Wing Beats

We hear the wing beats in the distance and everyone stops. The soldiers turn to their horses to quiet them down. One shoots a glare at our cart to warn us into silence. The glare wasn’t needed. I knew better and from the looks on their faces my other two cart companions know better to. We don’t dare to rattle our chains. The iron cuffs dig into my wrists, but I’ll endure the pain a thousand times over than risk any noise now.

I can’t see it. My back is to the wing beats. It must be somewhere beyond the trees as I see a soldier point. Some of them move toward the underbrush to hide amongst the foliage. The prisoner beside me hisses “hey, what about us?” and the wooden handle of a halbred meets the back of his head as a warning.

You can feel the forest shake from the power behind the wing beats. Loud whoomps and whooshes. A slow and steady rhythm to drive a sane man mad. My heart thunders as I feel them drawing closer. The cart is abandoned aside from us three prisoners. The reins to the horses dangle on the driver’s seat. Whoomp. Whoomp. My breath trembles. My back is locked. All I can do is stare at the plate on the base of the kart where my chains connect. Whoomp. Whoomp.

The prisoner across from me shifts. I see his eyes flirting with the reins. My mouth goes dry. Whoomp. Whoomp. I don’t know whether to deter him or not. If he goes for it, we could escape, but we’d catch the attention of the wing beats. If he doesn’t go for it and beats fade away, we’ll be right back on track for our execution. Whoomp. Whoomp.

I think I’d rather face execution.

It’s the prisoner next to me that stops the other. His hiss was enough of a start to put the other guy back in his seat. We keep our heads down and the guy besides me whispers a prayer. Whoomp. Whoomp.

The roar of the greatest beast to tread the earth sounds over our heads. I gasp a breath I didn’t know know I was holding. My body goes frigid like I’m suddenly made of ice. Whoomp. Whoomp.

Powerful gusts of air blast down upon us. I meet the eyes of the other prisoners. The look of dead pales their skin. Whoomp. Whoomp. I dare to look up.

Black slits in radiant gold eyes stare down at me from a long muzzle of plated scales. The rhythmic beats. The blasts of air bring water to my eyes. Wings as long as oaks are tall. Shimmering scales like jewels of green and blue. A long tail that broke the tops of trees. I would be awed if I wasn’t so terrified. Whoomp. Whoomp.

Through the breaks of the gusts, I hear one of the prisoners bawling. The other shouts loudly in prayer. I keep my eyes fixed on the dragon. The long, silver line of throat remains just that. Will it not burn us? Will it land to destroy us? Whoomp. Whoomp.

It hovers in the sky. It’s moment pause bringing years of agonistic anticipation. Would it take just the horses? Is there any way we’ll survive? I meet the beast’s golden eyes once more in hopes to read its motives.

It’s about time. The voice in my head brings a new level of terror, and somehow, I know it comes from the dragon. I’ve been looking for you.

Pg 32

Pick up the book that is closest to you and choose the first full sentence that appears at the top of page 32. Use this line to create a scene, a character, or even a full world.

“The fighter in your work may not be a professional fighter, bodyguard, law enforcement officer, or soldier.”

These are the words left to me by my grandfather. Words left unfinished and without meaning, but I have made of them a purpose. I was never a fighter, he knew that. I was the scrawny kid with glasses. My bullies used my ponytail to pull me to the ground, so I cut it off. I changed myself and built upon my grandfather’s words. My fighter isn’t professional. It doesn’t care about laws or winning wars. My fighter protects the little guy like me. I built it. Using the most advanced technologies and child-like imagination–yes, it can fly–I’ll be able to beat more than bullies. My fighter is my work and no one is going to pull me down again because of it.

I am the queen of science and my fighter is my champion. And, we’ll fight to make my grandfather proud.

Sentence quote from the top of page 32 of “Fight Write” by Carla Hoch

College Recollection

What do you remember from your days in college? Everyone has a different experience. Some people love college, some people dread it, some people got a lot out of it, and some people didn’t. When you look back, what’s the first thing you see? Your classes? Your teachers? A college job? Maybe you think of the friends you hung out with or that one time at a bar?

My college experience wasn’t anything to write home about. Admittedly, I hardly enjoyed it. My first couple weeks were rough. I spent my weekends visiting the nearby zoo. I couldn’t tell you–without looking–what classes I took. And, I have no idea what the names of my professors were. When I think back, I think about the times I spent in my dorm or apartment. I think about the shows I watched and the games my friends and I played together. Whether it was nearing midnight and we’re playing Pokemon Go in the pouring down rain on campus or we’re all huddled in the dorm surviving Call of Duty Zombies.

When my friends weren’t around, I spent my time watching TV shows. I can tell you the exact series that I–might have–obsessed over. Star Trek Voyager, The Flash, Arrow, DC’s Legends of Tomorrow. They were all shows that helped me escape from the homework and testing and stressful anxiety of college life. Some people go on benders. College life is known for frat and sorority parties. Get that college experience by getting drunk. I preferred hanging out in my room and being inspired by the impossible happening in the shows I watched. There were a lot of days where college felt impossible.

I’ll always be grateful to the creators and everyone else who made those shows possible. I’m grateful for the memorable characters and the high stakes plot lines. For the laughs and the lightheartedness. For the hope and light that they brought.

It’s not your traditional college experience, but it was still a good one.

The Fight to Write

I listen to an audiobook or read a story and I feel encouraged to write my own. To craft as the wordsmith, build a fantastic world and adventure with characters of my own.

Yet, when the time comes that I can write, I only feel small. How can I write a story as wonderful as the ones I listen to and read? What clever ways could I describe setting while blending it with dialogue and plot? How do I get my story from something plain to something that inspires?

These giant questions surround like black towers with sentries on top like mad dogs keeping guard. They obsess for the moments when I dare to rise. When I lift my fingers and believe I can type. The moment I move, they react like machines, firing their arrows down at me.

“You’ll never be good enough.”

“This task is too great.”

“That sentence you just wrote is pathetic.”

“You? Getting published? With that story? Yeah, right.”

Down and down, the arrows rain. Until I’m pinned to the ground, no hope remains. To type one word, to lift my hand. It’s all too heavy. How can I make anyone understand? How can I write something wonderful and grand?

But, then comes a whisper, a still, small voice. Reminding me that I have a choice. There’s power I can access to be strong enough. To face the arrows and towers and show that I’m tough. A spirit of discipline. A reminder of future hope. There is one who is for me and with me in the fight. Who gives me the strength to be able to write. A scene I had thought was too hard to handle, now has a draft–the flame’s found a candle.

So, when the battle gets tough and the pen feels heavy, I know there is someone holding me steady.

What If…

“What if…”

Such famous and dangerous words–at least they are for me. They can be applied to a lot of scenarios. They can lead into thousands of different sentences. Yet, the main way I use them often gets me in trouble. Not actual physical or illegal trouble, but more along the lines of getting me in trouble with my characters.

Every major revision I’ve done to my manuscript has always started with these two words.

“What if we got the word count down?”

“What if we changed the characters around? Gave this guy a more important part and let these two be background heroes?”

“What if these characters had big secrets?”

“What if we changed the beginning? What if we did it again?”

“What if the main character had one of my bad habits?”

“What if this city had even bigger trees?”

I often hate when “what if…” comes around. I’ll gripe and groan because I know they mean another rewrite and I don’t want to put myself through that again. For weeks, I’ll wrestle with it, try and decide if the story really needs it. The “what if” doesn’t necessarily win to start. I’ll begin a new draft just to entertain the idea and see if I like it. Then, the reluctance that this actually a good idea sinks in. I’ll roll with it for the rest of the story.

Thankfully, with each new draft I feel better about my manuscript and I always believe it’s closer than ever to becoming what it needs to be. I just hope there isn’t too many more “what ifs” to cause even more major revisions. It’s a daunting thought to think that my story is still far from what it needs to be, but it has come a long way already. Whenever it feels too heavy, I try to invite “what if” to come back around again. Because…

What if I actually did get published and I got to hold my own book in my hands?

We Are Our Animals

Which animal would you compare yourself to and why?

A fun thing about zoo keepers is that each person has their preferences when it comes to the animals they take care of. Some keepers prefer primates, some prefer hoofstock, or carnivores, or birds. I’m a big felid/carnivore keeper, myself.

In meeting these different types of keepers, you start to notice that they take after the animals they care for. Primate people can be social and pay attention to group dynamics, hoofstock people keep to their own “herd” so to speak, and bird people aren’t afraid to use their voice.

I like to think I take after cats, more specifically, the cheetah. Female cheetahs are solidarity. They raise their cubs on their own and hunt on their own. They’re independent animals and what I hope to see in myself. I feel like my work life reflects this. I like handling tasks on my own and keeping to myself.

This independence is one of the reasons I really like cheetahs. The female handles everything on her own when she reaches maturity. It’s a hard life when facing predators or trying to take down prey to feed a family of 4-6, but she does it. She makes it work. I believe it shows how tough a girl can be when she’s put to the test.

Everyone knows that more hands lighten the load. Same goes for paws in the cheetah world. Males form coalitions and work together to survive, but the female stands alone. This is why these cats need our help. Females can’t always defend themselves or their cubs from lions, hyenas, or disease and even starvation. They face habitat loss, poaching, and the ignorance of the human race blaming them for crimes they didn’t commit.

The good news is that there’s people out there fighting for these animals, these amazing, fast cats. The Cheetah Conservation Fund is at the head front and I hope to help them myself by educating the public that comes through my zoo on how important these cats are. You can help too. Just check out http://www.cheetah.org.

Maybe you’ll find you can relate to the cheetah too?

Starting a Sequel

There’s something special about starting a sequel, being reunited with characters who took you on a great adventure the book before. I’ve recently started the audiobook Bear Knight, it’s the second book in James R. Hannibal’s Lightraider series. For me, it’s only been a couple weeks since I’ve encountered the characters, but for the characters, a whole year has passed.

Starting a sequel feels like catching up with old friends. I find myself smiling when a character from the first book reappears and, naturally, I wonder how they’ve been during the obscure time we’ve been apart. Sometimes, sequels get a lot of grief because they’re “never better than the first book/movie/season/etc.” but regardless of how good the story is, it’s a treasure to be reunited with the characters you grew to love from the first novel. Sequels are also opportunities to meet new characters on new adventures.

So, what are your thoughts on sequels? Do they excite? Do you groan because you prefer stand-alone novels? Maybe you’re like me and you view the characters as friends and you’re just happy to be with them again?

Your Splinter

The other day, I got two splinters stuck in my hand. The first one, I was able to get out right away, but the second one took some time. I got it while moving these questionably old boards and didn’t notice it at first. When I finally did, I realized it was going to take more effort than I had to get it out. I’ve had splinters get stuck in my hand that took several days for them to weasel themselves out, so I wasn’t worried about this one. There was pain, but it was more of a nuisance than anything else.

Fast forward hours later when I could take care of the splinter and my skin had patched up and sealed the miniscule wood chip in place. Trying to push it out wouldn’t work anymore and I didn’t have sterile tools to go after it, so I let it be.

Sometimes, way after midnight, I had the hankering to get the splinter out. I grabbed my tweezers, but they weren’t helpful with my skin still sealed over the splinter. I grabbed the next best thing I could find: my nail clippers.

Little by little, I clipped at the dead skin around my finger until I clipped a hole for lovely puss to escape out of. Soon enough, I had the tiny splinter out of my finger.

The whole time, I couldn’t help thinking how such a tiny thing was causing me so much grief. The splinter’s placement made it uncomfortable to bend my finger. I couldn’t mess with it without drudging up pain. Just to get it out took me two different tools, ripping of old skin, and more time than this little splinter deserved. Because I didn’t take care of it right away, I had to deal with puss and it could’ve gotten worse if I left it alone.

It got me thinking about figurative splinters I may have. What am I not dealing with that’s causing mild annoyance, pain, or puss that’s affecting the rest of me? Bitterness? Loneliness? Negativity? Doubt? Maybe anger or self-loathing? Any of that shrink stuff. What can pop out quickly and what’s going to take more work to heal? And, do I have the effort to do it?

I’m still not sure my splinter, but I feel everyone has one. Maybe I have a bunch? Maybe you thought of one for yourself? How are you going help get your splinter out?

Child-Like Dream

What’s a weird idea you had as a kid? Something that only a kid would make up?

When I was little, I remember going to this big buffet with my family. I don’t remember the name of it, but it was wide and green. The food was down the middle with a lot of seating on either side.

My brother and I got into a conversation about what kind of restaurant we would make. We decided it would have to be a buffet like this, but it would have a milk bar like in The Legend of Zelda Majora’s Mask with a stage for a band to play.

It would also have roller coasters.

On one end of the restaurant would be a red dragon roller coaster that zoomed outside the restaurant and “duel” a blue dragon roller coaster located on the other side of the restaurant. This was based off the no-longer-with-us “Dueling Dragons” roller coaster that used to reside in Universal Studios Florida. (we loved that coaster. I lost count of how many times we went on it).

My brother would be in charge of the red dragon coaster and I would be in charge of blue. We’d keep competition of how many people rode each.

So, a giant buffet, a milk bar, a band stand, and roller coasters. That was our restaurant. I don’t even remember it’s name. But, it was definitely something only a couple of kids could come up with. A child-like dream.

Strong Stone Walls

A wide land, stretching the horizon. Golden plains. Grasses waving like rolling waves. A glowing light breaths on the horizon. Rising shades of yellow rimming billowing clouds. The deep blue of the night whisks away from a halo of orange rimming the sky. Stars fade away in quiet slumber.

With the rising of the morning, the wind sweeps a silver glade through the grasses. A wide dirt road trips the wave for a single moment. Tracks of karts and travelers making their way to strong stone walls.

I close my eyes and I picture the view from a top of those walls. Different sunrises and sunsets. The beating noon day sun on green, flowing fields. A land with beautiful potential, hopes, and dreams. From the east to the west as open as the wind blows. Then, beyond the horizon twists of ancient forests, towering mountains, and an ocean of silver ribbons.

Those strong stone walls defend a great joy, but the view beyond inspires the future. Even with storm rumblings and the rain falling in sheets. Those strong stone walls endure.