Feedback is a Gift

 

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Feedback is a gift, it's often said. Wrapping gifts is an art, and as with birthday or holiday presents, not all givers are, well, gifted with the ability to package neatly.

As creatives, we may need to catch ourselves before we react to that gift of feedback. The beautiful painting, dazzling necklace, or novel you've spent weeks or years crafting won't be everyone's idea of art. But like our creations, feedback comes from the heart.

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I’ve been writing for several years with the goal of being a published author. It has been a journey. The first steps along the path were rough. Tripping over problems that at first crushed me, I’ve grown and now take these obstacles in stride. Usually. 😊 I don’t think any writer’s ego can go on this trek without some stumbling and humbling. 

It takes perseverance to stay on your path when a reader comments how THEY would have written the book, or even what your character should have been.

Over the years I’ve learned to be more gracious when accepting feedback. I now look at the work through the reader’s eyes to find some kernel of insight that I can use to improve my writing.

This experience with feedback has provided me with my own guidance:

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Write the first draft with my heart and soul, put all of my passion into it, and let my spirit soar. Then, edit with the reader’s heart and soul as the focus so I can pull on their heartstrings.

 
 

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I also look at feedback as an intimate peek into the giver's inner psyche. What do her words really say? When pressed for more specifics, are her insecurities or suppressed wishes revealed? What I learn enables me to better shape my characters in future books.

So, the next time you receive the gift of feedback, no matter how poorly packaged, see if you can dig deeper into what drives these comments. This has helped me develop skills to create deeper meaning in my stories, and I could also find a new beta reader.

Photo from Today.com article

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bring Your Brave ~ by J.D. Greyson

For as long as I can remember, I have been a dreamer. Frozen puddles became my ice-skating rink, a rickety swing set — my Olympic equipment, trails cut through woods — my escape to Narnia. As a child, the beautiful part about being able to dream was that it was free. 

Unlike my reality, my dreams didn’t segregate me due to my socio-economic status. They didn’t tell me I didn’t have enough experience. And when I was in the moment, other people’s criticism was non-existent.

But something happened as I grew.

Where once stood a fearless girl who tamed lions and performed death-defying stunts in her imaginary circus, now cowered a constricted chameleon who did anything to stay out of view for fear of criticism, chastisement, and rejection.

Inside, I was still that girl who longed to take risks, dance in the middle of a crowded street, or quit my job to travel the world with the Peace Corps, but the me that feared the world’s perception kept her quietly caged inside.

As I aged, my life centered around everyone else. Giving to others made my heart happy. And so, I learned to find contentment and gratitude in the feeling that came with helping others. I would run myself into the ground organizing hat/glove drives for children in need, volunteering my talents to my boys’ school, and depleting our bank account to help others feel loved. 

Busyness was my way of silencing the lion-tamer within. Busyness was my way of validating my worth. Busyness was my way of avoiding ME.

Yet, when I allowed the world to be still, if only for a moment, the emptiness that existed within was overwhelming. Stillness allowed uncomfortableness to reveal that inquisitive girl I used to be, peeking out from the door that I had slid box after box of other people’s opinions in front of. Sheepishly, she would smile and for one small for moment happiness, true happiness, would ignite from within. 

But just as soon as that joy would spark, shame came rushing in like a jealous sibling blowing out the birthday cake candles, shutting the door on joy and replacing it with responsibility, societal constraint, and conviction. 

As I aged and my children grew more independent, life threw curveball after curveball. I found myself isolated from the very busyness I had relied on. And it was in this stillness that I realized just how much of myself I had buried. 

Life has this way of revealing paths when we are ready. Had I been given this opportunity ten years ago, I would have missed it as I was too consumed by other’s perception of me.

What I didn’t understand when I was younger is that though my body continues to age, my soul, is ageless. The dreamer within still exists. The desire for passion, romance, love, to become a writer, to save animals, to dance in the moonlight, to lasso the sun and swim with the dolphins, to soar the sky with Falcor from The Neverending Story — all of that still exists within me. 

I still feel the magic when I watch Titanic as Rose lifts her arms at

the bow of the ship with Jack nestled from behind or when the snow begins to fall and the choir and symphony begin to play that haunting melody during Edward Scissorhands. The magic within never dies.

What happens is we bury it, drown it out, or learn to dismiss it for fear of what others might say, for responsibility, or for the sake of being a “grown up.” But the truth is, others miss that magic just as much. Why else do we read or watch movies in the cinemas but to chase that feeling if only for a second? Yet it exists within, longing to be set free.

This past year I was given the opportunity to set myself free. 

It wasn’t a tornadic moment that darkened the sky and came rushing in, rather it was more like the cinematic build of a movie that lays the scene and then unfolds slowly and methodically. One moment led to another moment that led to another moment. Until one day I realized the door to the dreamer inside me had been opened and allowed to see the world for the first time in at least thirty years.

Like leaves falling from the Oak that stands tall in the wood outside my back window, my walls began to fall. I allowed myself to stand naked to the world, baring my imperfections and my scars. In my vulnerability, I allowed my quirkiness to stand with outstretched arms with the wind of perception to my back and the sun of self-acceptance on my face and I stood tall, leaves continuing to fall one by one.

 

With each word I have learned to merge the dreamer within and replace worry with acceptance, to breathe through the hard moments instead of holding my breath, and I’ve learned to open myself to risk, knowing that though I am scarred, I am strong. The beautiful thing about scar tissue is that it grows back stronger than what existed before, connecting my former self to my authentic self, and bridging the gap that once held me back from all I desired. 

How different would your life look if you allowed the dreamer within to be set free? Can you imagine the ripple effect if we allowed our hearts to touch with another without fear of rejection or in anticipation of the potential pain that may follow? One touch, one smile, one extension of kindness…a dreamer dreams without fear of the consequences. 

A dreamer brings their brave.

Aging doesn’t stop us from dreaming, only we do that. While it’s true that our bodies may prevent us from doing some of the physical things we desire — it’s also more the reason to take the risk while you still have the physicality that you do now. Most dreams are still within reach if you just allow yourself the opportunity to take the risk. 

Take Joan, for example. She is a 73-year-old woman who decided to transform herself three years ago. In her own words, “You can't turn back the clock but you can wind it up again!" 

JD Greyson is a mother of three boys, wife to an amazing husband, and a free spirit who runs on copious amounts of coffee, conversation, and compassion. She can be found chasing sunsets, breathing in nature, and having dance parties in her minivan at stoplights. If you enjoyed this or want to read more of her work you can reach her on TWITTER where she holds a weekly poetry battle or on MEDIUMwhere her soul lyrically expresses itself in the form of words. 

The How and Why I Write ~ by Monica Reents

Nothing captures who I am more than when I am creating art,

Photo: Deposit Photos

whether with words or paint. The mix of my emotions, thoughts, imagination, and feelings with the words I choose to work with is nothing short of magical (for what it does for my soul, anyway). It’s my love of creating that has always drawn me to writing. But it’s not my love of writing that brought me to sharing my work. Life events opened that door and changed everything about the how and why I write.

Writing was something I always did in my free time before shoving it in a drawer or saving it on some random file on my laptop.

Like so many, I have had a lifelong love affair with books. The

Photo: Deposit Photos

written word garnered a special place in my heart before I even began kindergarten. I excitedly read everything I could get my hands on, looking to escape into the fantastical worlds born from genius minds, as far as I was concerned. It was in middle school that I decided maybe I could write a book. A friend and I tried to write and illustrate a book together. I have no memory of what the book was about or what happened to what we wrote, but a need to write was born.

If you ask someone who writes, why do you write? You’ll gather various answers, but the principal reason may simply come down to need. That’s my why. It offers a release that nothing else compares to. But always keeping it to myself, that came from fear. Much of my writing is dark and emotional. Most of it has no tangible origin, it just comes to me.

Without giving you an entire timeline of my life, let’s jump to 2011. I had been writing poems and short stories for many years, never sharing them. Most people who know me never knew that I wrote. It was for me and, while I wanted to write and publish novels (someday), I was fine writing for myself (for now). Newly married, working on blending our families, and working full time as a pediatric ophthalmic surgical assistant, I didn’t have time to write and I needed the creative outlet it provided. Little did I know that my opportunity was fast approaching.

In July 2011, I began having severe chest pain that radiated up into my shoulder, across my upper back, and down my left arm. I was experiencing numbness and tingling, along with loss of sensation on my left side. After two or three days of coping with increasing pain, I went to the emergency room and was quickly taken back and hooked up to an EKG (electrocardiogram). My results came back normal. Which was great, but the pain persisted.  A week later, an MRI (magnetic resonance image) was taken of my entire back.

This scan changed my life.

The first neurosurgeon I saw (I’m leaving names out for privacy) read the results of my MRI to me, and my husband (of three weeks). Walking into the office, I felt fairly confident that I had a pinched nerve in my neck from a herniated disc. We weren’t worried.

Once the surgeon began speaking, I felt myself becoming hot, nervous, then came the tears. So many tears. I sobbed until breathing became difficult. I became a mess while hearing words like tumor… largest I’ve ever seen… entire spinal cord… not surgical… and about a year left… even, now, knowing that I beat the odds, it’s still emotional

At the age of 34, I was diagnosed with syringomyelia. My tumor (syrinx) was from C2 to T12 (2nd vertebrae in the neck to the last rib vertebrae)

and was extremely swollen. He was surprised that I could walk and still had use of my arms.

Syringomyelia is a rare spinal cord disease that creates a fluid filled sac (cyst) within the spinal cord. The cyst, called a syrinx, can expand and elongate, destroying the spinal cord. The damage can result in chronic pain, loss of feeling, loss of sensation, paralysis, weakness, stiffness in the neck, back, and extremities. There is no treatment or cure for this progressive disease.

It was a long, quiet ride home from that first appointment. By the time we had made it home, my husband had decided what he was going to do. He made me comfortable on the couch and then made  a phone call. We couldn’t accept that I only had one year left to live and our minds were racing with anxious thoughts. But that phone call he made, saved my life.

He called his cousin who works for a very talented neurosurgeon. I had an appointment within a week and surgery two weeks after that… these amazing people literally saved my life!

I survived surgery (obviously), moreover, I have survived ten surgeries!

Every day is different for me. Some days are ‘fine,’ I go about doing whatever I want as long as I can maintain a level of pain to my level of tolerance. Other days are high pain days and I don’t even get dressed, staying in my robe, minimal physical activity, and dozing whenever I need to. I’ve learned to listen to my body because I know that having a busy day means not having a busy day for the next two to four days. 

Post sx 2016

My life is all about the balance of activities. I hate nothing more than a wasted day, so I use my love of list writing and planning to try to prevent from overexerting myself. I see a pain management doctor once a month that helps me track my ever changing symptoms, as well as a myriad of medications. I’m thankful to say, that I have been stable for about a year and a half now. I have a lot to be thankful for.

It was during the recovery of my first surgery in August 2011 that I told my husband about my writing. He was surprised, but not overly. He knows how much I love books, so wanting to write them wasn’t a far stretch. I asked him for a notebook and pen; explaining how I had hidden everything I had ever written in the past and never even talked about it with anyone.

Here is where I walked through that life changing door I mentioned. I immediately began filling the pages with poems and story ideas, character profiles, world building thoughts, and plans for the hopeful future of my writing.

I read my poems to my husband every night. Now, he isn’t a reader, but he listened, said each one was great, and supported me as I had just (re)discovered what I was going to do with my life.

For me, writing out in the open has been a dream come true! I have had several major bumps in the road since announcing to my family and friends, most importantly to myself, that I wanted to publish my writing. Unfortunately, I was paralyzed for about a year in 2016 and was unable to write. I had a year of therapy and have regained use of my body, but I don’t have much sensation and my balance is questionable. Again, a lot to be thankful for. 

I have been diagnosed with several other diseases since learning about my syringomyelia. It makes writing challenging, if you want to publish, because chronic pain hurts more than your body. After years of pain, I have found that my mind isn’t always clear. It becomes a reflection of what my body feels, leaving me tired and weary. Later, reading what I write in those moments isn’t always anything I keep. I’ve learned to listen to what my body is telling me. I never feel rested or that I've had a good night’s sleep. So, I have again adjusted my thinking on what determines a “good night’s rest.” I know that I do best when I sleep from about 10 pm to 6 am. My writing feels most productive in the afternoon into the evening as long as I haven’t been physically active. It’s all a balancing act. But so worth it to have the opportunity to do what I love.

I have published two poems. The first one was in 2014 in the Cogs in Time 2 anthology, called Darkened Love. The second poem, Whispering Seduction, is in the novel Tempted by Kristine Raymond.

Currently, I’m working on a poetry collection and a debut novel. I know that I will publish, but I don’t have a clear deadline as to when. As long as I am taking steps forward, that’s okay with me.

Monica Reents was born and raised in Kansas, where she lives with her husband and Bentley, their dog. She grew up with a love of books and found a passion for crafting her own stories and poems in High School after reading Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. 

   Monica also runs a blog, My Chronic Happiness. She designed her blog to be a reflection of who she is. It is informative for anyone living with chronic illness, as well as anyone interested in the world of writing and books. You can find her at the links below.

WEBSITE

TWITTER

INSTAGRAM

PATREON

FACEBOOK

Why I Write Books for a Living ~ Armand Rosamilia

Dean Koontz is the answer. There ya go. Glad I could share that with you. My work here is done.

Oh, wait… you want the more elaborate answer? I’m fine with doing that. My wife says I love to talk about myself. The woman is not only smart but she’s kinda into me, too. Go figure.

I was a very bad child growing up. Not so bad I went to jail or the cops had a talk with me, but bad in the sense I was hyper and liked to push the envelope. My brother is only eighteen months younger than me, so we’d get in trouble a lot together. I was sneaky but he was a bull in a China cabinet when it came to trouble, his head down and chaos running rampant.

We also fought a lot. I’m not talking yelling, either. I mean fists and kicks and trying to hurt one another. He has a couple of scars to prove it and so do I. I also have some crooked teeth from when he kicked me in the back of the head. He once pushed me over a barbed wire fence and began pummeling me while I tried not to get my body ripped apart and defend myself.

We had a stay-at-home mother. This was the seventies into the eighties. During the summers it must’ve been pure hell to have us around all day and night, especially when my father sometimes worked long hours. Our days were spent outside playing kickball, football, and baseball with the neighborhood kids. There were a lot of them our age, too. We lived in a small fishing village in New Jersey on a dead-end street.

The summer between fifth and sixth grade I remember well. My brother and I had been brawling for days on and off and my mother had had enough. School was coming to a close and we must’ve really given her the final straw, the last big fight, and she’d had enough.

From the first day of summer break until the first day of school, we were both punished. No outside. No TV. We were allowed out of our rooms for meals and then right back into our cells.

My brother got the best deal… at least I thought so at the time. I was twelve. I wanted to play with my action figures and listen to Top 40 radio or be outside with all the kids who weren’t punished. He got to stay in our bedroom, which we shared. I was only allowed in it at night for bed.

I got stuck in my parent’s room, with their giant canopy bed and walls covered in bookshelves. Books? No thanks. I liked to read but there was nothing in this room for me. This was all old people stuff. The junk my mother read. Hundreds and hundreds of dog-eared paperbacks. All piled on top of one another.

With nothing else to do, I started reading them. For hours. From the time I woke up until I went to bed, I read these books. They had demons and spiders and scary-looking houses on the covers. My mother was (and still is to this day) a huge horror fiction reader. She had a to-be-read pile taller than me on her nightstand. Still does.

Once she saw I was starting to get as obsessed with reading as she was, she began leaving a pile for me. She’d make sure she went through and crossed out the ‘dirty parts’ so my twelve-year old brain wouldn’t be completely corrupted. She left in the profanity, since we grew up in New Jersey and you could use the F word in every sentence as every other word without missing a beat. I mean… not twelve year old me. Unless I was using it as I rained down blows on my brother.

I told a story last year while at the Necon writer’s gathering in

Rhode Island. I was on a panel about Clive Barker, and I mentioned being a bad kid and everything I’ve just written. When I told the part about her crossing out the sex parts and one particular book I still remember, where a couple go into a dark movie theater, stare longingly at one another… and then the next page and a half was blacked out… author Grady Hendrix, who not only writes horror but released a must-have called Paperbacks From Hell with a ton of those old paperbacks I’ve read, was seated in the front row and started to laugh. He asked me a few questions at the end when the panel was wrapping up about it.

Not that I remember what he was asking. I know I answered. Seriously… Grady Hendrix was talking to me. He graciously signed a copy of Paperbacks From Hell to my mother.

But, wait… in the opening line to this amazing post I said it was Dean Koontz who was the reason you became an author.

Even though I was reading so many books each week of my imprisonment, none caught me as off-guard as the Dean Koontz paperbacks. They weren’t just horror stories to devour and move onto the next. They were literally life-changing to twelve year old me.

I know this isn’t hyperbole. I distinctly remember telling my mother I was going to be a writer someday. She remembers this, and reminds me I should’ve said I wanted to be a rich and famous writer.

Hey, I was twelve. My bad.

Anyway, books like The Vision and Whispers blew my mind. I’d also read some of the novels he’d written under pen-names like The Funhouse and The Eyes of Darkness, not knowing it was Mister Koontz but knowing I loved those books as well.

His writing changed everything for me. I began writing awful rip-

off stories of a few pages, using his character names with slight variations. All set in New Jersey, where I lived. I’d give them to my mother, who’d smile and nod. Poor woman. I’d like to think, thirty-eight years later, I’ve improved a bit.

And so began my love of Dean Koontz and writing stories I hoped to someday sell and make millions. While all of my friends would eventually get into King, I was a Koontz loyalist.

When Phantoms was released, my mother let me read it before she did, knowing I was chomping at the bit to get my hands on it. The book blew me away and cemented my life’s dream to do this for a living.

No, I never saw the movie. Stop asking.

Without Dean Koontz I might’ve still been an avid horror book reader but maybe not a writer at all. I’d be seated right now in a retail store, on my lunch break, trying to escape my awful life inside the new Koontz book.

Instead, I’m living the dream. If I someday get to meet Mister Koontz, I will tell him all of this. Or, likely, stutter and be unable to form words around the man that taught me words can be a solid living.

Armand Rosamilia

You can connect with Armand at his WEBSITE or at his PODCAST SITE

 

The strange creatures that are authors, and getting back into the swing of things after the holidays… By: Darlene Kuncytes

As we start a brand-new year, I find myself desperately trying to get back into the swing of things. The holidays are wonderful…don’t get me wrong. But, let’s face it. They are exhausting. Both mentally and physically.

We tend to give ourselves passes on eating healthy and basically start eating junk around the first of December and ending New Year's Day. Lol At least I know I have. I’m not a big sweet eater, but during the holiday’s, all bets are off! Not to mention the food brought in by vendors and such, so when the first of the year rolls around I realize how sluggish I am. Body and brain.

So, in order to get myself motivated to start writing and getting myself back on track - I try to follow this simple rule:

New Year…new goals. Just don’t make yourself crazy trying to be perfect.

I try to start by mapping out what I want to accomplish this year with my writing. But…who are we kidding? I am SO unorganized it isn’t even funny, and I usually just end up with a blank page staring back at me.

I have a friend who sets goals of how many words a day she wants to write…and does it! And it’s amazing stuff! I only wish I could be that disciplined!  I really do, but I am SO not that person. I have to let the words come as they will. For me, if I try to make myself do it, my mind fights back and begins to wander to places where it does not belong. It latches on to ANYTHING other than the task at hand and then I, in turn, get super frustrated and it’s a whole thing. 

So, what do I do to get rid of the post-holiday funk? 

I daydream. Take a walk. Have dinner with friends. I breathe. I let the muses take me where they will. It’s not always ideal as I’ve struggled recently. Life just seems to keep getting in the way. But…I have also felt my muses beginning to knock once again on the doors of my brain, and I plan on letting them in! I will welcome those suckers with open arms.

My mojo is there, I just need to move on from the craziness of the holidays and focus on revving it up. Something I have had other authors tell me lately they are struggling to do as well.

Writers are strange creatures. We can be introverts to the extreme, but we also love our readers. We get energy from them. From their love of our words, and we could not survive without them. We come alive when we interact with them and it rejuvenates us like nothing else can. It’s one of the times we truly come out of our shell. 

So, as a reader, never ever be afraid to contact a writer that you love. We need it. It’s what keeps us going. It’s what makes us better.

Writers are a very interesting group. We are diverse souls with one common goal…allowing you to lose yourself to the worlds we weave. And those worlds are amazingly plentiful.

We are kooky and dreamers, and we find ourselves hiding from reality in the most fun ways. Our goal is to take you with us!
So, now that the sugar is slowing seeping from my soul and the merriment of the holiday season is behind us…it’s time to get back to work!

Happy writing! AND Happy reading! 😉

Don't let fear stop you from following your dreams! ~ by Linda Boulanger

Tuesday, Sept. 3rd, I took a deep breath and began a new journey. You might remember my announcement last month that I've decided to retire from cover design so I will have more time to devote to family matters and to more fully pursue my own writing. Well, as of Tuesday, the entire Boulanger Tribe is either in school or back at work... and that includes me. I got all caught up on laundry, made a meal plan that I seem to be sticking to, set a word count goal and have spent two glorious days adding to my current writing project.

Keep in mind that I have battled back and forth with myself for weeks over whether I made the right decision. Perhaps I should have retired from writing to focus fully on the cover designs for others... but I couldn't do that. I have a saying: Writers can't NOT write. Yes, I know that will probably make my editor scream, but it says it exactly as I believe. When a writer has a story inside him or her, it simply has to come out. It has to be written, and with every cover I willing and happily designed for someone else, my dream of working on my own stories was growing in strength.

Now, I do not regret the time I have spent designing covers in the least. I LOVE working with other authors whether it's as a designer or a fellow author and feel the time has helped me grow in so many ways, especially as a writer. So, now, I have to believe in myself and follow my dreams.

Whew! That is a hard thing to do! I don't know many authors who don't feel at least a modicum of angst when releasing a book... and I've worked with and am friends with some pretty big writers! It's scary and the what ifs start slamming you from every side. So much so that on Monday evening I told my dear friend Grace Augustine that I wasn't sure I could do this, that I was doubting my skills as a writer, and that I thought maybe I was making a mistake.

What she told me calmed me more than even she might have imagined. First, she told me to stop it! But it was this little quote that really drove home what I needed to do: "Change your thoughts and you change your world." ~Normal Vincent Peale.

 She couldn't have chosen better words to have gotten through to me. I knew then that I couldn't let my fears of the unknown stop me from following my dream.

I have a plan. I've set it in motion. And I've changed my thinking... I fully believe in my dream and my abilities to pull it off.

In a future post, I will tell you about what I'm working on. The research has been fascinating and I'm anxious to share what I've learned. Until then, unlike the little engine that said, "I think I can," I will keep telling myself, "I know I can. I know I can." until I can say "I knew I could." I'm excited! And, as always, thank you for being a part of my dream.

The Chase -- A short story written to the prompts: Broken, Desert, Voices ~ by Linda Boulager

Once upon a time, there was a site called Clever Fiction Short Story Prompts that provided weekly writing prompts. Quite often, they were 3-words that weren’t always easy to work together but ended up pushing us as writers to create great stories. Many of the stories I wrote to those prompts were incorporated into longer short stories, novellas, and full-length novels. The Chase was written to the prompt: Broken, Desert, Voices. Give it a try and enjoy!

The Chase by Linda Boulanger

Her chest heaved with every breath, straining against the bodice of the silk gown. Silk - supposedly spun by the gods, meant to entice as it fell in revealing layers over the satiny skin of young ladies waiting for the men for whom they were chosen. To Elenya it only impeded her escape through the thick brush. She pushed the hood of the cloak-like dress from her head, releasing a magnificent mass of red tresses that matted against the trickle of sweat running down her back, now bare from the unusual cut of the dress.

What a waste. She thought of her trip to the courts as well as the expensive fabric and the excitement that had surrounded picking it out, fashioning it into a body-covering masterpiece that represented her future, her dreams. Her family should have saved their reserves, her destiny decided many years ago by higher authorities anyway. The only thing she’d needed to entice her warrior was her scent. Or was it his scent? She wasn’t sure, knowing only that she’d been marked, ceremonially injected with his blood as a child to belong to him when her season came – though neither of them would know the other until the appointed time.

Even aware that she’d been marked and her future assured, Elenya was no different from the other girls who dreamed of a lifetime dance with one of the elite warriors of the court. It meant she and her family would return to the luxury of the circle of the chosen once she came of age.

Only the moment Elenya realized the Masters had matched her with Tahruk, she knew that would not be the case. Tahruk! Why? Their families had been enemies for generations. There had to be some mistake. She knew she had to find a way, to find someone who could make it right. Her only chance was to get to the house of the Masters.

Ignoring the aching in her legs and lungs, she refused to pay heed to the burning of the cuts and scratches inflicted on her limbs by the cruel sticks and whipping grasses. She would not cry over the sounds of her beautiful black dress ripping as she ran. She glanced down at what now looked like shredded rags. Careful! Taking her eyes off the terrain could have made her lose her footing and then it would all be over. She could hear him not far behind. Only her slight size lent itself to her ability to outmaneuver him through the dense brush.

Elenya longed for the smooth desert sands of home. Life had seemed so promising then as she’d played and worked beside her sisters, making sure they stayed within earshot of the voices of the elders whose sole purpose was to protect the future of their people: her.

There it was! She could see the house of the Masters. Elated that her uncanny sense of direction had led her right to it after seeing it only once, she was concerned about the clearing that lay before her. Her pursuer would be unhindered.

A man opened the house door causing hope to surge, hurling Elenya forward. He had to be one of the Masters.

“My Lord! My Lord!” she screamed, garnering the attention of men she hadn’t realized were there. Panic rose as they converged on her, though she dodged them, stopping only when she had thrown herself at the feet of Dahru, the head Master. Only when her arms wrapped around his legs did she dare glance back at the warrior who crossed the clearing at a more casual pace. Anger burned behind his eyes, their dark depths glowing within his sun-bronzed face. Even as she shivered, she was unable to break away from his gaze. She felt the pull of the marking as she watched him run a hand through his night-black hair. She fought against it.

“Tahruk? What is the meaning of this?” asked the voice above Elenya’s head.

“I wish to know that as well, Lord Dahru.” As the warrior spoke, his chin tilted upward and he sniffed the air.

Dahru looked at his brethren before addressing the other man. “She … the woman is yours then?”

Tahruk nodded. He glared down at the beauty who attempted to scoot around the strong legs of her refuge, seeing her clearly for the first time. His anger spiked as he took in the honeyed cinnamon hair, sun-kissed ivory skin, and soft pink lips, full and enticing. He watched as Dahru’s hands locked on her arms and lifted her to stand before him instead. She tried to look over her shoulder. Again, the unmistakable pull warred against her fear.

“Look at me.” The firm voice denoted care. He smiled as he wiped some of the grime from her face. “Why would you do this?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “What is your name, maiden?”

Her voice trembled as did her body. Gone was the brave woman who had fled her warrior. “I am Elenya Avenille of the Aleone Drille,” she answered quietly, listening for certain response from behind.

Having recognized her by her appearance as the Aleone woman, hearing her speak it pushed the warrior beyond reason. “Aleone!” he roared. Elenya pressed herself against Dahru. His strong arms encircled her small frame.

Dahru silenced the younger man with a raised hand, though the outburst was understandable. The disdain felt by the two Drilles, one for the other, had been passed down from generation to generation.

“There must be a mistake…”

“No.” Dahru stopped Elenya’s verbalization of the thought that echoed through many heads. “The Masters do not make mistakes. You must go with this man and fulfill the obligations imposed by the marking.”

“I… I am afraid…” Elenya whispered before looking over her shoulder at the stiff form of the warrior for whom she was chosen. “My lord, please. You see how he looks at me.”

“He will not harm you, child. He is honor bound, like you.” Dahru made certain the young warrior heard as well.

After a moment, Elenya nodded. She looked up at the stars, sucking in and then slowly exhaled breath before turning toward Tahruk. Head bowed, she followed, not bothering to fight the tears. Her dreams were shattered, the broken pieces washing away with each teardrop that fell onto the hand that held hers. Honor would have her pay for the sins of her ancestors.

She had been chosen to dance for a lifetime in the arms of her enemy.

At the request of readers, The Chase was expanded into a full-length novel, Dance with the Enemy.

 

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The Chase A Short Story ©Linda Boulanger

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