Farewell to Norg

Callen pulled gently on Norg’s yoke to swing the wagon down South Market Street. Foot traffic began to thin and Callen easily found the place his father had described to him; a portico next to a large brick building. He parked the wagon under the overhang and unstrapped Norg from the yoke. Callen pulled a bucket out from under the wagon seat, walked over to the river’s edge and dipped the bucket in the flowing water. Norg and Henry nudged each other’s heads to get to the water.
“There’s plenty of water you two. Henry leave Norg alone and let him drink. You drink from the river you old scoundrel.”
Lilith circled around Callen’s feet rubbing her head against his legs.
“I’ll be back,” she purred.
“Be careful. I don’t like the idea of you out there with those feral cats.” Callen warned.
Lilith just flicked her tail as she bounded down the street.
Callen filled the bucket one more time for Norg and then strapped a feed bag on the ox. He pulled two pieces of jerky from his pack, threw one to Henry and chewed on the other himself as he went about setting up for the night. He pulled out a bed roll and laid it under the wagon. Henry would sleep on top of the wagon to guard their load. Callen removed the feed bag when Norg had finished and then stretched out on the blanket under the wagon. It was a pleasant night; the sound of the river relaxed him. Callen lay thinking about the day.
“Master,” Norg said.
“Yes?” Callen responded.
“Sad.” Norg’s voice rumbled.
“So am I, Norg. I will miss you my dear friend.”
“See you again?” Norg asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Look for you.”
“Perhaps our paths will cross.”
“Good master.”
“Thank you, Norg, tomorrow we will find you another good master.”
Excerpt from "Tree of Life"

I don't just want apple pie

My friend Kristy M. told me when she took a writing class at LSU her teacher told them, "I don't just want pie, I want apple pie, I want hot bubbly apple pie, I want hot bubbly apple pie with a slice of sharp cheddar cheese, I want hot bubbly apple pie with a slice of sharp cheddar cheese and a scoop of sweet creamy vanilla ice cream on top."
One of the most important parts of story telling is setting the scene. Letting the reader see, taste, feel, smell, and hear the world you have created. I sometimes just want to write the meat to move the story along but the reader also wants a full course meal to compliment the meat.

I fool myself into thinking I can't possibly read one more book but I have stacks of the them that call to me. Bookstores that beckon to me with promises of adventure, heartache and romance with just the turn of a page. Books that fill my head with the strange and amazing factoids that I will regurgitate at random moments while my family rolls their eyes. I love to reread favorite passages in books I've read. When I gasp my last they will have to pry my current reading material from my cold dead hands.

Writing is a gift. I love creating characters that I come to know as they write themselves into my stories. One of my favorite characters I've written is an oxen named Norg. His master has a power that allows animals to speak around him. Norg and his master have a wonderful interchange as Norg expresses his sorrow at having to be sold. Although he is sold early in the book I know he will show up latter in the story because I enjoyed writing him so much.

Be patient with me I am not consistent in anything and some times there are long pauses while I figure out the best way to lead into the next part of my stories. They are dancing around in my head always.

Writing spree

Yesterday I did two reviews of other's people's writing. It's exhausting. I now have a greater appreciation for anyone willing to review my writing. I had a bit of a writing spree. I was able to write 1144 words on the Fairy Tale and 1171 words on a new contemporary romance. I have given up reading for the foreseeable future. I am saturated and satiated.

NaNoWrMo

November is National Novel Writing Month. Where aspiring and established novelists spend a month trying to write from scratch 50,000 words of a novel. Many of them spend the month of October doing outlines and figuring out plot points. Others do a more extensive outline with phases that go into more detail than a basic outline. The goal is to make a huge dent on a never before written novel. There is too much going on in my life to try and attempt it this year. I have set for myself a goal to write something every day of Novemenber on my novels. As you can see I have lots to work on and if I could put aside everything else and use my free time to write who knows what I could accomplish. I will post how I do each day.

Dragon's Lair

The sound pulled him back through the labyrinth of time and up from the roots of the world. He rolled open the outer lid of his golden orb, blinked once. A sigh expanded his scaly ribs and pushed a wisp of smoke from his snout. He shifted his head out from under his forearm. It sent a cascade of gold coins bouncing down the mound of his hoard.
Silence.
A shuddered sob came from the small cave. They were so fragile these pale human maidens. This one only cried when she thought he was asleep. Most didn’t survive the flight back to the mountain. Others refused to eat the offerings from his fresh kills and had wasted away. A few fled from his fortress only to die on the mountain side ill equipped to travel in the harsh wilderness.
Always the humans left the maidens with the tribute he collected each year; gold for a promise to hunt in other pastures, on other livestock. He didn’t understand their need to sacrifice their daughters. Every year he carried them away.
Metal clad lads with swords girded around their waists and a lance across their shoulders followed some. The bodies littered the rocky base of his fortress. If they had only come to rescue the women he would have gladly sent them back down the mountain with the maid in their arms. Always they thought first to kill the beast. He was too old and wise to become prey to heroes.
Of all the offerings this one he had come to love. Her hair matched the color of his golden treasure. He’d lined her cave with jewels and glittering coins. She had taught him to use his fire on the meat she ate. But most important she sang. She filled the vast chambers of his fortress with music.
He turned his head to peer into her small chamber. Her tiny hands covered her mouth; her eyes filled with horror. “No,” she cried flinging out her arms to him. A flash of light against metal caught his attention as a broadsword pierced the pupil of his eye and imbedded itself into his brain. His lungs disgorged its fire as he writhed in the throes of death. Finally he lay still as his life ebbed away. His weeping songbird draped across his neck while the knight filled saddle bags with gold.

Another Flash Fiction I wrote for a writing contest on writing.com. Genre: Fantasy

The Barn Cat

Pyewacket woke with the rooster’s cock-a-doodle-do. She stretched her front legs kneading the hay with her claws. Her tail twitched at the thought of pouncing on that cranky old bird. She had been up most of the night ridding the barn of mice. The farmer expected her to do her job. The rooster crowed on the barn roof again. She would have to find someplace else for her morning nap.
The hay stacked to the rafters made a stairway for Pyewacket. She jumped down from bale to bale. She stepped along the edge of the sheep’s feeding trough like a tightrope walker. Large black headed sheep lifted their faces to regard her and bleated their greeting. This was not the place for a nap.
Pyewacket trotted across the barnyard as chickens pecked at the corn the farmer had scattered earlier. Hens stretched up on their toes and flapped their wings when she got too close to their chicks. She jumped sideways to avoid beak and claw. This was not the place for a nap.
At the stable Pywacket made her way to a freshly cleaned stall. She squeezed through a broken plank at the bottom of the stall door. She lifted her paws high to walk through the fresh hay that filled the space; winding her way between the horses’ legs. A new born colt struggled to its feet tottered for a minute and then took three shaky steps to get a drink from its mother. This was not the place for a nap.
The screen door on the farm house screeched and banged shut. Pyewacket streaked across the lawn and found a bowl of warm fresh milk by the porch steps. She lapped the milk until her muzzle was white with cream. She cleaned it off with her rough tongue. The farmer’s wife sat on a chair shelling peas. Pyewacket jumped up on the farmer’s wife’s lap spilling the bowl. She found herself dumped back on the ground. This was not the place for a nap.
Around the corner of the house a basket sat under the oak tree. Nearby the empty clothes line stretched across a sunny spot in the yard; clothes pins dangling from the wires. Sun-baked clothes filled the basket. Pyewacket curled up on the pile of folded laundry. This was the perfect place for a nap.

This is a story I wrote for a writing contest this past month. The criteria was a children's story less than 400 words.

Summer is upon us.

I read and read and read some more, then I wonder why I have left my own writing to languish. Some of the things I have read are wonderful and I can't imagine ever writing with that quality and other things I read I wonder who thought that was good enough to publish.


One Kiss, Chapter 10 (506 words), 276 words were moved to a new story. Finished the outline for One Kiss. Heir, Chapter 19(2370 words)