We've all been there. You think you know someone. And then—wammo— she tells you something about herself that leaves you reeling. Or surprised. Or impressed.
Telling Secrets by Alhuay
“Yep, I was Valedictorian of my high school,” she says, “I got a full-ride scholarship to the college of my dreams until I was kicked out for smoking marijuana in my door room.” Wow, you think. Knock me over with a feather.
Or, like in the Nicholas Sparks' Safe Haven, you fall in love with the new girl in town only to find out she has an abusive husband to whom she's still married. So much for a quick engagement.
Get in Your Character's Head and Make Up a Beguiling Backstory
It's this very thing, the revelation of your character's inner world, that makes your story more riveting, more relatable, more real. What is the skeleton in your character's closet? The explanation for her covert behaviors, paranoia or paralyzing worry? Humanize your character by giving him a surprising revelation.
Do you love to hear a good secret?
PRACTICE
Think of a secret that your character can reveal. Write the scene where he or she shares it for the first time and capture in writing the reaction of the receiver.
When you're finished, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, be sure to leave feedback on a few practices by other writers.
My sister sits perched on the back of the couch, utterly disconnected from us. She makes a soft sound to herself, a gurgle like a small, wounded animal caught in a trap.
She has retreated deep into the shadows of the cage, and she makes no effort to gnaw away at the bars.
Fiercely, I look at my mother. She brushes my anger aside with a wave of her hand and takes another sip of her champagne. “It is just a tantrum,” she says dismissively. “Even nineteen year olds have tantrums. You should know. You have them all the time, even if you are older than her.”
I clench my jaw. She will not put me off this time. She will tell the truth. “She needs to know,” I say.
The tip of my mother’s tongue emerges from her mouth to catch the last drops of golden poison from her fluted glass. Snake, I want to say. But I don’t.
I repeat myself, focusing on each word individually so that I don’t blow up in my mother’s face and crush her latest botox injection. She blinks fast, twice in succession. Now she is angry. “There is no need to yell,” she hisses. If she wasn’t so stiff from cosmetic enhancements, her whole face would be contorted into deep lines. I am pretty sure the lines would intersect to form scales.
“I didn’t yell,” I say. “I told you that she needs to know.”
Cue the trout pout smile and more blinks. “Know what?”
I change tactics. “I was seven when you told me,” I say. “Seven. You told me that you hated Daddy. That he was a bully. I had to ask you what that meant. And then you said that he blamed you for something you didn’t do. What was it, mother?”
She hurriedly splashes more champagne into her glass. “Why do you call me mother with a such a hateful emphasis?” she moans. “You really are over-reactive. It so bothers my head, dear. Leave me alone for a little while and try not to be such an instigator of pain in the lives of everyone you meet.” She pauses in between a slug of champagne to massage her temples.
I march forward and plant myself directly over her. I glue my two feet on either side of one of her feet. It works. The languid champagne sipper magically distorts into a very angry woman. “What are you doing?” she sits bolt upright, her eyes sharpening, preparing to wound me.
“What did you say to me on the train that day?” I ask, loudly.
“I am sorry that you have forgotten, already,” she says, now oozing charm all over again. “I seem to have forgotten myself. Maybe you dreamed the whole thing up.” That manic giggle bubbles out of her.
“Oh no, I remember,” I say. “How could I forget? How could I forget what you made me promise? The secret that you made me keep from my own sister?”
My mother whimpers now. “Dearest, there is no need for all this hateful speech,” she begs. “You know how sensitive my nerves are around such viciousness. Please, do be a good girl and give me a break. We don’t need to talk about our dreams when we were seven, do we now?”
She will not win today. I stare down at her. “If they are just dreams, what is the harm in remembering them?” I say. “I was wearing a pink dress with a yellow collar. I felt like a princess. I had on sparkly shoes and even one of your necklaces.” I release her foot and start to walk in circles. How many times have I walked this route before, trying to bury this deep back inside?
“You said that I was your friend. I felt a little strange. I wanted you to be my mommy, not my friend. And then you told me.”
My mother springs off of the couch and lies outstretched on the floor. “Stop, stop!” she shrieks, as if she is yelling for someone to tackle the thief who snatched her purse.
Her purse? She snatched my innocence! I keep pacing.
“You told me that there were two babies inside of you. My sister, and her brother. Only she survived. You told me that my sister killed her brother. And I believed you.”
My sister. I wish right away that I hadn’t spoken those words in her presence. The lonely vigil on the back of the couch ends. She topples backwards, a wild cry wavering from somewhere deep inside of her. She knows now. She knows why I never could be close to her. And she blames herself.
Wow — WHAT a story. I was riveted. Thanks for posting!
Thanks:) It’s part of my WIP. I did a lot of research on narcissism so I could make the mother believable. When I decided that I’d made her enough of a Narcissist to hate her guts, I figured it was time to post.
Nice. I love the mother. You’ve created a great character we may love to hate!
Isn’t she just awful:) Of course, there’s a story for that too. Which I am writing right now. Only I made the mother so awful that I can only write scenes with her in short spurts because I get utterly mentally drained by the end of it. Which is kind of like talking to a Narcissist anyway. AHHHH! The conversations I have with her.
Of course the trick is to make us feel empathy for her. What happened to mom to turn her into the horrible person we see today? Those are the best villains. The ones we can relate to.
And taking that a step further… shouldn’t we also love the mother in another way… because she too is only human. I mean that the author, Elise, should love the mother. Otherwise the mother won’t come off quite right. Her humanity won’t ring true. I think it’s a useful practice to try loving all our characters, even the baddies. What say ye?
I do love the mother because I know why she is the way that she is. She is kind of like a relative. One that you love because she is family, but she has so many issues that it is painful to be around her. Physically and mentally draining.
I have invested hours of time researching narcissism. It is getting at the root of the problem that is so difficult with people who have that personality disorder because they are major deflectors. They make you feel like the bad guy for trying to deal with things that need to be dealt with.
So no, I don’t hate the mother. But I do hate what she did to her daughters. That was her form of self preservation, but it caused years of pain and rejection. Hate the action, not the person.
Well said.
Great Job. I just had to keep reading. I love the characterization of the mother and am dying the know what they know. The mother’s jump from action to action made it challenged to understand who she was personality wise, or what her motivation is, but I suppose that’s what made it riveting. Good luck on the WIP
Thanks:) I’ve been able to post ideas here and then rework them into my WIP. I wrote 250 pages in 2.5 months, but then I realized that almost the whole thing was backstory to get to the beginning of the exciting stuff. The good news is that I have 250 pages of character study. Now I am just trying to work that character development of my “manual” into a real novel.
What a secret Elise. And you paced the telling so well.
Thanks. I teased myself to see how long I could wait before I wrote the secret. Hint, it took longer than 15 minutes:)
I love how you write Elise.
Orange light from the fire made Gabe’s face flicker like an old film. He shook his head.
“Don’t call me good, TJ.”
“Why not?” TJ looked past him, into the face of Serena. She only stared toward the ground. “If God has a man on the ground, it’s got to be you.”
Gabe shook his head again. His huge body spasmed with a sob. “God has forgiven me, but I can’t forget.”
“Forget what?”
The big man took a labored breath. Wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I only tell you this so you understand. So you stop thinkin’ you so much worse off than ever’body else.”
TJ waited. In the fire, the big man seemed to shrink, becoming a child in a body ten sizes too big.
When Gabe spoke, he kept his eyes closed, as if he couldn’t stand to witness his own testimony. “When I played, I wasn’t a Christian. Not like I was s’posed to be anyway.” He sniffed and fished a handkerchief out of his coat pocket. “We’d always have parties in the hotels after the games. They was always women, of course. Football groupies. Some would follow us whenever we went on the road.”
Serena stood and walked to the other side of the fire. She collected her grandchildren and ushered them off to the tent. “We gotta get up early, babies. Best you get some sleep.” She cast a look at TJ. One that said “we all got secrets…prepare your heart for what you’re about to hear.”
Gabe watched her go, then continued. “We’d just lost a game to the Colts. Bus took us back to the hotel. Like always, fans waited in the lobby. And the girls. Lord they was always such beautiful girls.” He picked up a stick and poked the fire. Sparks spiraled into the night air. “Some of the guys invited a few up to their rooms. I didn’t pay attention. Didn’t notice who picked her out of the crowd.”
Out of the corner of his eye, TJ caught Loner sitting at the light’s edge. The dog wouldn’t come closer, he knew. But at least he wasn’t hiding under the trailer.
Gabe continued. “When I got upstairs, changed, and joined some of the guys in another room, this girl was there. Alone. Couldn’t a been more than sixteen. She shoulda been scared. But she didn’t know better. The guys got to drinkin’. They was six of us in there with her.” He took a breath. “Before long, she’s being passed around. Kissing at first…then things got out of hand.”
TJ put a hand on his arm. “Gabe…you don’t have to–”
“No. I do have to.” He met TJ’s eyes for the first time. “When you sin, God will forgive. But you carry that sin like a chain around your neck. You live with it.”
The fire popped. TJ nodded and waited for the rest of the story. A story he didn’t want to hear.
“Clothes started comin’ off,” Gabe said. “She should’ve run. Why didn’t she run?” He shook his head again. “I turned my back for another beer…and I heard…I heard a scream. But it was cut short. I turned around and one guy’s got her on the bed, his hand over her mouth, while the other guys start takin’ turns. She’s undressed all the way now. I–”
He turned away from TJ and stared into the flames. He leaned a little closer. Too close, TJ thought. But he didn’t say anything.
“I just stood there. Watching. Her eyes were scared. She looked at me like she wanted me to help. But I was young. I was scared, too. Then I was angry because she didn’t run. If she’d run, none of this would be happening. I blamed her…can you believe that?”
TJ thought that he could believe it. Would he have reacted any differently?
“I wanted to yell at her. So I did. I said you should’ve stayed out if you didn’t want this. You should’ve run when you had the chance. What’d you think was gonna happen?” Tears streamed down his brown skin, glistening in the firelight. “I said you…I said you dumb little white bitch…what did you think–” His face fell into his hands as he sobbed. His words muffled. “Oh God how can you ever love me?”
TJ waited, horrified. Not just for the girl, but for the man who’d made such a terrible mistake. All the love in that big heart could never wash away the memory of that one moment. The moment that destroyed more than one life.
Gabe sat up again, his face wet. “They took their turns. She kept screaming through the hands that covered her mouth. I remember wondering if she had to go to school the next day. What would be her first class? Algebra? Did she have to sit and learn about Algebra while thinking about the men who’d raped her only twelve hours earlier?”
The logs gave way and collapsed,spewing sparks in every direction. Gabe didn’t flinch.
“And then I was there, too,” Gabe said.
TJ stared at him. His heart stuck in his throat.
“I took my turn, TJ. Team player, right.” He looked away now and spoke into the darkness. “I took my turn.”
Heavy stuff. I could feel the chain around Gabe’s neck, but I mostly felt the shame of the girl. That poor girl. What made her want to go up there? What makes so many victims ignore the voice in the back of their heads telling them to stay away? They want to be loved. They want to feel beautiful. They think that nothing will happen.
They don’t realize that they are already beautiful, and that a roomful of strange men will never convince them of that if they don’t already believe it themselves.
Gabe’s immediate reaction, blaming her and justifying himself, is all the girl hears. Those words replay and replay. She doesn’t know about the later. The chains that the men carry. She is too busy floundering under her own.
Victims of victims with a sense of entitlement. Not often do we hear how the perpetrator gets sucked into committing the crime. Glad your character feels extreme remorse. Wonder if he ever confessed and tried to put things right with the girl.
I’ve wondered how often this sort of thing happens and the victim remains silent. I’d be willing to bet it’s well over half. I drew on a memory I have. When I was a young sailor, about eight of us were gathered in a hotel room and a couple of the guys brought in two very young girls. Nothing happened, but I kept thinking, “you two need to get out of here, you have no idea who these guys are and what they might do.” Not to make excuses for rapists, but girls like that need to think like a dad: what’s the worst thing that can happen here? And believe it will happen. Anyway, these practice sessions are quick, so I tried to get inside Gabe’s head. What would someone like that think in that situation? And I really thought he might place the blame on the girl. It was either that or turn “traitor” on his teammates. Of course now, much older and wiser, he has to carry the shame with him forever.
Both boys and girls need to be taught to respect life and other people. Back to which male had been a victim and had such low respect for women that he was willing to drag his buddies down with him. You have another story in there.
Wow, this was hard to read, but beautifully written. I love the alliteration of the first sentence. It found that it had a heightened language that contrasted the dialogue of your characters. Gabe is a compelling character, especially in his need for confession, almost forcing it in a way that he and his teammates forced themselves on that girl. Well done
Whew. A heavy and hard read. But a good look into the burden of guilt. This line especially struck me: “When you sin, God will forgive. But you carry that sin like a chain around your neck. You live with it.” Grace is so hard for us to grasp, isn’t it?
Graphic. And the ending – “I took my turn”. Ohhhhhh
I have been struggling with this exact issue lately. I know that my female character has a secret but I can’t figure out what it is. Does she have a kid that no one knows about? Was she once married but never told anyone? Why won’t she tell me what has happen to her?
Listen to her. Interview her. Find out how she acts, and then you can uncover why.
Mom whats this. I asked. I sat on the old ratty blue couch my mom and dad found on the side of the road. My mom looked up from her newspaper with a look of annoyance. What now CJ. My mom said. My moms tone dripped with hate. I shoved the papers into her hand. My moms face looked at me. These are your adoption papers. My mom waved it away like the newspaper was more important, My mom said it like she needed to go to the store or she was gonna fix dinner. My mom went back to reading her newspaper. What do you mean. My voice got quick and loud. Don’t talk that way. My dad said. His words were slurred by the amount of whiskey he always drank. My dad was always drunk and they usually took out there anger on me. I glared at my mom and dad. Why didn’t you tell me. I asked. My face turned red with anger. Becuse I didn’t want to. My mom said. My mom shrugged her shoulders. I don’t believe you. I said. I brushed my red hair out of my face. It all made sense now. I don’t look like my mom and dad. My mom is short and bony with long stringy brown hair tan skin and blue eyes. My dad is short and bony with brown hair tan skin and blue eyes. I’m tall and athletic built had red long curly hair pale skin with freckles and green eyes. My mom and dad always acted like I was a stranger. Mom and dads were supposed to have wide open arms my mom and dad had hard balled up fist. My mom and dads words were like knives tearing into my heart. My mom and dad never loved me it was all just an act. Anger seeped into my body. The pain I had been hiding for so long was coming out. Hot tears were pushing to come out. I snapped out of it by a hard slap to my right side of my face. Blood trickled down my lip. I tasted the salty taste of it and spit on the ground. The stinging pain thudded on my face. I stare at my dad. His blue eyes showed no love just coldness. I touch my lip and looked at the blood my hands shaking from anger. I growled like a wild beast. Why would you do this to me! I screamed. Shut up girl. My mom said. Her face looked at me like I was a rat. No I won’t! My dad looked at me like he was about to hit me again. I’ve put up with your shit for 12 years. I screamed. I punched the dirty walls of the cramped living room filled with broken furniture, trash, and whiskey bottles. Stop it now. My dad said. I’ve put up with abuse, pain, and your two drinking. I said. I wake up to my mom and dad passed out one the couch from drinking whiskey. I go off to work every day to pay to live in this crap. I screamed. I looked at my mom and dad seething with anger. You two don’t envelope tell me I’m adopted. I scream. I look at the papers on the table. You stupid girl.
My dad said. My dad laughed and took a drink of his whiskey. I punched him in the jaw sending him down on the ground. I’m not stupid. I scream. Blood pours out of my dad nose. I look at my hands surprised at my own stretgh. My mom looks at me with dosgust. You are gonna get such a beating. My mom said. She grabbed the old belt. It was worn in from so many undeserved beatings. I whimpered in pain remembering the pain but I pushed it out of my mind. I hope you two get what you deserve. I said. I slammed the front door and ran outside. The rain poured down soaking me instantly. Thunder roared. Lighting crashed. I ran my shoes thudding down the worn sidewalk my heart beating that my mom and dad would get me. I finally turned around to look but there was nothing. I breathed a sign of relief. I let they tears fall down my face. I felt like I could finally breath. No more pain.
Chloee, you definitely write very emotional pieces. However, I had to fight myself to just read the story and not get caught up on every technicality. My dad used to teach at an engineering school, and he would grade the students’ work based on not just the work but also the grammar and punctuation. He even stapled students’ papers together in the center of the page if they neglected to staple their papers. I kind of inherited his editing gene (except that I think the stapling thing counts as cruel and unusual punishment).
For me, I think the hardest part was that the story was all in one giant chunk with no paragraphs. For any story, especially this one, where there is so much angst and pain, readers need breaks. They need to have a space in between the revelations of truth.
Sometimes, a writer just needs to get the raw, unpolished scene out there. I totally understand that feeling. I would challenge you, though, to take the time to really rework this piece. You can make it go from good to great, from emotional to gripping. Keep writing!
Thank you so much.
That why I needed to hear.
You’re story and characters seem to be very in depth, and by the end I had a pretty good picture of who they were and what they looked like. The main thing which would help is if you made more paragraphs. It would help readers take in all the information and allow for a clearer read.
A quick, rough practice. Thanks for reading!
Eve LaBelle danced like no other. In fact, her classmates suspected Eve LaBelle danced better than anyone in the country. The LaBelle family danced through generations. Her grandmother was a ballerina during the Nazi resistance. Her parents met as leads in a grand Parisian production and, as the story goes, fell in love. Her teachers described her feet as perfect. Her body lines, sublime. When classmates saw Eve, they saw her dancing.
“Don’t you ever rest?” her friend, Arabelle, asked.
“Never,” Eve said, “I even dance in my dreams.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of dancing?”
Eve thought for a moment. She pursed her bottom lip and tilted her head. She reflected on every turn, every leap, every lift, and every beat.
“Well, I do have to confess something.”
“What’s that?”
Eve remembered growing up with her dancer inheritance. She reminisced on her parents arguing over which dance academy she would attend. She recalled all conversations, so definitive on her dancing career. Eve looked at Arabelle, the corner of her mouth turning up into a grin.
“When I was a girl I dreamed of being an accountant.”
Ha! The last line made me smile — it was so unexpected! (The hook, not the smile. I genuinely enjoy reading your submissions!)
Thanks Lucy! I can say the same about yours
I love the secret! You could Eva passion for dancing so that made the surprise better. Also, beautiful names. T
Thank you!
Love it 🙂
Sorry for the longer post. Hopefully it’s fairly readable.
The man rolled off from on top of Emma with an elongated sigh. Then he stared at her, smiling. After a few minutes, she felt a little uncomfortable and, to fill the silence, asked, “So what do you do for a living?” That only made her feel worse. She’d just had sex – albeight incredible, mind-blowing sex – with a guy and didn’t even know if he had a job. For all she knew, he was just released from prison.
Unembarrassed, he shrugged and, playfully rolling a strand of her hair around his finger, said, “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
That made her wince. Only people in shitty jobs said stuff like that. She’d never met a doctor who said it didn’t really matter. Oh God, she thought, he’s an ex-con for real.
“Yeah, it kinda does,” she replied, desperate for something to make her feel less ashamed.
He let go of her hair but didn’t lose the smile. “OK, if you must know, I’m God.”
Within seconds, Emma had the blankets pulled up to her neck without even realizing it. What had she gotten herself into? Didn’t Jeffrey Dahmer say something like that to his victims? Although she was pretty sure she’d just made that up, worst case scenarios began screaming through her head and she scanned the room for a way out as her vision blurred with tears.
As a diversion, she heard herself blurt, “If you’re God, then prove it.” Then she waited for him to give some excuse as to why he couldn’t. Instead, he simply said, “OK. How about this. I know you’re pregnant from what we just did.”
Emma felt him touch her shoulder and she pulled away until her hip rested on the nightstand.
“What?” she hissed.
“Want me to prove that, too?”
She nodded her head while, at the same time, reaching for the lamp, her weapon.
Still smiling that infuriating smile, the man leaned forward and waved a hand over her belly.
Emma suddenly felt nauseous as her belly slowly began to rise. It blew up like a balloon and, within seconds, she had to hold on to keep it from sagging. Frantic, her eyes found the man’s.
“Triplets,” he said, grinning.
Coughing out a sob, she looked down and began to go into labor.
“Please,” she said to the man as she began panting.
“Anything you say,” said the man. He nodded and, as quickly as it had begun, her belly shrank back to normal.
“Baby aborted,” said God.
Stunned, the woman kept her distance. But she believed. Then, before she could stop herself, she said, “I thought abortion was wrong.” She winced but her words didn’t seem to affect God.
He reached over, patted her stomach, and said, “Do as I say not as I do.”
She squinted at him, obviously unnerved.
“Just kidding,” he said. “You weren’t pregnant. That was just an illusion.”
“Oh,” she said, absently.
God smiled at her again and, somehow, she felt herself relax. Then she took a few minutes as a million questions raced through her head. Funnily enough, the one she posed was, “So you just go have sex with random women?”
He lay back on his pillow, setting his head in the crook of his hands. “I’ve done a lot of things in my time, believe me. Some of them I can’t even tell you or your head would explode. But none of those things even comes close to the human orgasm.” He smiled and shook his head. “You really owe me for that one.”
“So you become human just to have sex?”
“What better reason could there be?”
“I don’t know. It just feels wrong.”
“Why? That was amazing. And from the noises, I’m pretty sure you liked it, too.”
Emma couldn’t disagree so she just stared at him.
“People always think something that feels good has to have a catch,” God said. “Talk about ruining a moment.”
She hated to agree, but that made sense. And if God said it, it had to be true. Caving, she leaned forward and went to lie on his chest.
“I think our moment is done,” he said, starting to push himself up. Emma froze, a strange squeeze wrenching her heart. She was being discarded by God.
“Don’t feel bad,” said God. “God wanted to have sex with you. Take it as a compliment.”
With that, he began to get dressed.
That’s a humdinger of a secret for sure! Technically, a well-written piece. The pace and structure are comfortable and not forced. For me, personally, the content was hard to swallow. God becoming human is astounding enough; adding sex to the mix pushes it to sacrilege (according to my belief system, that is. I respect yours may be different). I wonder if the story would be more widely appealing if the man was a god from mythology, instead of God (like … God-God). Or if you flipped it a little and approached it from a “Bruce Almighty” angle — if I recall right, Bruce was just a guy who took on God’s powers, but wasn’t actually God. Anyway, from a writing perspective, it was an interesting read. From a personal perspective … shocking. (I have a feeling that’s what you were going for, though.)
I agree with you here. I have a deeply spiritual relationship with God, and so I had a very hard time reading this. I tried to take it at face value, but I really could not. If you had an insane person posing to be the almighty, or a Hercules demi-god running around sleeping with various women, that would be one thing. This I couldn’t stomach. Excellent style of writing, though.
I also agree with both of you.
Great fun! I like the idea that God would wander around playing with his powers. Lots of scope for more story there. I like how Emma immediately started to challenge him and his response – do as I say – great black comedy.
I also really liked her dread that she had just slept with an ex con, identified by his vagueness about his job – very true to life.. 🙂
This made me laugh!
-Sef.
Thanks Sefton! I had fun writing it. It was one of my faster practices, actually. I love when things just happen in the moment. When I was visualizing the story, the ex-con thing wasn’t there. But as I started writing, it just made sense.
I liked this so much that I read it aloud to my boyfriend in my horrible english (non-english speaker). Oh, and regarding the “don’t use God-God, but a mythological god – for a lot of people, that is the same.
Wow thanks 🙂 I’m so glad you enjoyed it and shared it as well!
“What did you do?” Dessa asked impulsively. Horrified, she snapped her mouth shut and looked down apologetically, dread trudging through her gut like a polluted river. She was almost afraid to look up– the Oracle was unpredictable. It was impossible to know whether she would blow up with power, forcing Dessa from her presence with enough pain for her to remember, or if she would simply say nothing, or give Dessa a sharp reprimand for being so nosy.
But instead, there was silence.
Dessa looked up, surprised, to see the Oracle staring into space.
“Yes,” the old woman murmured. “I suppose you should need to know. Tell me, child, what do you know about my past?”
Dessa blanched for a moment in surprise before responding. “Well, you defeated the Darkness,” she said dumbly.
The Oracle apparently shared this opinion. “Everyone knows that,” she snapped. “Anything else groundbreaking?”
Dessa thought for a moment, and shook her head, surprised that she knew nothing about the saviour of her world. “Nothing groundbreaking.”
“Have you heard of Princess Silvara ever before?” she asked, snapping as she created a hologram of a young girl, with sweet, commanding dark green eyes and white blond hair, sitting coyly for her picture. She was beautiful in a sharp-featured way, with high cheekbones and a very straight nose.
Dessa had indeed heard of her. She had been the princess of Jisa, and she can killed her sister, who was heir to the throne. She had been a powerful Channelleer, very powerful. In fact she killed not only her sister, but an entire army of Henseliens in the process.
“Yeah,” Dessa said cautiously. “Why?”
“Well,” the Oracle said matter-of-factly. “I happen to be she.”
For the second times in about thirty seconds, Dessa’s mind went completely blank with shock.
“*You’re* the Princess of Shadows?” Dessa demanded, the shock like a cold shot in her stomach, seeping through her veins. For a moment, she struggled in silence as the Oracle gave her a typical glare. Finally, she managed, “How?” in a small voice.
The Oracle, or rather, Silvara, looked mournfully at the ground. “It’s been two hundred years. Stories can change over such a great distance and time, and so I can tell you with complete truth that not everything you think that you know about this princess is true.”
Dessa wondering how far she’d get if she tried to escape. Loyalty and trust did battle with the fearsome reputation of the Shadow Princess, and in it’s process, she did nothing.
“Are you listening?” the sharp snap brought her back to the present. “I don’t fancy telling my lifestory to a vegetable.”
With a sigh of resignation, Dessa nodded. With power such as the Oracle’s, she would get absolutely no where if she tried to run anyway.
“Right off the bat, I’ll have you know,” the Oracle said, her voice low and fierce, “I didn’t kill my sister. I *didn’t*… But it was my fault.”
Dessa said nothing, but looked expectantly at the Oracle, confusion and curiosity and a trace of terror mingling unhappily in her stomach.
“You know, of course, about the rivalry between Hensel and Jisa, established years ago, before Jisa was even a country and nation in its own right. You know of the army that marched upon it, and how the second eldest princess annihilated the entire thing… in under five minutes. That much is true. But I am not here to tell you what you know. I’m here to tell you what you do not.
“My sister and I were in the small tribe of Lolth, the place of my father’s birth and raising, visiting. It was night, and I heard a scream, which woke me up in my tent. The first thing I noticed was that my sister, Marieve, was gone.”
Dessa could hear the effect the memory had on the woman, in the unstable sentences and the slight waver that betrayed itself only in her last word.
“No one knew that that was the night of the attack. Others perhaps thought that it was a mother giving birth. Or a sick child. It occurred to no one that their princess heir was gone in the same night that scream had come from.
“I would know that scream anywhere– I knew it from when my dad tickled her, from when she fell and scraped her knee as we played. But this was worse, much worse. This scream spoke of indescribable pain.
“As much as this made me afraid, it more made me angry. Marieve was sweet, agreeable, and had a strong sense of justice that I looked up to. Firm, but selfless. Born leader to her country, and my big sister. Naturally, I had to go find her. I had to save her. But when I found where her scream had come from, she wasn’t there, and neither was her spiritual presence. But there were three soldiers, clearly branded Hensel in their proud red robes.”
She was practically spitting in hatred, shaking in fury. Dessa found herself concerned that the old woman might not be able to take the stress of reliving this, but she was spellbound, powerless under the power of the story; Dessa had to know.
The Oracle continued, “They laughed at me, taunting me, telling me my big sister was still alive if I could go save her. They laughed so easily at death and at suffering, and that enraged me only further. I had little control at that age, and I only barely managed to escape killing them, but one found his arm spontaneously broken.
“They told me where to find her, and although I knew it could be a trap, I ran. I had no choice. I had to save her before they killed her, because if they did then I would never see her again, hear her laugh, feel her hands on my back guiding me. And I would have to rule her kingdom.
“But when I got there, I was too late. I knew it when I saw her body, but did not sense her presence, but I refused to believe it. I couldn’t until I felt her cold skin, still and pale on the sand. They had left her, twisted, broken, alone, dead on the desert floor. Her beautiful life had been snuffed out because I hadn’t gotten there fast enough, and in a sense, my world had ended.”
A single tear, a shining orb of sorrow. The rarity of it struck Dessa as it blotted on the ground, instantly soaked up by the plush carpet where it disappeared, never to be known by another living soul.
“They had killed my sister,” she said, her voice shaking, with grief or anger it was hard to tell. Maybe both. “And they payed. In the worst possible way. Before they had the chance to get near my and wipe out two of the three royal children, my tightly restrained power spun out of control, swelling and crashing. Like the ocean set free from it’s dam. It created the Shadow Storm, the storm with both the spirits and the elements at its disposal, and I… I killed every single soldier in the entire country.”
The regret in her voice struck Dessa. Such regret and sorrow for her enemies death, for those who had killed her sister.
Somehow it made her more human.
“I was found days later, collapsed from the explosion of power, nearly dead from dehydration. When I was brought to my brother, I was on the cusp of death.”
“Why does everyone think you died?” Dessa blurted out, unable to help herself.
The Oracle didn’t move, but said, “I was too powerful. I was a cause of fear for my own people. But that was a small part of it; it was my choice in the end. I wanted to start over. The guilt of knowing it was my fault my sister had died was enough without living with everyone looking at me as the girl who had saved her country, but failed to save their queen. I wanted to start fresh. And so I was announced as dead, and I went off to train at the Academy. I’ll admit, it was painful travelling through my country as it mourned the death of it’s two princesses. But it wasn’t enough to make me turn back.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Dessa said gently, shaking her head. “You couldn’t have saved her. It wasn’t your responsibility.”
“But it was,” the Oracle said miserably. “I was the one with the power, and she had protected me so many times without it, and even with all my *strength*… I couldn’t save her in return.”
~~~
I think this is horrible, but I haven’t decided yet. It’s rough, at any rate.
Here is my post: http://kevinspear.com/writing/secret-guardian-front-porch
Sweet story. I liked how it went along with the cartoon and this prompt. I hope things work out for him this time.
Thank you, Eliese. I’m sure love will triumph in the end. After all, it’s nearly Valentine’s Day.
I have to wonder what Edna’s response was about the secret society … Thanks for sharing. I enjoyed it!
First draft in a WIP:
He takes my hands in his and starts to lean forward. He is going to kiss me! This is very improper. We may not be a in a public place, but close enough. Plus I barely know him. I find myself leaning towards him anyway, unable to stop. I feel the slightest touch of soft lips when there is a rustling sound nearby.
“Did you hear that?” I ask while looking around. It seems all is quiet. Then I hear a branch break.
“What?” Henry asks.
“I heard something coming from over there.” I point over his left shoulder.
“I am sure it was just some little creature. Nothing to worry about. Besides, I would really like to continue where we left off Victoria.” He says with that same crooked smirk. He leans towards me. Heart flutter, flutter.
But then I hear it again, only louder.
“You can’t tell me you didn’t hear that.” I stand up. His warm hands slip out of mine leaving them feeling empty and cold.
I advance to where I last heard the sound. The area is crowded with trees and thick bushes. If something was there it would be very hard to see. My heart dances again, but this time out of fear. Anything could be in there. I hear footsteps behind me and I gasp.
“You should probably stay by me.” Henry says from behind me. He starts pulling me away but I am now determined.
“Thank you, but I need to know.”
I pick up a large branch for a weapon and take the last couple steps to the spot. I don’t see anything. I use the stick to part the plants. I look peer into the shadows, unsure of what I am seeing. My eyes focus, and I realize it is a pair of human eyes staring back at me. I scream and faint in the tall grass.
~~~
I awake confused and alone. The bench I am laying on uncomfortable sticks into my back. I hear whispering voices close by. I slowly open my eyes and see Henry calmly chatting with a man I’ve never seen.
I let out a sigh, and pretend to wake up. Henry rushes to my side.
“Are you alright? How are you feeling?” He asks full of sincerity.
I answer honestly. “I am confused and I want to know who he is.” I say pointing at the strange man.
“Understandable.” He sighs. “I don’t want to lie to you anymore, but this isn’t easy to say. Ok. First, this is my body guard Eliot.” The tall man bows to me. “He is always watching over and protecting me.”
This is crazy, and I still can’t fathom what’s happening.
“Why do you need guards? Who are you really? You haven’t told me anything yet.” The volume of my voice increasing as my frustration builds. Eliot, the guard, shushes me and checks to make sure no one heard anything. Henry grasps my hands and I calm down.
“No one was supposed to know about me but I never expected that you would be so” he pauses,” unexpected.” He takes another deep breath, his shoulders rising, and continues.
“My name is not Henry. I am wearing this disguise because I wanted to go out into the world and see what it’s like to be a average person. Not a peasant, of course, but at least someone who not recognizable by every person and fairy in the kingdom.” He snaps his fingers together and his face and body change. His dark hair turns a familiar red. A royal red.
“My true name is Prince Charles Charmaine.” He admits.
This looks like a fun piece. It’s every girl’s dream to meet prince charming. Good luck with wherever the story takes you. I find it interesting that you write in the present tense. It definitely gives the feeling of “real time.”
It is fun thank you. That is exactly who he is. I’ve been having fun with the play on names. 🙂
The scene of the village’s massacre kept thrashing its way into Trent’s thoughts, despite his attempts to forget. He knew that the war was serious, but for the enemy to murder that many people, and then pile their corpses into a stinking heap of decaying carcasses as a message… he never imagined humanity to have such a heart of darkness.
The group settled down in an old abandoned hut. The nearest town wasn’t far off, but they all needed time to recover; All of them, that is, except Trent’s sister, Irene.
“Come on. We’ve got to get going if we’re to reach the town before sundown,” said Irene. John and Isaac shot her a glance as if asking, “How can you just move on from something like this?” Of course, they knew how she managed it, but neither understood why. Was it because she had seen this type of violence in the past or due to the fact that she’d perpetrated such acts herself? Before, when she and Isaac still had a place to live, she’d take the bodies of thieves who’d tried to break into their house and posted their corpses in front of their fence.
Irene stood up and motioned for Kurt and Isaac to stand, “Get up. No use in mourning for strangers unless you just enjoy wasting time.”
“Respecting the dead is not a waste of time,” said John.
“Than what is it?” she asked.
“Showing respect,” John replied.
Irene chuckled mockingly at his response while beginning her pace around the room, “Let me put it simply. If we’re not moving, we’re stationary. And if we’re stationary without so much as talk on necessities, we’re wasting time,” she pointed to Isaac, “Get up. We’re leaving.”
‘Were leaving,’ for too long had he heard those words come out of her mouth. Like when they left the city, or the village, or the town, or their first home after she had burnt it to a pile of ashes with their old Caretaker’s body still inside… Ever since they were little, Irene had been making sure that they never had a real place to settle down and live, or people to live with. Sometimes it was because of the war, most times because of her ‘instincts.’ Well Trent was tired of it. Tired of Irene and her insufferable ways, so he leapt to his feat and made a stand.
“Why?” asked Trent.
She stopped pacing, “What?”
“What’s the point of always running?”
“What else? If we stay in one place for too long than the war will spread to us; keep moving, keep living. Now let’s go.”
“Only once have we actually left because of the war. Every other time was ‘cause you had a ‘feeling’ that it wasn’t safe.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Really? So we left the town because the landlord asking for the weekly tax wasn’t safe?”
“He wasn’t a good person and you know it. Would’ve tried something if he had the chance.”
“So it was ‘cause he gave you a few looks, that’s it!? When we abandoned our life in the city, it was because our neighbor took a liking to you!? You could have just told him you weren’t interested, or maybe even given him a chance! Let’s face it, most people don’t find your company appealing, so when an opportunity like that springs up out of nowhere, you shouldn’t just run!”
“It’s because they had an interest at all. You wouldn’t be able to recognize what their true intentions were. You aren’t a woman.”
“So what about our Caretaker, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you think I’d forget what I saw back then?”
“Trent—“
“What you did to him… I couldn’t tell who it was at first because there wasn’t any trace of his face—“
“You don’t know what you saw—“
“I saw him butchered! With you holding the bloodstained knife! I know what I saw!”
He’d been stepping on thin Ice, the only shield covering the depths of who his sister really was. But now he’d broken through, and soon enough, he’d be gasping for air.
Irene shut her eyes, “So that’s what you think. Caretaker sends you on an errand, leaving us two alone. You come back, and everything’s a mess. Didn’t matter if my clothing was torn or if I’d been injured and bruised; the fact was, I had the knife, and that explained everything, is that it!?”
John stood up, “Irene… are you saying that he—“
“No. Almost, but I wouldn’t let him,” she sent a grimacing glare to Trent, “You want to know why I do the things I do to thieves? Why I make it so brutal and torturous? It’s so that when the strangers around us get the thought of harming me, or you, or any of the people of whom we love! That it is in any way a good idea… they’ll see what happened to the last guy.”
This story was interesting to read. I liked the characters and wanted to know more about them and more about the war. Is this a WIP? It might help if you cut out an Ellipsis (thanks to Thewritepractice for the name:P ) to help keep up the pace. I also liked how the secret was a strong, but dark, message.
Thank you very much! It isn’t directly from my WIP but it is supposed to be from a scene from later on. Yeah, I need to work on the Ellipsis. Thank you again for your critique!
No problem. Thanks for listening. 🙂
The Axe was beautiful, even in ruins. As a working church it must have dominated this little hamlet, its square Saxon tower rising above the red tiled roofs. Now wisteria blossomed through the shell of the nave and birds roosted in the broken window arches.
“The village is named after the church,” said Quinton. He glanced at Dora, his pale eyes flickering with reflections of the sky. “As am I.”
Dora knew this, had known it since the day she first googled him, but it was still strange. “Is that why you know so much about this place?”
“Hmmm,” Quinton said. His gaze went back to the Axe. “No, that’s because I own it.”
She went still. Swallows dived for gnats above the church. “The Axe?”
“All of it.” He flicked his fingers at the village, the church, the great house beyond the boundary wall. Then he shoved his hand back in his trouser pocket.
Dora stared at him. The silence, the secrecy, the reluctance to discuss his reasons for taking all those artefacts – it was all about this, his stake in a Dorset village. But how? As usual he had told her something and nothing at all.
I really liked your setting descriptions. The first paragraph is
brilliant, and the part with the swallows, the stakes in the Dorset
village, all the scenery made me intrigued.
Dora does sound mistrustful of Quinton, to me at least. Google almost doesn’t seem to fit in the setting of the nave and roosting birds. To me, it would sound more interesting if one of the wizened widows in the hamlet trudged to the church to visit her husband’s grave and whispered the part about Quinton’s name origin to Dora.
Also, I was confused why the church was called the Axe, and Quinton says that he is named after it, but Quinton and Axe don’t sound even close. You might explain why he is called Quinton instead.
Hi Elise, this is part of an ongoing story, and Quinton is called Quinton Axe, which I now realise I did not say in the piece itself! Axe – got the idea from St Mary Axe, which is a church in London close to the Gherkin. The story is set present day and Dora has googled her new employer to find out more about him. – I am using these prompts to flesh out some character and setting ideas for my story…sorry if it makes no sense at all! -Sef
I am sorry if I sounded overly critical. I enjoyed your piece, which is why I took the time to comment. It’s nearly impossible, okay, impossible, to explain the whole/story, history in one scene. I’m pretty sure that your fleshing out is working, and Quinton Axe sounds pretty interesting.
I tipped my chair onto two legs, resting my back against the wall, watching my wife of fifty years putter around the kitchen. She threw ‘some of this and a little of that’ into a bowl. I hoped it was a cake. Pineapple-upside down cake, to be precise. It would be the perfect taste to finish off our meal of roast beef, corn, and homemade biscuits. My stomach was feeling pleasant after my favorite dinner.
“Did you get the pedal car fixed?” Mary pushed her gray curls away from her face with the back of her hand. She was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
“I did.” Bringing my chair back down with a thump, I picked up the tiny propellers to glue onto the model airplane. It too, was for Tyler.
“Oh good. Little Tyler will just love riding on it.” She grabbed a wooden spoon from the drawer stirred the contents of the bowl.
I glanced around, trying to spot the can of pineapple, and then shook the bottle of glue to squirt a dot onto the airplane. My taste buds were already revving up. Getting ready.
“It’s hard to believe he’s big enough to ride it already.” She paused in her stirring. “It’s hard to believe we have a great-grandchild.” Stirring resumed. “I’m so glad we kept the little car for all these years. Him riding it after the kids and the grand kids … it’s fitting. And special.”
I held the propeller in place, letting the glue set. Then I gave it a gentle spin with my finger. Lifting it up, I waited for Mary to comment.
“Oh, that looks wonderful.” She beamed and I smiled back, her appreciation pulling me to my feet. I set the model down and went to peer over her shoulder into the bowl.
Looked a bit thick for cake batter. Looked more like …
She opened the cupboard above her head and pulled out a bag of coconut. “I thought I’d make cookies that way we’ll have extra for Tyler tomorrow. Plus, I know how much you like them.”
I stepped back, leaning against the kitchen island, and folding my arms across my chest. It was my fault. If I hadn’t kept quiet when she had first brought me a plate of them, beaming too prettily for me to say a word, I wouldn’t still be forcing them down. Young and in love, I had done it for her. I suppose I still did it for her. “I may as well tell you.”
Mary turned around, bag of coconut open and poised in the air. My stomach turned over at the sight of the white, stringy bits. I looked into her questioning eyes.
“I should’ve told you sooner.” Suddenly I wasn’t sure how to say it. Should’ve kept quiet. With the majority of my life behind me, I could survive eating the cookies for a few more years.
“What?” She was looking worried now.
“Those cookies.” I reached up to rub the back of my neck. It was wrinkled. Old. Why hadn’t I kept quiet? “I never have liked them.”
“You what?” She didn’t know whether to believe me. “Oh, Floyd. Are you teasing me?”
The hilarity of the circumstance made me smile. “No. Remember when you first gave me a plate?”
“Of course. I would never forget that. I was wearing my new pink dress. Trying to get you to propose.”
“I didn’t have the heart to tell you that I hated coconut.”
Mary broke into peals of laughter. “Oh Floyd! All these years.”
The smell was so familiar. Stale smoke, spilt beer, linseed oil. For a moment he was back in training when the bar was his refuge. His and every other member of his initial entry of thirty. So many nights, so many fights. And so many headaches and bruises the next day.
He couldn’t remember when drinking had become less a release and more a necessity. A way to function. A means to an end. How he got through the day. But that was where he had found himself seven years later.
His doctor called him an addict. A functioning alcoholic. He just considered himself a failure,
The final straw had been finding himself desperately searchingly the bin for a bottle of vodka that had been accidentally been thrown away with the remains of the previous nights party. Ironically a party for the completion of a specialist course by one of his team. Caught by his second in command shoulder deep in pizza boxes and beer bottles the look of realisation on his face had hit hard. Like a sucker punch to the kidneys. It was time to do something about it.
Fourteen years later it was still a struggle. Different bar, different second in command, different team. Same old problem. No matter how many years passed he was still an addict. It was still a struggle when he found himself in a place like this. He had no doubt that his team knew, or at least suspected. How could they not when he had repeatedly turned down countless drinks over the years. Taking water instead of whiskey after each successful mission. Toasting success with OJ instead of necking a beer with his men, his boys.
It was time to be honest. For too long he had kept this too himself. Turning to his 2IC he said “Stevo, I need to tell you something”
His friend looked at him, realising this was not the time for a witty retort or sarcastically it down. “Guv, whatever it is you know I’m there, the boys are there”
Taking a deep breath he began to share his secret.
Slowly the coffin disappeared into
the grave as rifles shot, BANG! BANG! BANG!
Saluting a fallen warrior. Remembrance relived of The Day of Sacrifice…
Ricocheting rounds of enemy fire crossfire pinned me at my position. With nowhere to go, fearing of getting shot;my eyes caught my partner’s attention. Signaling with her grenade launcher; ready to shoot and run toward her position. At a prone position, yelled, HEY XXX HEAD! Shot one round toward the enemy. At impact, I hauled-ass toward her position for cover.
She dropped immediately to the ground. As I got to the her position, my
heart stopped, my eyes watered; one round pierced her helmet. I reached for her motionless, removed her helmet… , but her death was instant. I put her over my shoulder, ran downhill, but an explosion rocked me to the ground.
As my vision focused to the bright white light with beeping sounds
surrounding me. A nurse approached me asking me how I’m doing. Immediately, I asked
for Sergeant Salvador, hoping she was alive. But that hope soon vanished with the nurse’s response, “ I sorry…”
After serving four years, looking out for each
other’s back, making sure that we would make at home together. My sister-in-law
sacrificed her position to save me so we can go home together.