“The trees are beginning to awaken from their winter-long slumber. The sap is flowing again, and the air is fresh and new. At long last the eternal winter has broken. We can have hope again and cast off this weight which has so long settled onto us. Man can once again live as he was meant to. The earth lives again and hope springs true once more.”
~the ravings of Quibble, a madman, with regard to the Dalara Wilderness, in which nothing will grow
Tags: fantasy, fiction, snippets, Writing
How’s this for a teaser?
It’s the biggest royal ball of the year. Dozens of beautiful couples dance around the floor. The men are all dashing and handsome. The women are all stunningly gorgeous.
Then a woman whose beauty is so radiant that she makes all of the other women in the palace look dull and ugly by comparison descends the grand staircase, bringing the ball to complete halt. The men all want her. The women all hate her.
And the one man who won’t treat her like something to be owned is the only one who doesn’t even notice her.
I think it’s going to be a work of fantasy. Surely there is some sort of magic at work here…
Tags: fantasy, fiction, Speculative Fiction, Writing
Note: This story features some strong language and involves a sensitive topic that may prove uncomfortable for some. Please do not continue reading if you think you may be offended at the subject matter.
He just stood there, in the shower, letting the water pour over his head. He was so furious that he could hardly even see straight. Fists clenched tightly at his sides, teeth gritted together so hard they hurt. He was barely even aware of where he was, except that it was quiet in here, peaceful. Not that it mattered. The damage was already done.
It was always this way. Go days at a time doing the right thing. Then, a flash of temptation, a moment of weakness. A quick stroke, an euphoric release, and the deed is done. A brief moment of ecstasy and then – nothing. Just an empty hole inside his chest, a hollow- no, a numbness where his heart is supposed to be. For something that feels so good and is proclaimed by so many as the measurement of true happiness, it sure doesn’t bring much in the way of satisfaction.
The water poured over his bowed head, running into his eyes, stinging them. He was so angry with himself. He knew he shouldn’t be so weak, so undisciplined. It was the same sort of thing that he railed against other guys for doing. He hated it when men treated women like sex objects, like possessions to be used, abused, and then tossed away like so much garbage. It was disgusting and repulsive when he caught guys leering at girls as they walked down the street.
And here he was, essentially doing the same thing. He’d see a pretty girl and follow her with his eyes, checking out the shapliest parts of her body, imagining what he would be doing to her if he had her alone for a while. Then he’d see another guy doing the exact same thing with that twisted, almost psychotic, look in his eye, and he’d know exactly what that other guy was thinking because he was thinking it himself. He’d see that, and he’d be ashamed of himself for succumbing to the temptation to ogle. So, instead, he would go home, find something to look at in the privacy of his own home, and get himself off that way. Simply recognizing the problem wasn’t enough to purge it from his system. His body demanded satisfaction, and he was helpless to deny it that release. Still a problem, and probably a bigger one than staring at the girl on the street, but at least the pictures and movies weren’t real girls. Or, it didn’t feel like they were. That was how he justified it to himself every time.
It was a habit, and a bad one, at that. Truthfully, it was more along the lines of an addiction. His mind certainly needed it, was hooked on it. His body definitely told him when it had gone too long without that pleasant release. And it’s not like ignoring it indefinitely was an option. He’d tried that approach before and managed to go several weeks without giving in. Inevitably, though, he would cave and the resultant binge would be utterly contemptible. Not that allowing himself to buckle under pressure at more regular intervals was any better. It was, in actuality, worse since it was at those times where he was making no effort whatsoever at improvement. What was so aggravating was that he didn’t know how to break free of this endless cycle.
What he did know was that he wanted to fuck something. That thought made him grimace. He hated that word – loathed it, despised it. It was a crude and crass and completely disrespectful term. Yet, it was the most appropriate one for the way he felt. ‘Having sex’ and ‘making love’ both implied that he would keep her best interests in mind, that he would be looking to satisfy her as much as she satisfied him. Not so, unfortunately. All he usually wanted to do was dominate her, use her to satisfy his own lusts and cravings, and then walk away without a single look back at what such an encounter might leave her feeling. He wanted all the pleasure of the act without any of the consequences, any of the inevitable relational connections that form, however tenuously, from such a rendezvous. So, as much as he hated the word, ‘fucking’ was really the only right one for the situation. Fucking was what animals did, and in these moments he wanted nothing more than to be an animal for a little while.
Of course, he loathed himself all the more for it. He knew he was like this, he knew he was wrong to be like this, he knew he was weak for allowing his own temptations to rule over him like this. What made it worse was that he couldn’t even talk to anyone about it. His parents would be horrified and would likely shun him, his friends would look at him like he was some kind of freak (and he was; he knew it) and push him away, and his church would probably be the worst of them all, ostracisizing him by bringing him before the congregation for ‘church discipline’. They would think they meant well, but he would be treated like an unbeliever, like a leper, like a criminal. None of them would be able to admit that they, too, could fall prey to their own carnal desires, let alone that some of them already had. He couldn’t deal with that kind of anger and arrogance. So, he wouldn’t say anything. He would keep trying to change things on his own. It would continue to be a lonely fight – even God didn’t seem all that close anymore – but he knew of no other way.
The problem is that nothing would change. The inherent weakness would still be there, with nothing to shore it up. So the failure would continue, and he would continue to be miserable, always somewhere less than a man, always with marred integrity. The endless cycle would continue to be endless, and the slow process of destroying himself from the inside out would continue unbroken.
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- 77% of online visitors to adult content sites are male. Their average age is 41 and they have an annual income of $60,000. 46% are married.
Forrester Research Report, 2001
- In a Kinsey Institute survey, respondents were asked “Why do you use porn?”
72% said they used porn to masturbate/for physical release.
69% – to sexually arouse themselves and/or others.
54% – out of curiosity.
43% – “because I can fantasize about things I would not necessarily want in real life.”
38% – to distract myself.
- “Most girls who enter the porn industry do one video and quit. The experience is so painful, horrifying, embarrassing, humiliating for them that they never do it again.â€Â
Luke Ford, quoted by CBS News
- In December of 2000, the National Coalition to Protect Children and Families surveyed 5 Christian Campuses to see how the next generation of believers was doing with sexual purity:
48% of males admitted to current porn use
68% of males said they intentionally viewed a sexually explicit site at the school
- A 1996 Promise Keepers survey at one of their stadium events revealed that over 50% of the men in attendance were involved with pornography within one week of attending the event.
- Out of 81 pastors surveyed (74 males 7 female), 98% had been exposed to porn; 43% intentionally accessed a sexually explicit website
_National Coalition survey of pastors. Seattle. April 2000. _
Statistics excerpted from blazinggrace
This story was easy to write but exceptionally difficult to post publicly. Yet as these statistics can attest, the issue of pornography and sexual purity is a major problem even for Christian men. Very few men that I have met have never been exposed to pornography, and we have all struggled with the daily onslaught of sensual images in our culture. It’s a battle for us to maintain our purity, and a great many Christian men fall into deep sin because of it. Yet, it is a quiet battle that is very private and hidden from most of our churches. It’s an uncomfortable topic, and so it either gets ignored completely or glossed over lightly with general admonitions about sexual purity.
My goal in writing this story is to provide a little bit of a perspective from the mind of a man who struggles with sexual purity and with the loneliness of the daily battle. It’s not an easy one, and we are a long way from tackling the issue as thoroughly and completely as we ought. Take heart, men, that you are not alone in your struggle and that it is possible to gain freedom from this addiction. Seek out counseling and accountability and win back the freedom that we have in Christ and the victory from sin that He guarantees.
Tags: fiction, stories, Writing
The Two Lights competition is done, the judging completed, and the entries all indexed. The objective of the contest was to use the photograph displayed as the inspiration for a work of fiction with the limitation that the work be 250 words or less. A difficult challenge that forced all participants to be very creative, since 250 words is not a lot to work with for the development of a plot. It is, essentially, the lower limit for typical flash fiction.
Since I’m sure some of you probably did not click over to check the contest out (and I have had a few requests to share more of my fiction here), here’s my entry:
———————————————-
“Choose the lamp on the left, see visions of the future. Choose the one on the right, taste of true madness for a spell.†The crone’s words burned in the girl’s mind like festering sores. She held her hands over the lamps but felt no heat from them, despite the frigid temperature of the small chamber. No shadows, nothing to indicate they even sat before her, despite what her eyes told her.
What kind of choice was this? Madness versus prophecy? The choice itself was madness.
Still, she plunged her hand into the light of the left-hand lamp and felt warmth from it at last as it gripped her arm and invaded her body. But then it grew bitterly cold as it wrenched her mind with visions of an impossibly terrible future. She screamed with the pain and terror of it and knew that this was far worse.
Her last thought before she succumbed to the black madness was, I should have chosen the other lamp.
* * *
Shuffling steps. A hunched figure in the shadows. The girl was half-curled in a fetal position, eyes wide and unseeing. She could have been dead, but for the tears streaming from her eyes and the trembling lower lip.
“Your problem, girl, is that you have no imagination, no ability to see the consequences of your choices. So very typical. Arrogance of youth.â€Â
She spat and the rancid spittle slid down the girl’s cheek as the crone shuffled back into the shadows.
Tags: fantasy, fiction, flash-fiction, Speculative Fiction, stories, Writing
It was a chance encounter, one he never would have realistically expected. Dreamed about, sure, and he had on several occasions, usually for just a few moments after watching one of her films. They were little more than casual daydreams, really, and not the sort of crudities he would often hear the other guys spouting to each other. No, his were of the simple, boyishly charming variety – boy meets girl, boy smiles at girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy rides with the girl off into the sunset. Overly romantic and old-fashioned, maybe, but he’d seen the way most other guys looked at women, and he was disgusted at the way the majority of his own gender thought of women as little more than sexual playthings. There was so little room these days for seeing women with the respect and honor they deserved. It almost made him ashamed to be male.
Unfortunately, those Hollywood types weren’t much better. Here were high-profile people, living in the spotlight everyday, the details of their lives laid out there for everyone to examine, and they couldn’t manage to keep themselves out of trouble. Hollywood marriages were a joke, a farce to justify their indiscrimant sexual proclivities, and everyone but the celebrities themselves seemed to know it. Or if they did know it, they didn’t seem to care. Another wedding would be announced in the tabloids, and everywhere people were putting money down on how long this one would last.
It made him sad to think about it, imagining some guy telling her that he loved her and convincing her to marry him, when he would probably only end up divorcing her later to move on to the next young thing that attracted his eye. And maybe he really would love her to start with, or at least convince himself that he did, but it made him angry to think of her being treated with such casual disregard by so many of these men who noticed and lusted after her.
The probability of falling in love with and marrying someone with whom you work or associate closely on a regular basis is high – higher, even, in the case of those who grace the silver screen, since many roles involve some sort of romantic involvement with the movie’s characters. Somehow, that false, on-screen romance ends up translating into some sort of fanciful assurance of what real-life romance between the actors will be like. Only thing is, once the intial glow wears off, too many of them realize how much they dislike their spouses or prefer someone else over the one they supposedly made a lifelong promise to, and another Hollywood marriage disolves into bitter words and harsh accusations.
That was the reality of show business, he supposed. Too bad he would never get the chance to show her what it would be like to be loved by someone who would actually take care of her and look out for her best interests, even above his own. He was a sucker for those who needed protection, and somehow he thought maybe she was a woman with such a need. He wouldn’t treat her as just some possession to satisfy a physical need. No, he would look out for her, take care of her, and protect her from the kind of people who would seek to take advantage of her. She was beyond reach, though, outclassing him by far. He would never be able to demonstrate to her what true, self-sacrificial love looked like, to prove to her, to himself, to everyone else that there are actually men out there who know how to take care of the women they love with the tenderness and love they deserve.
The line in the little coffee shop he frequented had reached the counter by this time, and he absent-mindedly ordered his usual cuppajoe. He chided himself for getting lost so completely in his peurile heartache, but for some reason today he he just couldn’t leave it alone. So, when he turned away from the counter to search for a table, preferably near a window where he could set up his laptop and work, he was startled when he bumped his shoulder into someone, sloshing his coffee onto the floor and burning his fingers. He mumbled an apology, and it was only after he had grabbed some napkins and set his coffee down that he had a chance to notice who it was he had carelessly caromed off of.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he stammered. Had it been just anyone else, that would have been the end of it – an apology and move on – but this wasn’t just anyone. It was her, and suddenly he felt his knees go weak. She was hunched down, already mopping her own spilled coffee up from the floor. He just stood there, gaping, for a moment. It took a couple of very deliberate blinks just to make sure that he hadn’t somehow gotten so lost in his thoughts that they had taken on a life of their own.
“It’s no problem,” she replied without looking up. “It was my fault for standing so close.” His face flushed with embarrassment, and he shook himself out of his trance. Grabbing some more napkins, he bent down and started helping her clean up.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she said.
“Sure, I do. If I hadn’t bumped into you, you wouldn’t have dropped your coffee on the floor,” he explained. “Let me buy you another cup.” She looked up at him then, smiling, and he almost melted onto the floor right there. She was even more beautiful in person than on the silver screen, and he felt like his tongue was suddenly tied in knots.
“Thank you; that’s very kind of you.” He just nodded, desperate for a diversion to cover up the fact that he was too flustered to speak. He didn’t trust his voice to not give away his emotions. His face burned, and he imagined that his cheeks were so red that she had already surmised his infatuation. He was pleased, though, that his voice sounded even and controlled when he ordered her a replacement coffee.
When he turned back, he found that she was standing just behind him, and he felt those butterflies twirl through his stomach again. One of the store employees had located a mop and was cleaning up the rest of the spilled coffee.
He handed her the coffee. “Here you go. I’m really sorry about making you drop your coffee.”
“Not a problem. Really. At least you didn’t get any on your clothes.” That smile again. It almost made him giddy to see it.
He chuckled, somewhat nervously. “Yeah, but I don’t think my poor fingers will ever be the same.” He shook his hand dramatically, even though the pain from the hot coffee had already mostly faded away.
She raised her cup to him slightly. “Well, thanks again for the refill.”
He shrugged. “Least I could do.” He turned and started to walk away when he felt a hand on his elbow. He turned his head to see her looking up at him, a wry smile on her face.
“Would you care to join me?” She motioned to a small corner table lit by the warm morning sunlight. “I’d love some company, and you seem the gentlemanly sort.”
He grinned sheepishly. “I’d love to.”
Tags: fiction, romance, Writing
I completed my second short story last night. It’s shorter than I would have liked – only 1170 words – but it feels finished. And I know from practical experience that when a story feels finished, it’s best to just let it alone. Otherwise, you risk making it less than the tale it ought to be. From here I am going to put it aside for awhile, turn down the heat and let it simmer, and come back to it in a few days or a couple of weeks so I can read it again with a fresh perspective. Maybe it will decide that there are a few more details to add, a couple of things it forgot to mention that will make it a better story. For now, though, it needs to think about it, and when some time has passed, we’ll sit down and talk again and decide where to go from here.
One of the most valuable tips I’ve learned in writing is that when telling a story, you are an actor. Except that in storytelling, you act out every role and get to be multiple characters. I have discovered, though, that writing a megalomaniacal character is not as easy as it might seem. I had to continually ask myself, What would I say? How would I view the world, the universe? What opinions would I have of myself and of everyone else around me? How insane would I be, and would I be aware of my own insanity? No small task, to write a character that sees himself as bigger than life (quite literally).
So, time to move on to the next writing project (or move back to one of projects sitting in the queue). I want to end up with two or three stories that are complete and that I am satisfied with, and then I want to submit them concurrently to different places – I have a couple of SF&F magazines and writing contests in mind. With any luck, I’ll sell one, or at the least, get some feedback. Here’s hoping, at any rate….
Tags: acting, fantasy, fiction, Speculative Fiction, Writing
It’s always wonderful to get the chance to work on writing some of my fiction, since I don’t always get the opportunity to write every day. Last night, I pounded out another 1200-word section of a story idea and watched as about two hours just melted away. I had fun, and the time just flew by. It was such a high, getting a new idea written out, seeing the mental image I’ve been carrying with me for most of the week play out in actual written words.
Of course, on the flip side of the high is the almost inevitable low that accompanies it. I’ve written about the sympathetic/parasympathetic relationship before, and its influence is felt in my writing, as well. I don’t always feel low and discouraged right after writing, but it does happen with enough frequency to make me notice. In this case, I finished up my little bit of writing, printed it off for my wife to read, and headed to the kitchen to find something to eat.
In the few short steps it took me to reach the kitchen, I felt exhausted and discouraged, filled with self-doubt. Who was I kidding? What made me think I could ever hope to write as well as any of the great authors? What made me think I’d ever be any more than a hack writer, pretending to write great works of fiction, when in reality it was just garbage that no one in their right minds would read? Where did I ever get the idea that I would be able to actually sell a story, let alone finish one? And on and on and on it went.
It’s true what they say about writers having fragile egos that need stroking. When we write, we write from our hearts. We essentially put ourselves on display for the whole world to see, bare our inner secrets, make ourselves vulnerable is very frightening ways. It’s hard to do, sometimes, and I know that for myself, it makes me doubt my ability to write anything of any quality. The sympathetic system kicks in when I’m writing, giving me that creative high that keeps the mental juices flowing, that keeps me writing with feverish intensity, that makes me think this just may be the best work of literature yet. Then the parasympathetic kicks in and annihilates that high, and I am filled with self-doubt and discouragement.
Of course, after a night of sleep, I feel at least marginally better, and while my writing may not be the best ever, I’m sure it’s not the worst, either. I know that if I keep plugging away, eventually I will finish one of my stories and, Lord willing, actually be able to sell it. Only time will tell the whole tale…
Tags: emotions, fiction, moods, Speculative Fiction, Writing
That night was the first in a long time that he had really prayed. Sure, he had offered up the periodic ‘desperation prayer,’ the kind of prayer that is only raised in an absolute emergency or when a screw-up is made and forgiveness is needed. But those are always the kind of prayers that don’t really mean anything, that ultimately only fall on deaf ears, and they are the kind that never actually help the individual uttering them because they don’t really mean much of anything.
But the encouragement received from a friend that night was enough to prompt him to struggle through a prayer again. It was a struggle only because it had been so long since his last heartfelt prayer. It was like talking to a friend you haven’t seen in a while, where time and distance have created a sort of awkwardness. In this case the source of the awkwardness was a bit of shame and guilt at having not talked for a while because there was really nothing that had prevented it, except for laziness and selfishness.
Yet, the prayer quickly dispelled the awkwardness. All was forgiven, and he felt the peace that assured him that the Father welcomed him back with loving, open arms. There was no judgment, no disapproval, just sincere eagerness to talk with His child again and joy at restored fellowship.
And oh, what joy! He had forgotten just how good it felt to talk to the Father about absolutely everything! He talked about his fears, his concerns, his insecurities. He asked for strength and help to overcome his weaknesses. He mused about his hopes and dreams and how he hoped that the Father would see fit to one day allow his dreams to be realized. The fellowship was sweet and over much too soon. The daily necessities proved distracting, yet he set to them with the assurance that the Father was still right there watching over him and protecting him.
As his day ended and he drifted off to sleep, he felt such peace that he wondered why he had stayed away for so long.
Tags: christianity, fiction, prayer, stories
Random thought that’s probably an obvious ‘duh!’ statement – the fact that we don’t know nearly everything there is to know about science is the very thing that allows us to write science fiction literature. Pretty obvious statement, I know, but it did occur to me that if we knew everything there was to know about science, about the universe and all its workings, we probably wouldn’t have much left to write about that would be all that interesting. Much of science fiction is based upon what we know, but so much is speculation about what we don’t know. But then again, maybe we would still be able to create interesting science fiction works even if we did know everything, simply because so many of the concepts and principles in science are so big and so awesome that they would continue to wow us, no matter how well we knew and understood them. It’s just that, with the passing of time, new ideas lose their novelty and become ideas that we take for granted.
Fantasy literature has a bit more of a free reign, of course. In fantasy writing we create entirely new worlds, where the rules can be just about anything we want them to be. The fundamentals are pretty hard and fast, of course – we’re required to have human beings in our stories, else we don’t have a common point of reference and cannot understand the principles and concepts contained therein because the landscape would be entirely and utterly alien. But the rules of magic and power can come under whatever rules we, the writers, can come up with from our own heads. What we know or don’t know about the real world has little effect on what happens, or can happen, in our new world.
Then again, maybe science fiction can do this, too, though possibly at the risk of alienating every hardcore, hard-scifi aficionado on the face of the planet. The only real rule that scifi has to adhere to is that the story centers around some sort of technology that does not yet exist. Beyond that, it is the author’s choice what actual scientific knowledge the stories embraces, if the story centers on any such concepts at all. Either way, what we don’t know can only help us as authors of speculative fiction to create fantastic worlds where virtually anything is possible.
Tags: fantasy, fiction, science-fiction, speculation, Speculative Fiction, Writing
“The trials begin tomorrow.†The older man was leaning against the rail, watching as the waves slid past beneath the bow of the ship.
“I cannot wait. I’ll likely not sleep tonight,†the younger one replied. He stood a couple paces off, facing his elder. The water held no interest for him, such was the intensity of his reverie. His eyes held that distant look that bespoke visions of far-off things.
“You’d best try, Ciphero. The trials are not for the weak, as you well know, and those who lack sleep will find themselves at a distinct disadvantage.â€Â
“Yes, of course, Elder Mast, you are right. Perhaps Lycil can draft a sleep serum for me if I have trouble. Her antidotes have always proven most helpful.â€Â
“Be cautious, Ciphero. She, too, travels with us for the trials. You may find her less accommodating, and less trustworthy, now than you have in the past.â€Â
The two were silent then, Ciphero now joining his teacher in gazing out across the endless sea. The brief silence was broken by a smallish voice.
“Excuse me, sirs.†Startled, Ciphero and Elder Mast spun to face the source of the voice and determine the identity of the intruder. It frightened both of them to see a young girl, obviously no more than eleven or twelve years of age, standing less than three feet away. The girl’s proximity to them was alarming in itself. Both masters of their craft, they had either become far too secure in these somewhat familiar surroundings, or this girl possessed a stealthy skill far beyond her years.
Elder Mast was the first to regain his composure. “And who might you be, little girl? I have never seen one so young as yourself on this ship before.â€Â
“I am Rith,†she declared boldly, “and I have a question.â€Â
“What is your question, Rith?†Ciphero asked. His heart was still pounding heavily in his chest, and he hoped his voice didn’t betray how unnerved the girl’s sudden appearance had made him.
“What are these trials you speak of?â€Â
Elder Mast fixed her with a glare. “We do not joke about such things on this ship, young Rith! If you are here, then you know what the trials are. There is none who goes to the trials who does not volunteer to do so. It is impossible to attend any other way. To feign ignorance is a great disrespect and insult, both to the trials and to all who undergo them.â€Â
Rith returned Elder Mast’s glare with a heat of her own. “But I am not a volunteer for the trials. I am here against my will.†The elder shifted as if to strike her. She felt her body grow tense, but she did not back away. “I was kidnapped,†she shot, as if defying either of these two men to contradict her.
Ciphero laid his hand on his companion’s shoulder in order to calm him. His eyes, though, never left the girl’s face. He could not believe what she had just said, yet her face begot no lie.
“You were-â€Â
“Kidnapped. Yes.†Rith nodded once to emphasize her confidence.
Ciphero glanced at Elder Mast and was reassured to see that the worry displayed on his teacher’s face mirrored his own inner fear.
“Who was it that brought you here, Rith?†the older man asked.
She shook her head slightly. “I don’t know his name. He was very tall, skinny, and his bones stuck out from his skin.†She lifted her shirt slightly to reveal a darkening bruise on her side. She grinned, almost apologetically. “He had to carry me. I put up a fight.†Her bemused expression turned thoughtful. “And he wore a low, black hat with a wide brim.â€Â
Ciphero turned to face his teacher. His voice was urgent, a hoarse whisper. “We cannot take her even to the captain, elder. He is the very reason she is here.â€Â
Elder Mast responded, not bothering to conceal his voice. “I agree, Ciphero. You are right. Something is dangerously amiss. Things are changing, the magical barriers are breaking down, if someone can be brought aboard against their will, especially someone so young as Rith.†He turned to face the girl again. “I am afraid, Rith, that once someone has come aboard this ship, they are bound to remain. There will be no returning to your home until you have gone through the trials with the rest of the candidates.â€Â
“But elder,†exclaimed Ciphero, “no one so young as she has ever gone through the trials, let alone survived them! Not even all who are here will survive, and we are all experts in our own trades.â€Â
The older man’s face expressed the burden of sadness he felt, as he sighed, “There is no choice, Ciphero. The Maiden has laid out the law, and we are bound to abide by it. Let us just hope that this is the only rule that is ‘broken’. Perhaps, once she is made aware of our young Rith, she will exempt her from competing.†His tone conveyed, however, that he did not believe his own words.
Elder Mast held his hand out to the girl. “Come, Rith. Our time has become very short, and you shall have need of such wisdom and guidance as I have if you are to have hope of facing what awaits – and survive.â€Â
Tags: fantasy, fiction, Speculative Fiction
