This week's prompt didn't work for me. Not given the week I've had with apartment searching and the trials and tribulations thereof. So, therefore, this week's response is a sample from my writing practice, which in itself is a feat, that I managed to get it done.
From the Imperial Story, very late in the storyline. It's hard to avoid spoilers with this one, but this may be part of a potential ending for the whole thing.
---
In the end, it was always about the war. About ensuring victory for our people, even when my father had a few minutes left to live. "We'll try," I choked out, barely able to force the words through my tightened throat.
"You will." Wakka smiled, just a little, a sight so rare that I'd forgotten what it looked like. At least I got to see it one last time. "I was wrong about you, girl. You're a perfect Warrior."
"The triplets will be too," Briyant murmured, sliding his hand off the wound, but still holding on to Wakka. "I'll finish what you started. I promise you."
Wakka nodded, eyes drifting closed. There was nothing more we could do for him, not with how much blood was pooling on the floor around us. "Thank you," he whispered. "Tell Rosaria I love her. That I'm sorry I didn't make it back. Give Salida a kiss for me." HIs voice was getting softer, each breath coming slower.
Showing posts with label the imperial story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the imperial story. Show all posts
Friday, September 18, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Friday Writing Response for August 21, 2009
I fail as a writer.
For the record, I love this week's prompt. Absolutely adore it. The lyric ones are always my favorite and this one was centered on my favorite artist. But time slipped away this week, and I have nothing to show for the days that passed between today and Monday, when I put the prompt up. I started looking for an apartment, scouring the Internet and Craigslist, seeing a few impromtu places. (Neither of which are going to work out, I'm fairly certain.)
And, as such, it's now Friday and I have nothing to show for it. This just adds to my already pretty rotten mood today. I do have another snippet from my writing practice, a piece of a new scene from the Imperial Story - that much, at least, I managed to get done. No comments expected on this piece; it's mostly up to prove that, yes, I did do some writing this week.
I will come back to this prompt. When I do, I'll let you know.
---
We could just see the figure approaching us now, dressed in fatigues, blending in with the woods surrounding him. It was hard to tell for sure, but this wasn't an Imperial uniform I'd ever seen. "We have you in our sights," Briyant called into the woods. "Put down your weapon and I give you my word this will go over peacefully."
"Like hell I'm putting down my weapon, just as soon as you lower yours." There was something familiar in that voice, like I'd heard it before, but I couldn't put my finger on where. "That's my vehicle you all happen to be poaching and my friend who's still in it, so don't think I won't shoot you if I feel like it."
"No one's poaching anything. We're travellers. Came across the wreckage, looking for survivors." Briyant's voice was steady, but I still reached for my own gun, preparing myself for what might happen if this ended badly. "Come out, and we can discuss this like men."
"Discuss?" The man laughed, taking another couple steps forward. I could see he was definitely wounded now; one leg was twisted behind him, dragging along the forest floor. How he managed to walk at all was nothing short of a miracle. "You'll kill me, loot the vehicle, burn the remains. I've seen it a dozen times. You don't scare me."
For the record, I love this week's prompt. Absolutely adore it. The lyric ones are always my favorite and this one was centered on my favorite artist. But time slipped away this week, and I have nothing to show for the days that passed between today and Monday, when I put the prompt up. I started looking for an apartment, scouring the Internet and Craigslist, seeing a few impromtu places. (Neither of which are going to work out, I'm fairly certain.)
And, as such, it's now Friday and I have nothing to show for it. This just adds to my already pretty rotten mood today. I do have another snippet from my writing practice, a piece of a new scene from the Imperial Story - that much, at least, I managed to get done. No comments expected on this piece; it's mostly up to prove that, yes, I did do some writing this week.
I will come back to this prompt. When I do, I'll let you know.
---
We could just see the figure approaching us now, dressed in fatigues, blending in with the woods surrounding him. It was hard to tell for sure, but this wasn't an Imperial uniform I'd ever seen. "We have you in our sights," Briyant called into the woods. "Put down your weapon and I give you my word this will go over peacefully."
"Like hell I'm putting down my weapon, just as soon as you lower yours." There was something familiar in that voice, like I'd heard it before, but I couldn't put my finger on where. "That's my vehicle you all happen to be poaching and my friend who's still in it, so don't think I won't shoot you if I feel like it."
"No one's poaching anything. We're travellers. Came across the wreckage, looking for survivors." Briyant's voice was steady, but I still reached for my own gun, preparing myself for what might happen if this ended badly. "Come out, and we can discuss this like men."
"Discuss?" The man laughed, taking another couple steps forward. I could see he was definitely wounded now; one leg was twisted behind him, dragging along the forest floor. How he managed to walk at all was nothing short of a miracle. "You'll kill me, loot the vehicle, burn the remains. I've seen it a dozen times. You don't scare me."
Friday, July 31, 2009
Friday Writing Response for July 31, 2009
This week's writing went a bit easier than most, because I wasn't trying to fit it in with everything else I had going on. Instead I just sat outside on my day off, on my front porch, propped my feet up and wrote. The sun was shining, the bugs were leaving me alone (for the most part) and I got a scene done.
For the Imperial Story, as most of my writing has been lately, and using the prompt from the Fray: I'm losing you and it's effortless. Told from Anitra's point of view, set after her and Briyant rescue the Lambazzias.
---
[Rosaria] paused for a moment. "There's still room for you to travel with us, you know. Wakka will never ask for it, but he could use Briyant's help. Your help."
Concentrating on the bedsheets, I found it hard to meet my mother's eyes. "Our place is here, in the Underground. You know that."
She took the top blanket from me, spreading it on top. Her bed always looked crisp and sharp, from the years she had spent working in our village's hospital. "It wouldn't be permanent. Just one mission, like we used to."
I wasn't the only one trying to hang onto the past. As much as I wanted my family to come back together, the way we were before the Great Raid, it was a fool's dream. The kids we were then were only shadows of the adults we'd become. "Briyant and Wakka will never work together again," I reminded her softly, tugging the pillowcase onto the pillow. "Both are too stubborn, wanting to lead."
"I'm sure they can find a way to work something out."
"Not for Briyant." I gave Rosaria a small, sad smile. In her heart I knew she'd done what she thought was best, caring for the lost little boy she'd found. It wasn't her fault, what Wakka had raised him to become. "He's handling this better than I thought he would - at first, he only agreed to the rescue because I wanted to do it. He's accepted it, now."
"He's still that angry with us?" With the bed made, there was nothing left to do with her hands, and Rosaria sank into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "I only tried to do what I thought was right. To give him a home."
Sitting next to her, I took Rosaria's hands in both of my own. It killed me to see her like this, the woman who had always been our beacon of hope and light when the world seemed like it was coming to an end. "He doesn't blame you, just Dad, mostly. Because you never told him the truth about who he was, and how we discovered what happened. In one night, he learned his entire life had been a lie. That's not something you just get over."
Her eyes glanced up to mine. "And what about you? You were angry enough with us to leave too?"
"It wasn't like that." Not for the first time, the guilt welled in my stomach, but I forced it down. "He wouldn't stay. And I couldn't be without him again." I didn't regret my choice, but that didn't make it any easier to live with.
For the Imperial Story, as most of my writing has been lately, and using the prompt from the Fray: I'm losing you and it's effortless. Told from Anitra's point of view, set after her and Briyant rescue the Lambazzias.
---
[Rosaria] paused for a moment. "There's still room for you to travel with us, you know. Wakka will never ask for it, but he could use Briyant's help. Your help."
Concentrating on the bedsheets, I found it hard to meet my mother's eyes. "Our place is here, in the Underground. You know that."
She took the top blanket from me, spreading it on top. Her bed always looked crisp and sharp, from the years she had spent working in our village's hospital. "It wouldn't be permanent. Just one mission, like we used to."
I wasn't the only one trying to hang onto the past. As much as I wanted my family to come back together, the way we were before the Great Raid, it was a fool's dream. The kids we were then were only shadows of the adults we'd become. "Briyant and Wakka will never work together again," I reminded her softly, tugging the pillowcase onto the pillow. "Both are too stubborn, wanting to lead."
"I'm sure they can find a way to work something out."
"Not for Briyant." I gave Rosaria a small, sad smile. In her heart I knew she'd done what she thought was best, caring for the lost little boy she'd found. It wasn't her fault, what Wakka had raised him to become. "He's handling this better than I thought he would - at first, he only agreed to the rescue because I wanted to do it. He's accepted it, now."
"He's still that angry with us?" With the bed made, there was nothing left to do with her hands, and Rosaria sank into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "I only tried to do what I thought was right. To give him a home."
Sitting next to her, I took Rosaria's hands in both of my own. It killed me to see her like this, the woman who had always been our beacon of hope and light when the world seemed like it was coming to an end. "He doesn't blame you, just Dad, mostly. Because you never told him the truth about who he was, and how we discovered what happened. In one night, he learned his entire life had been a lie. That's not something you just get over."
Her eyes glanced up to mine. "And what about you? You were angry enough with us to leave too?"
"It wasn't like that." Not for the first time, the guilt welled in my stomach, but I forced it down. "He wouldn't stay. And I couldn't be without him again." I didn't regret my choice, but that didn't make it any easier to live with.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Friday Writing Response for July 24, 2009
So. I tried this week's prompt. Twice, as a matter of fact. I had one scene in my head - Briyant and Anitra stuck in an Imperial city for a few days with nothing to do but wait, and I wanted to send them to a "movie theater" of some kind. This idea didn't work, I think because I was trying too hard to force it to.
This leaves me without a response to this week's prompt, however, but that's okay. I'll put up a snippet from writing practice instead. I've been focusing a lot on the "Andros' return" scenes this week, taking place after this snippet from a while back. Told from Anitra's point of view, taking a friend's advice and it seems to be working out so far.
---
Gingerly, I laid Andros down on the bed, my bed. I hadn't actually slept here in weeks, so he could use it for however long his recovery turned out to be. Behind me, Rosaria carried the tray full of medical supplies, setting it down on the small table by the bed. "You said he talked to you? On the boat?"
"Yes. Whatever happened damaged his vocal chords." I could still remember the rasp in his voice, a shadow of what he used to sound like. I'd fix his voice, his face, his eyes, everything. I had to. He was my Warrior. "He's awake, though, and responding."
Andros reached out, hand hitting my arm first, then working upward, until it rested against the side of my neck. It was warm and rough, the way I remembered him. "You can hear us still?" I whispered, since my face was close to his.
His hand stroked my cheek once. Yes.
"Is anything else hurt? Anywhere I should check?"
Two strokes. No. Just the face, then.
"We're going to have to sedate you, in order to get the mask off." I paused, closing my eyes and wishing, not for the first time, that I'd been there when this happened. "There's a chance that there could be more damage if it wasn't used properly. The removal will hurt."
He hesitated. Andros, I knew, didn't want pain medication of any kind. "A Warrior's duty is to fight through it," he explained to me once, "to be stronger than the pain, to carry out the mission. You'll have to force the meds down my throat." This was an exception. I knew already that we didn't have the equipment here to treat a wound this bad, especially a burn. And he wouldn't want to be awake when I removed the mask.
"Please, Andros," I whispered. "For me. So I can help you."
Finally, he stroked my cheek again. Andros would take the medicine. "Thank you," I breathed, turning to Rosaria, holding out my hand. "Is it ready?"
This leaves me without a response to this week's prompt, however, but that's okay. I'll put up a snippet from writing practice instead. I've been focusing a lot on the "Andros' return" scenes this week, taking place after this snippet from a while back. Told from Anitra's point of view, taking a friend's advice and it seems to be working out so far.
---
Gingerly, I laid Andros down on the bed, my bed. I hadn't actually slept here in weeks, so he could use it for however long his recovery turned out to be. Behind me, Rosaria carried the tray full of medical supplies, setting it down on the small table by the bed. "You said he talked to you? On the boat?"
"Yes. Whatever happened damaged his vocal chords." I could still remember the rasp in his voice, a shadow of what he used to sound like. I'd fix his voice, his face, his eyes, everything. I had to. He was my Warrior. "He's awake, though, and responding."
Andros reached out, hand hitting my arm first, then working upward, until it rested against the side of my neck. It was warm and rough, the way I remembered him. "You can hear us still?" I whispered, since my face was close to his.
His hand stroked my cheek once. Yes.
"Is anything else hurt? Anywhere I should check?"
Two strokes. No. Just the face, then.
"We're going to have to sedate you, in order to get the mask off." I paused, closing my eyes and wishing, not for the first time, that I'd been there when this happened. "There's a chance that there could be more damage if it wasn't used properly. The removal will hurt."
He hesitated. Andros, I knew, didn't want pain medication of any kind. "A Warrior's duty is to fight through it," he explained to me once, "to be stronger than the pain, to carry out the mission. You'll have to force the meds down my throat." This was an exception. I knew already that we didn't have the equipment here to treat a wound this bad, especially a burn. And he wouldn't want to be awake when I removed the mask.
"Please, Andros," I whispered. "For me. So I can help you."
Finally, he stroked my cheek again. Andros would take the medicine. "Thank you," I breathed, turning to Rosaria, holding out my hand. "Is it ready?"
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: The Index Card Experiment
I'm trying something new, in regards to outlining the Imperial Story. I've been writing bits and pieces of scenes in my daily writing practice, sometimes inspired by that day's prompt, sometimes continuing the scene from the day before, sometimes I can't get them out of my head. Timeline-wise, these scenes run from the very beginning to the beginning of the end. To try and organize what I've already written, I'm writing out each scene on index cards.
Each card has the basic details of the scene: who's in it, where it takes place, what's going on, who's telling the story. I'm finding that, by writing out these skeleton versions, I'm writing a lot about the middle of the story - Andros discovering his identity, the creation of Briyant and Anitra's Underground. I've also written a lot more than I thought I had; I have cards for 20 scenes and I'm not finished going over everything I have on paper. And to my surprise, some of it, down to the individual lines, is work I'm really proud of.
My idea is to lay all these cards out, group them together by events, and see what I have. What scenes have to come first in order for the later ones to make sense? What scenes are missing from what I've already written? What I'm looking to find is the overall arch of the story and start planning it from start to finish. And, seeing how little I've been wanting to write the actual beginning of the story, maybe that means I'm starting in the wrong place. Writing books recommend starting in the thick of things, so perhaps that's advice I'll take.
I don't know if this is a project to tackle in my daily writing practice and then type up later, or if I devote a couple days a week to it. I do know that I need a structure of some kind before I get anywhere. With my last drafted novel, I used a gigantic mind map to plot out scenes, but for some reason, that doesn't seem to be working with this one.
Has anyone used index cards to help with plotting before? If so, what was your experience? Right now, I'm just entralled to get to spend hours rereading what I've written, wincing at the cliches, but finding the gems too. I'm calling this an "experiment" - we'll see if it creates anything special.
Each card has the basic details of the scene: who's in it, where it takes place, what's going on, who's telling the story. I'm finding that, by writing out these skeleton versions, I'm writing a lot about the middle of the story - Andros discovering his identity, the creation of Briyant and Anitra's Underground. I've also written a lot more than I thought I had; I have cards for 20 scenes and I'm not finished going over everything I have on paper. And to my surprise, some of it, down to the individual lines, is work I'm really proud of.
My idea is to lay all these cards out, group them together by events, and see what I have. What scenes have to come first in order for the later ones to make sense? What scenes are missing from what I've already written? What I'm looking to find is the overall arch of the story and start planning it from start to finish. And, seeing how little I've been wanting to write the actual beginning of the story, maybe that means I'm starting in the wrong place. Writing books recommend starting in the thick of things, so perhaps that's advice I'll take.
I don't know if this is a project to tackle in my daily writing practice and then type up later, or if I devote a couple days a week to it. I do know that I need a structure of some kind before I get anywhere. With my last drafted novel, I used a gigantic mind map to plot out scenes, but for some reason, that doesn't seem to be working with this one.
Has anyone used index cards to help with plotting before? If so, what was your experience? Right now, I'm just entralled to get to spend hours rereading what I've written, wincing at the cliches, but finding the gems too. I'm calling this an "experiment" - we'll see if it creates anything special.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: On Selecting POV
Point of view has always been a hard decision for me. In my creative nonfiction stories, the choice was obvious. First person works best becuase I'm the one telling the story, based on my own experiences, thoughts and feelings. With fiction, I never know if the character I use is the best one for the story.
I've been working on the "Imperial Story" in my daily writing practice, trying out scenes, sticking with the ideas that work and abandoning the ones that don't. For the most part, I've stuck with Andros' (Briyant's) point of view, as he became the dominant character in the story so far. I'm not sure why I chose him, though - keeping his perspective, in first person, makes me aware of how much he doesn't know about what's going on. A large part of the storyline rests on the knowledge that Andros doesn't know who he really is, but the reader has to know something's not right in the Lambazzia family.
This is the part I'm having trouble with: revealing that information in such a way that doesn't come out of nowhere but doesn't give too much away either. I've tried some scenes from Anitra's point of view, but for some reason, I haven't been able to get into her head; the voice still doesn't sound right to me. Maybe this is something I'll try in the first draft, telling the story from Andros' POV, and switch it in revisions if need be. I still feel like there is so much I don't know about this story, about the world I'm trying to create, so I need to be willing to change as I progress through an actual draft.
I'm curious to see how other writers would handle a similar point of view question. How would you decide to tell the story? I've used third person to switch between characters before - And You Tell Me I Am Home switches between Emma and Zeke - but to me, it doesn't have the same sense of urgency, of immediacy, that first person does. In a novel about a rebellion fighting an empire (cue Star Wars music here), I think that tension is needed.
For now, I'll turn back to my writing books for advice, and see where the story ends up going. I won't know until I actually start writing.
I've been working on the "Imperial Story" in my daily writing practice, trying out scenes, sticking with the ideas that work and abandoning the ones that don't. For the most part, I've stuck with Andros' (Briyant's) point of view, as he became the dominant character in the story so far. I'm not sure why I chose him, though - keeping his perspective, in first person, makes me aware of how much he doesn't know about what's going on. A large part of the storyline rests on the knowledge that Andros doesn't know who he really is, but the reader has to know something's not right in the Lambazzia family.
This is the part I'm having trouble with: revealing that information in such a way that doesn't come out of nowhere but doesn't give too much away either. I've tried some scenes from Anitra's point of view, but for some reason, I haven't been able to get into her head; the voice still doesn't sound right to me. Maybe this is something I'll try in the first draft, telling the story from Andros' POV, and switch it in revisions if need be. I still feel like there is so much I don't know about this story, about the world I'm trying to create, so I need to be willing to change as I progress through an actual draft.
I'm curious to see how other writers would handle a similar point of view question. How would you decide to tell the story? I've used third person to switch between characters before - And You Tell Me I Am Home switches between Emma and Zeke - but to me, it doesn't have the same sense of urgency, of immediacy, that first person does. In a novel about a rebellion fighting an empire (cue Star Wars music here), I think that tension is needed.
For now, I'll turn back to my writing books for advice, and see where the story ends up going. I won't know until I actually start writing.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Friday Prompt Response for July 10, 2009
So this week didn't go exactly as planned, writing wise. While I did manage to get my writing practice and my blog post done, i found myself without a lot of time to work on the prompt for this week. I still love the idea for it - "Sunday night crappy hour," it's a great line - but I found it hard to keep an idea for it in my head. It didn't inspire me like I'd hoped, but that's okay - some prompts work better than others, and at different times.
For now I'm going to hold on to this week's prompt and post a snippet from my writing practice instead. I've been working a lot on different parts of the "Imperial story," and I think I may be at a point where I can start plotting out scenes and seeing what goes with which part of the story. It looks like this will need to be a full, written epic after all.
Thoughts, comments - they're always appreciated. This is unedited, so whenever these scenes become part of the overall story, I expect a lot of changes to be made.
---
...Wakka looked over at me again and behind him, I watched Rosaria flinch and look away. "You never answered my question earlier. Who are you, and why don't you talk?"
"And where's Andros?" Rosaria's voice was soft, pleading. Of all the Lambazzias, it was hardest to be mad at her. She'd always acted from the heart, doing what she thought was right, like Anitra did. "We know he was with you, when you left us. Is he all right?"
Biting her bottom lip, Anitra shot a glance over at me. "We'll discuss it later," she said. "Dad, you're limping. Our Healers should take a look at it, or Mom can, if you'd prefer-"
This time, instead of me, Wakka grabbed Anitra, holding her by the shoulders as if to shake her. "Answer the question, girl."
I was done. Hoisting Wakka by the shoulders, I threw him to the ground, uncaring if I injured him further. "Her name is Anitra," I snarled behind my helmet, "and you should be able to remember what you named your own daughter."
"Please, there's no need to fight." Rosaria hovered behind me, Anitra taking hold of her, to protect her or to keep her from joining in, I wasn't sure. "He's just trying to understand what's going on."
"Then understand this." Planting a knee in Wakka's chest, hand on his throat, I used my other hand to pry off my helmet, throwing it to the floor. Rosaria gasped as she recognized me, like I knew she would. "Andros Lambazzia is dead. And as far as I'm concerned, the two of you are as well."
For now I'm going to hold on to this week's prompt and post a snippet from my writing practice instead. I've been working a lot on different parts of the "Imperial story," and I think I may be at a point where I can start plotting out scenes and seeing what goes with which part of the story. It looks like this will need to be a full, written epic after all.
Thoughts, comments - they're always appreciated. This is unedited, so whenever these scenes become part of the overall story, I expect a lot of changes to be made.
---
...Wakka looked over at me again and behind him, I watched Rosaria flinch and look away. "You never answered my question earlier. Who are you, and why don't you talk?"
"And where's Andros?" Rosaria's voice was soft, pleading. Of all the Lambazzias, it was hardest to be mad at her. She'd always acted from the heart, doing what she thought was right, like Anitra did. "We know he was with you, when you left us. Is he all right?"
Biting her bottom lip, Anitra shot a glance over at me. "We'll discuss it later," she said. "Dad, you're limping. Our Healers should take a look at it, or Mom can, if you'd prefer-"
This time, instead of me, Wakka grabbed Anitra, holding her by the shoulders as if to shake her. "Answer the question, girl."
I was done. Hoisting Wakka by the shoulders, I threw him to the ground, uncaring if I injured him further. "Her name is Anitra," I snarled behind my helmet, "and you should be able to remember what you named your own daughter."
"Please, there's no need to fight." Rosaria hovered behind me, Anitra taking hold of her, to protect her or to keep her from joining in, I wasn't sure. "He's just trying to understand what's going on."
"Then understand this." Planting a knee in Wakka's chest, hand on his throat, I used my other hand to pry off my helmet, throwing it to the floor. Rosaria gasped as she recognized me, like I knew she would. "Andros Lambazzia is dead. And as far as I'm concerned, the two of you are as well."
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: This Week's Inspiration
It's no secret that I am a huge Star Wars fan. I've been collecting the books since I was 10 years old; even my till tags at work say "Lord Vader" on them. (No, I'm not making this up.) Say what you want about the prequels and the special editions - I've been in love the world the movies created since I was a little girl.
As I'm feeling under the weather this week, I spent my day off on my couch rewatching A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back. For as much as I was watching them for the fun of it, I found myself noticing details about how the story is put together, how these characters are revealed, how George Lucas created the Star Wars universe star by star, planet by planet, ship by ship. Working on a science-fiction based story myself, currently dubbed "the Imperial story," I tried to pay attention to the details I might overlook since I know the plot so well.
What struck me the most while watching was how much of the characterization went unsaid, though I knew what and who everyone and everything was. For example, some of the races are named - Chewbacca is a Wookiee (and he doesn't live on Endor) - but others aren't, like the Biths who play in the band in the Mos Eisley cantina. It's these tiny details that reveal the world this story takes place in, bit by bit, assembled together like the pieces of the Millenium Falcon.
Star Wars also shows reasons to be on the rebellion's side throughout the course of the films - the Empire is shown only as being evil, controlling, not paying much attention to the wishes of the people. Vader Force-chokes those who fail him. Tarkin blows up Alderaan just to show off what the Death Star can do, for crying out loud. This was a major point for me: While I know what I want the rebellion in my story to be about, I know little about the empire they're fighting. Watching the way Star Wars handles its villains, both big and small, started turning the wheels in my mind; I have a few ideas now, whereas I didn't have any before.
While I could watch these movies over and over again, yesterday's viewings struck home just because of what I'm currently working on. Both my story and the original Star Wars trilogy focus on the struggles of freedom fighters, and while I have no desire to copy a classic, I won't lie and say I'm not inspired by it. Yesterday, I banged out a rough draft of a completely scene for the Imperial Story in one sitting, which doesn't always happen for me. Who knows? Maybe I'll end up dedicating the finished novel to George Lucas after all.
As I'm feeling under the weather this week, I spent my day off on my couch rewatching A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back. For as much as I was watching them for the fun of it, I found myself noticing details about how the story is put together, how these characters are revealed, how George Lucas created the Star Wars universe star by star, planet by planet, ship by ship. Working on a science-fiction based story myself, currently dubbed "the Imperial story," I tried to pay attention to the details I might overlook since I know the plot so well.
What struck me the most while watching was how much of the characterization went unsaid, though I knew what and who everyone and everything was. For example, some of the races are named - Chewbacca is a Wookiee (and he doesn't live on Endor) - but others aren't, like the Biths who play in the band in the Mos Eisley cantina. It's these tiny details that reveal the world this story takes place in, bit by bit, assembled together like the pieces of the Millenium Falcon.
Star Wars also shows reasons to be on the rebellion's side throughout the course of the films - the Empire is shown only as being evil, controlling, not paying much attention to the wishes of the people. Vader Force-chokes those who fail him. Tarkin blows up Alderaan just to show off what the Death Star can do, for crying out loud. This was a major point for me: While I know what I want the rebellion in my story to be about, I know little about the empire they're fighting. Watching the way Star Wars handles its villains, both big and small, started turning the wheels in my mind; I have a few ideas now, whereas I didn't have any before.
While I could watch these movies over and over again, yesterday's viewings struck home just because of what I'm currently working on. Both my story and the original Star Wars trilogy focus on the struggles of freedom fighters, and while I have no desire to copy a classic, I won't lie and say I'm not inspired by it. Yesterday, I banged out a rough draft of a completely scene for the Imperial Story in one sitting, which doesn't always happen for me. Who knows? Maybe I'll end up dedicating the finished novel to George Lucas after all.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Friday Writing Response for June 19, 2009
Again, I find I didn't follow this week's prompt exactly, but that's the beauty of prompts: You don't have to. I'm working with the "Imperial Story" again, jumping around in the plotline, figuring out different pieces of the society as I go. This is the first scene I've written with Andros in his new identity, as Briyant Correleon, and already he seems a little bitter, harder. And I like that, that his character changes over the arc of this storyline.
The prompts I used, or pretended to use, were:
silver - dive bar - calm
This is a snippet of the completed scene; if you're interested to read the whole thing, drop me a line and I'd be glad to email it to you.
---
“Excuse me?” The man flagged Jackal down with a wave of his hand. The dialect was foreign for these parts, the vowels too rich – he had to come from money. What was he doing in a place like this? “What is the finest wine you carry?”
Jackal rolled his eyes, wiping his hands on his rag. Whoever this guy was, this was not the bar for him to hang out in. “Vetrian cabernet. Twenty years old.”
“I’ll have a glass, please.” He glanced sideways, “And two glasses for this young couple.”
Anitra tensed, hand on my arm, squeezing a little. “That’s a kind offer,” I said, “but we’ve already beat you to the drinks, I’m afraid.” I held up my glass, taking a long sip.
“I insist.” The man switched chairs, moving closer to me. “It’s not everyday I meet two legends in person.”
“Legends?” Anitra chuckled at that; I could hear the nervousness in her voice, but I doubted he could. “Surely you have confused with someone else.”
He leaned forward, and I caught a hint of vanilla and musk on his clothes. Old money, then; he’d probably never even held a gun, much less fired one. I still let my free hand drop to my lap, out of sight, fingering the gun on my hip.
“You’re Briyant Correleon,” he said, and my finger found the trigger. “Formerly Andros Lambazzia, trained to follow in Wakka’s footsteps until you’d discovered what he’d done. And you,” he turned to Anitra, “You’re his partner, the daughter Wakka lost. Your reputation precedes you.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic, a spy sent to take care of two thorns in the Empire’s side. Keeping my face neutral, not wanting to give anything away, I asked, “And who are you?”
Tilting his head, he held out a hand. On his finger was heavy gold signet ring, engraved with the axe and tree emblem of the House of Berryd, one of the noble families of the Old Empire. “My name is Lucard, representative of the House of Berryd. Our information said you might be found around these parts.”
The door to the bar swung open, and another group of patrons wandered inside, a little louder than the other people in the bar. Lucard’s hand dropped away, and Anitra’s hand slid down to mine, on the handle of my gun. “Perhaps we should take this to a table?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jackal grunted, returning with the wine. The glasses were made of the finest crystal, engraved with the logo of the tavern. Apparently Jackal thought us worthy of pulling out all the stops. “Corner’s free,” he said, gesturing towards the other end of the room.
“Thank you.” Anitra slid off her stool, her hand brushing over my leg as she moved. I was the strategist, planning out raids and battles, but she was the diplomat. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
I made sure to keep myself between Lucard and Anitra as we sat down. The booth Jackal pointed out offered a good view of the empty stage, but also of the bar and the tables around us. “First things first,” I began, tapping my fingers against the wine glass, “How do you know of us?”
Lucard was mid-sip, eyes closed, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Always with the business, your kind. By the time you stop and enjoy life, it’ll be far too late.” Setting the glass down, he leaned forward, towards me. “Your Underground has earned quite the reputation, even reaching the upper echelons. The Nobles are amazed of it – a safe harbor for the refugees and fighters, a place to regroup, utterly brilliant. Not that we know where it is, you see,” he was quick to add, “but the existence of such a place – my, isn’t that a thorn in Cansolee’s side.”
“The way we see it,” Anitra said, “the nobility is part of the reason why Cansolee came into power to begin with. Signing the treaties to allow full military control over the government let him pull his coup.” She never raised her voice, never said anything in such a way that could be seen as demeaning or looking for a fight. But still Lucard recoiled as if she’d struck him, and it was the first hint of shame I saw on his face.
“Ah, yes, there is that.” He stuttered a little, trying to hide it behind a sip of wine. “But the House of Berryd has always been sympathetic to the rebellion’s cause, trying to right a wrong, as it were. We occasionally fund a few groups, provide rations, a place to stay.”
I tried the wine, sure Jackal hadn’t given us anything poisonous. It reminded me of the wine from the celebrations of the Trials, sweet, but richer, a better vintage. “That’s all well and good of you, very noble.” Anitra’s hand squeezed my leg under the table, but I ignored her. “And we figure into this how?”
He looked from me to Anitra. “One of the groups we’re funding is the Lambazzia faction.”
Anitra sucked in a breath. “We weren’t aware Wakka was actively fighting.” We kept what information we knew about the Lambazzias quiet; I knew they’d left the island sanctuary, but not much else.
“Indeed he is. I’m afraid he’s run into a bit of a snag, which is where you come in.”
My free hand balled into a fist. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t owe Wakka a thing. He lied to me, kept me away from my family, raising me to believe I was someone else. “We haven’t said we’d help you.”
“Of course, of course. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Finishing his drink, Lucard attempted to flag Jackal down for another round. If Jackal noticed his waving, he was dutifully ignoring the other man. “If it were just Wakka, I could understand your hesitation. But you haven’t heard the whole story.”
“Just what kind of trouble is he in?” Anitra started playing with the frayed edges of her gloves, a nervous tick she’d had since childhood. I needed to remember that the Lambazzias were her flesh and blood; she was more tied to them than I was.
From his jacket, Lucard pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. Inside were the floor plans to an Imperial holding facility, detailing the guards’ locations, entrances, the best times to get in. “They’ve been captured, and they’re being held here, about 20 kilometers north of this village.”
“They?” I was skeptical, though the plans bore Cansolee’s seal, they were as authentic as they come.”
“The family, him, his wife and children. Our informant says the boys put up a bit of a fight, but there were damages sustained.”
The color drained out of Anitra’s face, and this time it was me squeezing her hand. I needed to keep her focused, her mind on the present, not dwelling on possible injuries. “Damages?” she whispered. “Rosaria, even Salida – they should be able to do something to help.”
Lucard’s face softened, and he reached over to push Anitra’s wine glass towards her. “Take the drink, dear. It will help you relax.” He looked over to me. “The rumor says you two are the best at what you do: taking back what the Empire has stolen. I need you to get Wakka Lambazzia for me.”
The prompts I used, or pretended to use, were:
silver - dive bar - calm
This is a snippet of the completed scene; if you're interested to read the whole thing, drop me a line and I'd be glad to email it to you.
---
“Excuse me?” The man flagged Jackal down with a wave of his hand. The dialect was foreign for these parts, the vowels too rich – he had to come from money. What was he doing in a place like this? “What is the finest wine you carry?”
Jackal rolled his eyes, wiping his hands on his rag. Whoever this guy was, this was not the bar for him to hang out in. “Vetrian cabernet. Twenty years old.”
“I’ll have a glass, please.” He glanced sideways, “And two glasses for this young couple.”
Anitra tensed, hand on my arm, squeezing a little. “That’s a kind offer,” I said, “but we’ve already beat you to the drinks, I’m afraid.” I held up my glass, taking a long sip.
“I insist.” The man switched chairs, moving closer to me. “It’s not everyday I meet two legends in person.”
“Legends?” Anitra chuckled at that; I could hear the nervousness in her voice, but I doubted he could. “Surely you have confused with someone else.”
He leaned forward, and I caught a hint of vanilla and musk on his clothes. Old money, then; he’d probably never even held a gun, much less fired one. I still let my free hand drop to my lap, out of sight, fingering the gun on my hip.
“You’re Briyant Correleon,” he said, and my finger found the trigger. “Formerly Andros Lambazzia, trained to follow in Wakka’s footsteps until you’d discovered what he’d done. And you,” he turned to Anitra, “You’re his partner, the daughter Wakka lost. Your reputation precedes you.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic, a spy sent to take care of two thorns in the Empire’s side. Keeping my face neutral, not wanting to give anything away, I asked, “And who are you?”
Tilting his head, he held out a hand. On his finger was heavy gold signet ring, engraved with the axe and tree emblem of the House of Berryd, one of the noble families of the Old Empire. “My name is Lucard, representative of the House of Berryd. Our information said you might be found around these parts.”
The door to the bar swung open, and another group of patrons wandered inside, a little louder than the other people in the bar. Lucard’s hand dropped away, and Anitra’s hand slid down to mine, on the handle of my gun. “Perhaps we should take this to a table?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jackal grunted, returning with the wine. The glasses were made of the finest crystal, engraved with the logo of the tavern. Apparently Jackal thought us worthy of pulling out all the stops. “Corner’s free,” he said, gesturing towards the other end of the room.
“Thank you.” Anitra slid off her stool, her hand brushing over my leg as she moved. I was the strategist, planning out raids and battles, but she was the diplomat. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
I made sure to keep myself between Lucard and Anitra as we sat down. The booth Jackal pointed out offered a good view of the empty stage, but also of the bar and the tables around us. “First things first,” I began, tapping my fingers against the wine glass, “How do you know of us?”
Lucard was mid-sip, eyes closed, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Always with the business, your kind. By the time you stop and enjoy life, it’ll be far too late.” Setting the glass down, he leaned forward, towards me. “Your Underground has earned quite the reputation, even reaching the upper echelons. The Nobles are amazed of it – a safe harbor for the refugees and fighters, a place to regroup, utterly brilliant. Not that we know where it is, you see,” he was quick to add, “but the existence of such a place – my, isn’t that a thorn in Cansolee’s side.”
“The way we see it,” Anitra said, “the nobility is part of the reason why Cansolee came into power to begin with. Signing the treaties to allow full military control over the government let him pull his coup.” She never raised her voice, never said anything in such a way that could be seen as demeaning or looking for a fight. But still Lucard recoiled as if she’d struck him, and it was the first hint of shame I saw on his face.
“Ah, yes, there is that.” He stuttered a little, trying to hide it behind a sip of wine. “But the House of Berryd has always been sympathetic to the rebellion’s cause, trying to right a wrong, as it were. We occasionally fund a few groups, provide rations, a place to stay.”
I tried the wine, sure Jackal hadn’t given us anything poisonous. It reminded me of the wine from the celebrations of the Trials, sweet, but richer, a better vintage. “That’s all well and good of you, very noble.” Anitra’s hand squeezed my leg under the table, but I ignored her. “And we figure into this how?”
He looked from me to Anitra. “One of the groups we’re funding is the Lambazzia faction.”
Anitra sucked in a breath. “We weren’t aware Wakka was actively fighting.” We kept what information we knew about the Lambazzias quiet; I knew they’d left the island sanctuary, but not much else.
“Indeed he is. I’m afraid he’s run into a bit of a snag, which is where you come in.”
My free hand balled into a fist. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t owe Wakka a thing. He lied to me, kept me away from my family, raising me to believe I was someone else. “We haven’t said we’d help you.”
“Of course, of course. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Finishing his drink, Lucard attempted to flag Jackal down for another round. If Jackal noticed his waving, he was dutifully ignoring the other man. “If it were just Wakka, I could understand your hesitation. But you haven’t heard the whole story.”
“Just what kind of trouble is he in?” Anitra started playing with the frayed edges of her gloves, a nervous tick she’d had since childhood. I needed to remember that the Lambazzias were her flesh and blood; she was more tied to them than I was.
From his jacket, Lucard pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. Inside were the floor plans to an Imperial holding facility, detailing the guards’ locations, entrances, the best times to get in. “They’ve been captured, and they’re being held here, about 20 kilometers north of this village.”
“They?” I was skeptical, though the plans bore Cansolee’s seal, they were as authentic as they come.”
“The family, him, his wife and children. Our informant says the boys put up a bit of a fight, but there were damages sustained.”
The color drained out of Anitra’s face, and this time it was me squeezing her hand. I needed to keep her focused, her mind on the present, not dwelling on possible injuries. “Damages?” she whispered. “Rosaria, even Salida – they should be able to do something to help.”
Lucard’s face softened, and he reached over to push Anitra’s wine glass towards her. “Take the drink, dear. It will help you relax.” He looked over to me. “The rumor says you two are the best at what you do: taking back what the Empire has stolen. I need you to get Wakka Lambazzia for me.”
Friday, June 12, 2009
Friday Writing Response for June 12, 2009
So. I didn't get a chance to try out this week's writing prompt yet, and I feel really guilty for not getting to do so. The day's still young, but I wanted to post something here anyway, to prove to myself that I'm still writing and so I didn't forget to post entirely.
This is from an idea I'm calling The Imperial Story for now, and pairs with the scene from a couple weeks ago. I've been coming back to this idea in my writing practice, writing out different points of the story. While I'm no closer to figuring out large chunks of what this society is like, I'm starting to get a handle on who Andros is and what drives him. Who knows? Maybe something longer will come out of it. All I know is that I had this scene in my head for a couple days and now it's somewhat down on paper.
This is a snippet; this particular scene is finished, but I'm waiting to see if it still makes sense to me a couple days from now before I show it off. At this point in the story, the Lambazzias believe Andros to be dead and he's trying to find them. He's severely injured, having been blasted in the face by a fireball (thanks Final Fantasy, for your enemies showing me new ways to mess up people!) and is currently wearing a bright blue mask to protect the burn, which needs to be treated. As such, the mask pretty much makes him blind.
I'm interested to know if anyone finds this snippet intriguing - worthy of continuing.
---
I heard the faint buzz of another engine approach the boat and then cut out nearby. Imperials, then, or hunters of some kind – someone who didn’t want their prey to know they were coming. I hauled myself into a sitting position, tightening a hand on my gun. I was not about to have them steal my boat, blind or not.
It was then I noticed my hands were shaky, the gun vibrating in my hand. I wasn’t scared – though the odds were bad, I could be facing worse. I hadn’t been able to eat solid food in over a week, and my liquid rations were almost gone. Even those burned like hell going down my throat, but it was all I could do. I feared letting anyone but Anitra near my wounds.
I couldn’t worry about that now. My hunger, my pain were making my mind wander, losing focus on the moment. One mistake here and I’d never see Anitra or my family again.
Footsteps landed on the upper deck, at least two distinct pairs. The first was heavy, though I could tell he was trying to move quietly. I pictured a man, possibly built, possibly heavyset, but with half a mind about what to do in a situation like this. The second set was dainty, quick taps against the boards, like a dancer walking from one end to another. A woman, then, which meant these probably weren’t Imperials who found me. More than likely, they were hunters or poachers, curious about the boat, wondering who might be aboard.
Murmurs floated down to me; they’d paused outside the cabin door. The man was giving orders and I slid into a crouch, ignoring the way my neck protested as I kept my head down. The heavier footsteps moved away from the cabin, towards the bow and the storage compartments underneath. He wouldn’t find anything.
The cabin door creaked open, and those tiny feet tapped inside the doorway. I’d left the lights off in the cabin – there was no point in using them when I’d gotten used to the darkness. There was a click, and a dim light flooded the edges of what was left of my vision.
The light felt almost warm as she swept it over the edges of the cabin. Another few steps forward and she’d reveal my position. A burst of static broke the silence, and I could hear her breathing as she lifted the communicator to her mouth. “It’s set to drift,” she murmured, voice quiet and sweet and a flood of memories surged forward. “Might have been set on auto-pilot.”
That voice – I knew that voice. Anitra was here; she’d found me without knowing where to look, like the Gods had smiled down on us for a change. I slumped forward, bumping into the cabin wall and knocking over a spare communicator as I did so. The clattering sound it made rang throughout the cabin and she jumped back, the click of a gun pointed in my direction.
“Who are you?” Anitra asked, shining her floodlight in my direction. I turned away from it, the brightness searing my injured eyes.
“Anitra.” Her name was a rasp in my throat, having avoided speaking for so long. “Anitra.”
She fumbled with the communicator; I could hear her pressing buttons. “Found our pilot,” she said, louder now. “You’d better get down here.”
“Subdue him until I arrive.” It was Wakka who answered; that explained the heavy footsteps.
“Anitra,” I tried again. This time it almost sounded right, so I continued. “It’s me.”
Her footsteps came closer, and she shined the light in my face. No, I realized, not directly in my face, but on the edges of it; she was inspecting the edges of the burn outside of the mask. “How do you know my name?”
“Andros.”
“Is dead.” Her rebuttal is quick, but I knew Anitra’s voice well enough to hear the quiver behind it. She believed the rumor, and I felt the gun pressed beneath my ribcage. “I’m not in the habit of playing games. Who are you, and how do you know who I am?”
This is from an idea I'm calling The Imperial Story for now, and pairs with the scene from a couple weeks ago. I've been coming back to this idea in my writing practice, writing out different points of the story. While I'm no closer to figuring out large chunks of what this society is like, I'm starting to get a handle on who Andros is and what drives him. Who knows? Maybe something longer will come out of it. All I know is that I had this scene in my head for a couple days and now it's somewhat down on paper.
This is a snippet; this particular scene is finished, but I'm waiting to see if it still makes sense to me a couple days from now before I show it off. At this point in the story, the Lambazzias believe Andros to be dead and he's trying to find them. He's severely injured, having been blasted in the face by a fireball (thanks Final Fantasy, for your enemies showing me new ways to mess up people!) and is currently wearing a bright blue mask to protect the burn, which needs to be treated. As such, the mask pretty much makes him blind.
I'm interested to know if anyone finds this snippet intriguing - worthy of continuing.
---
I heard the faint buzz of another engine approach the boat and then cut out nearby. Imperials, then, or hunters of some kind – someone who didn’t want their prey to know they were coming. I hauled myself into a sitting position, tightening a hand on my gun. I was not about to have them steal my boat, blind or not.
It was then I noticed my hands were shaky, the gun vibrating in my hand. I wasn’t scared – though the odds were bad, I could be facing worse. I hadn’t been able to eat solid food in over a week, and my liquid rations were almost gone. Even those burned like hell going down my throat, but it was all I could do. I feared letting anyone but Anitra near my wounds.
I couldn’t worry about that now. My hunger, my pain were making my mind wander, losing focus on the moment. One mistake here and I’d never see Anitra or my family again.
Footsteps landed on the upper deck, at least two distinct pairs. The first was heavy, though I could tell he was trying to move quietly. I pictured a man, possibly built, possibly heavyset, but with half a mind about what to do in a situation like this. The second set was dainty, quick taps against the boards, like a dancer walking from one end to another. A woman, then, which meant these probably weren’t Imperials who found me. More than likely, they were hunters or poachers, curious about the boat, wondering who might be aboard.
Murmurs floated down to me; they’d paused outside the cabin door. The man was giving orders and I slid into a crouch, ignoring the way my neck protested as I kept my head down. The heavier footsteps moved away from the cabin, towards the bow and the storage compartments underneath. He wouldn’t find anything.
The cabin door creaked open, and those tiny feet tapped inside the doorway. I’d left the lights off in the cabin – there was no point in using them when I’d gotten used to the darkness. There was a click, and a dim light flooded the edges of what was left of my vision.
The light felt almost warm as she swept it over the edges of the cabin. Another few steps forward and she’d reveal my position. A burst of static broke the silence, and I could hear her breathing as she lifted the communicator to her mouth. “It’s set to drift,” she murmured, voice quiet and sweet and a flood of memories surged forward. “Might have been set on auto-pilot.”
That voice – I knew that voice. Anitra was here; she’d found me without knowing where to look, like the Gods had smiled down on us for a change. I slumped forward, bumping into the cabin wall and knocking over a spare communicator as I did so. The clattering sound it made rang throughout the cabin and she jumped back, the click of a gun pointed in my direction.
“Who are you?” Anitra asked, shining her floodlight in my direction. I turned away from it, the brightness searing my injured eyes.
“Anitra.” Her name was a rasp in my throat, having avoided speaking for so long. “Anitra.”
She fumbled with the communicator; I could hear her pressing buttons. “Found our pilot,” she said, louder now. “You’d better get down here.”
“Subdue him until I arrive.” It was Wakka who answered; that explained the heavy footsteps.
“Anitra,” I tried again. This time it almost sounded right, so I continued. “It’s me.”
Her footsteps came closer, and she shined the light in my face. No, I realized, not directly in my face, but on the edges of it; she was inspecting the edges of the burn outside of the mask. “How do you know my name?”
“Andros.”
“Is dead.” Her rebuttal is quick, but I knew Anitra’s voice well enough to hear the quiver behind it. She believed the rumor, and I felt the gun pressed beneath my ribcage. “I’m not in the habit of playing games. Who are you, and how do you know who I am?”
Friday, May 29, 2009
Friday Writing Response for May 29, 2009
When I first started this prompt, this is not what I expected would come out of it. This snippet follows an idea for a sci-fi story I had back in high school, and trying to work with it now, I can see why I never actually wrote anything for it. It goes back to Tim's "exploit what you invent" mantra: I had a great idea, but very little concept of who these characters are, what motivates them, and how the events of the plot would affect them. It also doesn't help that this piece takes place in the middle of my preconceived storyline.
There are lines that I like in this, and at least I got to play with an old idea a little bit. Who knows? Maybe I'll go back to it and fix it up someday. The prompt I used was, "She said, 'Let's change our luck,'" from We the Kings.
---
I stood by the window, looking out over the quiet shore than had become our home. No, not my home: Anitra’s home. Anitra’s parents’ home. The Lambazzias had lied to me for years, calling me their son when they knew I was anything but. Anitra was on the bed, twisting her hands together, head down, so I could see the dark roots in her neon red hair.
“How long have you known?” I asked, the wind carrying my whispered words to her.
“Years.” She lifted her head to look at me, and I watched her reflection in the window pane. “I don’t – I don’t remember when they found you. But I always knew you weren’t my brother. That you were something more, closer than that.”
“You could have told me.”
Anitra took off her gloves, revealing the tattoo on her right hand, between her thumb and index finger. It was the mark of a Healer, a vow I’d seen Anitra break in the last few days. “How? I didn’t have any proof, and Dad always treated you as his favorite – his heir. He trained you to lead us if something happened to him.”
She was right. There were some things Wakka Lambazzia had ingrained in me – hatred of the Cansolee Empire, a desire to see justice enacted. We had been raised as children of the rebellion, and I would fight with every last breath in me. It was the same reason why Anitra now carried a gun on her hip; none of us could afford not to. “My father,” I said, voice soft now, “my real father – he was a soldier for those bastards. A murderer. And he was proud of it.”
“Andros.” Getting off the bed, Anitra came up behind me, her forehead resting on my back. “That’s not who you are. You are a warrior, a fighter of the Light. No matter who your birth parents are, they can never take that away from you. No one can.”
Her touch was feather-light, reminding me of Anitra’s support, her loyalty. On every one of our family’s raids against the Empire, we were always paired together, healer and warrior. She always had my back – even in that moment when I learned my entire life had been a lie, she never flinched. Anitra had always been the closest of my “siblings,” and I knew she could never abandon me while my birth family had. She’d become more than a sister, than a best friend, but I couldn’t quite put a name to what our relationship was now.
Finally, when I found my voice, there was a hard edge to it that I hadn’t expected to be there. “Andros Lambazzia is dead.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth. He died in the fire pits, like you thought for so long.” I turned to face her, tucking her hair behind her ears. It was short enough that the strands wouldn’t stay in place after I’d touched them. “I’m not the same kid who left you. I was naïve then – I know better now.”
Anitra shook her head, the moonlight shimmering off the tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I can’t stay here. With them.” I jerked my head towards the closed door separating us from the rest of the house. On the other side, down the hall, Wakka and Rosaria Lambazzia were discussing the family’s next move. If I listened hard enough, I could just make out what they were saying. “I can’t pretend anymore. They’re no more my parents than you are my sister. I’m not going to fight just because they tell me I should. Not alongside him.”
“Then what are you going to do?” Panic flashed through Anitra’s eyes, just for a second, and I wondered if she realized I could never leave her side again. “This war waits for no one. There is no hiding, there is no peace – not unless we fight for it. And I know you, you’ll never run. You took the mark of a warrior, Andros, and you know that vow is one you can never walk away from.”
Even hearing her say my name felt wrong, like it wasn’t mine to use anymore. “I won’t be his foot soldier.”
“Then don’t. We’ll find another way to fight. We’ll start over. Change our luck, as it were.”
I half-expected to hear desperation in Anitra’s voice; the girl I grew up with would be scared out of her mind. But now she was only calm, accepting, as if none of the evening’s events surprised her. “What are you suggesting?”
Squaring her shoulders, Anitra sat up a little straighter. “For years, Dad has talked about collaborating a massive strike against the Empire – something to end them once and for all. He’s in no position to do that now. We’ve spent the last year in exile, without resources, without support. But I believe we can still win this war.” Her brown eyes met mine. “And there’s nothing that says we have to be at Wakka Lambazzia’s side when we do it.”
I let out a puff of air. “You think we should leave?”
“Didn’t you just suggest the same thing?” She raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to contradict her, and I couldn’t. At the very least, I knew I couldn’t stay under the Lambazzias’ roof, not when I knew how they’d lied to me, how they never planned to tell me the truth. “Andros, we’re not going to win while we’re sitting here, away from the battles. And if that means leaving…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked down at her hands, brushing her fingers over her Healer’s mark. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
I took her hands in both of mine. “We’re two people against an Empire,” I reminded her. “The road will be difficult.”
“We were trained to deal with worse.” She squeezed my hands; I was unused to feeling a warrior’s roughness in her deft fingers. “The longer we stay, the harder it will be to get away.”
“How soon can you be ready?”
We didn’t waste much time. Growing up as part of the rebellion, both of us knew how to pack light, essentials only. There was no such thing as luxury items, just clothes and whatever weapons we could carry; we’d pick up rations along the way. I decided against leaving a note – based on my last conversation with Wakka, he knew how furious I was. He knew I would leave, and he knew Anitra would follow.
The front door wasn’t an option; Wakka slept light, we all did, and the door creaked whenever it was touched. I was tossing our bags out the window when Anitra paused, kissed her palm and pressed it against the closed door between us and what had been my family. “Anitra,” I whispered.
She followed me out the window, landing lightly in the grass outside it. It was, I realized, the only goodbye she could make. “I know.”
Taking her hand, each with a bag slung over our shoulders, we darted into the night.
There are lines that I like in this, and at least I got to play with an old idea a little bit. Who knows? Maybe I'll go back to it and fix it up someday. The prompt I used was, "She said, 'Let's change our luck,'" from We the Kings.
---
I stood by the window, looking out over the quiet shore than had become our home. No, not my home: Anitra’s home. Anitra’s parents’ home. The Lambazzias had lied to me for years, calling me their son when they knew I was anything but. Anitra was on the bed, twisting her hands together, head down, so I could see the dark roots in her neon red hair.
“How long have you known?” I asked, the wind carrying my whispered words to her.
“Years.” She lifted her head to look at me, and I watched her reflection in the window pane. “I don’t – I don’t remember when they found you. But I always knew you weren’t my brother. That you were something more, closer than that.”
“You could have told me.”
Anitra took off her gloves, revealing the tattoo on her right hand, between her thumb and index finger. It was the mark of a Healer, a vow I’d seen Anitra break in the last few days. “How? I didn’t have any proof, and Dad always treated you as his favorite – his heir. He trained you to lead us if something happened to him.”
She was right. There were some things Wakka Lambazzia had ingrained in me – hatred of the Cansolee Empire, a desire to see justice enacted. We had been raised as children of the rebellion, and I would fight with every last breath in me. It was the same reason why Anitra now carried a gun on her hip; none of us could afford not to. “My father,” I said, voice soft now, “my real father – he was a soldier for those bastards. A murderer. And he was proud of it.”
“Andros.” Getting off the bed, Anitra came up behind me, her forehead resting on my back. “That’s not who you are. You are a warrior, a fighter of the Light. No matter who your birth parents are, they can never take that away from you. No one can.”
Her touch was feather-light, reminding me of Anitra’s support, her loyalty. On every one of our family’s raids against the Empire, we were always paired together, healer and warrior. She always had my back – even in that moment when I learned my entire life had been a lie, she never flinched. Anitra had always been the closest of my “siblings,” and I knew she could never abandon me while my birth family had. She’d become more than a sister, than a best friend, but I couldn’t quite put a name to what our relationship was now.
Finally, when I found my voice, there was a hard edge to it that I hadn’t expected to be there. “Andros Lambazzia is dead.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth. He died in the fire pits, like you thought for so long.” I turned to face her, tucking her hair behind her ears. It was short enough that the strands wouldn’t stay in place after I’d touched them. “I’m not the same kid who left you. I was naïve then – I know better now.”
Anitra shook her head, the moonlight shimmering off the tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I can’t stay here. With them.” I jerked my head towards the closed door separating us from the rest of the house. On the other side, down the hall, Wakka and Rosaria Lambazzia were discussing the family’s next move. If I listened hard enough, I could just make out what they were saying. “I can’t pretend anymore. They’re no more my parents than you are my sister. I’m not going to fight just because they tell me I should. Not alongside him.”
“Then what are you going to do?” Panic flashed through Anitra’s eyes, just for a second, and I wondered if she realized I could never leave her side again. “This war waits for no one. There is no hiding, there is no peace – not unless we fight for it. And I know you, you’ll never run. You took the mark of a warrior, Andros, and you know that vow is one you can never walk away from.”
Even hearing her say my name felt wrong, like it wasn’t mine to use anymore. “I won’t be his foot soldier.”
“Then don’t. We’ll find another way to fight. We’ll start over. Change our luck, as it were.”
I half-expected to hear desperation in Anitra’s voice; the girl I grew up with would be scared out of her mind. But now she was only calm, accepting, as if none of the evening’s events surprised her. “What are you suggesting?”
Squaring her shoulders, Anitra sat up a little straighter. “For years, Dad has talked about collaborating a massive strike against the Empire – something to end them once and for all. He’s in no position to do that now. We’ve spent the last year in exile, without resources, without support. But I believe we can still win this war.” Her brown eyes met mine. “And there’s nothing that says we have to be at Wakka Lambazzia’s side when we do it.”
I let out a puff of air. “You think we should leave?”
“Didn’t you just suggest the same thing?” She raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to contradict her, and I couldn’t. At the very least, I knew I couldn’t stay under the Lambazzias’ roof, not when I knew how they’d lied to me, how they never planned to tell me the truth. “Andros, we’re not going to win while we’re sitting here, away from the battles. And if that means leaving…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked down at her hands, brushing her fingers over her Healer’s mark. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
I took her hands in both of mine. “We’re two people against an Empire,” I reminded her. “The road will be difficult.”
“We were trained to deal with worse.” She squeezed my hands; I was unused to feeling a warrior’s roughness in her deft fingers. “The longer we stay, the harder it will be to get away.”
“How soon can you be ready?”
We didn’t waste much time. Growing up as part of the rebellion, both of us knew how to pack light, essentials only. There was no such thing as luxury items, just clothes and whatever weapons we could carry; we’d pick up rations along the way. I decided against leaving a note – based on my last conversation with Wakka, he knew how furious I was. He knew I would leave, and he knew Anitra would follow.
The front door wasn’t an option; Wakka slept light, we all did, and the door creaked whenever it was touched. I was tossing our bags out the window when Anitra paused, kissed her palm and pressed it against the closed door between us and what had been my family. “Anitra,” I whispered.
She followed me out the window, landing lightly in the grass outside it. It was, I realized, the only goodbye she could make. “I know.”
Taking her hand, each with a bag slung over our shoulders, we darted into the night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
