In this particular instance, however, the oversight of etiquette towards one’s betters was a miracle that saved me.
I almost fainted when I saw him.
Although I didn’t know what to expect when I walked inside, I was shocked at the sight of the Brute who stood before me.
Instead of the long black robes and a face desiccated from the passing centuries, the Sorcerer had transformed into a beast of a man.
He had the physique of a carnival strongman, coarse black hair, beady dark eyes, and the crudest features I had ever seen. His thick lips curled in a grimace of amusement when he saw the look on my face.
I felt the blood drain from my head at the sight of him.
The Brute was anything but seductive.
He was repugnant and my doom was certain.
The Realm of Possibility
/
Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
She saw the magic dust on her night table the moment she came back to her room.
Her maid must have found the pouch in her skirts and taken it out for her.
The pouch was worn and the leather dull under the flame of her night lamp. The dust was an unwelcome reminder.
The girl had forgotten about the Sorcerer, as if the interlude of the past months had never been.
She buried the pouch again in the pocket of her gown and dropped to her bed. Then she pulled her necklace off, her palm guarding the crystal stargaze from the light.
This keepsake didn’t disturb her so much, the stargaze a talisman of the moment her destiny changed. The silver links of the chain were cool, trailing down her arm while she traced the crystal tiers with her fingertip.
Tonight, supper had been long.
She and her father talked well past dessert, just as they had the night before. She was still uncomfortable around him, and the Patron was hardly more at ease than she.
But he was persistent, skillful in preventing the awkward pauses which might have dammed the flow of conversation. The topic tonight had been safe, her father discussed the season, confiding that he was thinking about adding to his estate with one in the southeast.
“Properties like this rarely come to purchase,” he said. “However, his son is frivolous and prefers city life.”
“But it’s far from here. How can you watch over both?”
“It would be foolish of me to attempt it,” the Patron replied. “Frankly, I think this would be ideal for you.”
The girl said nothing, just set down her fork and stared at him.
“The estate’s small,” he continued, “but the soil is so rich you could grow just about anything. There’s also a nice stretch of woods, perfect for riding and hunting.”
“It’s a long distance, Papa.”
“Yes, but not so much I couldn’t guide you through any concerns until you were ready to run it on your own. That shouldn’t take long. You’re very capable.”
“You would need at least one full day’s travel if you run the horses hard. But more likely it’s a two-day journey.”
“And that would serve you well, don’t you think?” The Patron spoke softly, eyeing her with raised brows. “Are you really so attached here, Daughter?”
The girl chortled before she could stop herself, glancing to the attendants just as their eyes flicked to each other.
“No, Papa. Of course I’m not.”
They sipped their wine without speaking for a few minutes.
“Good society there from what I’ve heard,” the Patron mused. “The people are said to be quite eccentric, but charming.”
“You don’t think they’d wonder about an unmarried woman as their Patroness?”
“You would be properly introduced, so what is there to suspect?”
The girl scarcely tasted the last bites of dessert, her mind digesting her father’s plan.
As one of the most respected Patrons on the continent, an introduction from him would be invaluable. And although he hadn’t said so, she suspected the people there had heard nothing about her.
At least not yet they hadn’t.
“I must admit this sounds intriguing, Papa. But scandal can travel to great lengths.”
“How unfortunate it is that you’re right,” the Patron said, glaring at the servants until they began to fidget. “Really, the consequences for gossip can never be severe enough.”
His tone was mild, but the faces of their attendants paled.
The girl suppressed the urge to chuckle, the thought crossing her mind that such restraint might kill the Cook.
“Thank you, Papa. I’ll think about it.”
The girl still couldn’t believe how quickly everything had changed.
When she opened her eyes just before the lunch hour, the smiling warmth of her maid was the first she saw before the servant wished her a good day.
The stable hands had been deferential when she came to the barn, her favorite steed ready for her.
She hadn’t gone to the village yet to see how she would fare with the merchants, but she was certain they would be courteous when she did.
Just like that, her formal ostracism was gone, now that had word spread that the Patron was speaking to her again.
Yet the girl knew she would always be marked.
Her father’s suggestion was really too wonderful, and she needn’t worry about the taint spreading any farther.
The girl sighed, turning her head to see the candle melt dripping from the night lamps to the floor. Startled, she looked out the window and saw the moon at its peak in the sky.
She must have fallen into a daze. The hour was much later than she thought.
But on this night, she was in her room, instead of the Caverns.
The blessed relief made her fall back on her bed.
The Perfect Moment of Weakness
/
Image by Adina Voicu from Pixabay
Ironically, the perfect moment came from my suppressed irritation.
I was already in a dreadful mood when I met up with the Patron’s Daughter.
It was the peak of harvest season and that day had been viciously hot.
Working the fields had been pure misery. Even the most stoic of workers cursed as we pulled vegetables from the ground, drenching the earth with our sweat.
I almost passed out, and several others did.
So there was no holding my tongue when I met with the Patron’s Daughter, who was especially petulant that day.
“Aren’t you getting bored with this?” I declared. “Do you ever think about what you want, or do you simply like to complain?”
I can still remember the pitch of irritation in my voice.
I was both aghast and exhilarated by what I said.
I have no idea where those words came from, but what I said was perfect. I knew from her first reaction.
Her blue eyes grew wide for a moment. Then she glared at me.
It was clear I had offended her. Yet what she didn’t do was storm off in indignation.
“How dare you!”
“If you want to marry the Noble Son that much, I know somebody who might be able to help you.”
“That is absurd. How could you, Addie, possibly know anybody who could help me marry the Noble Son?”
The Patron’s Daughter had recovered enough to regain hauteur. She puffed herself up and looked down on me.
“The same way I came to know you and all your secret sorrows.”
What I said next made me writhe with self-loathing for days, but it sealed my change in destiny.
“People confide in me because I don’t matter. Just like you do.”
The ruthless honest stopped the Patron’s Daughter in her tracks. Her expression could best be described as frozen.
“Everybody needs to confess,” I continued before she could recover. “And I’m no danger to anybody. So I know things and I know people.”
“All right,” the Patron’s Daughter said hesitantly. “Tell me more.”
I had her.
This was her moment of weakness that I had been waiting for.
This moment was also the first time I felt the delicious thrill of power.
It made me giddy for days.
“There’s a cabin deeper in the woods-”
“Nobody goes into the Ancient Grove,” she interrupted. “Everybody knows that.”
“We’re in the Ancient Grove right now.”
“We’re at the edge. That’s not the same thing.”
“We’re deep enough that nobody can see us here,” I countered. “So what difference does it make if we go a little further in?”
The Patron’s Daughter paused. Before she could argue further, I pressed my point.
“As I said, there’s a cabin in the woods and the man who lives there swears he can see inside a person’s soul and know their true desires.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know, but he swears he can bring people what they truly desire.”
She frowned.
“That is ridiculous!”
I swore inwardly.
I had known the Sorcerer’s bait was weak when he told me what to say. I protested that it wouldn’t work.
But the Sorcerer had insisted that’s what I would tell her.
The Patron’s Daughter was stupid, but even she wasn’t so easily fooled.
Yet the Sorcerer had insisted on a certain script and that I follow it word for word, even in the face of her resistance.
So I did.
I shrugged as the Sorcerer told me to, and kept my tone light and casual.
“Well, that’s what I heard. I also heard he only takes visitors on the eve before the holy day of rest.”
“And what does he want in exchange?”
“I don’t know.”
The Patron’s Daughter shook her head, and gave a rather unladylike snort.
“I’m only trying to help. I know where the cabin is. I can take you there in a few days if you want.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself,” I said and shrugged again. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
I cursed the Sorcerer and his paltry script when the Patron’s Daughter flipped her long raven hair and walked off.
The savory taste of invincibility and power disappeared, leaving bitterness in my mouth and my being filled with despair.
I had actually had the Patron’s Daughter where I had wanted her. Yet because of the Sorcerer, I had blown it.
I still went to the cabin as I was supposed to.
When I walked in, it struck me how barren this cabin was, only one room with meager furnishings. Perhaps a monk might have been comfortable there, but it was incredible the Sorcerer believed this could be the setting for the seduction and downfall of the Patron’s Daughter.
To my surprise, the Sorcerer was almost beaming when I walked in.
“Excellent work!” he said. “Addie, that could not have gone any better!”
“Are you mad? She said no.”
“Of course, she said no today. Everybody resists at first. She’ll say yes, probably by the end of the week.”
“I really doubt that.”
“You underestimate yourself. How many times have I been right when you’ve disagreed with me?”
I said nothing.
“Trust me,” the Sorcerer cajoled, his tone almost soothing. “You hooked her. She won’t stop thinking about what you said. She’ll even start obsessing about it. Chances are she’ll look exhausted by the time she comes to you. Keep up your melancholy walks in the woods.”
The Seeds of Transformation
/
Image by Meryl Katys from Pixabay
The Sorcerer jostled the remaining drops into a ruby swirl and shook his head.
Perhaps he’d get another week out of the Trainer, but no more.
He glanced at his collection of vials. He had nothing that could compare to this one.
Most of the essences were yellow because the weak of will were easy to catch. Melancholic blues were too ascetic for the drive of lust. His black essence was a rutting brute, nothing seductive about him.
Maybe one of the greens would be acceptable. They were the romantics, the poets, artists, and dreamers.
He hadn’t another red because that kind of man was the most rare.
The Sorcerer cursed himself.
He should’ve introduced the essence of another man to his protégée much sooner under the reasoning that the most skilled seductresses take on many lovers.
Yet when the time came to transform, the Sorcerer always gave in to the lure of the Trainer’s red.
In all these years, he’d never been so careless.
He knew how perilous it was to take on the essence of another man.
Whenever he transformed, that man’s identity would take over and he would absorb the memories and personality of one who left a piece of himself behind in a garment marked with his blood or sweat, and the Sorcerer would fall into the passive role of an observer.
But at last, he could feel again.
Sentiment, affection, and attachment could destroy him, but to have them again was always such a relief.
The Trainer was the most intoxicating essence he’d ever had.
The first change the Sorcerer noticed was the surge of passionate joy; he became delirious with a love for life.
When he stepped out of the mist from the cauldron engulfed with the Trainer’s essence for the first time, and saw the girl gaping at him in horrified disbelief, he almost laughed out loud.
But she still couldn’t resist him.
The Sorcerer hardly blamed her; he was every bit as seduced by the Trainer as she was.
The Sorcerer used to watch them when they came to his parts seven years before.
When he first heard the rumble of their horses, he had thought another posse had gathered to hunt him down.
This was a common occurrence after his conquests, and he had recently claimed the daughter of a neighboring patron.
The Sorcerer smiled as he recalled how beautiful she had been with her fair hair and luminous skin.
Yet she was utterly ridiculous, fancying herself in love with the essence he used to seduce her.
The Sorcerer had chosen a green, a playwright of lyrical romances, because she dreamed of performing on stage.
Although she was engaged to another man, the maiden couldn’t resist the temptation to realize her fantasy, acting out one of the young man’s more scandalous plays to its climax when the leading lady surrendered to the call of the flesh.
After the seduction had reached its consummation, the playwright’s essence collapsed.
When the maiden had woken up to the reality of what she’d done, that was the moment the Sorcerer claimed the payment of her heart.
That conquest had left him in an irritation of malcontent that would persist for weeks.
These girls were all alike.
The Sorcerer always seduced them through their vanity.
The highborn girls were more than willing to disgrace their families and sell their hearts just to gratify a fleeting illusion.
It was too easy, really. The terminable sameness of it all was tedious.
If the Sorcerer didn’t need them for his immortality, he wouldn’t bother with the little fools.
So on the day he heard the resounding gallop of horses halt at the river before the Ancient Grove, the Sorcerer shook his head in disgust. With the spell he used to safeguard his Caverns, the humiliated fiancé and dishonored father were absurd if they believed they could ever find him.
Nonetheless, the Sorcerer poured the liquid cloud to watch them become lost in the trees.
Then he cast his mind, the Sorcerer was surprised to see the Patron’s daughter instead, riding with young man who was clearly in service to her father.
The girl had changed much since he last saw her.
She wasn’t a woman yet, but she was no child either.
The Sorcerer had never seen her escort before.
The young man was handsome, but the patches holding his pants together showed he was not her equal.
Yet the young man lacked the downcast humility of servants. There was a devil-may-care gleam in his eyes, even when he shuddered and peered into the dark trees.
“I see your point, little Miss. This place doesn’t feel too good.”
“I told you,” she said. “Can we go now?”
“Let’s head north a bit first. If it gets no better, I promise you we’ll leave. Okay?”
The girl frowned, gazing in the direction he pointed where the trees stood half as tall as those before her.
With long skirts flowing down the flank of her horse, she looked like the proper young lady she was born to be.
It was incredible she was even here.
The Abandoned Valley and Ancient Grove were forbidden and her father was known for being strict.
There was fear in the girl’s eyes, but she still nodded her agreement.
The Sorcerer couldn’t believe it.
Her escort had sharp instincts.
The northwest end of the Valley edged the woods of No Man’s Land. There the border separated them from the country to the west.
The Sorcerer had no power there beyond the ability to watch them through second sight.
The distance was enough to put the girl and the strange young man at ease. They stayed for the rest of the afternoon.
The Sorcerer was intrigued with what he saw.
The pair returned most days that summer, riding through his domain in haste to the northwest side of the Abandoned Valley where the light was softer, the trees shorter and the air filled with the music of birds.
The Sorcerer watched over them every time they came.
He learned the young man had been a wanderer who adventured in the most exotic reaches of the world, stowing away on a ship only to return to the country of his birth.
Like all vagabonds when they finally came home, he was met with suspicion wherever he went until he convinced the Patron to hire him to train the gray colt he always rode.
The girl had never interested him before with her homely face and sullen demeanor.
But over the following months, the unloved daughter of the Patron blossomed under the Trainer’s influence.
And the Sorcerer changed his mind.
Each day, the adventurer regaled her with jokes and outrageous stories.
With her solemn nature, the girl scowled at him often.
But one day, she finally grinned and soon afterwards, started to smile.
The girl burst into her first giggle towards the end of spring.
She looked startled at the sound, hiding her mouth with her hands.
By mid summer, she broke apart into peals of laughter, throwing her head back just like the Trainer did.
Her metamorphosis was absolutely compelling.
For the first time in far too long, the Sorcerer was intrigued.
Desperate For a Way Out
/
My initial resistance must have caught him off guard.
To convince me to sacrifice my heart, the Sorcerer promised to cast a spell that would endure the test of time. I would grow more beautiful as the years passed.
At the time, I thought that a frivolous temptation. Youth never considers the brutal reality of old age, and vanity is not an indulgence available to the ugly.
I only gave in because the Sorcerer wouldn’t.
Now, I am grateful and relieved I took all he offered.
The winter, and sometimes the autumn, of life has often been described a woman’s hell.
That is usually the outcome for the women of my sisterhood, especially those who don’t leave the life to marry well.
Perhaps that humiliation may be mine when I am close to death, but thankfully, I have not suffered any loss of status or income, even though I am in my sixtieth year.
Again, I get ahead of myself.
To go back to that moment when I was offered the chance to change the dreariness of my fate, it may surprise you to know, my dear Shepherd, that I took a few days to think about it. To be made over into the image of beauty and grace was a dream I never had the audacity to imagine for myself.
Yet I couldn’t fathom how this could actually come to be.
First, how could I possibly lure the Patron’s Daughter to the Sorcerer of the Caverns? We absolutely loathed each other.
Second, how could the odious Sorcerer possibly seduce such a vain and arrogant creature as the Patron’s Daughter, given how ugly and ancient that he was?
“You need not concern yourself with that,” the Sorcerer actually laughed when I asked him. “I, too, have my methods of transformation.”
Since we are here now, we both know I accepted.
Really, how could I simply resist the reward?
I would never be ugly again.
I need not have worried about finding the possibility to influence her.
I started running into the Patron’s Daughter on my solitary walks through the Ancient Grove not long after meeting the Sorcerer.
The first time I ran into her, she was in tears.
She glared at me, of course.
But I was too stunned by the spectacle of her showing any sign of pain to take offense.
Apparently, the rejection of the Noble Son made her had gotten to her, and that made her vulnerable. That had never happened to her.
At first, I wondered if she now understood how her suitors felt in how she treated them.
But I would later find out that she didn’t give that any thought.
The abandonment left her dejected, but it also made her petulant.
Again, I get ahead of myself.
After that first unpleasant meeting, I ignored her and kept going on my way.
The next day, the Patron’s Daughter rode past us working in the fields, her demeanor as haughty as ever. But on this afternoon, she looked me in the eye and gave a slight nod as she passed.
That she had never done before.
The forbidden Ancient Grove must have been a favorite place for tearful girls suffering romantic disappointment.
Every time I went for a walk amongst the massive trees, the Patron’s Daughter was also there.
I wondered if the Sorcerer cast some kind of spell to make these frequent meetings happen.
It hardly mattered if he did.
After a couple of weeks of running into each other every time I went for my evening walk, the Patron’s Daughter finally spoke to me.
It was the first time I had ever heard her sound somewhere near pleasant.
“Do you come here every day?” she asked. “I imagine you would be too exhausted.”
“I do and I am exhausted,” I snapped before I could stop myself.
To my surprise, she almost apologized.
“I beg your pardon. I did not mean any offense.”
I accepted her self-correction with a nod and a thank you.
After that, we started to chat lightly whenever we ran into each other.
That was rather awful for me.
From what I’ve already told you about my former life as Addie, darling Shepherd, would it surprise you to know I was not particularly liked?
Anger, resentment, and envy were the strongest traits of my personality.
Who loves the bitter?
I was consumed with bitterness long before I turned eighteen.
Looking back, I don’t like who I was at that time.
Now, it shames me to admit I was every bit as petulant as the Patron’s Daughter, and that was without being spoiled. I thought myself above my company, the other peasants who worked as hard as I did under miserable conditions.
Yet I was the one who complained incessantly.
It was impossible to be held in esteem or respect with such a ridiculous attitude. Even my parents thought me a fool. For an indentured peasant born to a life of servitude to want more than I could ever have, instead of making do with the life that was offered me, seemed to everybody a state of lunacy.
And looking back, they were right. It really was.
But one thing I had never been was a hypocrite.
The reason the people around me knew of my envy, bitterness, and angry desire for more was because I let it show.
So to act in such a way to encourage the trust of the one girl I had hated and envied my entire life to get what I wanted made me feel vile.
To make my point, the only baths I knew during those years were the ones I could muster at the edge of the river, scrubbing myself with the scraps of meager soap that were left after doing the wash.
Most of the time, my personal stench made me nauseous.
Yet my pretense of friendship with a girl I couldn’t stand made me feel so much dirtier in a way that a lifelong deprivation of baths never could.
But I had a choice. Between the promise of beauty and the freedom of an unknown future, and a meager integrity that would keep me in a life of misery, what would you have chosen? Really?
I chose beauty and freedom.
I was truly desperate.
Please remember that, Shepherd, in case you feel tempted to judge me as my story unfolds.