All posts tagged DeviantArt

Crush

This week on Trifecta, the word was:

CRUSH (transitive verb)

1a : to squeeze or force by pressure so as to alter or destroy structure   b : to squeeze together into a mass
2   : hug, embrace

Head over to submit your own response, or read some other takes on the prompt.  There are some fantastic authors who submit weekly to the Trifecta challenge, and they’re always well worth the read.

This story is a continuation of the Which Witch series of stories.  It is pretty much entirely stand-alone, but you are certainly welcome to read back through the story pieces, by following the Fiction tab at the top of the page and clicking on the links under the title Which Witch.

I try to include a piece of artwork that I think goes with the story, and this week is no different.  Only I put it at the bottom of the story, because it’s not just me that thinks it goes with the story – my sister drew it, in response to reading this story ahead of time.  She didn’t even roll her eyes too much when I changed the original, accidental deadline of friday to “um, no seriously, you have to have it done Wednesday night, because I have to post it tomorrow”.  You can check her out at her blog, Drawn in and Quartered, or over at DeviantArt.  She doesn’t have too much of her personal artwork up on DeviantART yet, but I’m working on it – peer pressure is key!  This is one of my favourite pieces she’s done – it hangs on my wall, and when I eventually have the option of painting rooms in my own house, will likely the colour-inspiration of one of them.

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I could totally kick her ass at drawing… when she was 4… and I was 10.  She claims it probably had something to do with the development of fine motor function, but that’s just a cop-out.  She’s just a sore loser.  What sibling rivalry?

Comments and critiques are always welcome, I hope you enjoy the story,

“GRAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

Agata clapped her hands over her ears as the howl reverberated down the canyon, followed by the distant thunder of landslides.  Dust from the ceiling settled on her meal.

Removing the hand cupped protectively over her own pint, the barbarian woman took a swig and continued, “There are some nasty beasties out there, Miss, so you really ought to hire on a guard to get through the pass.”

Gunilla brushed her short blonde hair back, the heavy musculature of her shoulder and arm rippling, and jerked her head towards the rest of the barbarians.  “And I suggest you hire me, ‘cause some of the lads have trouble hearing ‘no’ when they want to hear ‘yes’, if you know what I mean.”

Agata shuddered.  Such large, heavy-set men.  Such tiny loincloths.  Barbarians are quite barbaric, she decided, firmly averting her eyes from the manly display of body hair and scarring.

“What do you hear when you want to hear ‘yes’?”

Gunilla let loose a full-bellied laugh.  “Me?  Depends on how much I want to hear ‘yes’, I’d imagine.” She grinned and winked.  “But my tastes don’t lean towards scrawny pretty little things like you, eh!”  She produced a small painting of a statuesque woman wearing a horned hat and a bustier that left too little to the imagination.  The barbarian woman stroked the side of the picture in a surprising show of tenderness.  “My Vilhelmina is an opera singer!”

“Very nice.” Agata cleared her throat.  “So what is so dangerous in the pass?”

The inn-door burst off its hinges and slammed to the ground.  A gigantic figure shouldered its way into the room, towering with its one-eyed head amongst the rafters.

“GRAGH CRUSH!” It swung its club down hard in a shower of dust that had once been a solid oak table.

“OGRE!” the barbarian woman yelled, sweeping Agata out of harm’s way.  Potential client safely stowed, she let out a berserker yell of her own and leapt to join the fray.

crush

<– Quack! ||

11 Comments
by lexy3587 on December 6, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on December 6, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/12/06/crush/

Foxed

Trifecta’s writing challenge this week was:

BLACK

1a : of the color black
b (1) : very dark in color <his face was black with rage>

(2): having a very deep or low register bass with a blackvoice>

(3) : heavy, serious <the play was a black intrigue>
2a : having dark skin, hair, and eyes : swarthy
b (1) often capitalized : of or relating to any of various population groups having dark pigmentation of the skin

(2) : of or relating to the African-American people or their culture

(3) : typical or representative of the most readily perceived characteristics of black culture
3: dressed in black

Head on over to submit your own or read some of the other responses.  Also, if you missed last week’s prompt, the characterization of Death, I really recommend going back over to read the responses for that.  So many hilarious and unusual portrayals of death, and all of them (to my mind), with the rich and ominous voice of Ian Richardson ringing in your mind, just like he gave life to Death in the movie version of Terry Pratchett’s The Hogfather.  I was certainly attempting to channel a bit of Pratchett in my own response.  If you have no idea who Terry Pratchett is… well… Get thee to a Library!  Crivens!

For this week, I’m back working with my Firefly story.  If you want to check out the rest of it, head on over to the Fiction Tab (top of the page).  I think I might write it as a full… well… story for Nanowrimo this year.  It starts off right after our leading gal’s aunt makes her a cup of tea and then heads on back to bed in Hearth and Home.  For those uninterested in reading the rest of it, the key thing to note here is Laga = ritual leader or leader of coven for the purposes of my story.  Though they aren’t witches.

The artwork I found to go with the story is a drawing by Raven S. Fox, known as Culpeo-Fox on DeviantArt.  It’s pretty sinister, made even more so by the poem included as the description of the piece (click the picture to follow the link and read!).  I love the texture of it, and the way the only barely drawn in background still makes me think of being lost in the deep dark woods at night, wolves howling in the near distance.

He’s amazing – some of his pieces look like photography, to the point that I’ve had to check the medium to confirm that it isn’t.  He’s a German designer, illustrator and artist, with a clear love of foxes, though they are certainly not the only thing he draws beautifully.  Check him out at DeviantArt, his portfolio.

Rachel sat by the banked fire, lost in thought.

The flames roared abruptly to life and Rachel’s head snapped up just in time to watch the Ember fox, the same one she’d seen in the fire ceremony vision, daintily step out onto the hearth stone.

“You… you can’t be here.  I didn’t summon you.”

:I go where I please.:

The deep ember-glow of the fox dimmed as it stood in the cool air, soot cloaking the creatures’ fur in black.  Its burning eyes showed frightening intelligence.

“Elementals can’t talk… they’re just…” Rachel waved her hand vaguely in the air, “Elemental.”

:How very astute of you.  If we are done pondering my existence, shall we begin?:

“Begin?”  Rachel’s head was reeling

:Your training to be a proper Laga, of course.:

“I’ve been Laga to my people since I was seven, I’m already a proper Laga.” she snapped defensively.

The fox cocked its head and said, deadpan, :Indeed?  I could have sworn I walked you through a vision last night.  Must have been some other kit with too much confidence in her own poorly trained gifts.:

Rachel gasped, “That was you?  Was it true?  Is it going to happen?  How?”

:Too many questions for one so young.:  the fox hissed, tail lashing.  It stepped its front paws up on her knees, opened its mouth and exhaled in her face, the smell of burning wood rich in the dry heat of its breath.

Rachel found herself again in the hell of a fire that burned her.  The smoke dragging her towards unconsciousness, she struggled forward, staggering and full of pain. 

:The door: the fox commanded.  : Remember the door, and remember your gift.  Fight fire with fire or it will devour you.:

The door shimmered with ice, untouched by the heat.  It felt unnatural, a bone-deep cold that made her body ache even as the fire devoured her. 

“What’s behind the door?”

:Your destiny.:

Rachel touched the handle and screamed as ice burned through her.

14 Comments
by lexy3587 on October 18, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on October 18, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/10/18/foxed/

Firefly

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood
This week for Write on Edge’s Red Writing Hood, they gave us a short poem by Robert Frost to inspire 450 words.

The Secret Sits

We dance round in a ring and suppose,

But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

Go on over to read more submitted responses, or to give your own!

Let me know what you think of this.  It isn’t attached to any of the other short stories I’ve written.

This photograph is by MD-Arts on DeviantArt.  He has a collection of amazing fire shots, this one using a two metre long flaming rope.  Check out his site to see more of his work, including more amazing fire art, as well as some beautiful nature shots and adorable kittens.

Light like a bonfire, flickering, crackling, shadows all around, smoky and unreal… Rachel swayed as dizziness and nausea washed over her, the confused jumble of images from that night assaulting her senses, burning her lungs.  She choked back the gasp of pain at the memory of a memory, hoping none in the kitchen had heard her.

“She saw them – she danced with them, you all saw her!”  Her Aunt Bea sounded worn down.

Spinning and leaping, shadows flickering against shadows… so much music.  Not music.  Fire.  Her body felt overheated, her feet throbbing painfully in time to unheard music.

Rachel’s mother sounded like she’d been crying.  “What difference does it make?  She’s too young, and that’s all there is to it.  Just leave it be.”

“We only use age as a factor because most have stopped showing signs, and even if they do, they’re about the right age anyways.  We can’t just leave it be.”

“She doesn’t even remember it!  She might never.” Her sister.  Rachel scowled angrily – of course they would let Rebecca be involved!  And, of course, Rebecca was all for keeping her in the dark.  “I think it’s better if she’s allowed to forget, poor thing, it must have been terrifying.”

A short bark of harsh laughter from her usually cheerful aunt.  “Careful, girl, you’re looking a bit green.  Most never see, and none in the past three generations have danced!  You’re only sixteen, you still might see.  If you do, you’ll understand why your sister needs training now.”

Rachel smiled, gratified that someone could see through her perfect sister’s sickly sweet mask.  It seemed that the main argument was now only between her mother and aunt.

“For god’s sake, Bea – you were considered an early bloomer, and already seeing at eighteen!  She’s only a child, she can’t keep this kind of secret yet.”

“She won’t be able to cope with this on her own!  She has been chosen to flame, and that cannot be undone.”

Chosen.  The word struck like a mallet to a gong, reverberating and echoing through her skull.  She remembered a face – bewitchingly beautiful and terrible.  Words tolling like bells, without meaning but so important.

She collapsed into the door, swinging it open with a slam as she came to her knees on the cool slate of the kitchen.  The fire in the hearth roared in welcome.

The women stared in horror at the baby of the family, soft round cheeks traced with blood red tears.

With more ferocity than she thought she had in her, she snarled, “Tell me the truth!”

The elder Maari shook her head sadly as Rachel’s mother sobbed.  “It’s too late for secrets, now.  She is born of the flame.”

24 Comments
by lexy3587 on July 20, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on July 20, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/07/20/firefly/

Ruffled

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood

This week on Write on Edge’s Red Writing Hood, the challenge was this:

You have 400 words to write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about freedom, in any way that makes sense to you.

Go HERE if you’d like to read more prompt responses, or submit your own.

The story is a continuation of the Which Witch storyline, which you can find in my Fiction Tab.

The picture is one I found on Deviantart, by Anna Earley, an art student in the USA.  I love the shadow in it, the way there’s only a hint of yellow throughout, and the lantern on the end of the broom is a great touch.  She does character drawings, as well as scenes like this one, that really look like part of a story I’d love to hear the rest of.

“Hem-hem?” Miss Chesham quieted the room immediately, dimpling sweetly at the crowd of women.  Perhaps more than the sweet old woman she appeared to be.

“Welcome, Lady Wytches of East Hammond! I would like everyone to extend a warm welcome to our guest, the Wytch Agata. She has come from, er,” she consulted a small lacy notepad, “Deutschland, where, if you’d believe it, wytches are tortured and killed! Simply barbaric!”

The Lady Wytches murmured greetings and welcomes, rustling in their elegant dresses as they turned to observe her. She waved sheepishly, feeling grubby and underdressed in her wrinkled navy dress, a crow amongst ruffled pink chicks.

Disciple Mary was formally accepted into the Lady Wytches as a full Wytch. The Wytches agreed that Yeoman Brannik was charging too much for his cabbages, he shall be spoken to. Polite applause all around.

Agata joined them in the next room for afternoon tea. She was immediately accosted by three girls near her own age, nearly bursting with excitement.

“Oh my goodness, Aggie, it must have been such an adventure, travelling all the way here!” Blue Eyes squealed.

“It’s actually–“

“Oooh, we shall be the best of friends! Come!” Curly Hair grabbed Agata’s arm, smiling toothily, and dragged her away from the table of tiny sandwiches.  Her stomach growled its displeasure.

***

Agata slipped out the side door and into the evening air, inhaling deeply as she embraced the darkness and silence.

What coven meets for afternoon tea! Wytches! Lady Wytches! She snorted. Busybodies who can’t spell or cast a spell from what I’ve seen of them.

She kept to the shadows, unwilling to risk a wytchly interruption. Three days of taffeta and lace and ruffles, everything white or coral or peach, the wytches gasping and tittering at her so-called adventures, at her ‘charming’ accent, and her mannish outspokenness.

Agata eyed a large muddy puddle. With great deliberation, she jumped, feet together, and landed in the center of the mire, mud squelching around her boots, water soaking the hem of her skirt.  She smiled, head tilted back to the moonlight.

She ducked under a prickly bush, emerging a moment later, scratched, grinning, and gripping a familiar haft.

Everything I need is here. She stared at the distant glow of the village lights for a long moment.

Agata straddled her broom in a most unladylike fashion as she flew away.

19 Comments
by lexy3587 on July 6, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in Red Writing Hood
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Posted by lexy3587 on July 6, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/07/06/ruffled/

Rumors

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood

This week on Write on Edge’s Red Writing Hood prompt, we were challenged to:

write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about a time one of your main characters finds himself or herself paying back a debt–financial or otherwise.

This is a bit of a spin-off from the Which Witch storyline.  I liked a temporary character found in Shades too much to just get rid of her, so here she is, resurrected.

This image is by Artoftheoldschool on DeviantArt – you can get to their page by clicking on the cottage.  You’ll notice the cottage isn’t made of gingerbread.  Gingerbreading, also known as stick style, is only captured a little in this particular cottage, but I love the dark feel of it.  It looks like it could be located deep in the dark woods.  If you’re looking for more explanation of gingerbreading/stick style, I suggest google images.  Just ignore the ones made of gingerbread.

“You’ll be repaying me for that meal, surely?”

The siblings’ heads snapped up in surprise, the older girl automatically moving to shelter her brother.  Their faces were smeared with their guilt and gluttony, icing and crumbs and sticky sweet honey.

They quaked in fear, trapped against the gingerbread wall, the old woman blocking their escape.

The sunlight trickling through behind her gleaming through the rough chop of hair that escaped from under her head scarf and cast her face in shadow.

“Please, mistress, have mercy!” the girl quavered, tears welling in her blue eyes.

“Mercy for thieves?”  The woman’s voice was worn and cracked, the harsh caw of her derisive laugh echoing in the stillness.

The forest air was heavy with silence, devoid even of the constant background hum of insects.

“We was hungry,” the boy cried, wet lips sulky.  His ruddy cheeks were plump, the button holes on his shirt stretched tight by his rotund torso.

“Oh was you?” the old woman crouched down, her short-cut pants riding up to reveal grubby knees.  Out of the sun, her smile-creased face was revealed to the children, though her expression was grim and fearsome.

The children shrank back, the girls tears running faster, splotches of red marring her pale cheeks.

“We don’t have any money, Mistress.  Please!”

The woman’s weathered hands closed tightly on each child’s wrist and she hauled them to their feet with ease.

She cackled as she dragged them up the worn steps to the door.

“What use have I for money?”

The door slammed behind them with ominous finality, made more ominous by the old woman’s confidence in releasing her grip.

The boy rattled the knob, but to no avail.

“You’ll just make her angry!” his sister hissed, tugging his wrist.  They moved through the shadowy house, and found their captor humming as she stirred the contents of a steaming cauldron.

Without turning, the woman gestured with her spoon towards the corner of the room.  “Broom, mop and bucket, boy.  I want floors so clean I could eat off them.”

“Gregor.”  He tried to sound fierce.

The woman turned and raised one eyebrow.

“M-my name is G-gregor.  And sweeping is servants’ work.”

“Well, Gregor, I am the Witch Gretal Baer.  Broom.  Mop.  Bucket.”  She smiled wickedly at the way his face drained of colour.  He swept feverishly, as though speed of movement could save him.

The witch turned to the little girl.  “And you?”

The girl managed a wobbly curtsey.  “Hansine, Mistress Baer.”

“You will start by scrubbing the dishes and cleaning the counters.”  The witch turned back to the cauldron but was called away by a nervous throat clearing.

“Are you going to eat us?”  She quailed at the expression on the witches face.  “Only, the townspeople say you eat children.”

The swish of the broom stopped.

The witch Greta Baer smiled her most ferocious.  “If I am known for cooking up children, then why on earth would you eat a pie on my sill?”

Green-faced, the children rushed to their chores with vigor.

21 Comments
by lexy3587 on April 13, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in Red Writing Hood
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Posted by lexy3587 on April 13, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/04/13/rumors/

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